Cruz waited another day before driving to Rosedale and talking to Angie Hunt at Jesus Saves about his recently-paroled client. Predictably, Cole Hansen hadn’t reached out to Angie, and no one had seen him hanging around the Washington Street area. It was early, though. He had almost a week before his parole could be violated.
Angie didn’t look well. Her flesh was a dusty gray color, like a burlap bag filled with potatoes and clinging with the dirt from harvest. Cruz knew she worried about her “boys,” as she called them. She was one of those people who’d been through hell, come out the other side, and wanted to pass what she’d learned to others.
Cruz tapped on the office door and slung his long frame into a wooden chair in front of her desk. “What’s up, Angie?” Misunderstanding her depression, he tried to assure her. “You don’t need to worry about the backpack. The police won’t hassle you about it. Sergei, now that might be another matter.”
“He didn’t mean anything by taking it. He was just worried about his friend.”
Cruz held up a hand. “I know. He won’t get into any serious trouble. No one figures a person like Sergei was involved in Dickey’s murder.”
“It’s definitely murder?”
“I’m sorry. Dickey was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was standing outside the office door, and lowered his voice. “What do you think, Angie? Did Dickey have any enemies? Someone have a grudge against him?”
“Nah, nothing like that. He was just a harmless old bum.” Her eyes misted at the memory.
“Did he owe any money? Steal someone’s stash?”
Fire danced in her expression, giving her face the life it lacked. “No, I told you. Dickey wasn’t like that. Everybody liked him. He got along with all types. Real low profile, you know?” She stared sharply at him. “At least you’d know if you kept up with your clients.”
Cruz flushed at the accusation, but lowered his voice further and rested his elbows on his knees. He was close enough to smell the faint tang of body odor covered by the scent of Angie’s cheap cologne. “What about the police? Did any particular officer hassle Dickey?”
Angie hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with a thumb and forefinger. “Well, you know, don’t none of the cops like these fellas, and the feeling’s mutual, but ... ” Her voice trailed off as her brow furrowed and she searched her memory.
“But what, Angie?” Cruz tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. No matter what Angie said about a grudge against the homeless by a police officer, he couldn’t let his mind travel that road. Christ, they were all on the same side, weren’t they?
“Some of the cops – detectives, too – had a hard-on for my boys. Winston and Braun, Rawley, Flood – shit, even that sweet-faced gal cop, name of Summers – they was always rousting Dickey from the park.” She reached idly for her pack of cigarettes lying on the desk, remembered where she was, and pushed them away.
“Confiscating his cigarettes, hassling him about leaving trash lyin’ ‘round,” she continued, irritated without her nicotine rush.
She shook her head. “But they did that with all the street people. They really hate the homeless. It’s kinda scary, but, nah, they cops. Bluster and talk trash to us, but what somebody did to Dickey? That’s just plain sick.”
Cruz stood, wondering if he should’ve kept his mouth shut. It was a crazy notion anyway, and he didn’t want any rumors running around the street. “Let’s keep this between ourselves, okay, Angie? Dickey’s death was likely just a random snatch and grab gone wrong.”
“Yeah,” she replied with no conviction in her voice. “Yeah,” she repeated, “but what’d Dickey have worth snatching anyhow?”
In the afternoon Cruz visited Cole Hansen’s parents. The address was on file from several years ago and still current. The father was a stronger and more fit replica of his son, the mother red-eyed and weepy.
“We’ll have nothing to do with him,” the father exclaimed. “He’s been nothing but trouble from the day he was born. Rubbage and good riddance!”
They slammed the door in his face.
The older sister, his next stop, lived in an upscale condominium in Rocklin, and was more compassionate, teary-eyed and soft spoken. “Poor Cole, he never had a chance in this world.”
“Would he have reached out to you for help?” Cruz asked.
She sighed heavily. “I thought so, but I didn’t even know he’d been released from prison.”
“He hasn’t called or written?”