Swift Horses Racing Read online

  “Bedtime in one hour. Bring out your homework when it’s finished, so I can check.” Ruiz went over to the computer to shut it down. He didn’t use it often. He had enough time on the computer at work. Reyna spent her time on Facebook and watching makeup and decorating videos. With the new game, Jacky had been pushing for computer time whenever he could get it.

  They both made him feel old. He saw the computer for work, not for entertainment.

  After peeking into Jacky’s room to make sure he was at his desk working on his social studies, Ruiz went into the kitchen to clean up. Reyna had left them chicken and pasta to heat up. Afterwards he’d tossed everything into the sink to clean up later.

  PTA meetings lasted till 9, so he usually waited till the last minute to clean up and load the dishwasher. A bit of rebellion on his part, since he disliked doing it.

  He rinsed the plates and silverware. Then scrubbed the Tupperware containers and loaded them into the dishwasher on the top rack, lids on the side, the way Reyna preferred.

  Reyna liked things done a certain way. It had taken them a while to work that out, which meant he learned to pick up after himself after ten years of living on his own. And he learned to never leave dishes in the sink. He knew the look on Reyna’s face; her nostrils flared, her lips tightened.

  But it all worked out to his benefit. The house was always spotless, unlike the apartment he’d grown up in, which smelled like mold and unwashed dishes piled up. Coming home every night, his house was clean and orderly, the perfect place to be after a day of dealing with difficult and broken people. His refuge, thanks to Reyna. When he thought about it, he felt stupid griping about doing cleanup.

  After starting the dishwasher, he looked through the cupboards to see if the chips were still in the salad spinner. It was his own personal challenge—like searching for drugs in a perp’s house. He pulled out the spinner and took off the lid. Nothing.

  The shelves above the fridge? She’d need the step stool to reach them. So it might have seemed to her like a smart place to hide something, since she’d think he wouldn’t expect it. He flipped open the cupboard and rummaged through the serving bowls. Nope.

  Then he had an idea. Opening the pots and pans cupboard, he found the rice cooker. He flipped the lid, found the chips and slid the clip off the bag. Then he went to the sofa to enjoy his reward with a beer, as he read over files for the burglary case he was starting the next morning. A series of robberies in apartment complexes near 101. With the scarcity of affordable housing in the valley, the less affluent side of town was coming up in the world, with more young professionals moving in. And the thieves were following them. The flimsy doors and substandard locks and security made it easier for them.

  There were two complexes in particular that the thieves seemed to target. Because he worked these things out in a very visual way, he took out a notepad and sketched the two complexes, then opened up Google Maps to look at the neighborhood more closely. Between the two, at the back of the resident parking, there was a fence, with an alley on the other side.

  He tried to think like the thieves. He was sketching out an escape route, when Jacky came into the room.

  “What’s up, mijo?”

  “I’m bored.”

  “You finish your work?”

  Jacky twisted his face. “Not yet. I’m lonely.”

  Ruiz set down the drawing. He missed Reyna’s quiet presence—even if she was usually on the computer or in the kitchen. The small house seemed bigger and emptier tonight. “How about you sit down and we do our homework together?”

  “Can I have chips?”

  “Do the homework first.”

  With Ruiz at one end of the couch and Jacky at the other, they worked on their assignments until Jacky rubbed his eyes and laid down his social studies book. He handed Ruiz his homework sheets.

  “Good for you. Now where does this go?”

  Jacky intoned it as if forced against his will to memorize it.

  “In my Social Studies folder, in my binder.”

  He ran back to his room and came back with his backpack. He quite pointedly took out his binder, held it up, then opened it and slipped the pages inside his folder.

  Ruiz reached up to high five him then passed him the chip bag.

  “No chip crumbs on the sofa.”

  “We both know how she gets.” Jacky raised his eyebrows, and Ruiz tried not to laugh.

  At nine o clock, Jacky brushed his teeth, and Ruiz made sure he got into bed.

  Ruiz glanced at the clock. It was almost 9:30. Anxiety began to build in him. A reflex, since childhood. Back then he worried about his father coming home. Whether he’d be drunk. Or whether he’d hear his father yelling at his mother.

  He’d been trained to think that way growing up. Being a cop had added to that. Never let down your guard. Where will the threat come from? What’s my plan if something goes wrong?

  The kernel of anxiety sat in his brain, growing by the minute. He grabbed a handful of chips and quickly finished them off. He plunged his hand in for another.

  Disgusted with himself, he turned over the top of the bag, clipped it and returned it to the rice cooker.

  She’d been excited about the PTA’s renovation project, so maybe the conversation had continued after the meeting. What was it to him? Jacky was in bed, asleep. He had his own work to do.

  Which wasn’t getting done because he couldn’t let go of his anxious thoughts.

  10:15.

  Ruiz heard the key in the lock, and his body felt the stress leave him. She flipped the deadbolt, then walked into the kitchen, her purse still over her shoulder as if she’d decided not to stay and were going to leave again. She came out to the living room.

  “I lost track of time. I should have texted.”

  Worry had returned and settled down on him like the lead cloak they lay over you when they take x-rays at the dentist office.

  Something was different. Her face was flushed. A new seriousness. A distance.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He tried his best to keep a game face on. “I thought maybe the Range Rover wouldn’t start. Jacky tried to sneak in some game playing, but he finished his homework and went to bed on time.”

  He expected her to comment on Jacky’s sneaky attempt to play the game, but she looked distracted.

  She headed for the closet, and took off and hung up her coat, then headed for the kitchen. He wanted to follow her, to hold her, to touch her, but he had come to know Reyna and her moods over the past ten years. She wouldn’t receive it well.

  “I need to get to bed.” She poked her face around the corner, from the hallway. In sequence, the lights in the kitchen, the hall, then the bedroom went off.

  He must have sat on the couch, staring blankly at his notes and sketch, for over an hour. He went over the past few weeks, the past month, yesterday. Had it been sudden? Had it been something gradual and he’d just missed it?

  Something had changed.

  Tomorrow he would set to work figuring out what it was.

  46

  Duke Sorenson woke up as grey light seeped in under his bedroom curtain.

  Rain pelted the window, the taps blending into a steady stream of noise, as if the skies were assaulting the apartment. It made him want to stay under the covers. If he went back to sleep, he could forget about what he’d read last night.

  Duke had read nearly to the end of the journal—stopping after Karl’s confession of what he’d done in Mittelwerk. The book lay splayed on the nightstand next to him as if he’d abruptly tossed it aside. His mouth felt sour and dry. He’d fallen asleep without brushing his teeth and washing his face. His mind fuzzy and disoriented, he tried to recall last night.

  He couldn’t stop reading the story of Karl’s life in Germany, and the horrors revealed as Karl visited the mountain rocket factory. It turned his stomach to think of the living conditions in the mountain for the workers, and the horrific deaths of the men hanged. Karl, at the age of 18, had
seen it and approved it. Eventually he had recommended the hangings.

  Yet he’d told the Americans who came through after the war.

  I saw nothing.

  Agnieszka had seen other horrors, her child injured during birth, taken away and euthanized. She’d been in a camp after leaving Peenemunde. Karl had eventually been on the same side as those who had put her child to death, those who’d imprisoned her. Had Aggie known this?

  Even more than he had when Kathleen was here, he wanted to talk to someone. The weight of what he’d read made his head throb, turned his stomach. He could not carry this on his own.

  Duke thought of the donut gang. They would be shocked to hear this—angry even, as he had been. But perhaps they could separate the actions of the eighteen-year-old in the rocket factory from the Karl they knew.

  He got out of bed and looked himself over in the mirror. He hadn’t bothered to brush his teeth and wash his face when he’d gone to sleep at 1:30 a.m. He’d call the gang, take a shower and meet them at Donut Haven.

  He set the phone tree in action, calling Marty Weber, who would then call Al Moretti, who would then call Arnie Tan. It was the system they’d always had. It got them to the donut shop, assembled. They had met only once before because of an emergency: Al’s wife’s death during the night, due to a stroke. In a place where everyone seemed to be moving away to retire or live closer to their children, they still had each other. Because they had shared so much, it wouldn’t be right to keep this information about Karl from them.

  “Marty, I have some things to tell you all. About Karl. Can you meet at Kang’s at 10 a.m.?” Best to do this later, when the donut shop was less crowded.

  “You okay, Duke?” Marty asked.

  Duke wasn’t sure he was.

  “Call Al. I want us to talk about this.”

  “See you at 10. Hang in there, Duke.”

  After hanging up, Duke laid out clean clothes and took a shower. He brushed and flossed his teeth. He considered how he would tell the gang.

  Duke went back to his conversation with Kathleen. Karl had done a complete turnaround once he’d come to the U.S.—as if that could cancel out what he’d done in the rocket factory. He’d decided to live his life as an atonement for the sins he’d committed in Germany. He’d devoted his life to reaching out to the poor and disenfranchised in his community. The testimonies to that had been overwhelming at Karl’s memorial service. Didn’t that count for something?

  Dressed and washed up, Duke felt shaky and weak. Sweat made his thin shirt cling to his neck and chest. He looked outside at the walked through his house, feeling unsettled. He still had an hour before he had to be at the donut shop.

  He went to the junk drawer in the kitchen, where he ended up stashing any business cards he received. Joanne had hated the junk drawer, with its stash of rubber bands, odd parts, restaurant coupons and old keys. But anything Duke threw in there, he knew exactly where to find it.

  Now he rooted around and pulled out James Ruiz’s card. Duke felt he could talk to Ruiz. Flores was fine, but a little too young and slick. Duke could see himself talking to Ruiz about this.

  He punched Ruiz’s number into his phone and waited. It rang twice, then rolled over to voice mail. Duke realized he wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Officer Ruiz, this is Duke Sorenson. I’ve found out some information on Karl Schuler. In his personal journal. I don’t know what to think of it. I thought maybe I could talk to you. I’m on my way to Donut Haven—“

  The phone beeped, abruptly cutting off the rest of the message. Duke sighed. So much for having someone to unload on. He’d have to wait for the gang today. Nervously, he got up and tidied the living room, as if anyone would come back here to entertain. He gathered up old socks, a pair of slippers, and took his coffee mug into the kitchen. Then he picked up the clothbound journal. He held it in his hands, ran a finger down the spine. What Karl had written was so intimate—and shocking. He wanted to shove it back under the couch cushion and forget he’d read it.

  He thought of Rose and how protective she had been of her father. He’d lied to her. Said he hadn’t seen the journal.

  He wondered if she’d finished it. Reading what her father had written would have destroyed her. Duke wasn’t sure he’d want to deal with Rose right now if she’d read it.

  He couldn’t leave the journal here. He had to take it with him.

  He thought for a moment, how he could carry it with him without looking obvious. He went back to his closet and rifled through his jackets. The windbreaker and sweater jacket he wore had pockets too small. He pulled out his ancient tan overcoat, used mostly when he and Joanne traveled back east in winter to visit relatives. As soon as he put it on, he realized he looked ridiculous. Like a cold war spy.

  He put it back and pulled out an old navy sports jacket. It was light for winter but had a nice, big pocket inside the front lapel. He slid the journal in, then walked over to the mirror. He looked too fancy for the donut shop. But no rectangular outline was visible, though he felt like he was wearing some kind of armor against his body.

  After some nervous pacing around the house, he grabbed his keys off the rack, took one more look at himself in the mirror and headed out to the car.

  In college, in a statistics class he’d been bored with, Flores began using percentages to quantify how he felt. He’d started it with a classmate, who’d text him with a series of percentages that summed up his state of mind. Flores had to supply what each percentage stood for:

  60% hungover. 30% horny. 6% terrified of finals. 4% still thinking of that last World of Warcraft quest.

  As he downed a glass of cold water to get the cotton mouth and stale whiskey taste out of his mouth, he thought of his percentages this morning.

  20% hungover (conservative estimate)

  40% thinking about Reyna

  20% feeling like a bad person (also conservative estimate)

  20% thinking about the Schuler case

  Today was his last day. January 8. Today he would lock himself down, figure out if the passenger Reyna had seen was who he thought he was. After last night, he needed something else to think about other than the mess he’d dived into. Finding Karl Schuler’s killer would be his escape and maybe his redemption.

  Dawn used to make fun of him for this, but whenever he felt particularly crappy, he took his clothing game up a notch. It would make up for the grey circles under his eyes, the pinkish tinge of the whites of his eyes, the overall bad hair day. This morning he pulled the black suit and a green and blue tie out of the closet and laid it on the bed.

  He knew what Dawn would say to him today, if she were to talk to him. So rather than diminish himself further in his sister’s eyes by calling her, he played out the conversation in his mind in the shower.

  -You did WHAT last night? You cheating little shit.

  -She approached me. I gave her chances to say no. We were only going to have lunch. One thing led to another.

  -Every one of those “things” was a decision you made, Ro. Take responsibility for your actions. You’re a police officer who sees people mess up all the time. How do you not see the irony in this?

  -Reyna doesn’t love her husband. She’s figuring out what she wants.

  -And this is the cop that you’ve been hanging out with. The one you said reminded you of the guys in Explorers. Nice job, Ro.

  He dressed and then looped and pulled down his tie, eyeing himself in the mirror. He needed a front to present to the world today. Nothing to see here. Except this body. It would buy him time and space, so he could figure out what the hell he was going to do about the case. And about last night.

  Flores looked down at the pin on his lapel. A black swan encircled by a red band that read SJPD HOMICIDE. He’d gotten it after solving his first case. The swan’s wings raised up in the circle, as if ready to attack. It looked a little like a symbol from the The Hunger Games, but nobody could say it wasn’t bad ass, and he was proud to wear it. It w
ould remind him of his duties today.

  He had been distracted lately, but today he would bring this case to a close.

  Clouds hung over downtown today, pressing down with their grey weight on the station. It was just a matter of time before the onslaught started again. Nice of it to hold off until he got into the station at least.

  Flores entered the back door and passed by the coffee station to grab a cup. There was work to do and he hadn’t been able to justify stopping for an espresso drink on the way. He planned a visit to Christoph Schuler at the Airbnb. He sniffed the cup and took a sip. At least it contained caffeine. He’d down it quickly.

  When he got to the investigations room, Mandy turned around in her chair, frowning.

  “We got the report from CSI. Not sure what you can get from this that we don’t already have.” She did a second take when she set eyes on Flores. “Why are we all dressed up today?”

  She handed him the faxed sheets.

  “Can’t a man dress a little fancy now and then?”

  Mandy gave him a look he’d never seen on her before—cold, angry even. But he was too excited about the report to figure out what it meant.

  He leafed through the pages. He had that feeling–something he’d almost given up on was going to happen. CSI had analyzed the items found in the burned SUV.

  Flores skimmed the report. A closer examination of the size and shape of the burned boarding pass showed it was for American Airlines, but none of the print was readable. It confirmed what they knew about Christoph Schuler’s flights.

  Also on the list was a partially melted ziplock bag under one of the backseats. The latent fingerprint examiners were still working on some of the prints, but it wasn’t likely they’d get an identification, since the high surface heat evaporated the oil and water that made up the prints.

  Flores got on the phone to CSI, to Sam McInerny. He had a few hours left in this case, and he was going use every damn minute.

  “When do you think they’ll have definite word on the prints?’