indictment.
“Medical examination could help us find who killed him,” Jose said.
Lipton registered zero expression.
“And his car?” she asked, as though toting up a score to be settled later.
“Impounded, ma’am, for evidence.”
Frank asked, “He lived here?”
“Yes.”
“Could we see his room?”
“Why?”
“There might be something there that could tell us something.”
Lipton shook her head. “Not gonna have my boy’s room tore up.”
“We won’t disturb a thing, ma’am,” Frank said. “We would like to look, though.”
“I don’t let you,” Lipton said sullenly, “you gonna get a warrant.”
“We could,” Frank said.
Lipton fixed Frank with a poisonous stare. Then the venom drained away, and only sadness remained.
“Marcus?”
She hadn’t raised her voice, but Marcus instantly appeared in the doorway. She motioned toward Frank and Jose. “Take these… these gentlemen to James’s. They gonna look around.”
Marcus led the two toward the back of the house, through the kitchen and down a short hallway. In what was apparently an addition to the original house, he opened the door. A cathedral ceiling vaulted over a king-size bed that faced a wall-to-wall cabinet filled with stereo gear and a massive flat-panel TV. On the other side of the room, a recliner chair, a leather sectional sofa, a small wet bar, and another flat-panel TV.
“Turn all that stuff on at one time,” Jose said, “you black out the neighborhood.”
Marcus stationed himself by the door and folded his arms across his chest. The only thing that moved were his eyes as he followed the two detectives working their way around the room, Frank to the right, Jose to the left.
Without a warrant, you didn’t get down to squeezing toothpaste out of the tubes, dismantling furniture, or even emptying the contents of drawers on the floor. But there were trade-offs. In the time you took to get a warrant, somebody could go through the place before you.
A walk-in closet: fourteen suits, a dozen or so shirts on hangers under plastic covers, and, Frank counted, twenty-three pairs of Nikes and sixteen athletic jackets of NBA teams.
Frank couldn’t find a Wizards jacket.
With Michael Jordan, you’d think…
The door beside the closet led into a marble-and-tile full bath complete with steam shower and whirlpool tub.
Another door led to a garage that opened onto the alleyway running along the backs of the row houses. Skeeter could come and go without mama’s knowing.
On the nightstand by the bed, a Uniden radio scanner and a large white telephone with a bank of speed-dial buttons and a row of LEDs.
“Secure phone,” Jose said.
Frank jotted down the number. The nightstand also held several magazines, Ironman, Basketball Digest, Sports Illustrated.
Jose had finished his side of the room and was standing on the other side of the bed. He pointed to the Ironman cover, where an improbably muscled man and woman were showing nearly everything while rollerblading on a Venice, California, beach sidewalk. “Those two probably got muscles in their shit,” he said.
Marcus spoke for the first time. “You two finished?”
Frank and Jose exchanged glances.
“Take us back to Ms. Lipton, please,” Frank said.
Lipton hadn’t moved from her wicker chair.
“You find what you wanted to find?”
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Lipton,” Jose said.
“Didn’t leave anything behind, did you?” she asked, eyelids heavy.
Frank ignored her.
“Do you have any notion who killed my boy?”
“No,” Jose answered softly. “No, ma’am, we don’t.” He let the silence ripen, then asked, “Do you?”
Lipton sat back in her chair. Her face suddenly seemed to wilt. She shook her head. “Would it do me any good to tell you?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Jose said very deliberately, in a low voice. “I don’t know if it would do you any good or not.”
“How do you mean that… you don’t know if it would do me any good or not?”
Jose lowered his voice even more. “Nobody can tell you that except yourself.”
Lipton stared at Jose a long time, things going on behind her dark eyes. “How many times my boy hit?”
“We don’t know, Ms. Lipton,” Frank said, “not yet.”
“My boy dead, and that Pencil gonna live…” Lipton mused, trailing off as if she had banked something she had to think about later. She assumed a businesslike tone. “When we get his car?”
“Like I said, Ms. Lipton, it’s at impound. We’ll be going over it for evidence.”
“Evidence?” Lipton’s mouth tightened. “Evidence against who?”
“Just evidence,” Jose said evenly.
“How long?”
“Beg pardon?”
“How long before we get his car?” Lipton’s exasperation was growing.
Frank watched as Marcus, standing behind her, stirred restlessly, gunner’s eyes locked on the two detectives. Frank became aware of the weight of his own shoulder holster and the drape of his coat over his left armpit.
Him first. Then… then her?
“Can’t say, exactly,” Jose said.
“Can’t?… Or won’t?”
“Can’t, ma’am. I can’t say right now, and you know that. As soon’s we can, that’s all I can say.”
For several heartbeats the four remained motionless, trapped in amber.
Frank broke the silence. “Ms. Lipton. Your son’s killer… you have any idea… any guess?”
Lipton took a deep breath. She held it, then let it out, rocking ever so slightly in rhythm with music only she could hear.
“Idea?” she said in a hard-edged whisper. “I got an eye- dea. I got an idea that you folks did him in.” She paused as though listening to her own thinking coming back to her. “Yes,” she said with finality, “I think I’m looking at the people who did my boy in.”
Frank was unlocking the car when Jose’s cell phone chirped. Jose stood head thrust forward, phone pressed against his ear, massive body locked in place, as if the slightest movement might break a fragile connection. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. His shoulders relaxed. He turned.
“Daddy,” Jose explained. “Wants me to drop by.”
“Want to skip coffee?”
Jose gave Frank an incredulous look. “Not with your turn to buy.”
Adair set the orders of hash browns in front of the two men. Steam rose, fragrant and seductive, heavy with oil and paprika. Frank reached down the counter and snagged a bottle of Tabasco. After dousing his potatoes, he passed the hot sauce to Jose.
Adair watched, then gave out his usual warning. “Stuff’ll rot your gut.”
Jose came back with his usual reply. “Hasn’t yet.”
Adair ran a rag over the already clean counter in front of them. “Word is, Skeeter Hodges got whacked tonight.”
Jose held up the Tabasco bottle. “Empty.”
Adair sighed, reached under the counter, and came up with another bottle. He held it just out of Jose’s reach.
