Frederick Barrows

“Cold Smoke”

Born in Tonalá, Chiapas, Mexico, Loma Ramos hadn’t seen her twin teenage daughters and ten-year-old son in three years. She’d carefully followed every legal step and worked incredibly hard to make a home for them in America. She’d established residency and her older sister, Alma, had sponsored Loma’s citizenship.

It all ended in a blink.

Less than a mile from where Loma lived, her husband encountered a car traveling the wrong way on a wide, straight road in Playa Vista, not far from LAX. While Loma eagerly awaited their arrival with Alma, seated at a table laden with warm foods and cold drinks, a reckless driver obliterated the Ramos family. Their blind drunk angel of death, Brent Tanner Raab, was a nineteen-year-old star freshman on a highly regarded college swim team. He lived with his parents in a pricey home nestled in the San Rafael Hills. The seventy-five thousand-dollar, cobalt blue BMW Brent Tanner drove was still operational after he’d demolished the twenty-year-old, two-tone station wagon.

Brent Tanner managed to limp his pricey ride back to Casa Raab, leaking assorted fluids but dependably removing his person from the scene of the accident. Completely unscathed, he collapsed in bed around midnight. After officers recovered a scrap of paper with her information written on it from the charred and twisted wreckage, they contacted Loma Ramos, and she identified the bodies of her husband and children around six the next morning.

Loma sought justice. Thankfully, a good Samaritan walking his dog witnessed the accident and filmed the BMW fleeing the scene with his phone. When police finally got permission to look at Brent Tanner’s car, it was still in the family garage, unmoved since its heavily inebriated driver had brought it home.

The press ran with the story, contrasting the privileged white assailant with the deceased Mexican father venturing to America, young children in tow, to visit their hardworking mother. Bail was high, relatively speaking. Not that the Raab family had any trouble covering it to get their only child home safe and sound. And then he didn’t show up in court. Police investigated the spacious glass dwelling tucked away in the outlying hills. They visited fraternity houses and interviewed girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, and acquaintances. Not a single lead.

Brent Tanner had vanished.

Loma began civil proceedings against the Raab family. She rebuffed an attempt at a quick payout. She didn’t want to win some morbid lottery. She also wasn’t looking forward to seeing the kid punished for the rest of his life. She just wanted him to acknowledge what he had done and to tell her that he was sorry and that he would never drink and drive again. Loma wanted Brent Tanner to own his incredibly destructive act and then enter a substance abuse program.

That was a bridge too far for Brent Tanner and his family. Mexican-born newcomer Loma Ramos would never dictate terms to the gilded Raabs, who were respectable, sixth generation Angelenos.

Jason, the bail bondsman, was confident he’d get his money back. Raab was too hot to hide. When I told him that I wanted to try to retrieve the fugitive, he agreed, even though he figured I had less than forty-eight hours before Brent Tanner turned up on a Vegas casino’s closed-circuit camera or an observant tourist spotted him frolicking on a rustic beach in Baja.

“He and his dad are on vacation, Maddy,” Jason said. “Feeling like victims while the steak tartare is served by some underpaid, white-gloved server…”

I informed Jason that forty-eight hours would be plenty. Honestly, I just wanted to be the person responsible for putting Brent Tanner in front of the woman whose family he’d killed. Justice might be slow—and far too often criminally skewed in favor of haves rather than have-nots—but this was one instance where I could have an active role in seeing that it was well and properly served.

I made eye contact with Loma as I left the courthouse. She was meeting with lawyers handling her civil case pro bono. She looked like she hadn’t slept since the waking nightmare began. I wanted her to know that I was fighting for her but decided that decisive actions would speak far louder than clichéd words. My strongest instinct was that Brent Tanner hadn’t left Los Angeles County. He wasn’t on a tropical island somewhere or horsing around at some hoity-toity dude ranch in Montana. He was close. I just had to turn over a few rocks located on overpriced real estate to flush him out.

Trotting down the court steps, I received a call from Desi, my mentor and best friend, the man who’d patiently shepherded me through the bail enforcement officer process and taught me more than I could ever hope to repay about making a living chasing knuckleheaded skips.

“Maddy, you talk to Judge Holzman?” It sounded like he was driving.

I checked my watch: half-past ten in the morning. “Yep. He was busy, but I did get a copy of the records you wanted from his secretary.”

“Jill’s crushin’ on me.”

“You wish,” I said, and fast-walked across the street. “It was my natural charm that got her to make photocopies.”

“Wanna meet for an early lunch?”

“Can’t, got a skip to catch.”

“Anyone special?”

I told him.

He sighed. “Waste of time. Someone in blue will nab that kid the instant his sun-bleached head pops up.”

“Sure,” I said, and settled behind the wheel of my convertible VW. “Listen, Desi, I think I can beat them to the punch and the payday will be a record breaker. At least for me it will be.”

“Maddy, don’t.” I rarely went against Desi’s sage advice, and for good reason, as he made few missteps. “High profile cases aren’t worth it. Too easy to make enemies you don’t need.”

“Hey, if I’m beaten to the punch, so be it. But … I have a feeling about this one. I’ll risk any fallout.”

A noticeable pause. “Fine. You’re a vet now. Please, as a courtesy, check in frequently.”

“Will do, partner, and once I bag this punk, lunch is on me.”

“For once.”

We shared a laugh and said our goodbyes.

*     *     *

Built into a rough, undulating hilly feature that curved above and below it, the Raab house primarily consisted of unevenly stacked, glass-paned boxes. Studying the giant cubes, I thought about a real estate agency that specialized in bomb shelters for rich people and imagined that this was what their offices might look like.

The custom-designed security gate blocking driveway access had a shiny silver R that complemented the glossy black ironwork. It reminded me of a registered trademark symbol.

“R is for ritzy…”

I punched the speaker box button and waited for a reply.

A crackle followed by a brief pause. “Yes, how may I help you?” Before I could answer, I got the Spanish version: “Sí, ¿cómo puedo ayudarte?”

“Yes, I’m hoping to speak with Mrs. Raab.”

A longer pause. “Ahm … who this?”

“My name is Maddy Chase. I’m a bail enforcement officer. I have some brief questions to ask Mrs. Raab about her son.”

“Un momento, por favor.”

Thirty long seconds. A loud, unpleasant buzz. The gates swung inward, the straight bar of the R separating from its curved half with smoothly regal grace.

I slowly drove my year-old VW Golf up the wide, gently sloping drive, passing the three-door garage where Brent had stored his BMW before the police had hauled it away. A final ascent terminated at the broad glass and chrome-finished entrance to the modular manse. I had more than enough room to turn my car around and park parallel with a vibrantly green hedge.

The woman I had spoken with greeted me at the door. She was half-a-head shorter than I was, putting her well below five feet. She looked like she was in her late fifties. Glasses hung from a thick-beaded string around her neck, and she wore an apron that had galloping horses stitched in blue thread against a carnation yellow background.

My freshly pressed, navy blue pantsuit chafed less than I’d feared it would.

“Hola,” I said, and produced my credentials, along with a business card.

She nodded, took the card, and vanished behind the imposing doors.

I tapped my foot and waited. Five, ridiculously long minutes passed. I wondered if I’d made a big mistake in taking the direct approach.

The woman returned. She opened the massive door and gestured for me to enter.

First hurdle successfully cleared.

My initial impression was that the house seemed more like a snobbish museum than functional habitat. Vases from various cultures, abstract as well as landscape paintings, fancy rugs of assorted sizes and patterns, and absolutely nothing noticeably out of place, as if eternally awaiting a photographer from an architectural or style magazine to arrive and preserve its eternal glory.

I passed through a silent sliding door to a brick patio that must have cost a small fortune to look so authentically rustic. Beyond was an enormous, placid blue pool, not quite Olympic-sized but certainly something that a bus packed with kids would struggle to overtax. A long red towel hung over the back of an orange and white vinyl recliner. I saw no wet footprints or any sign of abruptly curbed recreational activity.

Mrs. Raab sat in a wicker chair at a glass-topped table. The umbrella was down, and the other chairs absent, save for the one meant for me, conveniently pulled out.

The lady of the house half-rose and extended a thin, pale arm. She looked good for her age, presumably mid-forties, and wore a simple floral dress and no jewelry. Her hair was a tangle of dark browns with blonde highlights clipped on the sides to show off a high brow and perfectly straight nose. Her dark blue eyes neither sparkled nor smoldered. They were cool but not cold. She seemed relatable, not some plastic wind-up hostess.

“Monica,” she said, her voice strained but warm.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, and sat opposite her.

On cue, the woman who had served as my escort arrived with a tray of coasters, iced teas, and two large glasses of water.

“Gracias, Elena.”

“De nada,” she said, and departed.

Monica took a sip of water. “What can I help you with, Maddy?”

“I’m here about your son’s safety, Mrs. Raab.”

“Just Monica is fine.” She paused. “Please, tell me more about your concerns regarding Tan’s safety.”

I sampled the tea. “Well, being a fugitive, and this being related to a high-profile case, I am concerned that when your son is captured—and, make no mistake, he will be captured—he may not be handled … as courteously as you’d prefer.”

“Because we’re wealthy, white, and entitled, right? And some beat cop might risk a lawsuit, or probably much worse, just to take a shot at my six-foot-three-inch, incredibly fit son, who—aside from being an Olympic-level swimmer—has a brown belt in jujitsu?”

The tea was weak. “Mrs. Raab…” I placed my porcelain cup down. “I meant safety in terms of bringing your son in quietly and discreetly. No press. No big scene. A negotiated surrender. Quick and clean.”

Monica squeezed a lemon over her water and dropped the wedge in. “And you will be the one to generously do this for our poor family. Not to mention the blood money you’d receive for bringing Tan in, correct?”

“I will receive a commission, of course,” I said. “But, again, I will do so with no flashing lights, no helicopters swirling overhead capturing footage of the event, no dramatics or chance for something reckless to occur. I will pick him up here or meet him—”

“Why would you pick him up here?” She looked lost, as if struggling to recall a specific point in time. “Goodness, Tan hasn’t been here since…”

“I understand that your husband has been away since your son became a fugitive. Obviously, Mr. Raab knows the authorities are tracking him while he travels. A smart enough tactic to deflect from the obvious: your son is here because this is his home.”

“Excuse me?”

“And I get it. I do. But once you broke your bond with my employer, your son was not legally under your control anymore. And it is my job to bring him in, safely and privately, if possible. You and your husband would do anything for him. Even if that means risking your own freedoms. But he’s got no life now, not until he returns to custody, stands in front of the court, and accepts whatever sentence a judge renders. This is only delaying the inevitable.”

Monica bit her thin lower lip, rose, and walked toward the house. I stood and glanced over my shoulder, at the craggy backdrop with a dirt trail snaking into irregular rocky folds. I imagined Mama Raab carrying milk and cookies to a cozy shelter, one with blast doors that locked on both sides. No expense spared to stash a vulnerable loved one.

She cleared her throat. I followed her into the expansive living room with its gauzy, white vaulted ceiling and decorative sequence of slanted, rectangular skylights.

“I haven’t seen my son in weeks. My husband is out looking for him. He’s worried sick. It’s been an awful experience.” She was supremely composed. “Obviously, we want nothing more than to cooperate and to clear Tan’s good name. While I appreciate your concern, Maddy, there’s simply nothing more I can do to help you.”

As she escorted me to the front door, I noticed an open display case and saw pictures of the family through the years. A recent-looking image showed Brent Tanner posing at the top of a ski slope with a tall, young woman who was flashing an exaggerated V sign. Beside this was a framed newspaper clipping that announced “DJ & Model CZ-Starry Debuts @ Club FantasiaX. Save The Date!”

Monica stopped a few feet from the door and extended her hand. “Best wishes on all of your future endeavors, Maddy.”

I accepted the woman’s impressively steady hand and said, “I hope your son stays safe, no matter what place he currently calls home.”

Monica applied slight pressure. “This will always be Tan’s home.”

I freed my hand, and Elena dutifully opened the door.

“Take care, Mrs. Raab.”

*     *     *

I got in my car and left the inscrutable glass house. My preferred patio table was available at Salvador’s Buena y Caliente in Glendale. It was an ideal day to be outdoors. After ordering the plato del día, I called Betty, an excellent, extremely discriminating skip tracer that Desi had referred me to once I’d firmly established my fugitive-hunting credentials.

“I’m at lunch,” she said. “What is it?”

Betty worked out of her home and managed an online auction business that specialized in collectible Disney and angelic figurines. Her ex-husband had left her a nice house in Pasadena and there were no kids or debts to worry about. Betty and her dog, a ten-year-old, blue-eyed mastiff named Bo, seemed almost too content with the lot life had provided for them.

“Need a home address for a female DJ and model who goes by the handle CZ-Starry.”

Betty cursed that she was out of mayonnaise. I heard what sounded like a butter knife rattling around a glass jar. In the background, Bo barked at what sounded like another dog barking on the television.

“One second…” Betty retrieved a pen and jotted down the information. “Get back to you after lunch.”

Betty got back to me as I was heading to my car, thirty minutes later. After transferring the nonnegotiable fee via my phone, I learned that Clarissa Zerelli-Starling lived in Silver Lake.

“She rents a garage apartment in an old neighborhood on a quiet, leafy street. Google Maps could benefit from a finer grain magnifier,” Betty said, over the intermittent sound of an electric eggbeater. “Also, besides modeling and spinning records in trendy clubs, CZ is a National Merit Scholar and, based on the web video I watched, absolutely destroys in top-shelf jujitsu tournaments.”

“Gorgeous, hip, smart, and trained in the martial arts?” I whistled. “Gee, thanks, Betty. I feel utterly inadequate.”

“Meh,” Betty said, “I bet she drowns cats in private. Protect your neck, kiddo.”

I had toured Silver Lake recently, looking at houses and wondering which one I’d ultimately occupy. If I managed to bring Brent Tanner in all by my lonesome, I’d certainly have a good head start on making my property owner dream a reality.

CZ’s apartment was on the left side of a large, well-maintained Colonial, above a detached two-car garage. It was roomier than the cramped one bedroom I rented in West Hollywood. After parking across the street, one house removed from CZ’s residence, beneath a large, shady jacaranda, I kicked off my too-tight dress flats, pulled a pillow and blanket from the back, and reclined my seat.

After an hour of nothing save considerate dog walkers who cleaned up after their pets, mail delivery trucks, and slothful joggers, a lanky white guy, with obnoxiously multicolored dreadlocks, arrived on a silver scooter and parked near the garage. He went around back and then up a wooden flight of steps. Five minutes later, he departed, casual-as-can-be, and scootered away.

The shadows grew long. I deferred several phone calls with a terse “Working” and waited to see what nighttime might bring.

The real action at CZ’s began after sundown. An interesting mix of people came and went. Beat-heavy dance music was punishingly audible. Around nine, a patrol car rolled up beside me and idled. I lowered the driver’s side window and greeted a familiar face.

“Evening, Joe.”

“Maddy Chase, creeping in Silver Lake. Did not foresee such an occurrence on this lovely, late August evening.”

Officer Joe Mattick and I shared information. He wasn’t aiming to be a detective, though. He liked wearing the blue and cruising around after hours—meaning he didn’t have to go home too early to his wife and overthink what he should have done differently earlier in the day.

“Easy, Mattick, or you’ll blow my cover.”

“If it involves the house party I’m about to blown up thanks to several noise complaint, too bad. I’m duty bound to serve and protect law-abiding neighbors who have to awaken at the crack of dawn.”

“I understand,” I said. “The music’s lame, so, by all means, shut it down.”

“What are you sussing out here, Maddy?”

“Tracking the movement of a skip, as per usual,” I said.

Mattick nodded. “Honestly, this is a good neighborhood to lay low. Can’t fool you though, huh?”

I shrugged.

“Okay, Chaser,” he said, “I’ll try to file ’em out one at a time so you can get an extra good look.”

“Thank you, officer.”

Mattick did a terrible job getting CZ’s friends to scatter with any semblance of orderly efficiency. I imagined him joining in the festivities and attempting the limbo with a shot glass balanced on his bulbous, veteran drinker’s nose. Twenty minutes later, everyone was gone and the street dead silent.

CZ’s light remained on for another half-hour and then went out.

I moved to the back seat and called Desi.

“Pulling an all-nighter in sleepy Silver Lake.”

Desi chuckled. “I’ll assume it will pay off. Your hunches typically do.”

“Only ’cause you taught me too well.”

“Well, it may be Silver Lake, but you still need to keep your head on a swivel.”

“Don’t worry, I got Mattick patrolling the neighborhood.”

“Patrolling the nearest watering hole is more likely.”

I yawned. “I’ll check in, should something substantive break.”

“So long as it’s not your head,” Desi said.

“’Night, Watson.”

“Stay frosty, Sherlock.”

 I set my phone’s alarm to wake me up at the top of every hour and pseudo-dozed. A few cars came and went. CZ’s crib remained dark. Around two, I placed a small digital camera near the curb and directed it toward the house. I then drove to a diner, purchased a large coffee, and used the bathroom. Returning to my stakeout spot, I retrieved the camera and played back absolutely nothing of interest.

Shortly after dawn, CZ emerged from her apartment. She was wearing a silver and white tracksuit and fancy blue wireless earbuds. Hair tied back, she slowly trotted down the block, turning right at the stop sign. She was lithe and athletic, with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones that would have been quite costly to sculpt by any means besides nature’s grace.

A stone-cold stunner.

A part of me wanted to abandon my surveillance of CZ’s apartment and shadow the head-turning beauty on her morning jog. Could I keep up with her? She likely had seven or eight inches of height on me and far greater endurance. So long as I kept her in my line of sight, though, it would be totally worth it.

I stayed in the car. I watched the house. A half-hour passed. CZ reappeared, coming from the opposite direction. She paused on the side path leading to the back of the garage and spoke to someone through her buds. She seemed pleased with the conversation.

I straightened the passenger seat and watched her trot out of view, catching a glimpse as she flashed up the back stairs and reentered her place.

“Who are you calling out to, Silver Lake siren?”

An hour later, a sedan branded with an electric green Locos magnetic sign pulled in front of CZ’s. Locos was a local, cash-friendly rideshare service. If you needed an anonymous lift, Locos had your back. A tall guy wearing white shorts and a blue windbreaker with a hoodie got out and darted to the back of the garage.

I figured I couldn’t be that lucky.

If not Brent Tanner, though, who else?

After the Locos driver pulled away, I waited fifteen minutes in hopes of confronting CZ’s mystery visitor in the driveway. If another Locos ride pulled up, that would complicate matters. I wanted to take Brent Tanner without an audience or unnecessary fuss.

Like most things in life, there was no predicting the outcome, meaning I could make my move or risk missing out on apprehending the irresponsible hunk completely.

I called Mattick and told him I would be attempting to apprehend a fugitive in his area. He asked if I needed assistance, and I told him to stay close but not too close. He was fine with that arrangement.

Once again, I opted for a straightforward, polite approach. I’d knock on CZ’s door and ask to speak with Brent Tanner. If she said he wasn’t there, and I didn’t spot him, I’d thank her, depart, and then wait to see who left. No public drama. A situation that society-page-conscious Mama Raab could certainly appreciate.

No problema.

I exited my vehicle, crossed the street, and casually strolled behind the garage. The wood stairs ascended deck style, with a short landing after a few steps, followed by a turn that led to a balcony.

Approaching, I heard music playing, though much more subdued than last night’s migraine-inducing heavy rhythms had been. No doorbell, so I rapped the door once and it surprised me by opening halfway before creaking to a halt.

“Yes!” CZ said.

I saw a pair of entangled feet writhing at the end of a cream-colored platform bed.

I reached to snatch the doorknob when I heard a male voice curse. A chaotic scramble ensued. Before I could shut the door completely, CZ jerked it open. She was buck naked and seriously pissed off.

“I was nearly there!” she said. “Bitch, you ruined it!”

Before I could reply, an extremely well-shaped foot attached to an incredibly toned and powerful leg blasted my sternum. I crashed back against the safety railing and then tumbled down the steps to the lower landing.

I tried to speak but couldn’t breathe.

CZ wrenched me up and delivered two quick punches to my face. I saw stars. She marched my hundred-odd pound, scrawny frame onto the grass and then spun around and delivered an expertly executed kick to my slackened jaw.

The lights went out.

*     *     *

Opening my eyes hurt. I managed, though, and the first thing I saw was Desi, sitting beside my hospital bed.

“Was it … Mattick?”

Desi nodded. “After delivering you to the Emergency room, he went back and spoke to the homeowner, an elderly gentleman, quite hard of hearing, who had no clue about anything. His tenant, above the garage, Ms. Starling, said she’d had a lowkey party the previous night and remembered Mattick as the killjoy who’d ended it. She claims to have no idea how you, a complete stranger, had ended up unconscious in the backyard.” Desi paused. “Sound about right to you?”

“Yeah,” I said, and fiddled with the papery gown covering my well-tenderized form. “Sounds mostly accurate.”

My frayed and rumpled suit was in a plastic bag, sitting on the floor next to my comfy shoes, one of which had a busted seam.

“Spoke with Betty. She sent me a link that shows Ms. Starling in action. Serious proficiency. You’re lucky nothing’s broken.”

“Just my pride,” I said, and winced. Sore ribs. Bruised and battered face. And that was from CZ going easy on me.

“Was he there?”

I sighed. “Did not get a chance to verify.”

“Mattick says you can still press charges.”

I shook my head. “Man, sometimes you just gotta take the L.”

“Speaking of which…” Desi tossed a folded newspaper onto the bed.

I lifted it and studied last night’s MMA results. “Mad” Maxine Guerra had won the first match of her career, after six losses and two draws. Split Decision. “Good for Max. She finally broke through.”

Max and I had an on-off-semi-on relationship. I hadn’t seen her in a few months. Maybe my absence had something to do with her finally winning a fight.

“Any chance against CZ?”

I shook my head. “Some people are just genetically predisposed to winning. That woman is cold smoke. Totally untouchable.”

He chuckled. “Okay, the doc says you can get out of here in a few hours. If you want, I can pick up your pain meds for you.”

“Thanks, Desi. I’d appreciate it.”

“You still think you’re going to catch him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I honestly do.”

“Well, if he hadn’t fled before, and that was him at CZ’s, he’s in full flight mode now.”

I groaned.

“Okay, partner…” He stood. “I’ll see you after you’re discharged.”

“Sounds good.”

He squeezed my shoulder, gingerly, and left.

A nurse entered and asked how I felt.

“Better than I look,” I said, and managed a crooked smile.

*     *     *

Two days later, Mrs. Raab called. I was at home, mostly recovered but completely unmotivated to move unless it was absolutely necessary.

“How are you, Mrs. Raab?”

“Does you offer still stand?”

I shifted my weight against the stack of pillows on my bed. “Yes, ma’am, it does.”

“No press. No police. Just bring him somewhere secure and private.”

The clock showed ten minutes until eight. With the court closed, I’d have to stow Brent Tanner at a local precinct. “I can be there in two hours.”

“Thank you,” she said, and hung up.

Brent Tanner would have to spend an uncomfortable night in a cell. Likely the first of many until his trial. Why his mother didn’t wait until morning seemed odd. The press didn’t have a clue. Why wouldn’t she want one more night with her beloved child? Perhaps she couldn’t part with him in the full light of day. He had to go under the cover of darkness, bundled in shadows.

My next call was to Desi. “Mama Raab has finally come to her senses,” I said. “I’m picking up the golden boy in two hours.”

“Congrats,” he said. “Need me to back you up?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll send you the address. Park at street level, across from their arrogantly monogrammed security gate.”

“You got it, Maddy.”

“Mucho gracias, partner,” I said, and ended the call.

Perhaps CZ had motivated her boyfriend’s willingness to surrender…

“Never too late to stumble across a relatively happy ending,” I said, and slowly shuffled into the bathroom, where I filled the tub with hot water and ten pounds of Epsom salts.

Nearly two hours later, I arrived at the entrance to the Raab residence. Desi idled across the street in his peacock blue, impeccably restored, 1970 Mercury Cougar. It was nice to have someone dependable watching my back.

I brought my gun, even though it seemed unwarranted. Of course, that’s why I carried it. Though I hadn’t yet fired it on the job, I nonetheless appreciated the undeniable sense of security it provided.

I pressed the call button, waited for the letter R to break apart, and ascended to the front of the house. Elena stood in the doorway. She looked very sad.

Not nearly as sad as Loma would be until her final days, however.

I walked past Elena and headed straight toward the ajar sliding door leading to the pool. Mrs. Raab was not there but her fugitive son was. Brent Tanner occupied the bottom of the illuminated pool, his lanky frame reclined above a fancily scripted R that mirrored the one on the gate. He wore sleek competition goggles and a very snug red speedo.

Quite the view.

Elena moved beside me.

I gestured. “How long has he been down there?”

“No muy largo,” she said.

A short time, sure, but how long could the golden boy stay underwater? A part of me felt compelled to wait and see.

“And where is Mrs. Raab?”

“Dormida,” Elena said.

Right. I guess she couldn’t bear it. Hopefully, she didn’t take too many pills before going under.

“And Mr. Raab?”

“Viene a casa mañana.”

Tomorrow morning might as well be forever, all things considered.

“Gracias, Elena,” I said, and sat on the edge of a recliner.

Brent Tanner eventually resurfaced and toweled off. He dressed in faded gym shorts, with worn sandals and a reddish-pink polo shirt. No watch, chains, or unnecessary decorations that might draw undue interest from his fellow detainees. His curly blond hair appeared recently trimmed.

I went over the legalities of the surrender and then said, “Okay, hotshot, follow me.”

We walked to my convertible, and I opened the passenger side door. He adjusted the seat as far back as it would go and crammed his long-legged frame into it. I got behind the wheel and reminded him about seatbelt safety.

He buckled up and studied my profile. “Who beat you up?”

I reached the bottom of the slope and waited for the R to separate.

“Your girlfriend did this,” I said, and turned onto the highway.

“Girlfriend?” he said, clearly puzzled. “Who’s that?”

“CZ.”

“CZ?” He scratched the back of his head. “Oh, wow. I haven’t seen her in, like, a year.”

I focused on the road. “Oh?”

Desi followed at a casual pace.

“We met in a martial arts class. She’s super competitive.”

“Yes, that she is.”

“What made her beat you up?”

“Bad timing,” I said, without further clarification.

He mulled my murky reply, and then said, “How old are you?”

“I’ll turn twenty-five,” I said, “in about a month.”

“You know martial arts?”

I shook my head.

“I prefer swimming. Skiing is a close second.” He sighed. “My parents encouraged me to learn how to defend myself. They thought it would somehow make me more disciplined or mature … something like that.”

Brent Tanner was a big likable kid who had recklessly taken four lives and fled from justice. His parents were culpable thanks to sheltering him from the authorities but would likely avoid accessory-after-the-fact and/or obstruction charges. What was a proper punishment? What was equitable? I was no judge. I hadn’t lived long enough to wear such heavy robes.

“Hey,” he said, “you think I’ll be able to bond out again?”

“Anything is possible,” I said.

He sniffled. “I just think about jail, you know, and how I’ll … struggle to get through it.”

“If you’re not sure,” I said, “think about the fact that you’re still young. You will pay your debt and likely have a long, full life ahead of you. Mr. Ramos and his three children no longer have that option. You took that from them. When you’re feeling sorry for yourself, think about that reality and be grateful that you still have a chance to do better in this world.”

He went silent for a few miles and then spotted a fast-food joint. “Say, can we stop for a burger?”

“No, Brent Tanner,” I said. “It’s time to lower your food service expectations.”

He slumped in the seat. “Man, I wish I had gills. I could have escaped for good. Hung out with dolphins and whales. Left all this crap behind.”

I imagined him doing just that and nearly throttled the steering wheel.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I am so sorry, for everything.”

“That’s good,” I said. “You need to stand tall in the courthouse and look Loma Ramos in the eye. You say those exact words, just like that. I imagine it would mean something to her.”

He began to cry but I couldn’t console him. Self-pitying tears meant little compared to a penance that would likely take more than a lifetime to absolve.

(END)

Frederick Barrows has published stories online and in print. He lives in New Orleans.