41.

I was at East Inglewood High, my old high school, practicing hitting drills with my even older high school football coach. Twelve years ago I made a name for myself on this field, where I was loved and worshipped. Isn't football just swell?

Coach Samson was a big black man, now in his fifties, and I still feared him on some level. But more than fear, however, was deep respect and admiration. He was more of a father figure than my father.

"Jesus Christ, son, you still have it," he said.

Coach Samson was riding high on the back of a padded hitting dummy. Currently he was getting a sleigh ride across the football field, benefit of my churning legs and sweat. He had agreed to go over the basic fundamentals, because I had been out of football for seven years. And even a battle-scarred old war horse like myself could always use some basic training.

He blew a whistle and I stopped, dropping to my knees. We were alone on the varsity football field, although the school marching band was practicing in an adjacent field. School was still forty-five minutes from starting. The band, as far as I could tell, was one hundred percent African-American.

I might have been the last white to come through here.

Without his prodding, I got down into a three-point stance, and then lunged forward, hitting the padded dummy hard. Coach Samson held on, and I proceeded to push that goddamn thing up and down the field.

The coach instructed and advised as I went, reminding me to keep my head up and my back straight and to keep my legs churning.

I churned and churned all morning long, and I did not once think about Cindy, or that I had not heard from her in two days. And I did not once think about Derrick or the hitman, either.

Instead, I focused on football.

Sweet football.

A sport I had been born to play, a sport that had been taken from me. But I was determined to reclaim it - and my life.

Most of all, I tried to ignore the pain in my left leg.

That endless goddamn pounding.

42.

My father's offices are on the fifteenth floor of a major LA skyscraper. I regretted the decision to walk the stairs by the seventh floor. At the fifteenth floor, I found the nearest bathroom and splashed water on my face and neck, then headed through some heavy double doors. Above the door were the words: KNIGHTHORSE INVESTIGATIONS.

A big, bald security guard was waiting behind a desk. He was about fifty. His uniform was neatly pressed. Probably a retired cop, or a retired colonel, a man who commanded respect. I immediately disliked him, partly because he worked for my father, partly because he was glaring at me.

"Can I help you?" he asked in a thick Boston accent.

"You're pretty big for a secretary," I said. "Do you also fetch the coffee?"

He frowned and his bushy eyebrows - the only hair on his head - formed one long bristly line. "I'm not a secretary."

"I'm sorry. Is that not politically correct these days? How about front desk technician? Is that better?"

He stared at me. The hairy caterpillar above his eyes twitched.

"Waddya want?"

"Cooper Knighthorse. He's the small guy with the creepy eyes."

"Yes, I'm aware of who he is."

"So you agree he has creepy eyes?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I thought I would surprise him. Dad always likes a good surprise. Take the time when I threw a brick through the car window when he was screwing a neighbor's wife in the back seat." I laughed heartily. "Let me tell you, good times for one and all."

"Dad?"

I nodded encouragingly.

"Mr. Knighthorse is your father?"

"I see you're no slouch. In fact, you might make a hell of a detective some day."

He ignored me. "Didn't know Coop had a son."

"Obviously, I'm his pride and joy," I said. "Now my father usually boffs his front desk engineers in the back room. Perhaps you were unaware of your full job description."

He made a move to stand up. "Don't push it, buddy."

I leaned over the desk. "But pushing it is what I do best."

He was a big guy, maybe a little soft around the middle. It would have been a hell of a fight if a voice hadn't come from my left. The voice belonged to my father. "He's okay, Reginald. He's a hardass, but he's okay."

"Your kid has a big mouth."

"Always has," said my father.

I walked around the desk and smiled at Reginald. "I'll take cream and sugar in my coffee."

43.

The entire fifteenth floor was occupied by my father's agency. His office was big, but not ornately so. There was a leather executive chair with brass nail trim behind a black lacquered desk. Piles of case folders everywhere, and from all indications, business was booming. No surprise there. He sat and motioned for me to do the same in one of his client chairs.

"Why you giving Reggie such a hard time?" my father asked.

"Just making friends and influencing people."

On his desk, angled in one corner and slightly pushed askew by an errant folder, was the picture of a blond woman and a little boy. I had no idea who they were. A different family, a different life. For all I knew the little boy could have been my half brother.

"Tell me about the pictures," I said.

He sat back in his chair and studied me silently. His gaze was unwavering. So was mine. Through the open window, in my peripheral vision, I saw a helicopter hover past, then dart away like a curious hummingbird. I tried not to let it distract me.

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know why you gave them to me now."

"I only discovered them a few years ago."

"Why not give them to me then?"

"Because you were still working here as an apprentice."

"What does that matter?"

"You didn't know what the hell you were doing," he said.

I smiled, realizing what he was getting at. "You waited for me to become a detective."

"Actually, I waited for you to become a good detective."

"So you think I'm good?" I hated the fact that this news pleased me.

"That's what I hear."

"You've been checking up on me."

He tilted his head toward me and shrugged. "I hear things."

"Meanwhile you just sat on these photos."

He shifted in his chair and looked away. "Yes."

"Tell me more about the photos."

"When I moved in with Candy," he nodded toward the blond on his desk, "I found them at the bottom of a box. I flipped through, the first time I had ever done so. To be honest, I don't know when they were developed or when I picked them up. Probably they were included with some other pictures, and got forgotten."

Something rose within me. Blood, anger, revulsion, hatred. "These were pictures of your murdered wife taken on the last day she was alive, the mother of your son, and they were forgotten in the bottom of a box?"

"Those were tough times. I really didn't know my head from a hole in the ground."

"Not a good analogy. Trust me you did just fine in that department. Remember, I saw first hand."

We were silent. I did my best to control my anger. On the wall behind him was a picture of a lighthouse. His paperweight was a lighthouse, as were his two bookends. Since when did my dad like lighthouses? There was so much I didn't know about the man, and so much I didn't care to know.

"They were fishing together, and one of them appears to have taken an interest in the two of you."

He sat back. "That's how I see it."

"It might have been more than an interest," I added.

"Perhaps. Could also be a coincidence."

I said, "Any idea who Blondie is in the picture?"

He shook his head sadly. "No."

"Do you remember him?"

"Vaguely."

"Were you aware that he had followed you back to the store?"

"No."

"Did you see him again at any other time?"

"No."

"Did you speak with him?"

"I think we did."

"Do you recall what was said?"

"No, I don't. I think I commented on the shark."

"Anything else?"

"Your mother made them laugh with the rabbit ears. They thought she was funny."

I digested this. "Since finding the pictures two years ago, have you done anything - anything at all - to follow up on your wife's murder?"

More shifting, as if the plush leather chair could possibly be uncomfortable. He motioned toward the files on his desk. "I've been busy lately, too busy, you know...."

"Let me finish for you, father. You were too busy making money to follow up on your wife's murder. Too busy solving other people's problems to worry about a woman you never truly loved."

He shrugged.

I got up and walked around the desk and looked down at him. I stood before him, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears.

"Do what you've got to do," he said, "and get the hell out of here."

I backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow almost sent him over the arm of his chair. He regained his balance. A red welt was already forming on his cheek bone. Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, then trickled out. He said nothing, did nothing, just watched me. His eyes were passionless and empty. No, not empty. There was something there, something deep within, something trying to climb up from the unfathomable depths of his cold soul, but then he blinked and it was gone.

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