59.

I was in my office, feet up on my desk, fingers laced behind my head, a classic detective pose. Of course I had just finished doing two hundred military push ups. Let's see Colombo do that.

When the burn in my arms and chest had resided, I did some tricep dips along the edge of my desk. I've been doing these tricep dips every day since I was fifteen. I could do them all day long. I was at two hundred and seventy-one when my fax machine turned on. I cranked out another twenty-nine, because I like things neat and tidy, finishing in a flourish just as the fax machine stopped spitting out its image.

The fax machine sat on top of a short bookcase. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with philosophy textbooks and modern philosophical works of particular interest to me, along with all of Clive Cussler's novels, my guilty pleasure.

In my fax tray was a grainy photograph. A grainy police photograph, courtesy of Sanchez.

My stomach turned; I felt sickened all over again.

I carefully put the faxed photograph in a manila folder, grabbed my car keys and wallet from the desk's top drawer and left the office.

* * *

Huntington Beach was paradise. The best weather on earth. Few people would argue with me on that point. I drove south along the coast. Something must have been brewing off the coast, because there were some amazing sets crashing in. Alert Huntington surfers, or, rather, those with no life to speak of, were capitalizing on the gnarly waves. Dude. Their black forms, looking from this distance like trained seals, cut across the waves.

Two miles up the coast I turned left and headed up a small incline and parked in front of Huntington High. My home away from home.

It was 3:16 p.m., school was just out.

I moved up the central artery, past hundreds of yellow lockers, searching down row after row, until I spotted a janitor's cart parked outside a classroom.

* * *

Mario and I were sitting opposite each other in student desks that were entirely too small. My knees almost touched my ears. Desks seemed bigger in my day.

Mario was studying the photograph, not saying much. The scent of after shave, sweat and cleaning agents came from him.

Finally he looked up at me. "Yes," he said slowly, enunciating clearly. "That is him."

"You're sure?"

He nodded. "You killed him?"

I said nothing. He said nothing and looked away.

"He was a motherfucker," said Mario. "I am glad he is dead. He said he would kill my whole family."

"I know."

Mario pointed with a thick finger. "Someone shot him four times in the chest. I would have shot him in his fucking face, too." He spat to the side. His lower lip was quivering. His accent was thick and heavy, his words now even more difficult to discern. "Why did he threaten my family? He is in hell. Straight to hell."

The thought of me sending Fuck Nut to hell was a bit burdensome. I decided to change the subject, somewhat.

"But the person who hired him is still free, Mario. We need to find him next. Do you understand?"

Mario nodded.

"Mario, what did you see on the night Amanda was murdered?"

I waited for him. His lower lip continued to quiver, and he seemed briefly unable to speak, but soon he regained some control of himself, and once he did, he told me everything.

And I mean everything.

60.

At 8:00 a.m., on a slightly overcast morning, I was driving south on the 5 Freeway with the windows down. My head was clear and empty, which was the way I preferred it. I had stayed off the booze for over a week and felt pretty good about it. I had had a good week of workouts, even though my leg hurt like hell, even at this very moment.

To me the pain was worth it to play football.

The traffic out to San Diego was heavy but steady. At the rate I was going, I would be in San Diego in two hours.

Two hours.

Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see less of Cindy.

Not a good thing.

All to chase a dream I had given up on. A dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a young man, a twenty-two year old man.

I was now thirty.

For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and silly.

But it was the NFL, man. These were the big boys.

I had been on my way to the NFL. College ball had been surprisingly easy for me. I was a man among boys. Perhaps I thought more highly of myself than I should, but I had been pursued by the NFL since my sophomore year, and rarely has a day gone by that I had not wished that I had entered the draft sooner, prior to the injury. But I had chosen to stay in college. I had wanted my body to fully mature, to be physically ready for the rigors of the NFL. Mine was a demanding position, not as glamorous as some, but tough as hell.

At the moment, my leg was throbbing. Going from the gas to the brake pedal was taking a steady toll.

I shifted in my seat to ease some of the pressure.

I had taken three Advils this morning. The Advils didn't work, although my headache was long gone.

Was I good enough to make it in the pros?

Yeah, probably. College ball certainly couldn't contain me.

Traffic picked up a little. I entered San Diego county. Signs were posted along this stretch of freeway to be alert for illegal aliens running across the freeway, a picture of a mother holding a child, being led by the man.

I was thirty years old. I had moved on. I had a career as a detective. I was good at it. Hell, I even knew who killed Amanda.

A killer who needed to be stopped at all costs.

I thought of Cindy and our relationship. She had left me for a week, and then had come back to me. One of the hardest week's of my life. Too hard. Yet she had come back on her own, and I had done nothing to convince her that I was right for her. She had made that decision on her own.

Could I have made the NFL? Yeah, probably.

My leg would continue to throb every day of my pro football career. Football was a twenty-two year old's dream. I was thirty.

I thought of my mother and her own unsolved murder.

There was much to do.

Time to quit screwing around.

At the next exit, I pulled off the freeway, turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was the start of a new day in my life. A new direction. New everything.

My leg felt better already.

61.

On the way back to Orange County I pulled out my cell phone and made a few phone calls, one of them to Aaron Larkin of the Chargers. I left him a voice message thanking him for the opportunity, but I had decided to move on.

He returned my phone call almost instantly, furious. "Move on? What the fuck does that mean?"

"Means I'm not coming in."

There was a pause, and I knew he was thinking: players would give their left nut for this opportunity.

"I don't understand. Do you want to reschedule? I'll reschedule for you, Knighthorse, even though we have a whole crew out there waiting for you."

"I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"Life happened."

"You could make our team, Knighthorse."

"I know."

"Don't do this."

"I have a killer to catch. Hell, two killers to catch. But for now, I will take one."

"What does that mean?"

"Means I have a job to do, and I'm good at it."

"This is the last time I'm asking, Jim. You walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give you another opportunity."

"Good luck with the coming season. Go Chargers." I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington Beach Homicide.

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