Though it seemed to last an infinity, the struggle with Harry from beginning to end probably lasted no more than a minute. Certainly not as long as two.
I heard Early's front door slam shut and heard him come down his front steps. I turned and saw him running toward the corral.
I called to him. "Early, take cover."
"Maggie, where are you?"
"In the corral."
He came through the trees instead of walking through the open. As he got his first leg over the top rail he caught sight of Harry and paused in mid-movement. Early carried a huge six-cell steel-case Kel-Lite flashlight, the sort that the police aren't supposed to use anymore because they make deadly cudgels; the consent decree said so. I remembered that Harry had carried a Kel-Lite on patrol. When Harry had shone that light into the fenced yard where Nelda was selling drugs, was he warning her away, or locating her for himself?
Early shot the light onto Harry. "What the hell? Who?"
"Sergeant Harry Young. But I don't know where the others are."
Early climbed the rest of the way over the rail, patting and pushing the horses out of his way, but they stuck close to him, nudging him, competitive. They seemed to demand his reassurance or his praise. Who knows? Whatever their itch, they were certainly demanding something from him.
Early made his way toward me. Slowly, he raised a hand and then lowered it a little as if to ask me to turn down the volume. "Could you lower the gun, please?"
"Sorry." I slipped on the safety and held the gun down to my side.
"Do you still have the phone number the cop gave you?" he asked.
I pulled the card out of my pocket and gave it to Early. He took his cell phone from the case on his belt and dialed the number. We heard a phone ring inside the dark car. Early flipped on his big flashlight again and aimed it at the car's windshield.
The inside of the car was suddenly illuminated, giving a clear view of the head and shoulders of the officer who had searched the inside of the house, the man whose name we had not asked for. I took the card from Early and turned it over. Sgt. Ronald Kalunian worked patrol out of Pacific Division. I hoped he wasn't married with a houseful of small children, because the funny angle of his neck made me think he wasn't going home again.
Early was already dialing 911. He asked for the sheriff, and for the paramedics to come up from the fire station on Cornell Road just below Mulholland. "Officer down," he said first. Then he told the dispatcher that a second man had been kicked in the head by a horse, that he was breathing, but he wasn't moving. And a third, the second policeman, was unaccounted for.
There was a stack of freshly laundered white towels in the feed shed that were used for wiping down the horses. I grabbed several, gingerly lifted Harry's head enough to slip a couple underneath, and tried to stanch the flow of blood with another. I was afraid to move him. The kick could easily have broken his neck, among other damages. I wrapped a third towel over the compress as best I could and tucked in the ends tightly to keep pressure on the wound, and hoped that the paramedics arrived quickly. I knew from experience that the sheriff would take a while to come up from Malibu, but the paramedics were at the fire station just down the road.
Harry was breathing regularly, his pupils were equal size and responded to light, but no one was home to answer when I pinched him. There was nothing more we could do for him except keep the horses away from him.
Early and I walked slowly over closer to the Crown Vic. There wasn't much doubt in my mind what we would find, but in case there was something we could do for Sgt. Kalunian, we had to check. Early, still on the telephone with the 911 dispatcher, was close beside me. From a distance of about six feet he flashed his light through the windshield again. Kalunian sat upright in the front seat, facing forward, and it was clear that he was beyond help. Whatever Harry did to him had been quick and apparently bloodless, if not painless. A garrote from behind? That would be a question for the cops and the coroner.
I had just said, "Where is the other man?" when we heard a groan coming from the shrubbery on the far side of the driveway. We found the second officer lying in a heap, his fly open, the front of his trousers damp. Harry had apparently caught him in the act of relieving himself, probably had waited until he was away from his partner and vulnerable. There was an ugly knot growing out of his temple, but he was beginning to come around. I knew better than to move him; the 911 operator told Early that the paramedics were on their way.
"We should probably go out where we can flag down the paramedics," I said.
We touched nothing near the car, and retraced our steps back to the corral. I unlatched the door of the tack shed again, went in and set Harry's Beretta atop a bale of alfalfa hay, and while I was there, to quiet Duke, Red and Rover, I took some carrots out of the bag. We fed the carrots to the horses to distract them, and then stood beside the corral, leaning against the rails, waiting. The horses leaned their muzzles over the rail, too, and stood beside us as if waiting as well for the paramedics to come up our canyon.
"He hurt you at all?" Early asked me.
"No. He surprised me."
"It's okay for you to cry," he said. "Perfectly understandable if you do. This has all been pretty traumatic."
"I think I'm okay. How are you?"
"I think I'd feel a little better if you would sort of break down here. Let me see your eyes." He took my chin and angled my face into the light. "You're in shock."
I turned and looked at him. "Now, how do you suppose that happened?"
"Let's just stay quiet a minute. It'll hit you in time. If you think you're going to pass out..."
"I'm okay, Early." I looked up into the trees to avoid seeing the outline of the man in the car. Even if I couldn't make out the details of his distorted face from where I stood, I knew what he looked like. I would never forget it.
After a moment, Early said, "Want to take the horses for a ride first thing tomorrow morning?"
"Good idea," I said. "I owe at least that to Duke and Rover."
Duke perked his ears as flashing lights poured around the hairpin turn, but he was too busy getting a drink of water to bother kicking up a fuss.
Chapter 20
They arrived together bearing gifts, like the three Magi. Eldon, Kenny, and Nick, each with a wife, and each with a party offering: several bottles of a nice Chilean pinot, a huge homemade chocolate cake, and a big bowl of guacamole made from avocados that grew on the Pietros' backyard tree.
When they arrived, Lana was lounging on a patio chaise with a scotch, her party offering, in her manicured hand while she kibitzed with Early and Guido about how they should cook the huge fresh salmon my mother had iced and express-shipped down from Humboldt; she had been staying at the cottage with her old friend, Jane Jakobsen. Jane, despite her best efforts not to, had landed the fish on a deep sea fishing trip two days before.
Guido's graduate student, a new one, was in the kitchen with Fergie chopping fruit, onions, fresh herbs and peppers for a mango-papaya salsa, the recipe for which Fergie had cut out of a magazine she found in the dermatologist's waiting room. Golda, Fergie's partner, was pouring margaritas out of the blender into huge frosted, salt-rimmed glasses.
I did what I do best, chop garlic and melt butter. Upon Guido's instructions, I also sliced a dozen lemons and a dozen limes into wheels and chopped a mound of fresh cilantro, basil and oregano to season the fish.
Julia and Mayra brought tiny potato tacos and spicy red pepper sauce for the hors d'oeuvres, a specialty of Michoacan, their parents' home state in Mexico. My daughter, Casey, and her roommate, Zia, brought their appetites and plenty of youthful energy, and two bags full of dirty clothes. Our soundman, Craig Hendricks, and his wife, Carol, showed up with a chafing dish full of Brazilian-style rice and red beans. Our cinematography guru, Paul Savoie, carried an amazing-looking chilled, grilled vegetable platter that his wife, Janis, had prepared. Ida had the commissary make a pot of chili for her contribution.
I asked Ida where Cavanaugh and the rest of her news staff were and she told me someone had to put on the news; they'd be arriving late. Besides, she said, reaching for her first margarita, too much fun wasn't good for them.
Phil Rascon brought a woman that he met at Scientific Services the day he took Guido and company there, and a pair of homemade flans for dessert.
I saw Lewis Banks hesitate before he knocked on the door. After a short argument with his wife, she nudged him and he knocked. I gave him a hug: sometimes that inner voice lies. I was very wrong about him. Lewis had been hovering around me, certainly, but he had been watching over me, afraid for me, knowing what might come of my snooping around about certain people. He did not know precisely who had killed Rogelio Higgins, but for a long time he suspected it was one or more of the men from the peace officers' prayer circle he had once belonged to, a group that included Rod Pearson and all of his pallbearers.
Lewis had told me that at their meetings they discussed the disparities between God's laws and divine retribution, and man's laws and civil justice, and their obligations as servants of the community to protect those who could not protect themselves. Rogelio Higgins was a frequent topic because he seemed immune to both sets of laws, and he was a menace. When Higgins was murdered, some of the group openly asked if any one of them shot him. Pearson was the first to speak out, to demand that the shooter confess, to save himself. And Pearson was the first to die. Could have been an accident, or the hand of God, they said. In any case, the group disbanded.
Over the years, Lewis kept his eye on the men from his prayer circle as one by one three died, always the apparent victims of happenstance, until there were only himself, Boni, and Harry left. Whenever Lewis had doubts about what actually might have happened to the others, he would blame Boni and his criminal connections. Never Harry.
He began to change his mind about Harry when my house was broken into. When my car was tampered with, he knew because except for Boni, there were only the two of them left.
Later, I asked Lewis why he hadn't warned me, or his department, sooner, when he first suspected. He said, "I knew you would be okay. Harry would never hurt you."
And then he said, shaking his head, "Maggie, if you had just kept looking for Jesus and stayed away from Rogelio Higgins, none of this stuff would have happened."
I told him I found Jesus early on, not the body maybe, but I knew his fate. Jesus wouldn't be dead if Rogelio Higgins hadn't been murdered by someone in Harry's prayer circle. The two deaths could not be separated.
In the end, it was the call from Rich to Lewis that set Harry's final act into motion. After his conversation with Rich, Lewis called his old friend Harry. He told him the gig was up, that he had to turn himself in before someone else got hurt. Specifically, me.
In response, Harry did what Harry always did. He took control of the problem, his way. Except, things didn't come out as he planned.
About that, Mike would have said, "God save us from getting what we wish for."
Lewis still believed that Harry must have gone over the edge, desperate to protect himself from going down for the Higgins murder, a murder he still thought was righteous. Nelda's as well, though there was no evidence that he had anything to do with her death; Nelda had many enemies. Above all, Harry was desperate to shield the family that came to him so late in life.
Lewis was now on administrative leave, visiting the department shrink twice a week, trying to work his way back to the reality of the ramifications for so many people when he did not speak out. This evening would be the first time he would see any of his old colleagues since he found out about Harry.
Lewis contributed a basket of empanadas, apparently a specialty of his wife's Salvadoran mother.
The theme of the meal seemed to be nouvelle Western Hemisphere, but that was happenstance. I had merely told people to bring what they wanted to bring. Funny how potluck meals seem to pull themselves together, isn't it? Maybe the heat of the day, a midspring Santa Ana episode, had influenced us all to slip into a tropical mood.
The only contretemps happened in the kitchen when Craig Hendricks made a take-over move on Golda's margarita production. But after the first round of both versions of drinks the issues seemed to get resolved when Rich Longshore declared a draw. What one margarita version offered in potency, the other offered in piquancy, he said.
Rich had brought flowers from his garden, bright long-stemmed irises and early tulips that Casey and Zia arranged in various vases and jars, whatever they could find in the cupboards, for the tables.
We ate on the back patio at two long plank tables that Early put together from sawhorses and, well, planks. Candlelight and propane heaters, bright flowers, day fading from the canyon, lots of libations, good and noisy conversation, wonderful food; the salmon was memorable. The entire scene could have been staged for a home-and-garden magazine photo shoot, it was that beautiful.
Guido and Early had set up a huge movie screen on the lawn beyond the patio and plugged in a DVD projector. After dinner, when chocolate cake, flan and coffee were served, and another round of drinks for those who would not be driving cars later, it was time for the big event, the pretext for this gathering, the first more-or-less public showing of our new project.
When Guido and Early signaled that they were ready, I walked over and stood in front of the screen, wineglass in hand because I was going no further than upstairs later. Spoons clinked against glasses, there was some shushing, and then there was an expectant silence.
I said, "Welcome to the grand opening of the Earl E. Drummond Backyard Dinner Theater. First I want to thank all the cooks." Everyone stood and applauded each other. "And the salmon who gave its life that so many could feast." More applause. "And to Early and Guido who took care of the physical arrangements so that we could enjoy this beautiful evening outdoors. And who cooked said fish to perfection."
Guido and Early bowed to their standing ovation.
When all were quiet again, I said, "Most importantly, I want to thank all of you for what you contributed to make our project a singular work. For all of us, this was a very personal endeavor. Your heart, your skills, and your love for Mike Flint, for Jesus Ramon, for film craft, and more importantly, for the truth, are what set this project apart from anything that I have ever been associated with."
They cheered very loudly at that line.
"We are together tonight to examine the events that occurred on a warm January day, a decade ago. On that day, Jesus Ramon climbed into the backseat of Mike Flint's car and seemed to fade into oblivion. We may never know exactly what happened to Jesus, but we have a very good idea. We know how important finding good answers was to Mike. And we certainly know all of the trouble that we stirred up along the way." I heard some of my detective guests say, "Hear, hear," in stentorian tones.
I looked from Guido to Early. "Cue lights." Lights switched off, candles were blown out, leaving only the rosy glow from the propane patio heaters to light the night.
I said, in my best emcee voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, and my friends, may I present, 'In the Guise of Mercy, Detective Mike Flint's Life and Death Search for Jesus Ramon,' a Maggie MacGowen Investigates Production."
More nervous about the reception this film would receive, even from this audience, than about anything I had ever made, I walked to the side of the patio and stood between Guido and Early, positioned to watch the faces of our guests.
Applause died down with the first notes of opening music, network graphics appeared, my series logo and signature film clip sequence, production credits--here more hooting when names were recognized--then the title emerged before a diffuse pale gray-green background, music surged and fell, the title faded, footage from Mike's funeral service at the Police Academy accompanied my voice-over.
"In April of this year, Detective Mike Flint, of the Robbery-Homicide Division of the Los Angeles Police Department, cheated fate, the death by cancer he had been dealt, and chose his own time to go. Before
he left us, Mike made a last request. He wanted his survivors, one more time, to look into the disappearance of sixteen-year-old Jesus Ramon.
"Mike's request triggered a wide-ranging, multi-agency re-examination of a decade-old mystery. In the course of that re-examination, a deadly network of corrupt cops, street gangs, and drug dealers was exposed."
And so it unfolded. The video was beautiful, a modern version of "To an Athlete Dying Young" times two, a farewell to a boy lost to the streets and to a detective who wanted to make those streets safe. It was also a story of two men, Harry Young and Boni Erquiaga, who were brought down by their own hubris--there was a ripple around Eldon when I used that word in the narration--one acting for the greater good and one for personal gain.
We told the story in a straight linear narrative illustrated by vivid scenes of the city, by day and by night, and through portrait-like interviews with the people who were involved.
Dinner was wonderful; the drinks were strong and plentiful and did not stop flowing after the film started. The very biased audience was enthusiastic as they watched. Catcalls and whistles punctuated the evening air when a friend or a spouse appeared or spoke.
Sometimes folks who are unaccustomed to seeing themselves on a big screen cringe at their appearance. Julia hid her face in her hands when she saw herself, peeking out between her fingers the way kids do during the scary parts of horror movies. When his face filled the screen Nick said, very loud, "Damn, I'm good-looking." His wife kissed him wetly.
The topic was serious, but the only new element of the film and the story behind it to this carefully selected audience was seeing their own influence on the final project. After the initial surprise of finding themselves writ large, they settled down to watch. They were especially quiet when some of the more elusive threads were tied in, or when there were sad or poignant moments. Julia, talking on camera about her grief, losing her second son and almost losing her sister, bringing tears to the audience. Mayra, talking about how determined she had been to make a better life by her own efforts, how she had managed to avoid the gangs and other temptations of the street, and then succumbed to drugs; there was a general air of sympathy. Lewis, publicly confessing his errors.
In the Guise of Mercy (Maggie Macgowen Mysteries) Page 27
