“Has that fact changed or is it the same?”
“The same. We’re the same.”
“Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?”
Holman knew Chee didn’t like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.
“Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls.”
An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn’t walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.
9
HOLMAN DECIDED to drive past Juarez’s house first to see the cop convention. Even though Chee had warned him that the police commanded the scene, Holman was surprised. Three news vans and an LAPD black-and-white were parked in front of a tiny bungalow. Transmission dishes swayed over the vans like spindly palms, with the uniformed officers and newspeople chatting together on the sidewalk. One look, and Holman knew Juarez would never return even if the officers were gone. A small crowd of neighborhood civilians gawked from across the street, and the line of cars edging past the house made Holman feel like he was passing a traffic fatality on the 405. No wonder Juarez’s wife had split.
Holman kept driving.
Chee had learned that Maria Juarez had relocated to her cousin’s house in Silver Lake, south of Sunset in an area rich with Central Americans. Holman figured the police knew her location, too, and had probably even helped her move to protect her from the media; if she had gone into hiding on her own they would have declared her a fugitive and issued a warrant.
The address Chee provided led to a small clapboard box crouched behind a row of spotty cypress trees on a steep hill lined with broken sidewalks. Holman thought the house looked like it was hiding. He parked at the curb two blocks uphill, then tried to figure out what to do. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but it was that way for most of the houses. Holman wondered if Juarez was in the house. It was possible. Holman knew dozens of guys who were bagged in their own garages because they didn’t have anyplace else to go. Criminals always returned to their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers, their house, their trailer, their car-they ran to whatever or whoever made them feel safe. Holman probably would have been caught at home, too, only he hadn’t had a home.
It occurred to Holman the police knew this and might be watching the house. He twisted around to examine the neighboring cars and houses, but saw nothing suspicious. He got out of his car and went to the front door. He didn’t see any reason to get dramatic unless no one answered. If no one answered, he would walk around the side of the place and break in through the back. He knocked.
Holman didn’t expect someone to answer so quickly, but a young woman threw open the door right away. She couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-one, even younger than Richie. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, and black hair greased flat into squiggly sideburns.
She said, “Is he all right?”
She thought he was a cop.
Holman said, “Maria Juarez?”
“Tell me he is all right. Did you find him? Tell me he is not dead.”
She had just told Holman everything he needed to know. Juarez wasn’t here. The police had been here earlier, and she had been cooperative with them. Holman gave her an easy smile.
“I need to ask a few questions. May I come in?”
She moved back out of the door and Holman went in. A TV was showing Telemundo, but other than that the place was quiet. He listened to see if anyone was in the back of the house, but heard nothing. He could see through the dining room and the kitchen to a back door which was closed. The house smelled of chorizo and cilantro. A central hall opened off the living room and probably led to a bathroom and a couple of bedrooms. Holman wondered if anyone was in the bedrooms.
Holman said, “Is anyone else here?”
Her eyes flickered, and Holman knew he had made his first mistake. The question left her suspicious.
“My aunt. She is in the bed.”
He took her arm, bringing her toward the hall.
“Let’s take a look.”
“Who are you? Are you the police?”
Holman knew a lot of these homegirls would kill you as quick as any veterano and some would kill you faster, so he gripped her arm tight.
“I just want to see if Warren is here.”
“He is not here. You know he isn’t here. Who are you? You are not one of the detectives.”
Holman brought her back along the hall, glancing in the bathroom first, then the front bedroom. An old lady wrapped in shawls and blankets was sitting up in bed, as withered and tiny as a raisin. She said something in Spanish that Holman didn’t understand. He gave her an apologetic smile, then pulled Maria out to the second bedroom, closing the old lady’s door behind them.
Maria said, “Don’t go in there.”
“Warren isn’t in here, is he?”
“My baby. She is sleeping.”
Holman held Juarez’s wife in front of him and cracked open the door. The room was dim. He made out a small figure napping in an adult’s bed, a little girl who was maybe three or four. Holman stood listening again, knowing that Juarez might be hiding under the bed or in the closet, but not wanting to wake the little girl. He heard the buzz of a child’s gentle snore. Something in the child’s innocent pose made Holman think of Richie at that age. Holman tried to remember if he had ever seen Richie asleep, but couldn’t. The memories didn’t come because they didn’t exist. He was never around long enough to see his baby sleeping.
Holman closed the door and brought Maria into the living room.
She said, “You weren’t here with the policemen-I want to know who you are.”
“My name is Holman. You know that name?”
“Get out of this house. I don’t know where he is. I already tol’ them. Who are you? You don’t show me your badge.”
Holman forced her down onto the couch. He leaned over her, nose to nose, and pointed at his face.
“Look at this face. Did you see this face on the news?”
She was crying. She didn’t understand what he was saying, and she was scared. Holman realized this but was unable to stop himself. His voice never rose above a whisper. Just like when he was robbing the banks.
“My name is Holman. One of the officers, his name was Holman, too. Your fucking husband murdered my son. Do you understand that?”
“No!”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he go to Mexico? I heard he went under the fence.”
“He did not do this. I showed them. He was with us.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me who’s hiding him.”
“I don’t know. I told them. I showed them. He was with us.”
Holman hadn’t thought through his actions and now he felt trapped. The prison counselors had harped on that-criminals were people who were unable or unwilling to anticipate the consequences of their actions. No impulse control, they called it. Holman suddenly grabbed her throat. His hand encircled her from ear to ear as if acting with a will of its own. He grabbed her with no sense of what he was doing or why-
– but then she made a choking gurgle and Holman saw himself in the moment. He released her and stepped
