by Robert Crais
“Nope.”
“I’m on the way.”
I had only gone three blocks when the black Toyota pulled out of a side street in front of me. I wasn’t sure it was the same truck, but the Toyota bucked high on its springs and powered away. He had probably been searching the area while the Mustang waited below, and was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
Cops with a busted surveillance would have stopped to badge me, but the Toyota ran. I thought he would run for the flats and the freeways and his buddy in the Mustang, but he skidded onto a cross street instead, climbing higher in the hills. He probably felt he had a better chance of losing me the higher we went, but I pushed after hard, closing the gap.
The curves grew tighter the higher we climbed, looping and crossing like snakes. I wanted to call Pike, but the driving was fast, and my hands were filled with the shifter and wheel. I didn’t think he knew where he was going or where the streets went; he just drove it, trying to leave me behind. We busted through stop signs, circled the same streets, turned downhill hard and then it was over. He had turned into a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.
The driver’s window was down, and the driver was watching me. His eyes were large and bright from the chase, but waiting to see what I would do. He was big, with beefy forearms and heavy shoulders, but a wispy mustache and zits on his chin made him look even younger than the Foo Fighter. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. He was a kid.
I had once seen three grown men shot to death by an eleven-year-old with an AK-47. I took out my pistol, but did not raise it. He was no more than ten yards away.
“Get out of the truck. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
His door opened. He raised his hands, then slid out. He looked even younger once he was out, like a baby-faced high-school lineman. I thought he might run because kids always run, but he didn’t.
I said, “Close it.”
He pushed the door closed.
I got out of my car, holding the gun down along my leg because I still didn’t know what he might try or what I might have to do when he tried it.
“On your knees. Fingers laced on your head.”
He did what I told him. Here we were in a small cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood where someone might step out for the mail or come home from school. I holstered the gun, snapped the safety strap, then stepped away from my car.
“What in hell are you doing?”
A voice behind me said, “This.”
Something hard slammed into the back of my neck and dropped me into the street. That’s when I realized the kid had not been trying to get away. I had not trapped the black Toyota in the cul-de-sac. He had trapped me.
15
THE NEW man was a muscular young guy with high and tight hair, bleached-grey eyes, and the brutal tan of a man who lived in the sun. He had the back of my shirt, dragging and spinning me to keep me off-balance, and punching down hard as I tried to roll away.
The man who hit me knew what he was doing. He moved fast to stay behind me, controlling me from behind as he punched me in the head. I didn’t reach for my gun, and I didn’t try to get up. You have a gun in a situation like this, you have to protect it; if the other guy gets it he will shoot you to death. And if you try to get up, you can’t defend yourself, so I fought from the ground. Picture the detective as a crab on its back.
The kid from the truck shouted something I couldn’t understand, then he was kicking me, but he wasn’t as good as his friend. He stood over me like a light pole without bothering to move. I hooked a round kick through his ankles, and swept his feet from under him. The kid landed on top of us as the blue Mustang flashed into view.
When the kid fell, I dragged him closer, trying to roll him onto the first guy. The first guy clawed me backwards, but the kid bucked up and broke us apart. I turned to get the first guy in front of me, but he drove into me with his head down like a linebacker. The Foo Fighter was running toward us to join in the fight.
I went over backwards again, but this time I tied up the first guy and pulled him in close. He should have kept driving through me, but he jerked backwards, trying to get away. He was pulling back so hard that when I let go he popped up like a target. I hit him in the throat and the mouth, then hooked the kid high on the cheek with an elbow. The first guy was getting up when the Foo Fighter slammed into his back like a battering ram. The first guy went down face-first, but the Foo kept going. Pike powered him through the first guy and along a graceful arc into the side of my car. His collarbone snapped.
Then Pike had his .357 and I had my gun, and all of it stopped.
Pike said, “Guess these guys aren’t cops.”
I sucked air, trying to catch my breath. My head throbbed. So did my shoulder, my back, and my right knee. The Foo Fighter held his shoulder, gritting his teeth like it burned. The kid was on his knees, his eye bloody and swelling. The first guy rose to a knee, watching Pike as if he wanted to go for more. The first guy was the oldest.
Pike said, “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look winded.”
“Uh.”
“I got it.”
Pike moved on them the way he’d done a hundred times when he was a police officer, pushing them down as he gave the commands.
“Belly. Fingers laced behind your heads.”
They assumed the position. We patted down the Foo Fighter and the kid, but when I touched the oldest guy he shoved my hand.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch me, piece of shit.”
“You trash my office?”
“Fuck you.”
I planted a knee on the back of his neck and touched him anyway. None of them had weapons. I took their wallets, and matched the pictures on their DLs to their faces. The kid was Gordon Repko. He was eighteen years old. The Foo Fighter was Dennis Repko, who was twenty. The oldest was Michael Repko, age twenty-four. All three showed the same home address in Pasadena, California. Michael Repko was also carrying a military ID card, identifying him as a sergeant in the United States Army Reserve. That explained the high and tight cut and fierce desert eyes. They had frightened John Chen when he went to their house, and now they had frightened me.
I gimped to my car and leaned on the fender. I felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with fighting for my life in a cul-de-sac in the Hollywood Hills.
“Debra Repko was their sister.”
Pike lowered his gun, but didn’t put it away.
Dennis Repko said, “You got her killed, you fuck. It’s your fuckin’ fault.”
Pike said, “Mm.”
I looked from brother to brother and felt even more drained by the hate and fear in their faces. The Pasadena address was a nice one. These three kids had probably never wanted for anything, had a solid family, and attended good schools. Three angry white boys, wanting to dump their grief on the person they blamed.
“You trashed my office and followed me to get some payback. That what it is?”
Michael Repko said, “So what are you going to do, shoot us? Fuck you. I’ll fight you right here. Man to man.”
Pike said, “You just did. You’re on your ass.”
I went back to Michael, and squatted to look at him.
“I might have shot you. I might have shot your brothers, and I could still have you arrested. This was stupid.”
Gordon said, “She was our sister.”
Gordon, the youngest, was crying.
I took a breath and went back to my car. The first death threat had come even before Bastilla and Crimmens came to my office and hours before Marx went on the news. Since my involvement with Lionel Byrd hadn’t been mentioned in the news or by the press, I had a pretty good idea how these guys learned my name.
“The police told you I worked for Byrd?”
Dennis said, “They could’ve put him in prison, but you and some ass-licking shyster got him off.”
“Who told you that, Crimmens?”
Michael said, “W
as that you or wasn’t it? I’d like to kick that lawyer’s ass, too.”
Levy.
Pike tucked the gun under his sweatshirt.
“What do you want to do?”
I went to Gordon, then Dennis. Gordon’s eye was swelling. Dennis had trouble moving his arm.
Dennis said, “Get away from me, bitch.”
I looked back at Michael.
“Gordon won’t need stitches, but he should get some ice. Dennis needs a doctor.”
Michael said, “Fuck you. No one gives a shit what you say.”
I tossed back their wallets.
“I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry she’s dead, and for what you and your parents are going through, but I don’t believe Lionel Byrd killed your sister.”
They came to their feet, Dennis bent to the side because of the collarbone. Gordon touched his eye, and seemed confused by the blood on his fingers. Dennis and Gordon watched their older brother, taking their cues from him.
Michael said, “That’s bullshit. The police said he did it.”
“Marx rushed the investigation so he could make a splash on TV. A lot of things got lost in the rush.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
I told them how Debra’s murder was off the time line, how the others had all been murdered on moonless nights. I told them how Byrd was so gimped up in recent weeks with his bad foot he could barely walk, and had been flying on oxycodone the night he died. I told them how Marx shut down the case even before all the forensics were run, and that no one had yet spoken with the most important witness in Yvonne Bennett’s murder—Angel Tomaso. I told them about everything except the blind tests. They would talk about the things I was saying, and they might even tell the police. I didn’t want the wrong people to know I knew about the blinds.
When I finished, Gordon, the youngest, sneered.
“What makes you so much smarter than the police?”
“Maybe I’m just lucky.”
Dennis said, “The cops didn’t tell us any of this.”
“Okay, maybe I’m smarter.”
Michael frowned.
“Maybe you’re just trying to duck the blame.”
“Byrd didn’t die after the first murder or the fourth or the sixth. He died after Debra’s murder, so maybe something about her or her murder triggered everything else.”
Michael glanced at his brothers, then wet his lips.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but I’m the only one looking, and I need your help.”
Dennis shook his head.
“You want us to help you?”
“The only way I can figure this out is to start with your sister. If I knew more about Debra, I might be able to figure out why her murder was different.”
Gordon said, “Like what?”
“The autopsy report shows she had a drink on the night she was murdered. Did she meet a friend after work?”
The three of them stared at me.
“If so, where did they meet? Was the friend a man or a woman, or was Debra alone?”
Dennis glanced at Michael, then shook his head again, but now he was thinking.
“We don’t know.”
“I don’t know either, and I need your help to find out these things.”
Now Dennis and Gordon were both staring at Michael.
“Mikie, I think we should.”
I shrugged, saying the next move was his.
“Here we are, Michael. You can accept what the police say, case closed, done deal, or you can follow it through to find out whether or not I’m trying to duck the blame.”
Michael glanced at his brothers. Dennis nodded, trying to encourage him. Gordon’s good eye was hopeful.
“Our folks have been through a lot.”
“Do they think I’m responsible, too?”
Michael nodded.
“Then it will be hard.”
“We gotta talk.”
I gave him the card with my home and cell numbers. He stared at it.
“You’d give me your home number?”
“I believe what I told you. Decide if you want to help and let me know, but either way I’m going to do it.”
Michael hesitated, maybe thinking of offering his hand to close the deal, but didn’t. We were finished.
Michael went to the Mustang with Dennis and got in behind the wheel. Gordon climbed back into the truck. They drove away, leaving us in the quiet cul-de-sac.
Pike sighed deeply.
“Her brothers.”
I said, “Yes.”
16
MY PANTS were torn at both knees, my shirt was ripped and missing two buttons, and my hands and right forearm were scraped, dirty, and seeping. I should have gone home or picked up some ice or maybe even gone to the Emergency Room, but I drove to the Best Buy in Hollywood. I bought a computer and a cordless phone for my office to replace the broken things. I would have bought a new chair, but a chair wouldn’t fit in my car. The skin in front of my right ear and above my right eyebrow was tender and swelling, and the back of my head was worse. The register clerk stared as she rang me up.
She said, “You’re bleeding.”
“Tripped in the parking lot.”
“I gotta call the manager if you wanna file a claim.”
“That’s all right. I’m tough.”
I pressed my handkerchief on my forearm to cover the blood.
After the Best Buy, I stopped at a True Value hardware store for two gallons of latex interior paint, a roller, and a package of disposable plastic drop cloths. The color was named Eggshell. The total for everything including the Best Buy came to $1,868.52. Anyone else would get jumped by criminals, rogue cops, or lunatics, but I got pounded by three angry brothers mourning the death of their sister.
When I got home, I filled two plastic bags with ice, stretched out on the couch, then called an old-school newsman named Eddie Ditko. Eddie had worked for every newspaper in Southern California, and most of them more than once. He knew the newspaper business inside and out.
I said, “If a reporter was working on a particular story, and I knew the subject but not the name of the reporter, could I find out who the reporter is?”
“What paper?”
“Don’t know. All I know is the story.”
“Jesus Christ, what story?”
Patience wasn’t one of Eddie’s strengths.
“Lionel Byrd.”
“You got no shot. Every paper in town is working on Byrd.”
Eddie broke into a deep, shuddering cough. Eddie has smoked three packs a day for almost sixty years. I think he was born smoking. He made a gakking sound, then spit.
“You okay?”
“It’s these allergies.”
Smoker’s denial.
“The reporter in question was working on Byrd before everyone else. He was supposedly doing a story on how Byrd had been prosecuted on the Yvonne Bennett murder with a bad confession. He told Byrd there might be a book or a movie in it.”
“You don’t know where the guy works?”
“No.”
“The L.A. Times has something like eight hundred fifty writers, and that’s just the Times. Toss in the Daily News, the L.A. Weekly, La Opinión, and all these little papers, you see what we’re talking about?”
“Don’t writers get assigned these things? Wouldn’t his editor know?”
“Just because the guy was working the story doesn’t mean it was assigned. That’s called sniffing out the news. You do your research, then pitch your piece to your editor if you think it has heat. Some of these feature writers and columnists, they don’t even pitch.”
“So you’re saying there’s no way to ask around. Even though this could lead to a blowout story.”
Eddie was silent. I heard his lighter flick. I heard him inhale. Sniffing out the news.
“What kind of blowout story?”
“Maybe the reporter was a reporter, but maybe he wasn�
�t. Maybe this individual had a play with what happened to Lionel Byrd or with the murders.”
“I’m listening.”
“What if I told you even though this case has been publicly closed, the police are continuing to run DNA comparisons against a certain blind sample?”
“These tests are ongoing?”
“These tests are ongoing.”
Eddie inhaled again.
“Lemme see what I can find out.”
I threw away the ice, then searched for Bastilla’s card. Her task force would have identified all the calls going into or out of Byrd’s number, especially on the days leading up to his death. A legitimate writer or reporter would have identified himself, and Bastilla would know the full story. I didn’t trust she would give me the truth, but I wanted to see her reaction.
“Bastilla, it’s Cole—”
“Hey, man, thanks for getting those files to us. Levy messengered them over.”
“No problem. Now how about one for me—were any journalists, reporters, or news agencies on the calls to or from Byrd’s house?”
Bastilla hesitated.
“Why would you ask something like that?”
“A woman named Ivy Casik used to pick up groceries for him. Byrd told her a reporter was writing a book about how he was railroaded for the Bennett murder. She told me this person visited him on at least two occasions prior to his death.”
Bastilla hesitated even longer.
“Who’s Ivy Casik?”
“She used to rent a room up on Anson across the street. She helped him out when he couldn’t drive. You might want to talk to her.”
“How do you spell her name?”
I spelled it and gave her Ivy Casik’s address.
“One more, Bastilla—”
“It’s late and I want to get out of here. The case is closed, man. We’re finished. That’s it.”
“Is it? Were any of Byrd’s calls to a drug connection or someone who might have supplied him with the oxys?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Were there?”
“Good night, Cole. Really.”
“Guess your task force disbanded too soon.”
“Fuck off.”
I took a shower, then cleaned the scrapes with hydrogen peroxide. I felt a little better after I put on fresh clothes but was still at loose ends, wondering why blind samples were being compared to the forensics Chen had been ordered to collect weeks after Debra’s murder. The results would have been in the news if their tests put Lionel Byrd with Debra, so Byrd still wasn’t a match.
