The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(59)

“Lewis will keep his word? You believe that?”

Peter nodded. “I do. In an uncertain world, honor is very important. Lewis knows that.”

She looked skeptical.

“Lewis lives by a code,” said Peter. “You remember how he wouldn’t let Nino and Ray take your money? That’s part of his code. He’s been parked on your street, watching for the man with the scars. Even though I basically twisted his arm to get him there. That’s part of his code, too.”

Dinah shook her head. She was having trouble with the thought that Lewis might not be entirely bad.

Peter said, “It’s an old idea, from a time before police and lawyers and contracts. When violence was an everyday occurrence. Living by your word was both a promise and a threat.” He shrugged. “It still works for a certain kind of honorable criminal. And for soldiers.” He gave her a small smile. “Marines, especially.”

“Like Jimmy,” she said, maybe beginning to understand. “Is that why he moved out?”

“I think so,” said Peter. “He needed to stand on his own. I think that’s why he started looking for this missing Marine, too.”

He told her about sorting through Jimmy’s things, about finding the same yellow flier on the wall that was tucked into Jimmy’s belt when he died, and about Felix Castellano and his grandmother.

“The Riverside Veterans’ Center,” she said. “How many of these cards do you have now?”

“Three,” he said. “One from Jimmy’s belt compartment. One from behind Felix’s dresser. One that Lipsky gave me. And they all had the same phone number on the back. The same handwriting.”

“And what does all this have to do with the man with the scars, and that money?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’ll find out.”

“Oh, hell, yes,” she said.

—

They climbed the steep, narrow steps to the apartment.

Peter stood just inside the door, the static jolting his brainstem, while Dinah prowled the room from corner to corner, trying to capture the last faint traces of her murdered husband.

She looked at the clean dishes neatly set out to dry, at the books arranged on their shelf, at the sagging chair where he had sat. She looked at the frayed rug and the cracked plaster walls and the narrow bed where he had slept. And the shell of anger and ferocity she had built slowly peeled away. What remained was utter sorrow.

She sat carefully on the bed, put her face in her hands, and cried.

Peter tried to make himself stand and watch. He had already cried for his dead friend. He knew how much it hurt. It still hurt.

Finally he couldn’t help himself. He sat on the bed beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. She folded herself into him. He put his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders heaved.

She cried for her dead husband, and for doubting him.

She cried because she had thrown him out, and because he had gone without a fight.

She cried because she had believed he’d killed himself, and because he hadn’t.

Her sobs were wrenching and violent, as if she could barely gather breath between them, as if something were dying, or being born.

—

After she was done, she wiped her eyes with a tissue taken from her shirtsleeve. She sighed and shook her head. “You got a lot more than you bargained for.”

Peter didn’t say anything. She tilted her head then and looked at him sideways. “Peter,” she said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but how long has it been since you’ve showered?”

Peter looked at his hands. “It’s been a few days,” he said. “I’ve been busy. That’s mostly the dog, by the way.” It was embarrassing to blame his own stink on Mingus.

“Why have you been sleeping in your truck?”

He didn’t want to explain it to her. “I’m not sleeping in my truck,” he said. “I’m sleeping in front of your house.”

Her face held an expression he couldn’t decipher. Her voice was gentle. “Why are you sleeping in front of my house?”

“To protect you,” he said. “Because Jimmy can’t.”

There was a moment when neither of them said anything. He filled the silence. “I was planning to get a hotel room today,” he said. “To shower. But I didn’t have time. I need to do laundry, too.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. She said, “If James were still alive, would you stay with him?”

No, he thought. Because I can’t stay inside for more than twenty minutes before starting to scream. And I’m nearing my limit.

“Sure,” he said.

“Well,” said Dinah, “this is his apartment. James wouldn’t mind. The rent is paid up, right? I think you should stay here. You can use his bathroom.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded again. “I will.”

“No,” Dinah said. “I mean right now. Really. Go take a shower.”

She stood up and took Jimmy’s bathrobe from the hook by the door, and held it out. It was far too big. Peter took it anyway.

—

The bathroom was cold, and it felt odd to take his clothes off. Like he was removing his second skin. His protection. He was naked and Dinah was in the next room, behind the thin veneer of a hollow-core door. It was disturbing and exhilarating at the same time.