comforting. Donna had complained of being short of cash from time to time, but she had held steady employment as a private nurse for elderly clients. Holman wondered if Richie had helped his mother move to a better area when he got on with the cops. He figured the man that Richie had become would have done that even if it crimped his own lifestyle.
The apartment building was laid out like a long U with the open end facing the street and a shrub-lined sidewalk winding its way between twin rows of apartments. Donna had lived in apartment number 108.
The building had no security gate. Any passerby was free to walk up along the sidewalk, yet Holman couldn’t bring himself to enter the courtyard. He stood on the sidewalk with a nervous fire flickering in his stomach, telling himself he was just going to knock and ask the new tenants if they knew Donna’s current address. Entering the courtyard wasn’t illegal and knocking on a door wasn’t a violation of his release, but it was difficult to stop feeling like a criminal.
Holman finally worked up the nut and found his way to 108. He knocked on the doorjamb, immediately discouraged when no one answered. He was knocking again, a little more forcefully, when the door opened and a thin, balding man peered out. He held tight to the door, ready to push it closed, and spoke in an abrupt, clipped manner.
“You caught me working, man. What’s up?”
Holman slipped his hands into his pockets to make himself less threatening.
“I’m trying to find an old friend. Her name is Donna Banik. She used to live here.”
The man relaxed and opened the door wider. He stood like a stork with his right foot propped on his left knee, wearing baggy shorts and a faded wife-beater. He was barefoot.
“Sorry, dude. Can’t help you.”
“She lived here about two years ago, Donna Banik, dark hair, about this tall.”
“I’ve been here, what, four or five months? I don’t know who had it before me, let alone two years ago.”
Holman glanced at the surrounding apartments, thinking maybe one of the neighbors.
“You know if any of these other people were here back then?”
The pale man followed Holman’s glance, then frowned as if the notion of knowing his neighbors was disturbing.
“No, man, sorry, they come and go.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem.”
Holman turned away, then had a thought, but the man had already closed the door. Holman knocked again and the man opened right away.
Holman said, “Sorry, dude. Does the manager live here in the building?”
“Yeah, right there in number one hundred. The first apartment as you come in, on the north side.”
“What’s his name?”
“Her. She’s a woman. Mrs. Bartello.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Holman went back along the sidewalk to number one hundred, and this time he knocked without hesitation.
Mrs. Bartello was a sturdy woman who wore her grey hair pulled back tight and a shapeless house dress. She opened her door wide and stared out through the screen. Holman introduced himself and explained he was trying to find the former tenant of apartment 108, Donna Banik.
“Donna and I, we were married once, but that was a long time ago. I’ve been away and we lost track.”
Holman figured saying they were married would be easier than explaining he was the asshole who knocked Donna up, then left her to raise their son on her own.
Mrs. Bartello’s expression softened as if she recognized him, and she opened the screen.
“Oh my gosh, you must be Richard’s father,
“Yes, that’s right.”
Holman wondered if maybe she had seen the news about Richie’s death, but then he understood that she hadn’t and didn’t know that Richie was dead.
“Richard is such a wonderful boy. He would visit her all the time. He looks so handsome in his uniform.”
“Yes, ma’am, thanks. Can you tell me where Donna is living now?”
Her eyes softened even more.
“You don’t know?”
“I haven’t seen Richie or Donna for a long time.”
Mrs. Bartello opened the screen wider, her eyes bunching with sorrow.
“I’m sorry. You don’t know. I’m sorry. Donna passed away.”
Holman felt himself slow as if he had been drugged; as if his heart and breath and the blood in his veins were winding down like a phonograph record when you pulled the plug. First Richie, now Donna. He didn’t say anything, and Mrs. Bartello’s sorrowful eyes grew knowing.
She wedged the screen open with her ample shoulders to cross her arms.
“You didn’t know. Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t know. I’m sorry, Mr. Holman.”
Holman felt the slowness coalesce into a kind of distant calm.
“What happened?”
“It was those cars. They drive so fast on the freeways, that’s why I hate to go anywhere.”
“She was in an auto accident?”
“She was on her way home one night. You know she worked as a nurse, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“She was on her way home. That was almost two years ago now. The way it was explained to me someone lost control of their car, and then more cars lost control, and one of them was Donna. I’m so sorry to tell you. I felt so badly for her and poor Richard.”
Holman wanted to leave. He wanted to get away from Donna’s old apartment, the place she had been driving back to when she was killed.
He said, “I need to find Richie. You know where I can find him?”
“It’s so sweet you call him Richie. When I met him he was Richard. Donna always called him Richard. He’s a policeman, you know.”
“You have his phone number?”
“Well, no, I just saw him when he came to visit, you know. I don’t think I ever had his number.”
“So you don’t know where he lives?”
“Oh, no.”
“Maybe you have Richie’s address on her rental application.”
“I’m sorry. I threw those old papers out after-well, once I had new tenants there was no reason to keep all that.”
Holman suddenly wanted to tell her that Richie was dead, too; he thought it would be the kind thing to do, her saying such kind things about both Donna and Richie, but he didn’t have the strength. He felt depleted, like he had already given all of himself and didn’t have any more to give.
Holman was about to thank her for all of it when another thought occurred to him.
“Where was she buried?”
“That was over in Baldwin Hills. The Baldwin Haven Cemetery. That was the last time I saw Richard, you know. He didn’t wear his uniform. I thought he might because he was so proud and all, but he wore a nice dark suit.”
“Did many people attend?”
Mrs. Bartello made a sad shrug.
“No. No, not so many.”
Holman walked back to Perry’s beater in a dull funk, then drove west directly into the sun, trapped in lurching rush hour traffic. It took almost forty minutes to cover the few miles back to Culver City. Holman left Perry’s car in its spot behind the motel, then entered through the front door. Perry was still at his desk, the little radio tinny with the Dodgers play-by-play. Perry turned down the volume as Holman handed him the keys.
“How was your first day of freedom?”
