Don’t hurt them physically, Rina thought. She turned on her heels and ran into the house without looking back. Ten minutes later, she heard the roar of the motorcycle’s ignition. It spat and hissed, then faded until it dissipated into the hot summer air.

27

Cool and calm.

Decker had learned a lot over the years, two decades of police work had been an extended training course in control. Dispassionate inwardly, compassionate outwardly. Don’t get overinvolved.

Except the bastard had put a gun to her head. Suddenly, nothing else mattered.

He parked the unmarked on a side street connecting Sunset and Hollywood—equidistant from the teenage prostitutes and the chickenhawks. The harsh noonday sun highlighted the ugliness. All around, neglected apartments. Buildings gray with grime and smog. Bungalows with rotted porches and rusted siding.

Abel lived in a two-story decaying structure called the Aloha. Its exterior was pink, but once it had been colored aqua, the old paint surfacing through in inkblot patterns. Decker jogged up a metal staircase coated with grit and walked down an outside hallway, heading toward the back. Abel’s bachelor pad overlooked a pay parking lot. His door was open. Decker stepped inside.

The place was bare bones. Plaster walls painted yellow, a worn brown carpet as flat as packed dirt. His sofa had been gold and red brocade, but the fabric had thinned to surgical gauze. In front of the couch was a wood-grained Formica table resting on spindly black legs. A matching square table was shoved into the windowed corner, two orange plastic chairs pushed against it. The top was clean and clear except for a gooseneck lamp and an old toaster. A kitchenette was squeezed into a closet—a two-burner hot plate, a bar-sized fridge, and a small porcelain sink, its surface polished sparkling white. The room was stuffy and, as always, reeked with the smell of ammonia, bug spray, and disinfectant.

Abel was looking out the window, his hands resting on the sill, his shoulders hunched. His feet cleared the floor by six inches. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of gray shorts and a black-and-white checkered sweatband. His beard had been neatly trimmed, his hair washed and braided, the plait grazing the middle of his back.

“Ever think of hanging up a picture?” Decker said.

“There’s beauty in simplicity,” Abel answered.

Decker walked over to him, pushed him down until his feet touched the carpet. Abel turned to face him.

“Okay, buddy,” Decker said. “Spit it out.”

Abel didn’t answer.

“Say it.” Decker gave him a shove. “Say it! Say it, goddammit, say it!”

Decker pushed him backward. Abel stumbled but regained his balance by grabbing a kitchen chair. He said nothing.

Decker grabbed his shoulders, pulled him forward, and said, “She was Cong, you jerk! VC! Charlie! The enemy! The one who tried to blow your balls off, but had to settle for your leg!”

“I knew she was VC,” Abel whispered.