H Is for Homicide

buildings. Above me, the window in his bedroom blazed with light. I took the metal stairs three at a time, pulling myself up by the railing. Out of breath, I eased past the bedroom, found my open window, and plunged into the bedroom again. I whipped my shoes off, pulled my jeans down, and stuck my head out the door, squinting at the lights that were now flipped on in the hall. Bibianna, in a silk robe, was just emerging from the bedroom. I could hear Raymond in the living room on the phone with someone.
    "What's happening?" I asked.
    Bibianna rolled her eyes. "It's the body shop. False alarm. Sometimes the damn thing goes off. Chopper's on his way over, but the cops say it's nothing. Go back to bed."
    I closed the door. Sleep was a long time coming.
    I woke at nine-thirty to the smell of coffee. I showered and dressed. The door to the master bedroom was open and I caught a glimpse of the broad king-size bed, neatly made. No sign of Raymond or Bibianna. I wandered into the living room to find that Luis was the only one on the premises, except the dog, of course. Luis paid no particular attention to me. He placed a clean mug on the counter and I poured myself some coffee.
    "Thanks," I murmured. I sat down at the kitchen table, doing a quick inspection first to make sure it had been wiped clean. "Where's Bibianna?"
    "They went off someplace."
    "What are you, the baby-sitter?"
    He made no reply. A carton of eggs sat open on the counter. In the day since I'd cleaned the kitchen, it had fallen into disarray again. Trash bags were lined up against the cabinets, bulging with beer bottles and discarded paper plates. The sink was piled high with dirty pots and pans, ashtrays spilling butts. Who smoked? I never saw anyone with a cigarette. Luis had pulled out the only clean skillet.
    He set it on a burner. He began to remove items from the refrigerator: peppers, onions, chorizo. "You want breakfast?"
    "Sure, I'd love it. You need any help?"
    He shook his head.
    It seemed like the perfect opportunity to pump him for information, but I didn't want to start with the fraud ring itself lest I seem too inquisitive. "I hope this doesn't seem too personal," I said. "I thought Raymond would be upset about Chago's death, but he hasn't said a word about it. Weren't they close?"
    Luis sliced the peppers into rings and then chopped onions, making no reference to the chemically induced tears rolling down his cheeks. His gaze came up to meet mine. "Chago was all he had. Raymond's sisters kicked him out when he was fourteen on account of his temper. He was on his own after that and he's done okay, considering. Kids in school used to mock him, making fun of his disease."
    "You knew him then?"
    "Juan told me about it. I kind of wish he'd go to the doctor, get some help for himself, but he won't do it. He thinks Bibianna's all the help he needs."
    I watched him, expecting more, but apparently he felt what he'd said should suffice. He used the knife to mound the onions, then walked the blade through the pile, mincing them. He crossed to the stove. I waited as he tilted the skillet, watching a hunk of melting butter circle lazily. He tossed in the onions and peppers. Finally, he spoke up again. "How you know Jimmy Tate? I saw his picture in the papers. He's a cop," he said, rendering the word with venom.
    "An ex-cop. From grade school. We were kids together in Santa Teresa a long time ago."
    "He's a snitch."
    "That's bullshit. L.A. County Sheriff's Department just fired the guy and he turned around and sued. They're not going to hire him to do anything!"
    Luis turned, pointing at me with the knife. "Let me tell you something. Tale's got no business with us. He shows up and I smell a snitch. Don't tell me bullshit. I know what I'm talking about."
    I could feel myself hesitate, backing up a step. The idea of Tate undercover had crossed my mind, too. In the interview with Dolan and Santos, I'd asked twice if they had a man in and both times they'd been nonresponsive. Tate's suit against the department and his Tuesday night arrest might be part of his cover. If Luis was suspicious, then Raymond would be, too, and every move Tate made would be subject to scrutiny. "What's Raymond say?"
    "He's checking out a source."
    "Well, that's good," I said. "Then he can find out for sure, right?" My heart did a rat-a-tat-tat from fear. The possibility of a department leak was already a source of concern. If word trickled out about me, I was dead.
    Luis retreated