Free Terminal Island by John Shannon Page A

isn’t so bad, either.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell this woman any more about her dad. It felt like disloyalty.
    “Detective Ramirez, if your boyfriends weren’t so bad, how come they’re ex?”
    “Please call me Gloria. It’s impossible to stay together with a cop, from either end. I mean for women or men married to cops. Ken’s been through two wives. The job just takes too much of your soul, dirties you somehow, leaves you with too much baggage you can’t share.”
    “In my dad’s case, he just keeps picking wrong, I think. I liked his last girlfriend a lot better than the current one. She’s too snooty for him. I’m sure it won’t last.”
    “I bet she’s attractive.”
    “He seems to think so. The last one was a Latina, like you, but she ran off with a guy in her church. They were sort of fundamentalists.”
    “I’m not actually Latina,” the detective said with her head cocked to the side, as if listening to music only she could hear. “I’m a full-blood Paiute.”
    “Wow, really?”
    She laughed. “You’re practically the first person I’ve met who’s actually impressed by it.”
    “I think it would be great. All that wonderful heritage. Do you have a … is it okay to say ‘reservation’?”
    “My mom came from a rancheria up in the Owens Valley. That’s what they call them when they’re tiny. I was fostered out, though, so I don’t know much about it. Alcohol is killing us faster than the palefaces ever did.”
    “I’m sorry. That’s so sad. Are you in touch with your mom?”
    “She died in a gutter long ago.”
    Maeve was distressed. “How can you say it so coldly like that?”
    “She expired horizontally in the open air in the street in front of a tavern. Does that help?”
    Maeve shook her head.
    “I’m sorry if I can’t work up much sentiment about my mother. She took money for sleeping with men, too. I won’t trouble you with that other word.”
    “How were your adopted parents?”
    “Not so great. They hated Indians and tried to make me do the same.”
    “That’s awful. ”
    “I went pretty bad for a while, up in East LA. Then, long ago, a police officer plucked me out of my craziness and I decided he’d be my role model. It leaves you with a certain independent perspective on life and lots of inner strength—if you survive it all, of course. I’m lucky, really. I’m me. I don’t crave to be anybody I see on television.”
    Maeve cocked her own head in imitation. “You don’t want just a tiny little BMW?”
    The detective laughed. “I already drive a big black-and-white V-8 with more power than I know what to do with. Are you driving yet?”
    “My mom gave me her old Echo. It’s reliable and, if you squint, it’s almost cute.”
    “Maeve!” It was her dad’s voice, invading the basement in a tone of apprehension she hadn’t heard in a long time.
    “You need me?”
    “Come on up, please.”
    “It was nice to meet you,” she said politely to the policewoman.
    “Yes. Hold on, hon.” The woman dug something out of the patch pocket of her coat, and as Maeve came around the layout, she handed her a business card with an LAPD badge printed on it. “If you need anything, you can reach me there. Or if your dad needs anything.”
    Maeve looked it over neutrally.
    “I have a hunch you’re a pretty good caretaker, yourself,” Gloria Ramirez said.
    * * *
    Jack Liffey stared balefully at the address Ken Steelyard had just written down for him. He knew it, of course, a ramshackle bungalow on the flats overlooking the harbor, down in gang territory. He hadn’t been there in twenty years, by choice and by … something else.
    “You want some time with him?” Steelyard asked.
    “I guess so. Shit.”
    He heard Maeve’s steps coming up briskly. There was something so trusting in the eagerness of the young; it showed in every movement they made. It felt so monstrous to betray it. He had no idea how she was going to react. He had just promised