A flash of concern then. “He should run.”
“I’m sure Darke can take care of himself.”
“You don’t understand him. Beneath it all …”
“Tell me.”
“There was a dancer there, Isabella, now that one was a whore. She thought Darke had money, so she made her move. And he told her he wasn’t interested.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said he didn’t look at her that way. Said he had a girl. That was all. We never saw her.”
“So he was seeing someone. Anything else, even if you think it doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus. You cops keep pushing, right.”
“Please, it’s important. Anything.”
“You’re looking to bust the man but all I can tell you is he looked out for us, for me. Me and another girl, we were his favorites.”
“Why?”
“We had kids. He was protective, soft even. One night I didn’t show for work and he turned up here. He saw me, my face that night. He was worried.”
“And the other girl?”
“Layla. He was the same with her. He even took them out, Six Flags. I mean, even I was jealous. He’s a decent guy.”
“Can I talk to Layla?”
“She’s gone, somewhere out west. Her and her little girl.”
“She had a daughter.”
“Yeah, used to have a picture on her locker. Beautiful girl.”
Walk heard noise from inside. The kid calling out.
“We done here?”
“Sure.”
“Happy hunting, officer.”
An hour to Darke’s place. On the drive he called Martha. Julieta’s ex-boyfriend was Max Cortinez, and he was beaten half to death outside a bar in Bitterwater two months prior. Walk got Martha to read the report.
Max was stamped on, so hard and so many times he’d lost all but one of his teeth. Big boots. Max, the kind of guy Bitterwater PD didn’t waste any hours on. Walk tried to call him direct, got told to fuck off when the guy finally answered his cell.
Walk caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror, beard a little longer, face a little thinner, slow slide toward someplace darker. Not just his body betraying him, he no longer questioned breaking the kind of rules he’d based a life on. It would lead somewhere bad, it couldn’t not.
Cedar Heights, a half-finished estate, wide lots, grand and soulless. A gatehouse, the brick too new, even the woodland surrounding had an air of manufactured. Darke had put money into the place.
He drew up by the barrier. A man stepped out, straggly beard, smart polo, strong smell of weed. The kind of eyes that told Walk he existed in a permanent state of confusion.
“Morning, officer.”
“I’m here to see Dickie Darke.”
The man looked toward the sky, scratched the beard and tapped the side of his head like he was working loose an answer. “I don’t think he’s home. I haven’t seen him.”
“He’s expecting me.”
A minute passed while the guy made a call. “He’s not picking up.”
“I’ll go and knock.”
Another beard scratch.
Walk leaned an arm out while the man weighed things. “What’s your name?”
“Moses Dupris.”
A silent flinch.
Beside was a water fountain, dry and green, mosaic tiles were missing in spots.
“I’ll say I steamrolled you, Moses. How’s that sound? Threatened to make a scene, knock his neighbors’ doors.”
“Well, to be honest there’s not a lot of neighbors.”
“Which house?”
Moses pointed. “Darke … Mr. Darke, he stays in the model home at the moment. You can pull up right on the driveway.”
Inside was a single road that curved its way around a dozen homes. A couple were finished, most were boarded, scaffold stood, half painted, a pile of rubble towered. The model home sat by woodland, pretty enough, white stucco, pillars and sash windows. Walk hated the place, the sterile feel. He thought of Cape Haven and the will to make it someplace like this. People were buying parcels of coast that didn’t yet have planning permission. He hoped he’d be long dead before the green tide rolled in.
Up close the house had already aged, a deep crack crept its way to broken guttering that hung loose. Grass grew long, weeds poked their way through beds.
The door was large, Walk couldn’t find a bell so he hammered the way cops did on television. Heavy, urgent thumps. He stood there a while, birds singing at him.
He walked along the front of the house, the drapes pulled, no gaps at all. At the side was a gate, wrought iron, black and heavy but open when he tried it.
A pool, barbeque area built up and out, TV screen by the chairs. Walk stopped still when he saw the back door, open.
“Darke,” he called.
He stepped inside. His heart beat quick. Thought of drawing but found his hands not cooperating. That’s how it was now.
A fan spun above. He saw neat order, opened a cabinet to canned food, labels front, perfectly so.
He moved through, sweating now. Past the dining room, an office, the living room, television on, the sound muted, ESPN, Karl Ravech in front of a wall of books, talking Bautista and Braves.
The whole place was dressed, every item carefully chosen to project an ideal. He saw plastic fruit in a bowl, plastic flowers on a side table, and photo frames filled with a model family sporting plastic smiles.
He imagined Darke living there alone, big and awkward and trying not to make a mess.
Walk climbed the stairs, wood, carpet runner, cream and thick. He passed a mirror and saw himself reflected, hand still on his gun, a kid playing cowboys, hunting down Vincent and his plastic tomahawk.
He tried guest rooms, three before he found the master. Everything immaculate.
“What are you doing here?”
He spun, his heart hammered away.
Darke stood at the top of the stairs, shorts and vest and earphones in. The stare was cold and hard.
“I came to check on you.”
Just the stare, nothing more.
“There were people asking about you. Didn’t look like the kind of guys you want to pay a visit.”
Walk followed him down the stairs and into a plush den.
“You want to get this over with?”
Walk took a seat on the soft leather couch. Darke stayed standing, the gulf between them grew.
“Julieta Fuentes,” Walk said,
