T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"Burgers or spaghetti, John?"

"I don't like that tattoo on her neck. I think it's to cover something up."

"It covers up a bullet hole. A man shot her."

"Shot her! Why?"

"He was a bad man and a coward."

"Maybe she did something to him. Then she would deserve it."

"Nobody deserves that. Unless they're hurting someone really badly. Bring the buns over here, would you?"

"I wonder what she did to that guy who shot her."

"I honestly don't know."

"You've never shot anyone."

"No. Hey, these burgers are okay tonight."

"Do you want to shoot someone?"

"No. But I would, if I had to."

"I'd like to shoot Clay."

"Don't say that, son."

"But I think it."

"He's not hurting you, is he?"

"He looks right past me. And sometimes I'd like to shoot Mom, too."

"I said don't talk like that."

"Mom divorced you. I know it was her fault."

"No, Johnny, that's where you're wrong. We both agreed it was the best thing to do. For all of us."

McMichael's throat suddenly got thick and painful. Almost gagging on the lie. A lie you tell the person you love most on Earth, to explain why you can't even live in the same house with him anymore. The lie you tell to make it all okay. To grease the gears. So everybody can just get along.

"I hate this video."

"We'll get a different one next time."

"What are the chances of you and Mom ever getting back together?"

"Very small."

"What would have to happen?"

"I can't imagine it, son. I don't know what could bring your mother and me back together."

"Maybe you could just live with us. There's a lot of room and the beach is right outside. It's a better house than the lady's got."

"That probably wouldn't work out very well."

"Why not, because Clay and Mom need their privacy?"

"Exactly."

"Man, that's what they always tell me."

"Son, don't ever run off like that again. Ever. I want a promise."

"I promise I won't. Don't run away from me either. You have to promise, too."

"I never will. I promise. I love you, Johnny. I can't explain how much. But it's a lot and it will last forever."

"I love you, too."

"Good night. Sweet dreams, son."

"You too, Dad. Sweet dreams."

On Sunday they went to a pet store to get grit for Johnny's parakeet. McMichael's bullshitting of Kyle Zisch contained elements of truth: Johnny loved birds of prey but Sarge the parakeet was a more sensible household pet.

Just inside the store they were ambushed by the puppy display. There was a litter of black Labs, two cairn terriers and two beagles. Signs encouraged you to touch.

McMichael watched his son lean over and give his hand to a chunky Labrador that took a finger and wagged his tail, growling. Johnny looked back at his father, really smiling for the first time in almost two days. It was like sunrise after a storm.

"Can we get him?"

Johnny had wanted a dog for a year now, and McMichael believed him to be ready to have one. Johnny was a patient and focused boy. He could feed and water a dog, exercise it, clean up after it. But Dr. Clay Blass was allergic to dogs, and that was that.

"When I buy my own place, John."

"Oh."

When he could buy again. Rentals were tough in San Diego, rentals that allowed dogs even tougher. McMichael ignored the fact that he was gone so much, that a puppy can't be left alone for long. And the food and the housebreaking and the expensive shots. He'd cross those bridges later. He watched his boy and the black Lab and another little bit of his heart crumbled away.

Then something else started to bother him.

"When's that going to be, Dad?"

"End of the year, I hope."

"That's forever."

"No. It's eleven months."

The brain thorn from the Cabrillo Star , he thought: Patricia's story about the missing twenty grand. What was it?

Missing cash. But Pete said it wasn't the gardener because he'd have split to Mexico with it.

And it wasn't Sally because he was giving her things.

And it wasn't the rats because they were busy with the dog food.

The dog food.

Dog food but no dog. A dog at Pete's six months ago but no dog there the night he died.

He used his cell, pleased to know the number by heart. Sally picked up on the third ring. She told him that Pete had had a dog until a couple of weeks ago. It was a Jack Russell terrier, a feisty little thing, strong and playful and much loved by Pete.

"His name was Zeke."

"Well, what happened to him?"

"He died. Pete woke up New Year's morning and the dog was dead in its bed."

"What did Pete do with him?"

"Well, uh, he broke the law probably, is what he did."

Exactly what Pete would do, McMichael thought. A captain, running his ship, working with what he had. Burial at sea; burial at home. "Where?"

"In his yard. In the sand, just inside the wall. What's going on?"

"Someone plans a robbery or a murder, they have to deal with the dog. Can you show me where the grave is?"

"There's a headstone and everything. Do you really think someone would think that far ahead?"

"It's just something you look into. That's all. It's probably nothing."

Johnny held the black puppy. While its tongue worked Johnny's cheek the boy stared at his father, eyes filled with confusion and anger. McMichael clicked off and smiled. Johnny set the dog back in its pen and led the way to the bird grit.

They asked the clerk about owl parrots, but she had never heard of such a thing. She recommended cockatiels as a logical upgrade from the parakeet.

Johnny walked ahead of his father to the checkout stand, McMichael taking long strides to stay close.

The Holy Trinity, thought McMichael: a man's wallet, his calendar and his address book. You want to know the man, believe in these.

He sat with his back to the window in Pete Braga's office, second floor, Monday morning, nine o'clock.

Downstairs, Hector and Barbara were deconstructing the garage in search of cigar boxes that might or might not contain twenty thousand in cash. McMichael could hear Harley and Erik outside, yakking away while they dug for the dog.

Braga 's office was a large room, with six oak file cabinets, an old desk and chair, a typewriter and a banker's lamp. No computer. There was a shortwave radio setup, a Grundig weather radio, fax and answering machines- no messages other than the two that Barbara Givens had heard on the night of the murder.

Framed photographs of Pete's tuna boats graced one wall: Cabrillo Star, Princess Anna, Lisbon Queen . The centerpiece was a poster-sized black-and-white picture that showed a wiry young man fighting a big tuna with a bamboo pole, muscling an animal twice his weight into the air while the black ocean around him boiled with leaping fish. His back was arched and his arms were bulging but there was a calm focus, almost a serenity, in the unmistakable Braga face.

Other photographs showed two men with two poles working a single line and a single fish. In others, three and even four fishermen pulled together to haul aboard their enormous and valuable treasures. That was before Franklin 's time, McMichael thought, back when they broke their backs on the fish rather than on the nets.

Another wall was dedicated to Pete the car man and Pete the politician. There were photos of him standing next to outlandish Ford concept cars, gleaming Mustangs, Ford formula racers and funny cars. Shots of Pete and Anna with a trail of governors, and Tony Gwynn, and Dennis Connor and a Chargers quarterback McMichael didn't recognize. A picture of Pete and Anna with President Kennedy. And Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton and Bush again.