Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

But he pulled out an e-cigarette. “What?” he asked, startled. A long moment later, he said, “Oh, you thought I had a gun? Oh, hell, no. I just need a vape.” He fired up the device and drew a great lungful of vapor, then let it spew out in a cloud around his face.

“We’re investigating the deaths of Paul and Brindel Latham, and also trying to locate Ivy Wilde,” Tanaka said, waving her hand in front of her nose.

“She hasn’t turned up yet?” Another huge cloud of sweet-smelling vapor swept out.

“You don’t know where she could be?” Tanaka pushed.

“No, I don’t know. Anywhere, I guess.” He sucked on the e-cig hard. Outside, through the open doors, the rain finally began to slacken. “But she’s alive.”

“You know that? She contacted you?” Paterno pounced.

“No, no, but I just . . . I mean . . . she can’t be dead.” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. Then, while a forklift loaded a pallet of merchandise onto a flatbed, the light seemed to dawn, as if he finally understood why the cops had shown up where he worked. “Oh. You think I might know something about what happened?”

Tanaka asked, “Where were you two nights ago, between nine at night and two in the morning?”

“Where was I?” he asked. “Jesus Christ. I don’t know.” He raked one hand over his head, smoothing the stubble. “Shit, what night was that?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday night? At that time? God, I was home, I think. Yeah. That’s right. I was in bed. I had to work the next day—yesterday.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“Of course,” he said, then didn’t look so sure. “I live in a house, kind of a rooming house. Four guys rent from George. George Aimes. I saw him when I was using the microwave . . . at . . . umm . . . maybe seven, seven thirty. Oh, and Ronny Stillwell was there. He’s one of the other guys who rent from George, works at some plumbing company. Anyway, Ronny and I BS’ed about basketball, y’know. He’s a Lakers fan cuz he’s from somewhere around LA, and I’m Warriors all the way. So then I ate, took a shower, and went into my room. Had a couple brewskies and watched the game. The Warriors were p

laying.” He looked from Tanaka to Paterno.

“Did George or anyone else see you after seven thirty?”

“No. I told you I was in my room. God . . . wait . . . look, I don’t know anything about what went down at Ivy’s house.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe . . . in November, or December?. . . Wait. No. It was around Thanksgiving, so a couple of months ago. She and I are history.”

“You didn’t talk to her? Text her?”

“No . . . I . . .” He started to lie, then said, “Maybe she texted me around Christmas, but I didn’t reply. Didn’t want to start something up again.”

“Did she?” Paterno asked. “Want to start something up again?”

“I didn’t want to find out. She’s a little . . . strange. Kind of off.”

“How so?” Tanaka asked.

“I don’t know. Just weird.” Then, as if he regretted confiding in them, added, “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

When pressed, he wouldn’t say anything more.

A bell sounded, then steady beeping as an automatic gate began to slowly slide open. Headlights glowed as another yellow A-Bay-C Delivery van waited, only to roar through as the gap widened. The driver, a woman, parked her vehicle next to Boxer’s.

“Look,” he said, his voice lowered as the woman driver, dressed as he was, cast a glance in their direction, raised a hand, then walked into the warehouse. “I had nothing to do with what went down. Ivy and I dated for what? Less than a year—she kept track of that shit, I didn’t—but it was over and last I heard she was dating someone else, so go look for him.”

“Got a name?” Tanaka said.

“Nah. I already told you all I know, which is nothin’.”

Pescoli said, “Do you know of anyone who had something against the Lathams?”