The rain fell steadily the next morning as Colleen patrolled the derelict plant. Pebbles of water pelted the corrugated iron roof high overhead. H&M Paint was a drafty shell half the size of a football field, constructed of asbestos sheets and rotting wood milled when lumber was cheap and plentiful. The warehouse was dark, cluttered with rubble and leftover pallets of unsold paint, unsalvageable machinery, and junk. Puddles of water shone here and there on the concrete floor. The smell of mold hung in the air.
She hadn’t eaten yet, hadn’t showered, hadn’t made coffee. She made it a point to do the morning rounds first thing. There wasn’t much to eat anyway. She needed to get paid. She kept seeing that envelope full of cash Christian Newell had proffered last night.
Colleen directed her flashlight beam into the darkest corner of the plant as she walked past the former changing rooms, where the showers still worked—thankfully—and highlighted several 55-gallon drums of acetone that gave her uneasy nights. She’d remind the owners—again—to have them removed, along with the tinder-dry pallets stacked up against the wall nearby. Before some stray spark turned this old building into an inferno. But she knew how seriously they’d take her request. She was there for insurance reasons, to keep the premiums lower by having a guard on the premises.
She checked the remaining fire extinguishers located throughout the warehouse. There were six left. Their tags were still current.
Outside she pulled the hood of her Army Surplus rain poncho over her head. She continued her patrol at the dead delivery truck that sat on flat tires down by the water.
In the corner of the lot near the big Ford F600, the H&M Paint man on the side panel, with his friendly smile and jaunty wave, Colleen found a paper bag around the back that contained a couple of empty steel beer cans, and the wrapper to a corner store burrito—Chile Verde—along with some crumpled napkins. Recent.
Colleen stepped up on the wet running board of the truck, yanked open the creaky door to the cab. On the driver’s seat she found a newspaper, folded in half.
La Prensa Gráfica. El Salvador. Dated last week.
She climbed in, nosed around, pulled the seat forward.
An old blue gym bag, spattered with paint. She unzipped it. Clothes, well worn, but clean. She went through the bag, looking for a weapon, anything illegal. She found a faded pair of jeans. Underwear. Socks. A letter fell out of a folded-up T-shirt, sans envelope, with a photo of a serious-looking young Indian woman with gleaming black hair, staring into the camera like a mug shot. Colleen tucked the photo and letter back, feeling voyeuristic, and couldn’t help noticing a line written in a woman’s hand, in Spanish, a language Colleen spoke well enough to understand.
The children and I miss you so much …
The gate buzzer went off like a claxon, echoing through the empty plant, shaking Colleen’s thoughts loose. She put everything back, zipped up the bag, set it back behind the seat, hopped down, slammed the truck door shut, and jogged around to the front of the building with her poncho flapping.
A big man in a raincoat stood at the gate, obscured by the crisscross of cyclone fence. He held an umbrella over his head. A white Ford sedan stood by the curb.
Colleen swore as a heartbeat twisted in her chest. Randy Ferguson. Her parole officer.
She got to the gate. Forced a smile.
Randy Ferguson looked like an ex-football player who’d gone soft twenty years ago. He had short gray hair combed straight back, light blue bloodshot eyes, and a nose that was starting to mottle with drinking. He was chewing gum, probably to mask his liquid breakfast.
“I haven’t missed an appointment, have I?” Colleen said. “I’ve got you on my calendar for next Monday. Bryant Street.”
He gave Colleen a smirk. “Home verification.” He raised his eyebrows as he indicated the disused plant behind her. “This is the address you listed as your residence, right?”
Home verification. She was hoping to have an apartment soon. “Just for the short term. I’m waiting on a check. As soon as it arrives, I’ll find an apartment.”
“Just open the gate.”
Colleen did. She took Randy up the outdoor stairwell, let him into the office, peeled off her wet poncho, shook it off, hung it up.
“This looks like an office,” Randy said, dripping water in front of the desk. “An abandoned one at that.”
“I’m back here.” Colleen opened the door to the back room and flicked on the overhead fluorescent light. She stood by, more than a little anxious. Living here was a stretch per the Interstate Compact for parolees any way you looked at it.
Randy entered the room, stood with his hands in the pockets of his raincoat, and eyed the hot plate and Mr. Coffee plugged into an extension cord that snaked across the floor. Then he looked at the blue-and-white dish towel laid flat on the metal shelf over the huge sink, with a pot, single plate, and two cups and some mismatched silverware that had been left to dry. An ice chest on the floor doubled as her refrigerator.
At least she had folded the gray blanket neatly on her cot.
Randy gave her an ugly smile. “And what, exactly, makes you think this qualifies as adequate living quarters, Colleen?”
“I started my own security business. H&M is one of my clients. They like me staying here—added security. Call it killing two birds with one stone—until I get paid and find a place of my own.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’ve got everything I need: utilities, shower.” She nodded at the hot plate. “Want some coffee?”
He shook his head no. “You have alcohol on the premises?”
No, she thought. Why—did you need a quick belt? “That would be a violation of my parole.”
He squinted. “You have men stay over?”
Randy always brought this up. She fidgeted with the key ring hanging on her belt. “No.”
He gave her a sideways look. “Women?”
Not this again. “No one.”
“Didn’t you have some kind of relationship with a woman in Santa Cruz? The one that filed a complaint against those bikers?”
Laura. “What does that have to do with my parole?”
“Let me see your arms.”
She gave a sigh as she stood back and pulled up the sleeves of her Denver Broncos sweatshirt, no bra since she’d just gotten up, and the cold air, along with her heightened nerves, made her nipples poke through.
That caught Randy’s eye.
“You should wear a bra.”
She cleared her throat, stood back, crossed her arms over her chest. “Why don’t we go back out into my office?” She wanted to get out of this room. The cot nearby. It didn’t take a genius to see what was on Randy’s mind.
He leveled a half-lidded gaze at her. “Right here is fine. Let me see your arms.”
She let out an angry breath, held her arms out so he could see the crooks of them.
He examined her arms, holding them a little too hard. His fingers were rough and cold. “You’re telling me a junkie can’t find creative places to shoot up? I’ve seen track marks between toes.” He let go of her arms. His smile turned oily as he nodded at her sweatshirt. “I have to make sure you’re clean.” His voice thickened. “Just down to your panties will do.”
“No.” She pushed her sleeves back down to her wrists, stumbled back until her calves hit the cot. “I don’t think so.”
“I need to do my job.”
“I don’t care what your needs are.”
He slipped his hands in his pants pockets so that his raincoat spread open, revealing his groin. He was clearly aroused. Colleen flinched. “Look at you.” He grinned. “Ten years inside, I bet you learned a thing or two. All those women? Not many men, though, huh? Just the guards. What say we mix it up and you do us both a favor?”
A rush of anxiety mixed with anger shot up her neck, making her cheeks flush. “Get out of here.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re practically begging for it.”
“You’ll be begging to keep your job after I report you.”
“Come on,” he said, moving in. “What are we arguing about? You look after me. I look after you. You get to stay here. This is a win-win situation.” He reached for her hair.
She smacked his hand out of the way with her left, taking him by surprise as she unhooked the keys from her belt loop and slipped one between her index and middle fingers. She raised her fist, the impromptu stiletto ready.
Their eyes locked.
“You’ve read my sheet,” she said. “You know I’m good for it.”
“You crazy bitch!” he gasped.
“That’s what my ex said—right before I nailed him with the screwdriver.”
Randy gulped.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Randy fastened his raincoat, cinched it up. “I guess you can figure out how your home verification report went.”
“Maybe I’ll ask your wife.”
“You think she’s going to believe some cracked ex-con who stabbed her ex?” He laughed. “You can forget staying in SF, Colleen. Or California. You can forget ever connecting with your daughter. Your parole has been violated.”
Colleen stood there, eyes blazing, fist still raised.
Randy glared back for a moment, then his face relaxed. “Too bad. You would have been done by now. I bet you would have even liked it.”
He turned and left.
She dropped her fist. The keys rattled in her hand.
Randy strolled on through the office, whistling, and left the door wide open, rain blowing in as he stomped down the metal stairs. She prayed he would slip and break his damn neck but knew she wouldn’t get that lucky.
She went out to the office, slammed the door shut.
And stood there for a moment, listening to the rain patter against the tall windows. She’d be transferred back to Denver. More time added to her parole. No chance of reconnecting with Pamela.
She sat down behind her desk and picked up Christian Newell’s business card, tapped it for a moment, thinking.
She called his office and was put through.
“Mr. Copeland’s offer,” she said. “Does it come with legal assistance?”
“How so?”
She recounted Randy’s visit and how she was in violation of parole for unacceptable living arrangements—leaving out the touchy-feely part, which she didn’t want to discuss.
“Leave it with me,” he said when she was through. “Stay out of Randy’s way for the time being. With any luck you’ll be assigned a new parole officer soon.”
This having-friends-with-clout thing was okay.
“Thanks,” she said. “I mean it.”
“Mr. Copeland and his daughter Alexandra are looking forward to having you join them for dinner tonight.”
If she’d any doubts about working for Mr. Copeland, they had evaporated.
“Does Mr. Copeland dine fashionably late?”