by Robert Crais
Joe said, “Step back.” The voice soft again.
Krantz stepped right up into Pike's face then. Right on the edge of the cliff. “Or what, you sonofabitch? You going to shoot me, too?”
Poitras pushed Krantz back and stepped between them. “What's with you, Krantz? Get a grip on yourself.”
Krantz's mouth split into a reptilian smile, and I wondered what was playing out here. He said, “I want this man questioned, Lieutenant. If Pike here knows the vic, maybe he knows how she got like this.”
Pike said, “It won't happen, Pants.”
Krantz's face went deep red, and an ugly web of veins pulsed in his forehead.
I moved close to Pike. “Is there something happening here that I should know about?”
Pike shrugged. “Nothing much. I'm about to put Krantz down.”
Krantz's face got darker. “You're going in, Pike. We'll talk to you at the Division.”
Behind us, Poitras's Handie-Talkie made a popping sound. Poitras mumbled things that we couldn't hear, then held it toward Krantz. “It's Assistant Chief Mills.”
Krantz snatched the radio. “This is Harvey Krantz.”
Poitras led us back toward the trail without waiting. “Forget Krantz. The only place you guys are going is back to Mr. Garcia's. The A-chief is down there now, and the old man is asking for you.”
Pike and I followed the trail back up the slope and through the trees. When we were away from the cops, and there was only the sound of the leaves crunching beneath our feet, I said, “I'm sorry about Karen, Joe.”
Pike nodded.
“You going to tell me what all that was about?”
“No.”
The drive back to Hancock Park took forever.
5
• • •
An LAPD radio car was parked outside Frank Garcia's home, along with two anonymous detective sedans, a black Town Car, and three other vehicles. The older Latina opened the door again, but before we entered, a Hispanic man about Frank's age stepped past her, and offered a firm hand. Ancient pockmarks and steel-gray hair gave him a hard appearance, but his voice was gentle. “Mr. Cole, Mr. Pike, I'm Abbot Montoya. Thank you for coming.”
Joe said, “How's Frank?”
“Not well. His doctor's on the way.”
Somewhere behind him, Frank Garcia shouted, “You cocksuckers as good as killed my little girl and I want you out of my house!”
He wasn't shouting at us.
We followed Montoya into a huge, arched living room that I hadn't seen before. Two command-level uniforms, a man in a suit, and an older man in a charming Nike tennis outfit were clumped together like a gospel quartet as Frank shouted at them. Frank's eyes were hollow red blurs, and every crease and line in his face seemed cut deep by something incomprehensibly sharp and painful. So much pain was in his eyes that it hurt to look at him.
City Councilman Henry Maldenado was standing as far from the cops as possible, but Frank shouted at him, too. “I oughta throw your ass out with them, Henry, all the help I get from you! Maybe I should give my money to that bastard Ruiz next time!” Melvin Ruiz had run against Maldenado in the primary.
Montoya hurried to Frank, his voice soothing. “Please calm yourself, Frank. We're going to handle this. Mr. Cole and Mr. Pike are here.”
Frank searched past Montoya with a desperate hope that was as hard to look at as his pain, as if Joe had the power to say that this horrible nightmare was not real, that these men had made a terrible mistake, and his only child had not been murdered.
“Joe?”
Joe knelt beside the chair, but I could not hear what he said.
While they spoke, Abbot Montoya led me across the room and introduced me. “Mr. Maldenado, this is Mr. Cole. The gentleman with Frank is Mr. Pike. We'd like them to represent Mr. Garcia during the investigation.”
That surprised me. “What do you mean, represent?”
The man in the suit ignored me. “Letting in an outsider would be a terrible mistake, Councilman. If he were privy to our investigation, we would have no security control.”
The tennis outfit agreed. “We're more than happy to work with families to keep them informed, Henry, but if someone like this were to interfere, it could hamper the investigation or even jeopardize the case.”
The man in the suit was Captain Greg Bishop, boss of the Robbery-Homicide Division. The tennis outfit belonged to Assistant Chief Walter Mills. I guess he'd been called off his Sunday morning tennis game, and wasn't happy about it.
I cleared my throat. “I don't mean to be obtuse, but am I the outsider in question?”
Montoya glanced at Frank, then lowered his voice. “Rightly or wrongly, Frank blames the police for his daughter's death. He believes they were unresponsive, and would prefer his own representatives to monitor the investigation and keep him informed. He told me that Mr. Pike and yourself would do that.”
“He did?”
Montoya looked surprised. “You wouldn't?”
Bishop and Mills were watching me now; the two uniforms sizing me up like a couple of peregrines eyeing a chicken.
I said, “If the police are involved, Mr. Montoya, I'm not sure what it is I can do for you.”
“I think that's clear.”
“No, sir, it's not. We're talking about a homicide investigation. Joe and I can't do anything that LAPD can't do more of. They have the manpower and the technology, and they're good at it.” The uniforms stood a little taller and the assistant chief looked relieved. Like he had just dodged a runaway pit bull.
Bishop said, “Mr. Montoya, I will personally stay in touch with you and Mr. Garcia to keep you apprised of the investigation. I'll give you my home number. We can have a daily chat.”
Maldenado nodded, encouraging. “That seems reasonable to me, Abbot.” As he said it, the Latina showed in Krantz, who looked neither relieved nor encouraging. He eased up behind Bishop.
Montoya touched the councilman's arm, as if neither of them understood. “The issue isn't the department's willingness to keep Mr. Garcia informed, Henry. The issue is trust.”
Behind us, Frank Garcia said, “When my little girl went missing yesterday, I called these people, but they didn't do a goddamned thing. I knew where she was going. I told'm where to look, but no, they said they couldn't do anything. Now I'm supposed to trust these same people to find who killed her? No. That will never happen.”
Maldenado spread his hands, and there was a plea in his voice. “Frank, if you gave them a chance.”
“They're with Karen right now, probably messin' things up like with O.J., and I'm stuck in this goddamned chair. I can't be there to watch out for her, and that means someone else has to do it for me.” He twisted around to look at Joe. “My friend Joe. His friend Mr. Cole.” He twisted back to Councilman Henry Maldenado. “That's the way it's going to be, Henry.”
Montoya said, “We'd like Mr. Cole and Mr. Pike to have full access to all levels of the investigation. We wouldn't expect them to function as part of an official LAPD investigation, or to interfere, but if you allow them access, they can keep Frank informed in a way that lends comfort to a man who needs it right now. That's all we're asking.” Montoya turned back to me. “You'd be willing to do that, wouldn't you? Just observe, and let Frank know what's going on.”
I glanced at Joe again. Joe nodded.
“Yes.”
Montoya turned back to Maldenado, and smiled like a priest explaining why you had to empty your pockets if you wanted to get to heaven. “Frank will appreciate it, Henry. He'll remember this kindness come election time.”
Maldenado stared at the assistant chief, who stared back. They were looking at each other like a couple of mind readers, Maldenado thinking about campaign funding, and the assistant chief thinking that if he ever wanted to be chief, he'd need as many friends on the City Council as possible.
Finally, Councilman Maldenado nodded. “That seems a reasonable position to me, Walt. I think that we can show Mr. Garcia th
is small courtesy, don't you?”
Assistant Chief Mills offered his hand to Maldenado as if he were already being sworn in as chief. “Councilman, we understand what Mr. Garcia's going through, and we'll find a way to make this work.”
Montoya put his hand on my shoulder, and the soft voice was satisfied. “It's settled, then. We'll work out the details and give you a call later this evening. Would that be all right?”
“That would be fine.”
Behind us, Frank said, “Karen's still up there. I want somebody with her.”
Everyone looked at him.
Frank Garcia took my arm as he'd taken Joe's. He had a grip like pliers. “You see that they take care of her. You go up there and watch these guys and make sure.”
Bishop looked as if someone had just suggested surgery. Krantz stared at Joe, but it was thoughtful and vague, not hard.
Montoya looked questioningly at the A-chief, who nodded, giving his permission.
I said, “I will, sir.”
“I won't forget this.”
“I know. I'm sorry about Karen.”
Frank Garcia nodded, but I don't think he was seeing me. His eyes filled, and I think he was seeing Karen.
Krantz left before me. Pike wanted to stay with Frank, and told me that he would call later.
Montoya walked me back through the big house. “Mr. Cole, I know this isn't the kind of job that you normally take. I personally want to thank you for doing this.”
“It's a favor for a friend, Mr. Montoya. Thank Joe.”
“I will, but I wanted to thank you, too. Frank and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Brothers. Do you know White Fence?”
“Yes, sir. I know that Mr. Garcia was a member when he was young.” The White Fence gang.
“As was I. We ran on Whittier Boulevard and Camulos Street. We fought the Hazard gang and the Garrity Lomas gang on Oregon Street, and we paid respect to the veteranos. It's a long way from the barrio to UCLA Law.”
“I imagine it is, Mr. Montoya.”
“I'm telling you these things because I want you to know the depth of my loyalty to Frank, and my love for him, and Karen. If the police aren't cooperative, call me and I will take care of it.”
“Yes, sir. I'll call.”
“You are helping my brother, Mr. Cole. If you need us, we will be there.”
“Sure.”
He put out his hand. We shook.
Latins.
I let myself out into the heat, and went down the drive to the street, ash from the fires still sifting down from the sky. Krantz and Stan Watts were standing by a clunky LAPD detective ride, smoking.
Krantz said, “Where's your asshole friend?”
I kept walking. I wasn't happy about going back to the lake, and I wasn't happy about spending the rest of the day with a dead girl.
“Stop it, Krantz. It'll go someplace you won't like.”
Krantz flipped his cigarette into the street and followed me. “See where it gets you. You'll go to Men's County and I'll own your license.”
I got into my car. Krantz stood on the street in front of me, ash collecting on his shoulders like dandruff.
“That old man might have the juice to jam you down my throat, but if you interfere with my investigation, I'll snap your license.”
“That old man just lost his daughter, you turd. Try being human.”
Krantz stared at me for about five centuries, then went back to Stan Watts.
I drove away.
I imagined that I could still hear Frank Garcia crying, even as I climbed the mountain to the lake.
6
• • •
Robbery-Homicide worked at the Karen Garcia crime scene for the next six hours. Everyone appeared professional and competent, as I knew they would. Even Krantz. A young criminalist named Chen, consulting with the detectives, photographed the area around her body in minute detail. I knew enough about homicide investigations to know that they would map the area for physical evidence, then map her life for suspects to fit that evidence. Every investigation is the same that way because most homicide victims are murdered by people they know.
I tried making conversation with the detectives, but no one answered me. I swatted at the bottle flies, all too aware of where they had been. I didn't want to be there, didn't like it, and would rather have been wrestling Lucy Chenier's couch. When the shadows down in the crook of the mountains made it hard to see, Krantz finally released the body.
The medical examiner's people zipped Karen Garcia into a blue plastic body bag, strapped the bag onto a stretcher, then worked their way up the slope. When the body was gone, Krantz called out to me. “That's all you're here for. Beat it.”
He turned away without another word. An asshole to the end.
I watched them load the body into the coroner's van, then drove down to the little strip mall at the bottom of Lake Hollywood, where I phoned Lucy.
She said, “I moved the couch without you.” First thing out of her mouth.
“The woman we were looking for was found murdered. Her father wanted me to be there while the crime scene people did their jobs. That's where I've been. She was thirty-two years old, and going to school so that she could work with children. Somebody shot her in the head while she was jogging at Lake Hollywood.” Lucy didn't say anything, and neither did I until I realized I had dumped it out on her. Then I said, “Sorry.”
“Would you like to be with us tonight?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that very much. Would you guys come for dinner?”
“Tell me what to bring.”
“I'll stop. Shopping is good for the soul.”
At the Lucky Market, I bought shrimp, celery, green onions, and bell peppers. I also bought one bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, two limes, and a case of Falstaff beer. I drank a can of the Falstaff while I was waiting in line, and got disapproving looks from the other shoppers. I pretended not to notice. They probably hadn't spent the day with a young woman with a hole in her head.
The cashier said, “Are we having a nice day, sir?”
“Couldn't be better.” I tried not to blow beer in her face.
Twenty minutes later I pulled into the carport of the little A-frame house I have perched on the side of a mountain just off Woodrow Wilson Drive in Laurel Canyon. A fine layer of ash had blown into the carport, showing a single set of cat prints going from the side of the house to the cat hatch built into my door. People in Minnesota see things like this with snow.
The cat was waiting by his water bowl. It was empty. I put the groceries on the counter, filled the cat's bowl, then sat on the floor and listened to him drink. He's large and black, the black shot through with gray that grows from the lacework of scars on his head and shoulders. When he first came to me, he would watch me when he drank, but now he ignored me, and when I touched him, he purred. We had become a family.
When the groceries were away, I made a drink, drank most of it, then went up to my loft and took a shower. I showered twice, letting the hot run until the water was cold, but the smell of the crime scene stayed with me, and even the rush of water wasn't as loud as the buzz of the bottle flies. I pulled on a pair of loose cotton pants and went downstairs, barefoot and shirtless.
Lucy was in the kitchen, looking over the vegetables I had left in the sink.
I said, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” She eyed my empty glass without expression. “What are we drinking?”
“Sapphire and tonic.”
“Pour. What are we making?”
“I was hoping you'd teach me how to make shrimp étouffée.”
She smiled then, softly and to herself. “That would be nice.”
“Where's Ben?”
“Outside on the deck. We rented a tape for him to watch while you and I cook.”
“Back in five.”
“You take your time.”
Her smile pushed the bottle flies farther away.
Ben was on the deck that
juts from the back of my house, hanging over the rail to look for the blacktail deer that browse in the wild grass between the olive trees below me. Here in the middle of fourteen million people we've got deer and coyote and quail and red-tailed hawks. Once, I even saw a bobcat on my deck.
I went out, leaned over the rail beside him, and looked down the slope. I saw only shadows.
“Mom said the woman you were trying to find was murdered.”
“That's right.”
“I'm sorry.”
His face was concerned and sorrowful. Nine years old.
“Me, too, buddy.” Then I smiled at him, because nine-year-olds shouldn't have such sorrow. “Hey, when are you heading off to tennis camp?” Lucy and Ben were serious tennis players.
Ben leaned farther over the rail. “Couple of days.”
“You don't look happy about it.”
“They make you ride horses. It's gonna smell like poop.”
Life is tough when the world smells like poop.
Inside, I got him set up with the VCR, then went back into the kitchen with Lucy. “He says tennis camp is going to smell like poop.”
“Yes,” she said. “It will. But it gives him the chance to meet three boys who go to his new school.”
“Is there anything you haven't thought of?”
“No. I'm a mom.”
I nodded.
“Also, it gives us two weeks alone.”
“Moms know everything.”
It took about an hour to make the étouffée. We peeled the shrimp, then wilted the vegetables in canola oil, and added tomatoes and garlic. I found peace in the small motor activity, and in telling Lucy about Frank and Joe and Karen Garcia. To cook is to heal.
Lucy said, “Here's the important part. Pay close attention.”
“Okay.”
She pulled my face down, brushed her lips against mine, then let them linger.
“Feel better?”
I held up my hand. She laced her fingers through mine, and I kissed them.
“Better.”
We were waiting for rice to cook when Joe Pike let himself in. I hadn't expected him, but he'll drop by like that. Lucy put down her drink, and gave him a warm hug. “I understand you knew her, Joe. I'm sorry.”
