"So I'd be receiving stolen property, breaking all kinds of known and unknown security laws, and then compounding the felonies by tampering with evidence. That's why you're a talk-show host instead of a cop. I'm better off playing stupid."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Mick, if I didn't love you, I swear. . . ."
I perked up a bit. Darlene frowned. "Forget I said that, damn it."
"But you did. You said you love me."
"Don't grin."
"Sorry."
"I mean it, wipe that smile off your face or I will."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Darlene eyed me with proverbial steam coming out of her ears. I looked down and away, back again. "Honey, I need your help."
"The last time I helped you my cousin Larry got shot and people died. I still have bad dreams about that."
"Me, too."
"Let's get the hell outside." Darlene was at the door before I hit my feet. She held it open and waited out in the corridor. I followed meekly. I must have masochism buried deep in my psyche, because her anger never failed to light my candle.
Darlene went charging on ahead of me, arms swinging. When she got upset it was like Olympic speed walking just trying to keep up with her. We went back out through the empty lobby. The old woman was gone and the desk job had rotated to a female officer I didn't know. I tossed the badge on the desk as I passed.
Out the doors, down the steps. A hot afternoon. Rows of cars packed onto narrow strips of concrete. Drivers on cell phones, sighing and swearing and honking their horns.
I followed Darlene nearly two long blocks down Oxnard. The air was thickening with afternoon smog and the heat announced an early summer. The news had just reported that the world now had the highest temperatures registered in over four centuries. Darlene stopped. Her head swivelled back and forth until she settled on a nearby taco stand. The place was nearly deserted. Darlene reached the window first and ordered two diet colas. We went to the furthest table and sat with our heads close together.
"Now what the hell is going on?"
I told her everything. About Bud Stone, the girl, my promise, the beating, all of it. Well, I left out the part about Brandi having a terrific ass. Darlene took some ice out of her cola and rubbed it on her neck. I wanted to volunteer for that duty but kept my mouth shut. Sometimes I'm smarter than I look.
"I don't believe you, Mick. We don't see each other for a few weeks and you're already up to your neck in alligators."
"And I just came here to drain the swamp."
"Let me get this straight. An old friend calls you up, and the next thing you know you're watching his lover, tangling with the mob, getting beat up in your own front yard, and threatened by some shadowy international organization that wants you to locate a mysterious package. Oh, and trying to find two ex-cons who took down a drug dealer and may be dangerous themselves. Did I leave anything out?"
"Well," I said weakly, "I got fired."
Her jaw dropped. "That's a joke, right?"
I told her about Judd Kramer and his betrayal. Darlene sagged and her face softened a bit. "That stinks, even for a Hollywood agent."
"Tell me about it. I know it's silly, but this feels kind of like being cheated on, although maybe by a very ugly woman."
Darlene flashed a grin. It was a very nice grin. "So, what now?"
"Well, I've got a bit of money saved, so that's good. And the house has gone up in value. There's no rush."
Her features tightened a bit. "Will you have to leave Los Angeles to get work?"
"I have no idea," I said honestly, "I might have to go. Hey, I do miss the desert. What I learned this time around is that I'm not really an LA kind of guy. If it wasn't for the work, to be honest, you'd be the only reason I'd stay here."
She stroked my arm, and a number of different emotions played across her features. Then her eyes hardened. "No. No promises, Mick."
"And I'm not asking for any. I was just saying."
"I know what you were saying."
"No you don't, you don't know what I was about to say, you know what you think I was about to say, and that's probably different from what I would have said."
"What the fuck?"
We laughed. Her eyes turned moist. So did mine. Darlene looked at me in a way that skinned flesh from my heart. She said, "I've missed you."
"I've missed you more."
"I doubt that, Callahan."
"And I love you." The bravery elicited no response. My stomach rolled sideways. I just swallowed my pride and continued on. "Darlene, why do we keep screwing this up?"
"You're the counselor, counselor."
"Because we're scared of what we're feeling, I suppose. Because we're so wounded. I know I'm scared. Aren't you scared?"
"No comment."
"I'm a mess." I stretched, shook my head. "Darlene, I wanted to be a player again, have another television show. I thought that was the most important thing to me, getting back in the game. Now I'm not so sure."
"You're too good to quit."
"I can always just stay in private practice. Never get rich that way, but it's rewarding."
Darlene shrugged. "You'll do whatever you have to do, same as me. You know something? Cops get a good retirement, that is, if they don't turn bitter, commit suicide, or get blown away on the job. But for just living day to day, I'd probably make more money typing memos at a movie studio."
"And you'd go completely insane."
"Not much doubt about that."
I leaned forward to touch her arm. She didn't pull back. "What do you really want from your life, honey?"
"Does anyone ever know the answer to that?"
"Probably not. I think we just consider and decide. Absolute certainty seems to be for the less intelligent. Not that I'm all that impressed with myself lately, either."
"Mick, you're a better man than you think. You deserve to be happy."
"So do you, with or without me." My voice trembled, so I blinked comically and sat back. "Good God, did I just say that?"
Her lip twitched. "A moment of true selflessness from the great Mick Callahan. Call the Daily News."
I laughed. "It is so good to see you."
She nodded. "Likewise."
I bought some time, played with my straw. "I really am sorry to be here under these circumstances. I didn't ask to be a part of another drama. I owed an old friend a favor, and now it's turning into a train wreck. No good deed goes unpunished, and all that. I hate to ask, but can you help me out?"
A moment crawled by. "I'll see what I can do," Darlene said.
My shoulders sagged with relief. "I really appreciate that, believe me. If you can assist me in running these two guys down, I'll take it from there and leave you out of it, I promise."
"I can tell you this much. As of nine-thirty this morning there are APBs out for both Toole and Faber. LAPD is calling it something milder, but off the record, warrants are in the works."
"Warrants for stealing from a dealer?"
"For murder one."
I grunted. "Who got killed?"
"That drug dealer the Vegas dudes say your friend supposedly took down? Gordo? Faber and Toole are ex-cons, remember? They have jackets. And their fingerprints were all over that house."
I blinked. "I still don't get it."
"Gordo is dead, Mick. He was found cut to pieces early this morning."
It took me a minute to absorb that statement. Too many uncomfortable questions resulted. Did Bud Stone murder the guy, or Faber and Toole? And why would they be in the house of a dealer rumored to make snuff films? Were they there before or after Bone?
It couldn't have been all at the same time. Well, unless they were in it together, and Bone had lied to me from the start.
Oh, man, now that would be an ugly mess, wouldn't it?
"They were there, too," I said stupidly. "Faber and Toole. Before, after, maybe at the same time. Jesus."
"Yeah, and the brass likes Faber
and Toole for the killing because of those aforementioned prints."
I whistled. "When I step in it, I really step in it."
"You sure do. And unfortunately, you also just told me about your pal Bud Stone. And that just put me in the position of either betraying the man I love or willfully withholding evidence in a murder investigation."
"I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything." Darlene shook her head and sighed. "But please tell Jerry to stop sending me shit. Let me come to your house."
Thirteen
No good deed goes unpunished, all right.
Now, Robert Burns wrote "the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley." That's in a lovely, though nearly incomprehensible Scottish poem my stepfather claimed was one of my mother's favorites. I can't vouch for that, I don't remember her, but it stuck in my mind. I take it to mean that just when you figure you've got the bases covered and have a sense of how to dig yourself out of the poop, the other damned shoe drops.
We have to back up a few hours, to earlier that same morning, when I was being dragged to the Vegas airport for the flight back to Burbank. Here's what happened, as best I can reconstruct it. Off-duty cop Dave Lopez was guarding Bone's ex-girlfriend Brandi DeLillo from a discreet distance, just as I'd requested. Lopez had been working almost round the clock for a couple of days. In short, he was beat.
Dave Lopez was a good-looking guy gone to seed, a divorced cop hanging on by his fingernails for that holy twenty-year pension. He was a chain smoker, a quiet man given to stress headaches, a nice guy but completely burned out. He didn't know that his pals were already covering for him, looking the other way about his increased drinking and absent-minded mistakes. That made him the wrong guy for any really dangerous job.
Lopez had four months to go, and had no intention of signing up for more, but nobody wanted him to wash out. He'd been delighted to get the referral from Larry Donato to hang back and bodyguard. Hell, why not? Just follow a pretty girl around for twenty bucks an hour, with a shot at playing the hero one last time. How bad could that be?
Oh, man.
Jerry got bored with the enterprise after two shifts and handed it all back to Lopez, who had just come out of a four on, three off rotation. He'd already announced he was free to work through the start of next week, and needed money for that imminent retirement. He'd purchased some cheap land in a remote part of Mexico, near where his parents had been born, and wanted to build a small house. The construction expenses, not to mention the bribes, were breaking his back.
Brandi DeLillo had been in her apartment complex all night. That morning Lopez was nodding off a bit when the metal parking gate suddenly screeched and rolled back. Brandi drove up and out onto the street, rap music blaring. Lopez dropped sideways onto the seat and vanished from view just before she looked his way. He stared at the dashboard and waited for her engine to fade away, sat up and started his own car.
Brandi drove fast, but Lopez caught up with her near Wilshire and dropped back into traffic. She changed lanes a lot and took sharp turns, almost like someone who didn't want to be followed, but surveillance was one of the few job skills Lopez still possessed. He stayed with her every step of the way, and felt confident he hadn't been made. The day was turning hot, making Lopez grateful he wasn't stuck on the other side of the hill in the sweltering San Fernando Valley.
The girl moved down Wilshire, either heading for the San Diego Freeway or possibly the beach. Lopez was careful not to lose her near the freeway ramp, for fear of being left behind, but she sailed on by, maybe heading for Brentwood or Santa Monica. The traffic snarled and coiled and hissed.
Some high school boys in a new Ford Explorer honked and waved. Brandi did not respond, and that somehow made them bolder. They pulled up alongside her car and shouted something. She smiled brightly as one slender hand rose with the middle finger extended. They hooted and drove away with the rowdy faux courage of the desperately lonely adolescent.
Lopez trailed the girl all the way to Second Street in Santa Monica. When she pulled into one of the parking garages, he stopped with the turn signal blinking and pretended to search for something. Listened to her tires squeal up the ramp, then collected a ticket and entered the garage. Lopez lucked out just as someone was pulling out on a lower level. He beat an angry old man to the spot, locked his car, and jogged to the elevator. Then rode it in silence, wishing he'd brought sun lotion.
Brandi came out onto the sidewalk wearing a white sundress and a baseball cap. She paused and looked both ways. Lopez was already at the corner ordering a greasy hot dog from a street vendor.
The pretty girl donned an overlarge pair of black plastic sunglasses, spun around and marched east. She moved briskly, straw purse swinging, heading straight for the busy Third Street Promenade. Dave Lopez saw this new development as a decidedly mixed blessing. On the plus side, it would be easier to stay hidden in a large crowd. On the other hand, Lopez knew he could easily lose her there.
The Promenade is generally packed with street hustlers, trained pets, jugglers, musicians, rappers, hip hop dancers, caricature artists, poets, and oddball vendors. It's a fun spot for the beach crowd, tourists, and kids out on a cheap date. Brandi slowed down when she hit the back of the crowd, found an opening and slid into a group of couples watching an old man sing live opera accompanied by a scratchy cassette recording of an energetic orchestra.
She walked. Lopez moved a bit ahead of her, and stayed on the other side of the street. He ordered shaved ice and faced the window of a Greek restaurant. He could see Brandi reflected in the dusty glass.
The girl checked her watch and slid sideways out of the mob. She moved further east. Lopez stayed ahead of her for a while. When it felt right to change up again he stopped by a man selling liberal bumper stickers and allowed her to pass him by, so that he was behind her. Lopez was kind of enjoying himself by this point, feeling on top of his game.
Brandi enjoyed a kid doing magic tricks with helium balloons and left him a decent tip in his coffee can. She had to freeze out a couple of men who approached her. The cats doing circus tricks made her laugh out loud. Eventually the girl chose a restaurant, sat down at a glass table, and ordered a light salad and coffee. Relieved, Lopez went into an alley a bit west of her and smoked a cigarette. He opened his cell phone and called Jerry.
"It's me. We're in Santa Monica at the Promenade, doing the tourist thing all by our lonesome."
"Oh," Jerry answered. He sounded like he'd been napping. "Want me to pick it up again this afternoon?"
"I'll keep going, unless you're running out of budget. No problem."
"We have the cash. Enjoy the view, Dave."
"Later."
Lopez closed his cell phone, glanced up and saw two cops coming so he stomped out the cigarette. The cops hurried into a coffee place without spotting him. Lopez peeked around the corner.
Brandi was gone.
Lopez felt his heart jump. He looked again. The chair and food were still there, half the salad uneaten. He told himself that she'd gone to the ladies' room, but his instincts were saying something else. Damn. Damn.
Lopez sighed, stepped out into the sunlight and risked walking directly by the restaurant. He peered through the glass, and saw a woman exiting the small toilet. No one else seemed to be inside.
He swivelled, eyes darting here and there. Where could she have gone? He glanced back at the table. The waiter was cleaning up with a very sour expression. Brandi had apparently walked out on her check. She'd been generous with the street vendors, and had flashed an okay roll, so why stiff the waiter? Was she forced to leave? Had someone gotten by him?
Continuing on, Lopez swept the street as efficiently as he could. Brandi was not in any of the shops, and there was no way she'd returned to the parking garage. She would have had to have been in plain view for a lot longer if she'd tried. Lopez was certain he hadn't been spotted. Someone must have taken her. Christ, one lousy cigarette and it all comes crashing do
wn. What the fuck do I do now? What if she gets killed? How am I going to explain this?
He considered going back to the restaurant and asking the cops for help, but on what basis? He wasn't on the job, and had no specific evidence.
Lopez was packing a .38, but knew if he shot a man while moonlighting his pension would be gravely endangered. Still, he fingered the weapon as he spun in a circle. The question was, did she shake him, or was she kidnapped? He had to bet on the worst alternative, that someone had snatched the girl. Who or how or why, Lopez hadn't a clue.
One thing he was reasonably confident about. Whoever did it was unlikely to know Brandi was being tailed by someone else, so if he could find her in time, Lopez figured he still had a decent shot at saving the day. But where should he start looking? Which way should he go?
He had no choice but to gamble, so Lopez chose the most likely exit route, a wide alley behind a Starbucks. He slipped past a bearded homeless guy who stood muttering to a cigar butt like it was his therapist. Lopez went into the alley. The reeking trash containers offered some cover. If the girl was taken by force, there was a very private parking lot at the end that was cool, dark, and likely to be deserted unless someone from the high-end company just happened to be coming or going. He palmed the weapon, feeling rather foolish, and slipped along the brick wall. He knelt down, looked at the alley floor, and saw what appeared to be drag marks. He pictured her being dragged by the shoulders, legs limp.
Yeah, or someone just dragged a trash sack through the dirt. Don't be a rookie and cap some security guard by mistake.
Lopez got to the end of the alley and paused where the drag marks stopped to examine the large metal door to the private parking area. It was closed. Lopez tried the handle. It wasn't locked. The door swung open and he stepped into the cool, shadowy cement garage. Everything seemed too loud, even his breathing. He closed the door to keep the sunlight from giving him away and moved into the gloom. Lopez paused to listen and thought he heard muffled voices down below. His palms were wet.
One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Page 11
