Sinister Shorts

“What's he like? Taylor?”

“Normal. Businesslike. Trying to make money and stay out of trouble. We talked to a few of the people around that day. Nobody admitted knowing Roman but they might lie to stay out of it, or to protect Taylor. Then again, the store's on a busy street. I don't know how much repeat business the guy gets. Roman says he worked oddball hours, so he might not have been noticed in particular. We're believing Taylor until we've got a good reason to believe Roman instead.”

“Why don't you believe Roman? He says he worked there. Seems like a strange story.”

“Look, it wouldn't surprise me if Taylor slipped the kid a few bucks under the table and lied about that. He doesn't want to have any run-ins with the tax man. But, it's a fact that Roman got shot. It's a fact we found the kid lying on the sidewalk in front of the store. Whether he worked for Taylor or not is moot. He ran into someone who went joyriding with a pistol. I'm not even sure the kid's lying intentionally about being out there on the street. That kind of shock is bound to upset anyone. Now there was a theory floating around…”

“What theory?”

“Seems the owner complained to the cops several times about people taking potshots at his store. He's Anglo operating in a neighborhood where he's a minority. Maybe there is some tension. Maybe that's why he might hire Roman, who's at least partly Hispanic. But he says in this case, the guys pulled up, aimed at Roman, and shot. It's nothing to do with him. Course, if Taylor knew someone had a grudge and came after him, he might lie.”

“Any estimate as to how far away the perp was when he fired?”

“Close. Maybe six, eight feet.”

“Did he see the car?”

“Actually, no. Says he was in back. Just heard a car tear away when he came ru

“What are my chances of getting something out of the medical examiner?”

“Susan? She's got a soft spot for you, Paul. All the muchachas do. I've been meaning to ask you about that…”

“Armano, you don't need any tips from me. I'm a two-time loser with wives.”

“Who said anything about marriage, besides my mother?”

Paul jogged on the beach the next morning, working up a good sweat, ru

A woman of regular habits, she usually walked the beach very early in the morning. She was late. He must have run an extra mile. He'd skip tomorrow without guilt. He waved and ran toward her, slowing his pace.

“Son of a gun. It's been a while. Paul, right? After you quit, I thought you'd be heading back up to San Francisco.”

“Where there's money, there's crime. Plenty of work for me right here. I could mention you're still here.” He tried to catch his breath. He didn't feel very smooth with Susan. She was a type he found hard to understand, a woman happy in a man's job.

“Like you said, crime pays.” She fell into step with him. They walked toward a large piece of driftwood and sat on it side by side. Small and delicate-looking, Susan did not look strong enough to cut through bone. “And I like my job.” Her dog, a brindle-colored Lhasa apso, began a frantic search for something, flinging sand in all directions.

Paul moved out of the line of fire. “What got you interested in forensics?”

“In med school I quickly discovered my fatal flaw: I'm damned squeamish about cutting into living, breathing bodies. With dead people, you do no damage.”

She looked up at Paul, gri

“Probably just in a hurry to answer nature's call.”

Her dog must have known the meaning of the phrase. He raised his leg against the log a foot past Paul. Paul stood up and moved away. “Whew. Dangerous neighborhood.”

“Speaking of which…” Susan said, apparently recognizing the lack of coincidence in their meeting.

“I'm working for Roman Maldonado's family. I wondered if you'd mind sharing a little of what's on your mind in that case.”

“Oh, yes. What a mess. A drive-by, according to the police. Always hard to find those guys, unless they're dumb enough to brag about it. Amazing how many do.”

“Did you go to the scene?”

“No. Earl Cummings from our office went over there because the owner of the store said the boy that was shot was dead. From what Earl said, and from the photographs, there's a problem with the blood at the scene.”

“What's that?”

“There's blood on the sidewalk. Just not much. Strange, isn't it, when the kid got shot four times?”

“You think he was shot somewhere else and brought there?”

“No sign of blood in the store or the alley nearby. The first cop to arrive did a thorough survey of the area.”

“How soon after the shooting did Earl get there?”

“About an hour. Should have been sooner. I've got a regular beef about that with Chief Carsey.” She leaned over and scratched her dog behind the ears. His head moved ecstatically along with her fingers while his little body remained alert, the picture of eager anticipation. She got up. “Gotta go. Can't keep a good dog waiting.”

She took off down the beach. Paul waved once more and then allowed his eyes to snap his standard body shot. She had good legs, muscular and balletic, a small waist, and long, developed arms. Susan was stronger than she looked. When she'd scratched the dog, Paul wanted to offer himself up for a good scratch, too. He watched her break into a carefree run. That woman probably plucked hearts out of men by the dozen. This level of cool, he could never quite approve.

After he had showered and dressed, he fired up his van and headed up 101 to Gilroy in a good mood, playing the radio and enjoying the cloud show on the green hills and dales flanking the freeway. He stopped at Chevy's for a breakfast burrito and drove up the hill toward Taylor 's store. Parking in front, he noted the freshly painted angled spots and meticulously clean, well-swept walkway in front. No trees marred the shining asphalt with their leaves.

Armano hadn't exaggerated. Bert Taylor's market was definitely a cut above the average corner store. The windows sparkled, the floors shined. The area behind the counter looked like something organized and maintained by Paul's scrupulous Dutch grandmother, who had never made her peace with all the dirt in the world.

A woman with a baby in a stroller monopolized the man behind the counter for a good ten minutes trying to decide between what looked to be identically jumbo plastic packages of disposable diapers. One pass by the stroller, and Paul stayed away. Baby needed those diapers badly and had made bad use of them. Baby agreed, letting loose with a murderous howl. Her mother and the clerk ignored her, unconsciously adjusting the volume of their voices to be heard. Mom decided to take both packages, and then had the long job of figuring out how to carry them and push a stroller with a hysterical child at the same time.

“Bert Taylor?” Paul asked, after she was out of screaming distance.

“That's my name,” said the clerk. Very tall, he would have been fairly good-looking except for a jaw that ended somewhere around his knees. The long face held an easy grin.

Paul introduced himself as an investigator. Taylor didn't ask him for further ID, assuming him to be yet another agent of law enforcement coming around to hear his story for the millionth time. Paul did not disabuse him of the notion, secretly marveling at how accepting people were when they shouldn't be.

Taylor was very interested in Roman's condition. “I coulda sworn that boy was dead as a doornail,” he said in amazement. “I guess if you're here, he's not talking much. He remember what happened?”