One In A Million (The Millionth Trilogy Book 1) Page 11

  Then, The Gray Man was on his way, his leaving marked only by a gentle rustling of scrap papers on the computer island.

  The library remained quiet, and before long the teenage boy returned to his computer to get one last look at the Asian supermodel in cut-off shorts and a red bikini top, ranked fifteenth on the Maxim list. This was his favorite model, since she reminded him so much of the girl in his math class that he couldn’t keep his eyes off. Looking at the screen, though, he squinted with surprise, then let out a soft “what?”

  On the screen was a website for the local women’s abuse shelter.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tamara sat on the couch with the kids. They were watching cartoons and eating macaroni and cheese for lunch while she wondered just what to do next. This wasn’t something a wife could plan or prepare for. She was very good at crisis management at work, but this was different. This was forced adaptation. The scenarios that banged and clamored through her head were already numerous and multiplying, leaving the path forwards muddled at best.

  The sun cut through the den in patterned formations from the plantation shutters covering the windows. Tamara looked at Seth first, noticing the shape of his head, so much like his father’s, and she couldn’t imagine how she was going to explain this to him. It wasn’t long ago that he’d sat with Kyle out on the patio and put together their first model car. It was an old-fashioned hobby that Kyle had dragged from his childhood into the Wii era, and Tamara had stood at a distance in the dining room watching them with a smile as Seth tried so hard to pretend he was interested. Truth be told, he would crush cans with Kyle all day if it meant they could be together. As father and son they were nearly inseparable.

  Tamara shook her head softly. This was all going to devastate his little life forever, and sadness bloomed in her chest with a frightening fierceness. She looked to Janie, her own little shadow. The likeness between them was something that everyone always mentioned, filling Tamara with pride. She watched her daughter now as she lay on the floor playing with a strand of her long brown hair as her feet, in mismatching socks, seesawed behind her. Janie might handle this better in the long run, but there was no telling for sure. She could internalize things so deeply that even Tamara couldn’t get in sometimes.

  What Janie was thinking or feeling became brutally inconsequential when a news report appeared on the screen, momentarily pushing the cartoons into oblivion.

  A brief preview of the noon headlines immediately displayed the Hilton downtown with the words “Woman Dies from Mysterious Fall” in white print on a red banner that ran along the bottom of the screen.

  Tamara swallowed hard. No!

  The reporter was speaking, but Tamara’s mind was like melting wax, her thoughts a sticky mess as she struggled with what she was seeing on the screen.

  They were avoiding details so far. No mention of Caitlyn, just her age and that she was a graduate of UCLA. Tamara immediately put her bowl down on the side table and began to look desperately for the remote—It had been right here, right next to the damned pillow!—and that’s when Kyle’s face came on the screen.

  She felt like she was going to be sick the moment she saw the looks on her children’s faces as their father was being described on TV as a “person of interest.”

  Giving up on the remote, Tamara charged at the TV and turned it off just as a phone number for the LAPD came on the screen with instructions to call if anyone had seen Kyle Fasano in the last twenty-four hours.

  They’d used a work ID photo, which meant his job already knew about things. In the photo Kyle was wearing that “I’ve got everything under control” smile of his, and it was with this image that she attempted to calm her panicked children as they ran to her, peppering her with questions and worries. For the second time in a half-day, she was cradling her babies and trying to soothe them. Is this how it’s going to be from now on: one piece of devastating news after another? He’s caught. He’s in jail. Sorry, we had to shoot him. What the hell was next?

  She kept telling herself he wasn’t guilty of this. He couldn’t be.

  The house phone began to ring almost immediately.

  She was freezing, and yet sweat was beginning to cover her.

  So this is what a cold sweat feels like.

  She hadn’t turned the answering machine down. It was on, just as it had been the night before when she had listened to Kyle’s message with Juanita, before the cops had come and before Kyle himself had called to tell her that their world was now about to be blown apart.

  She wanted to get up and turn it off, but the kids were weighing her down like anchors. First came her neighbor’s call of concern, then the woman who ran Janie’s Girl Scout troop.

  It wasn’t until Kyle’s mom called the house, her voice bleeding pure panic, that Tamara pried the kids off of her and ran to the machine, wanting to smash it to pieces but realizing at the last minute that Kyle could call again.

  So she simply pushed the volume dial down to zero, silencing her mother-in-law in the process and upsetting the children even further.

  First Daddy was on TV, and now Grandma was calling in a panic, and Mom had already torn the kitchen apart, and now…

  She felt all the arrows hitting her at once: pain, denial, fear, guilt, sadness.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take them all, and now the worst arrow of all had managed to get past her and strike her children: the arrow of horror.

  “Where’s Daddy?!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Find Daddy!”

  “Why can’t you call Daddy?”

  “Will the police hurt Daddy?”

  Mommy help him. Mommy stop them. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.

  The phone kept ringing and it was all so much. Too much.

  Her cell phone was on the kitchen counter, and now it too began to ring. The caller ID showed that it was Ben. She needed help. She needed someone, anyone, right now. As she decided to answer it, she thought she saw someone in the kitchen window and, startled, she jumped. Shit. Now she was seeing things.

  Her hands were shaking when she grabbed the phone and answered, “Hello? Hello?!” she nearly screamed.

  “Tamara, what the hell is going on? I just got back from my run and was watching the news…”

  “I know,” Tamara replied, her voice trembling.

  “I’m coming over, right now.”

  There was something in his voice that she didn’t like, an assertiveness that conveyed that he thought he had a right to come over. He didn’t. It was a confidence that they were close enough as coworkers that he would be wanted in the midst of a family crisis. He wasn’t.

  And still she heard the word come out of her mouth. “Okay.”

  She hung up the phone in a state of disbelief, and that was a really good word for her entire life right now.

  It might be how she lived it from now on.

  EFREN CALLED JUST as Napoleon was heading out of the station, Parker still inside getting note copies from the detectives who had worked the case overnight.

  “Tio!” Efren shouted so loud that Napoleon had to pull the phone from his ear.

  “¿Qué pasó, mijo?” Napoleon replied with a smile.

  “I made the team! I did it!”

  “¿Si? ¡Orale!”

  “You gotta see my uniform. It’s awesome! Dodger Blue!”

  Napoleon laughed, feeling neither weary nor sick for the first time in days. “That’s great, my man! Good job. What position?”

  “Shortstop. Coach says maybe third some games.”

  “Lotta action that side of the infield. You ready for it?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s worried I’ll catch one in the face. She said you did when you were little.”

  “I had two left hands, mijo. And besides, your mom’s got a bad memory. I pitched. Comebackers happen.”

  This time it was Efren laughing.

  “When’s your first game?”

  “Tomorrow. You’re gonna be there,
right, Tio?”

  Napoleon thought of the captain and his damned order to drive to Beaury. Tomorrow was possible, if Kyle Fasano proved an easy catch.

  “Probably not, mijo. I’m sorry,” Napoleon answered, immediately aware how unlike him this response was. He never missed something important with Efren. Why the hesitation now?

  Efren also seemed surprised, and more than a little bit let down. “Oh. Okay. But, ya gotta be there, Tio. I’ll get a hit, just for you.”

  Napoleon felt his heart break. “You don’t gotta get a hit for me, mijo. I’d come just to see you in uniform. You know that.”

  “Yeah.” Efren said it like he believed it.

  “It’s just that I’m working a big case right now. But I’ll be there for the next one, okay?”

  “Okay.” But his little voice still sounded let down.

  Parker had evidently gotten the notes, as he was leaving the station house and walking towards Napoleon, who was leaning on their unmarked car.

  “In the meantime, keep practicing and… hey, little man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good job.”

  “Thanks, Tio. You wait and see. I look gooood in my uni. The ladies will liiike it.”

  Napoleon chuckled. “Okay… Romeo.”

  He hated the sound of Efren hanging up. It was the sound of Napoleon getting back to his shit life.

  “So what’s the deal?” Parker asked with a yawn.

  “We’re going to Beaury, partner,” Napoleon said with a sigh, not knowing if it was Beaury that had caused the sigh or his use of the word partner in referring to Parker.

  “What?” Parker replied with a grimace as they got into the car.

  “Yep. The hunt is on.”

  “Don’t they got local cops up there they can call?”

  “Cap’s already on it.”

  “Yeah. That and the press angle. He’s on that too.”

  Squinting, Napoleon shook his head. “Are you shitting me? He just told me he was happy the press wasn’t on it yet.”

  Parker backed out of the space and pulled through the lot, a line of police cruisers to one side, the maintenance garage to the other. The damaged and broken-down cars in their stalls were a reminder that the whole thing was a façade, that law and order was just as fragile as anything else, and even justice busted a tie rod every now and then.

  “With ‘yet’ being the key word, I guess. They just came in, and he wasn’t acting shy, I’ll tell ya that. I guess he’s starting to get his fifteen minutes of fame. Glory whore, huh?”

  Did Parker just call the cap a glory whore? Napoleon thought. It appeared that there might be hope for the rookie yet.

  “Balls,” Napoleon said with a nod.

  “Hey man, we got this murdering bastard’s face on TV and a call into local PD up there, and he still wants us to play US marshals?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Only one reason for that,” Parker added.

  “What’s that?”

  “He wants the cameras for himself, homie,” Parker answered with extra emphasis on the last word.

  Napoleon winced. “Maybe, numb-nuts, but save me the damned hood talk. Nothing worse than a white boy trying to talk street.”

  “Hey man. I’ve seen some tough times.”

  “Shit. Toughest times you saw was when your mama said ‘no’ when the ice cream truck came by.”

  Parker chuckled and shook his head. “If only that were true.”

  Napoleon looked at him sideways, remembering something from Parker’s file that he’d received prior to the start of his training: Parker was an army vet of both desert wars, which made him a gang member from a different hood of a different kind. “We got an hour north, depending on traffic. So just drive… homie.”

  It was a classic Los Angeles day, hot but a little cloudier than usual. As they exited the parking lot, uniformed officers came in and out of the station with frequency. It reminded Napoleon of easier times, days of reporting and patrolling, not hunting and searching.

  They eased into traffic on Hill Street before jumping on the 5 Freeway, where a stalled mid-80s Honda sat at the side of the on-ramp, jammed with five or six wetbacks. Some people thought they’d seen hard times. Laughable. Hard times were when you had no dinner that night because the car that was supposed to get you to work for your pay-per-day job had broken down. Hard times were what happened when you had to walk home to tell your wife that.

  As they made their way through the tight midday traffic, Napoleon noticed that amid the usual mix of hybrids and SUVs there was a big rig a few lanes over with rather unusual mud flaps, each displaying a skull with a tiny halo.

  It reminded him of a joke his grandmother used to tell. Something about how being an angel wasn’t so easy because, well, you had to die first, and who wanted to do that?

  The freeway was like some sort of diseased artery, clogged in places, free flowing in others. This was going to take more than a few hours. Or who knew? They might get lucky and Fasano would get collared by the hick lawmen in Beaury who were eager for a little bit of the spotlight. He’d pay to see the captain’s face if that happened.

  Parker tapped the radio buttons until he came up with a little classic rock, Kansas, which was fine by Napoleon. Carry on my wayward son… carry on.

  Maybe it was the mud flaps on the big rig, or maybe it was his regret at not promising Efren he would make that game, but as they made their way north past Cesar Chavez Avenue, Napoleon saw his apartment just off the freeway—and the oddest thought crossed his mind.

  He would never see his home again.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kyle stood in line at the CVS and cautiously looked around. There weren’t a lot of cameras. The one over the pharmacy counter would never catch him, but the two over the registers and the one over the entrance would. He couldn’t believe the way he was thinking, all about cameras and being clever with the cops. It was like he was channeling his teenage years, when being a hell-raiser and getting away with small and silly stuff was fun, like maybe dodging a police car when he was speeding or bailing out the back door of a party that was being broken up.

  This wasn’t silly, and it wasn’t fun; but that part of him, that devious other self, was still there inside him, being called forth now to wreak a little havoc and make good on his escape. It was odd, as if those parts of yourself never really died; they just went somewhere to rest until you need them again.

  Following the plan he’d laid out in his mind earlier at Denny’s, he picked up black hair dye, scissors, and a bandage for the cuts on his hand. Then he went to the greeting card aisle and found the Peanuts section. When he saw a birthday card of Linus and his blanket he thought it was perfect. Linus was Tamara’s favorite. Lastly, he found the calling cards near the register. He would only need one, of the international variety, for calling Mexico or South America. The cashier completed the transaction and took his cash.

  Next, he went next to the Dickies store, where he used more of his cash to buy a couple pairs of jeans and some plain t-shirts, one blue and one white. Nothing fancy or loud. He kept this visit quick and low-key. It helped that the girl at the register was in a deep conversation on her cellphone with her boyfriend and seemed to pay Kyle no mind. At the last second he grabbed a sports duffel that was on sale. A backpack at CVS might have been better, but again, whatever he planned on keeping with him was best kept off-camera.

  His next stop was the post office. An old lady remarkably similar in looks to the librarian worked there. She took note of him but not overly so, giving him a distracted, almost contemptuous look, like an owl. He stood at the small customer kiosk near the door and filled out Tamara’s greeting card as best he could, his back to the counter so he could wipe at his eyes in private. He knew what he wanted to say, but the words didn’t come easy. When he was done he went to the counter and paid the extra fee for Priority Mail Express, so it would be delivered to her the next day.

  He exited the post of
fice at just before noon, and the bus stop sign told him that his ride would be arriving shortly. Now was the time to hit up the ATM, and he hoped he hadn’t waited too long. It was risky, using his cash before pulling more, but his instincts told him that the minute he used that card, alerts would go off somewhere and a call would be made to the cops.

  As if his fears were exorcized at that very moment, he noticed a police car coming down the street and instantly had the feeling that his time was about to run short in Beaury. He only needed fifteen more minutes, when the bus would arrive. And the Wells Fargo up the street was only a few minutes’ walk away.

  The cruiser drove towards him, actually getting to within half a block before turning into the mini-mall parking lot. He noticed the logo on the door of the car: Beaury Sheriff’s Department.

  Shit.

  He hung back near a group of trees and watched. The cruiser parked in front of the Denny’s and the two sheriff’s inside, one looking to be in his late-fifties and the other in his mid-thirties, got out. Their demeanor gave Kyle cause to relax, as they were laughing and joking, one of them even stopping to buy a newspaper on the way in.

  He still had time, but not much. He hustled to the bank, slid in his ATM card, knowing that the camera here would certainly film him, and punched in a four hundred dollar withdrawal, cursing himself for setting that as his maximum limit back in the days when he worried about losing his card. Then… he held his breath, only exhaling when the machine began spitting out the money. They hadn’t shut the account down yet. But they probably would now.

  He walked nervously back to the bus stop, a wary eye on the Denny’s, knowing he was being silly but waiting nonetheless for both cops to come flying out of the restaurant with syrup on their chins, already notified of what he’d done. That was impossible, he knew, but he was still very relieved when the small town of Beaury offered up a small surprise: the bus was early. Kyle joined the group of about ten people that was waiting for it, and then boarded with a smile for the driver and a request for change, which he knew wouldn’t be granted.