Chapter 12

It was less than twenty minutes later that the cab pulled up in front of South Beach strip mall. Steve paid the driver and added a generous tip before unfolding his long length from the interior. He stood for a minute as the cab pulled away, making sure he was solid on his feet and looking around. Though he'd heard of it, it wasn't a strip mall he frequented, and now he knew why: not much here to attract his interest. A small pizza parlor, a music store, a store for discounted women's clothing, a maternity shop, a coffee shop - most of Los Angeles felt the same, if the parking lot was any indication - only a scattering of cars. Of course, it was getting close to dinnertime, so maybe that accounted for the sparse business. He spotted the sign for Dubrovnik's Deli-Catering and started toward it, listing only slightly to one side.

He pushed his way through the glass door - gave himself a second for his eyes to adjust to the change in light.

The interior held a couple of tables and chairs and a long counter - mostly self serve - with a cash register at one end. He focused on the figure manning the cash register, studying him. Just like the photos. He looked like his father, he decided. Same coloring, same height - of course, he was only sixteen and his mother was tall, so maybe he still had some growing to do. How old had he himself been when he had suddenly found he was looking down at his father instead of up? Seventeen, maybe?

He moved toward the register at an easy lope that he hoped looked more relaxed and less unsteady. Hope he doesn't get any ideas about running. Not sure I could take him - even if he is just a sixteen year old kid. Oh, face it, Sloan, he mocked himself - you'd have trouble taking a ninety year old grandmother right now. He saw the kid staring at him, his expression unreadable, and he tried to smile reassuringly. Behind the boy stood a man with his arms crossed over the bib of his white butcher's apron, glaring as Steve approached. Must be his good buddy Dubrovnik.

Steve had intended to buy something and check out as a customer as an excuse to start a conversation, but before he could, Brian Fuller said flatly, "I know you." Steve paused, eyeing him questioningly. "I saw your picture in the paper." Yeah, that seemed likely. "You arrested my Mom."

Dubrovnik cleared his throat noisily. "Does this mean I can do my deliveries?" he asked sarcastically.

Steve smiled with exaggerated politeness. "Be my guest." He returned his gaze to Brian. "Technically, I did not arrest your Mom. That was my partner. I was - otherwise occupied at the time."

He saw Brian's eyes dart to the bandage around his head, then look away. "My Mom wouldn't hurt anybody."

"To tell the truth, I think that too." He held out his hand. "Lt. Steve Sloan."

Brian looked at his hand, but didn't take it. "Then why did you arrest her?"

Steve sighed. Clearly, he wasn't getting through. "My partner arrested her because she was found, alone, at the scene of an assault a few days after her husband had been killed in the same way. All the evidence pointed to her, so she had to be arrested. Doesn't mean that she has to be found guilty." Brian looked unconvinced. "What do you say I ask a couple of questions now?" Brian just stared, so he continued lightly, "I hear you play baseball." Brian shrugged. "Me too. What position do you like?"

Almost against his will, Brian blurted, "Short stop."

Steve nodded. "Gotta have strong legs for that."

"I run and stuff. Do the machines. You know."

"Yeah. Training. A good idea. Even out of season?"

"Sure."

"Yeah. Gotta stay in shape. What about the Millers? They let you work out at their place?" Some of the wariness reappeared in Brian's expression and he shrugged again. "Millers were pretty upset when you didn't come home the other night. Feel like telling me where you were?" Brian repeated his signature shrug, and Steve found himself wondering if he had been as uncommunicative himself at sixteen.

"I was around."

"Sure. Around where? Got a girlfriend?"

Brian turned red, then shook his head.

Steve nodded. "Plenty of time for that. You go for a drive?"

"I had some things I wanted to do."

"Millers probably would have let you. Just like to know where you are." Brian didn't answer, so Steve continued, "Look, we need to know where you are, Brian, while we straighten out this thing with your mother. If you keep just wandering off, then we have to send you to Social Services. No baseball there."

Brian slid a glance at him, looked away. "I wanted to see my Mom."

Steve stopped in surprise. If Brian had stopped by the jail, surely somebody would have told them about it? He schooled his expression to mild interest. "Did you see her?"

Brian dropped his head. "Naw. They won't let you visit jail unless you got a adult with you."

"Maybe you should have asked the Millers, then. They'd take you."

Brian shrugged once more. "I wanted to go by myself."

"Oh." Steve hesitated. "Did the guard send you away?"

"Didn't go in."

"You know, Brian, if you need somebody to take you to your Mom, all you need to do is ask. I could even take you, if you want. Just don't disappear."

Brian looked at him again with one of those intent stares that Steve wasn't sure how to read. He tried not to sigh as he placed one hand casually on the tray rack and leaned a little. Funny - his walking was much better, but just standing sure seemed to take a lot out of him. He glanced at the small collection of café tables and chairs longingly.

"Look, why don't we sit down to talk about this? I'll buy you a soda or something."

Brian stuck his lip out. "I'm supposed to be working."

"Sure, but you must get a break sometime. Besides, there's not a customer in sight. Must be your slow time."

Brian shifted his feet. "Catering gets most of the business. Okay, but if somebody comes, I gotta wait on them."

"Fair enough." Relieved, Steve pulled out his wallet. "Pick out something and I'll pay for it."

Brian picked out a can of soda and Steve added one for himself and waited while Brian rang it up. Accepting his change, Steve lead the way to one of the tables and tried not to sit down too abruptly. In spite of himself, he closed his eyes briefly to compensate for the change in elevation. He saw Brian eyeing him curiously and forced a smile, popping the top of his soda and taking a quick sip. That definitely helped.

"So - did your Dad play ball with you?" He knew he was taking a big risk, introducing a topic as volatile as a recently deceased father, but it seemed like the quickest way to get where he needed to go.

Brian seemed more pensive than distraught, though. "Naw, my Dad wasn't into sports. He liked to watch, though. Always came whenever he was in town. He traveled a lot."

"Yeah, I heard that. My Dad isn't much into playing sports, either, but we watch together. Shoot hoops sometimes. Golf." He took a deep mental breath. Now for the big one. "Who told you when it happened? Your Mom?"

Brian's face blanked out like an unplugged light bulb. There was a long, silent pause, where Brian stared his best and emptiest stare. Steve didn't look away. After a seemingly endless stretch of time, Brian dropped his eyes. "I was at school," he mumbled.

Steve pressed a little. "You sure?" he asked gently.

Brian's face grew red. "You can check."

Steve tried to catch his eyes again. "You know, Brian, you won't be hurting anyone if you tell me. You may even be helping your Mom."

Brian glared at him. "My Mom wouldn't hurt anybody."

"Okay. Prove it. Tell me the truth. Were you there?"

Brian got redder. "Why are you pretending you care? You're the one who sent her to jail anyway. You said she was guilty. I remember your name from the paper. Sloan."

Steve blinked, then his brow cleared. "I think you're thinking of my father."

That distracted Brian for a second. "You're father's a cop?"

"No, my father's a doctor." And, at the expression on Brian's face, "He works as a consultant for the police sometimes."

Brian's frown deepened. "He said my Mom's guilty?"

Steve squirmed. "He - it's a theory."

"You don't believe your own Dad?"

Steve kneaded the spot between his eyes viciously. Et tu, Brian? "It's not that I don't - " he sucked air in slowly between his teeth. "I just - don't think the evidence supporting it is all that strong. I don't want to send your mother to prison without better evidence. That's what you want too, right?"

Brian's expression was inscrutable. "Then who do you think did do it?"

"I don't know. But I intend to find out."

Whatever Brian had meant to answer was interrupted by the entrance of a large family - two parents, four children and what looked to be a grandmother. Brian stood up. "I gotta work."

Steve nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. Timing really was everything. "All right. I'll be right back."

He needed to make a phone call and find out if Cheryl was on her way. If she wasn't, he needed to see who else could back him up. He hadn't wanted to ask for backup earlier since he had assumed Cheryl would be along soon and that the sight of a squad car would spook Brian, but maybe there was a plainclothes in the area who could scoot over and give him a hand. He stepped just outside the building entrance and fished his cell phone out of his pocket, bolstering one shoulder against the wall for support. Much as he hated to admit it, he was fading fast. Maybe this road trip had taken a little more of a toll than he had anticipated.

He squinted hard at the tiny numbers on the face of the cell phone and hit "on", then one of the speed dial numbers, and held it to his ear. It was silent. Surprised, he tried again. Nothing. Suspicious, he focused hard on the little display window and groaned out loud. Battery low - oh, damn, of course it was - it had been days since he'd even thought about recharging it. He rolled from his shoulder to his back, letting his eyes drop shut for just a second. Cheryl, I sure hope you're on your way. He probably should have asked her where this woman she was going to see was located, but at the time it hadn't seemed important. He opened his eyes again and skimmed them around the parking lot. There was a pay phone near the middle of the mall, right where the concrete curb met the tarmac. It looked about a thousand miles away, but he didn't see that he really had any other option.

He shot a quick glance over his shoulder into the deli, saw that Brian was still busy at the cash register. The grandmother seemed to be taking a long time to make a decision and, with any luck, she would take a little longer. He nudged himself erect and started the long trudge to the pay phone, smiling the faintest bit. Pretty sad, for a man who jogged a few miles every morning as a general rule. Sloan, you are not the man you were. Because I don't think you thought this one through quite as clearly as you could have, either. Of course, it had been sort of an emergency and it had thrown him, being pulled out of a sound sleep like that…

He could tell the slant in his walk had grown more pronounced again, a sure sign that he was wearing out. So, what did you learn here today, Steve? he jeered himself. Besides that maybe, just maybe, you should have let Jesse check you out before you went anyplace? Didn't get much out of Brian Fuller and probably panicked him in the bargain. Maybe it's time you took yourself off this case - just went peacefully. Even that kid thinks that you should be listening to your father. Is it really worth being so stubborn about?

He reached the pay phone and braced himself against it, releasing an involuntary grunt of relief. Fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a handful of change and scattered it over the metal shelf under the phone. Painstakingly, he picked out twenty-five cents - or hoped he did, because things were showing a funny tendency to go double again. He lifted the receiver and guided the change carefully to the slot, listening as it tumbled into the mechanism, then squinted as hard as he could and mashed the numbers in what he hoped was the right sequence. There was a pause, then a voice came on explaining that that call would cost fifty cents. He heard the twenty-five cents he had dropped in with so much effort tumble merrily back into the coin tray and swore softly but fluently under his breath, dropping the receiver. Oh, great. Now he had to try and get fifty cents in that damned tiny slot that kept splitting into multi-slots? When the hell did a local call get to be fifty cents? It was outrageous. Maybe he should arrest the pay phone for extortion. It would be about the most effective police work he had done recently.

He gave himself a second to catch his breath and tightened his grip on the phone box, waiting for the pavement under his feet to stop its gentle undulating. Not good. If he didn't get horizontal soon, he was going to risk a humiliating collapse in the parking lot - culminating, no doubt, in an ambulance ride to Community General…

The thought of arriving at the Emergency Room on a gurney and having to explain this to both his Dad and Jesse gave him the strength he needed and he picked up the dangling receiver and tried again, scrupulously directing each coin at what he thought was the real slot. The first three clunked reassuringly into the machine, the fourth dropped from his surprisingly unsteady fingers and disappeared somewhere on the tarmac. The receiver slid from his shoulder and bounced against the pay phone stand. Steve swore again, with more fervor this time. Well, at least he knew better than to bend over for it…he poked through his selection of change, grumbling to himself. This, he thought irritably, was what happened in a world where everything was designed for the comfort of right-handers. Everything was set up awkwardly for people like him. It was unreasonable, when you thought about it…he coaxed the quarter into the telephone and heard the solid sound of it making its way through the instrument…because it would take so little to provide a few convenient versions for left-handers. There were certainly enough of them in the world to make it worthwhile - a pretty decent percentage of the population. In fact, there were also plenty of people who…he stopped suddenly, frozen by that thought. Plenty of people who…the idea sounded suddenly loud in his brain. He caught his breath, closing his eyes tightly, letting it settle.

He was distantly aware of James Earl Jones' mellifluous tones in his ear, thanking him for using a Verizon pay phone, just barely heard the mechanical female voice that replaced it, asking him to enter his telephone number. Most of his mind was intent on going back through what he knew of the case, piece by piece, turning every picture over in his brain, seeing it from another angle. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of that before? The pieces fell into place with an almost audible click.

He was so involved with his sudden insight that it took him a moment to become aware of another sound, somewhere not too far off, of a woman screaming. He looked up to see who needed help, spotted a girl standing in front of the discount women's clothing store, her mouth opening and closing in another scream. His eyes followed the direction her arm was pointing. Even then it took him about a heartbeat too long to register the headlights of the Crown Victoria sedan that seemed to be growing very large, very close, very fast.

He lifted his eyes higher just for an instant: just long enough to note the quiet, intent, focused expression on Brian Fuller's face behind the wheel. The same expression he had had in the photos when he was waiting, poised at home plate, for a pitch. The same expression he had had when he had stood in the entryway of the Fuller home and swung a baseball bat at Steve's head.