by Robert Crais
Inside the envelopes were the transcribed interviews with Dersh and Ward, each being about ten pages long. I read the opening statements, then glanced at Dolan. She was still with the pad, her face gray with anger.
“Dolan?”
Her eyes came to me, but nothing else moved.
“As long as we're going to work together, we might as well be pleasant, don't you think?”
“We're not working together. You're here like one of the roaches that live under the coffee machine. The sooner you're gone, the faster I can go back to being a cop. We clear on that?”
“Come on, Dolan. I'm a nice guy. Want to hear my Boris Badenov impression?”
“Save it for someone who cares.”
I leaned toward her and lowered my voice. “We can make faces at Krantz.”
“You don't want to read those things, you're wasting my time.”
She went back to the pad.
“Dolan?”
She looked up.
“You ever smile?”
Back to the pad.
“Guess not.”
A female Joe Pike.
I read both interviews twice. Eugene Dersh was a self-employed graphic designer who sometimes worked for Riley Ward. Ward owned a small advertising agency in West Los Angeles, and the two had met three years ago when Ward hired Dersh as a designer. They were also good friends, hiking or jogging together three times a week, usually in Griffith Park. Dersh was a regular at Lake Hollywood, had been up there the Saturday that Karen Garcia was killed, and had convinced Ward to join him Sunday, the day they discovered her body. As Dersh told it, they were following the trail just above the lake when they decided to venture down to the shoreline. Ward didn't like it much, and found the going hard. They were just about to climb back to the trail when they found the body. Neither man had seen anyone suspicious. Both men realized that they had disturbed the crime scene when they had searched Karen Garcia for identification, and both men agreed that Ward had told Dersh not to, but that Dersh had searched her anyway. After Dersh found her driver's license, they located a jogger with a cell phone, and called the police.
I said, “You guys ask Dersh about Saturday?”
“He went for his walk on the opposite side of the lake at a different time of the day. He didn't see anything.”
I didn't remember that in his interview, and flipped back through the pages. “None of that's in here. Just the part about him being up on Saturday.”
I held out the transcript for her to see, but she didn't take it.
“Watts covered it after we took over from Hollywood. You finished with those yet?” She held out her hand.
“No.”
I read the Dersh interview again, thinking that if Watts questioned Dersh about Saturday, he had probably written up notes. If Watts was keeping the murder book, he had probably put his notes there.
I looked around for Watts, but Watts had left. Krantz wasn't back yet, either.
“How long can it take to find out about the autopsy?”
“Krantz is lucky to find his ass. Relax.”
“Tell me something, Dolan. Can Krantz hack it?”
She didn't look up.
“I made a few calls, Dolan. I know you're a top cop. I know Watts is good. Krantz looks more like a politician, and he's nervous. Can he hack running the investigation, or is he in over his head?”
“He's the lead, Cole. Not me.”
“Is he going to follow up on Deege? Is he smart enough to ask Dersh about Saturday?”
She didn't say anything for a moment, but then she leaned toward me over the pad and pointed her pen at me.
“Don't worry about how we work this investigation. You wanna make conversation, make it to yourself. I'm not interested. We clear on that?”
She went back to the pad without waiting for me to answer.
“Clear.”
She nodded.
A muscular young guy in a bright yellow bowling shirt pushed a mail cart through the double doors and went to the Mr. Coffee. A clip-on security badge dangled from his belt, marking him as a civilian employee. Like most police departments, LAPD used civilians whenever they could to cut costs. Most of the slots were filled by young men who hoped the experience would help them get on the job. This guy probably spent his days answering phones, delivering interoffice memos, or, if he was lucky, helping out on door-to-door searches for missing children, which was probably as close as he would ever come to being a real cop.
I glanced over at Dolan. She was staring at me.
“Okay if I get a cup of coffee?”
“Help yourself.”
“You want one?”
“No. Leave the transcripts on the chair. Stay where I can see you.” Sieg heil!
I strolled over to the Mr. Coffee and smiled at the civilian. “How is it?”
“The shits.”
I poured a cup anyway and tasted it. The shits.
His ID tag said that his name was Curtis Wood. Since Curtis was around all day, going from office to office and floor to floor, he probably knew which desk belonged to Stan Watts. Might even know where Watts kept the book. “That Dolan is something, isn't she?” The professional detective goes into full-blown intelligence-gathering mode, furtively establishing rapport with the unsuspecting civilian wannabe. I was thinking I could work my way around to Watts and the murder book.
“They made a television series about her, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. I liked it.”
“I wouldn't mention it. She gets kinda weird if you bring it up.”
I gave Curtis one of my friendliest smiles and put out my hand. “Already made that mistake. Elvis Cole.”
“Curtis Wood.” His grip said he spent a lot of time in the gym, probably trying to get in shape for the physical. He glanced at my pass.
“I'm helping Dolan and Stan Watts with the Garcia investigation. You know Watts?” The trained professional smoothly introduces Watts to the conversation.
Curtis nodded. “Are you the guy who works for the family?”
These guys hear everything. “That's right.” Note the relaxed technique. Note how the subject has proven receptive to the ploy.
Curtis finished his coffee and squared around to look me in the eye. “Robbery-Homicide has the smartest detectives in the business. How's some dickhead like you come off thinking you can do better?”
He pushed the cart away without waiting for an answer.
So much for furtive intelligence gathering.
I was still standing there when Krantz steamed through the double doors, saw me, and marched over. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you, Krantz. It's been an hour.”
He glowered at Dolan, who was leaning back in her chair. “You letting him just walk around like this?”
“For Christ's sake, Harvey, I'm right here. I can shoot him if I have to.”
I said, “I had a cup of coffee.” Like it was a federal case.
Krantz calmed down and turned back to me. “Okay, here's the deal. We're still not sure about the autopsy, but I'll let you know this afternoon.”
“I had to wait here an hour for that?”
“You don't have to be here at all. Bishop says you can have the reports, so when they come in tomorrow we'll copy you on them. That's it.”
Stan Watts appeared in the hall, the Buzz Cut with him, but not the other two guys. Stan said, “Harve. We're ready.” The Buzz Cut was still staring at me like I owed him money and he was trying to figure a way to get it.
Krantz nodded at them. “Okay, Cole, that's it for today. You're out of here.”
“If I can have the reports, can I take copies of Dersh's and Ward's interviews?”
Krantz looked around for Dolan. “Run off the copies for him.”
“You want me to suck his dick, too?”
Krantz turned red. Embarrassed.
“She's something, Krantz.”
“Get him the goddamned copies, then get him out of
here.” Krantz started away, then stopped and came back to me. “By the way, Cole. I'm not surprised you're here by yourself. I knew Pike didn't have the balls to come down here.”
“You didn't look so tough up at the lake when he stood in your face.”
Krantz stepped closer. “You guys are in on a pass. Remember that. This is still my shop, and I'm still the man. Remember that, too.”
“Why'd Pike call you Pants?”
When I said it, Krantz flushed hard, then stalked away. I glanced over at Dolan. She was smiling, but when she saw that I was looking at her, the smile fell away. She said, “Hang on and I'll make those copies.”
“I can make'm. Just show me where.”
“You have to enter a code. They don't want us running off union flyers or screenplays.”
Cops.
A few minutes later Dolan gave me copies of the two interviews.
“Thanks, Dolan. I guess that's it.”
“I've got to walk you out.”
“Fine.”
She brought me out to the elevators, pushed the button, and stared at the doors while we waited.
I said, “I gotcha, didn't I?”
She looked at me.
“There at the end, with Krantz. I made you smile.”
The elevator doors opened. I got in.
“See you tomorrow, Dolan.”
She answered as the doors closed.
“Not if I see you first.”
In the Matter of Officer Joe Pike
Detective-Three Mike McConnell of the Internal Affairs Group was certain that he'd gotten a bad clam. He'd had lunch at the Police Academy's cafe some two hours ago where the special of the day was New England clam chowder, and ever since he could feel it rumbling through his intestines like the LAPD's battering ram. He'd been terrified that the Unmentionable would occur crossing the always crowded lobby here in Parker Center, where the Internal Affairs Group had their offices, or, worse still, riding up that damned elevator which had been jammed with the entire LAPD top command, not to mention most of the goddamned mayor's staff.
But so far so good, and Mike McConnell, at fifty-four years of age and two years away from a thirty-year retirement, had made it to his office for the case file, and now to the interview room, where, as senior administrative IAG officer, he could hurry that officious prick Harvey Krantz through the interview before he crapped his Jockeys.
When he walked in, Detective-Two Louise Barshop was already seated at the table, and inwardly McConnell frowned. The lead investigator on this case was that putz Harvey Krantz, whom McConnell hated, but he'd forgotten that the third IAG was a woman. He liked Louise fine, and she was a top officer, but he was having the Lord's Own rotten gas with the clam. He didn't feel comfortable farting in front of a woman. “Hi, Louise. How's the family?”
“Fine, Mike. Yours?”
“Oh, just fine. Fine.” He tried to decide whether or not to warn her of his flatulence or just take things a step at a time and see what passed, so to speak. If he had a problem, maybe he could act like Krantz was responsible.
McConnell took his seat and had decided on the latter strategy when Krantz entered, carrying a thick stack of case files. Krantz was tall and bony, with close-set eyes and a long nose that made him look like a parrot. He had joined IAG less than a year ago after a pretty good run in West Valley burglary, and would be the junior detective present. Because it was his case, he would also handle the bulk of the questioning. Krantz made no secret that he was here to use IAG as a stepping-stone to LAPD's upper command. He had left the uniform as fast as he could (McConnell suspected the street scared him), and had sniveled his way into every stepping-stone job he could, invariably seeking out the right ass to kiss so that he could get ahead. The sniveling little prick never passed up an opportunity to let you know that he'd graduated from USC with honors, and was working on his master's. McConnell, whose personal experience with college was pulling riot duty during the late sixties, had joined the Marines right out of high school, and took great pride in how far he had risen without the benefit of a college diploma. McConnell hated Harvey Krantz, not only for his supercilious and superior manner but also because he'd found out that the little cocksucker had gone over his head two months ago and told McConnell's boss, the IAG captain-supervisor, that McConnell was mishandling three cases on which Krantz was working. The prick. McConnell had vowed on the spot that he would shaft the skinny bastard and fuck his career if it was the last thing he did. This, even though Mike McConnell only had to sweat out two more years before retiring to his beachside trailer in Mexico. Jesus, even looking at the little skeeze made McConnell's skin crawl. A human parrot.
Krantz nodded briskly. “Hello, Louise. Mr. McConnell.” Always with the “Mr.,” like he was trying to underline the difference in their ages.
Louise Barshop said, “Hi, Harvey. You ready to go?”
Krantz inspected the empty witness chair with his parrot eyes. “Where's the subject?”
McConnell said, “You talking about the officer we're going to question?” You see how he did? The subject, like they were in some kind of snooty laboratory!
Louise Barshop fought back a smile. “He's in the waiting area, Harvey. Are we ready to begin?”
“I'd like to go over a few things before we start.”
McConnell leaned forward to cut him off. Something loose was shifting in his lower abdomen and he was getting a cramp. “I'm telling you right now that I don't want to waste a lot of time with this.” He riffled through his case file. “This kid is Wozniak's partner, right?”
Krantz looked down his parrot nose and McConnell could tell he was pissed. Good. Let him run back and bellyache to the boss. Get a rep as a whiner. “That's right, Wozniak. I've developed this investigation myself, Mr. McConnell, and I believe there's something to this.” He was investigating a uniformed patrol officer named Abel Wozniak for possible involvement in the theft and fencing of stolen goods. “As Wozniak's partner, this guy must certainly know what Wozniak's up to, even if he himself isn't involved, and I'd like your permission to press him. Hard, if necessary.”
“Fine, fine, whatever. Just don't take too long. It's Friday afternoon, and I want to get out of here. If something presents itself, follow it, but if this guy's in the dark, I don't wanna waste time with it.”
Harvey made a little oomping sound to let them know he wasn't happy, then hurried out to the waiting room.
Louise said, “Harvey's quite a go-getter, isn't he?”
“He's a prick. People like him is why they call us the Rat Squad.”
Louise Barshop looked away without responding. Probably exactly what she'd been thinking, but she didn't have the cushion of twenty-eight years on the job to say it. In IAG, the walls grew ears, and you had to be careful whose ass you kicked today because they'd be waiting their turn on you tomorrow.
The interviewee was a young officer named Joseph Pike. McConnell had read the officer's file that morning, and was impressed. The kid had been on the job for three years, and had graduated number four in his Academy class. Every fitness report he had received since then had rated Pike as outstanding. McConnell was experienced enough to know that this, in and of itself, was no guarantee against corruption; many a smart and courageous young man would rob you blind if you let him. But, even after twenty-eight years on the job, Mike McConnell still believed that the men and women who formed the police of his city were, almost to a person, the finest young men and women that the city had to offer. Over the years he had grown to feel that it was his duty—his obligation—to protect their reputation from those few who would besmirch the others. After reading Officer Pike's file, he was looking forward to meeting him. Like McConnell, Pike had gone through Camp Pendleton, but unlike McConnell, who had been a straight infantry Marine, Pike had graduated from the Marine's elite Force Recon training, then served in Vietnam, where he had been awarded two Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts. McConnell smiled as he looked at the file, and thought
that a smug turd like Krantz (who had managed to avoid military service) didn't deserve to be in the same room with a kid like this.
The door opened, and Krantz pointed to the chair where he wanted Pike to sit. The three IAG detectives were seated together behind a long table; the interviewee would sit opposite them in a chair well back from the table so as to increase his feelings of isolation and vulnerability. Standard IAG procedure.
First thing McConnell noticed was that this young officer was strac. His uniform spotless, the creases in his pants and shirt sharp, the black leather gear and shoes shined to a mirror finish. Pike was a tall man, as tall as Krantz, but where Krantz was thin and bony, Pike was filled out and hard, his shirt across his back and shoulders and upper arms pulled taut. McConnell said, “Officer Pike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'm Detective McConnell, and this is Detective Barshop. Those glasses gotta go.”
Pike doffed his sunglasses, revealing brilliant blue eyes. Louise Barshop shifted in her seat.
Pike said, “Do I need an attorney present?”
McConnell turned on the big Nagra tape recorder before answering. “You can request consultation with an attorney, but if you do not answer our questions at this time, which we are hereby ordering you to do—and we ain't waitin' for some FOP mouthpiece to mosey over—you will be relieved of your duties and brought up on charges of refusing the administrative orders of a superior officer. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.” Pike held McConnell's gaze, and McConnell thought that the boy looked empty. If he was scared, or nervous, he hid it well.
“Do you wish an attorney?”
“No, sir.”
Louise Barshop said, “Has Detective Krantz explained why you're here?”
“No, ma'am.”
“We are investigating allegations that your radio car partner, Abel Wozniak, has been or is involved in a string of warehouse burglaries that have occurred this past year.”
McConnell watched for a reaction, but the boy's face was as flat as piss on a plate. “How about that, son? How you feel, hearin'that?”
Pike stared at him for a moment, then shrugged so small it was tough to see.
