In what passed for a lobby, an ancient black woman in a nightgown that didn’t cover as much of her thick legs as it should have, sat in a green plastic chair. She watched a television in the corner that was surprisingly new. There was no sound and Brant was sure the thick film over her eyes kept her from reading the closed captioning running across the bottom of the screen, but the flickering images of the game show must have kept her entertained.
Brant ignored the sleeping man seated behind the open counter where dealers and hookers would ask for keys to their favorite rooms and went up the curving, creaking staircase to the third floor. He was winded and rested a hand on the sticky rail for a moment as he caught his breath. 2F was straight ahead, the only room with a metal number hanging on the door; the rest were hand-painted where theirs used to be. Brant unholstered his gun, checked to make sure he wasn’t panting anymore, and headed to 2F. Gun at his side, he kept moving and bent his left shoulder slightly as he reached the door, swinging from the waist to get his full weight behind it. The door popped open like a plywood balloon and Brant barreled into the small square space with his gun rising to point at the head of the man lying on the narrow bed.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Sitting in traffic, waiting to exit onto Santa Monica Blvd and get back to his office, Margolin succumbed to the inevitable and checked the voicemail on his cellphone. Three calls from Councilman Gerald Harte. All three were the exact same, even the tone identical with an undercurrent of fear and threat.
“Call me immediately.”
Margolin deleted all three messages and, before he lost his nerve, pushed Callback to connect to the Councilman’s private cell number. It answered almost before the first ring was complete.
“Do you know the election is in less than eight weeks? Do you know what the chances are of me becoming mayor if you don’t take care of your dirty laundry?” Margolin recognized rhetorical questions when they were shot at him like daggers.
“Councilman, I can assure you I am doing everything necessary to take care of this. You will be…” He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Gerald must have been taking lessons from Sheriff Brant.
“Cut the shit, Perry. We both know if you get in enough trouble, you’ll squeal like a pig on the way to a barbeque to reduce the pain. I don’t know who else you’ve got in your little circle, but I’m sure I’m top of the list for when you roll over.”
Margolin didn’t respond, not because it was rhetorical but because he knew anything he said would sound like a lie. Gerald wasn’t done. “And you better know that whatever pain they cause you…it won’t be nearly as bad as the hell you’ll face if you open your mouth…” The threat, coming from a man as powerful as Harte, should have scared Margolin. But compared to the image of Brant putting the barrel of his pistol in Margolin’s mouth and screaming an inch from his face before pulling the trigger – though just a fantasy for the moment but probably not that far from reality – made this mild threat seem almost laughable. Harte could make Margolin miserable, but Brant could make him dead.
“You have my word, Gerald. I am as motivated as you are.” The silence held, and Margolin could hear street sounds over the phone. Harte must have stepped outside his office building to take the call. The gentle background music of people and cars passing continued and Margolin knew Harte had more to say. He waited.
The Councilman took an audible breath, cleared his throat, and the tone of his voice was lower, heavier. In an almost-whisper, he added, hesitantly, “I’ll be at…at the Regency tomorrow evening for an event. It’ll be over around 11. I’d like…” Margolin let the sentence trail off and waited a few more seconds.
“I’ll take care of it, Gerald. You have an excellent evening, now.” He disconnected the call and shook his head just as the traffic started to loosen and allow him to swing onto the off-ramp. Human nature should never shock him, yet did almost every day.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The perfectly coiffed dreadlocks never left the pillow, despite the Glock pointing at his forehead. Flawlessly clean wife-beater tucked into green fatigues, heavy boots laced and crossed at the ankles. Stretched out on the bed, dark skin like a void against the threadbare, spotless white sheet and pillowcase, he didn’t interrupt the motion he’d started before the hotel door had burst open. A potato chip flicked off his fingers and into his mouth, eyes only slowly leaving the small television, the picture crisp and clear because even the scummiest downtown vagrant hotel had basic cable.
“’Sup, Officer Do-right.” The drawl was more southern than street.
“Losing your touch, douchebag. I coulda ended your worthless life while you were still stuffing your face and watching cartoons.” Brant lowered the gun but didn’t put it in the holster.
Ching gave the Sheriff a wan smile. “You a big fuckin’ redneck. I heard you ‘fore you hit the first step. Just showin’ a little respect, thass all.” The hand that had been taking chips out of a huge open bag resting on this stomach went for another one and before it had fished one out, the other hand that had been tucked behind Ching’s head was suddenly holding a gun pointed at Brant’s belly. Fast as he was, Ching had to laugh because Brant’s revolver was already pointing back at his head. Cop was quick, or maybe just knew better than to lower his gun near a stone-cold killer like Ching. Didn’t matter, because if he’d been of a mind to take out the sweaty cracker, he’d do it and take whatever came. But this was about business.
“Okay, po-lice. What you want? I already got my marchin’ orders.”
Brant held the gun steady until the scrawny arm that he knew had used a knife or a gun to kill at least three people, only one of which was just another scumbag ‘banger, had been lowered and the gun Ching held was back under the pillow. Brant’s gun stayed in his hand, but by his side.
“Dumb fuckin’ convict. Deal’s off. The guy’s already dead. Don’t you watch the news?” Brant looked at the television and noticed what was playing – the News Hour with Jim Lehrer on Channel 13. Never heard of it.
Ching laughed again. “Yeah, I know, but you ain’t here to read the papers to me. Whatchyou want? You here to take me back to jail ‘cause I ain’t your man of action no more?”
Brant reached into the pocket of his brown uniform shirt and pulled out a slip of paper torn from a Yellow Pages book. There was a name scrawled across one of the listings, in block letters and unidentifiable should anyone try to figure out who wrote it. He crossed the few steps to the bed and let the paper flutter down onto Ching’s stomach.
“Same deal. Same money. Ya got three days.” Brant didn’t think there was much chance of getting shot now and turned his back, heading to the door. He stopped and turned around. “Why they call you Ching? Your mother a chink or something”
A twinkle in his eye as he reached for the slip of paper and read the name written across the Yellow Page listing for a sandwich shop: Furyk. “Cha-ching, baby, Cha-fucking-ching.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Brentwood had two parts. The Wick’s lived in the multi-million dollar homes that were insanely expensive if they were on a tiny plot of land and astronomical if sitting on a half acre or more. The other part of Brentwood comprised a series of side streets a mile or so up San Vicente Blvd, with its wide grassy median and meandering flow straight to the beach. Those streets were filled with condos and apartments, which were filled with single professionals, students with rich parents, and some hard-working stiffs who got a deal on rent and never let go. Prole had a one-bedroom place a couple blocks off the main drag. They were all good neighborhoods, with a Starbucks or Peete’s Coffee within walking distance no matter which street you lived on and plenty of sometimes actors and writers filling up the outside seats at them all. Prole liked buzzing the pedestrians in crosswalks with her car as she cut down the side streets to find her little third-floor walk-up where no one could find her but she was never really alone. Dusk came at the absurd hour of seven p.m. in September and she had her headlights on as
she pulled into her spot next to the pristine Hummer that hogged a space and a half next to her. She banged it out of habit as she opened her door and again when she opened the rear driver’s side door to retrieve the bag with the half-chicken and mashed potato dinner she’d tossed in the back after picking it up at the drive-through at El Pollo Loco. The Crazy Chicken – she always wondered why no one ever worried about Mad Chicken Disease.
Taking the internal steps from the parking area up to her floor, she had her keys in the other hand as she walked along the balcony that ran the length of each floor, like a hotel, and rounded the corner to reach the door of her apartment. The landlord hadn’t replaced the bulb in the lamp that hung from the eave halfway between her apartment and the next one down the walkway. In the shadowy twilight, she saw a man leaning against the wall just past her door, ankles crossed, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. She thought about how fast she could drop the bag of food, reach for her gun, and shoot him dead on the spot, but the pizza box he held was emanating the warm aroma of pepperoni, so she opened her apartment door instead.
“At least you brought pizza, tough guy. Thanks for calling ahead. I coulda shot you.”
Furyk put the slightly mangled cigarette back into his pocket and followed her in.
Chapter Fifty-Six
“I need to talk, Perry. It’s important.” Margolin smiled at Merrill as they sat in the living room where less than a week before he’d navigated through a room full of police, crime scene investigators, and the door leading to the body of his dead friend. Now it was preternaturally quiet, the two security guards in the driveway keeping an eye out for looky-loos and Cheyenne still not back in the house. Merrill looked calm, though there was an excitement in her eyes that suggested a determination not familiar to him. Extinguishing it was top of his list.
“I know, dear, we will. I want you calm and clearheaded first.” She didn’t object to the obvious disconnect, that she was already thinking clearly and that’s why she wanted to talk. He handed her a glass of water as she sat on the couch and he hovered nearby, then took the two yellow pills off the glass coffee table in front of her. “This will help, just to reduce the anxiety.”
Merrill wanted to object, didn’t feel like she needed to take anything. She’d been in a fog off and on for weeks and Carl had said the pills he’d given her would help, but they only seemed to make it worse. The ones Perry held cupped in his hand for her to take looked different, and probably Perry knew best. She ignored her creeping desire not to take anything and picked the coated pills from his hand, one at a time, and sipped enough water to help them go down smoothly. Looking up at Perry, she gave him a weak smile. He took the glass from her and sat down on the couch, knees almost touching.
“Let’s just take a few minutes, give you time to gather your thoughts. Then we can talk about Carl. And you.”
Merrill watched her husband’s best friend smile and felt him pat her gently on the knee. Like a psychiatrist calming a patient. She did feel better, she had to admit. A little lightheaded, but more relaxed. She knew now that she could completely trust Perry, that he would take care of her. She was safe. Her smile grew stronger as her focus faded. Perry began to talk about the night of the murder and it sounded perfectly reasonable.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“Merrill Wick didn’t kill her husband.” Furyk sat at the small kitchen table in the apartment he’d never been to before, looking around at the detritus of half a dozen carry-out meals that probably dated back a couple of weeks. He was afraid to think what the bathroom might look like. He took another bite of the folded-over slice of pizza, eating the way you do if you’re hurrying to a meeting, trotting down 7th Avenue in New York after stopping at one of the sell-by-the-slice places on every corner. Prole stood over the sink and scarfed hers down the traditional way.
Her reply was slightly garbled, trying to escape a mouthful of cheese and crust. “Bullshit.”
Prole looked good, untucked blouse and bare feet, shoes kicked off as she walked in the door but blouse already pulled out of the high-waisted slacks while still driving home. Furyk didn’t let her see his appreciation, wanting to avoid having her react and smack him upside the head.
She swallowed enough to follow up. “We don’t need to worry ‘bout building a case since Slick Perry is going to take a plea deal. Nutso wife offs her cheating hubby, or something like that. That’s just my opinion.”
Furyk took a few sips of beer. Cheap stuff, but cold. “And if she didn’t do it?”
Prole got the implication and gave him a sneer as she picked up her matching bottle. “Yeah, that’s right, what I want most in the world is for some innocent rich chick to spend a few years in a nut house while a killer walks free.” The sneer faded, mostly because she didn’t really feel it and knew Furyk was asking a reasonable question. “Besides, you wanting to save a stray isn’t a very good defense.”
“What was the window the coroner gave for time of death?”
“Funny you should ask. The guy’s as smart as he is goofy. Figured from the lung puncture that Wick lived 41 minutes after the attack, give or take a few. Counted the number of breaths and blood flow, or something. Seemed pretty sure. So figuring the loving wife isn’t lying about seeing him die and the loyal daughter called the cops right away, at 11:43, then she shoved the knife into him around 11:00 p.m. Why, you got an alibi? Maybe you were watching the late news with her around then?” Prole laughed at her own joke.
Furyk got up and walked toward Prole. She kept a wary eye on him, bottle still in her hand. He passed her and went to the fridge. A purple pen hung from a small erasable white board by a length of threadbare red yarn. The board was covered with doodles, phone numbers, and cryptic notes, the ink dry and crusted. Furyk used the moisture on his hand from the cold beer bottle to wipe clean the middle of the board, getting a film of purple on his palm.
“Hey, I need that stuff!” She didn’t. The board probably hadn’t been used in months.
Furyk wrote three numbers in a column. 11:00 p.m., 11:17 p.m., 11:43 p.m. Across from the first he wrote: Stabs husband. Then across from the second: Buys crap on television. And across from the final time: Goes down to watch husband die.
Prole had finished her beer while he’d been writing and stared at the board. Brushing Furyk aside, she pulled open the fridge door and got another, twisted the cap, and took a sip.
“Okay, genius, what’s this? Prime time programming line-up?”
Furyk went around her and sat back down at the tiny table. “Merrill stabs her husband a dozen times in the kitchen. Then she goes up to her room, catches a few minutes of TV and orders some Elvis lamp or tiny figurines or whatever by phone, then pops back down to the kitchen to see how Carl is doing. I saw the receipt and time-stamp from the purchase. Make sense to you?”
Prole shook her head. “And I thought you were the Great Detective – or ex-detective. So there’s a receipt. Anyone could order stuff and have it sent anywhere. Doesn’t mean shit.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right – the daughter must have called on her cell phone from the movie that was just letting out and ordered the crap. Go ahead and pull the logs. While you’re there, just for fun, do the same for the telephone line in the Wick’s bedroom. Just to prove that’s not where the call came from.”
“Okay, it’s easy enough to find out. I’ll check it. But even if, so what? She’s nuts. Didn’t Dahmer catch some TV between killing and eating those guys? Makes sense to me.”
Furyk knew he’d caught her attention. Prole would check it out the next day. It wouldn’t make sense if that’s what the records showed. Merrill didn’t kill Wick. Furyk was sure.
“Pizza’s cold. Want to go get some real dinner?”
Prole laughed and finished her second beer, but hesitated for a second before pointing the bottle at the door. An image of Tina coming out of Furyk’s house the other night hung vividly in her mind. “Get outta here.”
Furyk smiled and grabbed a
nother piece of pizza as he left the table. He liked it when Prole punched him on the arm as he went by and out the door.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Ching didn’t have to be smart to do what he did, but it helped. He knew the best way to take a guy out was from a distance. It was safer and it left fewer clues. Fewer witnesses, too, because a gunshot from across the street or a moving car scared people and they didn’t remember or want to remember what they saw. You walk up to a man and stick a knife in, people notice that and get a good look at you and the dead guy at the same time. The only problem was Ching liked to see them die. Wanted to see the light go out in their eyes. Smell the piss running down their legs, or worse. So he compromised. He’d cripple them first, maybe a kneecap or stomach shot. Then he’d go over and finish them off with a knife or a bat. Only if no one else was around, though. Felt better that way, not anonymous or anything, but it gave him the element of surprise. A lot of the guys he took out were always looking over their shoulder, and it was hard to get close. So he stuck with his plan. Get them someplace quiet, not too far from where people were around but not right there – like an alley, or a parking lot. Plenty of cover but not so deserted he couldn’t find a crowd to blend in to..
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