Demolition Angel

by Robert Crais

  “Crap. I’ve got a duck baking.”

  “I guess I should’ve called.”

  “Pell, I’m joking. My usual dinner is a can of tuna fish and some tortilla chips. This will be great.”

  She brought the food into the kitchen, feeling doubly embarrassed that there was nothing to drink. She wasn’t even sure she had clean dishes.

  “You don’t drink gin and tonic, do you?”

  “Maybe some tonic without the gin. Where’s the computer?”

  “It’s on the table in the dining room, through there. You want to eat first?”

  “We can eat while we work.”

  Starkey thought he was probably anxious to leave. She found that her glasses were spotted, and hoped he wouldn’t notice. She filled two glasses with ice and tonic. She felt a fierce urge to add gin to her glass, but resisted.

  When she turned to hand him the glass, he was watching her.

  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got half veggie, half pepperoni and sausage.”

  “Either way is fine, but thanks. That was thoughtful.”

  Just hearing the words come out made her groan to herself. The two of them sounded like a couple of social misfits on an awkward first date. She reminded herself that this was work, not a date. She didn’t date. She still needed to go to Best Buy to pick out a life.

  As she got out plates and silverware, she considered telling him what she had learned about the joint tape, but she decided against it. She would wait until she heard from Janice Brockwell. She told herself that then she would know whether or not she had something, but part of her didn’t want Pell to dismiss her discovery out of hand the way Kelso had.

  They divided the antipasto and pizza, then brought their plates and glasses into the dining room. They put two chairs together, just like in Bergen’s office, then Starkey signed on to Claudius. She sat with an uncomfortable awareness of his proximity, then edged her chair away.

  “Maybe we should eat first. So we don’t get grease on the keys.”

  “Let’s not worry about the keys. I want to see if anyone responded.”

  Starkey shifted her chair next to him again, and they opened the door into Claudius.

  With Bergen, they had posted three messages, two expressing enthusiastic admiration for Mr. Red, one asking if the rumor that Mr. Red had struck again in Los Angeles was true. This last message had drawn several responses, one of which reproduced a story from the Los Angeles Times, but most of which doubted Mr. Red’s appearance, citing his recent criminal blast in Miami and growing status as “Urban Legend.” One poster compared Mr. Red to Elvis, suggesting that pretty soon he was going to be seen working in every Denny’s in America.

  Starkey used the mouse control to advance from message to message, reading, waiting for Pell’s grunt, then clicking to the next message. As she concentrated on the bizarre nature of the posts, her awareness of Pell lessened until he reached across her and abruptly took the mouse.

  “Hang on. I want to read the last one again.”

  In the moment when his hand covered hers, she drew away from him as if she’d received an electrical charge, then felt herself flush with embarrassment. She covered it by taking back the mouse and asking a question.

  “What did you see?”

  “Read it.”

  Subject: Re: Truth or Consequences

  From: AM7TAL

  Message-id: >9777721.04@selfnet<

  »truth to the rumor?«

  My sources inform me that The Man recently laid waste in south Florida, and that is confirmed. History tells us that he waits a while between gigs. The practical reality is that nobody shits Modex in the morning. Anybody got some for sale?

  Ha ha. Just kidding, federal motherfuckers!

  Am7

  Starkey reread the message.

  “You think he’s Mr. Red?”

  “No. He’s making the joke about buying Modex, but Mr. Red mixes his own. Red wouldn’t expect to buy it, he would buy the components. What if we post back to this guy, making a joke of our own, saying something like we don’t have any Modex, but we could probably help him out with some RDX?”

  “Throw bait on the water.”

  “For him, and anyone else reading this stuff.”

  Pell turned the keyboard and shifted in his seat. His knee touched her knee, his right arm touched her left. Starkey didn’t jerk away this time; she let the touch linger. She glanced at Pell, but Pell seemed lost in composing the message. Pictures flashed in her mind: She touches his arm, their eyes lock, they kiss. Her heart pounded, thinking about it. She takes his hand, leads him to the bedroom, he sees her scars.

  Starkey felt sick to her stomach and eased away.

  I’m not ready for this.

  She stared at her pizza, but couldn’t eat it.

  Pell, oblivious, said, “What do you think?”

  Subject: Re: Truth or Consequences

  From: HOTLOAD

  Message-id: >5521721.04@treenet<

  » nobody shits Modex in the morning. Anybody got some for sale?«

  RDX is the best laxative! I might be willing to share for the right price. Ha ha yourself!

  HOTLOAD

  “It looks good.”

  Starkey glanced over and saw that he was rubbing his eyes and squinting.

  “You okay?”

  “Pretty soon I’m going to need reading glasses, then a cane.”

  “I have some drops, if you want.”

  “That’s okay.”

  They posted the message.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just wait and see, I guess.”

  Pell closed the laptop.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m telling you what to do, but could I ask you to run another NLETS search on the RDX? See if we get a hit on anyone other than Tennant?”

  “I already did, and we didn’t. The only name that comes up is Tennant.”

  “We’ve already gotten what we’re going to get from him.”

  “Maybe from Tennant, but not from Tennant’s case.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I reread Mueller’s case notes again. It’s clear that he didn’t need to find Tennant’s shop or recover additional explosives to make his case, so he let a lot of stuff slide. His interview notes indicate that he didn’t spend much time with Tennant’s landlady or Tennant’s employer. He had pictures of the three cars Tennant destroyed and the statement from the kid who stole the cars; that was all he needed. If he blew off the other wits, there still might be something to find.”

  “That’s good thinking, Starkey. That could pay off.”

  Starkey realized that she was smiling at him, and that Pell was smiling back. The house was silent. With the computer off, Starkey was all the more aware that she and Pell were alone. She wondered if he felt that, too, and suddenly wished for other sounds: the television, the radio, a car on the street. But there was only the two of them, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

  She abruptly cleared the plates, taking them into the kitchen.

  “Thanks again for the pizza. Next time has to be on me.”

  When the plates were in the sink, she returned to the dining room, but didn’t go to her chair. She didn’t offer more tonic, and hoped that it was apparent that she wanted him to leave. Pell looked like he wanted to say something, but she didn’t give him the chance. She wedged her hands in her pockets.

  “So I guess we’ll check back tomorrow. I’ll call you about it.”

  Pell finally stood. She walked him to the door, then stepped well back from him.

  “I’ll see you, Pell. We’ll catch this bastard.”

  “Good night, Starkey.”

  As soon as he stepped through the door, she shut it. Starkey didn’t feel better with the door closed; she felt stupid and confused. She was still feeling that way when she went to bed, where she stared at the ceiling in the darkness and wondered why she felt so lost. All she had was the job. All she had was the inve
stigation. That was her life these past three years. That was all it would ever be.

  Pell

  In his motel, Pell was staring at the computer when the monsters came. They floated up out of the keyboard like writhing segmented worms swarmed by fireflies. He closed his eyes, but still could see them, floating in the blackness. He stumbled into the bathroom for the ice and wet towels that were still in the lavatory, then lay on the bed, the cool towels on his face, his head aching from a pain so great that it left him gasping, and fearful.

  He wanted to call Starkey.

  He cursed himself for that and concentrated on the pain instead, on this place. He listened to the evening commuter traffic outside his window, the stop-and-go noise of people struggling upstream against the weight of the city; squealing brakes, revving engines, the rumble of overloaded trucks. It was like being on the edge of hell.

  He was getting to know her, and that was bad. Every time they were together, he saw a deeper side of her, a surprising side, and his guilt was growing because of it. Pell was too good at reading people, at seeing the hidden face that all people secretly wear, their true face. Pell had learned long ago that everyone is really two people: the person they let you see and the secret person within. Pell had always been able to read the secret person, and the secret person within Starkey’s tough-cookie exterior was a little girl who was trying hard to be brave. Inside the little girl was a warrior heart, trying to rebuild her life and career. He hadn’t counted on liking her. He hadn’t counted on her liking him. It ate at him. It was growing.

  But there was nothing to be done for it.

  After a time, the pain passed and his vision cleared. Pell glanced at the clock. An hour. Pell covered his face with his hands. Five minutes, maybe ten, but it couldn’t have been an hour.

  He climbed off the bed and went back to the computer. The flaming head stared out at him from the screen. Pell pushed the guilt he felt about Starkey to the side and opened the door into Claudius. Her name had been on the bomb. Mr. Red wanted her. He could work that.

  Pell used a different screen name, one that Starkey didn’t know, and began to write about her.

  10

  • • •

  The next morning, Starkey was the first detective in the office as usual. She figured that Mueller probably didn’t get into his office at six A.M., so she killed time with paperwork. Hooker arrived at five after seven, Marzik drifting in about twenty minutes later. Marzik had Starbucks.

  Marzik was stowing her briefcase when she glanced over.

  “How’d the big meeting with the A-chief go?”

  “He told me to keep the case moving forward. That was his contribution.”

  Marzik dropped into her seat, sipping the coffee. Starkey smelled chocolate. Mocha.

  “I hear Dick Leyton saved your ass in there.”

  Starkey frowned, wondering what Marzik had heard.

  “What does that mean? What did you hear?”

  Marzik pried the lid from her cup, blew to cool the coffee.

  “Kelso told Giadonna. He said you floated some notion about Silver Lake being a copycat. I’m kinda curious when you were planning on telling me and Hooker about it.”

  Starkey was pissed off that Kelso would say anything, and pissed that Marzik thought she’d been keeping something from them. She explained about the Miami device and the difference she had found in the direction of the tape.

  “It’s not the big headline you’re making it sound. I wanted to talk it over with you guys today. I didn’t get a chance yesterday.”

  “Well, whatever. Maybe you were too busy thinking about Pell.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Hey, he’s a good-looking guy. For a fed.”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  “He got you in on that Claudius thing, right? All I’m saying is when a guy does you a turn like that, you should think about paying him back. Give the man a blow job.”

  Hooker lurched to his feet and walked away. Marzik laughed.

  “Jorge is such a goddamned tightass.”

  Starkey was irritated.

  “No, Beth. He’s a gentleman. You, you’re trailer trash.”

  Marzik wheeled her chair closer and lowered her voice.

  “Now I’m being serious, okay? It’s pretty obvious you’re attracted to him.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Every time somebody mentions the guy, you look like you’re scared to death. And it’s not because he might take the case.”

  “Beth? When’s the last time you were choked out?”

  Marzik arched her eyebrows knowingly, then rolled her chair back to her desk.

  Starkey went for more coffee, ignoring Marzik, who sat on her fat ass with a smugfuckingsmile. Hooker, still embarrassed by Marzik’s remark, lingered on the far side of the squad room, too humiliated to meet Starkey’s eye.

  Starkey went back to her desk, scooped up the phone, and dialed Mueller. It was still early, but it was either call Mueller or shoot Marzik between the eyes.

  When Mueller came on the line, he sounded rushed.

  “I gotta get movin’ here, Starkey. Some turd put a hand grenade in a mailbox.”

  “I just have a couple of questions, Sergeant. I spoke with Tennant, and now I need to follow up a few things with you.”

  “He’s a real piece of work, ain’t he? He loses any more fingers, pretty soon he’ll be countin’ on his toes.”

  Starkey didn’t think it was funny.

  “Tennant still denies that he had a shop.”

  Mueller interrupted her, annoyed because she was wasting his time.

  “Waitaminute. We talked about this, didn’t we?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s nothing new to cover. If he’s got a shop, we couldn’t find it. I been thinking about this since you called. I’ve got to tell you I think the guy is probably telling the truth. A pissant like this wouldn’t have the balls to hold out when he could trade for time.”

  She didn’t bother pointing out that for a pissant like Tennant, his shop would be the most important thing in the world.

  Instead, she told him that she had reason to believe that Tennant had a shop and more RDX, also. This time when he spoke, his voice was stiff.

  “What reason?”

  “Tennant told us the same thing he told you, that he salvaged the RDX from a case of Raytheon GMX antipersonnel mines. That’s six mines.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I remember.”

  “Okay. I looked up the GMX in our spec book down here. It says that each GMX carries a charge of 1.8 pounds of RDX, which means he would have had a little over ten pounds. Now, I’m looking at the pictures of these three cars you sent. They’re fairly light-bodied vehicles, but most of the damage seems to be from fire. I ran an energy calc on the RDX, and it seems to me that if he had used a third of his load on each car, the damage would’ve been much greater than it is here.”

  Mueller didn’t answer.

  “Then I saw here in your interview notes with Robert Castillo that Tennant asked him to steal a fourth car. That implies to me that Tennant had more RDX.”

  When Mueller finally spoke, his tone was defensive.

  “We searched that rathole he was living in. We searched every damned box and cubbyhole in the place. We had his car impounded for three months and even stripped the damned rocker panels. We searched the old lady’s house, and her garage, and I even had the Feebs bring out a goddamned dog for the flower bed, so don’t try to make out that I fucked up.”

  Starkey felt her voice harden and regretted it.

  “I’m not trying to make out anything, Mueller. Only reason I called is that there aren’t many notes here from your interviews with his landlady or employer.”

  “There was nothing to write. The old bat didn’t want to talk to us. All she gave a shit about was us not tromping on her flower beds.”

  “What about his employer?”

  “He said what they all s
ay, how surprised he was, how Dallas was such a normal guy. We wear cowboy boots up here, Starkey, but we’re not stupid. You just remember. That sonofabitch is sitting in Atascadero because of me. I made my case. When you make yours, call me again.”

  He hung up before she could answer, and Starkey slammed down her phone. When she looked up, Marzik was staring at her.

  “Smooth.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “You’re really pissed off today. What got up your ass?”

  “Beth. Just leave it alone.”

  Starkey shuffled through the casework again. Tennant’s landlady had been an elderly woman named Estelle Reager. His employer had been a man named Bradley Ferman, owner of a hobby shop called Robbie’s Hobbies. She found their phone numbers and called both, learning that Robbie’s Hobbies was out of business. Estelle Reager agreed to speak with her.

  Starkey gathered her purse, and stood.

  “Come on, Beth. We’re going up there to talk to this woman.”

  Marzik looked shocked.

  “I don’t want to go to Bakersfield. Take Hooker.”

  “Hooker’s busy with the tapes.”

  “So am I. I’m still talking to the laundry people.”

  “Get your shit together and put your ass in the car. We’re taking the drive.”

  Starkey left without waiting.

  The Golden State Freeway ran north out of Los Angeles, splitting the state through the great, flat plain of the Central Valley. Starkey believed it to be the finest driving road in California, or anywhere; long, straight, wide, and flat. You could set the cruise control at eighty, put your brain on hold, and make San Francisco in five hours. Bakersfield was less than ninety minutes.

  Marzik sulked, bound up tight on the passenger side with her arms and legs crossed like a pouting teenager. Starkey wasn’t sure why she had made Marzik come, regretting it even as they left Spring Street. Neither of them spoke for the first half hour until they crested the Newhall Pass at the top of the San Fernando Valley, the great roller coasters and spires of the Magic Mountain amusement park appearing on their left.