Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

The radio droned on about terrible disasters all over the world, while I droned on to myself about all the stupid things I had ever done, just to prove to myself that all this was no fluke. I was back to the first grade, the time I sat on a cactus on a dare, when it was time to go in.

At exactly six o’clock I was knocking on the door to her apartment.

The door swung open.

We just looked at each other for a long moment. I was holding my breath, waiting for her to slam the door in my face. She was holding her breath, too, maybe trying to decide if she was going to slam the door.

Then she let out a long sigh. “Come on in,” she said. She held the door wide and I walked past.

I went over to the small sofa. The memories of it made me look up at her. She caught my eye and blushed. “Sit down,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “If you have a beer?”

“Of course,” she said, and went into her small kitchen.

I sat. I could feel the sweat starting on my face and on the back of my neck. We had both settled into the stilted, careful formality of two lovers who, having broken up badly, now met by chance. That wasn’t the start I needed.

Nancy came back in less than a minute holding a squat bottle of Miller’s. “My brother likes this,” she said. “I hope it’s okay.”

“Thanks, it’s fine,” I said. I wasn’t going to taste anything anyway, not until I got through this.

Nancy stood for a moment, her eyes flicking to the empty space beside me on the couch. Then she stepped back and sat primly on the high-backed chair opposite. “Well,” she said. “I believe you were going to explain everything?”

It was still freshly organized in my mind from my visit to Woodstock. I started at the beginning. The real beginning this time.

“There’s a few things I didn’t tell you,” I said.

“I’m sure there must be.”

“I was an L.A. cop for seven years,” I said. “I was married. Had a kid.”

It was tougher than I thought. I stopped.

“And now you’ve decided to go back to your wife,” she said, with an I-knew-it-all-along tone of voice.

“Can’t,” I told her, looking away. “She’s dead.”

Nancy didn’t say anything. I still couldn’t look at her.

“They’re both dead. My wife and my daughter. They were—killed. Caught up in something connected to my work. That’s why I quit, started fishing for a living. To get away, as far away as I could get. I never wanted to come back here again.”

“But you came back. Why?”

I looked at Nancy. There were spots of color burning in her cheeks. Her eyes were locked onto me, but I couldn’t read her expression.

“A guy came for me. Roscoe McAuley. A cop I knew.”

“McAuley—there was a Hector McAuley killed in the riots.”

I nodded. “Roscoe’s son. Roscoe wanted me to find the killer. I told him no. Then Roscoe got killed, too, and I had to come.”

She shook her head. “Hector McAuley was—people are still talking about—”

“I know.”

“And you were—that’s why you came back to L.A.?”

“Yes.”