wearing his robe and his cap and reading the Koran. And my partner waves to him like to signal him, the plan being we’ll park the car in the shadows and talk. But the imam doesn’t see us. And so we go around the block three times, trying to signal him, and he looks right past us.”
“Humph,” said Morales. “That must’ve been frustrating.”
“Now, at the same time we’re going around and around, this almost retired cop drives to the park in his black-and-white, parks at the far corner under the trees. He’s just running out his time before getting his pension. And so he’s sitting in the car reading his fishing magazines—and I see this whole thing unfolding.”
They were cracking crab legs with their hands, putting shells in a bowl.
“Hang on a sec,” Morales said. She reached over, knocked a bit of crab off his chin.
Rich grabbed her wrist, kissed her palm, released her hand, and went on with his story. Mackie colored, smiled up at him, and he smiled back at her.
“So the old-timer is reading
Morales was shaking her head and laughing into her napkin.
Rich said, “And we can see all this going down and there’s nothing we can do. The old-timer goes flying out of the car, screaming that there’s a suicide bomber in his car, and ‘
Morales was laughing with tears in her eyes. “Richie, no, please.”
“Yeah, and we get the imam out of the backseat and calm the cop down and we get the info and turn it over to the FBI. And they tell us that the intel involved New York City, and we never hear another word about it.
“And that, since you asked, is the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job.”
“Good story.” Morales dried her eyes, looked at him, and said, “This is nice, Rich. I’m getting a little bit crazy about you.”
He couldn’t stop looking at her. Was he available? He wasn’t sure. It was too soon after his breakup with Cindy to get involved and yet he really, really liked Morales.
He said, “Let me see a picture of Benjamin.”
She went for her purse, which was looped onto the back of her chair, opened her wallet, and pushed the photo toward him.
“Oh, man. He is a good-looking boy.”
“Thank you.”
“Where is his father?”
“So you want me to tell you about the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job?”
She grinned.
He said, “Come here.”
He pulled her into a hug, her hair tickling his nose, her arm going around him, both of them still sitting at the table. He kissed the top of her head and said, “We’ve got time to get into the deep stuff.”
“Yes,” she said. “I want this to take a lot of time.”
Richie held her, thought how good this felt, and that he couldn’t wait for more.
Chapter 92
IT WAS THE end of another torturous night in the Saint Francis pediatric oncology wing. As light slashed through the windows, Joe and I were still waiting for something good to happen. Dr. Sebetic and his colleagues had stuck pins and needles into our daughter, ran her small body through imaging machines, sent her fluids out to labs, but nothing had yet been concluded. I’m a good interrogator, but I got nothing from the medical staff.
And so two days after we checked Julie into Saint Francis, the death sentence that would not quit still hung over her precious head.
Right then, Joe was sleeping beside me in our private hospital room and Julie was dozing fitfully in her incubator, within arm’s reach of the bed.
Neither of them stirred when my phone rang.
Brady said, “How’re you all doing, Boxer?”
He actually said “ya’ll,” his voice sugared with a trace of drawl from his years in Florida.
I told him there was still no news and then asked, “You need something, Lieutenant?”
“Someone wants to talk to you. Here’s a hint. He’s with the FBI. A very big cheese. I’ve been told he’s got a private line to Washington in his pocket.”
Brady patched me through to Parker’s phone, after which Parker and I went a few rounds. As before, Parker told me that if I didn’t help him with this world-class dirtbag, Randy Fish, the case would always be half closed, half solved, and the remains of the dead girls would never be buried in their family plots.
That would be a crime, to be sure, and that’s the part that always got to me.
“I ran the new names he gave me through Missing Persons and they’re all Fish’s type. Every one of them is a dark-haired young female going to college on the West Coast. We’ve got another girl from San Francisco, Debra Andie Lane, eighteen. We had never connected her to Fish until he told me he’d killed her.”
“How exactly am I going to help you, Ron? You’ve got the FBI at your disposal. I’m a midlevel homicide cop. On leave. And all he’s done is mess with me.”
“The fish man asks for you. All the time. He has conversations with you when you’re nowhere around. You can help with the force of your personality. By withholding and giving praise. Dial it up, cut it off; that’ll work with him.”
“You believe that?”
“Yes, if there’s any chance in the world.”
“Well, thanks for your faith in me, but I’m done with the fish man. Please. Cross me off your call list until further notice.”
I told Parker that yes, I was sure, said good-bye, and flung myself back onto the bed.
Joe opened his eyes, ran his hand over his stubble. “Done with what?”
I told him.
He rolled toward me, put his arm over my waist. “Give it some thought.”
“No.”
What was there to think about? I had to stay near Julie. I had to be right here if a life-or-death decision had to be made.
“Julie is getting the best of care, Lindsay. I’ll be here all day and we’ll both be here all night. I’ll call you, I promise, the second I know anything. You don’t function well when you can’t take action. You’re driving yourself crazy and I hope you’ll understand that I love you and I say this in the kindest possible way. You’re driving me a little crazy, too.”
“Really.”
“Randy Fish is a very big deal, and whatever you can do to clear the case, that’s what you should do.”
We argued in whispers for several minutes, but when Joe talked about giving peace of mind to those lost girls’ families, he pushed my buttons, as Ron Parker had done.
“You’re going to nail him this time,” Joe said. “I just know it.”
“You know me, Joe. I’m sure as hell going to try.”
Chapter 93
I MET CONKLIN up on Bryant, in front of the Hall. He had the keys to a squad car and also an extra coffee and a chocolate brownie, which I gladly accepted.
“Where to?” he asked, folding his lanky frame behind the steering wheel.
It was about noon when we got on the freeway. A cold front was forming, and the marine layer filled the roadbed from shoulder to shoulder. I knew every twist, turn, and lane change by heart, and so the slow drivers and
