“Did your dad work there, too?”
“No, he was in the military during the war years. After that, he went to work for the
AS WE DROVE down Howard Parker’s street, Mark nodded toward a car parked near a jacaranda tree, about two doors down from Parker’s house. “Gee, two guys in suits sitting in a Plymouth on a weekday afternoon. Don’t suppose they could be the law, do you?”
“You know those guys as well as I do. Reed Collins and Vince Adams. They go drinking with you at Banyon’s on Friday nights.”
He laughed.
When we pulled up in front of the house, Detective Collins got out of the car and walked up to greet us. “Hello, Irene. This guy have any ID?”
“You’d like to forget who I am, Reed,” Mark said. “Like you want to forget that Kings game. So much for honest cops.”
“Baker, you wound me.” Reed reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then handed Mark a ten- dollar bill.
“Mr. Baker,” I said in mock-horror, “are you going to accept a gambling payoff from an officer of the law right here on a public sidewalk?”
“Absolutely.”
“To hell with that,” Reed said, walking away. “Ask him why he bet against the Kings.”
At my narrowed gaze, Mark shrugged and said, “Edmonton had Grant Fuhr in goal. I can never bring myself to bet against him.”
I have to admit that Mark’s bet was not too iffy. Fuhr’s goal tending often made the opposing team wonder why they bothered to put on their skates.
HOWARD PARKER WAS a tall, thin man; he was so skinny, you had to wonder what the hell his belt was resting on. But his big brown eyes and easy smile gave him a pleasant face, and his handshake was firm.
A grandfather’s clock chimed three o’clock as he ushered us into his living room. The furnishings were highly polished and old-fashioned. Lots of dark wood and soft fabric. Family photographs — Parker with a smiling, robust- looking woman; high school graduation pictures of two boys who appeared to be twins — covered a mantelpiece over a brick fireplace which had been painted white. But the house was quiet, as if none of these other people were home. There was a combination of neatness and stillness that gave it a museum-like quality, amplifying the ticking of the clock and the sounds of cupboards being opened as Parker busied himself in the kitchen.
He came back out bearing a large silver tray ladened with a plate of store-bought cookies and three delicate china cups filled with coffee. He was nervous, and the cups rattled a little as he handed them to us. “Since my wife passed on, I’m afraid I don’t get to play the host very often,” he said, finally taking a seat. The overstuffed chair he sat in seemed to be in direct contrast with his own body shape.
A widower’s house. Relatively recent and beloved, I thought. Mark was already gently asking the question.
“About eight months ago,” Parker said. “Heart trouble.” He was a little misty-eyed for a moment.
We expressed our condolences, and took turns getting him to talk a little about himself. He told us that he was a retired math teacher. “I’ve lived in Las Piernas since the day my mother transferred down here. I graduated from high school here, went to college here, met my wife here — worked here almost all my life. My twin boys were born and raised here. They decided to go away to college, though. I think they were half afraid they’d never leave Las Piernas if they didn’t do it to go to school. But they stayed together — they’re both at Cal, up in Berkeley.”
“Mr. Parker, do you recall an incident at the Olympus Child Care Center, when a child about your age was injured?” I asked.
“Injured! He died. Of course I remember it. I was eight years old. Wait a minute — do you think all of this killing has something to do with that?”
“Can you think of any reason that it might?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s just that the child care center had something to do with Mercury Aircraft. And when the kid who was hurt died, we all got sent down here.”
“Did you see it happen?”
“No, no. I was on the other side of the playground. But some of the other kids were right there — started screaming. That brought the rest of us running. Ambulance came and took him away. Robbie. That was his name. He died later.”
“You knew Robbie?”
He made a face. “Yes. I suppose you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I don’t have any fond memories of Robbie. He was a bully. A little bigger than the rest of us and mean. I was just as skinny then as I am now, and Robbie used to pick on us all the time.”
“Us?” Mark asked.
“Oh, any of us that he could intimidate. Jimmy, me, other kids. I don’t remember their names. Only Jimmy. What happened to Jimmy scared me so much, I had nightmares about it for years as a kid.”
“What happened to Jimmy?” I asked. “I thought Robbie was the one who was killed.”
He made a gesture of impatience. “Yes, Robbie was the one who was killed. But at the time, we all just thought he had a nasty crack on his head. He went into a coma and died, but that was later. It was the first time I had ever heard of anyone going into a coma, so I guess that part did scare me. I just saw him lying on the ground, all pale and quiet before the ambulance came, but he was still alive then.”
“So who is Jimmy?” Mark asked.
