by Rex Bolt
“What do you mean?” Chris said. “For God sake’s, help ‘em solve the thing.”
“I take it,” Holly said, “that Terry didn’t care for it when the cop said he wanted to be the one asking the questions. Right?”
Finch nodded, and said, “There were a few more details that emerged in the couple’s argument as well. There was a man’s name Roland, that was bandied about. And something I pieced together after the police left that day, that for a few nights prior there’d been a Jaguar parked in front of that room -- you do notice a vehicle like that -- and that it wasn’t there when the cops talked to me.”
“Maybe they towed it,” Chris said.
“That was Holly’s reaction when I told her as well. But it seemed too soon. And wouldn’t you need a warrant for something like that?”
“Hmm. What you’re getting at,” Chris said, signalling the waiter for one more Cel-Ray beverage to wash everything down good, “their own car might not have been there . . . when he stabbed her. Allegedly . . . Sorry to keep sounding bottom-line, but we got a dead body here, or no?”
“We do,” Finch said. “There was a day in between, quiet, and then the next morning you had a forensics van and two unmarked cars outside 32-B. That’s when I first met Holly, she asked would I have a moment for a few questions, and I said I had all day. She asked how many nights I’d been here, and I told her I’d have to think about it, and I came up with ballpark 700, since I’m coming up on the two year mark.”
“Don’t keep getting sidetracked,” Chris said. “Forensics -- and Holly now -- were there because?”
Holly said, “There was a blood clot, and she unfortunately took a turn, and passed.”
“Right,” Finch said. “So I told Holly I might have a lead or two for her, you never know, and we met for dinner.”
“And?” Chris said.
“I gave her what I had. Told her if anything pans out she can maybe scoop the LA Times. Even the cops.”
“You added,” Holly said, smiling, and touching her hand to his shoulder now, “that whether they pan out or not, running down leads is good fuel for we novelists . . . He said we, which designated me an actual novelist.”
“Very nice of him,” Chris said, “but what happened? When you did run ‘em down?”
“Oh,” she said, “well if you’re asking if I solved the case, unfortunately no. I may have unearthed something a bit disturbing, would be the extent of it at this point.”
Chris took a moment, signalled for the check, and told Finch and Holly not to be strangers, that this had certainly been an unexpected social development today.
He was curious of course, what the ‘a bit disturbing’ referred to -- how could you not be -- but he didn’t have the fortitude to process anything more this evening, the events of the day were starting to slam him big-time, and he got out of there as unceremoniously as you could, though he did thank the waiter on the way out for being a good sport.
Chapter 4
Chris wasn’t a fan of ride services, he didn’t like sitting in tight quarters in some guy’s personal vehicle. You had the concept in your mind of the guy driving around in there for 6 or 8 hours, sweating, and eating on the go and whatever else, not that you could blame anyone trying to hustle up an honest living.
But you missed the old Yellow Cab days, especially they way they did it in New York. You were in back, separated by barrier, typically a bullet-proof one at that -- and if you could hail a Checker, which was really roomy back there, like a poor man’s limo -- even better.
But there comes a point where you give in, even in a southern California beach town, and Chris made it up Pier Avenue as far as Bayview when he decided this sucks and called for an Uber.
Or tried to. He hated apps, had a mental block against them, but he probably got it right except no one showed for 10 minutes, which was the estimate, so he bit the bullet and kept moving, though when he hit South Sepulveda there was a cab and he flagged it down, though it was green and white, not yellow, but whatever.
Except the driver didn’t speak English that well, he was a friendly-enough fellow but apparently didn’t understand Chris when he said we better turn on 1st, with the light, and the guy continued straight, and this was going to be a mess because you had quite a ways where you couldn’t make a left turn, and a block up Chris decided this was good enough and got out there.
Finishing it off, unfortunately with another 3 and a half blocks on foot -- back to 1st, across the 6 lanes with the light, the right turn back to 2nd, the left, and the right on good old McLellan Lane . . . and frankly that recliner -- maybe even the bed right away -- in his little piece of the Cheater Five Apartments, never sounded so good.
The only possible problem being -- as Chris turned the final corner and headed the half-block for home -- that what you could only assume as a couple of unmarked police cars, LAPD, the different size antennas sticking off the roof up the wazoo --were parked in the Cheater Five lot.
And not exactly parked, more like double-parked, since there weren’t enough spaces for the apartment dwellers and Chris typically didn’t bother battling it himself, and stuck the Camry around the corner.
But whatever the fuck.
He thought for a second of making an about face and hightailing it out of there, to God knows where . . . except rationally thinking, he hadn’t done anything wrong, lately, had he? And if he were really in trouble, wouldn’t there be a squad car here or something?
Not necessarily. Nothing etched in stone how someone might be apprehended, Chris supposed that could work all different ways . . . and maybe it was the fatigue factor, or simply not wanting to get on another Greyhound bus . . . either way, after rattling around the pros and cons for thirty seconds, Chris decided the odds were decent it had nothing to do with him, and God forbid if it did, they weren’t ready to haul him in tonight.
So he crossed the parking lot, flicked the gate latch by the pool and started up the stairs, and there was a guy smoking up top, not in front of Chris’s apartment luckily -- and now that he had a vantage point Chris found the other guy, down below, under a metal awning sticking off the laundry room on the corner of the property, and Jeez, it was actually starting to drizzle a bit which it never did down here, so maybe the guy under there made sense.
The upstairs guy had a sport coat and the other one had a Tennessee Titans jacket made out of slick material, but who was anyone kidding, they were cops. Plain clothes, and you’d assume detectives, and Chris didn’t know the hierarchy though he was surprised when he investigated the Zodiac case a bit that the lead SFPD detectives -- and they did call those guys Homicide Inspectors -- were often just sergeants, by rank.
At any rate he said Hi, howya doing to the guy up top, and the guy didn’t say anything back but watched him now, and when Chris paused in front of his door, B-9, and pulled out the key, the cop called over, “Have a word with you?”
Chris decided not to open the door just yet, or maybe any time soon, and when he looked around the Tennessee Titans’ guy was on his way too, headed to the front staircase.
“Sure,” Chris said tentatively to the first guy. “Is there a problem?”
A dumb question, he realized as he said it, especially the way he said it, if you were trying to portray innocence, but that didn’t seem too important at present since they were standing right here in his face.
The first guy took a minute, sizing him up, and nothing Chris could do about it, you felt as exposed as in one of those full-body scans at the airport.
“You’re Seely, we already know that,” the first guy said.
“If we didn’t,” the second guy said now, reaching the top of the landing, “we might have better things to do tonight than be waiting on you with our dick in our hands.”
Chris’s heart was beating dang quick, a million thoughts racing through his head . . . but he didn’t like this guy’s attitude, and not much to lose at this point, so he said, “If you’re going to speak like that, y
ou need to take it off private property. There are respectable folks living here.”
You could see the Tennessee Titans guy had a short fuse, and he took an aggressive step toward Chris, and the first guy said, “Hal. We’re okay here. Relax it a bit.”
So Hal stopped and Chris said to the first guy, “Pretty sure you asked, can I have a word with you? Any follow up on that?” He was being obnoxious for sure, the false bravado kicking in that typically means this is not going to turn out well.
On the other hand . . . the glimmer of hope being, what he’d considered a minute ago, that if this did have something to do with him they likely weren’t ready to haul him in quite yet. At least you prayed.
The second guy said, “Fine. Cutting straight to it, asshole -- we’re looking for Kenneth Chamberlain.”
“We have a 6th sense you might know him,” the first guy said, no smiles anywhere.
Holy Smokes.
A couple of emotions kicked in. First, that they really weren’t looking for him, Chris, tonight. Which hopefully wasn’t a ruse, but then again why beat around the bush if they were looking at him right now?
So relief.
Then concern. Kenny? What the heck?
Chris had had that first unfortunate encounter with Ken obviously, which had turned out to be a misunderstanding, and the kid took it well, pretty admirably in fact. From then on, sure, Ken was confused here and there, the direction of his life, his jobs, his relationships, no different than any 25-year-old probably . . . but Jeez, when you stripped it all away he was a sweet kid, someone who’d go to the wall for you when the chips were down.
In fact, that first time Chris had to go away the police stopped by and tried to rattle Ken, and Ken politely but firmly told them he had no idea where Chris was, even though he did.
So . . . piecing it together in about five seconds with these two yokels bearing down on you, one or both of them emanating garlic too, which Chris hated having to smell . . . you’d have to assume they’re been a raid on Mancuso’s porno-flicks gig.
Ken of course had become a male actor in the proceedings, a reasonably popular one as well, according to Ned. Chris was happy for Ken because he seemed happy with it, and the money was good, but this was always in the back of Chris’s mind, that something could go haywire legally at a moment’s notice.
After all, it wasn’t that long ago when Chris heard about Ned being pinched, and Rory the Crow’s Nest waitress as well . . . and even though Ned didn’t seem worried about it and admittedly it got smoothed over . . . you still felt like everyone involved in the Strand house operation was pushing the odds.
So this couldn’t be good, and you’d have to be resourceful and help Kenny deflect this. Doubtful they’d actually sentence a porno actor, in the full scheme of things, would they?
The kid didn’t assault someone or anything, so let’s be real.
“How about an Emma Klinheist,” the first cop said. “She ring a bell?
Except . . . now this was getting weird.
Chris said, “I do as a matter of fact. Or she does, the way you asked it.” He felt on automatic pilot, no idea where it was going here. He thought of something else, panicked and added, “Are they both okay?”
“Oh they’re fine, far as we know,” the second one said.
“Which we’d like to confirm of course,” the first guy said, “as soon as you tell us where they disappeared to.”
“Unh?” Chris said.
“Tell you what,” the first one said, “let’s go inside, in fact my partner Hal here, he’ll run next door to Taco Bell, and pick up some nachos, so you can get comfortable and tell us all about it.”
Chris could see less odds of Hal doing that than the man on the moon, but they were playing with him, which was okay, so he played back, “Funny thing, I’ve lived here nearly six months, only stopped in there once.”
“Open the fucking door,” the first guy said.
“I’d love to,” Chris said, “except the chairs are more comfortable at the pool . . . That is, if you need me for anything further.”
Chris was irked when he’d read about criminals in the paper get off on technicalities, or sleazy lawyers overturning searches as being improper, even when everyone knew they had the guy dead to rights.
Probably 25 years ago cop number 1 would have held Chris’s arms and number two would have grabbed the key out his pocket and they all three would have gone inside the apartment.
Now every law enforcement move was documented and even one of these guys right here might be required to wear some kind of body camera or otherwise record what was going on, so Chris supposed that was one benefit of all these technicalities . . . and he held firm and started down the steps to the pool, and the two cops followed him.
Chris let himself in the gate and sat down under an umbrella, which you would never need at night, except now with this light drizzle it didn’t hurt . . . and the two guys conferred with each other for a minute at the bottom of the stairs, and surprisingly -- almost shockingly -- without any further acknowledgement of Chris, they got in their cars and drove out of the Cheater Five.
Chris sat there a while trying to process yet another strange turn of events today. He’d given up smoking years ago, for the most part, but he wouldn’t mind lighting up something himself.
Soon there was activity in the pool, a young couple with a toddler had moved into a downstairs unit, and they were all three of them splashing around now and laughing. They’d no doubt out-grow their one-bedroom apartment pretty quick, but for now it was refreshing having some young spirit around here. The kid jumped off the side and his mom caught him, a big orange floatie on each arm, and Chris gave a little wave of approval and the dad asked how his day was going, and Chris said just fine, how about you, and the dad said if you want to know the truth it was one of the most aggravating days of his life, and he’s not sure how long he’s going to last in his job.
But there was levity behind it, nothing life and death, and the wife pitched in that she was the breadwinner until she got pregnant, and might have to step back up to the plate . . . and the husband shook his head but smiled and cuddled up to her and the little guy jumped off the side again and they caught him together, and life was apparently still pretty dang good.
Chris showered and got cleaned up, and poked around the nooks and crannies of the apartment to see if there was any sign Ken had been there recently.
It didn’t look like it. Ken’s roommate-ship had been uneven for a while now, and Chris never pressed the issue, the kid was clearly experiencing some growing pains. For a while there it looked like he’d hooked up with one of the gal performers from the Strand house, but who knows where that went, or if it was still alive.
Could be. Maybe the gal simply didn’t like Chris and was more comfortable not coming around. That first time they were introduced she got pretty defensive when Chris asked a few what he thought were routine, break-the-ice questions, and what could you do?
He plopped down in the recliner -- and dang that felt good, separate from everything else -- and he debated it, would he be trackable making the call, and would it matter -- and went for it and called Ken’s cell . . . and not only was there the expected no answer, but there was a recording saying the number you’ve dialed is no longer in service . . . and Chris was back at attention here.
He hadn’t spoken to Emma in a while, in fact just once at the library was all he could place, since the ill-fated high school reunion episode in San Francisco -- but he dug out her number and . . . same exact thing, different recorded person speaking, but telling you her number was not in service either.
There were a lot of reasons why a cell number could be off the grid. They could have plunged off a bridge into a bay, he supposed, never to be heard from again. Even then though . . . would that cancel your service?
This was stupid either way. Chris knew from experience that you dismantle your phone and pick up a throwaway, untraceable one from a convenience
store like 7-11 when you need to disappear.
Meaning -- combined with the cops asking for locations -- odds were that’s what was going on here.
It just seemed so entirely unlikely though. Ken and Emma disappearing together?
Chris tried five or six different ways to wrap his head around it, and was starting on the seventh when the apartment bell rang.
This was a bit disconcerting. It could be the cops again, for one, maybe having forgotten to slip in a follow up question. Or worse, threaten him with some kind of charges, if he didn’t cooperate more agreeably on Ken and Emma -- since they would know LAPD talked to him a couple times in the past, and he’d unfortunately be on the radar. The one cop even seemed to reference that -- they knew who he was.
In fact it was kind of surprising they didn’t use that card harder the first time.
This could also be Ken -- a relief in one sense, to see him in the flesh and know he’s okay -- but certainly problematic as well.
It could also be someone ringing the wrong bell, a guy delivering take-out Chinese, but that was less likely.
Chris got up, said screw it, no who’s there through the door, he just pulled it open and it was Stacy.
She was crying and this couldn’t reflect well on Ken’s behalf. She and Ken were tight at one time, in fact living together when Chris and Ken first met -- long story, some issues apparently, maybe another guy involved, and they broke up. But she’d re-surface every so often, and Chris hoped for the best between them, since he liked her the best of Ken’s girlfriends.
In fact, flashing in his head now was the time he came back from his own self-imposed disappearance, the first one, only to find Stacy in the apartment, caught off guard and embarrassed, explaining she and Ken were giving it another try and they didn’t expect him back so soon, and starting to scramble around grabbing her stuff to get out of there . . . and Chris opened his arms to see what would happen, and Stacy came into them and they had a nice hug, a special one, and Chris told her to relax, you and Ken don’t have to go anywhere . . . which worked for another week, before things fell apart again.
