breeze. The sky was cloudy and the promise of rain was in every air molecule.
Decker was sitting on the front steps of his apartment building drinking his first cup of morning coffee. He had risen especially early, showered, and dressed in faded jeans and his Ohio State pullover. His scraggly hair was still damp. He sipped his coffee and occasionally closed his eyes, letting his perfect memory roll back over the last few days, looking for something that would give him traction on this case.
But each time, he opened his eyes with the firm conclusion that his memory was actually perfectly imperfect, because nothing had occurred to him.
The door opened behind him and two people stepped out.
Tomas Amaya had on his work clothes: corduroy pants, heavy work boots, and a denim shirt with a white T-shirt underneath. A San Diego Chargers football cap was on his head, his curly brown hair poking out from under it. His hard hat was in his right hand.
Danny had on jeans and a navy blue sweater. His school bag was over his shoulder. He looked sleepy and his chin drooped against his slender chest. As Decker moved aside to let them pass, Danny yawned deeply.
Tomas nodded at Decker and then glanced quickly away. Decker watched as the pair headed to the old car with the garbage bag windows. Danny put his bag in the backseat as Tomas opened the driver’s side door.
Decker heard a car coming fast and turned his attention to the right.
Tomas evidently heard it too, because he called out to Danny in Spanish. The little boy jumped into the passenger seat while his father pulled out his keys and slid into the driver’s seat. He hadn’t even managed to close his door before a Camaro slid to a stop in front of the beat-up car. Two men climbed out, one large and one small. Pistols were in their waistbands. The large man was white, the small one Hispanic. The small man had on a suit with a vest but no tie. His dress shirt was buttoned all the way to the top. The large man had on cammie pants, a long-sleeved compression shirt outlining an impressive physique, and what looked like combat boots.
The small man walked over to the driver’s side while his partner stood in front of the car, his hand on top of his pistol.
A string of spoken Spanish made Tomas Amaya get out of the car. He stood there staring at his feet.
The small man coolly appraised him, cocking his head from side to side and then smiling. Then he called the other man over.
The white guy took two long strides to reach them. Then, without warning, he clocked Tomas so hard that he flew backward and landed on the hood of the car. The guy stepped forward and cocked his fist back to deliver another blow.
“Hold it right there!”
The two men looked over at an advancing Decker. His pistol was out and aimed at them, and his FBI creds were held up in his other hand.
“FBI. Guns down, on the pavement, hands interlocked behind your heads. Now!”
Instead the two men ran for their car, jumped in, and tattooed rubber on the pavement as their smoking tires gained traction and they hurtled backwards out of the parking lot, hit a sharp J-turn, and then the driver floored it. Within a few seconds they were out of sight.
Decker raced over to Tomas, who was still slumped on the hood.
“Dad!” called out Danny as he jumped out of the car and ran to his father.
Decker holstered his weapon and helped Tomas to sit up. “You okay?” he asked.
Tomas nodded and rubbed the blood off his mouth. When he looked up at Decker, his features hardened. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? He hit you pretty hard. You might have a concussion.”
“I’m fine!”
Tomas pushed off the hood, staggered momentarily, and then regained his balance. He barked at his son, “Entrar en el coche.”
“Wait a minute,” said Decker. “Who were those guys?”
Tomas glanced at him. “It is nothing to do with you. I will deal with it.”
“But I can help you. I’m with the—”
“No necesito ayuda!”
Tomas got in the car and started it up. Decker had to jump back as he slammed the car into gear and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving Decker to stare after them.
He caught a glimpse of Danny looking back at him, and then the car turned the corner and, like the Camaro, disappeared.
Decker walked back over to the front steps, picked up his cup of coffee, and walked back inside. “So much for a relaxing morning,” he muttered.
As he stepped inside his apartment, Jamison was leaning against the kitchen sink yawning and rubbing her hair. She was still in her sleepwear—shorts and a T-shirt. Decker could hear the Keurig machine doing its thing.
Jamison yawned again. “Did you hear like a car racing by or something?”
“Or something,” said Decker as he rinsed his cup and put it in the dishwasher.
“So you know anything else about Tomas and Danny?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like is he in a gang or something?”
She shot him a startled look. “What, why do you ask that?”
Her features softened. “I know what happened to your family, Amos. But you can’t blame yourself for that.”
“All I’m saying is tread lightly. And don’t do anything dangerous. And if you’re even thinking of treading close to that line, make sure I’m with you, okay?”
“Okay.”
He gave her a long look and then said, “I’ll always have your back, Alex.”
Before she could answer he turned and walked away.