“We were planning on going back to the freeway, try to talk to more of the homeless people in order to get a handle on this Gritz character.”
“Is it safe going back there?”
“I’ll have Milo with me. Whether or not it’s productive remains to be seen.”
“All right,” she said uneasily. “If you want it to be productive, why don’t you stop at a market and get those people some food?”
“Good idea. You’re full of them today, aren’t you?”
“Motivation,” she said. She turned serious, reached up and held my face in both of her hands. “I want this to be over. Please take care of yourself.”
“Promise.” We managed to maintain a convoluted embrace despite the dog.
I fell asleep, smelling perfume and kibble. When I woke up my stomach was sour and my feet were sore. Inhaling and letting out the air, I sat up and cleared my eyes.
“What is it?” Robin mumbled, her back to me.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?” She rolled over and faced me.
“Someone in a therapy group, getting wounded and keeping it inside all these years.”
She touched my face.
“What the hell do I have to do with it?” I said. “Am I just a name on a damned brochure, or did I hurt someone without ever knowing it?”
I heard the unhealthy-sounding engine from inside the house. Milo’s Fiat, reduced to a squat little toy on the monitor.
I went outside. The wind had stopped. The car expelled a plume of smoke, then convulsed. It didn’t look as if it would survive the evening.
“Figured it would blend in where we’re going,” he said, getting out.
He carried a large, white plastic bag and was wearing work clothes.
The bag smelled of garlic and meat.
“More food?” I said.
“Sandwiches–Italian. Just consider me your official LAPD delivery boy.”
Robin was back in the garage, working under a funnel of fluorescence.
The dog was there, too, and he charged us, heading straight for the bag.
Milo lifted it out of reach. “Sit. Stay–better yet, go away.”
The dog snorted once, turned his back on us, and sank to his haunches.
Milo said, “Well, one out of three ain’t bad.” He waved at Robin. She raised a hand and put down her tools.
“She looks right at home,” he said. “How bout you, Nick Danger?”
“I’m fine. Anything on Gritz in the records?”
Before he could answer, Robin came over.
“He’s brought us dinner,” I said.
“What a prince.” She kissed his cheek. “Are you hungry right “Not really,” he said, touching his gut and looking down at the ground.
“Had a little appetizer while I waited.”
“Good for you,” she said. “Growing boy.”
“Growing the wrong way.”
“You’re fine, Milo. You’ve got presence.” She patted his shoulder.
From the way her fingers were flexing I knew she was eager to get back to her bench. I was itchy, too, thinking of the freeway people. The dog continued to sulk.
“How bout you, lion?” she said to me. The dog came over, thinking–or pretending–it was meant for him.
“I can wait.”
“Me, too. So let me stick this in the fridge and when you guys get back, we’ll chow down.”
“Sounds good.” Milo gave her the bag. The dog tried to lick it and she said, “Relax, I’ve got a Milk-Bone for you.”
Above the roofline, the sky was black and empty. Lights from the houses across the canyon seemed a continent away.
“You’ll be okay?” I said.
“I’ll be fine. Go.” She gave me a quick kiss and a small shove.
Milo and I headed for the Fiat. The dog watched us drive away.
The sound of the gate clanking shut made me feel better about leaving her up there. Milo coasted to Benedict, shifted to first, then upward, squeezing as much speed as possible out of the little car. Shifting roughly, big hands nearly covering the top of the steering wheel. As we headed south, I said, “Anything on Gritz?”
“One possible citation–thank God it’s an unusual name. Lyle Edward, male white, thirty-four years old, five six, one thirty, I forget the color of his eyes.”
“Coburg said he was shorter than Hewitt.”