by Robert Crais
“What did he say?”
Starkey's eyes were careful, like she was hoping I would read that part of it, too, so she wouldn't have to explain.
“You can hear it yourself. She hit the Record button on her message machine and got most of the call. C'mon, we want you to see if it's the same man.”
I didn't move.
“Did he say something about Ben?”
“Not about Ben. C'mon, everybody's down at the station now. Take your own car. I don't want to drive you back after.”
“Starkey, did he hurt Ben? Goddamnit, tell me what he said.”
Starkey got into her car and sat quietly for a moment.
“He said you killed twenty-six civilians, then you murdered your buddies to get rid of the witnesses. That's what he said, Cole, you wanted to know. Follow me down. We want you to hear it.”
Starkey drove away, and I was swallowed by darkness.
time missing: 27 hours, 31 minutes
The Hollywood Division Police Station was a flat red-brick building a block south of Hollywood Boulevard, midway between Paramount Studios and the Hollywood Bowl. The evening streets were choked with traffic going nowhere at a glacial pace. Tour buses cruised the Walk of Fame and lined the curb outside the Chinese Theatre, filled with tourists who had paid thirty-five dollars to sit in traffic. It was full-on dark when I turned into the parking lot behind the station. Richard's limo was parked by a fence. Starkey was waiting by her car with a fresh cigarette.
“Are you carrying a weapon?”
“It's at home.”
“You can't bring it inside.”
“What, Starkey, you think I want to murder some witnesses?”
Starkey flicked her cigarette hard into the side of a patrol car. A shower of sparks exploded off its fender.
“Don't be so testy. Where's Pike?”
“I dropped him off at Lucy's. If this asshole has her phone number, he probably knows where she lives. You worried this is going to fuck up your case, too?”
She didn't fight me about it.
“That was Gittamon, not me.”
We went inside through double glass doors, then along a tile hall into a room marked DETECTIVES. Chest-high partitions cut the room into cubicles, but most of the chairs were empty; either crime was rampant or everyone had gone home. Gittamon and Myers were speaking quietly across the room, Myers with a slim leather briefcase. Gittamon excused himself and came over when he saw us.
“Did Carol explain what happened?”
“She told me about the call. Where's Lucy?”
“We're set up in an interview room. I'm going to warn you that the tape is disturbing. He says some things.”
Starkey interupted him.
“Before we get to that, Cole should tell you what he found. They might have something, Dave.”
I described the prints and the crushed grass that Pike and I had found, and what I thought they meant. Gittamon listened like he wasn't sure what to make of it, but Starkey explained.
“Cole's making sense about someone having to be across the canyon. I'll check it out with Chen tomorrow as soon as we have enough light. Maybe we'll get a match on the shoes.”
Myers walked over when he saw us talking, and watched me from under his eyebrows like an aborigine staring at the sun.
He said, “You must be a clue magnet, Cole, finding all these things the way you do. Is that just good luck?”
I turned away from him. It was that or hit him in the neck.
“Gittamon, are we going to hear this tape or not?”
They brought me to an interview room where Lucy and Richard were waiting at a clean gray table. The room was painted beige because an LAPD psychologist had determined that beige was soothing, but nobody looked soothed.
Richard said, “Finally. The sonofabitch called Lucy, Cole. He phoned her goddamned house.”
He put his hand on her back, but she shrugged it away.
“Richard, you're really pissing me off with the snide remarks.”
Richard's jaw knotted, and he looked away. I pulled a chair beside her and lowered my voice.
“How are you?”
She softened for a moment, but then a fierceness came to her face.
“I want to find this sonofabitch myself. I want to undo all this and make sure that Ben is safe and then I want to do things to this man.”
“I know. Me, too.”
She glanced at me with her fierce eyes, then shook her head and stared at the tape recorder. Gittamon took a seat opposite her, and Starkey and Myers stood in the door.
Gittamon said, “Ms. Chenier, you don't have to hear this again. There's really no need.”
“I want to hear it. I'll be hearing it all night.”
“All right, then. Mr. Cole, just so you know, Ms. Chenier received the call at five-forty this evening. She was able to record most of the conversation, but not the beginning, so what you're about to hear is an incomplete conversation.”
“Starkey told me part of that, yes. Did you trace back to the same number?”
“The phone company is working on it now. This recording you're about to hear is a duplicate, so the sound quality isn't so good. We've sent the original to SID. They might be able to pull something off the background, but it isn't likely.”
“All right. I understand that.”
Gittamon pressed the Play button. The cheap speaker filled with an audible hiss, then a male voice began in mid-sentence:
The Voice: —know you had nothing to do with this, but that fucker's gotta pay for what he did.
Lucy: Please don't hurt him! Let him go!
The Voice: Shut up and listen! You listen! Cole killed them! I know what happened and you don't, so LISTEN!
Gittamon stopped the tape.
“Is this the man who called you last night?”
“Yes, that's him.”
Everyone in the room watched me, but Richard and Lucy most of all. Richard was slumped back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking sullen, but Lucy was leaning forward, poised at the edge of the table like a swimmer preparing to race. I had never seen her looking at me that way.
Gittamon noted my answer in his pad.
“All right. Now that you're hearing the voice a second time, does anything about it ring a bell? Do you recognize him?”
“No, nothing. I don't know who it is.”
Lucy said, “Are you sure?”
The sinews and tendons stood taut on her hands and her breath labored as if she was holding an enormous weight.
“I don't know him, Luce.”
Gittamon touched the button again.
“All right, then. We'll go on.”
When he pressed the button, their voices overlapped, each shouting to be heard over the other.
Lucy: Please, I'm begging you—
The Voice: I was there, lady, I know! They slaughtered twenty-six people—
Lucy: Ben is a child! He never hurt anyone! Please!
The Voice: They were in the bush, off on their own, so they figured, what the fuck, no one will know if we don't tell them, so they swore each other to secrecy, but Cole didn't trust them—
Lucy: —tell me what you want! Please, just let my son go—
The Voice:—Abbott, Rodriguez, the others—he murdered them to get rid of the witnesses! He fired up his own team!
Lucy: He's a baby—!
The Voice:—sorry it had to be your son, but Cole's gonna pay. This is his fault.
The message stopped.
The tape recorder hissed quietly for several seconds, then Gittamon rewound the tape. Someone shifted behind me, either Starkey or Myers, then Gittamon cleared his throat.
I said, “Jeez. If he knows all that, I must've let one get away.”
The skin under Lucy's eye flickered.
“How can you joke?”
“I'm joking because it's so absurd. What do you want me to say to something like this? None of that happened. He's making it up.”
Richard tapped the table.
“How do we know what happened over there or what you did?”
Lucy snapped an irritated glance at him. She started to say something but didn't.
Gittamon said, “We're not here to make accusations, Mr. Chenier.”
“This asshole on the tape is making the accusations, not me, and to tell you the truth I don't give a rat's ass what Cole did over there. What I care about is Ben, and that this sonofabitch—”
He jabbed at the tape recorder.
“—hates Cole so much that he's taking it out on my son.”
Lucy said, “Just calm down, Richard. You're making it worse.”
Richard squared himself as if he was worn out and tired of talking about it.
“How totally blind about Cole can you be, Lucille? You don't know anything about him.”
“I know that I believe him.”
“That's perfect. Absolutely perfect. Of course, you would say that.”
Richard waved at Myers.
“Lee, let me have that.”
Myers passed him the briefcase. Richard took out a manila folder and slapped it on the table.
“FYI, since you know so much: Cole joined the Army because a judge gave him a choice, jail or Vietnam. Did you know that, Lucille? Did he tell you? Jesus Christ, you've exposed yourself and our son to lowlife dangerous trash ever since you've been with this man and you act like it's none of my business. Well, I made it my business because my son is my business.”
Lucy stared at the folder without touching it. Richard stared at me, but he was still talking to her.
“I don't care if you're mad, and I don't care if you like it. I had him looked into and there it is: Your boyfriend has been a magnet for trouble ever since he was a kid—assault, assault and battery, grand theft auto. Go on, read it.”
A hot wash of blood flooded my face. I felt like a child who had been caught in a lie because the other me was a different me, so far in the past that I had put him away. I tried to remember whether or not I had told Lucy, and knew by the tight expression in her eyes that I hadn't.
“How about my SAT scores, Richard? Did you get that, too?”
Richard talked over me without stopping, and never looked away.
“Did he tell you, Lucille? Did you ask him before you left your son with him? Or were you so caught up in your own self-centered needs that you couldn't be bothered? Wake up, Lucille, Jesus Christ.”
Richard stalked around the table without waiting for Lucy or anyone else to speak, and left. Myers stood in the door for a moment, staring at me with his expressionless lizard eyes. I stared back. My pulse throbbed in my ears and I wanted him to say something. I didn't care that I was in the police station. I wanted him to speak, but he didn't. Finally, he turned away and followed Richard out.
Lucy stared at the folder, but I don't think she was looking at it. I wanted to touch her, but I felt too hot to move. Gittamon breathed with a raspy wheeze.
Starkey finally broke the silence.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Chenier. That must have been embarrassing.”
Lucy nodded.
“Yes. Very.”
I said, “I got into some trouble when I was a sixteen-year-old. What do you want me to say?”
No one looked at me. Gittamon reached across the table to pat Lucy's arm.
“It's hard when a child is missing. It's hard on everyone. Would you like someone to take you home?”
I said, “I'll take her.”
“I know this is hard, Mr. Cole, but we'd like to ask you a few more questions.”
Lucy stood, still staring at the folder.
“I have the car. I'll be fine.”
I touched her arm.
“He made it seem like more than it was. I was a kid.”
Lucy nodded. She touched me back, but still didn't look at me.
“I'll be fine. Are we finished here, Sergeant?”
“You are, yes, ma'am. Are you going to be all right tonight? You might want to stay at a hotel or with a friend.”
“No, I want to be home if he calls again. Thank you both. I appreciate what you're doing.”
“All right, then.”
Lucy squeezed around the table, and stopped in the door. She looked at me, but I could see that it was hard for her.
“I'm sorry. That was shameful.”
“I'll come by later.”
She left without answering. Starkey watched her walk away, then took one of the empty chairs.
“Man, she married a prick.”
Gittamon cleared his throat again.
“Why don't we get a little coffee, then keep going. Mr. Cole, if you'd like the bathroom, I'll show you where it is.”
“I'm fine.”
Gittamon left for his coffee. Starkey sighed, then gave me one of those weak smiles people make when they feel bad for you.
“Rough, huh?”
I nodded.
Starkey pulled the folder across the table. She read whatever was inside.
“Man, Cole, you were a real fuckup when you were a kid.”
I nodded.
Neither of us spoke again until Gittamon returned.
I told them about Abbott, Rodriguez, Johnson, and Fields, and how they came to die. I had not described those events since the day I spoke with their families; not because I was ashamed or because it was painful, but because you have to let go of the dead or the dead will carry you down. Talking about it was like looking down the wrong end of a telescope at someone else's life.
Gittamon said, “All right, this man on the tape, he knows your team number, he knows the names of at least two of these men, and he knows that everyone died except you. Who would know these things?”
“Their families. The guys who served in my company at the time. The Army.”
Starkey said, “Cole gave me a list of names earlier. I had Hurwitz run them through NLETS, including the dead guys. We got zip.”
“One of them might have a younger brother. One of them might have a son. He says on the tape, ‘He made my life hell.' He's telling us that he suffered.”
I said, “He told us that he was there, too, but only five people went out and the other four are dead. Call the Army and ask them. The citation and after-action reports will tell you what happened.”
Starkey said, “I already called. I'm gonna read that stuff tonight.”
Gittamon nodded, then glanced at his watch. It was late.
“All right. We'll talk to the families tomorrow. We might know more after that. Carol? Anything else?”
I said, “Can I have a copy of the tape? I want to hear it again.”
Starkey said, “Go home, Dave. I'll get his tape.”
Gittamon thanked me for my time and got up. He hesitated as if he was thinking about taking Richard's folder, then looked at me.
“I want to apologize for that outburst, too. If I had any idea he was going to do that, I wouldn't have allowed it.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Gittamon glanced at the folder again, then went home. Starkey left with the tape and did not come back. A few minutes later, a detective I had not met brought a copy of the tape, then walked me to the double glass doors and put me outside.
I stood on the sidewalk wishing that I had taken the folder. I wanted to see what Richard knew, but I didn't want to go back inside. The cool night air felt good. The double doors opened again, and a detective who lived up on the hill by me came out. He cupped a cigarette and his lighter flared.
I said, “Hey.”
It took him a moment to place me. A few years ago, his house had been damaged in the big earthquake. I didn't know him then or that he was with LAPD, but not long after I jogged past while he was clearing debris and saw that he had a small rat tattooed on his shoulder. The tat marked him as a tunnel rat in Vietnam. I stopped to give him a hand. Maybe because we had that connection.
He said, “Oh, yeah. How ya doin'?”
“I heard you quit.”
>
He frowned at the cigarette, then drew deep before dropping it.
“I did.”
“I don't mean the smoking. I heard you left the job.”
“That's right. I hadda come around to sign the papers.”
It was time to go, but neither of us moved. I wanted to tell him about Abbott and Fields, and how I pretended to be sick after they died because I was scared to go out again. I wanted to tell him that I had not murdered anyone and how the rage in Lucy's eyes scared me and all the other things that I had never been able to talk about because he was older and he had been there and I thought that he might understand, but, instead, I looked at the sky.
He said, “Well, stop around some time. We'll have a beer.”
“Okay. You, too.”
He walked around the side of the building, and then he was gone. I wondered about the silence that he carried, and then I wondered at my own.
Joe Pike and I once drove down to the tip of the Baja Peninsula with two women we knew. We caught fish in Baja, then camped on the beach at Cortez. That far south, the summer sun heated the Sea of Cortez until it felt like a hot tub. The water was so heavy with salt that if you let yourself dry without first showering, white flakes would rime on your skin. That same heavy water pushed us to its surface, refusing to let us sink. It could lull you, that water. It could make you feel safe even when you weren't.
That first afternoon, the sea was so still that it lay clean as a pond. The four of us swam, but, when the others stroked back to shore, I stayed in the quiet water. I floated on my back without effort. I stared into the cloudless azure sky feeling something like bliss.
I might have dozed. I might have found peace.
I was absolutely still in my world when, in the next instant, a fierce and sudden pressure lifted me without warning as the sea fell away. I tried to kick my legs under me, but the surging force was too great. I tried to right myself, but the swell grew too fast. I knew in a heartbeat that I would live or die or be swept away, and I could change none of it. I had lost myself to an unknown force that I could not resist.
Then the sea settled and once more grew flat.
Pike and the others saw it happen. When I reached shore, they explained: The Sea of Cortez is home to basking sharks. Basking sharks are harmless, but monstrously large, often reaching sixty feet in length and weighing many tons. They cruise at the surface where the water is warm, which is how they earned their name. I had floated into the path of one. It had dipped under me rather than going around. The swell of its tremendous passing had lifted me in its wake.
