Т Паркер - The Blue Hour

“Well, maybe. Now that you put it that way, somewhat.”

“What was startling about him?”

“It was partly his appearance. But it was something else.” Kamala lay still and silent for a long minute. Then she exhaled rather loudly and shook her head. “This is just amazing. You guys aren’t going to believe what I just thought of. What I just remembered. Oh my God.”

I think I will, Merci thought. Because I think you liked what you saw, and I think you had a moment with him, a little something, a look, a glance, maybe even a word...

She glanced at Joan but the doctor was staring intently at her subject.

“You see, well... you know... I didn’t realize it until just a minute ago, but the reason he seemed so strange and startling to me is because this wasn’t the first time I saw him.”

Merci thought holy shit and looked at Joan. The psychiatrist’s eyebrows were raised and a smile was forming on her lips.

“I mean, like the first time was about a month before, at a mall in Brea. He was walking past the pet store. The girls and I were on our way to set up. And there he was, walking by alone, just like I saw him last week. He even had on the same coat. God... that’s very weird I just thought of it now. This hypnosis is like really strong.”

Merci’s heart sped up at the word mall and she looked at Joan. The doctor was looking over her tented fingers at Kamala, and she lowered her expression for a long even stare at the detective. She mouthed, wow!

“You just brought a repressed memory into your conscious mind,” said Joan, matter-of-factly. She was making notes in a book of her own now. “That memory was bothering you, and it was part of the reason you called Merci.”

“I understand that now. You’re right. God, this is weird.”

“So, you had seen him before, Kamala,” said Merci, betraying no enthusiasm in her voice. She had in her heart a cold and efficient place from which to work, and she always knew where to find it. “Now, the first time you saw him, in Brea, was he just walking by?”

“By the pet store. He was walking slowly and he looked at me.”

Of course he did, thought Merci. And you looked back. “Did he say anything?”

“No.”

“What was his expression?”

“It was like he thought something was funny. Me.”

The psychiatrist motioned Merci to silence. “Because of the way you looked at him?”

“That’s right.”

Joan looked at Merci and nodded.

“And how did you look at him?” Merci asked.

A pause. “I don’t know, really. But I thought he was very handsome, like a model, and he must have seen this on my face. And thought it was funny.”

“Did you turn around and look again, after you had passed each other?”

“Yes. And he did too, and he had the same look.”

“But you didn’t go up to him?” “No.” Merci dug in. “Did any of your friends go up to him?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Way sure.”

Merci considered. “Kamala, what was he doing the second time, when you saw him that Tuesday night? You said he was looking at his car in, quote: a very interesting way. What did you mean by that?”

“He had his hands on his hips and he was looking at the car like it had... misbehaved. Or like he was unhappy at it.”

“Did you see any obvious problem with it? Like a flat tire or the emergency flashers on or the hood up?”

“No.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“I think it was either a Mercedes or a BMW, but I’m not sure. It was white? Kind of square in the back?”

Merci made a note and thought for a moment. “How did you know it was his car?”

“I... don’t. I didn’t. I assumed it was, until just now. I guess it could have been anyone’s. He was just looking at it like there was a problem he was trying to figure out.”

Like whether or not it had an alarm.

Merci glanced at Joan, who was studying her with a grave expression.

“If we went back to the Laguna Hills Mall together, could you show me were he was, and where the white car was?”

“It was about in the middle of the lot, in front of the food court. But I could show you, sure.”

Merci wrote and thought. “Kamala, did this man see you at Laguna Hills Mall, the second time you saw him?”

“No.”

“You didn’t slow down and roll down your window, ask if you could help, something like—”

“—I did not .”

Dr. Cash was shaking her head.

“Okay. Okay, Kamala. Now, could you help one of our artists draw a picture of this man?”

“Yes. His face is mostly clear to me now. Anytime you want”

Matamoros Colesceau drove his pickup through the narrowing streets of Irvine until he reached the Quail Creek Apartment Homes. The buildings were tan stucco and wood slat, built around grassy knolls. The knolls had large decorative rocks arranged on them to suggest nature’s balance and harmony. The units were not built in straight back-to-back rows, but arranged in wandering molecular-looking clusters that were supposed to promote a feeling of privacy. They were called apartment homes, not apartments. The place was like a gigantic beehive.

During his first two months here, some three years ago, Colesceau had gotten lost in his own complex four times. The many small streets all looked infuriatingly the same. There were four swimming pools designed exactly alike. The knolls were even similar, with like numbers and arrangements of stones. Now he could walk the grounds blindfolded and know exactly where he was. He lived in 12 Meadowlark, a two-level unit in the B building on the west side of the north quadrant of Quail Creek Apartment Homes.

His parole agent had already parked in the driveway, so Colesceau pulled his truck into a guest space. Now he would have to walk to his front door in broad daylight. In Colesceau’s opinion Parole Agent Al Holtz was an inconsiderate pig, but he was generally amiable and unthreatening. He didn’t carry a gun, although Colesceau knew he kept one in the glove compartment of his car.

He sat for a moment with the engine running. His truck was old and small, but the air conditioner worked well. He knew that what was about to happen was important to him and it made him sweat. He wanted to do well for himself. He closed his eyes and aimed the vent straight into his face.

Without any real choice in the matter, Colesceau had assented to meeting his PA, his psychologist, and maybe even a cop in his own home during his lunch hour from work. This was unnerving. But as a convicted felon and parolee he had no right to privacy, and the bureaucrats in charge of his life wanted to see him in what the psychologist called his “domestic environment” and the PA called his “pad.” The ostensible reason for this meeting was his completion — in exactly eight days — of his parole. Two years at Pelican Bay State Prison, two in the Atascadero State Hospital, and then three on parole, ending at noon next Wednesday. But there was more to this meeting than just that.

He cut the engine, pulled hard on the parking brake and got out. The early August sun was bright and Colesceau shaded his eyes and leaned forward as he trotted toward the front door of 12 Meadowlark. He could feel the duct tape around his body, but he didn’t think anyone else could see it through his Pratt Automotive shirt that said “Moros” over the pocket. The terms of his parole said nothing about duct tape.

He read the newspapers, however, and with the new applications of Megan’s Law, cops were now telling people when “high risk” offenders were living in their neighborhoods. Here in Orange County they called it the SONAR program, for Sexual Offenders Notification and Registration. What it did was get you run out of your home if you had a history of sexual offenses and were considered “high risk” as opposed to “serious.” He understood that this interview would help determine whether his neighbors were informed about his past.