Brill’s eyes went from my face to El Paso’s ugly mug.

“I don’ do nothin’ to her,” he reiterated. “I just wait at the door till they done.”

“Who did something to her?”

“Maybe Juice Fedek … Pepe Renaldes maybe. I don’ remember. Long time ago.”

I said, “The boy you beat up—”

“I don’ beat up no one,” El Paso stated.

“Someone beat him up,” I said.

“Not me. Maybe the others.”

“Was he alive when you left?”

El Paso shrugged. “I jus’ wait at the door.”

“Where’d you get the bag from?” Brill asked.

“What?”

“The bag of X,” Brill said. “Who’d you buy it from?”

Again El Paso asked for his lawyer. This time, he was adamant. The door to discussion was officially closed and dead-bolted.

29

Juice Fedek was Joseph Nicholas Fedek: twenty-one years of age, a young man with a seasoned record—two breaking-and-entering charges, one assault, two misdemeanor drug possessions, two DUIs with a suspended license for a year. Eight months in county, bumped into early parole due to overcrowding. Then he was picked up on a DUI, served an additional four months, another early release, same reason. Where he parked himself was anyone’s guess and Germando claimed he hadn’t seen him since his last tour in the cellar.

Pepe Renaldes was gainfully employed by Do-Rite Construction—bonded and licensed. The company’s claim to fame was custom-built homes in Brentwood, a liberal, ritzy white area in the West Side of Los Angeles, a neighborhood I knew intimately because my mother and stepfather lived there. They had their book clubs, their wine-and-cheese parties, and their endless discussions on the state of the world. I loved my mother dearly. As my father admitted, she had not been given a fair shake in her first marriage. She was happy now, and that was good. But I could take the intellectualizing only in small doses. Their lifestyle had all the pitfalls of backbiting academia without the college credits.

Since both lads were lacking outstanding warrants, I had no choice but to wait until a game plan was formulated between El Paso’s lawyer and the DA. I had wanted to show their mugs to Sarah Sanders, see if she could pick them out of a six-pack, but I was told to hold off. With my hands figuratively bound, I went on my shift and worked a solid eight hours, getting home around twelve, exhausted and depleted.

Lots of phone messages, but none from Koby. No e-mails from him, either.

Why wasn’t I surprised?

Saturday was devoted to finding David Tyler. That meant phone calls to homeless shelters, halfway houses, and other community centers for the developmentally disabled. Then there was my “sacrosanct” lunch with Mom. As I traveled around Brentwood, I looked for houses going up and Do-Rite Construction signs, but was out of luck.

There were still no messages from Koby when I got home. That would die unless I got things going again. So on Sunday, I swallowed my pride. I went shopping and bought him an orange shirt—on sale and nonreturnable. Afterward, I wondered why in the hell I did it, because who was this guy to me.