by Robert Crais
Pike said, “I stopped at the bluffs on Ocean Avenue between Wilshire and San Vicente, where you can see the water. I talked to a girl there. Her name was Trudy.”
Pike described her.
Charlie said, “No last name?”
“I didn't ask. She was meeting someone named Matt. A black minivan arrived. New Dodge, no license or dealer tag that I could see. Custom teardrop windows in the back. She got in and they left. Whoever was inside would've seen me.”
I said, “When was that?”
“Got to the bluffs about two-fifty. Started running again just at three.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. “You're sure about the time?”
“Yes.”
I said, “That's only fifteen minutes or so before the old lady heard the shot. No way you could get from the ocean to Dersh's in fifteen minutes. Not even at three in the morning.”
Charlie nodded, thinking about it and liking it. “Okay. That's something. We've got the girl, maybe. And all this running could give us plenty of potential witnesses.” He glanced at me. “You're gonna get started on that?”
“Yes.”
Someone rapped at the door, and Charlie yelled for them to come in.
Williams stuck his head in. “DA's here.”
“Be right out.”
When Williams closed the door, Joe said, “What about bail?”
“You've got your business. You've got a home. All of that is to the good when I'm trying to convince a judge you won't run. But when you're talking murder, it depends on the strength of their evidence. Branford will make a big deal about this old lady, but he knows—and so does the judge—that eyewitness testimony is the least dependable evidence you can admit. If all he has is the old lady, we're in good shape. You just sit tight, and don't worry, okay?”
Pike put the calm blue eyes on me, and I wished I knew what was behind them. He seemed peaceful, as if far worse things had happened to him, and nothing that could happen here would be as bad. Not even here. Not even charged with murder.
He said, “Don't forget Karen.”
“I won't, but right now you have to come first. Edward Deege is dead. He was found murdered.”
Pike cocked his head. “How?”
“Dolan says it looks like a street beef, but Hollywood has the case. They're investigating.”
Pike nodded.
“I'll see about finding Trudy.”
“I know.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“I'm not.”
I took my sunglasses from my shirt pocket and held them out.
Pike's eyes flicked to the glasses.
“Krantz would just take them.”
Charlie Bauman said, “Come on, for chrissake. We don't have all day.”
I put the sunglasses back in my pocket and followed Charlie out.
Robert Branford was a tall man with large hands and bristling eyebrows. He met us in the hall, then walked us into a conference room where Krantz was sitting at the head of a long table. A TV and VCR were in the corner, and a short stack of files and legal pads were on the table. The TV was on, showing a blank blue screen. I wondered what they'd been watching.
Even before we were all the way in the room, Charlie said, “Hey, Robby, you meet your eyewitness yet?”
“Mrs. Kimmel? Not yet. Gonna see her after the arraignment.”
“Better see her before.”
“Why is that, Charlie? She got three heads?”
Charlie made a drinking motion. “Booze hound. Jesus, Krantz, I'm surprised you could stand being so close to her at the lineup. Damn near knocked me out when she walked past.”
Branford had gone to his own briefcase and was taking papers from different manila folders. He raised his eyebrows toward Krantz.
To his credit, Krantz nodded. “She's a drinker.”
Charlie took a seat at the table without bothering to open his briefcase. “Did Krantz tell you about the M1? If you're going to her place, you'd better wave a white flag before you get out of your car.”
Krantz said, “I told him, Bauman. What does that have to do with anything?”
Charlie spread his hands, Mr. Innocent. “Just want to make sure Robby knows what he's getting into. A seventy-eight-year-old lush gives a visual on a guy she's trying to plug with an M1 Garand rifle. That's going to look real good when you get to court.”
Branford laughed. “Sure, Bauman. You're thinking about my best interests.” Branford took a slim stack of papers from his briefcase and handed them to Charlie. “Here's Mrs. Kimmel's statement, plus the reports written by the officers responding to her call. We don't have anything in from the CI or the criminalist yet, but I'll copy you as soon as we get anything.”
Charlie flipped through the pages absently. “Thanks, Robby. Hope you got more to offer the court than Mrs. Kimmel.”
Branford smiled tightly. “We do, but let's start with her. We've got an eyewit who puts your man at the scene, and picked him out of a line. Second, the swabs came back positive, confirming that Pike recently fired a weapon.”
I said, “Pike owns a gun shop. He shoots every day of his life.”
Krantz leaned back. “Yeah. And today he took one shot too many.”
Charlie ignored him. “SID match the slug and Pike's gun?”
“SID has the weapons at the shed now, running them.”
Krantz said, “You know how many guns we found at his place? Twelve handguns, four shotguns, and eight rifles, two of which are fully automatic assault weapons. This guy's a friggin' poster boy for gun control.”
Charlie made a hurry-up gesture. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and every one of those weapons is legally registered. Here's a prediction, Robby. You're not going to get a match.”
Branford shrugged. “Probably not, but it doesn't matter. He's an ex-cop. He knows enough to dump the murder weapon. Does he have an alibi?”
Now Charlie was looking annoyed. “Pike was in Santa Monica. At the ocean.”
“Okay. I'm listening.”
“We're locating the wits now.”
Branford didn't quite manage a smile. “And all I've got to do is believe you.” He took the chair near his briefcase and leaned back. Maybe he and Krantz had rehearsed it. “For the motive, we've got Karen Garcia. Pike blamed Dersh for murdering his girlfriend. Here he was, inside the investigation, and it was killing him that everybody knew that Dersh was the one, but that the police couldn't put together a case.”
I said, “Their relationship was over years ago. Talk to her father and check it out.”
“What does that matter? Men get weird when it comes to women.”
Branford brought another manila folder out of his briefcase and tossed it on the table.
“Besides that, we're not dealing with the most stable personality here, are we? Look at this guy's record. You see all the shootings he's been involved in? You see how many people he's killed? Here's a guy, he thinks nothing of using deadly force to solve his problems.”
I was watching Krantz. Krantz nodded every time Branford made a point, but so far the points didn't add up to much. Yet here was Krantz, looking assured and confident, and not at all bothered by the pissant nature of things like “prior history.” Even Branford seemed amused, like he knew he was giving us nothing.
I said, “I don't get how you put it on Joe.”
They looked at me.
Branford said, “The old lady.”
“She knows Joe by sight? She called 911 and said she saw Joe Pike sneaking down the alley?”
Krantz uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Figure it out, Sherlock. How many guys run around at night with the no sleeves and the tattoos and the sunglasses?”
“Somebody who was trying to look like Joe Pike, Sherlock.”
Krantz laughed. “Oh, please, Cole. You don't have to be Einstein to figure this out.”
Charlie put the papers Branford had given him into his briefcase, then stood. “You guys are light. Way light. Here I was, thin
king you were going to lay out real evidence like Pike's fingerprints on Dersh's doorknob, and all I'm getting is that you don't like that he's in the NRA. This is lame, Robby. I'll have the old lady saying she saw Santa Claus, and the judge is going to laugh you out.”
Robby Branford suddenly looked smug. “Well, there is another thing. You wanna see it now?”
He didn't wait for us to answer. He went to the VCR and pressed the play button.
The flat blue screen filled with a soundless color surveillance video of the back of a house. It took me a moment to realize that it was Dersh's house. I had only seen it from the front.
Krantz said, “This is a surveillance tape of Dersh's house. See the date down here?”
The time and date were in the lower left corner of the screen. The date showed it to be three days before Karen Garcia's burial. That would be the day I had learned the truth about the five victims. It was the day Pike had gone to see Dersh.
We could see a large picture window off Dersh's studio, and inside, two blurred figures I took to be Eugene Dersh and another man.
I said, “That's not Pike.”
“No, it's not. Watch here, past the edge of the house where you can see the street.”
Krantz tapped the upper left side of the screen. Part of Dersh's drive was visible, and, beyond it, the street.
Krantz hit a button, and the image slowed. A few seconds later, the nose of a red Jeep Cherokee eased into the frame. When the cab was visible, Krantz hit the freeze frame.
Krantz said, “That's Pike.”
Charlie's face drained, and his mouth formed a thin, dark line.
The picture advanced frame by frame. Joe's head turned. Joe looked at the house. Joe disappeared.
“When a jury sees this, they're going to put it together with everything else we have and think just what we think. Pike was doing a drive-by to case the area, working up his nut to pull the trigger.”
Robby Branford put his hands in his pockets, pleased with himself and his evidence. “Looks pretty good now, doesn't it, Charlie? I'd say your boy's going to jail.”
Charlie Bauman took my arm and said, “Come on. Let's go outside and talk about this.”
Charlie kept hold of my arm until I shook him off in the booking area. “It's not what it seems. That was three days before Karen Garcia's funeral. Pike only went over there to see Dersh.”
“Don't talk so loud. Why'd he go see Dersh?”
“I'd just found out about the other victims, and that Krantz suspected Dersh for the killer.”
“So Pike wanted to go check out the suspect?”
“Yeah. That's pretty much it.”
Charlie led me to the elevators, making sure no one was close enough to hear. “He go over there to talk to Dersh? Ask him if he did it?”
“No. He just wanted to look at him.”
“He just looked at him?”
“He wanted to see if he thought Dersh could do it.”
Charlie sighed and shook his head. “I can see me trying to explain that to a jury. ‘You gotta understand, ladies and gentlemen, my client is a goddamned swami and he was just trying to vibe whether or not the victim was a killer.’ ” Charlie sighed again. “This really, really is gonna look bad for us.”
“Will it come up in the arraignment?”
“Sure, it's gonna come up. Look, I can tell you right now that Joe is gonna get bound over for trial. He's going to stand for this one. Our problem isn't with the arraignment judge anymore, it'll be with the jury.”
“What about bail?”
“I don't know.” Charlie took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, and stuck one in his mouth. Nervous.
A passing cop said, “They don't want you smoking in here. City building.”
Charlie fired up the cigarette. “So arrest me.”
The cop laughed and went on.
“Look, Elvis, I'm not going to tell a jury that Pike just wanted to see the guy. I'll make up a better story than that, but it still looks bad.” He checked his watch. “They're gonna transfer him to the Criminal Court Building in a few minutes. I'll go over there to talk with him again before the arraignment.”
“I'll meet you there.”
“No, you won't. You're going to look for the girl Pike saw at the beach. There's nothing you can do sitting in a room with me.”
The elevator doors opened and we went in. Two women and an overweight man were inside. The shorter of the women sniffed at Charlie's cigarette. “There's no smoking in here.”
Charlie blew out a cloud of smoke, and waved his hand. “Sorry. I'll put it right out.”
He didn't.
“How bad is it, Charlie?”
Bauman drew deep on the cigarette, then blew a huge cloud of smoke toward the woman.
“Can you spell plea bargain?”
24
• • •
As I walked out through Parker Center, the voices of the people around me were distant and tinny. The world had changed. Karen Garcia and Frank Garcia and Eugene Dersh were gone. The police thought their assassin killer was gone, but even if he wasn't, it didn't matter.
There was only Joe in jail, and the need to save him.
I spent the afternoon retracing the six-mile route that Pike had run, listing every business along the way that might employ twenty-four-hour help. When I reached the part of Ocean Avenue where Pike had met the girl, I left my car and walked. Small groups of homeless people were dotted through the park, some sleeping on blankets in the hot sun, others clustered in small groups or busy searching through trash containers. I woke them if they were sleeping or interrupted them if they were talking to ask if anyone knew Trudy or Matt, or if, last night, they had seen a jogging man who wore sunglasses even after dark. Almost everyone said yes, and almost everyone lied. Trudy was tall and skinny, or short and fat, or had only one eye. The jogging man was a black guy looking to harvest the organs of unwilling donors, or a government operative bent on mind control. The schizophrenics were particularly cooperative. I didn't stop for lunch.
I worked my way through every Ocean Avenue hotel, asking for the names of nighttime staff, and when I finished I drove home hard to begin calling. Completing my first pass along Joe's route had taken almost five hours, and left me with a sense that I was falling behind.
Dersh's murder was the headline story on every four o'clock newscast in town. LAPD had released Joe's name as the suspect, and one station supered a picture of Joe with the legend VIGILANTE KILLER. Everyone reported that Dersh was the main suspect in the recent string of killings, with sources “among the upper echelons of LAPD” saying that that investigation would remain open, though no other suspect was expected to be identified. The cat came in during the newscast, and watched with me.
At ten minutes before five, my phone rang, and Charlie Bauman said, “The arraignment just ended. He's bound over.”
Charlie sounded hollow.
“What about bail?”
“No bail.”
I felt dull and weary, as if my frantic pace had taken its toll.
“We'll have another arraignment in Superior Court in about a month. I can argue for bail again there, and maybe that judge will swing in our favor. This one didn't.”
“So what happens now?”
“They'll let him sit in Parker for another couple of days, then transfer him to Men's Central. They'll keep him over in the safe wing because he used to be a cop, so we don't have to worry about that. All we have to worry about is building his defense. You find anyone who saw him?”
“Not yet.” I told him how I'd spent the day.
“Christ, how many names you got?”
“Between hotel people and businesses, two hundred fourteen.”
“Man. You work fast.”
It didn't seem like very much to me.
“Listen. Fax your list to my office. I'll have my secretary get on it tomorrow. That way you can keep pounding the pavement.”
“I'll make the calls.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It's after six. Businesses are closing, and the night shifts aren't on yet. Who're you going to call?”
I didn't know.
“Joe's okay for now. We've got time. Let's just do a good job, all right?” Like I was a little boy who'd lost his best friend, and he was my dad telling me everything would be okay if I just stayed calm.
“I'll fax the list, Charlie.”
“Good. We'll talk tomorrow.”
After we hung up, I sent the list, then got a beer and brought it out onto the deck. The air was hot, but the canyon was clear. Two red-tailed hawks floated in lazy circles overhead. They hung on nothing, patient, tiny heads cocking from side to side as they searched for field mice and gophers. I have seen them float like that for hours. Patient hunters are successful hunters. Charlie was right. When I was in Ranger School at Fort Benning, Georgia, they taught us that panic kills. Men who had lived through three wars taught us that if you panicked you would stop thinking, and if you stopped thinking you would die. A sergeant named Zim ran us for five miles every day carrying sixty-pound field packs, a full issue of ammunition, and our M16s. Between each cadence he made us shout, “My mind is my deadliest weapon. Sergeant Zim says so, and Sergeant Zim is never wrong. Sergeant Zim is God. Thank you, God.”
When you're eighteen, that leaves an impression.
I said, “Okay, moron. Think.”
If Amanda Kimmel had seen a man dressed like Joe, wearing sunglasses like Joe, and sporting tattoos like Joe, then someone was pretending to be Joe. Finding that person would be an even better way of clearing Joe than finding Trudy or Matt, but so far, all I had was something that no one else seemed to have: An absolute and complete belief that Joe Pike was telling the truth. I did not doubt him. I would not. They could have videotape of Joe walking into that house, and if Joe pointed at the television and said, “That's not me,” I would believe him.
You work with what you have, and all I had was faith. An awful lot of people have found that to be enough.
