“Were you?” Aloa asked.
“More like creeped out,” Camille said. “But my roommate told me that telling them I was afraid was the only way to get the administration to do something.”
In the background Aloa could hear a door slam and the sound of running footsteps, an explosion of giggles.
“My kids are home. It was a mini-day at school,” Camille said.
“So did they? Did the administration do anything?” Aloa asked, knowing she didn’t have much time.
“They did an investigation and even scheduled a suspension hearing, but two days before it was supposed to happen, a lawyer showed up at my door. He had a check that would pay off all my student loans with twenty thousand dollars left over. He told me he represented the Hamlin family, and that the check was mine if I would drop the case and transfer to another college. I had close to thirty thousand dollars in student loans.”
“You took the money.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Mom!” came a shouted voice.
“I’ve got to go,” Camille said.
“One last question,” Aloa said. “Did you ever think Burns might hurt you? Did he seem capable of violence?”
Camille considered the questions. “He was insecure and used to getting his own way but, no, I never felt like he would hurt me. Still, in my line of work, I’ve seen how behaviors like his could escalate. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
Aloa thanked Camille and hung up. The woman’s account didn’t prove Hamlin was violent one way or another, but it did seem to show he had a fraught relationship with women. As for Hamlin’s visits to a psychiatrist and a prescription for Xanax, there could be any number of reasons for his anxiety.
She called Tick to tell him what she had learned so far but got no answer, which wasn’t unusual. All three of the old anarchists mostly kept their phones turned off in order to thwart what they believed was widespread government surveillance. She left him a message to call her and considered her next move.
Forty-five minutes later, she was standing inside the room where the weird ceremony had occurred the night before. A rough wood table was pushed against one wall and there were small blocks of wood nailed into the wall every few yards. Drips of wax indicated the tiny shelves had been used to hold candles. There appeared to be no electricity or running water and the floor had been swept clean.
She turned in a circle, imagining the thumps of staffs and the strange violin. What kind of church was it?
She searched the rest of the building, whistling for the pup. She went outside and did the same, but there was no sign of the animal. She left a pie tin of kibble beside the building. At least she’d found no more blood.
Back on her Honda, she wended her way through the gloom. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but the fog seemed to be lifting. She could see the hazy outline of the Financial District and a hint of the Bay Bridge. The city had suffered enough, she thought. A total of twenty-two fog-related deaths, a spike in crime, and an 80 percent increase in liquor sales. The worst of it was a man who’d accidentally backed his car over his daughter in the murk, and after she was pronounced dead, he’d gone home and shot himself.
It was like a dystopian movie, people cloaked in a grayness that distorted their vision, their lives, and their thoughts. Is that what she was facing? A view of the truth that was obstructed by lies?
She parked her bike at the top of Davenport’s street. Time for some knock-and-talks with his neighbors.
“She’d be there every morning, swimming lap after lap in that pool,” Devon Resnick said.
Resnick was a college student living with her parents in the house next door to the Davenports. She sported dyed blue-black hair and was dressed in an outfit that walked the line between bohemian and 1960s hippie. She and Aloa were standing on her front porch.
“It didn’t matter if it was raining or cold or whatever. She was out there,” Resnick said. “My bedroom is in the back. I could see her. It was weird. Like she was punishing herself or something.”
“Punishing herself?”
“You know, like for screwing up her husband’s life. Like because she was the one driving when the garbage truck hit them,” Resnick said.
Aloa nodded as if it were a fact she already knew but inside she was thinking, What the hell? Why hadn’t Davenport mentioned that?
“Yeah, she quit her job and everything because I think she felt terrible. She was kind of his slave, you know. Even before he got hurt. I’d see them in the backyard and she’d be bringing him a drink and taking away his tie and jacket and bringing him snacks and he wouldn’t even look at her. He’d be talking on the phone or reading papers or something. She always looked tired and kind of sad. I wouldn’t put up with that if it were me.”
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her bell-bottomed jeans. “Sorry. I gotta go. I’ve got class,” she said and disappeared into the house.
Aloa looked next door. Maybe it wasn’t loyalty that had kept Corrine by Christian’s side.
She was standing by her motorcycle after visiting the old woman who’d seen the late-night caller—a visit that included a vile cup of reheated coffee and repeated claims that “I know what I saw”—when Kyle approached, his hands shoved in the pockets of a down jacket.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Talking to the neighbors, seeing if anybody saw or heard anything unusual on the night Corrine died.”
“And?”
Aloa decided it would be worthwhile to see his reaction. “One of them said Corrine was the one driving when Christian got hurt.”
“That has nothing to do with anything,” Kyle said. His gaze flitted like a sparrow from Aloa’s face to the neighbor’s house and then to her feet.
“Maybe not, but it helps me get a better picture of her,” Aloa said. “I think if you’d been the cause of your husband’s paralysis, it would put a strain on you, on your marriage.”
“You don’t know anything,” Kyle said. “He forgave her.”
“But did she forgive herself?” Aloa asked. “Maybe it wasn’t only sex she wanted with Burns Hamlin. Maybe she wanted to be with someone who wasn’t a constant reminder of her guilt. Maybe she was tired of always feeling like she had to make up for something.”
“That’s not true,” Kyle said.
Aloa knew remorse was its own circle of hell.
“What if she fell in love with Hamlin? Even if she hadn’t planned to?” Aloa pressed. “Christian said he couldn’t handle it if Corrine fell in love. Maybe he found out and that’s why he’s pushing the case so hard with Hamlin?”
“No,” Kyle said.
“There could be some other reason, you know. Some other person who wanted her dead. You can’t just accuse the easiest suspect.”
“Hamlin did it,” Kyle insisted. “Everything adds up. He was jealous and angry. What about the stuff we gave you? About him stalking that woman?”
“It didn’t prove anything one way or the other.”
“Christian won’t be happy.”
“Tell him I said this: a collector has to consider all information, not just the facts he or she wants.”
It was as if the fog was punishing the city for having a glimmer of hope. The slight clearing earlier in the day had been replaced by a thicker veil of gray that trapped smoke and car exhaust and made Aloa’s eyes sting. She thought of the Jungle’s residents who, unlike those who were being advised to stay indoors, were unable to escape the polluted chill. She drove to a chain drugstore, where she cleaned out its inventory of warm socks, grabbed some toys from the specialty aisle, and bought a $50 Target gift card. After, she paid for a dozen premade sandwiches at Safeway and threw a pack of Camel Lights into her purchases.
She found a little-used wool coat in her closet and filled a string bag with toys from the drugstore: three coloring books, a teddy bear with a T-shirt that read I WUV YOU, and a small plastic pail and shovel. She’d lashed the string bag to h
er pack, then stuffed the gift card in the coat pocket and folded it into her pack.
At the encampment, she handed out her offerings, stopping by the young mother’s tent. Again, the young mother was outside, sitting in a broken beach chair. Aloa greeted her, handed her two sandwiches, and pulled out her gifts.
“I saw you in here yesterday,” the woman said. “I guess you’re feeling that good old liberal-white-people guilt, huh?”
Aloa knew there was a kernel of truth in the insult. Despite the city’s progressive bent, there’d been no real solution to the problems of homelessness and rampant drug use on the streets.
“Maybe a little,” Aloa said. “But I saw your daughter and thought she might like a few things to play with.”
“You got kids?”
The hollow spot opened again in Aloa’s stomach.
“No, but one of my friends had a brother that age when I met him. He loved coloring books.”
She didn’t tell her how Michael’s little brother had been coloring at the kitchen table when his father put a bullet into the boy’s chest, then turned the weapon on himself.
“Is it all right if I give the toys to her?” Aloa asked.
“Sure,” the woman said.
Aloa squatted down and set the string bag in front of the little girl. The child’s hair was pulled into two puffballs, one on either side of her head. She wore blue fleece pajamas and a faded pink jacket.
“Mine?” asked the little girl and pointed.
Aloa smiled. “Yes, these are for you,” she said and opened the bag.
The girl tugged out the shovel and the pail.
“I saw she liked to dig,” Aloa said.
“I think she’s going to be an architect or something,” said the young woman. “Her name’s Destiny.”
“I’m Aloa.” She held out her hand.
“Keisha,” the woman said.
“She’s beautiful,” Aloa said.
The woman sighed. “Don’t I know it.”
“How long have you been here, Keisha?”
The woman’s gaze went to the dirt, then to the tumble of tents and huts around her. “Here, about six months. Before that, Destiny and I had a place, but I got into a little bit of trouble, you know, and my man left. Couldn’t keep up with the rent. Me and her are on a waiting list.”
“For an apartment?” Aloa knew the wait for affordable housing in the city stretched into years.
“Yep,” Keisha said.
“There are programs,” Aloa said.
The woman watched as her daughter dug into the dirt. “Too many rules,” she said.
Aloa knew, most likely, that the rules Keisha talked about were no-drug regulations. But Destiny seemed well cared for.
“I thought you might like this too.” Aloa pulled the coat out of her daypack. “It’s wool so it should keep you warm.”
Keisha took the coat in her hands, which were calloused and nail-bitten, and shook it open. “Oh my,” she said. Sudden tears pooled. “I used to have a coat just like this. My granny gave it to me. It was a red one.”
She pulled the coat to her chest and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.
“I loved my grandmother too,” Aloa said. “She always said you learn from your failure, not your success.”
“My granny said something pretty close. Whenever something bad would happen, she’d tell me our greatest glory comes from the ability to stand up every time we fall.” Her voice cracked and she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Aloa let her have a minute.
Keisha sniffled. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It doesn’t do a bit of good in here.”
“Sometimes it helps to let it out,” said Aloa, although she hated to cry.
“Yeah.” Keisha wiped her eyes. “’Cept it makes you look all raggedy and pitiful.”
Aloa smiled. “There’s a gift card in the pocket of the coat. In case Destiny needs anything.” She dug a business card out of her pocket and handed it to Keisha. “I hope you get to the top of that list soon,” she said. “But in case you don’t, you call me if you or Destiny need anything: food, bus fare, even more coloring books.” She gestured at the card. “That’s my cell number. Call anytime.”
“Thanks,” Keisha said. “Maybe you aren’t so white after all.”
The men with the hibachi were gone, but Aloa saw the pillar preacher who’d called her out on her sin. He was asleep on the ground, his arms folded over his chest, his head supported by a small chunk of concrete. She set a pair of clean socks by his shoulder and moved on.
“Hey, Elvis,” she said when she got to his lean-to.
“Over here,” said a voice from the tent that had once been Billy’s. “Come on in.”
Aloa squatted in front of the tent and pulled up the long zipper. Elvis was hunched on Pablo’s cot, a camp stove in front of him on the ground.
“You got my cigs?” Elvis asked.
“Sure do. Some socks too.”
“Come and set. I’m making hot cocoa.”
Aloa hesitated, then crawled inside, sitting cross-legged on the dirt-stained rug. She handed Elvis her offerings.
“An angel from God,” Elvis said, taking the cigarettes with fingers blackened with grime, “and them socks are real nice too. When I worked for the post office back in North Carolina, I always said a good sock equals a long career. Course, then things got messed up. Weren’t no sock could save that.”
He sucked in his lips and tore open the package of Camels. He knocked out a cigarette, lit it with the flame from the camp stove, and took a long inhale.
“Christ on a cross, that’s good.”
Aloa remembered her first cigarette. It was her freshman year in the backyard of a girlfriend’s house and included a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor shoplifted from a gas station convenience store. The combination of nicotine and sugar made her so sick she’d vowed never to smoke—or drink malt liquor—again.
“Found some milk in the dumpster this morning. Only a week past the pull date,” Elvis said and reached under the cot, pulling out a box of cocoa mix and a quart of milk. A plastic baggie filled with an assortment of pills tumbled out with the cocoa and Elvis shoved it back with the heel of his shoe.
Aloa knew better than to say anything.
“Yup, my boy used to love hot cocoa,” Elvis said, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth. “Fourteen years old, and he’d still sit down with his old man for a cup.” He pulled over a cardboard box and dug out a small pan, pouring half the milk into it and setting it on the flame. “Them were good times. Sometimes you don’t know it until it’s gone, eh?”
He inhaled, held the smoke, and blew a plume out the side of his mouth, pulling a chipped mug and a tablespoon from the box where he’d gotten the pan.
“I’d offer you some but I only got one cup.”
“It’s fine,” she said.
“Sep, that was my boy’s name. For Septimus, his grandfather. Great kid. Not much for schoolwork but he played third base like nobody’s business. Good-looking kid too. Not like me. Took after the wife.”
Elvis tore open a corner of the hot cocoa packet and poured its contents into the cup.
“About April his freshman year, Sep started complaining about his leg hurting. The coach told him it was a pulled muscle and to ice it and give it a few stretches. Only it kept on hurting.”
He lifted the pan and swirled the milk so it didn’t scald.
“Finally, come June, we took him to the doctor. Turns out he had something called an osteosarcoma. They took his leg. Right at the hip. We thought we had it but lo and behold, the thing comes back. After that, it’s hospitals and chemo and all kinds of nasty stuff. Sep said he could beat it. So did the docs.”
Elvis dipped a grimy finger into the milk to test the heat. “Just right,” he said and pulled the pan from the flame, balancing his cigarette on the edge of the cot. “The secret’s in the stirring.”
He poured the milk slowly int
o the mug, stirring hard while he did it. Bubbles rose in the mixture, the spoon clanking against the side of the cup.
“Turns out Sep was wrong and so was the doctors. We lost him the next June and, God’s honest truth, it kinda broke me.” He licked the spoon and watched steam rise from the mug. “I tried to work but I couldn’t and I started drinking and after a year of it, Jess, that’s my wife, told me to move out. Then it was whiskey and crystal and oxy and horse. Whatever. Didn’t matter none. I kept moving but the pain—well, the pain kept following me and now here I am.”
He set the spoon on the ground, picked up the mug, and retrieved his cigarette.
“I can still do my route in my head, though. A hundred and thirty-four houses.”
He took a gulp of the cocoa.
“I wish I still had that job. I wish Sep didn’t die. I wish I wasn’t such a weak old man who couldn’t do nothing to save his kid or his wife.”
His eyes glistened and he took a long inhale of the cigarette. “I don’t know why I told you that, except you got the face of a listener.”
“Thanks,” Aloa said quietly and left him alone with his memories for a few moments. “So Pablo didn’t come back?” she asked finally.
“Nope,” he said, “and speaking of that, you know that girl I told you about, that Star? The one who wanted the speedball?”
“I remember.”
“They found her body, just like Billy. Put in a bag and stuffed into the branches of a tree. Yup, somewheres over on Pacific. Kinda near Chinatown, I think, but I really ain’t sure. Two days ago. Nasty business.”
Aloa thought of what she knew about Billy’s murder and her stomach gave a lurch.
Elvis took another gulp of cocoa, followed by a pull from the Camel. “Ain’t really safe here. I was thinking about movin’, but now I got this place, and besides, where else would I go?”
The Thin Edge Page 10