He took long, deep breaths, calming himself. No one would ever suspect him.
After a long, hot shower, he lay down in his shorts on top of the bedding. Stared at the white, water-stained ceiling. He’d have to repair that soon. Maybe a leak in the apartment above him? He relaxed a long time, letting the terror of what he’d done play itself out in his mind like an old-time movie – jerky and disconnected, shades of gray and an occasional bleep of white or black.
He worked through the whole event in his mind – from the time he’d left work the night before until, edgy and restless, he’d gone for a drive. He’d left his apartment and eased his late-model car through the dark, empty streets of Rosedale, past the million-dollar-plus homes in the ritzy part of town to the pawn shops and empty store fronts in Old Town. On almost every corner one or two street people slouched against a lamp post or sprawled in a darkened alley, a bottle of vodka clutched to their worthless bodies.
The sight had made him sick. Was that why he’d snapped?
The night was chilly for northern California in late fall. Low forties, high thirties the news said. Hard to keep warm, living on the street on a night like this. He tried to conjure up a thread of emotion, force sympathy or pity, or even civic duty for the wretched night creatures.
But he couldn’t. Hell, most cities had passed an ordinance making it illegal to sleep outside anywhere in town. Why was Rosedale so lax?
Where did they go, he wondered, if not to the alleys and abandoned buildings? If they got arrested for sleeping in the parks, they’d spend the night in jail. A stir of irritation sifted through him. Who was supposed to pay for that? How did arresting the bastards do anything except give them food and a bed for the night?
And always his father’s words came back to him, dashing through his mind in a crazed 100-meter race. Lazy good-for-nothings. Sucking life out of hard-working folks.
Chapter 14
When Cruz reached the Jesus Saves office, a squad car was parked in front of the drive-in across Washington street. He pulled into the convenience store lot and walked over, flashing his badge to the officers standing beside a dumpster. “Find anything?”
The male officer eyed the badge carefully and then relaxed. “Looks like some blood smears inside the bin. Crime scene’s on the way.”
Cruz deliberated a moment and then jutted with his head. “What about the Jesus Saves woman?”
“What? The 911 dispatcher said there was a call about evidence in the dumpster.”
Damn, Angie. She probably thought she was helping, but she could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for concealing evidence. “Anonymous call?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Lots of homeless people around here. They hang out at the shelter across the street. Maybe one of them saw ... ” He let the sentence trail off, hoping they would be smart enough to fit the pieces together, but not too clever to nail Angie for obstruction.
“Come on,” Cruz offered. “I know the woman in charge. We can ask her.”
“You go,” the pretty female officer offered. “I’ll stay here.”
When Angie saw the police officer with Cruz, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
No, she didn’t know nothing about no backpack. No, no one had used her office phone, far as she knew. Sure, he could search without a warrant, no trouble at all.
“Honey, we ain’t got nothing to hide here.” She ended with an expansive sweep of her hands around the comfortable, but worn lounge, just as the female officer stepped in.
Cruz gave Angie a look of approval. They waited patiently while the partner, Officer Summers, the redhead who’d been at the park crime scene earlier taking names and contact numbers, searched the Jesus Saves building.
The middle-aged officer noticed Cruz watching Summers. “She’s new, but ... enthusiastic.”
Summers hurried back with a grin on her freckled face and the bloody backpack dangling from her latex-covered fingers. She looked so green and eager her shield sparkled like a shiny new button on the waistband of her pants. Cruz watched her alacrity and tried to remember if he'd ever been so freshly unaware.
When Angie saw Summers holding the backpack gingerly by one bloody strap, she gave a genuine-sounding little squeak.
Well played, Angie.
Cruz didn’t question why he’d allowed the subterfuge to continue. If one of the street people had murdered Dickey Hinchey, he wouldn’t let them get away with it.
The thing was, at one time in their lives one of these guys, or even a woman, could’ve killed a person, but not now. He was sure of it. Life had leached the intellect or nerve or rage out of them.
He’d swear on his life that not one of them had the ... bravado to carve up a person so brutally. He hoped he wasn’t staking his career on that belief.