by Robert Crais
The cat was perched on the guardrail at the edge of the loft, staring at her. She was in his spot, but he didn't look upset. Just curious. Maybe he also liked the view.
Lucy murmured, “Go back to sleep.”
Her eyes half opened, drowsy with sleep.
Hearing her, the cat bolted down the stairs and growled from the living room. You just have to ignore him.
“We never got to your surprise.”
She snuggled closer. “You can look forward to it tonight.”
I touched my tongue to her back. “I'm looking forward to it right now.”
She giggled. “You're insatiable.”
“For you.”
“I've got to go to work.”
“I'll call and tell'm you're busy making love to the World's Greatest Detective. They'll understand. They always do.”
She pushed herself up on her elbows. “Always?”
“A slip of the tongue. Sorry.”
“Not half as sorry as you're going to be.”
She jumped on top of me, but I wasn't sorry at all.
Later that morning, I took Lucy back to her car, then drove down to Parker Center without letting Krantz know I was coming. I thought he would raise nine kinds of hell because I'd gone to see Dersh, but when I pushed through the double doors, he said, “Hope you didn't get in trouble about the autopsy screw-up.”
“No, but the family wants the report.”
“We'll have it for you in a few minutes. You ready for the brief?” Like we were buddies, and he was only too happy to include me on the team.
“Sure. By the way, you get the criminalist's report yet?”
“Should be soon. Get you both at the same time.”
Then he smiled and disappeared down the hall.
Maybe someone had slipped him Prozac. Maybe his good humor was a ploy to get me into the briefing where he and Watts and Williams would beat me to death for having seen Dersh. Whatever the case, he was still lying to me about the report.
We assembled in the conference room where Stan Watts gave the brief, telling me that they had checked out the ex-husband (playing softball in Central Park at the time of Karen's murder), finished canvassing the homes surrounding Lake Hollywood (no one had seen or heard anything), and were in the process of questioning those people with whom Karen worked and attended school. I asked Watts if they had developed a theory about the shooter, but Krantz answered, saying they were still working on it. Krantz nodded at every point Watts ticked off, more relaxed than at any other time I'd seen him, and still none of them mentioned my visit to Dersh. They had to know, and I found that even more odd than Krantz's behavior.
I said, “When can I expect the reports? I'd like to get out of here.”
Krantz stood, reasonable, but all business. “Dolan, see if you can chase down that paper. Get Mr. Cole on his way.”
Dolan flipped him off behind his back as she left.
After the briefing, I went back to the squad room looking for her, but she wasn't at her desk. Krantz wasn't the only one in a good mood. Bruly and Salerno high-fived each other at the Mr. Coffee and walked away laughing. Williams and the Buzz Cut came through the double doors, Krantz offering his hand and the Buzz Cut taking it. The Buzz Cut was smiling, too.
When I was here before, the fabric of the room had been stiff with tension, as if the place and the people were caught in the kind of electrified field that made their hair stand on end. But now something had happened to cut the juice. A sea change had occurred that had freed them from electric hair, and let them overlook the fact that I had interfered with their investigation by visiting Dersh. That is no small thing to overlook.
I got a cup of coffee, sat in the dunce chair to wait for Dolan, and wondered about it until the kid with the mail cart pushed his way in through the doors. Bruly slapped the kid a high five, the two of them laughing about something I couldn't overhear. Salerno joined the conversation, and the three of them talked for a few minutes before the kid moved on. When he moved on, he was smiling, too, and I wondered if he was smiling about the same thing as everyone else.
When he pushed the cart past, I said, “Hey, Curtis. Can I ask you a question?”
He eyed me suspiciously. The last time I tried to milk Curtis Wood for information it hadn't gone so well.
“First, you were right when you told me that these guys are the best in the business. I've got a whole new respect for them. They really get results.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was wondering if you hear what they say about me.”
Now he wasn't looking so much suspicious as confused.
“What do you mean?”
“I guess it's just a professional consideration, you know?
I've really grown to respect these guys. I want them to respect me, too.”
I watched him hopefully, and when he understood what I was driving at, he shrugged. “They think you're okay, Cole. They don't like it that you're around, but they've checked up on you. I heard Dolan say that if you were half as good as people say, your dick would be a foot long.”
“That Dolan is a class act, isn't she?”
“She's the best.”
This time it was going better. I had established rapport, and put our conversation on an intimate basis. Soon, I would have him eating out of my hand.
“It's good you're telling me these things, Curtis. With all the whispering today, I thought they were cracking jokes about me.”
“Nah.”
I gave a big sigh as if I were relieved, then made a show of looking around at Bruly and Salerno and the others. “With all the grinning around here, they must've made a breakthrough in the case.”
Curtis Wood turned back to his cart. “I don't know anything, Cole.”
“Anything about what?” Mr. Innocent.
“You're so obvious, Cole. You're trying to pump me for information I don't have. If you think something's going on, have the balls to ask someone instead of just sneaking around.”
He shook his head like he was disappointed, then pushed the mail cart away, muttering.
“Foot long, my ass.”
Shown up once again by the civilian wannabe. Maybe next time he'd just shoot me.
Dolan came out of the copy room a few minutes later and handed me a large manila envelope without meeting my eyes. “These are the reports Krantz wants me to give you.”
“What's going on around here, Dolan?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do I get the feeling I'm being kept out of something?”
“You're paranoid.”
So much for the direct approach.
I went down to my car, raised the top for the sun, and waited. Forty minutes later, the Buzz Cut nosed out of the parking garage behind the wheel of a tan Ford Taurus. He made his way to the Harbor Freeway, then drove west through the center of Los Angeles, then north on the 405 into West-wood. He didn't hurry, and he was easy to follow. He was relaxed, too. And smiling. I copied his tag number to run his registration, but I needn't have bothered. I knew what he was as soon as he turned onto the long, straight drive of the United States Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard.
The Buzz Cut was FBI.
I cruised past the Federal Building to a little Vietnamese place I know for squid with mint leaves. They make it hot there, the way I like it, and as I ate, I wondered why the FBI would be involved in Karen Garcia's homicide. Local police often call in the Feebs to use their information systems and expertise, but the Buzz Cut had been around at almost every step in the dance. I thought that odd. Then, when I introduced myself at the autopsy, he'd refused to identify himself. I thought that odd, too. And now the Feeb was smiling, and they don't smile for very much. You make one of those guys smile, you'd need something pretty big.
I was pondering this when the woman who owns the restaurant said, “We make squid you like?”
“Yes. It's very nice.” The woman was small and delicate, with a graceful beauty.
&n
bsp; “I see you in here very much.”
“I like the food.” The conversation I could do without.
The woman leaned close to me. “Oldest daughter make this food you like. She think you very handsome.”
I followed the woman's eyes to the back of the restaurant. A younger imitation of the woman was peeking at me from the kitchen door. She smiled shyly.
I looked at her mother. Mom smiled wider and nodded. I looked back at the daughter, and she nodded, too.
I said, “I'm married. I've got nine children.”
The mother frowned. “You no wear ring.”
I looked at my hand. “I'm allergic to gold.”
The mother's eyes narrowed. “You married?”
“I'm sorry. Nine children.”
“With no ring?”
“Allergies.”
The woman went to the daughter and said something in Vietnamese. The daughter stomped back into the kitchen.
I finished the squid, then drove home to read the reports. Some days you should just eat drive-thru.
The autopsy protocol held no surprises, concluding that Karen Garcia had been killed by a single .22 caliber bullet fired at close range, striking her 3.5 centimeters above the right orbital cavity. Light to moderate powder stippling was observed at the wound entry, indicating that the bullet had been fired at a distance of between two and four feet. A cut-and-dried case of homicide by gunshot, with no other evidence having been noted.
I reread the criminalist's report, thinking that I would call Montoya to discuss these things, but as I thought about what I would say to him, I realized that the white plastic was missing.
When I read the report that Pike brought last night, I recalled that Chen had recovered a triangular piece of white plastic on the trail at the top of the bluff. He had noted that the plastic was smudged with some sort of gray matter and would have to be tested.
In this new report, that piece of plastic was not listed.
I checked the page numbers to make sure all the pages were there, then found Pike's copy and compared them. White triangle in Pike's report. No white triangle in Krantz's report.
I called Joe. “You get the report you brought over directly from John Chen?”
“Yes.”
“He gave it to you himself?”
“Yes.”
I told him about the missing plastic.
“That sonofabitch Krantz doctored this report. That's why he delayed giving it to me.”
“If he left something out of Chen's report, I wonder what he left out of the autopsy.”
I was wondering that, too.
Pike said, “Rusty Swetaggen might be able to help.”
“Yeah.”
I hung up and called a guy I know named Rusty Swetaggen at his restaurant in Venice. Rusty drove an LAPD radio car for most of his adult life, until his wife's father died and left them the restaurant. He retired from the cops the same day that the will was read, and never looked back. Dishing out fried cheese and tap beer was more fun than humping a radio car, and paid better. Rusty said, “Man, it's been forever, Elvis. Emma thought you'd died.” Emma was his wife.
“Your cousin still work for the coroner?” I'd heard him talk about it, time to time.
“That's Jerry. Sure. He's still down there.”
“A woman named Karen Garcia was cut two days ago.”
“The one belongs to the tortilla guy? The Monsterito?”
“His daughter. I'm on the case with Robbery-Homicide, and I think they're keeping something from me.”
Rusty made a little whistling sound. “Why does Robbery-Homicide have it?”
“They say it's because the tortilla guy owns a city councilman.”
“But you don't think so?”
“I think everybody's keeping secrets, and I want to know what. An ME named Evangeline Lewis did the autopsy. Another report these cops gave me was doctored, so I'm thinking maybe the autopsy protocol was altered, too. Could your cousin find out about that?”
“He doesn't work down in the labs, Elvis. He's strictly front office.”
“I know.”
I waited, letting Rusty think about it. Six years ago he had asked me to find his daughter after she'd run away with a crack dealer who'd wanted to bankroll his business by putting Rusty's little girl in the gang-bang sex business. Without telling her. I had found his daughter and destroyed the tapes, and now his daughter was safe, and married to a nice young guy she'd met in her recovery group. They had a baby. Rusty never let me pay for a drink, never let me pay for food, and after I stopped going to his place because I was embarrassed by all the free stuff, I'd had to beg him to stop sending it to my home and office. If there was a way to help me, Rusty Swetaggen would do it.
“Jerry would have to get into the case files, maybe. Or the ME's personal files.” He was thinking out loud.
“Would he do that and talk to me?”
“Who's the ME again?”
“Evangeline Lewis.”
“He'll talk to you or I'll beat him to death.” Rusty said that with an absolute lack of humor. “I'll give him a call, but I can't say when I'll get through to him.”
“Thanks, Rusty. Call me at home.”
“Elvis?”
“Yeah, Rusty.”
“I still owe you.”
“You don't owe me anything, Rusty. You say hi to Emma. Give my love to the kids.”
“Jerry will do this for you if I have to strangle him.”
“It won't go that far, Rusty. But thanks.” You see what I mean?
I spent the next hour cleaning the house, then went out onto the deck to work my way through two asanas and two katas. As I worked, I thought about Rusty's need to repay something that didn't need to be repaid. Psychologists would speculate that Rusty wanted to vicariously participate in his daughter's salvation, as if he were somehow struggling to recapture the manhood he had lost by the violation of his daughter. I thought not. I knew Rusty Swetaggen, and I knew men like him. I believed that he was filled with such a terrible and powerful love for his daughter, and for me, that the great pressure of that welling love had to be relieved or it would kill him. People often die from love, and this is a secret we all keep, even from ourselves.
When I went back inside there was a message waiting. It was Rusty, telling me to meet his cousin before the day shift began at five the next morning at a place called Tara's Coffee Bar. He had left the address, and he had given directions.
I knew it would be like that.
12
• • •
I left the house at fifteen minutes after four the next morning, leaving Lucy warm in my bed.
Earlier that night, when she had come to me after work, we decided that she would live with me for the two weeks that Ben was away. We had gone down the mountain to her apartment, and brought back clothes and the personal items she would need. I watched Lucy place her clothes in my closet, and her toiletries in my bath, letting myself toy with a fantasy of permanence. I had lived alone for a long time, but sharing my house with her seemed natural and unforced, as right as if I had shared myself with her my entire life. If that's not love, it's close enough.
We ate take-out from an Italian place in Laurel Canyon, drank red wine, and listened to the swing sounds of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy on the stereo.
We made love on the living-room couch, and after that, as she traced the scars on my body in the bronze glow of candlelight, I felt a wetness on my back. When I looked, she was crying.
“Luce?” As gentle as a butterfly's kiss.
“If I lost you, I'd die.”
I touched her face. “You won't lose me. Am I not the World's Greatest Detective?”
“Of course you are.” I could barely hear her.
“You won't lose me, Lucille. You won't even be able to get rid of me.”
She kissed me then, and we snuggled close and fell asleep.
I worked my way down the dark mountain curves under a sky that was clear and br
ight and empty of stars. No fire now. No heat now. The heat was waiting for later.
When I first came to Los Angeles, I was fresh out of the Army and accustomed to using the constellations to chart my passing. The L.A. skies are so bright with light that only the most brilliant stars are visible, and those are faint and murky. I used to joke that it was this absence of stars that caused so many people to lose their bearings, but back then, I thought answers were easy. Now I know better. Some of us find our way with a single light to guide us; others lose themselves even when the star field is as sharp as a neon ceiling. Ethics may not be situational, but feelings are. We learn to adjust, and, over time, the stars we use to guide ourselves come to reside within rather than without.
Man. I'm something at 4 A.M.
At four-forty I left the freeway for empty downtown streets and a pool of yellow light called Tara's Coffee Bar. Two uniformed cops sat at the counter, along with a dozen overweight, tired men who looked like they worked in the printing plant for the Times. Everyone was scarfing eggs and bacon and buttered toast, and no one seemed worried about cholesterol or calories.
The only man there wearing a suit said, “You're Cole, right?” Soft, so that no one else could hear.
“That's right. Thanks for meeting me.”
Jerry Swetaggen hunched over his coffee as if it were a small fire, keeping him warm. He was a big guy like Rusty, with a pink face and ash-blond hair. He looked younger than he probably was, sort of like a bloated fourteen-year-old who'd been dressed in a hand-me-down suit. The suit looked as if it hadn't been pressed in weeks, but maybe he'd been up most of the night.
“Did you get the Garcia file?”
He glanced at the two cops. Nervous. “I could lose my ass for this. You tell Rusty. You guys owe me big for this.”
“Sure. Coffee's on me.” You'd think I was asking for government secrets.
“You got no idea. Oh, man, you don't even come close to having an idea.”
“So far, the only idea I'm getting is that I could've slept in. You get me a copy of the Garcia file?”
“I couldn't get the file, but I got what you want, all right.” Jerry's hand floated to his lapel as if something lived up under the rumpled jacket and he wanted to let it out. He glanced at the cops again. Their backs were made broader by the Kevlar vests they wore under their shirts. “Not in here. Get the coffee, and let's walk.”
