Sunset Express

by Robert Crais

  Pike said, “I tried calling her, but the phone’s off the hook.”

  “How about I pick you up?”

  He hung up without answering. Lucy had come inside, and Ben was still on the deck. I said, “We’ve got to go see about Rossi.”

  Lucy nodded. “I thought you might. I’ve got the meeting later in Long Beach. I’ll take Ben.”

  “Sure.”

  She started away, then turned back. “I liked seeing you together with him.”

  I smiled, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask what was going on with her former husband, but I didn’t want to press her. I wanted to be supportive, but sometimes support can be oppressive. Maybe it would work itself out. Maybe, too, it was none of my business. I decided to give her some room. Giving them room is often the better part of valor, especially when you’re trying not to make things worse.

  I showered and dressed, and then I drove down to Culver City and found Joe waiting at the curb. Pike slid into the right front seat and closed the door without a word. He buckled the seat belt and still didn’t say anything. I guess he was angry, too.

  It was a few minutes after nine when we drove to the beach, then turned south to the Marina and slowed at the mouth of Angela Rossi’s cul-de-sac. We would’ve turned onto her street, but we couldn’t because of the news vans jamming the cul-de-sac and spilling out onto Admiralty Way. Knots of reporters and camera people were clustered on the sidewalks and in the street, and a couple of women who were probably Rossi’s neighbors were arguing with a short, stocky guy in a sport coat. Apparently, his van was blocking their drive. Apparently, they wanted the reporters to lay off Rossi and get out of their neighborhood. Pike said, “Look at this crap.”

  We parked across Admiralty and walked back. A beefy reporter sitting in a Blazer did a double take when we passed, then hurried after us, asking if he could have a word. He reached Pike first and Pike seemed to give a lurch, and then the reporter sat down on the street hard, going “Omph!”

  Pike didn’t lose a step. “No comment.”

  I guess some interviews are harder than others.

  We walked past the reporters to the front gate. The thin man with the glasses and an older woman were telling an attractive red-haired reporter that they weren’t going to let her in, when the thin man recognized me and shook his finger at me. “It’s you. You lied to me when you were here. You weren’t looking for anyone named Keith!”

  I said, “Would you please tell Detective Rossi that Joe Pike and I would like to see her?”

  The red-haired reporter turned and yelled for her camera operator to hurry up. She yelled that she wanted a shot of this.

  The thin man kept shaking his finger. “You’re a prick. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Joe Pike stepped to the gate and murmured something that I couldn’t hear. Pike didn’t seem threatening now. He seemed gentle and calming. The woman went to Rossi’s front door. I guess she was the thin man’s wife.

  The red-haired reporter’s camera operator hustled up behind us and began taping. The reporter asked if I had any additional information implicating or incriminating Angela Rossi. She asked if I was here to get a statement from Rossi or to follow up a line of inquiry. I kept my back to her. I stared at the hamper filled with Nerf balls. I stared at the red bike.

  The thin man’s wife came back and let us through the gate. The red-haired reporter tried to push through, but the wife shoved her back, yelling, “Don’t you dare!” The thin man wasn’t happy that I was coming in.

  Joe Pike rapped at the door once, then opened it, and we stepped through into Angela Rossi’s life.

  It was a nice place, roomy and spacious, though the furnishings weren’t expensive, just a sofa and love seat arranged in an L, and a BarcaLounger. I guess she’d put all of the money into buying the place and hadn’t had a lot left over for furniture. A woman and a man were standing behind the love seat, and another woman was sitting on the couch, and two little boys were sitting on the floor, the smaller sitting in the larger’s lap. I guess the boys belonged to Rossi. I guess the adults were friends or family come to lend support. Off-duty cops, maybe, but maybe not. Everyone in the room was looking at me. Even the boys.

  Angela Rossi was standing by the sofa with her arms crossed. Her cheeks looked hollow and her eyes were dark and haunted. I said, “I wanted to tell you that I didn’t have anything to do with this. I told Green that you were clean. He told me that he bought it. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Like she was numb.

  Joe said, “Angie.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t do those things. I didn’t frame that guy.”

  Joe said, “I know.”

  Angela Rossi looked confused. “I don’t know why she’s lying. She seemed like such a nice woman.”

  I said, “We’ll talk to her. We’ll get this straightened out.”

  Angela Rossi said, “It won’t matter. I’m done with the job.”

  Joe stiffened and shook his head once. “Don’t say that, Angela. You’re not.”

  “So what kind of career will I have when it’s over?” She walked past us to the window and peeked out. “I can’t believe that all these people have nothing better to do.” She looked back. “Can you?”

  All of them kept staring. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. My eye still hurt where she’d hit me, and I was thinking that maybe she ought to hit me again. “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.” She shrugged, no big deal.

  Joe said, “We’ll help you fight it.”

  “Nothing to help. I’ve decided to resign.”

  Joe leaned forward. His dark lenses seemed to blaze. “Don’t resign. You’re too good to resign.”

  She said, “Oh, Joe.”

  Pike was leaning so far forward he seemed to sway.

  “They’ve taken everything away, but that’s okay. I just have to survive this, and I know I can.” She smiled when she said it, as if she were at peace with all of this.

  Joe said, “What’s wrong with you?” His voice was so soft I could barely hear him.

  Angela Rossi’s left eye began to flutter, then grew wet, and I had the sense that if she were fine china there would be a webwork of spider-silk cracks spreading beneath her surface. She held up her right hand and said, “Please go now.”

  Pike nodded, and I started to say something else, but then she turned the hand to me, and I nodded, too.

  21

  We left Angela Rossi’s and walked out to the car. The whiny reporter who had once been a lawyer saw us first and ran toward us, shouting, “They’ve come out! They’ve come out!” The rest of the reporters stayed back, shifting their feet and keeping their distance. Pike raised a palm at the whiny reporter, and he stopped, too. I guess word had spread, or maybe it was in our faces.

  We drove slowly, neither of us speaking, and worked our way out of the Marina, up through Venice, and along the beach. It was automatic driving, going through the motions without conscious thought or direction, movement without destination or design. Pike hunkered low in the passenger’s seat, his face dark in the bright sun, his dark lenses somehow molten and angry. It is not good to see Joe Pike angry. Better to see a male lion charge at close quarters. Better to hear someone scream, “Incoming!”

  I said, “Where do you want to go?”

  His head swiveled sideways maybe half an inch.

  “How about we just drive?”

  His head moved up, then down. Maybe half an inch.

  “Okay. We’ll drive.”

  We followed Ocean Avenue up through Venice and along the bluff above the beach, Pike as still as an undisturbed lake. We stopped for a light on Ocean Park, and I watched the joggers and bikers and smiling young women with deep tans who dotted the bike paths along the bluff. Everyone was smiling. Happy people having a great time on a beautiful day. What could be better than that? Of course, they could be happy because they hadn’t just come from
Angela Rossi’s house. It’s always easy to smile when you haven’t helped destroy an innocent person’s life.

  The light turned green, and a red Toyota pickup filled with surfers and surfboards blew their horn behind us. The driver yelled for us to get out of the way, and Joe Pike floated up out of his seat and twisted around, and when he did the honking stopped and the Toyota jammed into reverse and sped away at high speed. Backwards.

  I said, “Well. I guess we’d better talk about this before we kill somebody.”

  Pike frowned. His arms were knotted and tight, and the veins in his forearms were large. His dark glasses caught the bright sun, looking hot enough to sear flesh. The red arrow tattoos on his deltoids were as bright as arterial blood. I wondered if the idiots in the Toyota knew how close they’d come.

  I said, “It isn’t just Angela Rossi, is it?”

  Pike’s head moved from side to side one time.

  “You don’t like the cops we know thinking that we’re part of this. You don’t like people thinking that you and I believe this garbage or had a part in destroying an innocent woman’s life.”

  Pike’s head moved again. Just a bit. Just the smallest of moves.

  “But that’s the way it looks.”

  Pike’s jaw rippled with tension.

  We went to a Thai place a few blocks up from the beach. It was still shy of noon when we parked at the curb and went in. Early. It’s tiny place with beat-up Formica tables, and it was empty except for two women sitting at the single window table. The young guy who greeted us said we could sit where we liked. An older woman who was probably his grandmother was sitting at the table nearest the kitchen, snapping the stems off an enormous pile of snow peas and watching a miniature Hitachi television. She smiled and nodded, and I smiled back. I have never been in their restaurant when she was not snapping peas. We took a table near her, ordered two Thai beers, squid pad thai, vegetable fried rice, and seafood curry. The little woman was watching the midday news as she worked. Something about the Middle East.

  The beer came and I said, “Joe, I’m thinking that there is something larger here than an attorney’s zealous defense of his client.” The master of understatement.

  Pike cocked his head toward me.

  I told him about the connection between James Lester and Elliot Truly, and about Lester’s record. “Lester could be for real, and his tie to Truly could be a coincidence, but maybe it isn’t. Pritzik and Richards were killed before Lester called the hotline.”

  “Are you thinking he knew that?”

  “Say he knew them better than he let on. Say he knew that they had gone to Arizona and were dead, and figured that they would be the perfect crash-test dummies to take the heat for Susan Martin’s murder. Lester may have done a little homework and planted the evidence himself to take a shot at the reward.”

  “Or Truly might have helped him.”

  I nodded. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Because you have no proof.” The veins in his arms weren’t as prominent, and his tattoos had lost their glow. The danger of thermonuclear meltdown was passing.

  I shook my head. “No. Lester could be on the level, even though he’s a creep.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “Louise Earle is different. Kerris went to see her, and now she’s changed her story. I don’t buy that she was lying to me, and I don’t buy that Rossi held a gun to her head and made her lie six years ago. Rossi wouldn’t have done that, and Louise Earle wouldn’t have lied about it.”

  “If she wasn’t lying then, she’s lying now.”

  “Yes. But why?” The waiter brought our food, and the smells of mint and garlic and curry were strong. He set out the dishes and said, “We make spicy. Like always.”

  “Great.”

  When the waiter was gone, Pike said, “Because the law is war, and to defeat the prosecution Green must do two things. He must float a viable theory for what happened to Susan Martin, and he must discredit the prosecution’s theory.”

  “Okay.”

  “Lester gives him the alternative theory. The business with Rossi gives him a way to discredit the prosecution’s evidence.”

  “If Rossi framed LeCedrick Earle, she’s also framing Teddy Martin.”

  Pike nodded. “Yes.” Pike twisted toward the Hitachi and said, “Listen.”

  Jonathan Green was on the noon news. The lead story was Elliot Truly’s connection to James Lester, also known as Stuart Langolier. Green was announcing that James Lester had revealed to a defense investigator that he had once been known as Stuart Langolier and, under that name, had once been represented by Elliot Truly. Green said that it was his understanding that Mr. Truly had no recollection of Mr. Lester as a client and added that the defense team had immediately notified the district attorney’s office to mitigate the appearance of a conflict and to allow them the opportunity for a complete investigation. I said, “He’s doing just what he said.”

  Pike grunted. “Covering his ass.”

  The little woman noticed that we were watching the TV and turned the Hitachi so that it would be easier for us to see.

  The news anchor shifted the story to the charges against Angela Rossi and cut to the same tape of Louise Earle that I’d seen last night, Mrs. Earle crying as she charged that Angela Rossi had framed her son, saying that the police had made her lie before, saying that they had threatened her. The tears looked real. Her pain looked real. Jonathan Green was standing next to her. Elliot Truly was standing behind them. Everyone looked oh-so-concerned.

  Pike turned away. “I can’t look at this.”

  I stared at the Hitachi. I watched Green and I watched Louise Earle, and it just didn’t make sense. “If what we’re thinking about Lester and Louise Earle is true, why would a guy like Jonathan Green risk who he is and what he does?”

  “Because he’s an asshole.” The world according to Pike.

  I said, “Lizard people.”

  Pike’s glasses gleamed. “We can talk about this forever, but the only way we’re going to find out what’s going on with these people is to ask them.”

  The young waiter was watching us. He didn’t like it that we hadn’t touched the food, and he looked concerned. He said something to the little woman. She frowned at us and seemed to share his concern.

  The waiter came over and wanted to know if anything was wrong. Pike looked at him and stood. “Probably. But if there is we’ll fix it.”

  We picked up the Santa Monica Freeway and drove to Louise Earle’s home in Olympic Park. We knocked twice, and rang the bell three times, but she didn’t answer. Pike said, “I’ll look in back.”

  Pike disappeared around the side of the house. The day was bright, and the same three girls were across the street, whiling away their summer on their porch. I waved and they waved back. Getting to be old friends. Pike reappeared from the opposite side. “She’s not home.”

  “Then let’s see Lester.”

  We climbed back onto the freeway and worked our way east past Pasadena to La Puente and James Lester’s house.

  Lester’s home was unchanged from the last time I was there. The yard was still dead, the Fairlane was still rusted, and everything was still covered with fine gray sand. We parked at the curb and walked across the gray soil to the house. The front door was open, and music was coming from the house. The George Baker Selection doing “Little Green Bag.” When we got closer, Pike said, “Smell it?”

  “Yep.” The sweet rope smell of hashish was coming from the house.

  When we reached the door we didn’t have to knock. Jonna Lester was sitting on the couch, sucking hard on a glass pipe, the little electric fans arcing back and forth as they scattered her hash smoke. She was wearing a Michigan State University T-shirt and short-shorts and the clear plastic clogs. Her left eye was red and blue and swollen almost closed, and the bottoms of the clogs were crudded with something dark, as if she’d stepped through mud. She smiled stupidly when she saw me and waved the pipe at he
r eye. “Helps with the pain. You wanna smoke a bowl?”

  I opened the screen door and we went in. There was another smell in the room, just beneath the dope. I tilted her face to better see the eye. “James do this?”

  She pulled away from me and waved the pipe again. “It’ll be the last time, yessireebob.” She took another pull on the pipe.

  “We need to see him.”

  Jonna Lester giggled. “He’s in the bathroom. It’s his favorite room in the house. He always said that.” She giggled again.

  “Would you tell him we want to see him, please?” The other smell felt wet and old, like melons that had gone soft with age.

  Jonna Lester sank back on the couch. “This is such a cool song.”

  Joe Pike walked over to the radio and turned it off. Jonna Lester screwed up her face and said, “Hey!”

  I called, “James?”

  Jonna Lester pushed to her feet and angrily waved toward the back of the house. “He’s back there, you wanna see the sonofabitch so bad. C’mon, I’ll show ya.”

  Pike and I looked at each other, and then Pike took out his .357 Python and held it down along his leg. We followed her out of the living room and across a square little hall to the bathroom. It was an old bathroom, built sometime back in the fifties, with a buckled linoleum floor and corroded fixtures and a brittle glass shower door, the kind that can hurt you bad if you fall through it. Jonna Lester stopped in the door and waved the hash pipe. “Here he is. Talk to the sonofabitch all you want.”

  I said, “Oh, man.”

  James Lester was lying through the broken shower door, half in the tub and half out, impaled on half a dozen jagged glass spikes. His head was almost severed, and the walls and the tub and the buckled linoleum were sprayed with gouts of dark red blood that looked not unlike wings raised toward heaven.

  We had wanted to ask James Lester about Pritzik and Richards and the fabrication of evidence, but now he wasn’t around to answer our questions. Neither were Pritzik and Richards.

  Funny how that works. Isn’t it?

  22

  I got as close to the body as I could without stepping in blood. Jonna Lester’s footprints were already on the linoleum from an earlier visit, but there didn’t seem to be any other marks or tracks or signs of passage. There was a single small window at the far end of the bathroom above the toilet, open for the air. The window’s screen was dirty and torn, but was hooked from the inside and appeared undisturbed. Metallic black flies bumped against the screen, drawn by the blood. I said, “Did you touch anything?”