drive the investigation half the time, it showed me that he really did value my opinion.
That made me happy in ways it shouldn't have.
Chapter Eight
The shelter was on the corner of Harlow and Grimsby. Like Dante, I had recognized the address. Standing alongside my parents, I had served three shifts of Thanksgiving dinners for more than a decade at the adjacent soup kitchen. Run by the Lutherans, the shelter had fifty beds, all of them in a single open bay that had once been a high school gym.
The witness, Owen Briggs, had signed in that morning when one of the beds had finally opened up after the previous occupant had smuggled a pint of whiskey into the shelter. We found Briggs in bunk number eighteen.
Craig gave the bunk's metal frame a hard kick. "Wake up, Briggs."
The pair of eyes that opened were shot through with red.
"Long night smoking, hey?" Craig asked as he flashed his PI card at Briggs.
Briggs wiped at his eyes, blinking rapidly while he mouthed something like "I'm clean."
"Sure ya are," Craig grinned, looking at me. I nodded and he reached into the folder he was carrying and pulled out a picture of Justin Bieber.
"Know him?"
Briggs smacked his lips and squinted as he leaned closer to Diamond. Getting a good sniff of the wit's street perfume, Craig took a step back and flipped the picture over to show the Serrano construction logo.
"Yeah." Showing half a mouth full of teeth, Briggs smiled. "That's the guy killed the other guy."
"You fucking liar, Owen."
I turned to bunk seventeen. It was occupied by a black man, somewhere between his middle sixties and the century mark. Pins from at least three wars decorated his frayed BDU jacket. Recognizing World War II, Korea, and Vietnam pins, I smiled at the old man. "What do you mean, sir?"
The man's head bobbed with sarcasm as he answered. "I mean Owen J. Briggs is a liar, lady. Ole Max aint killed nobody."
"Max?" Craig jumped in. "Max who?"
"Max Twenty-Two," the old man answered, head still bobbing side to side like a world-class boxer.
Figuring the guy wasn't talking about what kind of weapon Max carried, I left Craig playing a game of "Who's on First" with our new informant and casually wandered over to bunk twenty-two. There, snoring loudly, was an even older (as best as I could tell) man asleep on his side. A denim jacket warmed him, the fabric sporting the Serrano logo on it and faintly speckled with what I'd bet was blood.
Giving a soft whistle, I crooked a finger at Craig and he came over.
"I'll be damned!" he smiled.
I studied the sleeper for a few seconds. He was rail thin and too short to be Ray's killer. From the lung-clearing hacks that occasionally punctuated his snoring, I was pretty sure he was too frail to be anyone's killer.
I rounded the bed and knelt down in front of his head.
"Max." I started softly then a little louder when it didn't rouse him. He opened clear blue eyes. Trying to keep things friendly, I smiled. "Nice jacket."
The blue eyes narrowed instantly. "It's mine. I found it."
I nodded and stood up to whisper in Craig's ear as I passed him a fifty dollar bill. "Goodwill's across the street. Find him another jacket."
I turned back to Max. "I was just wondering where you found it?"
Max started buttoning the jacket up and then wrapped his arms around himself. "I said it's mine. Don't matter where I found it. Them's the rules!"
"Yeah, but I was hoping I could go back and see if there was another I could have."
Max seemed to weigh my answer carefully. He poked one finger in my general direction. "You got a jacket."
Nodding, I unbuttoned it and gave him a view of how thin the material was. "No good at night."
Ceding the point, Max frowned and then relented. "Found it back of Arby's in the dumpster."
"The one on Packard?" I couldn't imagine that the old man traveled much further than a few blocks from the shelter.
"That's the one." The vigor of his nod triggered a spell of coughing.
I waited until he settled
That made me happy in ways it shouldn't have.
Chapter Eight
The shelter was on the corner of Harlow and Grimsby. Like Dante, I had recognized the address. Standing alongside my parents, I had served three shifts of Thanksgiving dinners for more than a decade at the adjacent soup kitchen. Run by the Lutherans, the shelter had fifty beds, all of them in a single open bay that had once been a high school gym.
The witness, Owen Briggs, had signed in that morning when one of the beds had finally opened up after the previous occupant had smuggled a pint of whiskey into the shelter. We found Briggs in bunk number eighteen.
Craig gave the bunk's metal frame a hard kick. "Wake up, Briggs."
The pair of eyes that opened were shot through with red.
"Long night smoking, hey?" Craig asked as he flashed his PI card at Briggs.
Briggs wiped at his eyes, blinking rapidly while he mouthed something like "I'm clean."
"Sure ya are," Craig grinned, looking at me. I nodded and he reached into the folder he was carrying and pulled out a picture of Justin Bieber.
"Know him?"
Briggs smacked his lips and squinted as he leaned closer to Diamond. Getting a good sniff of the wit's street perfume, Craig took a step back and flipped the picture over to show the Serrano construction logo.
"Yeah." Showing half a mouth full of teeth, Briggs smiled. "That's the guy killed the other guy."
"You fucking liar, Owen."
I turned to bunk seventeen. It was occupied by a black man, somewhere between his middle sixties and the century mark. Pins from at least three wars decorated his frayed BDU jacket. Recognizing World War II, Korea, and Vietnam pins, I smiled at the old man. "What do you mean, sir?"
The man's head bobbed with sarcasm as he answered. "I mean Owen J. Briggs is a liar, lady. Ole Max aint killed nobody."
"Max?" Craig jumped in. "Max who?"
"Max Twenty-Two," the old man answered, head still bobbing side to side like a world-class boxer.
Figuring the guy wasn't talking about what kind of weapon Max carried, I left Craig playing a game of "Who's on First" with our new informant and casually wandered over to bunk twenty-two. There, snoring loudly, was an even older (as best as I could tell) man asleep on his side. A denim jacket warmed him, the fabric sporting the Serrano logo on it and faintly speckled with what I'd bet was blood.
Giving a soft whistle, I crooked a finger at Craig and he came over.
"I'll be damned!" he smiled.
I studied the sleeper for a few seconds. He was rail thin and too short to be Ray's killer. From the lung-clearing hacks that occasionally punctuated his snoring, I was pretty sure he was too frail to be anyone's killer.
I rounded the bed and knelt down in front of his head.
"Max." I started softly then a little louder when it didn't rouse him. He opened clear blue eyes. Trying to keep things friendly, I smiled. "Nice jacket."
The blue eyes narrowed instantly. "It's mine. I found it."
I nodded and stood up to whisper in Craig's ear as I passed him a fifty dollar bill. "Goodwill's across the street. Find him another jacket."
I turned back to Max. "I was just wondering where you found it?"
Max started buttoning the jacket up and then wrapped his arms around himself. "I said it's mine. Don't matter where I found it. Them's the rules!"
"Yeah, but I was hoping I could go back and see if there was another I could have."
Max seemed to weigh my answer carefully. He poked one finger in my general direction. "You got a jacket."
Nodding, I unbuttoned it and gave him a view of how thin the material was. "No good at night."
Ceding the point, Max frowned and then relented. "Found it back of Arby's in the dumpster."
"The one on Packard?" I couldn't imagine that the old man traveled much further than a few blocks from the shelter.
"That's the one." The vigor of his nod triggered a spell of coughing.
I waited until he settled
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