Hollow Man (16 page)

I called Tristan on his burner phone from the taco stand. “He doesn't know anything. He's not the guy.”

“How do you know?”

“He said he found it in the parking lot of his apartment complex, lying on the ground next to his truck.”

“And you believed him?”

“I did. Honestly. He was terrified by the badge and all that stuff. He'd have given up his own mother to get me to go away, and when I mentioned the feds, he about dropped his taco. By the way, I went with INS instead of the FBI.”

“And you really believed him?”

“It was written all over his face, the idea that he was going to get deported for finding a camera on the ground. He started telling me about his wife and three daughters, just trying to make a living.”

“So you felt bad for him.”

“Of course.”
With all that empathy I have
.

“I dunno, man.”

“He showed me paperwork for his apartment. He's nowhere near that mobile-home park.”

“Maybe he has friends there.”

“Maybe he does. If so, he'd be grilling out and drinking beer with them, not strolling around the woods. Also, his place is halfway between there and Austin, right off 290.”

“So?”

“So, it's a perfect place to dump stolen goods. Pull off the road, drop it out the window as you pass some dolt's truck…”

“But why take it if you're just going to dump it?”

“I don't know, Tristan. Maybe he didn't know what it was or changed his mind about keeping or trying to sell it. I'm telling you, raiding this guy's apartment and scaring his family won't do anything for us. It's a dead end. And maybe that's a good thing.”

“How so?”

“If the police somehow track him down, he's not spilling his guts because he's got no guts to spill.”

“So we just let it go?” Tristan asked.

“Yeah, I think it's the only thing we can do. Loose end tied off.”

“I've been thinking about that other thing that's weird.”

“Which one?”

“The scrunched-up newspaper in the bags. I just don't get it.”

“Me neither, matey. It's weird, for sure.”

“Yeah. So what now?” Tristan asked.

“I'll dump the camera, for good this time.”

“Okay. Oh shit.”

“What?”

“There's someone at the door, hang on.” I heard movement in the background, Tristan's breathing as he went to the door. His voice was quiet when he next spoke, like he'd looked through the peephole and didn't want the visitor to hear him. “Dom?”

“Yeah, I'm still here. Who is it?”

“Should I let her in? It's your new girlfriend.”

I lied. I wasn't at the taco stand when I called Tristan. I was at her house. More accurately, in my car half a block away from her house, watching it, waiting for her to appear. Not that she was expecting me; I wanted
her
to be surprised for a change. So much for that.
She'd been easy to find. I knew she lived with her brother, and his information, including his address, was in the juvenile system. Easy peasy.

Her house was like so many in this part of town, small and ramshackle, circled by a broken fence. Since she wasn't home, when I hung up with Tristan I got out and walked along the cracked sidewalk. Her front yard was only slightly bigger than a large dining table, just not as neat. Hip-high clumps of grass and weeds grew up around, and swallowed, an old hand-cart and a rusted bicycle that had no wheels. At some point, the homeowners on the street had painted their houses red, blue, yellow, and green, as if color could make up for poverty. But those colors had long since faded and the whole street looked old and tired, like it had given up hope of being cared for or was waiting for the clean cut of the bulldozer to end things. Her house was a sun-bleached yellow, with the gutters poking away from the roof like strands of wild hair.

I paused when I saw movement in a window. A moment later, the door opened and her little brother came out, baggy jeans, a hoodie, and wary eyes. He had pale skin, like he was sick, but his eyes were dark brown and clear.

“You fucking my sister?” he asked. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed, interested, or trying to get a reaction.

“Not right now.”

“Where you from?” His head was cocked to one side, and while he may have been studying me, he didn't seem scared of me. A good thing, if I was going to be fucking his sister.

“England. Near London. Know where that is?”

“You think I'm an idiot because I live here? Because I picked up a case?”

“Most Americans couldn't find New York on a map,” I said. “Let alone London. I was just asking.”

“What are you going to do with my case?”

“I'm not allowed to talk to you about that.”

“Are you the prosecutor on it?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Then why can't you talk to me about it?”

Jesus, twenty fucking questions
.
I like this kid.

“Where's your sister?” I asked.

“Where's yours?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

“Not really. You want to tell me where she is?”

“Nah. That's her business.”

“And what's yours?”

“School. Good grades. Not getting caught.” He shrugged. “I'm on paper.”
On paper
. Otherwise known as probation. For people like me, white people with a job, probation was the death knell to a career because it meant you had a criminal conviction. Out here, for kids who idolized rap stars and for whom a job promotion meant slinging crack and meth instead of weed, being on paper was like a Cub Scout merit badge.

“Instead of not getting caught, how about not committing crimes?”

“Sure. I was planning to do that this afternoon.”

“Just the two of you live here?”

“Why, you gonna break in when I leave?”

“No. I'm a prosecutor.”

“Don't break the law, huh?”

“Try not to. Well?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

I reached into my pocket and took out my wallet. When I opened it up, his eyes fixated on the gold shield. I took out a ten and held it out.

“What's that for?” he asked.

“Help you stay out of trouble. Go to the movies or something.”

He took it with a sly smile and eyed the bill. “By myself, huh?”

I laughed and gave him another one. “Take a girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”

He tucked the money into a pocket. “Right. Gotta split,” he said, then turned and strolled away down the sidewalk. He looked once over his shoulder, and half raised a hand to wave good-bye. I just nodded.

I thought about waiting there for her, but I wondered if we were in the middle of some sort of power play, and waiting around in the hope someone shows up never looks good. Plus, it was bloody hot outside.

On my way out of the neighborhood, I drove past little Bobby. He was sitting on a low brick wall with a friend, a black kid wearing the same uniform of baggy pants and a hoodie, plus a baseball cap, its oversized beak as big as his face. They both stared at me as I cruised by, and I wondered if Bobby had told him anything. I hoped not.

When I got to the apartment, she wasn't there, but Tristan was acting like he had hot rocks in his shoes. He kept coming and going from his room, checking what was on TV or getting ice from the fridge.

“She stay long?” I asked. “Not still in your room, is she?”

His mouth dropped open, then he realized I was joking. “Yeah, right. She sure is.”

“Is everything all right? You're being weird.”

“I'm fine, just…you know. Nervous about everything. Seen the news?”

“Not today.”

“I can't decide whether to watch or not.”

“Don't bother. If there's a major break in the case, one that's bad for us, we'll find out before they put it on TV.”

“Very reassuring, Dom.”

We both looked at the door as someone knocked. “You expecting company?” I asked.

He shook his head and went to the door. He looked through the peephole and seemed to hesitate before opening it. “Your girlfriend's back,” he muttered.

“Then let her in.”

He did so and she floated in, giving Tristan the kind of smile that makes a man jealous. He wouldn't look at her.

Mother fucker.

“Hey guys. I left my keys here, I think.” Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact. “Mind if I look?”

“Err, well…” Tristan said, but she didn't wait for a complete answer. She went straight to his room, opened the door, and disappeared inside. I stared at Tristan.

“She used my shower,” he said, eyes on the floor and his voice low.

“That's weird, because I have a shower in my room, too.”

She reappeared, jangling her keys. “Thanks, guys. I wouldn't mind so much if I had a car. Backtracking on the bus is a pain.” She looked me in the eye. “But I do have a phone. I'll call you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Do that.”

Tristan and I stood in the living room like statues, watching her and each other as she moved to the door and let herself out.

“So,” I said to Tristan, once she'd gone. “You were saying?”

He collapsed onto the sofa. “Dude. This week, it's been all fucked up. I don't know what's happening anymore. Who I am or what I'm doing, I mean it's crazy, it's all so crazy.”

He was starting to sound like me, changing the subject and going for sympathy with one, well-executed ramble. Except, not so well-executed. “Did you have sex with her?” I asked.

He looked up, his eyes wide. “No, dude, I didn't. I swear.”

I couldn't tell if he was lying or not, so I just stared at him. “Then explain.”

He held his breath for a few seconds, then let it out with a sigh. “Fine. And you can yell and scream and punch me in the face, I don't care. I don't fucking care.”

“Tristan, what did you do?”

“She showed up, looking for you. We talked for a while, she asked me a lot of questions about myself. She's kind of…hard to talk to. Like, she wouldn't talk about herself. Anyway, after a while, she said the water in her house wasn't working and could she take a shower. I thought it was a little weird, but fine, and I thought she
was asking for permission to use your room, your shower. I was in the kitchen, making toast, so I just waved her on, but she went into my bathroom. I didn't know what to do, I just stood there. You know I don't like people in my bedroom or bathroom. I figured she'd realize it was mine and come right back out but…I heard the water running.”

“And then?”

“She called out to me. My name.” He swallowed heavily. “She said she needed a towel, she was kind of laughing like she'd been silly not to think of it earlier. I got a towel from the dryer and stopped in the hallway, but it was wide open, the bathroom door. She asked me to bring it in there.”

“So you did.”

“Yeah. I shut my eyes, man, I did. But then I had to open them to see where to put the towel, like on the sink.” He sighed again. “Then she opened the curtain, like, actually put her head out. And her hand, with a bar of soap. She told me to wash her back.”

I could have laughed. “She told you to.”

“Yes.”

“So you did.”

“She made me close the bathroom door to keep the heat in, then she opened the curtain and turned around, turned her back to me. Dude, I'm telling you, it was like…I was just standing there with the soap in my hand. What was I supposed to do?”

“Wash her back, apparently.”

“Yeah.” He nodded like he was remembering a dream. “So I did.”

“How was it?” My voice was quiet and he looked up, surprised, like he expected me to be yelling.

“It was weird. I didn't touch her anywhere, man, I promise. I just washed her back with the soap, and the wash cloth, and that was it. She said thanks and closed the curtain. I left, and closed the door behind me. I promise, Dom, I didn't touch her, like
that
. She just wanted me to…you know.”

“Yeah, wash her back. Why, do you think?” I asked.

“I don't know man.” He sat quietly for a moment, then shook his head. “I don't think I get it. Get her, I mean…I just can't decide if she's fucking with me or,” he stopped talking and shrugged. “Or maybe it's you that she's fucking with.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was rather wondering the same thing.”

Tristan left me alone pretty quickly. He wasn't sure how badly he'd screwed up, but I could tell that a part of him wanted to brag a little—given his job and personality, I was pretty sure this was the closest he'd been to a naked girl for a while.

I sat on my bed with my guitar but didn't feel like playing. Something was bugging me and I couldn't figure out what. As it turned out, I wasn't the only one with concerns, because at two o'clock Otto called.

“Can we meet?” he said.

“Why?”

“We need to talk about something.”

“So talk.”

“No. Just the two of us.”

“Has something happened?”

“That's what I want to talk about,” he said.

“We're not supposed to be seen together, remember?”

“I don't care. This afternoon.”

“Fine, meet me at Gillis Park.” I checked my watch. “An hour from now.”

I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
What the hell did he want?
It had something to do with Tristan, obviously, but what? I didn't get anywhere thinking about it, so I logged on to my computer and did some work. I'd gone from trying cases to processing forms, and while I minded the downgrade, I found the repetitive
nature of the work soothing. Fifteen minutes before the rendezvous, I logged off and went into the living room. Tristan was sprawled on the couch, watching a home-repair show.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“I'm on my way out.”

“Where?”

“Get some fresh air.”

“Want company?”

“No, not really.”

“I can't stop thinking about the money. Specifically, the scrunched-up paper. Have you thought about that?”

“A lot,” I said. “You have a theory?”

“Sort of. I mean, think about it, the only reason to do that is to make the bags look full, right?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“Must be. So all I can think is, whoever took the money and put the paper in there must have wanted us to retrieve the bags and leave the area before realizing they were empty. Plus, no one drives around with newspaper in their car.”

“So you think the person who took our money lives at the mobile-home park?”

“They must. And since most people there are…well, probably don't have bank accounts, I'm guessing the money is still there. Sitting in someone's trailer under a blanket or stuffed into an ice chest.”

“Maybe, but there are a hundred trailers in that place. You have a way to figure out which one has our money?”

“Nope.” Tristan smiled. “That's about as far as I got.”

“Makes sense to me.” I started toward the door. “I'll think about it. Maybe surveillance cameras again, but I don't really know what we'd be looking for.”

“Maybe someone showing up in a nice new car?”

“Could be. Keep thinking.” I left him on the couch and walked out.

Otto was already in the parking lot, pacing in front of his car, which surprised me because it was ninety-five degrees out there. I could see dark circles of sweat under his armpits. I'd chosen Gillis Park because it was the kind of park where people minded their own business. Illegal business, usually. Kids bought and sold weed, scraggly crack heads shuffled about, hoping their dealer would show and be generous, and the public restrooms were no-go zones for kids. As long as you kept your head down and didn't get in anyone's business, you'd be unnoticed and unremembered. I'd handled an aggravated-robbery case that happened there. Three men with guns robbed two other men in broad daylight. Police had arrived on scene within minutes and detained nineteen people for questioning. No one had seen anything. Nothing.

We walked slowly toward a stand of trees beside the basketball court, where three black guys were teaching a Hispanic girl how to shoot hoops. The men were shirtless, their muscles like knotted rope, glistening with sweat. It looked more like a mating dance to me, the men competing for the pretty lady's attention with their bodies, their words, their moves.

“So what's up?” I said.

He stopped and looked at me. “Take your sunglasses off.”

“What?”

“Take them off, I want to ask you something. And I want to look in your eyes when I do.”

“My eyes?” I smiled. “They won't tell you anything.”

“Dom, I'm not kidding.”

“Fine.” I removed my sunglasses and looked him in the eye.

“Do you have the money?”

“What?” I was genuinely surprised. Of course, if I'd had the money, he was hoping to see panic. He wouldn't have seen it, because that's not something I do. Lying is what I do, and there's no way in hell he'd have been able to tell. But I couldn't believe he was asking me that, so the surprise he saw, that was real.

“Answer the question.”

“No, Otto, I don't have the money.”

He shook his head and smiled. “I know that. I know you don't. Just wanted to ask.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He chewed his lip for a moment, then said, “I've been thinking. I don't know, man, I want to be wrong about this, but…”

“But what?”

“Dude, I think Tristan has our money.”