“He was your dad’s uncle, then?”
Patrick nodded. “My dad died when I was little, and after that it was just me and Mom in the house for a while. Uncle Alf used to have his own apartment in the neighborhood, but when he got older and needed a little more help, he moved in with one of my aunts. When they had another baby on the way, he went to stay with her sister, and then a few years after that moved in with another. He spent the last years of his life moving from one relative’s house to another. But he stayed the longest here with us, and this was where he lived for the rest of his life.” He took the photo from Joyce and looking at it for a long moment before continuing. “I was just a baby when my dad died, and I guess Uncle Alf figured that my mom and I needed him around as much as he needed a place to stay. He helped raise me, really.”
Patrick set the photo back on the table.
“He looks like a sweet old man,” Joyce said, gently.
“Sometimes.” Patrick smiled. “He was kind of a bastard sometimes, too. He’d never had kids of his own, and there were times when he could be hard to live with. But that’s just how families work, I guess.”
Joyce rolled her eyes. “Remind me to tell you about my sisters sometime. If you want to talk about ‘hard to live with,’ I’ve got you beat.”
Patrick looked over and saw that Joyce had brought his quilted jacket up with the rest of the laundry, and left it neatly folded on the couch.
“Well, I guess I should be going,” Joyce said, jerking her thumb toward the door. “I’m hoping that my car is still where I parked it last night. And that those Ridden jerks didn’t mess with it.”
“Hang on, I’ll walk with you.” He went over and picked up his jacket. “My car is parked over there, too. It’s only a ten, fifteen minute walk from here.”
He picked up the two makeshift “gris-gris bags” that Izzie had left for them, and handed one to Joyce.
“We really thinking a bag of salt, rocks, and a silver spoon is going to do anything to these guys?” She looked sidelong at it, tucked it into the pocket of her leather jacket hanging on the wall, and then picked up her boots from the floor.
“It’s worth trying,” Patrick answered, and shoved his own bag in the pocket of his jacket.
Joyce sat down on the edge of the couch and set the boots on the floor in front of her. They made little squelching sounds as she pulled them on, an annoyed expression on her face, and it was clear that they had dried marginally since their trudge through the tide the night before, but not enough.
“The offer to buy you another pair still stands,” Patrick said, zipping up his jacket. He clipped his holstered service weapon to his belt, and shoved his Recondito PD badge on its neck chain into his jacket pocket.
“Don’t sweat it, I’m just giving you a hard time.” She paused, and looked down at his hiking boots. “Besides, you could probably use the money to get yourself a nicer pair. Those kicks are looking a little ragged.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said, grabbing his keyring from the hook and pulling open the front door. “Let’s get going already.”
“Okay,” she said with a sly smile. “But if you ever need any fashion advice, I’ve got some ideas.”
Patrick’s place was near the corner of Almeria and Mission, in the southwest corner of Oceanview, and the warehouse that they’d visited the night before was in the northeast corner of Oceanview, just off of Bayfront Drive in an industrial area not far from the fish market.
Patrick had parked his car a few blocks away from the warehouse, over by the docks, and approached the rest of the way on foot. Later that night they’d left Joyce’s car parked on the street when they’d fled the warehouse. So unless anyone had made off with them in the hours since, they should both still be parked within a couple of blocks of each other.
The skies overhead were grey and cloudy as they walked east along Almeria toward the intersection with Mission. The Church of the Holy Saint Anthony had evidently just finished Saturday Mass services, as there was a steady stream of cars pulling out of the metered spaces on either side of the street.
“So have you lived your whole life in that house?” Joyce asked as they waited for the walk signal, glancing back the way that they’d come. “I mean, I’m not judging you or anything, but still . . .”
“Nah.” Patrick shook his head. “I moved out when I went to college, and then had my own place in the Kiev when I came back to town, a second story walkup up on Odessa Avenue. But I was down here all the time anyway, looking after my mom. When she died a few years ago, she left the place to me, and it didn’t make any sense to keep paying rent on my tiny apartment across town when I could live here for free.”
The light changed, and they crossed Mission heading east.
“I don’t blame you,” Joyce said. “And that was before the rents got so crazy too, I guess. If I hadn’t bought my place when I did, well . . . I’d never be able to afford it now, the way the housing market keeps going up.” She turned, and saw Patrick’s inquisitive glance. “I’ve got a condo in City Center, just a few blocks from work. If not for needing this thing—” she shook her cane “—I probably wouldn’t even have a car. But it would just take me too long to walk to work every morning, and my knee gives me enough trouble as it is.” She sighed, and shook
