than a minute to open. Ignacio put the tools away and opened the door slightly, peering in through the crack. With the front curtains drawn, the room beyond was bathed in shadow, but he could still make out the things he’d seen on his last visit.
He opened the door all the way. “Police,” he announced. “Your door is unlocked. I’m coming in.”
Once inside, he shut the door again, but he drew the curtains to bring in light. The air conditioner in the window was turned off. Ignacio switched it on to its highest setting, and soon cool air circulated where stale heat had been before.
The television and the game console were gone, but the sheet and pillow were still on the couch, messier than before, left unfolded. On the coffee table was a wrinkled bit of plastic wrap. Ignacio took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the wrap by the edge, examining it closely. It was a makeshift bundle for crystal, put together by a dealer too cheap for baggies, and a little meth residue was still inside.
He put the wrap down and went into the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a pizza box with two slices of pepperoni inside, a six-pack of beer, and a jar of mayonnaise. Clifford’s bread was stale, and what little flatware he had was all piled in the sink, left dirty and soaking in an inch of stagnant water. The cabinets were almost completely empty.
From the kitchen he went farther in, passing through to the bedroom. Clifford’s bed was a mattress on the floor, his sheets black. An overflowing ashtray rested near the head by the wall, and there were several empty beer bottles scattered around it. A box of condoms was open there. Ignacio did not count how many were left inside.
There was a single closet, big enough to walk into, and it was entirely bare. A single wire hanger dangled from a rod, but none of the built-in shelves held so much as a pair of underwear. In the attached bathroom he saw that Clifford had elected to leave behind his toothbrush and a half-used tube of Crest. The room smelled faintly of mildew, and Ignacio saw that some was growing on the lower edge of the shower curtain.
Ignacio went back to the front room and stood in front of the air conditioner, letting it blow against him. He called out on his phone. Pool answered. “Hey, Brady, it’s Nacho. I need you to put a BOLO out for Matt Clifford.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m in his apartment, and it looks like he skipped out again. Circulate a bulletin around to the other departments, and maybe we can catch him in the suburbs. Wherever. I have the tag number for his car. You ready?”
“Shoot.”
Ignacio recited the license plate number from memory. “It’s a 1970 Dodge Charger 440. Yellow and black. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m all over it,” Pool said.
“Thanks, man.”
“Do you think he’s up to something crooked?” Pool asked.
“I know it,” Ignacio said. “Let’s find him before we end up with three more bodies.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
C AMARO SAW P ARKER’S truck in the parking lot of the diner when she arrived, squatted in its space, low on its shocks, looking as if it were one step removed from the junkyard.
She spotted Parker sitting in the same booth where they’d last sat. His hands rested on a large glass of iced tea with two wedges of lemon perched on its lip. Even from where she sat on the Harley in the parking lot she could see his apprehension. He looked back and forth around the interior of the diner, and when the entrance opened to admit someone, he visibly jumped. She went in.
The look of relief on his face when he saw her was total, but it only served to expose the layer of desperation underneath. He was pale beneath his tan. When she slotted into the booth opposite him, he smiled in a way that was not reassuring at all. “Hi,” he said. “Hi, hi.”
“Hi,” Camaro said.
A waitress came immediately and offered menus. Camaro took one and looked it over. She had not eaten and did not know when
He opened the door all the way. “Police,” he announced. “Your door is unlocked. I’m coming in.”
Once inside, he shut the door again, but he drew the curtains to bring in light. The air conditioner in the window was turned off. Ignacio switched it on to its highest setting, and soon cool air circulated where stale heat had been before.
The television and the game console were gone, but the sheet and pillow were still on the couch, messier than before, left unfolded. On the coffee table was a wrinkled bit of plastic wrap. Ignacio took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the wrap by the edge, examining it closely. It was a makeshift bundle for crystal, put together by a dealer too cheap for baggies, and a little meth residue was still inside.
He put the wrap down and went into the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a pizza box with two slices of pepperoni inside, a six-pack of beer, and a jar of mayonnaise. Clifford’s bread was stale, and what little flatware he had was all piled in the sink, left dirty and soaking in an inch of stagnant water. The cabinets were almost completely empty.
From the kitchen he went farther in, passing through to the bedroom. Clifford’s bed was a mattress on the floor, his sheets black. An overflowing ashtray rested near the head by the wall, and there were several empty beer bottles scattered around it. A box of condoms was open there. Ignacio did not count how many were left inside.
There was a single closet, big enough to walk into, and it was entirely bare. A single wire hanger dangled from a rod, but none of the built-in shelves held so much as a pair of underwear. In the attached bathroom he saw that Clifford had elected to leave behind his toothbrush and a half-used tube of Crest. The room smelled faintly of mildew, and Ignacio saw that some was growing on the lower edge of the shower curtain.
Ignacio went back to the front room and stood in front of the air conditioner, letting it blow against him. He called out on his phone. Pool answered. “Hey, Brady, it’s Nacho. I need you to put a BOLO out for Matt Clifford.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m in his apartment, and it looks like he skipped out again. Circulate a bulletin around to the other departments, and maybe we can catch him in the suburbs. Wherever. I have the tag number for his car. You ready?”
“Shoot.”
Ignacio recited the license plate number from memory. “It’s a 1970 Dodge Charger 440. Yellow and black. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m all over it,” Pool said.
“Thanks, man.”
“Do you think he’s up to something crooked?” Pool asked.
“I know it,” Ignacio said. “Let’s find him before we end up with three more bodies.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
C AMARO SAW P ARKER’S truck in the parking lot of the diner when she arrived, squatted in its space, low on its shocks, looking as if it were one step removed from the junkyard.
She spotted Parker sitting in the same booth where they’d last sat. His hands rested on a large glass of iced tea with two wedges of lemon perched on its lip. Even from where she sat on the Harley in the parking lot she could see his apprehension. He looked back and forth around the interior of the diner, and when the entrance opened to admit someone, he visibly jumped. She went in.
The look of relief on his face when he saw her was total, but it only served to expose the layer of desperation underneath. He was pale beneath his tan. When she slotted into the booth opposite him, he smiled in a way that was not reassuring at all. “Hi,” he said. “Hi, hi.”
“Hi,” Camaro said.
A waitress came immediately and offered menus. Camaro took one and looked it over. She had not eaten and did not know when
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