Liquid Smoke

SIXTY-TWO

The fire department needed most of the day to clean up the alley. Carter waved me off when I offered him a ride home, mumbling something about the walk being good for his head. I felt guilty about the car, but relieved he hadn’t been in it. I’d already lost Liz. I didn’t want to lose my best friend, too.

I went to bed, thinking I’d make a run at Moffitt in the morning. I still wasn’t sure how that was going to work, but he was where I needed to start. And to start was better than to keep thinking.

But when I opened my door to leave the next morning, the media had discovered me.

A well-groomed Hispanic man was standing in my way, his fist raised, about to knock.

“Mr. Braddock?” he asked with a smile. “Cesar Grotillo, Channel Eight News. Do you have a moment?”

The knot in my stomach tightened like someone was yanking on one end of it. “No.”

“Russell Simington is your father. Is that correct?”

Now the knot seemed tied to a freight train.

“Are you aware that he is to be executed in two days?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“Mr. Braddock? Would you care to comment?” I slammed the door.

It happened four more times in the next two hours. I should have expected the attention. California had rarely followed through with executions since the state had reinstituted the death penalty in the early eighties. Any death at San Quentin was big news, and the media was diligent in finding anyone attached in any way.

I was attached.

And, now, with the media trying to capture every move I made, going after Keene had become even more difficult.

Carter showed up around noon. He walked in with a scowl on his face.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to the alley.

“They know,” I said. “About Simington.”

“Oh,” he said. “Want me to run them off?”

“Nah. It’s fine. They’ve stopped knocking on the door.”

“Simington’s all over the TV, too,” he said.

“I figured. That’s why I haven’t turned it on.” I picked up an envelope off the kitchen counter and handed it to him. “For you.”

“For me? For what?”

“Your car.”

“Noah, man, no. You don’t have to—”

Insurance wouldn’t cover the car and my guilt. “Yes, I do. It’s yours. I’m sorry it happened.”

He didn’t open the envelope, just shoved it in the back pocket of his shorts. “Alright. Thanks.”

I nodded. “I want to go see Moffitt, but I don’t see how we get out of here without them following.”

“No way we can bail right now,” he said. “They’re all up and down the alley. Think they’ll stay the night?”

“Some maybe, but not all of them,” I said. “Probably go home and come back first thing in the morning.”

“So we could get out tonight and be up there in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“And I had an idea,” he said. “An idea?”

“About how to handle Moffitt. To make sure you get what you need from him.” “Let’s hear it.”

He told me his plan. I liked it. And I hadn’t thought of anything else.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

He went to the door. “Okay. I’ll get what we need. Why don’t you call me around midnight and tell me what it looks like around here. I can pick you up a couple of blocks away or something. I’ll have a ride by then.”

“Alright.” I hesitated. “Hey. You don’t have to do this. I can do it alone. I don’t know how it’s gonna go and I don’t want—”

He held up a big hand. “Stop right there. Liz and I … we weren’t close. But you and she were. That’s enough for me.” He nodded like he’d said all that mattered. “Call me around midnight.”