“They didn’t get one last night?”

  Shaking my head slightly, I say, “Not really. Asked some basic questions and sent me on my way.”

  A sour expression passes over her face, the look akin to taking a long suck off a fresh lemon wedge. A series of mutterings follow it, and even though I can’t hear her, I know exactly what she is saying.

  Law enforcement hasn’t exactly been a friend to people with her background.

  “I agree entirely,” I say, not asking or even needing her to repeat herself.

  “Yeah?” Angelique replies. “So where does that leave us?”

  Every part of me knows I shouldn’t tell her about returning to Cartwright’s. About seeing the surveillance tapes or spotting the guy that did it. Of the patches on the bag he was carrying.

  Still, outside of Swinger and Ross and Stapleton, she is the closest thing in the world I have left resembling family within twenty-five hundred miles. And right now, her anguish is every bit as real as mine.

  So I do anyway.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have no idea what part of the last ten hours is worse. The loss of my wife. The long night of visiting Cartwright’s and having to stare at a picture of her killer. Seeing her folded into a black plastic bag in a drawer at the coroner’s office. Having to go to her childhood home and explain to her mother what happened.

  Every last one of them was something I could not have even fathomed a day earlier, waking up in my own bed, in her arms, headed to the base for my last day in uniform.

  Now, I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing, fumbling around with what feels like nothing more than two hands and a flashlight.

  What I do know? Sitting outside the damn Central Division police station is the last place on earth I want to be.

  Checking the clock on the dash, I step out from my car parked in the diagonal visitor stalls lining the front of the building. Two stories tall and made of brick with enormous banks of windows, the place looks more like an H&R Block than a police precinct, the only things missing the garish green logos and billboards with false promises beckoning me in.

  At least those folks have the decency to be upfront about their intentions.

  A pair of officers in the usual uniform of black attire and coffee cups in hand step out as I reach the front door. Each look at my puffy eyes and the Affliction t-shirt of Swinger’s I’m still wearing, their judgment plain on their features. Together they pause for a moment, as if they might arrest me based on nothing more than my outward appearance, before they realize that I am white and let it slide.

  Don’t tell me institutionalized racism doesn’t exist in this country.

  Playing the part, I nod in hello and slip through the door, walking directly up to a front desk. Behind it stands a young black man with close-cropped hair and a short-sleeve uniform, both hands on the desk as he stands waiting for me to come forward.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning,” I manage, staying a few inches back to keep a bit of separation between us. Right now, I’m just not up for the caffeine-addled energy this guy is putting off. “Detective Malcolm Marsh, please.”

  The young man’s brows come together slightly as he looks at me, trying to compute the statement. “Um, I’m not sure if the detective is in this morning. Is there something I can help you with?”

  What I need help with, nobody in this building has the stones to touch. If not for the simple fact that I have no interest in having Marsh peeking over my shoulder for the next few days, I wouldn’t be here now.

  There are a handful of ways I can answer his question, each with varying degrees of truth and poignancy. I decide to go straight to the top, hoping that will cut down on the unnecessary back-and-forth that has already begun.

  “He is investigating the murder of my wife and asked me to come down and give a statement.”

  The white parts of the kid’s eyes grow twice as large, much the same as I’ve seen a thousand guys in the Navy when faced with a harsh reality for the first time. For an instant, he stands and merely stares before sliding a hand toward the phone, his gaze never leaving me. Snatching the receiver up, he presses a single button before saying, “Detective Marsh, someone here to see you.”

  Without being asked, I add, “Kyle Clady.”

  “Kyle Clady,” he repeats.

  The detective appears from the back a moment later.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The man is wearing the same attire as the night before. His tie has been loosened and the jacket cast aside, but otherwise, he looks the exact same. Or, at least as close as I can remember, given that most of our interaction took place through a rearview mirror staring contest.

  Seated in a tiny interview room, he sits at the head of the small metal table in the center of it, myself positioned along the long right side. Turned in his seat, one leg is crossed over the other while I sit with my hands laced before me, not having the slightest interest in matching his gaze.

  This man can’t help me. He already let me know last night what he thinks, how he will be approaching things.

  “Good morning,” he opens. “Thanks for coming in.”

  He pauses, as if I’m supposed to acknowledge or offer my own thanks in kind. Like hell. “Have you found out anything yet?”

  In my periphery, I can see his eyes narrow slightly. Clearly, he isn’t used to somebody else asking questions inside this room. What he needs to remember, though, is that I’m not a suspect, and I don’t have to aid his investigation in any way.

  Besides, I guarantee mine is already further along.

  “Didn’t know if I would see you this morning,” he offers, steering things back into his court.

  He is bating me. We both know it. He wants nothing more than for me to say something foolish, give him some reason to focus his investigation on me. Everybody knows that a fair chunk of murders can be attributed directly to the spouse, and admittedly my interaction with the medic probably didn’t help.

  Still, if I wanted to hurt Mira – a thought I can say with a thousand percent certainty has never entered my mind – I wouldn’t have brought her to Balboa Park. And I damned sure wouldn’t have screamed for help in the aftermath.

  “The man was white,” I say, jumping forward, knowing what the next logical questions in order should be. Whether that’s actually where he’s headed, I have my doubts, but right now I have other things in mind. “Older than me, mid-to-late thirties. Sandy brown hair short and mussed in the front, hadn’t shaved in a few days.”

  “You were able to get all this in just a quick glimpse before he started firing?” Marsh asks, skepticism clear.

  I blow right past it, no interest in engaging with him any longer than necessary. I’ve seen our attacker’s face a thousand times throughout the last ten hours, each time the image drawing sharper, a few more details popping out. If you sat a sketch artist across from me right now, I could probably give a better description than his own mother.

  “An inch taller than me,” I continue. “Black jeans and t-shirt. A black blanket that he dropped when he opened fire. I’m sure you guys already nabbed it.”

  I don’t bother adding that it should be rife with hairs and DNA, absolutely none of it mine.

  I shift to stare at Marsh, letting him feel my disdain, that I believe this entire process will prove to be a waste of time. I don’t bother mentioning the backpack, unable to care less if he can sense I’m holding back.

  Matching my stance, his face hardens, his features peeling back into a slight sneer. He mutters something along the lines of, “You Navy boys...” his voice trailing away as he pretends to check the file before him.

  “He walked up and asked if we could spare some change,” I push on, a clear edge coming to my voice. “My wife urged me to take pity, and when my hands were down, he started firing.”

  Marsh looks up at me, his fingers still splayed across the papers before him.

  “Two rounds, no more than a second or two apart.”

  “Any idea who the guy was or why he did it?” Marsh asks.

  Again, the image of the backpack comes to mind. “None.”

  “And he didn’t take anything from either of you?”

  A muscle twitches in my face, a physiological reflex to the tension permeating my body. “Nothing.”

  “Just turned and ran?” he presses, his disbelief growing clearer.

  In direct correlation, my animosity spikes. He doesn’t have to believe me. Just the same that I don’t have to believe that he has any interest in finding the man that shot my wife, or of even considering a suspect other than me.

  “Like a scared jackrabbit,” I respond.

  A hint of a smirk appears on his face. His features relax just long enough for it pass through, his head rotating back a quarter inch.

  “In a part of the park without security cameras.”

  I wasn’t even aware there were any cameras in the park. Why there would be, or who would be watching them, are both questions I would have loved to know the answer to before last night.

  Now, like so many other things, just two more pieces of information that won’t do Mira a damned bit of good.

  “I guess so.”

  A full moment passes, the two of us sitting and staring. After the night I’ve had, I’m almost daring him to do something, or say something, or provide anything that I might be able to point to as provocation. I am beyond caring at this point. It’s not like I have much left to live for anyway.

  The look on his face confirms the comment he began earlier. Like so many others strewn across the country, he thinks working for law enforcement puts him at the top of the pecking order, a post he must defend daily, especially against servicemen that he doesn’t believe have any place in his jurisdiction.

  If forced to bet, I would wager that right now on his wall is a law degree from a fancy institution and a series of photos with him and various local officials. Everything about him, from the clothes he’s wearing to the look he’s cultivated, all seem to be managed in a way that insinuates he has plans and this office is merely a stepping stone along that path.

  Pinning a major murder to a local SEAL would be a nice feather in his cap. Being able to assign it to PTSD or some other such thing on my last day and riding the mental health status of service members would give him great talking points on all the morning talk shows.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “Not that I can remember.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Under normal circumstances, I would say that the meeting with Marsh has put me in a foul mood, but it’s not like I had much of one to begin with. Having to sit down with him one was just one more layer of shit on the unending pile that seems to have been my last twelve hours.

  With my mouth twisted up in a scowl and both hands squeezing the steering wheel so tight I can feel bits of leather shaving off against my palms, I turn into the coroner’s parking lot. Far busier than either of my previous trips, I make one quick loop of the lot before seeing who I’m looking for and easing into a spot near the back corner.

  Shutting the engine down, I can feel the same clench that I last felt sitting outside Angelique’s house rise in the pit of my stomach. Glancing to the rearview mirror, bags underscore each of my eyes. Still red and puffy from the night before, they bulge against my pale skin, the effects of dehydration clear as my jaw and cheekbones stand out.

  Soon, I’m going to need nourishment. The mere thought of food is enough to make me want to vomit, but without it, I will be worthless.

  If I can eat in the face of active combat, somehow I will be able to force down needed calories in the hours ahead.

  I just have no idea how right now.

  Jerking the keys from the ignition, I pull my focus from the mirror and slide from the car. Already the day is starting to warm, the Santa Ana winds pushing heat out from the desert. The sun is bright and shining overheard, one more in the Groundhog Day that is southern California weather.

  Which, by my best estimation, is far and away the best reason to live in the place.

  If not for the amazing food in the area, it might even be the only reason.

  Stepping around the front of my car, I can hear a second door open. A few spots down from me, it takes a moment before I can see the person that emerges from it, the man’s head just barely visible over the pickup that separates us.

  Wearing dark sunglasses and with even darker hair gelled into place, Hiram stops at the sight of me, his body turned. Raising a hand slowly, he slides the glasses from his face, flicking them back into his car before slamming the door shut.

  Two years younger than his sister, one would be hard-pressed to ever guess the two were related. While she is – was – long and lithe, a natural beauty, Hiram is shorter and doughy. His line of work has offered him a level of income which he’s used to maintain a certain look, but nobody would ever make the mistake of calling him a handsome man.

  Dressed in slacks and a dress shirt open at the collar, he walks the length of his Lexus and meets me behind the pickup, a hand extended. As I grow closer, he pulls the hand back, instead spreading both arms wide.

  No more able to resist it than I was Angelique the night before, I lean into it, turning my face to the side. My arms barely reach around him as I return the embrace, both of us holding it for several moments, not caring one bit who was nearby to see it.

  The smell of aftershave and baby powder both play across my nostrils as I pull back, both of us with eyes glistening.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say. Odds are, it’ll be a long time if I ever know quite how to address this situation, especially with the Martinez’s.

  “I am too,” he replies. Raising a hand, he runs the back of it beneath each eye, wet streaks appearing on his skin.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course,” he responds. Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he turns to regard the coroner’s office. “Thanks for going to see Mama. I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy.”

  Nothing about this is easy. Not for me or them or anybody else that knew Mira. She was just that kind of person.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask, pushing my chin slightly toward the building.

  A small sigh rolls out as Hiram raises his eyebrows in response. “Mama’s mama. You were there when Papi died. Same thing.”

  I know exactly what he’s referring to without any further explanation. Five years before, Paulo was killed in a traffic accident. I was stationed in Guam at the time and Mira and I had both flown straight back for the proceedings, intent to help in any way we could.

  Only there wasn’t much to do. By the time we’d arrived, Angelique had put on a steely demeanor that was impenetrable. Every so often we’d see her with puffy eyes or find used tissues, but not one of us ever saw her shed a tear.

  The moment we’d shared last night was an aberration. It was a combination of my own emotion and the shock of having me arrive in such a way with the terrible news.

  Seeing her this morning, a cigarette in hand and a glassy stare on her face, was much more what I’d expect to see moving forward.

  “Yeah,” I whisper, making no mention of what happened in the living room.

  “As for me,” he adds, looking my way before casting his attention to the ground, a bit of color rising to his cheeks, “I just couldn’t...I mean...”

  I know exactly what he means. No person can tell another how to deal with death or grief or any of the other myriad emotions we as humans experience every day. Hiram loved his sister. She adored him.

  Not wanting to see her lying in a damn body bag was not the worst thing in the world. It was an image I would banish forever if I could.

  “Yeah,” I whisper again.

  Keeping his focus down a moment longer, Hiram lifts his attention my way. Shuffling his feet slightly, he turns so he is facing me head on, both of us perpendicular to the brick building beside us.

  “Mama told me what you said to her this morning.”

  I’d wondered if she would, though it makes sense. She probably felt Hiram deserved to know just as I’d felt she should as well.

  “About the security camera and the backpack and all that.”

  Already I’d known what he was referring to, his added explanation doing little beyond showing his discomfort with the conversation.

  “Yeah,” I respond, for no other reason than to let him know he shouldn’t hesitate. Even if Mira was gone, the role she had played and our mutual affinity for her would be enough to cement us as family forever.

  Wetting his lips, he glances over to the building before shifting his weight again. He glances down to his feet before looking back to me and says, “Listen, I don’t know how you plan to handle this, and I don’t want to know.”

  Again, he checks the building, as if what he is telling me needs to be delivered before Angelique steps outside.

  “I know you’re a SEAL and have lots of badass SEAL buddies and all that kind of thing, but if there is anything I can do to help, you let me know.”

  Never once have I ever thought of Hiram as a fighter, in any sense of the word. Mira or Paulo or Angelique had always looked out for him, clearing a path to the life he now lives.

  Still, in his voice, I can hear the closest thing to resolve I’ve ever known to come from the man. Reaching out, I place a hand on his shoulder, offering him a nod and nothing more.

  “Hey, can you hold that door for me, please!”

  The plea was just barely loud enough to be heard, carrying over the howling wind. Pausing, I leaned most of my body as far into the blessed heat of the inside of the building, just my foot left to keep the door propped. Turning, I watched through the glass of the front entrance as a person came bounding my way, covered head-to-toe in enough Arctic gear to make the Abominable Snowman envious.

  Entire body swaying side-to-side with each step, I waited until they were just a few steps away before shoving the door open, a plume of icy air smacking me square in the face.