by Robert Crais
I said, “What’s he talking about?”
Truly nudged me. “Jonathan knows what he’s doing.”
Green bellowed, “We do not rest. We continue to investigate. And, ladies and gentlemen, we are about to blow the lid off the evil and the desire for personal gain that underlies this tragic and wrongful prosecution!”
Jonathan abruptly turned away from the microphones, and a wall of sound came from the press. They surged around us and shouted their questions, and just as abruptly Kerris and maybe a dozen of his security guys appeared from nowhere and surrounded us in a kind of flying wedge. Truly was smiling. I grabbed his jacket and shouted to make myself heard. “What’s he talking about, Truly? What just happened here?”
Truly laughed. “The truth happened, Cole. Don’t worry about it. We’ll see you at the party.”
Kerris’s people worked us across the plaza and down to the parking structure. I moved with the crush of bodies the way a leaf is carried by the wind, a part of an unseen world, yet not.
18
I drove back to the house feeling hollow and uncertain and spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for Lucy to return from her shopping excursion with Jodi Taylor.
Darlene called at ten minutes after three and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Cole. How are we today?”
“We’re fine, Darlene. And yourself?” I wondered if she had seen the press conference.
“Would Ms. Chenier be about?” I guess not.
“I expect her return shortly, Darlene. May I take a message?”
Darlene hesitated, and seemed confused. I have never known Darlene to sound confused. “Oh, no message. Please ask her to call.”
“I don’t expect her for another hour or so, Darlene, and it’s already after five, your time. Is tomorrow okay?” Baton Rouge was two hours ahead of us.
“She could call me at home.”
“Is everything all right, Darlene?”
“Everything is fine, Mr. Cole. Please have a good evening.”
We hung up, and maybe five minutes later the cat door clacked and I heard him in the kitchen. I got up from the couch and found him standing just inside his door, motionless, tiny nose twitching as he tested the air. I said, “It’s just us.”
He started at me for maybe forty seconds, then crept to the living room and tested the air again. I said, “How about some tuna?” He hadn’t been home in almost four days, and I had missed him.
I opened a small can of Bumble Bee Fancy White, sat on the floor, and put it down beside me. He loves Bumble Bee Fancy White. It’s his most favorite thing. That and field mice. “Well?”
You could see him catch the scent. You could see his eyes widen and his nose shift gears and his ears perk. He looked at the can, took two steps toward me, then squinted back toward the living room. He made his little growl.
“Lucy and Ben aren’t here, but they will be. You’d best get used to it and get over this attitude you have.”
He stopped the growling and came over but did not touch the tuna. I stroked his back, but he did not purr. “I know, buddy. I feel a little bit disrupted, too.”
He head-bumped me, then trotted out of the kitchen and up the stairs, heading for the safety of my loft, moving fast in case Lucy or Ben was lying in wait. I had to shake my head, but at least he was home. You take your progress where you find it.
I checked my office messages at 3:45. Thirteen more interview requests were jamming the machine, but there was also a message from Toni Abatemarco, saying she had something on Stuart Langolier. I called her back and said, “What’s the word, Toni?”
“I’m showing seven arrests over a five-year period, starting when he was sixteen for grand theft, auto. We’ve got a couple more GTAs, one count of fencing stolen auto parts, and an armed robbery. Real working-class doofball stuff.”
“That’s it?” I was thinking about Jonna Lester. I was wondering what Stuart Langolier had to do with James Lester.
“His most recent arrest was eight years ago. Nothing after that. I can fax this stuff to you if you want.”
“Sure.” I gave her the number. “Is there a James Lester listed as an accomplice or a known associate?”
“Hang on and lemme see.” I waited. “Nope. I don’t see one.”
I thought about it some more. “How about a phone number or address listed for Langolier?” I thought I might call him. I thought I might ask him why Jonna Lester had brought him into this.
“There is, but it’s eight years old, so I double-checked with information. There is no Stuart Langolier listed or unlisted in Santa Barbara, or anywhere in Ventura county.”
“How about an attorney?” His docket sheet would list his attorney of record. I could call the attorney and see if they had a current address.
She said, “Sure. He had a public defender named Elliot Truly.”
I was poised to write it down, but I didn’t. I said, “Stuart Langolier was represented by a public defender named Elliot Truly.”
“That’s right. You want his number?”
“No, babe. I think I have it.” I thanked Toni for the good work, told her to say hi to her husband, Frank, and then I hung up.
I stood in my kitchen, staring at the canyon through the glass doors for a time, and then I dialed Truly’s number. “Mr. Truly’s office.”
“This is Elvis Cole. Is Truly in?”
“I’m sorry. Could I take a message?”
“How about Jonathan?”
“I’m afraid they can’t be disturbed.”
I hung up again.
I showered and changed and was just getting ready to run down to my office when Lucy got back. I wanted to check the fax. I wanted to have the facts with me when I confronted Truly at the party and asked him what in hell was going on. Lucy came in flushed and excited and beaming, carrying a shopping bag with shoes and a long plastic dress bag. She said, “I want to show you! It’s absolutely gorgeous and they took up the hem right there while we waited and it’s just perfect!”
Her smile made me smile. “You would look perfect in anything.”
“Yes, but I’ll look even better in this.”
I reached to peek into the bag, but she held it away. “Don’t peek. I want you to see me with it on.”
“How about I see you without it on, then with it on, so I can decide which way I like you better. Sort of like before and after.”
She smiled. “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll rave about me both ways.”
I pulled her close. “I’ll rave, but smart has nothing to do with it.”
She kissed my nose. “I’m having such fun.”
“Me, too, Luce. I’m glad you guys are here.”
We kissed again, and then I told her that Darlene had called and said that Lucy should phone her at home.
Lucy frowned. “She said to call her at home?”
“Unh-hunh. I asked if there was a problem, but she said no.”
Now Lucy wasn’t smiling. She seemed somehow distant and distracted.
“Lucy?”
She smiled again, but now it was forced. She stepped back. “I’d better call Darlene and see. Why don’t you go along to the office and I’ll show you the dress when you get back?”
“You sure?”
She was already moving toward her room. “I’m sure it’s business and it could take a while. I’ll model the dress when you get back.”
She disappeared into the guest room and closed the door.
I said, “Okay.”
The marine layer had burned off but it was bright and hot as I drove down to my office. We get these inversion layers, and the air stops moving and grows milky from the exhaust of five million cars. A thin haze was forming to the east. I was surprised that Jonathan Green would allow an inversion layer on a day when he was going to have a party. Might cast a pall on the entire affair.
I parked in my spot, walked up the four flights to my floor, and saw that my door was open. I stepped in and found Dan Tomsic
sitting on the couch. He looked large and heavy, and his eyes were closed. I glanced at the fax. Something had printed out in its basket. I looked back at Tomsic. “I could’ve sworn that I locked the door.”
Tomsic opened his eyes but didn’t move. His arms were spread along the back of the couch, and he appeared neither surprised nor concerned. “You did, but what’s that to a couple of guys like us?”
I stared at him.
“I’m trying to figure you out, Cole. I ask around and everyone says that you’re solid, but now there’s this shit with Pritzik and Richards, and the double-dealing with Rossi.”
I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”
“The press conference. You and Green looked real sweet standing out there on the plaza. A couple of liars.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know what Jonathan was talking about, either. All I know is that no one seems to be doing very much about Pritzik and Richards.”
Tomsic frowned, like maybe he was confused, and then the frown became a nasty smile. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what, Tomsic?”
“Pritzik and Richards are dead. They died together in an auto accident three weeks ago in Tempe, Arizona.”
“So what’s the big secret? All you had to do was let us know.”
Now the smile dropped away like a gold digger’s interest. “We didn’t find out until last night. We called Green’s office and notified him at five minutes after nine this morning.”
I stared at him. I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Tomsic stood and walked past me to the door. “That’s some asshole you’re working for. He knew that they were dead even when he was making a big speech about how we weren’t doing enough to find them. Foot-dragging, he said. Covering up.”
I said, “Were either Pritzik or Richards ever represented by Elliot Truly?”
Tomsic squinted at me. “How in hell should I know?”
I glanced at the fax again.
Tomsic came very close to me. “Shitting on the department is one thing, but Rossi’s personal. You said she was clear. You said she was out of it.”
“She is, Dan.”
“That’s not what Green’s saying on the news. They’re saying she planted the hammer. They’re saying she set him up and that they’ve got proof. You call that being out of it?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Tomsic turned back to the door, then raised a single finger, like a teacher instructing a pupil. “My first name is for my friends. You don’t rate.” He lowered the finger. “Jonathan Green is willing to destroy a good detective’s life to save a piece of shit murderer. That makes him a piece of shit, and you’re a piece of shit, too.”
“Don’t mince words, Dan. Tell me what you really think.”
Dan Tomsic kept the flat cop eyes on me for another lifetime, and then he left.
My heart was hammering and my head felt swollen. I collected the pages from the fax, then turned on the little Sony TV and found the four o’clock news. The frosty-haired reporter was saying that Pritzik and Richards had plowed into a culvert, saying that they had been drinking, saying we might never know if Pritzik had in fact been James X.
The chiseled male anchor came on, and they cut to a live shot of Jonathan on the sidewalk outside his office. Jonathan and Truly and the lesser attorneys were accusing Angela Rossi of planting the murder weapon, and they were demanding a full investigation, not only of Rossi but of the LAPD command that was protecting her. Jonathan said that his team had uncovered proof that Rossi had tampered with evidence on other occasions, and then Stan Kerris brought out Mrs. Louise Earle. When I saw Mrs. Earle I leaned forward and the swollen feeling spread to my neck and my shoulders. Jonathan introduced her, saying that she had come forward through the efforts of Elvis Cole. He reminded everyone that Elvis Cole was the fine young detective who had made the breakthrough about Pritzik and Richards. He said that what Mrs. Earle was about to say was even more shocking. The camera closed on Mrs. Louise Earle, and she said that Detective Angela Rossi had planted counterfeit money on her son, LeCedrick, and then arrested him. She said that Rossi had threatened to have him killed in prison if she said anything. Mrs. Earle was crying when she said it, and Jonathan Green put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her.
I watched the news for another ten minutes and then I turned off the television. I said, “What in hell is going on here?”
No one answered.
I took a deep breath, let it out, then leaned back in my chair and wondered if I could feel any more out of the loop. I could, and in about twelve seconds I did.
I paged through the faxes until I came to Stuart Langolier’s D-55 booking page from the Ventura County Sheriff’s office. The booking page showed Stuart Paul Langolier’s fingerprints in two rows of five along the bottom of the page, and his front- and side-view mug shots above the prints. The fax quality was poor and the prints had come through mostly as black smudges, but the mug shots were clear enough.
It was eight years ago and the hairstyle was different, but Stuart Langolier wasn’t just Stuart Langolier. He was also James Lester, one-time client of Elliot Truly.
I gathered together the faxes, locked my office, and went home to pick up Lucy.
It was going to be a hell of a party.
19
It was just after six when I got back to the house. I let myself in through the kitchen and saw Lucy on the deck. She was standing at the rail, and she was wearing a white silk slip dress with spaghetti straps that left her shoulders and back bare. The silk was without embroidery or detail, and seemed to glow in the lowering sun.
I said, “Simple. Elegant. Utterly devastating.”
She turned and smiled, but the smile seemed strained. “Ben called. Peter’s going to bring him home after dinner.”
“Great.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“Angela Rossi’s partner was waiting for me. Have you seen the news?”
“No.”
I turned on the local station, but now they were talking about a fruit fly infestation in Orange County. I changed channels twice, but other things were happening in the world. “They’ve got a woman I interviewed saying that Rossi framed her son.”
“Congratulations.” She didn’t understand.
“That isn’t what she told me. Rossi didn’t frame anyone. I cleared her, and that’s what I reported to Jonathan.”
“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. These things happen.” She said it, but it was as if she wasn’t really there.
I turned off the television and looked at her. “Is everything okay with Darlene?”
“Of course.” She glanced away, then made a little shrug. “Just something at the office.”
I looked closer. “You sure?”
Lucy stiffened ever so slightly. “Shouldn’t you get ready, or are we not going?”
“Luce, he made it sound like I uncovered this woman. He made it sound like I turned up something that implicates Angela Rossi.” I said it carefully.
“Perhaps you’re just being sensitive.” Cool.
I took a step back and went upstairs and put on a jacket and tie. The cat watched me from the closet. Hiding. I said, “Don’t say a word.”
He didn’t.
I folded the fax from Santa Barbara and put it into my inside jacket pocket, and then we went out to the car. I said, “Would you like the top up or down?” Thinking of her hair.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I left the top down.
I said, “If there’s a problem, I wish we could talk about it.”
She looked out the window. “Please don’t start one of those conversations.”
I nodded.
Lucy relaxed as we moved along Mulholland and down Coldwater, and by the time we gave the car to a valet she was smiling again and holding my hand. She said, “There’re so many people.”
Jonathan Green lived in an ex
pensive home on a corner lot just north of Sunset in Coldwater Canyon. It was an older, established area of great red pines and curving drives and ranch-style estates that looked not unlike the Ponderosa. A small army of valets was trotting along the walks, and the curbs were already lined with cars and limousines and an awful lot of people who looked as if they’d just stepped out of the Academy Players Directory.
Jonathan’s front entry was open, and, as we approached, we could see that his home was crowded. I said, “Prepare to be stared at.”
She glanced at me. “Why?”
“You’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”
She hooked her arm through mine.
“In the most beautiful dress.”
She squeezed my arm. I’m such a charmer.
A news crew from Channel Eight had lights set up on Jonathan’s front lawn and was interviewing a well-known figure who had starred in a hit television series in the early seventies, and who now ran a major studio. Lucy said, “Isn’t he somebody?”
“Yep.” He was well known for his efforts as an active fund-raiser for private social programs and had received humanitarian-of-the-year awards twice, in large part because Teddy Martin had contributed heavily to his causes. He was less well known for the violent, hair-trigger temper that he has frequently shown toward the young men whom he supplies with heroin.
As we passed, he was telling the reporter, “I’ve known from the beginning that Teddy is innocent, and this proves it. Teddy has been a force for good in our community for years. He’s stood by us, and now it’s our turn to stand by him. I can’t understand why the district attorney has this vendetta.” Other reporters were spread through the crowd, interviewing other supporters.
The entry was wide and long and opened onto a great room that flowed outside through a line of French doors. The floors were Spanish tile and the decor was western, with plenty of rich woods and bookshelves and oil paintings of cattle and horses. An original Russell hung over a great stone fireplace. Behind the French doors were a pool and a pool house and, still farther back, a tennis court. Maybe a half dozen of Kerris’s security people were standing around, trying to be unobtrusive and not having a lot of luck at it. The grounds were lush and dramatically lit, and waiters and waitresses moved through the crowd, offering wine and canapés. Maybe three hundred people were drifting through the house and around the pool. Lucy said, “This is beautiful.”
