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Chapter Thirty-seven

Cindy and I were in bed together. Ginger the dog was lying on the comforter between us. Her little face was scant inches from my face. Her little doggie breath wasn't so little.Advertisement

"She needs a doggy mint," I said.

"She doesn't have bad breath," Cindy said.

"I beg to differ."

"You've done enough begging for tonight."

"True," I said. "Still, I'm surprised you can't see the green radioactive cloud hovering over her head."

"You have a sensitive nose."

"I have a sensitive something else, too."

"Sometimes too sensitive."

"Let's change the subject."

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Ginger got up and stretched, legs vibrating down into the bed. She turned two circles, lay again and burrowed her little muzzle under her front paws, sighing loudly, absently licking her front paws, eyes closed. I'm not even sure she was awake.

"Any leads on the other vandal?" she asked.

"I'm looking into it," I said. "According to the police, Jolene Funkmeyer denies having an accomplice."

"The word 'accomplice' suggests something more grandiose than vandalism."

"How about vandal buddy?"

"Better."

"Anyway," I said, "turns out Jolene has been arrested before."

"For?"

I hesitated. "Arson."

"Shit."

"Spent a year in prison."

"What did she burn?"

"An abortion clinic in Buena Park. No one hurt. The clinic had been vandalized weeks on end prior to the arson."

"So the vandalism escalates into something more than vandalism."

I nodded again. "She was arrested with her boyfriend."

"You have his name?"

"Chad Schwendinger."

"You think he's our man?"

"A good chance," I said. "The Irvine Police checked out his last known address this afternoon. He moved out long ago. And no leads where he might be. Yet."

"Maybe he's been shacking up with his vandal girlfriend."

I shook my head. "I checked out her place this afternoon. She lives alone. Although one neighbor mentioned she had seen a middle-aged man in a BMW come by on a few occasions."

"Maybe he will want revenge for the arrest of his girlfriend."

"What he wants and what he gets are two different things."

"But you'll still watch over me just in case?"

"Like a hawk," I said.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Sanchez and I were in my car on a Sunday afternoon, parked outside the big Lutheran church on Fifth and Edinger.

"He's the last one. Name's Ricardo Gomez," said Sanchez, consulting a list of names. There were eight names on the list, seven of which were crossed off.

"You do realize we're outside a church," I said.

Sanchez wasn't listening. "Ricardo hasn't been alone in nearly a week. This might be our only chance to nail him."

"I think you've let this go to your head."

Sanchez looked at me. "Hell, this went straight to my head the day I heard my boy was in the hospital. This went straight to my head the day eight boys kicked his face in."

"Take a deep breath," I said.

He ignored me. "Besides, we're doing the neighborhood a service. My son has single-handedly broken up this so-called gang. According to his school principal, these kids have been harassing students all year, not to mention vandalizing property."

"Did the principal know what happened to your son?"

Sanchez nodded. "And he knows my son is picking them off one at a time."

"What did he say about that?"

"Hallelujah."

"That because your kid's name is Jesus?"

"Hay-zeus, asshole." Sanchez looked at his big cop watch. "Church will be out soon."

"Kid named Jesus kicking ass at church," I said. "Maybe it's the Second Coming."

There was a box of donuts balanced on the console between us. I had insisted on getting the donuts at the Von's grocery store this time, which often had better donuts than most hole-in-the-wall chains. Sanchez thought getting donuts at a grocery store was sacrilegious but he ate them anyway.

"Church is out," Sanchez reported, leaning forward eagerly. "And there he is, walking home alone." I thought Sanchez might wet his pants. He pulled out his notepad and made an entry. I leaned over his shoulder and read the entry: 11:53 AM. Sunday. Church out.

"Don't you have murderers to catch?" I asked.

"Not on Sundays," he said. "Day of rest." Then he made another entry: Intercept target. Next Sunday. Noon.

"Target?" I said. "You need to get a life."

"I'll get a life after next Sunday."

"You have a sprinkle on your chin."

"Fuck you."

"Such language at church." pqdm.com