A half hour later, he walked in with a huff, like meeting with me was the most inconvenient thing in the world. I watched him stand in the doorway and canvas the place like a professional. When he spotted me, he came over, flopped in the seat and ran his hand through his short, gray hair. He didn’t apologize for being late.
Instead, he looked at me with his hands on the table, palms up, as if he’d grown impatient already, waiting for me to get to the point. He said, “Well? Blow my mind. What is it?”
I figured I’d start with the easy part first. I said, “David Daniels.”
“Kid who washed up in Malibu.”
“Right.”
“Worked for Pete Stick.”
“Right again.”
The waitress came over to hand Wilson a menu. He looked at her and said, “Pastrami, on a roll, toasted. No rye. I hate rye. Potato salad. Lemonade.”
She smirked and said, “You sure you know what you want?”
“I was as soon as I saw you.” He grinned up at her and leaned back, spreading his arms out along the top of the booth. His tweed jacket splayed open, revealing the slightest edge of shoulder holster, and the gun within it.
The waitress, an attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, cocked her hip out to one side, and said, “You have any idea how often I hear that one?” She was playing it cool, but I saw her eyes notice the gun, and then run themselves over Wilson’s broad shoulders and trim waist.
Wilson said, “Everyday, I’m sure. The truth has a way of coming out in people. Even in this town.”
She swayed a little and said, “And I’ll bet you know something about getting the truth out of people.”
“I don’t really have to do much. People can’t help themselves. You give them enough time, eventually they’ll spill it. No matter how hard they try to hide it.”
She laughed and said, “Try telling that to my ex-husband. I had to catch him in another woman’s apartment. He was never going to confess.”
Wilson turned toward her and rested an elbow on the table, smiling like he was the friendliest guy in the world. “You ought to run your boyfriends through me first, I can put the thumb screws to them, see if they’re worth your time.”
She tapped her pen on the tiny pad of paper and said, “I’ll have to find myself a new one first. If I do, I’ll let you know. You can bring your handcuffs and get a little rough.”
Wilson didn’t miss a beat. “Anytime,” he said. “I’m just a public servant, trying to help out any way I can.”
She lingered there for another second. Neither of them spoke, they just grinned at each other. I was marveling at the sudden display of Wilson’s humanity and beginning to think they’d forgotten about me.
She tapped her notepad again and said, “I don’t like rye either. I’ll be sure to tell them to get it right.” Then she seemed to notice me for the first time, despite having harassed me to no end before Wilson arrived. I ordered and watched Wilson lean out of the booth and watch her as she walked back to the kitchen.
When she was gone, he turned back to me like she’d never been there at all and grunted, “So Stick hangs himself and the Daniels kid washes up on the beach a few days later. It’s suspicious. No shit. Tell me something I don’t know.”
I sipped my iced tea. Colette Vargas’s was better. I told Wilson that I’d talked to the kid on Friday night, after everyone else was gone. I told him about the bribe and the kid never showing up. Wilson nodded along, acting uninterested, but the fact that he interrupted only to ask clarifying questions told me he was definitely interested.
When I started telling him about parking at the house, he said they’d already talked to the guard, who denied calling in the noise disturbance. “We ran a check on the guy,” Wilson said, talking about the guard.
“He’s got a record. It’s old. Couple of minor drug things in the early 80s. He lied just because he doesn’t want to get involved. It doesn’t really matter. The call was made. We talked to him just to cover all the bases, that’s all.”
“But he didn’t make the call.”
Wilson scowled. “Of course that’s what he says.”
“He also says something else that’s interesting,” I went on. “What he told me was that, on the night of the shooting, he’d had another guy park in the same place I’d parked. A young guy whose car stalled. The young guy used the phone to call someone. The guard thought he called a friend to pick him up. But then he managed to get his car started and drive away. I think that was when the noise call was made.”
“So you think it was a plan? That someone intended to make the noise call?”
I nodded and said, “Not only that, but when I asked the guard about the guy driving the car, he gave me a dead on description of David Daniels.”
“What?” Wilson leaned toward me as the waitress returned with his lemonade. He smiled at her and thanked her, and then glared at me. “Did you show him a picture?”
“How could I? I don’t have one.”
“So you don’t know for sure.”
“How many young guys with scraggly red beards are running around Mulholland Drive? I’ll be shocked if it’s someone else.”
“We’ll have to show him a picture. Get a positive ID,” Wilson said, more to himself than to me.
I let it stew in his head for a minute while I drank my iced tea. I watched his eyes dart around, processing it, as though he was staring at the various possibilities suspended in the air in front of him. When I thought he’d had enough time, I said, “But there’s more.”
His eyes snapped into focus and came to rest on me. I leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice. “Last night, my girlfriend and I were driving home from dinner in Santa Monica, when this cop pulled us over. He came up to the car, leaned inside, and started giving us this bullshit story about smelling marijuana in the car.”
Wilson cracked a slight smile. Once upon a time, back when he was a patrolman, he’d probably used similar stories as an excuse for a shakedown. “And then,” I went on, “he tossed a bag of pot into my girlfriend’s lap.” His smile disappeared. “He drug me out of the car, onto the street, cuffed me and stuck his gun in my face. Then, get this, he said, ‘Keep your nose out of the Vargas business.’”
“This was a cop?” Wilson was almost indignant. “LAPD?”
I shrugged. “As far as I know. It wasn’t like I was cross-examining the guy while he was jamming his gun into the side of my head.”
I could see Wilson reeling, vacillating between outrage and total disbelief. The waitress returned with our lunch and set the plates down in front of us. She grinned and spoke in a flirtatious tone, but Wilson could barely nod and smile at her this time. I saw a confused disappointment on her face when she turned and walked away.
Wilson chewed a bite of his pastrami and then said, “Who was he?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you get a name? Badge number?” He knew the answer even before he asked. I just shook my head.
“But you’re sure he was a cop?”
“Said he was. He looked like a cop. Drove a cop car. You don’t start questioning an officer’s identity when you get pulled over.” I smiled at him and took a bite of my sandwich, then said, “but I doubt you get pulled over much.”
“He said to stay away from the Vargas case?”
“Keep my nose out of it.”
“Meaning he doesn’t want you suing the police department over the shooting.”
“Most likely. Although, we’re not going to. The wife has decided she doesn’t want to get involved in a lawsuit.”
“But he didn’t know that.”
“How could he?”
“So you think it was connected to the cop who did the shooting?”
“Hell,” I said, “maybe it was the cop who did the shooting, for all I know. The papers didn’t run a picture of him, I have no idea what he looks like.”
Wilson shook his head. “They never put out a picture. It’s to protect the
cop’s privacy. But this guy should be on administrative leave, at least for the rest of this week. He wouldn’t be on patrol.”
“Like he couldn’t put his uniform on and get a hold of a car? It’s not like we’re talking about a guy who’s interested in protocol here.”
I could see Wilson didn’t like the idea at all. He was looking for a reasonable explanation, but he wasn’t finding one. And he wasn’t going to find one. I’d been over it a hundred times with Liz and Jendrek. I decided to cut to the chase, because I wasn’t interested in having the conversation a third time.
“Look,” I said, “all I can tell you is what he said. Now maybe he was a cop and maybe he wasn’t. I think he was, but I’m willing to recognize the possibility that he was just a good actor with good props. But regardless, the reality is that there’s something wrong about the Vargas case. You’ve got three bodies now. All of them are connected, and someone’s pointing a gun in my face threatening to make me number four if I don’t keep my nose clean.”
I could see he liked the suggestion that the guy wasn’t a cop and he latched onto it. “So if this was just a thug out to rough you up, then we’re probably talking about the guy who killed Daniels.”
“Do you seriously think that’s the only one of the three that’s a murder?”
He was about to say something and then stopped himself. He didn’t want them to be connected. An accident, a suicide, and a murder were tragic, but it was still only one murder. If they were connected, the whole thing turned into a major crime, and a major headache. But at least no one was threatening him.
Finally, he said, “Why would a cop shoot Vargas? What would be the point? And how the hell would he end up in a conspiracy with a lifelong thief like Stick and a kid like Daniels?”
I leaned back in the booth and stuffed a couple of fries in my mouth, thinking as I chewed. I knew I didn’t have any good answers, but I was hoping something would come to me. Wilson watched me like a guy who couldn’t believe his bad luck. After a minute, I said, “What do you think of Police Chief Dixon?”
The question seemed to confuse him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he hates pornography. But that’s about all I know about him. What do you think of him?”
Wilson didn’t even think about it. He just said, “He’s a Jesus freak who likes to hear himself talk. Thinks he’s got the market cornered on good ideas and morality. But most Jesus freaks do.”
“Well?” I said, and shrugged like it was obvious.
Wilson laughed and shook his head. He took another bite of sandwich and chewed it with a far away look in his eyes, like he was watching my ludicrous scenario play out against the Formica tabletop. After he washed his sandwich down with the last of his lemonade, he said, “Chief Dixon may be a snake handler, or whatever the fuck he is, but Dixon believes what he says. I think he’s annoying, but I don’t think he’s a hypocrite. And I don’t think he’s a killer either.”
“I’m just saying, it’s a possibility.”
“Shit Olson,” he sneered, “everything’s a possibility. Let’s stick to things a little closer to reality. There’s ten thousand crimes a day happening in this city. Dixon may not like people buying porno flicks, but he doesn’t have time to sit around putting wild assed crimes of his own together. I’m sure Vargas was into something illegal. If Dixon really wanted to arrest him, I’m sure he could have figured out a way to make it happen.”
“I’m just thinking out loud here.”
“Well, it’s fucking ridiculous. Besides,” he snickered, incredulous and baffled, “how the hell do you get approval to investigate something like that? Uh, excuse me Chief, you’re my main suspect, can I get a couple more guys on this? You’re out of your mind, Olson.”
I finished my lunch and pushed my plate back, resting my elbows on the table. “Okay, fine, it’s not the Chief. But what do you know about the cop who shot Vargas?”
“Nothing, really. I don’t know the guy. I guess he’s a patrolman. Been on the force for years. Basically a good cop, nothing special.”
“What can you find out about him?”
Wilson hesitated for a second, then he said, “I can ask around.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” I said, “How many years have you been working there? You don’t know anyone who can get you some information?”
He knew I was right, he just didn’t like where I was going. “Sure I do,” he said, leaning in closer, “but I’m not about to go running up and down the halls at the office screaming about a conspiracy just because you think a cop roughed you up. Hell, you don’t even know for sure it was a real cop. You’ve got to have a helluva lot better evidence than you’ve got for me to do anything with it.”
“Who’s saying anything about making a scene? All I’m talking about is some basic information. Who the fuck is this guy? What does he look like? Look, if you get me a picture, I’ll at least know who we’re talking about. I could at least see if it’s the same guy.”
Wilson could get it. I could see it on his face. He just didn’t want to go down this road, investigating one of his own, suspecting them. I tried to nudge him over the edge.
“I’m not saying turn this into anything. Maybe his file will rule him out. Hell, it probably will. So why not rule him out?” I decided to add the Jendrek theory into the mix, to soften it a little further. “It’s entirely possible the shooting really was an accident, and Daniels just called the cops because he wanted them to show up.”
Wilson’s eyes lit up as I said it. “Shit, Olson. Now you’re starting to sound reasonable.”
“So all I’m saying is, let’s have a look, get a little more information in the mix, and see what makes sense.”
He was going for it. He scratched the back of his head and thought about it. Then he said, “What would Daniels have wanted the cops to show up for? We talked to his girlfriend, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong there at all.”
“What did she say?”
Wilson shrugged, “Not a damned thing. Said he left the house Saturday morning and never came back.”
“Left to meet me,” I said.
“She never mentioned you. She didn’t even seem to know him that well. Said they’d only been dating five or six months.”
“What about his family?”
“Haven’t found any. There were some old addresses we came across, mostly from high school records that turned up out in San Bernardino. But they couldn’t find anyone when they checked them out.”
I nodded, unsurprised. Nobody involved in the whole case seemed to have any history at all. It was as though everyone had simply appeared out of thin air, at the appropriate time and place, played their part, and then promptly been killed. But I knew it couldn’t have been that way.
“What the hell is wrong with all these people?” I said, not looking for an answer. “Everyone has a past.”
Wilson laughed and leaned into the corner of the booth. “Ain’t that the goddamned truth,” he muttered. “Seems like that’s the only damned thing most people have.”
I watched Wilson smile up at the waitress as she came to clear our plates.
XXI
Wilson told me he’d poke around the office at the end of the day. He knew who stayed late and who didn’t. A guy in the records department was an old friend of his. He figured buying the guy a couple beers and a French dip sandwich at Philippe’s ought to help him get his hands on something. He said he’d get back to me tomorrow and we parted ways on the sidewalk.
I went east on Wilshire. My original plan was to head back to the office and discuss what I’d found at the library with Jendrek. But something kept me driving east. I had the top down and the traffic was moving along. It just felt nice to focus on driving, without dwelling on the thousand different explanations for what might have happened.
As Wilshire curved to the south and became the border between Beverly Hills and Century City, I reminded myself of what we’d been hired to do: keep Tiffan
y Vargas from inheriting her husband’s estate. Prove her marriage was a fraud. But by the time Wilshire curved back to the east and lead me through the center of Los Angeles, all I could see was a blurry line between the marriage and the murder.
The cop hadn’t made any distinctions when he’d pressed the tip of his nine-millimeter into my temple. Stay out of the Vargas business, period. All of it. Didn’t that mean everything was connected? It usually is. Not that I’m a Taoist or anything, just a victim of logic, and my own relentless need for everything to make some sense. At least in the world around me, if not always in my own life.
So by the time I was cutting through Koreatown, I knew where I was going. Baldwin Hills. Huntington Drive. I had the address in a folder in my briefcase. Maybe David Daniels’s girlfriend would tell me some things she wouldn’t tell the cops.
When I was downtown, I turned north up Spring Street and then east again on Caesar Chavez Boulevard—which is what Sunset becomes as it heads into East LA—and went over the bridge that everyone has seen in a thousand movies, but only Angelinos can identify.
After that, I was lost.
The city seemed to break apart into a series of tiny hills separated by veins of traffic that spider-webbed around them in all directions. I went north for a while, then further east, then back the way I’d come, just in case I missed something the first time through. I knew if I kept going east I’d hit San Gabriel, a dense Chinese community where a cultureless American like me couldn’t even read the street signs.
Eventually, I pulled over next to a street cart piled high with bags of cotton candy, bright colored balloons, and an assortment of gum and candy and churros for sale. The old man pushing it looked like he really hoped I’d buy something. His eyes rolled over my car, as if to suggest I could afford it, and it would be the least I could do. I bought some chiclets and he told me where Huntington was. I tossed the gum in the glove box. I never chew gum.
When Henry Huntington first came to the San Gabriel Valley, Pasadena was a small village with pristine air that had been dried of its ocean moisture by the hills of what is now East LA. It was believed that the dry air was good for the body, and, for a time, Pasadena was the fashionable west coast retreat for many of the county’s wealthiest people. Huntington himself ran an empire from his massive estate, which now houses his Guttenberg Bible, his 150-acre botanical garden, and his paintings, such as the famous Blue Boy. All of it bought with the revenue from his 1100-mile system of trolleys that connected nearly all of Southern California.
The Flaming Motel Page 17
