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  He handed the note back to Brook and said to me, “Did you invite them over for a late-night dessert?”

  “Do what?” I wondered if he’d added some whiskey to his coffee.

  “You didn’t ask them to shoot you, right? You didn’t put a hit on anyone in their gang, right?”

  Gang. A thought zipped into my mind, and I turned to Brook. “There is one thing that I just remembered. This could help us figure out who shot Sam, who could be behind the threats against me, maybe who murdered Dad.”

  26

  Before this moment, the most recent woman who had taken me by the hand and led me anywhere had been my wife, Nicole. And that was when she’d taken me into the bedroom and rocked my world. Well, I’d also done my best to uphold my end of the bargain. She’d even told me as much.

  While I now questioned the authenticity of every loving moment we’d shared, what I was currently experiencing was nothing like that. And Brook was nothing like Nicole, version one or two.

  “You too,” Brook snapped at Tito, indicating for him to follow us. We made our way inside Tito’s building and headed up to his loft. The moment Tito turned on the lights, Brook had a difficult time focusing on the matter at hand.

  “You did all of this?” She swung her finger left and right.

  “I painted every one of them, yes.” He smiled, brought his thick fingers behind his back in an “aw, shucks” kind of way.

  I was more inclined to focus on being dragged away from the gathering downstairs. “Brook, what’s going on? The word ‘gang’ comes up, and you start to freak.”

  “I didn’t freak.” She set a hand on her hip.

  I wasn’t going to challenge her. “Okay. You became tense, concerned.”

  She sipped her coffee, found a small corner of a table, and set it down. “It wasn’t as much the word ‘gang’ that got my attention as it was who you were describing.”

  My recollection of the shooter had included him wearing a shirt that was white with blue and gold trim. It reminded me, I said, of a Rams football jersey. “We don’t work for the APD. Can you give us some insight?”

  “Lately, Austin, like a lot of cities, has had a rash of crimes associated with a notorious gang called MS-13.” She moved her head from me to Tito and then back.

  “And?”

  “MS-13 is like a small army. There could be as many as ten thousand members across the nation. They’re ruthless and attract real maggots to their cause.”

  “You think the guy who shot at me is a member of that gang?”

  “I’d bet my badge on it.”

  She went on to explain that Kurt Warner’s 13 football jersey was often used by gang members as a sign of solidarity, given the name of the gang. “They’ll also use other numbers that add up to thirteen. Sometimes it will be shown through tattoos. Or maybe two guys who are tight…one will wear a jersey with the number one, and the other guy will wear a jersey with the number three, or maybe a six and a seven. Most people don’t notice unless they are aware of the gang symbols.”

  Tito walked across the loft, turned on a couple of other lights, picked up something from his bar, and walked back over to us. I focused on Brook. “So, why were you so concerned when I brought it up?”

  “The MS-13 gang has a lot of the characteristics of a terrorist group. Domestic, international…it makes no difference. They prey on the young, the uneducated, those who feel like they have no way out. And for law enforcement, what makes it extremely difficult is that they have sympathizers in a lot of places. You think you’re getting close, you think you have an eyewitness, and then the next thing you know, that witness forgets what he saw or heard, or even worse, he simply disappears.” She stopped, her eyes probing mine. I think she wanted to tell me more, but I was guessing she wasn’t authorized.

  “These sympathizers are, say, on the fringe of the gang, maybe family members and friends?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her chin slightly. “And more.”

  I paused, wondering if she would say what I was thinking. She didn’t.

  “Law enforcement,” I said.

  She nodded again, appearing hesitant to admit it verbally, as if someone might be recording our conversation. That would be ludicrous. “Including your police department?”

  A slow nod as she sighed. “No definitive proof, but I’ve heard that the brass is concerned.”

  She paused a second as Tito edged closer, holding a frame against his chest. He motioned for her to continue.

  The sound of Brook’s voice pulled my eyes back to her.

  “They’re not sure how to deal with it. If they open an internal investigation, something this salacious would likely be leaked—the press apparently has contacts on the inside as well. So, from what my captain told me, if even the possibility of such a thing gets out, then public trust in the department will be ruined. After that, it could result in chaos on the street.”

  “And then the gangs would win again,” I said.

  She flicked her fingers against my arm. “Now you know why I wanted to talk to you privately.” She took out her phone, started thumbing a note, adding, “I know you’re staring.”

  “Looking intently,” I joked.

  “This is how I remember stuff. I send myself a text message.”

  I was about to ask her how progress could be made in finding the shooters when I realized Tito hadn’t said much. He was still standing there with a frame against his chest. His vacant expression told me he wasn’t amused with our banter. In fact, I wondered if he’d heard us at all.

  “You okay?”

  His eyes snapped back to attention. “Uh, yeah.”

  “What do you have there?” Brook asked, dipping her head toward the frame he gripped tightly.

  He swallowed hard, reset his feet. I recalled that he wore something close to a size-seventeen shoe in high school.

  “My, uh…” he garbled, his voice full of emotion. He cleared his throat.

  I said, “Tito, you don’t have to—”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said, his moist eyes shifting to me. “I need to, Oz.”

  We gave him a moment to gather himself. This enormous, kindhearted man needed every second. Finally, without saying a word, he flipped the frame around. It was Tito back in the day, a huge smile on his face, his arm wrapped around a younger kid.

  “Your brother,” I said, noticing the similar body types.

  “Jamal was only fifteen.” He enunciated every syllable as if these would be the most important words he would ever utter.

  My heart sank, but I kept my eyes on him. This wasn’t about me.

  “Tito, I had no idea,” Brook said. “How did it happen?”

  He swallowed hard. “When I moved out of the house, he started running with the wrong crowd. Dad was long gone; Mom was working two jobs. No one was around to keep him out of trouble.”

  He wiped tears from his face, rocking back and forth on his feet. “He got in trouble a couple of times, suspended from school, kicked off the football team. I tried talking to him, but I wasn’t sure I was getting through that thick skull of his.” Tito poked a beefy finger into the side of his head, and it wasn’t a gentle poke. More tears from the big man.

  “You can’t put it on yourself, my friend.”

  He shook off my comment, took a couple of heavy breaths. He had to get it out, it seemed. “I thought he was doomed. I actually braced myself for the worst. But then, a friend of his died of an overdose. And that was Jamal’s wake-up call.”

  Tito broke off his faraway stare and focused on me and Brook. It was as though he hoped that, by reliving this horrific story, somehow it would end differently. I felt a lump in my throat.

  “Jamal told me in our last phone conversation that he was done with the thug life. He said he was going to beg his way back into school and tell his so-called brothers that he was done with it. Three nights later,” he said with a shaky voice, “he was shot. Word is the gang or group of thugs, or whatever you want to call t
hem, told him he’d never be able to leave. He apparently told them to go to hell, and they just…” He gasped. I put my arm on his shoulder, but he held up his picture. “They just shot him like he was a possession, something they owned.”

  Brook and I both said how sorry we were, but I knew it had to feel so hollow to Tito. Nothing would bring back his brother. After a few seconds, Brook couldn’t help herself. “Did they catch the scum who did this?”

  He pressed his lips hard against his front teeth. “Nope. Detectives thought they had someone who could name the shooter, but then the witness just disappeared. No one would say where he went. The fear of reprisal from fellow gang members stomped down the whole investigation. It was like something straight out of Kabul or Aleppo.”

  He asked for a moment to gather himself and went to the bathroom. A minute later, with his tears dried up, he returned. He was no longer holding the frame. “I didn’t mean to get so emotional, but I guess the pain is still just below the surface. So, I know the dangers of gang violence and the ripple effect it can have on a community. We can’t bury our heads in the sand and think everything is fine.” He swung his sights to his paintings, finally focusing on Brook. “My painting of all things Christmas has allowed me to find some happiness in a world where some people want the exact opposite. It’s all about hate. I refuse to give in to that hate. But at the same time, we need you, the cops, to find these gutless thugs and put them behind bars.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Tito,” Brook said, intensity in her tone.

  27

  We made our way back downstairs. I saw the two ladies from earlier speaking to someone near the yellow police tape. Brook split off to speak to one of the crime-scene investigators as I took in the condition of my car from a different angle. It had several bullet holes, and one window had been blown out by a bullet meant for me. “I might need to find a rental car,” I said to no one.

  “You can borrow the Tube,” Tito said.

  I followed his gaze over to his green VW bus. Not exactly my style. But the development of my so-called “style” was before my life had cratered before my very eyes. Now, I was lucky to have a friend who wanted to help. Besides, I still had no access to my money, so renting anything might be difficult. “I appreciate the offer, Tito.” I popped him on his back.

  Brook walked right past me, making a beeline for the two ladies over at the police tape. I could see them talking to a guy with glasses and a notepad. He was short and wore the odd combination of a sweater vest and a shiny pair of running shoes, like a cross between academia and a triathlete. Curious as to what had grabbed Brook’s attention, I found myself being pulled in that direction. I was about halfway when I saw her extend an arm toward the man.

  “Did you hear me, asshat? I said no comment.” She put her hand on his chest.

  I shuffled closer, hoping to save her from being baited into doing something she’d later regret.

  “Asshat. That’s original,” the man said.

  Janet Patterson swung around the moment I got to the tape, whispering to me, “I hope we didn’t do anything wrong. We were just answering his questions.”

  Crap. This guy had to be with the press. I put my hand on Brook’s arm. She shook it off and held a finger up near the chin of this guy. He shoved it away.

  “Just because you wear a badge doesn’t give you the authority to treat me like I’m pond scum,” the man said, bowing out his chest.

  “Hold on, you two,” I said, moving between them. I looked up, wondering if anyone would jump in to assist me. No one in a uniform seemed to notice or care.

  “Pond scum,” Brook said, talking around me. “The name fits you perfectly.”

  “You can call me every name in the book, Detective Pressler, but that won’t change a damn thing as to what I write about.” He put his hand to his chin, looking up to the sky in a mocking way. “Maybe we could add a nice sidebar story to this gang shooting. The headline will say something like, ‘Detective Loses Temper, Assaults Innocent Citizen.’”

  Brook began to cuss so fast I thought she might have been an auctioneer in a previous life.

  “Guys, can we just agree to disagree and part ways before someone loses their cool?” I suggested.

  That instantly silenced Brook. She took a breath, then looked my way. A few seconds passed, and I wondered if she might deck me for butting in. Then her lips turned upward, and she giggled. “Damn, Oz, your timing is something else.”

  “Glad I could help ease the tension. I think.”

  I was introduced to Tracy Rowlett, crime reporter for the Austin American-Statesman. His name sounded familiar. He dialed back the intensity, and they both chilled out as they actually traded a couple of stories about previous crime scenes. Usually, I might find that type of conversation interesting, but not after being shot at and seeing Sam sent off to the hospital with his life in jeopardy. Plus, I had too much on my mind, wondering what event or person had triggered this retaliation against me. Of course, the note and subsequent shooting basically confirmed it—my dad had been murdered. I knew the key to finding the person who killed him started with finding his mystery client. From there, I could hopefully learn what Dad was actually doing on behalf of this client, and what compelled his client—or someone working on his behalf—to kill my dad.

  Saying those words, even in my own mind, brought about an array of emotions. Sadness, anger, and a feeling of emptiness. He wasn’t my biological dad, but in his own way, he’d been there for me, taught me the ways of life.

  A lump formed in my throat. I shifted my eyes to Brook. Now that she was in the loop, I should be able to back off and let the law-enforcement machine take over. She had resources and access to information that I didn’t, starting with the video from the hospital. That would hopefully yield the key piece of evidence regarding who had murdered my dad. His heart hadn’t been well. That much was rather obvious. I then thought about the what-ifs. What if he had gone through rehab, changed his habits, maybe even moved to part-time or left the firm altogether to reduce his stress? He could have lived a long time just playing golf every other day. Sure, maybe someday I would have taken over the firm, but with him now gone, the thought of that seemed beyond selfish.

  With Brook and Rowlett still playing nice, I turned to quietly walk back inside. I needed to sleep. Or try to sleep.

  “Mr. Novak, one more thing…”

  I flipped back around and didn’t hide my eye roll. “Yeah?”

  “Can you confirm for me if this was an MS-13 drive-by?”

  “Mr. Novak is…was my father. I’m Ozzie. But I can’t answer that question. That’s her territory.” I looked at Brook.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” she said quickly before realizing I’d essentially passed the baton to her. She then turned back to Tracy. “And I have no comment. So, that’s your official statement, Tracy. Give us some time, and we’ll provide an update on the investigation. We’re not miracle workers.”

  I nodded and made my second attempt at walking away. But the crime dog clamped a hand on my forearm. He happened to hit a cut.

  “Ouch,” I said, removing his hand as I gnashed my teeth.

  “Maybe you have another story to tell me, Mr. Novak. Did you possibly screw these gang members on a drug buy?”

  Brook leaned closer to me. “It appears the cease-fire is officially over.”

  “Hey, I’m just doing my job,” Rowlett said. “You guys look at me like I’m the bad guy. I’m the voice of the people. If it weren’t for people like me, then the public would be given a line of PR bullshit.”

  He had a point, but now wasn’t the time to jump on his bandwagon. “Your drug angle is wrong, Mr. Rowlett. Let’s just leave it at that and let the cops do their job, okay?” My voice sounded like I’d smoked half a pack of cigarettes. I was tired as hell.

  “Then what are you doing in this part of the city?” the reporter asked, flipping a page in his notebook before pointing his pen hand at me. “We�
��ve seen an uptick in drug-related crime all over the city. It’s like there’s some type of squeeze going on.”

  “I’m staying with my friend. As for analyzing the latest crime stats, I’m not the right person to ask.”

  I flipped around and walked off, even as he continued quizzing me about my friend and if he had any connections to gangs or might be part of a drug-dealing network. I resisted the urge to run back and jab his pen into the side of his neck or, better yet, to let Tito come over and pile-drive his head into the ground, like he used to do to quarterbacks in high school. Instead, I kept walking as my eyes were drawn to my shot-up car.

  That was exactly how I felt inside. Full of bullet holes and smashed glass.

  28

  I spent most of the night volleying between things I should do. Or not do. Figure out if or how I should continue pressing to find my dad’s killer. If I should call Nicole and talk to her for the first time in days. The mental exercise, which I thought would put me to sleep, had the opposite effect. It was as though someone had shot me up with an IV bag full of caffeine. My pulse skyrocketed, and sleep was nothing more than a pipe dream.

  “You want me to rustle up some eggs for you, Oz, before I head out?” It was morning, and Tito was moving with the quickness of a deer. He was in constant motion as I sat on the edge of the couch and rubbed my eyes, wondering if I could conjure up some semblance of energy.

  “Uh, no thanks. I’ll grab something when I head out.”

  He stopped for a moment. I looked up and saw that he had two paintings in his arms. “Yeah, about using the Tube today... I have a new art show tonight, and I’ve got a lot of errands to run to get ready for it. You want to ride shotgun? Along the way, I could maybe squeeze in a couple of stops for you. I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate.”