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“Put that out. You know I don’t allow you to smoke in my car.”
She watched him roll the window down and toss out his lighted cigarette. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, clearly tickled about something.
Irritated, she went on. “What are you so happy about?”
“Nofing.”
“‘Nofing’s not a word. Say ‘noth-thing.’ What’s in your pocket?”
He shook his head as though he didn’t know what she meant.
“Did you steal something?”
He said no, but his tone was grumpy. He was too simple to lie and she knew by the expression on his face that she’d caught him again. She pulled over to the curb. “Empty your pockets right now.”
He made a show of disobeying, but she smacked him in the head and he complied, taking out two small bags of M amp;M’s and a packet of beef jerky.
“What’s the matter with you? Last time you did this, I told you never again. Didn’t I say that to you? What’s going to happen if you get caught?”
She rolled the window down and tossed out the treats. He set up a wail, making the mooing sound that so a
“Yeah.”
“Well, they can do that again if I say the word.”
She studied him. What was the point in reprimanding the boy? He did what he did in the hours when he was gone. Many days she’d caught sight of his hands, knuckles darkly bruised and swollen like mitts. She shook her head in despair. She knew if she pushed him too far, he’d turn on her as he had in the past.
When she reached the block they lived on she turned down the alleyway, searching for a parking spot. Most of the slots in the carport were empty. The apartment complex behind theirs had a constant turnover of tenants, which meant that parking spaces were available on a shifting basis as renters came and went. She caught sight of a blue Mustang parked in the fire lane at the end of the alley, tucked up along the side of the building.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. No one parked there. A sign had been posted saying it was a fire lane and had to be kept clear. Solana rolled on by, turning to stare at the vehicle. She knew whose it was. She’d seen it less than an hour before. What was Kinsey doing here? She could feel the ripples of panic rising in her chest. She made a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
Tiny said, “What’s the matter,” leaving out most of the consonants and flattening the vowels.
She turned from the alleyway onto the street. “We’re not stopping here right now. I’ll take you to the Waffle House and buy you breakfast. You should quit smoking. It’s bad for you.”
25
At 11:10 Monday morning, I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the three-story apartment building where the Guffeys lived. I could hear a steady splatting of water and assumed the gardener or a maintenance man was hosing down the walks. I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Grant Guffey, but his wife was hostile and I wasn’t looking forward to another pissing contest. Why had I agreed to do this? During the walk-through, even if I saw great gaping holes in the walls, they’d deny responsibility, swearing up and down that the holes had been there from day one. I didn’t have a copy of the inspection sheet they’d signed when they took the place. I knew Compton was meticulous about this phase of the rental process, which was what allowed him to be so tough on his tenants when they moved out. If there was visible damage and the Guffeys protested, we’d be reduced to a ridiculous “Did too! Did not!” argument.
I’d left my car in the alleyway below, parked close to the building at an angle where it wouldn’t be visible from their back window. Not that they’d know my car, but a touch of caution is never a bad thing. The spot was posted as a fire lane, but I hoped I wouldn’t be there long. If I heard sirens or smelled smoke, I’d run like a little bu
When I reached the top of the stairs I could see a widening pool of water pouring from under the door to Apartment 18. The flood was spilling over the edge of the second-floor walkway, hitting the concrete patio below, creating the illusion of rain I’d heard mere moments before. Oh joy. I waded to the front door, creating ripples as I went. The drapes had been pulled across the windows so I couldn’t see in, but when I knocked, the door swung inward on a creaking hinge. In movies, this is the moment when the audience wants to scream a warning: Don’t go in there, you twit! A door swinging open usually signifies a body on the floor, and the fearless detective will be blamed for the shooting after foolishly picking up the weapon to inspect it for gunpowder residue. I was too smart for that.
Gingerly, I peered in. The water was now flirting with the tops of my te
If the place had come furnished, all the furniture had been stolen or sold, because aside from a few coat hangers, there was nothing else to be seen. At the rate the water was flowing, I thought it was a safe bet to anticipate a virtual rain forest in the apartment below. My te
A man said, “Hey.”
I looked up. A fellow was bending over the third-floor railing. I shaded my eyes to see him against the glare.
“Got a problem down there?” he asked.
“Can I use your phone? I need to call the police.”
“I figured as much so I called ’ em myself. If that’s your car out back, you better move it or you’ll get ticketed.”
“Thanks. Do you have any idea where I can find the water shut-off valve?”
“Clueless.”
After moving my car, I spent the next hour with the county sheriff’s deputy who’d arrived ten minutes after the call went out. While I waited, I’d gone down to Apartment 10 and knocked but couldn’t rouse anyone. The tenants were probably off at work and wouldn’t learn of the watery disaster until five o’clock that day.
The deputy managed to get the water turned off, which brought out a second round of tenants, outraged and distressed by the interruption to their service. One woman emerged, wrapped in a terry-cloth bathrobe, her hair in a helmet of bubbling shampoo.
I borrowed the upstairs neighbor’s phone and called the Hyatt in San Francisco, swearing I’d leave him money for the long-distance charges. Miraculously, Richard Compton was in his hotel room. When I told him what was going on, he said, “Shit!”
He gnawed on the problem for a moment and then said, “Okay. I’ll take care of it. Sorry to put you through this.”
“You want me to call a restoration company about the water damage? They can at least get big fans and dehumidifiers out here. If you don’t get right on it, the floors will warp and you’ll have mold growing in the walls.”
“I’ll get the manager from another building started on that. He can call the company we use. Meantime, I’ll get in touch with my insurance agent and have him send someone out.”