by Robert Crais
Stilwell saw me, went to a closed door that said WATCH COMMANDER, then opened the door and stuck in his head. Lou Poitras came out with two women and four men. The squad room was so crowded that if any more people came out of the office, they'd have to kick out the bad guys to make room for the good guys. One of the women was a prosecutor in the DA's office named Murphy, and one of the men was a uniformed captain who was probably the watch commander. I didn't recognize the others.
A guy in a wrinkled pinstripe with no tie said, "Is this Cole?" He said it like he was in charge.
Lou Poitras pointed at me, then Pike. "Cole. Pike."
The pinstripe said, "Let's go through it. I want to wrap this up."
The pinstripe was a guy named Garvey from the chief's office and the other woman was a muck-a-muck named Greenberg from the city council. Of the two other guys, one was named Fallon, also from the DA's, and the other was from the mayor's office. The guy from the mayor was named Haywood. Fallon and Haywood took Joe Pike into an office down the hall, and Greenberg went with them. Garvey and everybody else took me into the watch commander's office. When we were settled, Murphy said, "You're not under arrest at this time, Mr. Cole, but we reserve the right to prosecute you for anything that you might admit to or say during this interview."
Lou Poitras said, "Jesus Christ, Murphy."
Garvey made a take-it-easy gesture. "At ease, Sergeant."
Murphy said, "Who's your attorney?"
"Charlie Bauman."
She nodded. "I know Charlie. I'd advise you to call him."
I took her advice. An uncharacteristically smart move.
Everyone left for coffee while I called Charlie, told him where I was, and told him that I wouldn't say anything until he arrived. When I was done, I opened the door and saw Lou Poitras standing in the squad room with his boss from North Hollywood, a lieutenant named Baishe. Baishe has always looked shriveled and tight to me, sort of like a daddy longlegs, and he's never liked me much, but when I opened the door, he was jabbing the street cop Micelli in the chest and telling him that he'd acted like a goddamned bush-league asshole. Micelli said he didn't have to take this shit from some North Hollywood dick and jabbed back, and when he did Lou Poitras slapped his hand to the side and told him to step away. Poitras was maybe five inches taller than Micelli and eighty pounds heavier, and he looked like he was itching to use it. Micelli told Poitras to fuck himself, but he stepped away. Stilwell was over by a couple of uniforms, staying out of it. I said, "Christ, Baishe, were you defending me?"
When Baishe saw me grinning, he scowled and said, "Hell, no. I always knew you'd fuck up big time. I'm just surprised it took you this long." A man with friends is the wealthiest man in the world.
Poitras told me to wait in the office, then asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. I told him that I did and waited in the open doorway for him to bring it. While I was waiting two Hispanic cops brought in Akeem D'Muere. His hands were cuffed, but he walked tall and defiantly, as if he were in some way larger than life, as if he were above all this and impervious to it and amused by it. Harold Bellis went to him, immediately complaining to the officers about the handcuffs. No one jumped to take them off. Stilwell went over to the uniforms, and they led D'Muere and Bellis toward the interrogation rooms. When they led D'Muere past, he saw me. I made my hand into a gun, pointed it at him, and dropped the hammer. He smiled. Amused.
Charlie Bauman came in maybe ten minutes later.
Murphy from the DA and Garvey from the chief saw him before I did, and then Charlie came to me. "You say anything yet?"
"I learned my lesson last time."
"Okay. These guys wanna have a powwow, so lemme see what I can work out."
He went back to them, and pretty soon they were joined by Greenberg and Haywood. When Charlie came back, he said, "They want a freebie, and I'm willing to give it to them, but it's up to you. You run through what you know and answer their questions, but it'll be off the record. If they decide to prosecute, they can't use your statements against you. Do you agree?"
"Yes."
We went back into the watch commander's office, and I went through everything from the beginning, just as I had when I'd gone through it with Stilwell and Micelli, only this time there was more of it to tell. Everyone looked interested except the watch commander, who spent a lot of time saying things like, "I've known Eric Dees for ten goddamned years. He's a fine officer," or, "Talk is cheap, but where's the goddamned evidence?" He said stuff like that until Murphy told him to shut up or leave the room.
I told them how Mark Thurman and I had stolen the tape from Eric Dees's garage, and described what I had seen on the tape and how I had tried to make the deal through Poitras. Poitras confirmed it. Then I told them what had happened at the Space Age Drive-In and what had happened to the tape. Murphy said, "And the tape is destroyed?"
"Yeah. Dees burned it."
The watch commander said, "Ha." As if that proved something.
Murphy ignored him and looked at Garvey. He shrugged. "Might be possible to recover some of it. Won't know until we look." Garvey picked up the phone and punched numbers. "Where is it?"
I told him.
He repeated it into the phone.
We spent a total of three hours and fourteen minutes on it, and then Murphy said, "Why don't you kick back for a while. We've got to talk with Pike, and then we've got to see where we stand."
"Sure." Mr. Kick Back. That's me.
They let me stay in the commander's office. They left the door open and told me to help myself to coffee or the bathroom, but not to leave the building. Charlie Bauman went with them. The squad room had sort of settled down, with most of the reporters and lawyers gone, and most of the Gangster Boys in holding cells or interrogation rooms. It was closing on midnight, and from somewhere along one of the halls I could hear Jay Leno.
Maybe forty minutes later Charlie Bauman and the others came back. The people from the DA and the mayor and the city council stopped in the hall to talk, and Charlie and Pike came over to me. Charlie looked tired. "There's a lot of little stuff, but they're not going to press on the Washington thing. They believe you didn't do it."
"What about Lancaster?"
Charlie said, "Man, Lancaster is nothing compared to this other stuff. They need to talk to Thurman, and they need him to testify, but as long as he backs up what you said, you guys can walk."
"He will."
"Then you're done. Go home and get some sleep."
Lou Poitras broke away from the group and came over and offered his hand. "Well, you've squeaked through another one, Hound Dog."
I nodded. "It's better to be lucky than good."
He looked at Joe Pike, and Pike looked back, but neither man offered a hand. "How're you doing, Joe?"
Pike said, "Fine. Thank you. And you?"
"Good."
They stared at each other some more, and then Lou cleared his throat and turned away. Awkward.
Joe Pike and Lou Poitras have hated each other for almost twelve years, and in all of that time, this was the first that they had spoken civilly to each other. Crime makes for strange bedfellows.
Joe and I were walking out with Charlie Bauman when Harold Bellis and Akeem D'Muere came out of the interrogation hall. I thought maybe they were leading D'Muere to booking, but then I realized that no one was leading him and that they were heading for the exit. D'Muere saw me looking at him and made his hand into a pistol and dropped the hammer. He didn't smile. Then he and Bellis were gone. I looked at Murphy and Fallon and the big shots from the city. "How come that sonofabitch is walking out?"
Murphy said, "We can't file." Her jaw was knotted and her mouth was a razor's slash.
Maybe I hadn't heard them right. "He murdered James Edward Washington. You've got my statement."
Fallon said, "We can't use it." He didn't seem any happier than Murphy.
I looked at Pike. "Did I suddenly lose my grip on reality?"
Two uniforms came thro
ugh with a young black kid in cuffs. The kid was smiling. Murphy watched him pass, her face set, and then she said, "That young man says that he did it." The kid was maybe fourteen.
"He didn't do it. I was there. I saw it. D'Muere pulled the trigger."
"Three other young men admitted to being present and also said the kid did it. They pulled him out of a lineup."
Pike said, "Come on, Murphy. D'Muere found a kid to play chump. The boy does juvie time and comes home a hero."
Murphy's hard jaw softened and she suddenly looked like a woman who wanted to go home, take off her shoes, and drink three or four glasses of some nice Chardonnay. "You know it and I know it, but that young man still says he did it and three eyewitnesses say he did it, too. We can't file against D'Muere, Elvis. That's just the way this one's going to work out." She didn't wait for me or Pike or anyone else to speak. She and Fallon left, walking heavily as if the weight of the city were on them. Greenberg followed after them.
"But he murdered James Edward Washington." I didn't know what else to say.
Garvey said, "Go home, Cole. You've done a lot, and you've done it well, but there's nothing more to be done."
CHAPTER 35
The watch commander authorized the release of my car and the personal possessions that had been taken from us at the time of our original arrests. He could have ordered a staff uniform to do it, but he did it himself, and we were out of there faster because of it. I guess that was his way of showing respect.
It was seventeen minutes before two that morning when we walked out of the Seventy-seventh, got into my car, and legally drove off the police grounds and onto the city's streets. We climbed onto the freeway, then worked our way north through the system toward Lancaster. There weren't many cars out, and the driving was easy.
Pike's Jeep was where he had left it, on a little circular drive outside the hospital. I parked behind it, and then we went inside to the waiting room and asked the nurses about Mark Thurman.
A nurse maybe in her early forties with a deep tan and a light network of sun lines checked his chart. "Mr. Thurman came through the surgery well." She looked up at us, first Pike, then me. "Are you the gentlemen who brought him in?"
"Yes."
She nodded and went back to the chart. "It looks like a bullet nicked a branch of the external iliac artery in his left side. No damage to any of the organs, though, so he's going to be fine." She closed the chart as she said it.
Pike said, "Is Jennifer Sheridan still here?"
A black nurse who'd been sitting with a young Chinese orderly said, "A couple Lancaster police officers came for her. That was at about eleven-thirty. She said to tell you that she would be fine. Mr. Thurman was out of surgery by then, and she knew he was okay."
Pike said, "What about the other officer? Garcia?"
The two nurses stopped smiling, and the black nurse said, "Were you close to Mr. Garcia?"
"No."
"He did not survive the surgery."
We went out, Pike to his Jeep and me to my car, and we headed back through the rough barren mountains toward Los Angeles. The high desert air was cold and the surrounding mountains were black walls against the sky and the desert. At first we drove along together, but as the miles unwound we slowly grew apart, Pike with his drive and me with mine. Alone in my car, I felt somehow unfinished and at loose ends, as if there was still much unsaid, and even more unrealized. I wondered if Pike also felt that way.
I pulled into my carport just after four that morning and found a message on my machine from Ray Depente. He said that James Edward Washington was going to be buried at Inglewood Park Cemetery at eleven A.M. tomorrow, which made it today. He said that he thought I'd want to know.
I stripped off my clothes, showered, and climbed into bed, but the sleeping was light and unsatisfactory and I was up again before seven. I went out onto my deck and breathed deeply of the air and thought how sweet it smelled with a hint of wild sage and eucalyptus. I did twelve sun salutes from the hatha-yoga, then worked through a progression of asanas that left me sweating. At five minutes after nine I called Joe Pike and told him of James Edward Washington's funeral. He said that he would come. I called a florist I know in Hollywood and ordered flowers. I thought roses would be nice. It was late to order flowers, but the florist knows me, and promised to deliver the flowers to the church in time for the service.
I ate breakfast, then showered and dressed in a three-piece blue suit that I bought six years ago and have worn as many times. Once to a wedding and five times to funerals. Today would be number six.
It was a warm, hazy day, and the drive along the Harbor Freeway to South Central Los Angeles was relaxed and pleasant. I left the freeway at Florence, then went west to Inglewood, and then through the gates to the cemetery there just north of Hollywood Park. The cemetery is broad and green, with gently sloping grounds and well-kept headstones and winding gravel roads. A dark green canopy had been erected on the side of one of the slopes to protect the casket and the minister and the immediate family from the sun. A hearse and a family limo and maybe twenty cars were parked nearby. They had just arrived, and some of the older people were still being helped up the slope. I parked near Joe Pike's Jeep and moved up the slope to join the mourners. Joe was standing at the back of the crowd, and Cool T was four people away.
Twin rows of folding chairs had been placed under the canopy for the family. Ida Leigh Washington was seated in the center of the front row, with the elderly man to her right, and Shalene with the baby on her left. Ray Depente was behind Mrs. Washington with a hand on her shoulder. He was wearing a dark brown herringbone suit with a U.S.M.C. pin in his lapel. When Ray saw me, he said something into Mrs. Washington's ear, then stood and waited for me. I went to Mrs. Washington, offered my hand, and told her how sorry I was. She thanked me for the flowers and said, "Someone from the police called my home this morning, as did one of those people from the city council. I understand that the truth about my boy Charles Lewis is going to come out because of you."
I told her that I didn't know if it was because of me, but that it was going to come out, yes.
She nodded and considered me for quite a long time, and then she said, "Thank you."
I offered my condolences to the old man, and then to Shalene. Marcus said, "I remember you," loudly, and with a big smile. Shalene shushed him. She still didn't like me much.
Ray Depente led me away from the grave and Joe Pike drifted up behind us. Cool T watched from the crowd. Ray said, "How come that bastard D'Muere is walking around free?"
I told him.
Ray listened, his face tight and contained. When I was done, he said, "You remember what you said?"
"Yes."
"You said we'd have justice. You said that bastard would pay for killing James Edward. Him getting a fourteen-year-old fool to take his place isn't what I call justice."
I didn't know what to say. "The DA's people know what's going on. They'll keep digging for a case against D'Muere, and when they find it, they'll file."
Ray Depente said, "Bullshit."
"Ray."
Ray said, "That bastard called the Washingtons. He said that if they open their mouths about this, he'll kill that baby." He pointed at Marcus. "He called that poor woman on the day of her son's funeral and said that. What kind of animal does something like that?"
I didn't know what to say.
Ray Depente said, "Fuck him and fuck the DA, too. I know what to do." Then he walked away.
Joe said, "I know what to do, too."
I looked at him. "Jesus Christ. Marines."
Cool T came out of the crowd and met Ray Depente and they spoke for a moment, and then the minister began the service. Maybe five minutes into it, Akeem D'Muere's black Monte Carlo with the heavily smoked windows turned into the graveyard and slowly cruised past the line of parked cars, his tape player booming. The volume was cranked to distortion, and the heavy bass drowned out the minister. The minister stopped trying to sp
eak over the noise and looked at the car, and everyone else looked at the car, too. Ray Depente stepped out from the row of chairs and walked toward the car. The Monte Carlo stopped for a moment, then slowly rolled away. When the car was on the other side of the cemetery, the minister went on with the service, but Ray Depente stayed at the edge of the dark green canopy and followed the car with his eyes until it was gone.
Guard duty. The kind of duty where your orders are to shoot to kill.
When the service was over and the people were breaking up and moving down the slope, Joe and I stood together and watched Ray Depente help Mrs. Washington to the family's limo. Joe said, "He's going to do something."
"I know."
"He's good, but there's only one of him."
I nodded and took a breath and let it out. "I know. That's why we're going to help."
Pike's mouth twitched and we went down to our cars.
CHAPTER 36
At two oh-five that afternoon, Joe Pike and I found Ray and Cool T together in Ray's office. Cool T looked angry and sullen, but Ray looked calm and composed, the type of calm I'd seen on good sergeants when I was in Vietnam. Ray saw us enter and followed us with his eyes until we were at his door. "What?"
"Are you going to kill him?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Innocent.
"Well, there are ways to do it. Get a good scoped hunting rifle, hang back a couple of hundred yards, and drop the hammer. Another way would be to drive around for a while until you see him, then walk up close with a handgun. There are more apt to be witnesses that way, but it's a matter of personal preference, I guess."
