by A. D. Miller
Ruiz rubbed a gloved finger under her eye and shrugged. “Could be days; could be weeks. We’ve got cases piling up right and left.”
“Including the murder of Eric Trujillo?”
Frowning, she put the jeans back in the bag. “The name’s familiar. When was he killed?”
“Saturday night. Or at least his body was found early Sunday morning. On Skid Row.”
“Oh—that. Yeah, I was talking to O’Bannon about that. You think there’s a connection to this case?”
Nyman told her about Trujillo’s friendship with Alana Bell. “Some people think they saw his body get dumped out of a red sedan.”
Ruiz put the bag back on the counter. “Interesting. You want to see it?”
“See what?”
“Trujillo’s body.”
Flushing above his mask, Nyman said that he would, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
“No trouble at all.”
She led him out of the suite and down to the series of small, interconnected rooms in which corpses lay stacked in plastic sheeting. One body had been set apart from the others; it lay alone on a shelf by the door, the feet dangling over the stainless-steel edge.
Stripping away the plastic, Ruiz revealed the handsome, acne-marked face Nyman had seen once before, under the 4th Street bridge. The brown eyes—flecked with gold, like his daughter’s—were half-closed. On the left side of his chest was a small opening in the skin, less than an inch in length, with brown crusted blood along the edges and streaks of blood on the surrounding skin.
“Seems straightforward,” Ruiz said. “The wound’s clean and unabraded; judging by the width and depth, my guess would be something like a steak knife, but it’s hard to know for sure. The lack of defensive wounds suggests he didn’t have time to defend himself, or else wasn’t aware of what was happening. Depending on the internal damage, the death could’ve been fairly quick.”
Looking down at the gold-flecked eyes, Nyman said: “You’re sure it was the knife that killed him?”
“Reasonably. Of course we’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“What about suspects?”
“In Trujillo’s case, you mean, or Alana Bell’s?”
“Either.”
She shrugged. “Not my department anymore. Vista Hills P.D. are handling the Bell case, and O’Bannon’s handling Trujillo. I don’t think he’s found anything, though.”
“What about Vista Hills?”
“Same story. They brought a guy in for questioning, but I don’t think it led anywhere. Some witnesses say they saw him attack Alana a few days before she was killed.”
Nyman turned abruptly. “Who is he?”
“Not sure if they ever told me his name. He’s some kind of nightclub bouncer or something.”
“Fowler?”
Ruiz’s eyes narrowed. “Could be Fowler, yeah. That sounds familiar. Is he somebody you know?”
But Nyman was already moving to the door.
Chapter 40
Customers stood in a line along Sunset Boulevard, lit by the sign that hung above the laundromat beside the Rexford. Nyman parked in a lot on Laurel and made his way past the line and down to the auto-body shop at the end of the block.
He scaled the fence that separated the shop from the street, scaled the shorter fence that led into the alley, and came eventually to the back of the Rexford, where a bouncer was standing with his hands in his pockets, keeping watch over a drunken woman in a metallic dress.
She sat slumped on a folding chair with her elbows on her knees, trying not to be sick.
Nyman told the bouncer that he needed to see Fowler. “You can tell him it’s about Alana Bell.”
The bouncer was a short, stocky, boyish man in his twenties. “If you want to get in, you got to go around to the front, like everybody else.”
Nyman showed him the copy of his license. “Fowler’s already been questioned about the murder of a woman who was seen in your club. Now a second person’s dead. I don’t think this is something you want to put yourself in the middle of.”
The bouncer looked from the license to Nyman. “You expect me to believe that?”
“If you don’t,” Nyman said, “you can talk to Detective Timmons at Central Community station. He’ll be interested to know you’re impeding my investigation.”
“Wait a second. You’re serious about this?”
“Or you can talk to Ruiz at the coroner’s office. She’ll let you look at the two bodies your friend Fowler put in there. They’re about your age.”
“But Mr. Fowler’s not even here,” the man said, his voice breaking. “He got called out.”
“Out?”
“To Mr. Kovac’s house. In the Palisades. Ethan Kovac’s house.”
“When was this?”
“Just now. Thirty, forty minutes ago. I was in his office when he got the call.”
“You realize the trouble you’ll be in if I find out you’re lying?”
“I’m not lying. Ask anybody.”
Nyman, making a show of being reluctantly convinced, took a card from his wallet. “If he comes back tonight, you’ll let me know at this number?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
Beside them, the woman shook her head and said thickly: “Goddamn men.”
* * *
He was walking back to his car when his phone rang. The number on the screen belonged to the restaurant next door to his office. A man’s voice, rising above the clatter of dishes, came over the line before he could say hello.
“Tom? You there?”
“This is Tom, yes. Is this Martín?”
“He’s back.”
“What?”
“Your burglar friend. Hanging around your door.”
“Who is he?”
“You think I’m going out there to ask him? I’m washing up and going home.”
“You can’t see his face?”
“I’m not getting close enough to see anybody’s face, Tom. You want me to call the cops for you, I will, but I’m going home.”
“No, don’t call the cops,” Nyman said. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later he turned off the freeway and followed Sepulveda to his office. The parking lot was empty and the restaurant next door was deserted and dark. A faint light could be seen through the glass of his office door.
Parking at the end of the lot, beyond the light of the street lamps, he opened the trunk of his car, took out a long-handled flashlight, checked the bulb, and walked through the shadows to the door.
It opened to his touch. Stepping noiselessly into the entryway, he stood for a moment in semi-darkness, the flashlight raised but unlit. A sound of metal scraping metal came from the space behind his desk, where someone was kneeling on the floor, bent over the box in which he kept his petty cash.
The light of the desk lamp showed the curving back and short blonde hair of a young woman. In her hand was the carpenter’s hammer she was using to pry open the box.
Nyman let out the breath he’d been holding and lowered the flashlight. Not bothering to turn on the overhead light, he sat down in one of the chairs and said:
“There’s no money in it, Theresa.”
She jerked away from the box and stepped back, putting a hand on the wall. Her eyes, caught in the light of the lamp, were wide and yellow and frightened. Sweat covered her face and neck; the hammer quavered in her hand.
Nyman said: “Try the second drawer on the right. There should be an envelope taped to the underside. I keep a hundred there for emergencies.”
Her mouth opened and closed. It opened again and she said: “I can pay you back. Next week, I can pay you back.”
“We both know you’re not going to pay me back.”
“I will, though. I promise.”
“How’d you get the door open, anyway?”
She wore the same shirt he’d seen her in before. On the left sleeve, below the elbow, was a brown dot of dried blood.
>
“A friend of mine showed me,” she said.
“Showed you what?”
“How to pick a lock.”
“Nice friends you have these days.”
She tried to smile. “They don’t make friends like they used to, Tom.”
“If you’d asked me,” Nyman said, “I would’ve let you in myself.”
“That’s what I tried to do. I kept coming by, but you were never here. I went by the apartment, too.”
As she talked, without shifting her gaze from Nyman, she opened the middle drawer and ran her hand along the underside.
“Find it?” he asked.
She nodded. Pulling the envelope free of the tape, she opened the flap and counted the bills inside. The fear had gone out of her face; now her eyes were heavy-lidded and sluggish.
“I was thinking the other day about the first recital I saw you give,” Nyman said. “You remember that? Claire kept telling me how talented her little sister was and how I had to come and hear her play. I remember sitting there in the audience, thinking how alike the two of you were. Claire was so nervous and proud.”
Theresa put the envelope in her pocket. “Sorry, Tom. I don’t remember that.”
“No?”
“No. Sorry.”
“What about the first time she hurt herself, and you came with me to the hospital to see her? The nurse took us back to her bed, and you held onto my arm.”
“I don’t remember that either.”
“Yes you do, Theresa.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m not feeling well.”
Nyman said: “I talked to the guy I was telling you about. The one who plays at the Green Door. He says he’ll help you get some work lined up.”
Pale with nausea, she shook her head and moved unsteadily to the door. “I can’t do that stuff anymore, Tom. I haven’t played in years.”
Reaching for his wallet, Nyman took out the napkin with the Burbank address. “His name’s Ira. He’s a good guy.”
She said with sudden anger: “Why the hell does it matter to you? If I’m not interested, I’m not interested.”
“Maybe if you got interested again, you’d start feeling better.”
“You have no idea how I feel.”
“I’m not saying I do. But I want you to be happy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Find someone else to worry about, Tom. I’m not Claire, and I don’t need you.”
“You need my money, though?”
Her mouth opened in surprise and her hand went to her pocket, as if she’d already forgotten about the money. Lowering her gaze, she said she would pay him back.
“Pay me back by going to see Ira.”
“No, I mean with money. Next week I’ll have some and I’ll pay you then.”
“I don’t want money.” He rose from the chair and held out the napkin. “Just take it. As a favor to me.”
“I’m not going to see him.”
“Just take it and think about it. For me.”
Cursing, she snatched it from his hand and went out the door, turning toward the street and not looking back.
Nyman stood in the doorway and watched her go. When she was out of sight, he picked up the petty-cash box and put it back in his desk. Then he turned off the lamp, muttered something to the empty room, and went out to his car.
* * *
He left the coast highway at Channel Road and wound his way up into the Palisades, passing neighborhoods of deep leafy lawns and massive houses. Turning onto Kovac’s street, he doused the lights of his car and took his foot off the gas, letting it ease to a stop.
A black Mercedes was parked beside the ivy-covered wall that separated the house from the street. A little farther on, parked in the opposite direction, was a silver Nissan. Both were unoccupied.
Leaving his car behind the Nissan, he walked to the door that stood in the center of the wall and tried the handle. It didn’t turn. Glancing over his shoulder, he got a grip on the vines of the ivy, put his foot on the handle, hoisted himself to the top of the wall, and dropped down on the other side, crouching in the grass.
Moonlight shone on the glass-and-steel house. No lights were on inside and there was no sign of Kovac or his staff. A faint breeze brought the smell of seawater up from the beach below.
Moving silently, Nyman made his way around the house to the backyard, where the olive trees were dark shapes among the beds of sage and mallow. Beyond them, the guest house was filled with light.
He kneeled in the shadow of the trees. Through the glass walls, he could see the furniture in the front room and the strip of corkboard pinned with blueprints and architectural plans.
Kovac, his face flushed and distorted, stood in the center of the room, arguing with a man whose back was turned. When the man moved, Nyman recognized the bland face of the security director, Fowler. Dressed in a gray suit, he sat down on the couch and faced Kovac, smiling coldly as he listened.
A few feet from the couch, perched on the edge of a chair and taking no part in their argument, was Michael Freed.
Their voices didn’t carry through the glass. The only sounds were the hissing of the waves and the occasional hum of a passing car.
The argument seemed to be coming to an end. Fowler’s cold smile had given way to a look of contempt. He listened to the rest of what Kovac had to say, nodded, said something in reply, and walked to the door. Slamming it behind him, he crossed the backyard with angry strides and disappeared around the edge of the main house.
Nyman hesitated. In the guest house, Freed had moved closer to Kovac and the two men were talking calmly, unbothered by the other man’s exit.
Nyman watched them for another half-minute, then jogged after Fowler. He reached the front yard as the door was swinging shut in the wall.
Crossing the yard, he went through the door and out into the darkened street.
Fowler was waiting in the shadows.
Chapter 41
The first punch caught Nyman in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs; the second struck his temple, putting him on his knees in the gravel. Fowler took a pistol from his jacket and pressed it against the back of Nyman’s head.
Nyman’s breath came in ragged gasps. Fowler adjusted his grip on the gun and stepped back, keeping the gun steady. He edged toward the road until he had a view of Nyman’s face. Then he let the gun swing down to his side and said:
“Jesus Christ. What the hell are you doing here?”
Nyman sat down on the gravel. His eyes were pink and watering. When he’d caught his breath, he said in a hoarse voice:
“Kovac fire you?”
Fowler put away the gun and told Nyman to go to hell. “I’ve done enough talking for one night.”
He turned and walked to the Nissan.
Nyman forced himself to his feet and hobbled after him. He got to the car as Fowler was opening the driver’s door.
“He fired you, didn’t he?” Nyman said.
Fowler stopped with his hand on the door. “What makes you think it’s any of your business?”
Nyman said that it wasn’t. “But it makes sense that Kovac would do it. You got questioned by the cops. If he fires you, he shifts the blame. Makes you look like the guilty one.”
Fowler looked hard at Nyman, then at the part of Kovac’s house that was visible from the road.
“I’ve been with Koda six years,” he said. “One big family—that’s what he said we were.”
“Sounds like the family’s breaking up.”
“Yeah. Sounds like it.”
Nyman nodded in the direction of the canyon. “There’s a bar on Channel Road. Let me buy you a drink.”
“I don’t need your sympathy.”
“It’s not sympathy. It’s an exchange. I buy you a drink; you tell me what you did to Alana Bell.”
Slamming the door, Fowler came back around the car and pointed a finger at Nyman’s face. “I didn’t do a goddamn thing to her. She’s the one who attacked
me.”
“Alana? When?”
“The night she came to the Rexford. She talked to Kovac for a few minutes, then stormed out when he said he wouldn’t abandon the project. He told me to go after her. Told me to try and talk some sense into her.”
“And knock her around if she wouldn’t cooperate?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. When I caught up to her she was on Laurel, walking over to her car. I said her name; she ignored me. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned around and attacked me, fists and everything. I pushed her away and told her she was crazy. That was the end of it.”
“And the bruise on her cheek?”
Hesitating, Fowler said: “That might’ve been from me pushing her. She hit the ground pretty hard.”
“And later? When you killed her?”
“For Christ’s sake, you think I’m that stupid? Why would I kill her? She was nothing to me. Kovac wanted her to stop fighting the new development—fine. That’s his problem. It had nothing to do with me.”
“Unless Kovac ordered you to kill her.”
Fowler laughed and turned away. “If that’s what you think, you don’t know anything about anything. Kovac wouldn’t kill anybody.”
“Who would, then?”
Fowler started to lower himself into the car, then stopped. Looking at Nyman, he nodded to Kovac’s house. “If I were you, I’d take a closer look at your friend Freed.”
He shut the door and started the engine.
* * *
Nyman went back to his car and sat behind the wheel. He took the peanuts from the glovebox and ate them mechanically, watching Kovac’s house. When the peanuts were gone he smoked cigarettes. An hour and a half later, Freed came out and climbed into the black Mercedes.
Nyman waited for the Mercedes to get midway down the road, then put his car in gear.
* * *
It was ten minutes to three when Freed pulled into the driveway of his house in Los Feliz. Nyman, following a block behind, continued to the end of the cul-de-sac and parked along the curb.
Freed got out of the Mercedes and mounted the steps of the porch. A light came on in the front room as he took the keys from his pocket; the door opened and Sarah stood framed in the doorway, dressed in the same clothes Nyman had seen her in earlier. Freed pushed by her without speaking and shut the door.
