MOSAICS: A Thriller by E.E. Giorgi Read Free Book Online Page A

the parking lot. “I got information for you. You uh… you got a buck or two?”
    Satish dipped a hand in his pants’ pocket and fished out a card. “We don’t handle information. Here’s the number to call.”
    Black fingers gingerly reached out to pluck the card. He stared at it, not too troubled by the fact that he was holding it upside down, then gave us a toothless grin and turned his wheelchair around.
    Satish sighed. “Cashed out. My last buck went into the vending machine at Parker.”
    “A buc k for a bag of stinkin’ Cheetos.” I turned my pockets inside out, found a crumpled dollar, and walked back to exchange it for another toothless grin. I got a God-bless as an extra bonus.
    “There’s a reason it’s called City of Angels,” Satish said.
    “Yeah.” I nodded. “Only angels around here ain’t got wings and ain’t wearing white, either.”
    I glanced at the two story-building spread out along the three sides of the inner court: pink, chafed stucco, tears of rust and bird droppings, green doors alternating to dark sliding windows, and the lingering smells of sweat, dog urine, and tired humanity. A maid in pink scrubs came out of an open door on the second floor, dumped a heap of dirty laundry into her cart, sent a disapproving glare at the wheelchair, now on the other side of the street, then vanished back inside.
    “Luxurious place,” I commented.
    Satish tipped his head toward the lobby. “Parole doesn’t make you rich.” He adjusted his belt and holster, put a hand on the door, and gave me a stern eye. “Now, the guy being a parolee and all, we have some leeway. Still, I’d like to talk to him alive.”
    I flashed him my most innocent smile.
    The lobby was as dingy and gray as the outside. Under our shoes, linoleum tiles popped with old grease stains. Yellowed photos of the Rose Parade randomly decorated the walls. The frames were all crooked and looked like they hadn’t been straightened since the ’94 earthquake. A full ashtray sat beside a brass plate claiming that smoking wasn’t allowed. Stale coffee percolated on a Formica countertop covered in blotches of maple syrup and jam. A radio blabbered in Spanish from somewhere at the back of the office.
    I hit the brass bell on the counter. An annoyed voice replied, “We’re full.”
    I flipped my badge wallet and held it up. “Try again, dude.”
    Bored eyes came forward from the back door and squinted at the badge. They rolled unhappily in their orbs and disappeared again. Papers rustled, drawers closed, the radio shut up. I inhaled, but didn’t smell anything alarming other than rusty pipes, tobacco wads, and the lingering tang of refried beans.
    The eyes came in full view under a strip of forehead beaded with sweat. Black brows shot up with a pinch of a nxiety. “The place is clean,” the man said, wobbling to the counter. “And my papers are all in order.” He made a vague gesture toward the back.
    I propped m y elbows on the counter. “You the manager here?”
    He brushed a nervous finger along the sides of a mustache that had seen blacker days. “Yes, sir.”
    “We’re looki ng for a man named Ricky Vargas,” I said.
    The manager’s shoulders relaxed, his brows came down a notch. “Never heard of him.”
    Satish pul led out the mug shot. “Never seen him either?”
    I rapped the countertop. “You know, maybe we should take a look at those papers you mentioned—”
    “No.” He pointed at the photo. “Him—He goes by Ralph. Owes me a full month.”
    “He in?”
    His eyes darted back and forth between us. “You make him pay, yes?”
    Sat and I exchanged a quick glance. “Get the key and take us to his room.”
    “I can’t leave the desk! I have to answer the phone, and—”
    I patted my holster. “I hope you have a good locksmith, then.”
    His face swelled up like a puffer fish. “One second.” He sank back in his chair, swiveled it around to a cabinet drawer and retrieved the key from one of the