"Takes practice," he said. He poured himself another glass and tossed it after the first. "This is one thing I missed in prison."

He spotted the Colt where I'd laid it on the kitchen table, picked it up without comment, and tucked it in his waistband.

"Thanks, Ray. Now you've messed up any fingerprints."

"Nobody's going to run prints," he said.

"Really. What makes you say that?"

He ignored the question. He moved into the dining room and hustled up a cardboard carton, which he emptied, then flattened, and used to replace the broken window glass, securing it with Gilbert's duct tape. The outdoor light was diminished and the cold still seeped in, but at least birds and small UFOs would be prevented from flying in the gaping hole. While I looked on, he began to empty the sink of its mountain of pots and pans, stacking them neatly to one side in preparation for washing. I love watching guys help around the house.

"I heard you on the phone. Did you call 911?"

"I called Maria to see how she was. Gilbert punched her lights out. She says he broke her nose, but she doesn't want to press charges as long as he's got Laura."

"You could call 911," I said. Maybe he hadn't heard me right?

I flipped the vacuum on again and sucked up glass slivers as they came to light. I kept waiting for him to pick up the subject, but he studiously avoided it. Finally, I turned the machine off and said, "So what's the deal? Why not call the cops? Laura's been kidnapped. I hope you don't think you're going to do this on your own."

"I told you. Maria's not interested. She thinks it's premature."

"I'm not talking about Maria. I'm talking about you."

"Let's look for the money first. Nothing turns up in a day, then we can bring the cops into it."

"Ray, you're crazy. You need help."

"I can handle it."

"That's bullshit. He's going to kill her."

"Not if I can find the money."

"How're you going to do that?"

"I don't know yet."

He tied an apron around his waist. He put the stopper in the drain and turned on the hot water. He picked up the liquid detergent and squirted a solid stream into the sink, holding his injured fingers away from the water. A mountain of white suds began to pile up, into which he tucked plates and silverware. "I learned to wash dishes when I was six," he said idly, picking up a long-handled brush. "Ma stood me up on a wooden milk crate and taught me how to do it right. It was my chore from then on. In prison, they use these big industrial machines, but the principle's the same. All us old cons know how to make ourselves useful, but these new punks coming in can't do a damn thing except fight. Dopers and gang-bangers. Scary bunch."

"Ray."

"Remind me of fighting cocks… all puffed up and aggressive. Don't give a shit about anything. Those are kids bred to die. They have no hope, no expectations. They got attitude. It's all attitude. Insist on respect without ever doing anything to earn it. Half of 'em don't even know how to read."

"Make your point," I said.

"There's no point. I changed the subject. The point is, I don't want to call the cops."

"Is there a problem?"

"I don't like cops."

"I'm not asking you to form any kind of lasting relationship," I said. I watched him. "What is it? There's something else."

He rinsed a dinner plate and placed it in the rack, avoiding my gaze. I picked up a dish towel and began to dry while he washed. "Ray?"

He put the second dinner plate in the rack. "I'm in violation."

I'm thinking, Violation? I said, "Of what?"

He shrugged slightly.

The penny dropped. "Parole? You violated parole?"

"Something like that."

"But what, exactly?"

"Well, actually, 'exactly' is I walked off."

"Escaped?"

"I wouldn't call it escape. It was a halfway house."

"But you weren't supposed to leave. You were still an inmate. Weren't you?"

"Hey, there wasn't any fence. It's not like we were locked in our cells at night. We didn't even have cells. We had rooms," he said. "So it's more like I'm away without leave. Yeah, like that. AWOL."

"Oh boy," I said. I let out a big breath and considered the implications. "How'd you get a driver's license?"

"I didn't. I don't have one."

"You've been driving without? How'd you manage to rent a car without a driver's license?"

"I didn't."

I closed my eyes, wishing I could lie down on the floor and take a nap. I opened my eyes again. "You stole the rental car?" I couldn't help it. I know my tone was accusatory, but this was largely because I was accusing him.

Ray's mouth pulled down. "I guess you'd say that. So here's the deal. We call the cops, they'll run a check on me and back I go. Big time."

"You'd risk your daughter's life just to avoid going back to jail?"

"It's not just that."

"Then what?"

He turned and looked at me, his hazel eyes as clear as water. "How'm I going to deal with Gilbert if I got a bunch of cops on the scene?"

"Ray, you gotta trust me. It's not worth it. You'll be locked up for the rest of your life."

"What rest? I'm sixty-five years old. How much time do I have?"

"Don't be dumb. You got years. Take a look at your mom. You're going to live to be a hundred. Don't blow this."

"Kinsey, listen up. Here's the truth," he said. "We call the cops, you know what's going to happen? We go down to the jail. We fill out paperwork. They ask us a bunch of questions I don't want to answer. Either they run a check on me or they don't. If they run a check, I'm history and that's the end of her. If they don't run a check, what difference does it make? We're still fucked. Hours are going to pass, and then what? It'll turn out the cops can't do shit. Oh, too bad. So now we're out on the street again and we still don't have a clue where the money's hid. Believe me. When Gilbert catches up with us, he don't want to hear excuses. And what are we going to say? 'Sorry we didn't find the money yet. We got tied up at the precinct and time got away from us.'"

I said, "Tell him you're working on it. Tell him you have the money and want to meet him somewhere. The cops can pick him up."

Ray's expression was bored. "You been watching too much TV. Truth is, half the time when the cops get involved, they fuck it up. Perpetrator gets caught and the victim dies. You know what happens next? Big trial. Publicity. You get a hotshot lawyer talkin' about the kidnapper's troubled youth. How he's mentally ill and how the victim was abusing him and he only did the kidnap in self-defense. Thousands and thousands of dollars get poured down the drain. The jury ends up hung and the guy takes a walk. Meanwhile, Laura's dead and I'm back in jail again. So who wins? It ain't me and it's certainly not her."

I could feel my temper climb. I tossed the dish towel aside. "You know what? You can do anything you want. This is really not my problem. You don't want to call the cops. Fine. It's up to you. I'm out of here."

"Back to California?"

"If can manage it," I said. "Of course, now that Gilbert's got the eight grand, I'm assuming you won't pay my return ticket like you promised, but that's neither here nor there. I don't have enough money for a taxi to the airport, so I'd appreciate a ride. It's the least you can do."

His temper rose in response to mine. "Sure. No problem. Let me pull the kitchen together and we're on our way. Laura dies, it's on you. You could have helped. You said 'no.' You gotta live with that same as I do."

"Me? This is your doing. I can't believe you'd try to lay it off on me. You sound just like Gilbert."

He put a hand out and grabbed mine. "Hey. I need help." For a moment, we locked eyes. I broke off eye contact. His tone shifted. He tried coaxing. "Let's brainstorm. The two of us. That's all I'm asking. You got hours until flight time…"