T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"You know where Angel went?"

Thigpen stared down at the lines. "No idea. You know how the working girls are."

"Ever meet Malcolm Case and Alex Dejano?"

"I met them and that was it. Out of my league. I think Dejano's got casino money to burn."

"Do you know what it was that Pete kept sending over to his attorneys and they kept losing?"

Thigpen grinned. "No, sorry."

"Did you talk to him after you got popped?"

"Not once."

"Did you ever meet the Hansens?"

Thigpen shrugged. "Met them. She's a beauty and not very nice. Garland 's one of those losers who acts like he's somebody and gets away with it. I get the feeling she leads him around by the nose."

"What about the other grandchildren?"

"Never met any of them. It's not like we socialized, Mick. I tried to help Victor, Pete tried to pay me back. That was about the size of it."

"You don't know anything about who killed him?"

Thigpen shook his head. They did a lap in silence. The guard behind the glass smirked, crossed his arms and sat back.

"I was stupid, Mick. Everything in the world going for me except potloads of money. So what do I do? Sell it all out for the money- job, my brother and sister, friends. I'm not even that greedy a guy. First thing I realized when I held my first tax-free, off-the-books hundred grand was, what do I do with this? Buy a car. Buy some women. Buy some furniture, a couple trips to places I didn't even like. Just about as stupid as a guy could get."

"You fell for the green, Jimmy."

"You ever tempted?"

"Naw. I'm simpleminded."

They walked along under the Plexiglas window, then back into the small slant of sunshine near the west wall.

"The money fucks you up," said Thigpen. "One day I'm helping Victor because I feel sorry for him being in love with a whore. A few weeks later I'm telling his old man we'll kill his son if he rats on us."

Thigpen's brow was furrowed heavily, his mouth tight. "But then, I could never figure who the hell I really was. So I acted like whoever I was with, right? I invented myself minute by minute. When I'd try to look at myself in the mirror, really have a serious talk with myself about things getting out of hand, there was no me. Just this twenty-three-year-old guy with pimples and all this easy money, and a puzzled look on his stupid fucking face."

Once again into the cold shade, wispy clouds sliding by overhead and a dust devil trapped in the northeast corner of the yard.

"I learned something from my father," said McMichael. "He showed me what happens if you cross the line and can't get back over. It wrecked him. He broke my mother's heart. He sucked the money and love and the life right out of her. He's drunk himself stupid every night since I've known him- that's pushing forty years. It scared the shit out of me. I had to become a cop. I needed to know exactly where that line was, all the time. I see the line, man, I jump back from it. I don't even dream about crossing over. So, I'm a tight-ass mick cop with sixteen years in, and when I hit my twenty-five and a full pension, I'm gone. I stick up for my friends. I try to do what's right. But I'm not going to end up like him. I'm not crossing. That's what he taught me about being a man."

"That's a good lesson."

"He's a good father. Even passed out in his own puke I never doubted he loved me."

Thigpen looked at him thoughtfully. That expression again, thought McMichael- the eighteen-year-old at graduation, the Eagle Scout, the team captain. Then it vanished. "That's a lot of love if you can feel it through puke," he said.

"His heart is huge."

"My old man was good, too. I miss him."

They walked around again, McMichael watching as the swatch of sunshine faded away, listening to the scuffing of Jimmy Thigpen's cuffs on the concrete.

Patricia had given him a Park Towers address and a one o'clock arrival time. McMichael heard the first drops of the new storm smack the awning overhead as he ducked into the lobby. He called her on one of the house phones and she rang him into the elevator bank. Twenty-two stories up he stepped off into a vestibule with a black marble floor and a gigantic arrangement of fresh tropical flowers.

She let him into a big apartment with picture windows facing west, black clouds marching toward them at eye level, the Pacific stretching away in a plate of metallic gray. Light hardwood floors, white walls with big floral paintings on them, hanging metal lamps.

"Hey, McMike," she said. "Give me that jacket."

"All yours," he said, shrugging out of it.

She kissed him on the cheek before taking the jacket and tossing it onto a red leather sofa. Her perfume was rich and light and drilled a hole to the exact center of McMichael's brain. She was wearing a short brown sleeveless dress and heels with ankle straps. Hair up, a little black zigzag falling down over her forehead.

"What do you think?"

"Of what?"

"My place."

"What's wrong with home?"

She shook her head. "I left Garland. Long story. How about a nice drink?"

"Whatever you're having."

McMichael saw the wind blast the trees in the park below them, then heard the swoosh of raindrops on the window.

"Come sit down," she said. "Don't be a furnishing."

He walked into the kitchen and sat across the island counter while she made her former favorite drink: gimlets.

"Tell me about Garland," he said.

"Five years of baby-sitting. You get tired of your guy crying himself to sleep in your arms. I mean, enough's enough."

"I didn't know he was a tortured soul."

"He hates himself. Sooner or later, you start to agree with his judgment. Wears a girl out."

She handed him a drink. They raised their glasses very slightly, then sipped.

"I don't mean to be hard," she said. "When Pete died, something inside me just gave up. Garland and I hadn't shared a bed in a year. I bought this place months ago because I knew I'd need it someday. And I thought, what's keeping you? You're thirty-eight, you feel like a dried-up old bag, you've got a little money coming through inheritance. You don't have a child to consider. Grandpa doesn't need you anymore. So get out. Break Garland 's heart once- good and clean- and let him move on. He's good-looking. He can put on a good show. He works hard. He'll land somewhere better. I filed last week."

"Should I be sorry or happy?"

She smiled, teeth white and lips red in her smooth, olive Portuguese face. "I'm happy. You can feel whatever you want. I love this apartment. I'm not really moved in yet, but the basics are here. Come on, I'll show you."

There was a small dining alcove right up by the window, views of the city and the harbor. Her dining table was a big rectangle of beveled-edge glass balanced on four clear acrylic cylinders. Set for two.

The master bedroom was big and somewhat disheveled in a manner that McMichael remembered: clothes tossed on a chair, the Union-Tribune spread over an unmade bed, a tennis racquet, tennis shoes, a can of balls and a warm-up jacket piled in one corner, bathroom counter cluttered with bottles and tubes and brushes.

"I guess I'm a lousy housekeeper," she said thoughtfully. "But at least this time I'm doing it all myself. No cleaning lady. No cook. It's my ship and I'll run it how I want."

"You sound like Pete."

"I know." She giggled softly.

The guest room was small and almost empty, just a twin bed and a chest of drawers with a mirror above it, one painting and one potted king palm.

"Let's eat while I tell you about New Year's Eve."

She served a bouillabaisse with sourdough rolls and a Caesar salad with plenty of sardines and dressing. McMichael remembered that Patricia was a good cook and a world-class eater who failed to gain weight.