by Robert Crais
Paulette Renfro's jaw knotted. “Do you have children, Mr. Cole?”
“No, ma'am.”
“You're lucky. I really do have to be going now. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help.”
“Could I call you again if I think of something to ask?”
“I don't think I'll be any more help then than now.”
She walked me to the door, and I went back out into the heat. She didn't come out with me.
Evelyn was waiting by her Beetle. She'd put on little sunglasses, but she was still squinting from the glare. Waiting for me in this insane heat. The boxes and hangers were in her car.
“She wouldn't talk about him, would she? My father.”
“Not very much.”
“She won't talk about that day. She never would, except to defend that guy.”
“Joe?”
Evie glanced toward the windmills, but shrugged without seeing them.
“Can you imagine? The bastard kills her husband, and she keeps that goddamned picture. I used to draw on it. I've broken that goddamned thing so many times I can't count.”
I didn't say anything, and she looked back at me.
“You're his friend, aren't you? You came out here trying to help him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that they were investigating my father? The Internal Affairs?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“She tried to keep it from me. And so did Daddy.” Daddy. Like she was still ten years old. “Men came to the house and questioned her, and I heard. I heard her screaming at my father about it. Can you imagine what that's like when you're a child?”
I thought that I could, but I didn't say anything.
“She just won't talk about it. She'll talk about anything else, but not that, and that's the most important thing that's ever happened to me. It ruined my whole fucking life.”
Standing on the cement drive was like standing on a bright white beach. The heat baked up through my shoes. I wanted to move, but she seemed about to say something that wasn't easy for her to say, and I thought that if I moved it would break her resolve.
“I want to tell you something, you're his friend. That man killed my father. It was like my world ended, I loved my father so much, and there is nothing I would love more than to hurt the goddamned awful man who took him from me.”
Pike.
“But there's something I want more.”
I waited.
“She's got all Daddy's things in storage somewhere. You know, one of those rental places.”
“You know where?”
“I'll have to find out. I don't know if there's anything there that will help, but you're trying to find out what happened back then, right?”
I told her that I was, but that I also wanted other things. I said, “I'm trying to help Joe Pike. I want you to know that, Evelyn.”
“I don't care about that. I just want to know the truth about my father.”
“What if it's bad?”
“I want to know. I guess I even expect that it is, but I just want to know why he died. I've spent my whole goddamned life wanting to know. Maybe that's why I'm so fucked up.”
I didn't know what to say.
“I don't think it was an accident. I think your friend murdered him.”
Exactly what Krantz had thought.
“If I help you, and you find out, will you tell me?”
“If you want to know, I'll tell you.”
“You'll tell me the truth? No matter what?”
“If that's what you want.”
She wiped at her nose. “It's like if I just knew, then I could go on, you know?”
We stood there for a time, and then I held her. We had been in the sun for so long that when my hands touched her back it felt as if I'd gripped a hot coal.
I watched the windmills stretching across the plain of the desert, turning in the never-ending wind.
After a time, Evie Wozniak stepped back. She wiped her nose again. “This is silly. I don't even know you, and here I am telling you my life's secrets.”
“It works like that sometimes, doesn't it?”
“Yeah. I guess you'd better give me your phone number.”
I gave her the card.
“I'll call you.”
“Okay.”
“You can't tell her, all right? If she knew, she wouldn't allow it.”
“I won't tell.”
“Our little secret.”
“That's right, Evie. Our little secret.”
I drove back down off the mountain, Palm Springs far in the distance, shimmering in the heat like a place that did not exist.
Man of Action
The cell was four feet wide by eight feet long by eight feet high. A seatless toilet and a lavatory stuck out from the cement wall like ceramic goiters, almost hidden behind the single bunk. Overhead, bright fluorescent lamps were secured behind steel grids so the suicidal couldn't electrocute themselves. The mattress was a special rayon material that could not be cut or torn, and the bed frame and mattress rack were spot-welded together. No screws, no bolts, no way to take anything apart. The single bunk made this cell the Presidential Suite of the Parker Center jail, reserved for Hollywood celebrities, members of the media, and former police officers who had found their way to the wrong side of the bars.
Joe Pike lay on the bunk, waiting to be transferred to the Men's Central Jail, a facility ten minutes away that housed twenty-two thousand inmates. His hair was still damp from the lavatory bath he'd given himself after exercising, but he was thinking that he wanted to run, to feel the sun on his face and the movement of air and the sweat race down his chest. He wanted the peace of the effort, and the certain knowledge that it was a good thing to be doing. Not all acts brought with them the certainty of goodness, but running did.
The security gate at the end of the hall opened, and Krantz appeared on the other side of the bars. He was holding something.
Krantz stared at Pike for a long time before saying, “I'm not here to question you. Don't worry about your lawyer.”
Pike wasn't worried.
“I've waited a long time for this, Joe. I'm enjoying it.” Joe. Like they were friends.
“You look bad, being wrong about Dersh.”
Pike spoke softly, forcing Krantz to come closer.
“I know. I feel bad about Dersh, but I've got the Feebs to share the blame. You hear Dersh's family already filed suit? Two brothers, his mother, and some sister he hadn't seen in twenty years. Bellying up to the trough.”
Pike wondered what was with Krantz, coming here to gloat.
“They're suing the city, the department, everybody. Bishop and the chief can't fire me without it looking like an admission that the department did something wrong, so they're saying we just followed the FBI's lead.”
“They should win, Krantz. You're responsible.”
“Maybe so, but they're suing you, too. You pulled the trigger.”
Pike didn't answer that.
Krantz shrugged. “But you're right. I look bad. A year from now when everything's calmed down, that's it for me. They'll ship me out to one of the divisions. That's okay. I've got the twenty-five in. I might even make thirty if I can't scare up something better.”
“Why are you here, Krantz? Because I humiliated you?”
Krantz turned red. Pike could tell that he was trying not to, but there it was.
“I didn't ruin you, Krantz. You took care of that yourself. People like you never understand that.”
Krantz seemed to think about that, then shrugged. “For the humiliation, yes, but also because you deserve to be here. You murdered Wozniak and got away with it. But now you're here, and I like seeing it.”
Pike sat up. “I didn't murder Woz.”
“You were right in with him on the burglaries. You knew I was going to nail him, and you knew I would get you, too. You were a chickenshit, Pike, and you decided to take out Wozniak because you're an amoral, homicidal lunatic who
doesn't think twice about snuffing out a human life. Which is about as much thought as you gave to Dersh.”
“All the time you spent investigating, and that's what you came up with. You really think I murdered Woz in that room to keep him quiet?”
Krantz smiled. “I don't think you killed him because you thought he'd give you up, Pike. I think you killed him because you wanted his wife.”
Pike stared.
“You had something going with her, didn't you?”
Pike swung his feet off the bunk. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
Krantz smiled. “Like your asshole friend says, I'm a detective. I detected. I was watching her, Pike. I saw you with her.”
“You're wrong about that, and you're wrong about Dersh, too. You're wrong about everything.”
Krantz nodded, agreeable. “If you've got an alibi, bring it out. If you can prove to me that you didn't do Dersh, I'll personally ask Branford to drop the charges.”
“You know there's nothing.”
“There's nothing because you did it, Pike. We've got you on tape casing his house. We've got the old lady picking you out of the line. We've got the residue results and your relationship with the girl. We've got this.”
Krantz showed Pike what he was carrying. It was a revolver wrapped in plastic.
“This is a .357 magnum. SID matches it with the bullet that killed Dersh. It's the murder weapon, Pike.”
Joe didn't say anything.
“It's a clean gun. No prints, and all the numbers have been burned off, so we can't trace it. But we recovered it in the water off Santa Monica exactly where you said you talked with the girl. That puts you with this gun.”
Pike stared at the plastic bag, and then at Krantz, wondering at the coincidence of how the murder weapon turned up at the very place where he admitted to being.
“Think about it, Krantz. Why would I admit to being there if that's where I threw the gun?”
“Because someone saw you. I think you went there to ditch the gun, and did, but then someone saw you. I didn't believe you about the girl at first, but maybe you were telling the truth about that part. Maybe she saw you there, and you were worried we'd find her and catch you in a lie if you denied it, so you tried to cover yourself.”
Pike looked at the plastic bag again. He knew that cops often showed things to suspects and lied about what they were to try to elicit a confession.
“Is this bullshit?”
Krantz smiled again, calm and confident, and in an odd way Pike found it warm. “No bullshit. You can ask Bauman. The DA's filling him in on it right now. I've got you, Joe. I couldn't make the case with Wozniak, but this time I've got you. Branford's making all this noise about Special Circumstance, but he's full of shit. I couldn't get that lucky, Pike, you getting the needle.”
“I didn't put the gun there, Krantz. That means somebody else did.”
“That's some coincidence, Joe, you and the gun just happening to be in the same place.”
“It means they knew my statement. Think about it.”
“What I think is that we've got plenty for a conviction. Charlie is going to tell you the same thing.”
“No.”
“Bauman's already floating plea arrangements. Bet he didn't tell you that, did he? I know you're telling Bauman no plea, and he's saying sure, like he's going along with it, but he's not an idiot. Charlie's smart. He'll let you sit in Men's Central for six months, hoping you're telling the truth about this girl you claim you saw, but when she doesn't turn up he'll deal you a straight hand about taking the plea. My guess is that Branford will let you cop to twenty with the possibility of parole. Saves everybody looking bad about how we fucked over Dersh. Twenty with time off means you serve twelve. That sound about right to you?”
“I'm not going to prison, Krantz. Not for something I didn't do.”
Krantz touched the bars. He slipped his fingers along the steel like it was his lover.
“You're inside now, and you're going to stay inside. And if you're dumb enough to go to trial, and I'm thinking you might do that because you're such a hardhead, you'll be in a cage like this for the rest of your life. And I did it, Pike. Me. You're mine, and I wanted to tell you that. That's why I came here, to tell you. You're mine.”
The black jailer with the big arms came down the cellblock and stopped next to Krantz. “Time to take your ride, Pike. Step into the center of the floor.”
Krantz started away, then turned back. “Oh, and one other thing. You heard we found the homeless guy dead, didn't you?”
“Deege.”
“Yeah, Deege. That was kind've goofy, wasn't it, Pike, him telling you guys that a truck like yours stopped Karen, and a guy who looked like you was driving?”
Pike waited.
“Someone crushed his throat and stuffed him in a Dumpster on one of those little cul-de-sac streets below the lake.”
Pike waited.
“A couple of teenagers saw a red Jeep Cherokee up there, Joe. Parked in the middle of the street and waiting on the very night that Deege was killed. They saw the driver, too. Guess who they saw behind the wheel?”
“Me.”
“This gets better and better.”
Krantz stared at Pike a little longer, then turned and walked away.
Earlier, there had been a prisoner who made monkey sounds—oo-oo-oo—that Pike had thought of as Monkeyboy, and another prisoner with loud flatulence who had thrown feces out of his cell while shouting, “I'm the Gasman!”
They had been taken away, and Pike had dubbed the jail cop with the big arms the Ringmaster.
When Pike was standing, the Ringmaster waved down the hall. Jailers didn't use keys anymore. The cell locks were electronically controlled from the security station at the end of the cellblock, two female officers who sat behind a bulletproof glass partition. When the Ringmaster gave the sign, they pushed a button and Pike's door opened with a dull click. Pike thought that it sounded like a rifle bolt snapping home.
The Ringmaster stepped through, holding the handcuffs. “We won't use the leg irons for the ride, but you gotta wear these.”
Pike put out his wrists.
As the Ringmaster fit the cuffs, he said, “Been watching you work out in here. How many push-ups you do?”
“A thousand.”
“How many dips?”
“Two hundred.”
The Ringmaster grunted. He was a large man with overdeveloped arm and shoulder and chest muscles that stretched his uniform as tight as a second skin. Not many prisoners would stand up to him, and even fewer could hope to succeed if they tried.
The Ringmaster snugged the cuffs, checked to see they were secure, then stepped back.
“I don't know if you're getting a square shake with this Dersh thing or not. I guess you probably did it, but if some asshole popped my lady I'd forget about this badge, too. That's what being a man is.”
Pike didn't say anything.
“I know you're an ex-cop, and I heard about all that stuff went down when you were on the job. It don't matter to me. I just wanted to say I've had you here in my house for a couple of days, and I read you as a pretty square guy. Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.”
The two female cops buzzed them out of the cellblock into a gray, institutional corridor where the Ringmaster led Pike down a flight of stairs and into the sheriff 's prisoner holding room. Five other prisoners were already there, cuffed to special plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor: three short Hispanic guys with gang tats, and two black guys, one old and weathered, the other younger, and missing his front teeth. Three sheriff's deputies armed with Tasers and nightsticks were talking by the door. Riot control.
When the Ringmaster led Pike into the room, the younger black prisoner stared at Pike, then nudged the older man, but the older man didn't respond. The younger guy was about Pike's size, with institutional tats that were almost impossible to see against his dark skin. A jagged knife scar ran alo
ng the side of his neck, as if someone had once cut his throat.
The Ringmaster hooked Pike to the bench, then took a clipboard from the deputies.
Pike sat without moving, staring straight ahead at nothing, thinking about Krantz, and what Krantz had said. Across the room, the younger guy with the knife scar kept glancing over. Pike heard the older man call him Rollins.
Fifteen minutes later, all six prisoners were unhooked from their chairs and formed up in a line. They were led out into the parking garage and aboard a gray L.A. County Jail van, climbing through a door in the van's rear while two deputies with Mossberg shotguns watched. A third dep, the driver, sat at the wheel with the engine running. They needed the engine for the air conditioner.
Inside the van, the driver's compartment was separated from the rear by the same heavy-gauge wire mesh that covered the windows. The rear compartment where the prisoners sat was fixed with a bench running along each wall so that the prisoners faced each other. The van was set up to hold twelve, but with only half that number everyone had plenty of room.
As they climbed in, a deputy named Montana touched each man on the shoulder and told him to sit on the left side or the right side. One of the Mexicans got it wrong and the deputy had to go inside and straighten him out, holding up the process.
Rollins sat directly across from Pike, now openly staring at him.
Pike stared back.
Rollins snarled up his lips to show Pike the double-wide hole where his teeth should be.
Pike said, “Sweet.”
The trip to the Men's Central Jail would take about twelve minutes with the usual downtown traffic delays. When the last of the six was in and seated, Deputy Montana called back through the cage. “Listen up. No talking, no moving around, no bullshit. It's a short trip, so nobody start any crap about having to pee.”
He said it a second time in Spanish, then the driver put the van in gear and pulled out of the parking garage and into traffic.
They had gone exactly two blocks when Rollins leaned toward Pike.
“You the one was a cop, aren't you, muthuhfuckuh?”
Pike just looked at him, seeing him, but not seeing him. Pike was still thinking about Krantz, and about the case that was slowly coming together against him. He was letting himself float and drift and be in places other than this van.
