His hand on the knob, he pressed his shoulder to the door and was surprised when it gave in easily. It hadn’t been locked. He stepped into a dark space with looming masses on all sides. Moving further inside, his face encountered a spider’s web. Reaching out to brush it away, Monk found it was a cord and tugged on it. An overhead bare bulb came to life, emitting a weak light. Good enough to see, low enough not to be noticed through the opaque glass of the door.
The room was filled floor to ceiling with debris of all sorts. Part of an old platen press was buried underneath a doorless refrigerator. Mounds of shoes, handbags, and clothing were scattered all over like a leather moss. Several engine blocks and truck tires also took up positions around the room along with portions of old radio sets, parts of discarded TVs, and a huge open crate of gears the size of cup saucers.
To his right was the one uncluttered area in the room. There was a chair and table, and three car stereo units of recent vintage upon its surface. A screwdriver and a pair of needle-nosed pliers were also on the table. A tool box rested on the floor near the table. Brother Midnight’s work shop.
Monk peered around the rest of the room, but could discern no other way out. Midnight must have lit in here and dumped his cargo. If he’d spotted Monk, then he’d no doubt unloaded his goods and taken off toward the other street. Probably long gone by now. On the other hand, maybe he hadn’t seen Monk and he’d dropped off the unit while he went about the business of swiping others.
The detective left, extinguishing the light before he opened the door back onto the alley. He continued in the direction of the next street and found himself on another commercial avenue of low-slung brick buildings. A large junkyard fenced in by a combination of corrugated metal and chainlink was at one end. The junkyard was directly to his right, blocking a portion of the street from his view.
Two Doberman pinschers slunk across the junkyard’s dirt lot, their black short hairs glistening under the pale glow of the street lamps. They rose behind the fence and pointed their wet snouts at Monk. Anticipation dripped off their slightly parted mouths but they didn’t bark. A burst of laughter punctuated the scene, and Monk clawed for his reholstered weapon even as he flattened against the junkyard’s wall.
Another set of laughter punctuated the air, and Monk could now discern two sets of lungs at work. He got up, the strangely silent guard dogs panting and watching him with felonious eyes. He went around a corner of the junkyard, followed by his two shit-grinning, four-legged pals. On that block, there was no curbing and a lowered ’64 Impala, a six-four as the youths say, was parked. It was at the edge of a grass lot down toward the other end of the junkyard.
The Impala was under a street light and Midnight in his black leather jacket and colorless face was prominent standing near the front of the vehicle. Perched on the hood was a shapely woman in fringed orange hot pants and a knitted halter top, her dark skin like beautiful varnished maple. Midnight threw his head back and laughed again. A 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor was also perched on the car.
From his vantage point he watched the couple as they nuzzled and drank and told each other private little jokes. He was about to call it quits and go home. He wasn’t a voyeur, just a snoop, and a blind man could see where all this foreplay by light post was heading. Besides, now he knew why Midnight was in a rush. Monk would come back tomorrow, stake out his workshop, and brace him then.
Turning to retrace his route, Monk heard an engine downshift and looked back to see a red Jeep whip around the corner near Midnight and his lady friend. The colorless black man was pulling on the woman’s arm as the driver of the sport vehicle shouted something. The unmistakable retort of a gun pealed above the now barking dogs. Monk was running forward, the .45 in his hand when he heard the sound of rushing feet from behind him. A glance to the rear revealed the young men on Shoreline Killer patrol. They were running fast, yelling as they got closer.
Shifting his attention back to Midnight, Monk saw the Jeep screech into a vicious U-Turn. The vehicle’s heavy bumper sideswiped the ’64. Midnight was down on his knees, grasping the Impala’s front fender as if it were a life preserver. The young woman was screaming and Monk drew a bead on the shooter. He pumped a shot out on the run, managing only to wound the car’s rollbar. The driver turned his head at the loud metallic twang. And for a nanosecond, Monk felt as if he were viewing Midnight’s other dimension image.
The face in the Jeep was bone-white, the mouth a jagged line of disgust, the hair as ash-white as innocence betrayed. Only this man was Caucasian, his incredible whiteness gave his square-jawed face a ghost-like quality, as if he maintained his physical presence by will alone. The barrel of a revolver extended forward from his shoulder, and he cranked off two shots which flew over Monk who was already prone on the ground.
From that position, Monk cradled the butt of the automatic in his left hand and squeezed off two more rounds at the retreating vehicle and its off-road, muddy tires. It took the corner at a sharp angle and escaped in a prolonged squeal. Monk got up and started to where the woman was latched onto Midnight.
“Oh, goddamn,” somebody hollered from behind and Monk pivoted. One of the young men in the roving patrol was also on the ground, holding his hand over his side.
“He’s been hit, man,” the cousin with the ivy league look said to no one in particular. “Goddamnit, somebody do something.” Everybody crowded around the injured youth, the collegiate kid propping his wounded comrade on one knee.
“Let him lie flat,” Monk warned, walking closer. “If he’s bleeding internally, you’ll do more damage than good.”
As one the young men stared at Monk, all of a sudden two other guns were pointed in his general direction.
“Just who the fuck are you?” one of them demanded.
The cousin was going to answer when two patrol cars plowed around the same corner where the Jeep had disappeared. The official blue lights revolved wildly, in eerie silence.
Monk became acutely aware he was still holding his gun. He threw it away from his body and clasped his hands on top of his head. “I suggest you gents do the same,” he said, not daring to take his eyes off the onrushing law.
Several thuds behind him indicated the young men had heeded his words. Or maybe it was the four deputies and their automatic shotguns that had convinced them.
A big Latino deputy, a sergeant, whose biceps strained his short-sleeved shirt, leveled his shotgun directly at Monk’s head. “All you motherlovers drop to the ground on your knees. Now.”
Monk did as ordered.
“Hey, call an ambulance, man, my friend’s hurt,” he heard the cousin shout.
“Fuck you.” The shotgun shifted off of Monk and onto the young man. “Everyone of you sonsabitches get on your knees and face me, now, while I’m still in a good mood,” the sergeant bellowed.
Apparently everyone did. Two other cops came up to join the sergeant while the fourth went over to the Impala. The sergeant ordered, “Everyone prone out.” He pantomimed with the shotgun by jerking it toward the ground.
“Look man—” elbow patches began.
“Look man, my shit-stained skivvies. Kiss the ground.”
Monk and the others did so. Having the dubious honor of being in front in this horizontal parade, Monk was handcuffed with metal bracelets. A few of the others were too and the rest were manacled with the plastic, more uncomfortable versions. Each man was patted down and one of the deputies handed Monk’s permit to the sergeant. He saw this because his head was turned to one side. The sergeant stood back, keeping his gun at the ready.
The sergeant thumbed a flashlight on and carefully read the photostat. He looked from it to Monk, then walked off. No doubt to verify its authenticity by radio. Presently he returned and approached Monk.
“All right, Mr. Monk, why don’t you tell me what happened.” It wasn’t a question, it was a royal order.
“Let me sit up first.”
A space of time dragged before the muscular
sergeant said, “Okay. Turn over slowly and get into a sitting position. Anything else I will infer as a hostile action.”
“I’m sure you will,” Monk said under his breath. He sat up, and was greeted with the deadly serious look of a man who didn’t take no shit and had heard it all before. “Before we get started, I want you to call an ambulance for that kid.”
“I believe I’m in charge here.”
“Yeah, you damn sure are.” Momentarily, his mouth went slack as he imagined what it might feel like to have the stock of a shotgun rammed against his teeth and nose. In a measured tone he said, “So make a decision and get an ambulance for that kid.”
Time stretched again and Monk could only guess what was happening behind the sergeant’s face which was as stern as a Tolmec statue.
“There’s one on its way, hot shot. Now let’s get to my questions.”
It was Monk’s natural inclination to hold back information, particularly when he dealt with authority. He told the sergeant how he happened to be following the one called Midnight this evening. Monk omitted the parts about the young man’s line of work.
“A white man with dead white skin.” Again, the sergeant spoke without inflection. He looked over at the other deputies—another car had arrived with three more—as they went about securing the crime scene, sorting out stories, and so on. The boxish head swung back. “Okay Monk, we’ll go over it again until we get it right.”
With that he marched away and for the next hour and a half, Monk, Midnight—unhurt but shaken—the young woman, and the group of young men sat on the ground against the sides of two cruisers. Their hands remained cuffed. True to the sergeant’s word, the one who was injured had been taken away in a red and white Schaefer ambulance.
The leader of the roving band was Henderson’s cousin. His occasional comments gave Monk the impression that he might be pre-law. He would ask the deputies what they were being charged with, what about the Miranda rights, and so forth. Each remark was met with stony silence as the deputies walked to and fro. They joked with one another or sporadically threw a look in Monk’s direction.
Eventually, everyone was carted off to the sub-station in nearby Wilmington. Monk was placed on a padded chair in an interrogation room and spent the remainder of the night and early morning having his story dissected by the sergeant, Verrano, and a Captain Olson, a scrawny white man in his mid-fifties with a rolling gait, an initialed belt buckle, and bad breath. The last fact Monk surmised was intentional, just part of the arsenal of interrogation.
Monk’s license was threatened, his manhood was questioned, and his lack of brains underscored several times. He was also pointedly told that private eyes and criminal defense lawyers weren’t fit to be shark chum. Through it all Monk stuck to the truth, more or less. At one point the captain was called out of the room.
When he returned, they took up the usual line of questioning but Olson was more interested in details about the killer than he had been before. Monk figured Midnight had also repeated his story over and over of how he remembered the killer looking like Casper the Unfriendly Ghost. And since there were no stolen goods on him, and presumably the Impala was clean, they might be more inclined to believe him. He also knew Olson had to be thinking how he was going to handle the press once the Shoreline Killer story hit the papers.
Around six in the morning, Monk was allowed to wash up and was asked to step into the captain’s office. He entered a claustrophobic cubicle that had a speed bag rig bolted into one corner of the room and several bowling trophies on a lopsided shelf.
“Have a seat, Monk.”
Olson sat behind a desk which contained among other items a stapler and two neat piles of file folders. A lone file was before him on his tattered blotter and it didn’t take somebody with a detective’s degree to figure out who was the subject in the folder. An oversized, stuffed envelope was next to the file.
Two covered styrofoam cups were also on the desk alongside a box of donuts precariously perched on a stuffed vertical file organizer. Monk slumped into the offered seat.
“Go ahead, help yourself.” Olson opened the folder and pretended to read it for the first time.
Monk devoured a glazed donut and began working on a crumb before prying the lid off the coffee and taking a swallow of the hot bitter brew. It was like drinking steamed donkey sweat, but it was invigorating.
Olson leafed through several pages in the folder, closed it, and looked solemnly at Monk. “We might have a situation on our hands.”
All of a sudden it was “we.” Monk said, “You mean the dead-faced killer.”
Olson rubbed his hands together, reminding Monk of a character in an old movie playing a money-grubbing banker. He talked as he rubbed. “You know these kind of things can escalate uncomfortably if they aren’t handled responsibly.”
“I have no intention of talking to any reporters, if that’s what’s got you worried, captain.” Which was the singular most truthful statement he’d given all night. He polished off the second donut and lusted for a third.
“I know you’ve got some seasoning, Monk,” the captain said, buttering him up. “It’s the wild cards in this deal that I’m worried about.”
“You mean Midnight? Why the hell would he talk to the papers, he’s not one for over-exposure,” Monk countered.
“I agree, Mr. Lake’s activities require a certain anonymity. I’m much more concerned about Bradford and his bunch. He seems too willing to put his campaign in the court of the media.” Olson finally took the lid off his coffee.
“What exactly is Bradford’s connection to all this?” He took Bradford to mean the leader of the crew.
“He’s a cousin of a kid named Henderson who was shot about a week ago.”
“He’s in a coma.” Monk put the third donut down, uneaten.
“I know. Anyway, Bradford’s one of these campus radical types. He’s of the notion that the LAPD and us won’t do justice to the black man and catch the Shoreline Killer,” Olson said as neutrally as he could. He tried to look indifferent as he tasted his coffee, but Monk knew he was gauging his reaction.
“So you think he’s trying to build himself a reputation?”
Olson lifted a brow. “Everybody has different perspectives, Mr. Monk.”
“So as one pro to the next, captain, what do you want from me?”
Olson reared back in his swivel then leaned forward, his long fingers grasping the coffee cup like a hawk capturing its prey. “Maybe you could have a chat with Mister Bradford and at least try to get him from making so big a noise in the press. I’m not so much worried about the Press-Telegram, after all, who the hell reads it? But if the fucking Times picks it up, then the copycat TV news will get it. And sure as God made little green apples the Shores will be crawling with Sally Jesse, Montel and every fuckin’ body else fuckin’ up our investigation.”
The captain took a pull on his coffee then added, “It means messing up your action too, Monk. How long will your client pay you once she knows somebody else is looking for the killer for free?”
He’d told Olson about Clarice but not how little she was paying him. Could be Olson thought Scatterboy left a little something under the mattress from his wheeling and dealing. Monk said, “You got a point there, captain. I’ll be happy to have a little talk with Bradford.”
As if he were a U.N. ambassador negotiating a difficult treaty, Olson slapped his hand on the file on his desk. “Good. Ah, of course you’ll still have to fill out a weapons discharge report.”
“I always do it by the book. I take it you’re not holding Bradford?”
“No, the other two guns at the scene besides yours belonged to two of the brothers with him but he wasn’t packing.”
“You planning to come down on them with both feet?”
Olson sucked something out of a back tooth, then responded.
“We don’t tolerate vigilantism round here.”
“I’m not saying you do, captain. But if you want
to cool Bradford out, and if the guns are registered to the owners, a misdemeanor goes down smoother than a felony concealed weapons charge.”
“I’ll give it some thought.” He bit off half of a sprinkled.
Monk got up and stretched. “I’ll fill out the report before I go. Can you give me an address for Bradford?”
“Yeah,” Olson mumbled over his donut. He produced a 3x5 index card and tossed it in Monk’s direction. “Also, I’d like you to give a description of the shooter to our artist. I already have your statement that the vehicle the alleged crook was driving was a bright red Chrysler Wrangler Jeep, open-air, late model, with mud caked on the big tires. Anyway, she’ll be here at 8:30.”
“Aw hell. I suppose I can get a ride back to my car after that, right?” He picked up the card and tucked it in his back pocket.
“Anything for a pro,” Olson grinned. It was like looking at a cottonmouth before it struck. He touched the envelope. “Don’t forget your goods.”
Monk was delivered to his car by ten and crawled into his bed in Mar Vista a little before eleven. He hadn’t been this tired in a long time and he slept the sleep of the just until twenty past four when the ringing phone awoke him.
He plucked the receiver off the nightstand and slurred into it. “Que?”
“Chief,” Delilah’s velvet voice floated to him through the wire. “I know you said not to bother you because of your long night, but I’ve got two messages I thought you might want to hear.”
Monk yawned. “From who, D?”
“Dexter says he’ll meet you at the Satellite at seven tonight. And a woman named,” and there was a pause, “Xylina Ysaguirre-Chacon called.”
“Hot damn.”
Chapter 9
Ysaguirre-Chacon was indeed one of the lawyers at the firm where Monk had left his fake card. She’d only left her number, but it matched the one on the card Monk had pilfered from the snotty receptionist’s desk. He wanted to talk with her but more immediate concerns pressed him.
Perdition, U.S.A. Page 8
