back, his face burning with shame.
The little girl said, “Mommy?”
She stood in the hall outside the old lady’s room, so small she looked like a miniature person. Holman wanted to run, sick with himself and humiliated that the child might have seen him.
Maria said, “It’s okay, my love. Go back to bed. I’ll be in with you soon. Go on, now.”
The little girl returned to her room.
Richie, turning away as Donna cursed him for being a loser.
Holman said, “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
Maria stared at him, soundless. She touched her throat where he had gripped her. She touched a curl gelled to her cheek.
Holman said, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m upset. He killed my son.”
She gathered herself and shook her head.
“It was her birthday, the day before yesterday. He was with us for her birthday. He wasn’t killing no policemen.”
“Her birthday? The little girl?”
“I can prove it. I showed them the tape. Warren was with us.”
Holman shook his head, fighting away the depressing memories of loss as he tried to understand what she was saying.
“I don’t know what you’re telling me. You had a party for the little girl? You had guests?”
Holman wouldn’t believe any witness she could produce and neither would the cops, but she waved toward the television.
“Warren brought us one of these video cameras. It’s at my house. We took videos of her blowing out the candles and playing with us, the day before yesterday.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“You don’t understand. That show was on, that one with the comedian? Warren put her on his back so she could ride him like a donkey and he was going around the living room in front of the TV. You could see the show when Warren was here. That proves he was with us.”
Holman had no idea what show she was talking about.
“Those officers were murdered at one-thirty in the morning.”
“Yes! The show starts at one. It was on the TV when Warren was giving her rides. You can see on the tape.”
“You were having a party for your kid in the middle of the night? C’mon.”
“He has the warrants, you know? He has to be careful when he comes by. My father, he saw the tape I took. He told me the show proved Warren was home with us.”
She seemed to believe what she was saying, and it would be easy enough to check. If her videotape showed a television show on the tube, all you had to do was call the TV station and ask what time the show had aired.
“Okay. Lemme see it. Show me.”
“The police took it. They said it was evidence.”
Holman worked through what she was telling him. The police took the tape, but clearly hadn’t believed it cleared Warren of the crime-they had issued the warrant. Still, Holman thought she was being sincere, so he figured she was probably telling the truth about not knowing her husband’s whereabouts.
The little girl said, “Mama.”
The little girl was back in the hall.
Holman said, “How old are you?”
The little girl stared at the floor.
Maria said, “Answer him, Alicia. Where are your manners?”
The little girl held up a hand, showing three fingers.
Maria said, “I’m sorry your son was killed, but it was not Warren. I know what is in your heart now. If you kill him, that will be in your heart, too.”
Holman pulled his eyes from the little girl.
“I’m sorry about what I did.”
He went out the front door. The sun was blinding after being in the dim house. He walked back to Perry’s car, feeling like a boat without a rudder, trapped in a current. He had no place to go and no idea what to do. He thought he should probably just go back to work and start earning money. He couldn’t think of anything else to do.
Holman was still trying to decide when he reached Perry’s car. He put the key in the lock, then was suddenly hit from behind so hard that he lost his breath. He smashed into the side of the car as his feet were kicked from beneath him, and they rode him down hard onto the street, proning him out with the grace of true professionals.
When Holman looked up, a red-haired guy in sunglasses and plainclothes held up a badge.
“Los Angeles Police Department. You’re under arrest.”
Holman closed his eyes as their handcuffs shut on his wrists.
10
IT WAS FOUR plainclothes officers who hooked him up, but only two of them brought him to Parker Center, the red-haired officer whose name was Vukovich and a Latino officer named Fuentes. Holman had been arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department on twelve separate occasions, and in every case except his last (when he was arrested by an FBI agent named Katherine Pollard) he had been processed through one of LAPD’s nineteen divisional police stations. He had been in the Men’s Central Jail twice and the Federal Men’s Detention Center three times, but he had never been to Parker Center. When they brought him to Parker, Holman knew he was in deep shit.
Parker was the Los Angeles Police Department’s main office: A white-and-glass building that housed the Chief of Police, the Internal Affairs Group, various civilian administrators and administration agencies, and LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division, which was a command division overseeing Homicide Special, Robbery Special, and Rape Special. Each of the nineteen divisions had homicide, robbery, and sex crimes detectives, but those detectives worked only in their respective divisions; Robbery-Homicide detectives worked on cases that spanned the city.
Vukovich and Fuentes walked Holman into an interview room on the third floor and questioned him for more than an hour, after which another set of detectives took over. Holman knew the drill. The cops always asked the same questions over and over, looking to see if your answers changed. If your answers changed they knew you were lying, so Holman told them the truth about everything except Chee. When the red-haired guy, Vukovich, asked how he knew Maria Juarez was with her cousins, Holman told them he heard it in a bar, some Frogtown paco bragging he screwed Maria in junior high, him and sixty-two other guys, the girl was such a slut, the paco spouting the cops Warren killed had probably been bagging the little slut, too. Covering for Chee was something he had done before and now it was the only lie Holman told. One lie, it was easy to remember even though telling it frightened him.
Eight-forty that night, Holman was still in the room, having been questioned on and off for more than six hours without being offered an attorney or being booked. Eight forty-one, the door opened again and Vukovich entered with someone new.
The new man studied Holman for a moment, then put out his hand. Holman thought he looked familiar.
“Mr. Holman, I’m John Random. I’m sorry about your son.”
Random was the first of the detectives to offer his hand. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tie without a jacket. A gold detective’s shield was clipped to his belt. Random took a seat opposite Holman as Vukovich leaned against the wall.
Holman said, “Am I being charged with anything?”
“Has Detective Vukovich explained why we pulled you in?”
