Free Dry Heat by Jon Talton Page B

master of concealment.
    “You know Weed?” I asked.
    She folded her arms tightly around her breasts, causing them to balloon out beneath the faded purple T-shirt. “I hang out with him sometimes.”
    “Around here?”
    “He liked the deck park,” she said. Margaret Hance Park, which sat above the freeway a mile north of us, and was home to festivals, joggers, sunbathers, and drug dealers. “We’d sit there by the library. I like to read books.”
    “Was Weed a nickname?”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know. It was just his name. What’s your name?”
    “David,” I said. “David Mapstone.”
    “I’m Karen,” she said. “You’re a cop, right?”
    “I’m a deputy.” I asked her what she could tell me about him.
    “He was nice to me. I’ve been on the streets four years now. He helped me find food, a place to sleep that was safe. He’d share cigarettes. We’d talk.”
    “Any idea where he was from? How long he’d been living on the streets?”
    “He had family in California, I think. Somebody told me he had been in the Navy. He never said much about himself.” She kept her arms clasped tightly and tilted slowly from side to side. She asked, “What are you looking for him for?”
    I looked behind her into the blue-black of the western sky. We had been deprived of spectacular fiery sunsets for months. Even so, the sky seemed supernaturally large over our heads, the dry air conducting light intensely but with none of the velvety intimacy of the sky back east. Over Karen’s shoulder, the downtown towers still glowed from the last of the sun.
    “Weed is dead,” I said. “He died last week. We’re trying to find next of kin, or anybody who knew him.”
    Her eyes widened for several seconds. “Shit!” she whispered, stamping the gravel. “You got a smoke”
    I shook my head.
    Her shoulders suddenly sagged. She stared at the ground.
    “He never hurt anybody.” She licked her chapped lips. “Somebody finally killed him.”
    “What makes you think somebody killed him?” I asked.
    “What, you live on the streets and you expect to die a natural death? I don’t think so. Not in this town. I’ve been in county hospital so many times, beaten up, robbed, raped, anything they think they can do to me. You cops figure I got it coming to me because I’m homeless. People in this town will kill you for five dollars.”
    I couldn’t argue the point. After a moment, I prompted, “Tell me more about Weed.”
    “Did he have his jacket?” she asked suddenly.
    I nodded.
    “I always thought he might get robbed and killed for that jacket.”
    I asked her why.
    “He had something sewn inside it,” she said, her eyes wide and gray. “I never knew what the hell it was, but he was sure protective, and secretive. He wore that jacket every day, even when it was the hottest day in August. One time, I felt something in there. Something sewn into the lining. When he caught me, he just went crazy. Slapped me down.”
    “What do you think was in it?” I asked.
    “Maybe jewelry,” she said. She added, “From his old life maybe.”
    “Which was?”
    She shook her head. “He never said. I never asked.” She rubbed her eyes. “Shit,” she said. “Poor Weed. I hadn’t seen him in days, and when I heard you were looking for him…”
    “Did he ever mention the name John Pilgrim?”
    She shook her head.
    “What’s your last name?” I asked.
    “I’m Karen. I told you.”
    “Just Karen.”
    “Yeah,” she said, suddenly sullen. She turned and walked away.
    “Karen,” I called. “What if we need to talk to you again?”
    “You don’t need me,” she said. “When I came to find you, I thought maybe if I told you about Weed, you might help me, too. Maybe you could talk to the caseworker and let me see my daughter.”
    “Maybe I can,” I said, feeling uncomfortable, like a cop in the middle of a family dispute.
    “Bullshit,” she said. “Weed is dead. Life is fucked up. I can’t get off the