JOHN-MICHAEL

Returning to Carlsbad was easier than he’d expected. In his mind, John-Michael had made the trip more than once. The drive south on the 5. Zooming through neighborhoods where he’d tried to find a way to exist, alone, homeless and stone-cold broke.

At first, he’d stayed with friends. It was too painful to admit he’d been thrown out, so he’d made excuses. His dad was away on business and refused to leave him alone in the house. The house was being bug-bombed. None of his options were good for more than a few days. He had left every house cheerfully, head held high, thanking his hosts, all the while certain that the next few nights would be a terror compared to the comfort he was leaving behind.

There’d been days when he was too tired and hungry to go to school. He’d gravitated to the beach at first, for the soft bed of sand it promised. Not all beaches were swept at night. One night he’d woken to find a couple of methed-up bikers ripping away his sleeping bag and then going for his jeans. They’d been too wasted to chase him for more than a hundred yards, but the experience had been terrifying enough.

After that, John-Michael had avoided beaches.

At least back in the urban sprawl food was plentiful. There’d be people with whom to trade favors, such as watching your back. And under the freeway bridges you could always find a dry, warm, if noisy place to sleep.

Free from the geographical constraints of being in school, he’d started moving around Southern California. He’d become opportunistic. Life was more enjoyable that way. Eventually, John-Michael had made friends with Felipe, a twenty-four-year-old Guatemalan guy, a hustler. He was a heroin addict who had lived on the streets for three years. Rail thin, tattooed, and scarred from a knife attack, Felipe had presented such an enigmatic aura—vulnerability wrapped inside a knowing, cynical air. John-Michael had fallen in love almost instantly.

Felipe had noticed and taken pity on him. “You don’t love me,” he had told John-Michael. “You want to be me. I’m too old for you, hermanito. These eyes,” he’d said, touching a finger to his temple, “what they’ve seen, what this brain has thought . . . are too much for one so young. God has placed you here, ‘mano, to learn from Felipe. And a good teacher doesn’t take advantage of his students. No, baby, I’m gonna take care of you.”

Felipe had sheltered John-Michael for three weeks in the luxury Santa Monica beach apartment he’d been sharing with a rich black guy. His new “boyfriend” also had a wife and a kid up in Portland, so had been anxious to avoid scandal. Felipe had been very clever about that—never threatening, always charming and yet provocative. The truth was, John-Michael had learned from Felipe. How to hustle, who to hustle. How to stay safe.

But John-Michael wasn’t like Felipe. He’d realized that more than anything what separated them was the heroin.

John-Michael’s luxury stay had ended when the boyfriend had offered to pay for Felipe’s rehab. As soon as Felipe had packed up and said his good-byes, the boyfriend kicked John-Michael out. “Hey, now, Felipe’s little brother,” he’d said. “No room and board for you here any longer. Time to get back to Mom and Dad.”

It wasn’t that John-Michael couldn’t go back. A groveling apology, a promise to keep all traces of what his father referred to as his “fag lifestyle” out of the house. He’d thought about doing it, too. Judged from the outside, it probably looked a lot easier than some of the things John-Michael had done to survive. Yet he couldn’t do it; not for a man who despised something so fundamental to his nature. Even the thought of it grated.

Sometimes John-Michael reflected that his one mistake in leaving home was that he hadn’t done it soon enough.

The day his father had called to ask him to come back had come entirely out of the blue. The one expense that his father had continued to pay was his cell phone. John-Michael hadn’t understood this, had asked for the cash instead. But that last day, his father had told him why.

“I’ve never given up hope that you’d come home.” There’d been a long, considered pause. “Some things are only for family.”

He hadn’t told John-Michael the whole story on the phone. Just enough to ensure that he hopped on a bus and made his way back to Carlsbad. A three-hour trip, all told.

That time, he’d taken three buses to get back to his dad’s house—with one crucial stop-off on the way. If anyone ever found out about that five-minute meeting, if anyone ever identified the guy he’d met with, John-Michael’s life could go nuclear pretty much overnight.

He’d spent just under an hour with his father, talking, arguing, crying. All for nothing. Things would never be right between them. He should have known that the minute he answered the call.

Today, the wind was in his hair as the Benz rode the freeway back to Carlsbad. John-Michael forced himself to focus on the positives. Dad’s car, a monthly allowance, cash from the sale of the house, too, eventually. Even if his dad’s will had permitted it, John-Michael didn’t want to live there after what had happened. A shared room in Venice Beach beat living in Carlsbad any day. Take all that into account and life sure was better without the old coot.

Quite the contrast to when his mother had passed away.

John-Michael reached his father’s place around four in the afternoon. A car was parked outside the house, but there was no sign of anyone inside. He listened at the door, then let himself in, went to his old bedroom to fetch his one suit. He took a suit bag from his dad’s room and left the suit inside, hanging on a coat peg near the front door.

Then he did what he’d really come to do.

His father’s bedroom wasn’t a place where he’d spent much time. He didn’t have any idea where to look. Yet what he was looking for couldn’t be in the drawers or cupboards. If it were, the cops would have found it.

He pushed aside the nightstands and began to shift the bed. Then he stopped. Was there someone at the door? For several seconds John-Michael stood still, waiting. He went to the front door and stood behind it, listening. Nothing. He moved to a window at the front of the house and checked outside. There was no one there. The car was still parked, but empty. After a final quick check at the periphery of each window he returned to the bedroom.

This time he moved the bed out by a few feet. He stood in the gap between the wall and the bed. His eyes searched the wall carefully for any sign of disruption. Nothing. He looked underfoot. The hard oak floorboards fitted together neatly, no gaps. But at the edge of one board he could see that the varnish was chipped. A neat rectangular block about half an inch long was missing, as if it had been snapped off by a tool. John-Michael opened his father’s nightstand, searching for something that he knew very well would still be there.

His father’s Ranger Swiss Army Knife. He picked it up almost reverently. The last time he’d been allowed to touch it, John-Michael had been nine years old.

He opened several tools, in the end going with the sturdiest blade. He jammed it in the sliver between two boards, one of them the chipped one. Then he slid the blade down, working the board free. After a second or two, he felt the board buckle. The blade had found a large dent, a section where the board was narrower. He levered the board up and felt it lift out. John-Michael looked at the board. It had been carefully filed down in one section.

He leaned back to shift his shadow away from the hole in the floor. There was a cardboard file box underneath. He grabbed the edge of the box and jimmied it out through the narrow gap. He pressed the side studs to release the catch. Inside was a thick wad of papers and images of medical scans.

The evidence was all here.

Then he heard a car door slam shut. His heart rate shot up. For a couple of seconds he couldn’t think straight. He almost dropped the box, but managed to catch it before it slid down his knees. He shut the box and replaced it, hurriedly, under the floor. He pushed the floorboard back into position.

Then a sound that almost froze his blood: the front door was being opened. With the side of his shoe, he hurriedly brushed dust from another part of the floor to cover the boards he’d disturbed.

He heard casual footsteps as someone strolled around the front of the house, opening doors.

John-Michael slid back out to the edge of the bed and pushed it as painstakingly slowly as he could, not daring to make more than the tiniest noise.

When he was done, he realized that he’d been holding his breath. His heart was pumping hard. The footsteps were approaching his father’s bedroom. He was about to replace the Swiss Army Knife. Then he had a change of heart.

The door opened. John-Michael looked up in shock as an Asian American man in jeans and a black T-shirt approached him. He brandished the knife, flailing. “Get away from me, man, I got nothing worth stealing.”

The newcomer just folded his arms and looked askance. “Slow down, pal. I’m a police detective. Put the knife down.”

For a second John-Michael was confused. And then fear swept through him. If he didn’t get that box, things were going to get pretty damn horrible for him. His only chance now was to play dumb. He gave the cop a sullen stare. “This is my house now, dude.”

“Put it down or I’ll arrest you.”

John-Michael dropped the knife. Petulantly, he said, “At least you could show me some ID before you fleece me.”

The detective picked the knife up without taking his eyes off John-Michael. He checked the knife, folded it up. Then he took a badge from his back pocket and showed it to John-Michael. “Detective Shawn Leung. Where’d you get the knife?”

“My dad’s nightstand.”

“You came all the way back from LA for a lousy pocketknife?”

“I came for my suit. I got a job interview coming up.” As he said the words, John-Michael was praying that it wouldn’t occur to the cop to cross-check.

“Where’s the suit?”

John-Michael walked him to where he’d left the suit in its carrier. The detective unzipped the suit carrier and peered inside. He stared hard at John-Michael. “Next time you want to go inside, call the station. We’ll send someone to escort you.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you? This is a murder scene.” The cop handed back the Swiss Army Knife. “Don’t go waving that at folks now.”

John-Michael took the knife, picked up his suit, and left, aware of the detective watching him all the while. He got back into his car. He drove four blocks away to a Pollo Loco, ate some chicken taquitos, and drank a Diet Coke. He put up the top of the car and prepared to let the hours pass until dark. The box of medical records under his dad’s floorboards would have to wait.