by Robert Crais
Paulette Wozniak touched Joe's arm again, then walked across the field toward her husband, and Karen knew then that she was wrong.
A sour wash of fear jolted through her as she watched Joe staring after Paulette Wozniak. Everything she saw in Joe's face and stance told her that his heart belonged to someone else.
16
• • •
On the morning that Karen Garcia was buried, I stood naked on my deck, stretching in the darkness. The sun had not yet risen, and, for a time, I watched the few stars brilliant enough to burn their way through the halo of light that floated above the City of Angels, wondering if, somewhere out there, a killer was watching them, too. I thought not. Psycho killers probably slept in.
Little by little, the stiffness of sleep faded as my body warmed, and I eased from the stillness of hatha yoga to the dynamic tension of tae kwon do katas, starting slowly at first, then moving faster until the movements became explosive and fierce. I finished the katas wet with sweat as the canyon below my house lightened with the first purple glimmers of sunrise. I let the sweat cool, then gathered my things and went inside. Once, I stayed out too long, and the woman who lives in the next house saw me and made a wolf whistle. Her husband came out onto their deck, and he made a wolf whistle, too. Life in L.A.
I was standing in my kitchen, drinking orange juice and watching eggs boil, when the phone rang. I grabbed it on the first ring so it wouldn't wake Lucy.
Samantha Dolan said, “I've got two guys who'll be at Forest Lawn with me.”
“Two. Wow, Dolan. There won't be room for the mourners.” I was still pissed off about Krantz.
“Save the attitude and keep your eyes open. You and Pike make five of us.”
“Pike will be with Frank.”
“He can still see, can't he? We're looking for a white male between twenty and forty. He may linger after, and he may approach the grave. Sometimes they leave something, or they'll take a souvenir.”
“Krantz's buddy at the Feebs tell you that?” It was typical behavior for a serial killer.
“The burial's scheduled for ten. I'll be there at nine-thirty. And, Cole?”
“What?”
“Try not to be such an ass.”
Forest Lawn Memorial Park is four hundred acres of rolling green lawns at the foot of the Hollywood Hills in Glendale. With immaculate grounds, re-creations of famous churches, and burial areas with names like Slumberland, Vale of Memory, and Whispering Pines, I have always thought of it as a kind of Disneyland of the Dead.
Since Dolan was going to get there at nine-thirty, I wanted to get there earlier. But when I turned into the grounds and found Karen Garcia's burial site, Dolan was already there, and so were a hundred other people. She was parked with an easy eyes-forward view of the crowd on the slope. A long-lens Konica camera rested in her lap. She would use it to take pictures of the crowd for later identification.
I slipped into the passenger side of her Beemer, and took a breath. “Dolan, I know you're doing what you can. I was a jerk this morning. I apologize.”
“You were, but I accept. Forget it.”
“Just wanted to get that out. Makes me feel small.”
“That's your girlfriend's problem.”
I looked over at her, but she was staring out the window. Ouch.
“You know where Krantz is this morning?”
“On Dersh?”
“A surveillance team is on Dersh. Krantz and Bishop are going to the service. Mills is going, too. They want to sit where Councilman Maldenado can see them.”
I couldn't do what she did. I couldn't work with guys like Krantz and Bishop. Maybe that was why I'm on my own.
“I thought you said you were coming at nine-thirty.”
“I figured you'd try to beat me, so I came earlier.”
I looked over at her, and she was smiling.
“You're something, Samantha.”
“Guess we're cats of the same stripe, World's Greatest.”
I smiled back. “Okay. So it's me, you, and two other guys. How do you want to play it?”
She glanced up the hill toward a marble mausoleum. “Got a guy up at that mausoleum, and another guy down below. They see anyone who looks suspicious, they'll get the license numbers.” The high man was sitting on the grass outside the mausoleum above us. A little road ran in front of it, identical to the road where we were parked. If the killer wanted to come and watch, he could park up there. People were scattered throughout the slope below us, the low man invisible among them. “I figure you can work in close with the crowd since you know some of these people. I'll stay here snapping shots of the procession, then I'll come up.”
“Okay.”
“Right now, why don't you walk the perimeter.”
It wasn't a question.
She looked at me. “Well?”
“Yes, ma'am.” If you're on free time, I guess you can tell everyone what to do.
As I slid out of the Beemer, she said, “By the way, that was the first time you called me Samantha.”
“I guess so.”
“Don't let it happen again.”
But she was smiling, and I grinned as I walked away.
I spent the next few minutes drifting along the perimeter of the crowd, counting sixteen Anglo men between twenty and forty. When I glanced down at Dolan, she was pointing the camera at me. I guess she was bored.
A blue Nissan Sentra came up the hill a few minutes before ten, parked where the other cars had parked, and Eugene Dersh climbed out.
I said, “Oh, man.”
Dersh was conservatively dressed in a beige sport coat and slacks. He locked his car, and was walking up the hill when two unmarked detective rides turned in and idled by the front gate, unsure what to do. Williams was driving the second car. The first car was the same guys who had followed me.
The cop by the mausoleum stood and stared at them. He hadn't seen Dersh, but he recognized the RHD cars.
I trotted down to Dolan. “Looks like the gang's all here.”
Dersh saw us looking at him, recognized me, and waved.
I waved back.
At a quarter after ten, four LAPD motorcycles escorted the hearse through the main gate. Three gleaming black limos followed, trailing a line of cars that had been waxed and buffed until they glittered with bits of the sun. Dersh watched them come, a kind of benign curiosity on his face.
When the line of cars reached us, a dozen people who looked like family members emerged from the limos. The driver of the lead car took Frank's wheelchair from the trunk as Joe and another man helped Frank out. Joe was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. The dark glasses made him look like a Secret Service agent, but since this was L.A., everyone was wearing sunglasses. Even the priest.
Councilman Maldenado and Abbot Montoya climbed out of the last limo. Bishop and Krantz and Assistant Chief Mills squeezed out of the sixth car, and hurried to fall in behind the councilman. Anxious to protect and to serve him, I guess.
Dolan and I were walking over when Krantz and Bishop saw us. “What in hell are you doing here with Cole?”
Dolan pointed at Dersh.
Krantz and Bishop turned and saw Dersh looking back. Dersh smiled broadly and waved.
Krantz said, “Holy shit!”
Bishop nudged Krantz. “Wave back, goddamnit, before he suspects something.”
They waved back.
Bishop said, “Smile!”
Krantz smiled.
Joe had pushed Frank most of the way up the hill when a news van from one of the local network affiliates tore through the gate. Vans from a second network affiliate and then Lucy's station barreled through ten seconds behind it, braking hard alongside the hearse. Their microwave dishes extended even as camera operators and on-air reporters jumped out.
Dolan said, “This can't be good.”
Dolan and I walked faster, Krantz and Bishop after us.
The three reporters hurried toward Frank, two of them with radio mikes and
one without.
I said, “Wake up, Bishop. Have the uniforms keep those people away.”
Dolan and I put ourselves between Frank and the reporters as Krantz ran for the motorcycle cops. A good-looking red-haired woman leaned past me, reaching for Frank with her microphone. “Mr. Garcia, have the police made any progress in catching the serial killer?”
Bishop said, “Oh, shit.”
A tall African-American reporter who had played professional football tried to press between me and one of the uniforms, but neither of us gave ground. “Mr. Garcia, do you believe a man named Eugene Dersh killed your daughter, and, if so, sir, why?”
Bishop jerked at Krantz's arm, his voice a panicked whisper. “How in hell did these bastards find out?”
Behind us, Frank Garcia said, “What is this? What are they talking about, serial killer? Who's this man, Dersh?”
Councilman Maldenado stepped forward, trying to turn the press away. “Please. His child is about to be buried.”
Eugene Dersh had come to the edge of the growing crowd, too far away to hear, but curious like everyone else.
The redhead's camera operator saw Dersh and punched her in the back. He didn't tap her; he punched her. “Sonofabitch! That's Dersh.”
She shoved the black reporter out of the way and ran toward Dersh. The black reporter ran after her. Dersh looked as surprised and confused as everyone else.
Frank Garcia tried to see Dersh, but since he was in the chair, people blocked his view. “Who is that?” He twisted around to Maldenado. “Henry, do they know who killed Karen? Did that man kill Karen?”
Up the hill, Dersh was afraid and embarrassed as the two reporters barked questions. The mourners around the grave heard the reporters with Dersh, and began to murmur and stare.
The final reporter was an Asian-American woman who stayed with Frank. “There were others, Mr. Garcia. Haven't the police told you? Five people have been murdered. Karen was the fifth.” The reporter glanced from Frank to Maldenado, then back to Frank. “Some maniac has been hunting human beings here in Los Angeles for the past nineteen months.” You could see she liked saying it because of how the words would play on the news. She pointed at Dersh. “The police suspect that man. Eugene Dersh.”
Frank lurched higher in his chair, craning to see Dersh. “That man killed Karen? That sonofabitch murdered my daughter?”
Maldenado shouldered in and forced the Asian-American reporter away. “This isn't the time. I'll make a statement, but not now. Let this man bury his daughter.”
Above us, Eugene Dersh pushed past the two reporters, walking fast back down the hill to his car. They dogged him, peppering him with questions as their cameras recorded it. Dersh would be able to see himself on the news again, though he probably wouldn't be as happy about it this time.
Frank's face was the color of dried blood. He bobbed in his chair, wrestling the wheels to try to chase after Dersh. “Is that him? Is that the sonofabitch?”
Dersh climbed into his car, the reporters still shouting their questions. His voice carried in the still air, high and frightened. “What are you talking about? I didn't kill anyone. I just found her body.”
Frank screamed, “I'll kill you!”
He twisted so hard that he pitched forward, falling out of the chair. His family gasped and two of the women made sharp sounds. Pike, Montoya, and several of the family clustered around him, Pike lifting the old man back into the chair as if he weighed nothing.
Dersh drove away, and when he sped through the gate, the two plainclothes cars quietly fell in behind him.
The priest told Frank's brothers to get the family seated as quickly as possible. Everyone was embarrassed and uncomfortable, and Frank's housekeeper cried loudly, but the crowd settled as the pallbearers gathered at the hearse. I tried to find Dolan, but she had joined Mills, Bishop, and Krantz in a frantic conversation at the edge of the crowd. Krantz saw me, and stormed over. “You and your buddy, Pike, get your butts to Parker Center as soon as she's in the ground. We're fuckin'-A gonna figure out what happened here.” He walked away fast.
The climbing sun became a hot torch in the sky as the family took their seats, and the pallbearers delivered Karen's body to its grave. Heat soaked into my shoulders and face until I could feel the delicate tickle of sweat running out of my hair. Around me, a few people cried, but most simply stared, lost in a moment that was both sad and unsettling.
The three news cameras stood in a line below us, recording Karen Garcia's burial.
They looked like a firing squad.
17
• • •
News vans lined Los Angeles Street outside Parker Center. Reporters and technicians milled nervously on the sidewalk, clustering around every cop who came out to grab a cigarette like piranha on bad meat. The city didn't allow smoking in its buildings, so addicted officers had to sneak butts in the stairwells and bathrooms, or come outside. These guys didn't know anything more about Dersh or the murders than anyone else, but the reporters didn't believe it. Word had spread big, and someone had to feed the networks' hunger for news.
The three skinny palms outside Parker Center seemed bent and fragile as Joe and I turned into the drive, two cars behind Dolan. Frank's limo was already at the curb, Frank's driver and Abbot Montoya helping him into the chair.
We parked between a silver Porsche Boxster and a taupe Jaguar XK8. Lawyers, here to cut deals. We got out, and for a moment Pike stared up at the squat building. The mid-morning sun bounced hard off the seven strips of blue glass and burned down on us, mirrored in Pike's glasses.
Pike surprised me by saying, “It's been a long time since I was here.”
“You don't want to go in, you can wait out here.”
The last time Joe Pike was here was the day that Abel Wozniak died.
Pike made his little non-smile. “Won't be as bad as the Mekong.”
He pulled off the suit coat, unfastened the shoulder holster, and wound its straps around the .357 Python revolver. He put his jacket in the little storage bay behind the seats, then unbuttoned the vest, and put it with the jacket. He stripped off the tie and the shirt. He was wearing a white guinea tee beneath the shirt, and let it go with that. The guinea tee, the charcoal pants, the black leather shoes, countered by the cut muscles of his shoulders and chest and the brilliant red tattoos, made quite a fashion statement. A female detective coming out to her car stared.
We gave our names to the lobby guard, and Stan Watts came down a few minutes later.
I said, “Frank Garcia go upstairs?”
“Yeah. You're the last.” Watts stood to the side of the elevator with his arms crossed, staring at Pike.
Pike stared back behind the dark glasses.
Watts said, “I knew Abel Wozniak.”
Pike didn't respond.
“If I don't get another chance to say this, fuck you.”
Pike cocked his head. “You want a piece, step up.”
I said, “Hey, Watts. You really think Dersh is good for it?”
Watts didn't answer. Guess he was thinking about Joe.
We left the elevator on the fifth floor and followed Watts through the Robbery-Homicide squad room. Most of the detectives were working their phones, and more phones were ringing. They were busy because of the news coverage, but as we entered, a ripple of attention swept through the room. Eyes went to Joe, tracking him across the floor.
Behind us, a voice I didn't recognize spoke just loud enough to be heard.
“Cop killer.”
Pike didn't turn.
Watts led us to the conference room, where Frank Garcia was saying, “I want to know why the sonofabitch is still walking around. If this man killed my daughter, how come he's not in jail?”
Councilman Maldenado stood on one side of him, arms crossed, and Abbot Montoya stood on the other, hands in his pockets. Dolan was seated as far from everybody else as she could get, just like in the briefings. Krantz and Bishop were with Frank, Krantz trying to e
xplain. “Dersh is the suspect, Mr. Garcia, but we still have to build a case. The district attorney won't file without enough evidence to get a conviction. We don't want to leave any wiggle room here. We don't want another O.J.”
Frank rubbed at his face. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Don't even joke about that.”
Bishop told us to take a seat. “I know you're wondering what happened back there. We were just explaining to Mr. Garcia that there's been more to this investigation than we've let on.”
Bishop was good. His voice was smooth and sure, and both Montoya and Maldenado looked a lot calmer than they had at the cemetery, though Frank was visibly shaking.
Maldenado wasn't happy. “I only wish you had seen fit to tell us that there were things you needed to keep secret, Captain. It would've saved Mr. Garcia the shock of what just happened. I mean, we're all shocked. Five people killed. A serial killer. And the man you say did it comes to the funeral.”
Krantz sat with half his ass on the table, and looked directly at Frank. “I want the bastard who killed your daughter, Mr. Garcia. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but we made the right decision to keep this thing under wraps. Now that Dersh knows we suspect him, well, that takes away our advantage. I wish I knew how the goddamned press found out because I'd crimp his nuts but good.”
Frank said, “Listen, I'm not pissed you didn't tell me, okay? I was pissed off at you guys at first, but maybe I was wrong. All I care about is getting the sonofabitch who killed Karen. That's all.”
Bishop said, “Why don't you finish bringing them up to date, Harve.”
Krantz was making a good impression, and Bishop was pleased.
Krantz gave them everything, admitting that there were now a total of five murders, and that they had been running a Task Force for almost a year. Montoya asked about the first four victims and Krantz went through the names, starting with Julio Munoz.
When Krantz said their names, Frank straightened in his chair, looking at me, then Dolan. “Those are the people you asked about.”
Krantz shook his head, certain that Frank was mistaken. “No, sir. Cole couldn't've asked about them. He didn't know.”
