“I don’t see any yellow tape, Brad.”
“Maybe it’s still not optimal.”
Milo put his hands on his hips. “You’re telling me this is a restricted scene because the d.b. once bunked here, but it’s okay for vagrant scumbags to come in and out? Harmon Junior’s gonna love that, Brad. Next time he and the chief meet up on the links they’re gonna share a few yucks over that one.”
Lewis said, “What is it, three months? And you’re already acting like a fucking suit.”
Milo said, “Bullshit. You’re the one with the invisible tape, Brad. You’re the one all of a sudden turned careful.”
Esposito said, “We don’t have to take this shit,” and unbuttoned his coat. Lewis held him back, puffing like a chimney. Then he dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, watched it smolder, and moved aside.
Esposito said, “Hey.”
Lewis said, “Fuck it,” with enough savagery to shut Esposito’s mouth. To me: “Go ahead. Move it.”
I stepped forward and Milo put his hand on the door.
“Don’t fuck anything up,” said Lewis. “And don’t get in our way— I mean it. I don’t care how many fucking lawyers you’ve got behind you, hear me?”
Milo pushed the door open. Before it closed, I heard Esposito’s voice mutter, “Maricon.”
Then laughter, very forced, very angry.
• • •
A TV was on in the big aqua room. Some sort of cop show flashed on the screen, and forty or so pairs of drooping eyes followed the crunch-and-rattle fantasy.
“Thorazine city,” said Milo, his voice cold as Freon. Anger as therapy . . .
We’d gotten halfway across the room when Father Tim Andrus appeared from around a corner, wheeling a coffee urn on an aluminum cart. Plastic-wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups filled the cart’s bottom shelf. The priest’s clerical shirt was olive-drab, worn over faded blue jeans, the knees of the pants scraped white. Same white high-top shoes he’d had on the first time; one of the laces had come loose.
He frowned, stopped, made a sharp turn away from us, and pushed the cart between rows of slumping men. The cart’s wheels were loose and kept sticking. Andrus maintained a jerky, weaving progress until he was next to the television. Bending low, he whispered to one of the men— a young, wild-eyed white youth in too-small clothing that gave him the look of an overgrown feral child. Not much older than a child, actually— late teens, maybe twenty, still larded with baby fat and suburban softness under a patchy chin-beard. But any semblance of innocence was destroyed by matted hair and scabbed skin.
The priest talked to him slowly, with exquisite patience. The young man listened, rose slowly, and began unwrapping a cup stack with shaky fingers. Filling a cup from the urn’s spigot, he started to raise it to his lips. Andrus touched his wrist and the youth stopped, bewildered.
Andrus smiled, spoke again, guided the youth’s wrist so that the cup was held out to one of the seated men. The man took hold of it. The chin-bearded youth stared and released it. Andrus said something and gave him another cup that he began filling. Some of the men had left their seats; a loose queue formed in front of the urn.
Andrus motioned at a scrawny man the color of photo film, slumped in the front row. The man got up and limped over. He and the youth stood side by side, not looking at each other. The priest smiled and instructed, setting up a two-man assembly line. Guiding and praising until a rhythm of filling and distribution had been established and the queue began to shuffle forward. Then he came over to us.
“Please leave,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Just a few questions, please, Father,” said Milo.
“I’m sorry, Mr.— I don’t remember what your name is, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do for you and I’d really appreciate it if you left.”
“The name is Sturgis, Father, and you didn’t forget. I never gave it to you.”
“No,” said the priest, “you didn’t. But the police did. Just a while ago. They also informed me you weren’t the police.”
“Never said I was, Father.”
Andrus’s ears colored. He plucked at his wispy mustache. “No, I suppose you didn’t, but you did imply it. I deal with deception all day, Mr. Sturgis— part of the job. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Sorry,” said Milo. “I was—”
“An apology isn’t necessary, Mr. Sturgis. You can demonstrate your remorse by leaving and letting me attend to my people.”
“Would it have made a difference, Father? If I’d have told you I was a cop on temporary leave?”
Surprise on the priest’s lean face.
“What’d they tell you, Father?” said Milo. “That I’d been kicked off the force? That I was some kind of heavy-duty sinner?”
Andrus’s pale face took on an angry blush. “I— There’s really no sense getting into . . . extraneous things, Mr. Sturgis. The main thing is there’s nothing I can do for you. Joel’s dead.”
“I know that, Father.”
“Along with any interest you might therefore have in the mission.”
“Any idea who’s responsible for his death?”
“Do you care, Mr. Sturgis?”
“Not one bit. But if it helps me understand why Mrs. Ramp died—”
“Why she— Oh . . .” Andrus shut his eyes and opened them rapidly. “Oh, my.” Sighing and putting a hand to his forehead. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Milo told him about Morris Dam. A longer but softer version than the one he’d given Lewis.
Andrus shook his head and crossed himself.
“Father,” said Milo, “when Joel was alive did he say anything to you that would indicate he’d resumed contact with Mrs. Ramp or any member of her family?”
“No, not at all. I’m sorry, I can’t take this any further, Mr. Sturgis.” The priest looked over at the coffee line. “Anything Joel may have told me was in confidentiality. It’s a theological issue— the fact that he’s dead doesn’t change that.”
“Of course not, Father. The only reason I came down here to talk to him again is that Mrs. Ramp’s daughter is really struggling to deal with her loss. She’s only a kid, Father. A total orphan now. And she’s coming to grips with being all alone. Nothing you can say or do will change that, I realize, but any light you might be able to shed on what happened to her mom could be helpful to her in terms of getting her life back together. At least that’s what I’ve been told by her therapist.”
“Yes,” said Andrus. “That makes sense . . . Poor child.” He thought for a moment. “But no, it can’t help her.”
“What can’t, Father?”
“Anything— nothing I know, Mr. Sturgis. What I mean is that I know nothing— Joel never told me anything that would ease the poor girl’s pain. Though even if he had, I couldn’t tell you, so perhaps it’s best that he didn’t. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“Uh-huh,” said Milo.
Andrus shook his head and put the knuckles of a fist against his brow. “That wasn’t very clear, was it? It’s been a long day and I lose coherence after long days.” Another glance at the urn. “I could use some of that poison over there— plenty of chicory in it but we haven’t skimped on the caffeine. It helps the men deal with detox. You’re welcome to some, too.”
“No, thanks, Father. Just one more second of your time. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“The police seem to think it was just one of those things that happens down on Skid Row.”
“Do you agree with that?”
“There’s no reason not to, I guess. I’ve seen so many things that don’t make sense. . . .”
“Is there something about McCloskey’s death that doesn’t make sense?”
“No, not really.” Another look at the urn.
“Was there any reason for McCloskey to be in the area where he was run down, Father?”
Andrus shook his head. “None that I know of. He wasn�
�t on an errand for the mission— I told the police that. The men do take walks— surprisingly long distances for their physical condition. It’s as if staying in motion reminds them they’re still alive. The illusion of purpose, even though they have nowhere to go.”
“The first time we were here, I got the impression that Joel rarely left the mission.”
“That’s true.”
“So he wasn’t one of your big walkers.”
“No, not really.”
“Did he take any other walks you’re aware of?”
“No, not really . . .” Andrus paused; his ears were flaming.
“What is it, Father?”
“This will sound very ugly, very judgmental, but my first impression upon hearing what had happened was that someone in the family— Mrs. Ramp’s family— decided finally to exact revenge. Lured him away somehow, then ambushed him.”
“Why’s that, Father?”
“They’d certainly have a reason. And using a car impressed me as a . . . nice middle-class way of doing it. No need to get close. To smell him or touch him.”
The priest stared away again. Upward. Toward the crucifix.
“Ugly thoughts, Mr. Sturgis. I’m not proud of them. I was angry— everything I’d put into him and now . . . Then I realized I was being thoughtless and cruel and thinking of myself. Suspecting innocent people who’d had their own share of suffering. I had no right to do that. Now that you tell me about Mrs. Ramp, I feel even more . . .”
Shaking his head.
Milo said, “Did you mention your suspicion to the detectives?”
“It wasn’t suspicion, just a momentary . . . thought. An uncharitable thought in the heat of . . . the shock of hearing about it. And no, I didn’t. But they brought it up— asked me if any member of Mrs. Ramp’s family had been by. I said only you had.”
“How’d they react when you told them I’d been here?”
“I didn’t get the impression they took it seriously— took any of it seriously. They just seemed to be throwing things out— scattershot. My impression was that they’re not going to spend a lot of time on this particular case.”
“Why’s that?”
“Their attitude. I’m used to it. Death is a frequent visitor around here but he doesn’t give too many interviews on the six o’clock news.” The priest’s face fell. “Here I go again, judging. And there’s so much work to be done. You must excuse me, Mr. Sturgis.”
“Sure, Father. Thanks for your time. But if you do think of something, anything that would help that little girl, please let me know.”
Somehow a business card had made it into Milo’s palm. He handed it to the priest. Before Andrus slipped it into a pocket of his jeans, I got a look at it. White vellum. Milo’s name, in strong black letters, over the word INVESTIGATIONS. Home number and beeper code in the lower right-hand corner.
Milo thanked Andrus again. Andrus looked pained.
“Please don’t count on me, Mr. Sturgis. I’ve told you all I can.”
• • •
Walking back to the car, I said, “ “I’ve told you all I can,’ not “all I know.’ My bet is that McCloskey bared his soul to him— formal confession or some sort of counseling. Either way, you’ll never get it out of him.”
“Yup,” he said. “I used to talk to my priest, too.”
We walked to the car in silence.
Driving back to San Labrador, I said, “Who’s Gonzales?”
“Huh?”
“What you told Lewis? It seemed to make an impression on him.”
“Oh,” he said, frowning. “Ancient history. Gonsalves. Lewis used to work at West L.A. when he was still in uniform. College boy, tendency to think he was smarter than the others. Gonsalves is a case he fucked up. Domestic violence that he didn’t take seriously enough. Wife wanted the husband locked up, but Lewis thought he could handle it with his B.A.— psych B.A., matter of fact. Did some counseling and left feeling good. Hour later, the husband cut up the wife with a straight razor. Lewis was a lot softer then— no attitude. I could have ruined him, chose to go easy on the paperwork, talk him through it. After that he got harder, got more careful, didn’t fuck up again, notably. Made detective a few years later and transferred to Central.”
“Doesn’t seem too grateful.”
“Yeah.” He gripped the wheel. “Well, that’s the way the Oreo deteriorates.”
A mile later: “When I first called him— to scope out McCloskey and the mission— he was frosty but civil. Given the Frisk thing, that’s the best I can hope for. Tonight was amateur theater— putting on an act for that little macho asshole he’s partnered with.”
“Us and them,” I said.
He didn’t answer. I regretted bringing it up. Trying to lighten things, I said, “Nifty business card. When’d you get it?”
“Couple of days ago— insta-print on La Cienega on the way to the freeway. Got a box of five hundred at bulk rate— talk about your wise investment.”
“Let me see.”
“What for?”
“Souvenir— it may turn out to be a collector’s item.”
He grimaced, put his hand in his jacket, and pulled one out.
I took it, snapped the thin, hard paper, and said, “Classy.”
“I like vellum,” he said. “You can always pick your teeth with it.”
“Or use it for a bookmark.”
“Got something even more constructive,” he said. “Build little houses with them. Then blow them down.”
32
Back at Sussex Knoll, he pulled up beside the Seville.
I said, “What’s next for you?”
“Sleep, hearty breakfast, then financial scumbags.” He put the Porsche in neutral and revved the engine.
“What about McCloskey?” I said.
“Wasn’t intending to go to the funeral.”
Revving. Drumming the steering wheel.
I said, “Any ideas about who killed him and why?”
“You heard all of ’em back at the mission.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay.” He sped away.
• • •
My house seemed tiny and friendly. The timer had switched the pond lights off and it was too dark to tell how my fish eggs were doing. I crept upstairs, slept for ten hours, woke up Monday thinking of Gina Ramp and Joel McCloskey— bound together, again, by pain and terror.
Was there a link between Morris Dam and what had happened in the back alley, or had McCloskey been simply another piece of Skid Row garbage?
Murder with a car. I found myself thinking about Noel Drucker. He had access to lots of wheels and plenty of time on his hands during the Tankard’s indefinite hiatus. Were his feelings for Melissa strong enough to knock him that far off the straight and narrow? If so, had he been acting on his own, or at Melissa’s bidding?
And what of Melissa? It made me sick to think of her as anything other than the defenseless orphan Milo had portrayed to the detectives. But I’d seen her temper in action. Watched her channel her grief into revenge fantasies against Anger and Douse.
I recalled her and Noel, entwined on her bed. Had the plan to get McCloskey been hatched during a similar embrace?
I switched channels:
Ramp. If he was innocent of causing Gina’s death, perhaps he’d avenged it.
He had lots of reasons to hate McCloskey. Had he been at the wheel of the death car, or had he hired someone? The poetic justice would have been appealing.
Todd Nyquist would have been perfect for the job— how would anyone connect a surf-jock from the west side with the downtown death of a brain-damaged bum?
Or maybe Noel was Ramp’s automotive hit man, not Melissa’s.
Or maybe none of the above.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
An image flashed across my eyes.
The scars on Gina’s face.
I thought of the prison McCloskey had sent her to for the rest of her life.
; Why waste time worrying about the reason he had died? His life had been a case study in wretchedness. Who’d miss him other than Father Andrus? And the priest’s feelings probably had more to do with theological abstraction than human attachment.
Milo had been right to brush it off.
I was playing head-games rather than making myself useful.
I stood, stretched, said, “Good riddance,” out loud.
Private Eyes Page 46
