“One of who?”
“The fuckheads. She was, but not him. He, like, stood out.”
“Stood out how?”
“Straight.”
“Businessman?”
“Nah.”
“What then?”
Gabray shrugged.
“Was he wearing a suit, Robert?”
Gabray smoked hard and thought. “Nah. Kinda like you—Sears Roebuck, that kind of jacket.” Drawing his hands across his waist.
“A windbreaker?”
“Yeah.”
“What color?”
“I dunno—dark. It was a long—”
“Time ago,” said Milo. “What else was he wearing?”
“Pants, shoes, whatever. He looked like you.” Smile. Smoke.
“In what way?”
“I dunno.”
“Heavyset?”
“Yeah.”
“My age?”
“Yeah.”
“My height?”
“Yeah.”
“Same hair as me?”
“Yeah.”
“You have two dicks?”
“Ye—Huh?”
“Cut the crap, Robert. What was his hair like?”
“Short.”
“Bald or a full head?”
Gabray frowned and touched his own bare dome. “He had hair,” he said grudgingly.
“Beard or mustache?”
“I dunno. It was far.”
“But you don’t remember any facial hair?”
“No.”
“How old was he?”
“I dunno—fifty, forty, whatever.”
“You’re twenty-nine and he was much older than you?”
“Eight. Next month I’m twenty-nine.”
“Happy birthday. He was older than you?”
“A lot older.”
“Old enough to be your father?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Nah—not old enough. Forty, forty-five.”
“Hair color?”
“I dunno—brown.”
“Maybe or definitely?”
“Probably.”
“Light or dark brown?”
“I dunno. It was nighttime.”
“What color was her hair?”
“You got the picture there.”
Milo shoved the photo in the barkeep’s face. “Is this what she looked like when you saw her?”
Gabray pulled back and licked his lips. “Uh-uh—it was … her hair was different.”
“Sure it was,” said Milo. “It was sitting on an intact skull.”
“Yeah—no—I mean the color. You know, yellow. Real yellow—like scrambled eggs. You could see it in the light.”
“She was under a light?”
“I guess … yeah. The two a them were—a streetlight. Just for a sec, till they heard me and split.”
“You didn’t tell the other detectives about any light.”
“They didn’t ask.”
Milo lowered the picture. Gabray smoked and looked away.
Milo said, “What were Ms. Herbert and this straight-looking guy doing under the light?”
“Talking.”
“His hair wasn’t blond?”
“I told you, hers was. You could see it, man—it was like a … banana.” Gabray chuckled.
“And his was brown.”
“Yeah. Hey, if this is so important, how come you’re not writing it down?”
“What else do you remember about him, Robert?”
“That’s it.”
“Middle-aged, dark windbreaker, dark hair. That’s not much to trade with, Robert.”
“I’m telling you what I saw, man.”
Milo turned his back on Gabray and looked at me. “Well, we tried to help him.”
“You got someone, like tight?” said the bartender.
Milo kept his back turned. “What do you mean, Robert?”
“Tight case, man. I don’t want to be telling you something and have some dude walk on some Miranda or something and come looking for me, you know?”
“You haven’t told me much, Robert.”
“You got someone tight?”
Milo pivoted slowly and faced him. “What I got is you, Robert, trying to jerk me around, withholding evidence on top of that brick in your trunk. I figure six months minimum—get the wrong judge, you might even be talking a year or so.”
Gabray held out his hands. “Hey, I just don’t want someone walking and coming after me. This guy was …”
“What?”
Gabray was silent.
“This guy was what, Robert?”
“A con—okay? He looked like serious business. A hard-case.”
“You could tell that from far away?”
“Some things you can tell, okay? The way he stood, I dunno. He had these shoes—big and ugly, like you get in the joint.”
“You could see his shoes?”
“Not up close—the light. But they were big—I seen shoes like that before. Whaddya want from me—I’m trying to help.”
“Well, Robert, don’t you worry. There’s no one in custody.”
“What if?” said Gabray.
“What if what?”
“I tell you and ’cause a that you bust him? How do I know he’s not gonna get out and come looking for me?”
Milo held up the photo again. “Look what he did, Robert. What do you think? We’re gonna let him walk?”
“That don’t mean nothing to me, man. I don’t have confidence in the system.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. I see guys all the time, do bad stuff and walk on technos.”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Milo. “What’s this world coming to? Listen, genius, we find him, he won’t walk. And you tell me something that’ll help me find him, you’ll walk too. With brownie points. Hell, Robert, all the points you’ll have, you’ll be able to screw up a couple more times and coast.”
Gabray smoked and tapped his foot and frowned.
“What is it, Robert?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Ah.” To me: “Let’s be real quiet.”
“His face,” said the bartender. “I seen it. But just for a second.”
“That so? Was he angry or anything?”
“Nah, just talking to her.”
“And what was she doing?”
“Listening. I thought when I saw it: this punk cunt’s listening to Mr. Straight. Don’t make sense.”
“Mr. Con.”
“Yeah. But he still didn’t fit the scene—all you see down there at that hour is freaks and beaners and niggers. And cops—I thought first that he was a cop. Then I thought that he looked like a con. Same difference.”
“What was he talking to her about?”
“I couldn’t hear it, man! It was—”
“Was he holding anything?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything.”
“You mean like to hurt her with? Nothing I saw. You really think he’s the one did her?”
“What did his face look like?”
“Regular … uh, kinda … square.” Gabray put the cigarette in his mouth and used his hands to frame a wobbly quadrangle. “A regular face.”
“Complexion?”
“He was white.”
“Pale, swarthy—on the dark side?”
“I dunno, just a white guy.”
“Same color as her?”
“She had on makeup—that real white shit they like? He was darker than that. Regular white. Normal.”
“Eye color?”
“I was too far away for that, man.”
“How far?”
“I dunno, half a block.”
“But you could see his shoes?”
“Maybe it was closer … I seen ’em. But I didn’t see no eye color.”
“How tall was he?”
“Taller than her.”
“Taller than you?”
“Uh �
�� maybe. Not much.”
“What’re you?”
“Five ten.”
“So he was what, five eleven or six feet?”
“Guess so.”
“Heavy build?”
“Yeah, but not fat, you know.”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be asking you.”
“Heavy—big—you know—like from working out. On the yard.”
“Muscular.”
“Yeah.”
“Would you remember this guy if you saw him again?”
“Why?” Another alarm flash. “You do got someone?”
“No. Would you remember him if you saw his picture?”
“Yeah, sure.” Flippantly. “I got a good memory. Put him in a lineup and I’ll give you a beaucoup ID, you treat me good.”
“You trying to hustle me, Robert?”
Gabray smiled and shrugged. “Taking care of biz.”
“Well,” said Milo, “let’s take care of some now.”
We took Gabray across the rear lot, walked through a rubble-filled ditch on the east side of the building, and got back on the street. The line at the front door hadn’t shrunk much. This time the bouncer noticed as we walked by.
Gabray said, “Yo, fuckin’ King Kong,” under his breath.
Milo said, “The guy with Ms. Herbert as big as James?”
Gabray laughed. “No—no way. That’s not human. That they got outa the fuckin zoo.”
Milo pushed him forward, questioning him all the way to the car without extracting anything further.
“Nice wheels,” said Gabray when we stopped at the Seville. “Get it from impound or something?”
“Hard work, Robert. That old Protestant ethic.”
“I’m Catholic, man. Used to be, anyway. All of that religion shit’s bullshit.”
Milo said, “Shut up, Robert,” and opened the trunk.
He removed the hard-shell case, put Gabray in the rear seat of the car, and got in next to him, leaving the door open for light. I stood outside and watched him open the case. Inside was a book that said IDENTIKIT. Milo showed Gabray transparencies with facial features drawn on them. Gabray selected some and put them together. When he was finished, a bland-looking Caucasian face gazed up. A face out of a Dick and Jane primer. Someone’s dad.
Milo stared at it, fixed it in place, wrote something down; then he had Gabray designate spots on a street map with a yellow marker. After a few more questions, he got out of the car. Gabray followed. Despite the warm breeze, the barkeep’s bare shoulders were fuzzed with goose bumps.
“Okay?” he said.
“For the time being, Robert. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but I’m gonna anyway: Don’t change addresses. Stay where I can reach you.”
“No prob.” Gabray started to walk away.
Milo blocked him with a straight-arm. “Meanwhile, I’m gonna be writing letters. One to your P.O. saying you worked here without telling him, another to Mr. Fahrizad and his buddies informing them you finked on them and that’s why the fire department’s closing them down, and a third to the IRS telling them you’ve been taking cash for God knows how long and not declaring it.”
Gabray bent at the waist as if seized by a cramp. “Oh, man—”
“Plus a report to the prosecutor on your weed thing, letting him know you were uncooperative and obstructive and a poor risk for plea bargain. I don’t like writing letters, Robert. Writing letters makes me grumpy. If I have to waste my time looking for you, I’m gonna get even grumpier and all of those letters get hand-delivered. You behave yourself, I tear them up. Comprende?”
“Aw, man, that’s rude. I been strai—”
“No problems if you behave yourself, Robert.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
“Will you?”
“Yeah, yeah. Can I go now? I gotta work.”
“Are you hearing me, Robert?”
“I’m hearing. Stay in one place, be a fucking boy scout. No jamming, no scamming. Okay? Can I go?”
“One more thing, Robert. Your lady.”
“Yeah?” said Gabray, in a hard voice that turned him into something more than a sniveling loser. “What about her?”
“She’s gone. Flew the coop. Don’t even think about going after her. And especially don’t think about hurting her for talking to me. Because I woulda found you anyway. You’ve got no gripe with her.”
Gabray’s eyes widened. “Gone? What the—whaddya mean?”
“Gone. She wanted out, Robert.”
“Aw, shit—”
“She was packing her bags when I spoke to her. Pretty shaken up by your approach to domestic life.”
Gabray said nothing.
Milo said, “She had enough of being pounded on, Robert.”
Gabray dropped the cigarette and stomped it out hard.
“She lies,” he said. “Fucking bitch”
“She made your bail.”
“She owed me. She still owes me.”
“Let it go, Robert. Think of those letters.”
“Yeah,” said Gabray, tapping his foot. “Whatever. I’m cool with it. I got a good attitude about life.”
24
When we were out of the maze and back on San Pedro, Milo turned on his penlight and studied the Identikit face.
“Think he’s reliable?” I said.
“Not very. But in the unlikely event a real suspect ever shows up, this might help.”
I stopped for a red light and glanced at the composite. “Not very distinctive.”
“Nope.”
I leaned over and gave a closer look. “It could be Huenengarth, minus the mustache.”
“That so?”
“Huenengarth’s younger than the guy Gabray described—mid-thirties—and his face is a bit fuller. But he’s thickly built and his hair’s styled like that. His mustache could have been grown since March, and even if not, it’s very faint—might have been hard to spot from a distance. And you said he might be an ex-con.”
“Hmm.”
The light turned green, and I headed back toward the freeway.
He chuckled.
“What?”
“Just thinking. If I ever actually make sense out of the Herbert thing, my troubles will just be beginning. Sneaking her file out. Moving in on Central’s territory, offering Gabray protection I had no permission to authorize. Far as the department’s concerned, I’m a goddam clerk.”
“Solving a homicide wouldn’t impress the department?”
“Not nearly as much as rank conformity—but hell, I suppose I can work something out if it comes to that. Give a gift to Gomez and Wicker—let them take the glory and hope for half a gold star. Gabray may get sold out in the process … Hell, he’s no innocent—screw him. If his info turns out to be real, he’ll do okay.”
He closed the kit and placed it on the floor.
“Listen to me,” he said, “talking like a goddam politician.”
I drove up the ramp. All lanes were empty and the freeway looked like a giant drag strip.
He said, “Putting some bad guys out of commission should be enough satisfaction, right? What you guys call intrinsic motivation.”
“Sure,” I said. “Be good for goodness’ sake and Santa will remember you.”
We arrived back at my house just after three. He drove away in the Porsche and I slipped into bed, trying to be silent. Robin awoke anyway and reached for my hand. We locked fingers and fell asleep.
She was up and gone before my eyes cleared. A toasted English muffin and juice were at my place on the kitchen table. I finished them off while planning my day.
Afternoon at the Joneses’.
Morning on the phone.
But the phone rang before I could get to it.
“Alex,” said Lou Cestare, “all those interesting questions. Branching out into investment banking?”
“Not yet. How was the hike?”
“Long. I kept thinking my little guy would tire but he wanted to play Ed
mund Hillary. Why do you want to know about Chuck Jones?”
“He’s chairman of the board of the hospital where I used to work. He also manages the hospital’s portfolio. I’m still on staff there, feel some affection for the place. Things aren’t going well there financially, and there’s been talk of Jones running the place down so he can dissolve it and sell the land.”
“Doesn’t sound like his style.”
“You know him?”
“Met him a couple of times at parties. Quick hello-goodbye—he wouldn’t remember. But I do know his style.”
“Which is?”
“Building up, not tearing down. He’s one of the best money managers around, Alex. Pays no attention to what other people are doing and goes after solid companies at cut-rate prices. True bargains—the stock-buys everyone dreams about. But he finds them better than anyone else.”
“How?”
“He knows how to really figure out how a company’s doing. Which means going way beyond quarterly reports. Once he ferrets out an undervalued stock about to pop, he buys in, waits, sells, repeats the process. His timing’s impeccable.”
“Does he ferret using inside information?”
Pause. “This hour of the morning and you’re already talking dirty?”
“So he does.”
“Alex, the whole inside trading thing has been blown way out of proportion. As far as I’m concerned, no one’s even come up with a good definition.”
“Come on, Lou.”
“Do you have one?”
“Sure,” I said. “Using data unavailable to the average person in order to make buy-and-sell decisions.”
“Okay, then, what about an investor who wines and dines a key employee in order to find out if the company’s doing its job properly? Someone who takes the time to really get into the nuts and bolts of company operations? Is that corrupt or just being thorough?”
“If bribery’s involved, it’s corrupt.”
“What, the wining and dining? Why’s that different from a reporter buttering up a source? Or a cop encouraging a witness with a doughnut and a cup of coffee? I don’t know of any law that makes dinner between business people illegal. Theoretically, anyone could do it, if they were willing to put out the effort. But no one ever bothers, Alex. That’s the thing. Even professional researchers usually rely on graphs and charts and the numbers the company gives them. Lots of them never even bother to visit the company they’re analyzing.”
“I guess it depends on what the investor learns from the wining and dining.”
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