“So does a good cup of morning coffee,” Marge said. “And without the bitter aftertaste.”

15

The temperature was climbing as Decker pulled out of the Foothill Substation parking lot. Warrant stowed in his jacket, he turned right onto Osborne, steering the unmarked onto the freeway. Amazing what seventy-two hours indoors could do to the perspective. The streets seemed wider, the buildings appeared taller, and the noise of traffic hurt his ears. But at least he was outdoors, no longer engulfed by the cries of the ill and the smell of death.

Fueled by coffee, he reached into his pocket for the scrap of paper with Marie Bellson’s address. She lived about three miles away from his ranch—his and Rina’s ranch. After living alone for so long, it was still hard for him to adjust from “mine” to “ours.” Not that he was selfish: Rina could have anything she wanted. Decker figured his exclusionary thinking was mere habit. Maybe Hannah would change all that. Something created by their union.

Bellson lived on a windy side street that dead-ended into a wide cul-de-sac. The block was a mixture of old, small one-story ranch-style houses, duplexes, and modern apartment buildings. Marie’s complex was at the mouth of the turnabout, three stories done in ecru wood siding pocked by weather. Hunting for a space, Decker managed to squeeze the Plymouth between a white Ford Bronco and a white Volvo sedan. Down the street sat the watch cruiser, Norwegian blond Tim Swanson at the wheel. Decker gave a little wave, and Swanson got out of the black-and-white.

“Sergeant,” Swanson said.

“What’s shaking, Officer?”

“Nothing.” Swanson cocked his thumbs under the belt loops. “Place has been as interesting as a tomb.”

“Who’s watching Bellson’s door?”

“Len Kovacs. Nothing there, either.”

“You look bored.”

“More like brain-dead, Sergeant. Story of my life. I almost miss the excitement of the riots. I may have been hated, but at least I was doin’ something.” Swanson smiled, then popped a stick of gum in his mouth and offered one to Decker, who politely declined. “We finally located the manager of the building. She’d spent the night at her daughter’s and should be here any minute with the key. Save our shoulders some bruises. Unless you want to bust the door down.”

“We’ll use a key, Tim.” Decker slapped the warrant against the palm of his hand and told Swanson that they’d enter together. First they’d check the place out to make sure no one was hiding. Then, if Bellson’s apartment was empty, Decker would look around by himself—less people, less chance for a screwup.

Bellson lived on the third floor. The elevator traveled like a turtle, smelled of mold, and creaked as it rose. Kovacs was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Bellson’s door, and he blushed when he saw Decker. He stood and swiped at his pantseat.