The Voting Machine

The License

I drove his Suburban due south on Waterman, connecting through a series of surface streets to Riverside where I entered the 91 Freeway and continued west, passing through the mountains into Orange County. I exited right near Vermont, cruising through the streets of my old Harbor Gateway neighborhood, passing the Passion building. I was just another motorist in the endless city, covering my sun-scorched face with sunglasses and a baseball cap.

I called Larry on Ned's cell phone. We hadn't spoken since that night after the FBI took me in for questioning, the night I found the list buried in David's garden, just hours before Chang and Weisbein turned up dead my parking lot. I had wanted to contact him earlier but I never had a phone I felt safe enough to use. And of course Larry knew nothing about Teresa's email system.

I wondered whether he would still dare to talk to me now after everything that had transpired. He worked as a cop and a security consultant and he surely considered it part of his duty to report suspects to the authorities, even if they were close friends. But I had to take the risk, because I believed his work at Ram's security company was a key part of this. Gina had phoned Larry shortly before he died. She had probed him to try to find out about Ram's projects for Passion after Marcus stepped down.

"Larry," I said when he picked up.

"Who is this?" he snapped.

"I am in LA. We need to talk in person."

"I don't know who this is." Then there was a pause. "But then again I haven't been thinking too clearly these days. I am still grieving an old friend I lost. I still visit her final resting place every morning."

That was the only hint I needed. I tossed it out the window of my car. Shortly after, I arrived at the intersection of Vermont and Carson, the site of the Harbor Medical Center, where my daughter had been born 14 months ago. The OB ward was understaffed that night and I had to help the nurses with the delivery, holding my wife during labor while Torrance cops kept one of my wrists handcuffed to the bed rail.

I turned right on to Carson, passing familiar lunch spots and the bar where Davis used to work. I parked in a strip mall by Carson and Western where I could see my old apartment over the wall behind a liquor store. My wife's Nissan was in the parking lot underneath the balcony walkway. I watched and waited for nearly an hour to see if anyone went in or out of our home.

Finally the door opened and a man walked out of the apartment. It was Davis, carrying my daughter in one of his thick, muscular arms. My wife followed behind him on the balcony and they kissed. He held my wife and daughter in a tight, three-way embrace. They looked like a real family and I felt like the outcast that I was.

My wife told me she had broken it off with him. Maybe that had always been a lie. Or maybe she reconsidered after she read the headlines accusing me of another pair of murders. Whatever the reason, he was obviously still living with them, probably taking care of them during the day and tending bar at night.

Davis carried my daughter down the apartment steps to the Nissan and strapped her in the car seat. Suzy watched them from the balcony as he drove my daughter away. He continued to Wilson Park, where he parked by the children's playground. It was a calm weekday afternoon and the park was nearly empty so I kept my distance.

He took Reina out of the car and strapped her in a baby swing under a sycamore tree. He pushed her gently from the front and stared into her eyes as she giggled with delight. Then he set her on a park bench, where he mixed her formula with hot water from a thermos. He seemed to know instinctively that she would be hungry. He didn't wait for her to cry. After she finished her bottle, Davis burped her and changed her diaper on the bench. I had to wonder why Suzy wasn't doing this. Why was sheis relying on him to take her daughter out and feed and change her? Was she too sick to go out herself? Was she too ashamed to be seen in public?