I pour the drinks in the kitchen. I ask Numi if he wants one and he declines. Numi rarely drinks. I suspect my friend has given up the hard stuff to be ever alert for my needs. A good man. He has given up much for me. I should feel more appreciation, except I don’t. Mostly, I don’t understand how one man can love another so much.
Numi takes a seat on the couch so that I can have the benefit of the overstuffed chair where I can prop up my arms and sit up straight. As I finish making the drink, I see that my hands are shaking badly. I take a swig from my own stiff drink, pause, collect myself, and then head into the living room with the drinks.
I will my hands to be steady as I hand the detective his drink.
“Thanks,” he says. “You look better.”
I’m surprised to hear him say this. I feel like a total wreck, but a little lovemaking goes a long way, apparently. “I am better,” I lie.
“So what’s the prognosis these days?”
“You mean am I going to live or die?”
He drinks uncomfortably from his drink. “Well, I assume you are going to live.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” I say, quoting my favorite book. “But it’s still too early to tell.”
“Or maybe you’re putting on a song and dance for me,” he says.
Numi’s eyes flash and I shake my head slightly, willing him to relax.
I say, “Or maybe that, too.”
He doesn’t say anything. He is absorbing this news. He looks at me from over his drink. Then he briefly looks at Numi and then back at me.
“This case is important to you, isn’t it?”
“More than you know.”
“I suspect I know.”
I don’t beg him to help me. I don’t plead with him to keep me in the loop. I just sit there and look at him and wait. Finally, he nods.
“I’m going to assume you are getting better, Booker. I’m going to assume you are not feigning getting better so that I don’t dump you from the case.”
“He said feigning,” says Numi, grinning.
“Must be fancy detective speak,” I say.
Dobbs shakes his head. “If you two clowns are done, let’s get down to business.”
And we do. Dobbs tosses another file onto the coffee table. I take another strong draw of my Scotch for good measure and reach for the manila folder. I flip past the scribbled notes and over to the black-and-white crime scene photos.
Despite myself, I gasp.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Same MO,” Dobbs is saying as I gaze down at the overweight Latino boy. He looks to be around fourteen and his neck is slit and his lips have been obviously maneuvered to an upward position. The ground around him has been cleared in a circle as before. His arms have been positioned out and up. If he’d been standing, he’d be pointing towards the heavens. The boy’s mouth is open and stuffed messily with something white and creamy.
Sweet Jesus.
A combination of revulsion and horror racks me and I find myself rocking in the chair. Rocking and running my fingers through my hair.
Yes, I have seen a lot of murder victims—and many of my missing person cases turn into murder cases—but I am not prepared for this. It hits too close to home, and the horror of discovering my little brother had been murdered in a similar fashion sweeps through me. I feel myself shutting down. I feel myself wanting to leave this miserable fucking world once and for all.
No, I think as I rock and now hold my arms. No. Not until this motherfucker is found.
“What’s in his mouth?” I hear myself ask after a few minutes.
“A piece of cheesecake,” Dobbs answers with a professionalism I am trying to match. But I sense his own horror. And this is coming from an LAPD homicide detective. A guy who eats donuts while reading homicide case files.
“When was he found?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Time of death?”
“Only a few hours before he was found.”
Two days ago, this boy had been alive and well. Two days ago, this boy might have been on his way to a Dodgers game with his own older brother, only to have his world torn apart, even as his throat had been torn apart.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
“Who found him?” I ask. I know the info is in the report, but I can’t take my eyes off the horrific picture. My voice doesn’t sound my own.
“Hikers. Not far from the main path. Like with Olivia…”
“And my brother.”
“Yes, your brother. I’ve been looking into your brother’s case, Booker.”
“And?”
“I think you’re right. They’re related.”
Numi makes a noncommittal sound that could have been a snort. To the uninitiated, it could have been a cough. I knew, however, it was Numi’s way of saying, “No shit, Sherlock.”
Dobbs looks over at my friend, who is sitting back on the couch with his eyes half-closed. Numi could have been asleep, or disinterested. He is neither, I know. He is hearing everything, digesting everything, making sense of everything.
Dobbs looks back at me after giving Numi a hard look. Numi gives no indication of seeing him, although I knew he had. Dobbs says, “Look, Booker, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before. I never said I wasn’t a stubborn ass.”
I nod. I am anxious now. Being anxious means I will soon have trouble breathing again and I cannot allow this to happen. Not now, not in front of Detective Dobbs.
“Please excuse me,” I say. I avoid Numi’s raised eyebrows—his indication of concern—and command my feet to take me into the bathroom.
Once there, I drink from the faucet. I urinate into a toilet that seems to be on rollers. I mostly miss. At least my kidneys are functioning, working hard now to rid my body of the toxic liquids I’ve just ingested. I wet a washcloth and wipe my face, careful not to touch any of the Preparation H. Then I focus on my breathing, aware that I’ve been in here too long already. I close my eyes and envision my lungs as healthy and alive, open and calmly inhaling and exhaling. Thirty seconds of this seems to help. I wipe my sweaty face one last time, and then open the door to find Numi waiting outside, casually leaning a muscular shoulder against the door frame.
“You okay, cowboy?” he asks. I’m suddenly aware of the many, many times he has asked me this very same question.
I’m also aware that mostly no one else asks.
Just Numi.
“I’m fine. I just needed a moment. Please, Numi, go back out there. Talk to him.”