Fetch shrugged, taking no offense. “Fair enough. You can tell me all about it when it’s over, then.”
Gunner shook the big man’s hand and promised he would do just that.
It wasn’t often that the U.S. Weather Service got something right, but they’d called Wednesday in Los Angeles perfectly. They’d forecast temperatures in the L.A. basin in the high eighties, and every bank message board Gunner passed on his way from Fetch Bennett’s office to Coretta Trayburn’s home in Northridge said they’d only underestimated by four or five degrees. They called what they did science, meteorologists, but Gunner couldn’t see the science in it; predicting a hot and smoggy day in Los Angeles in the middle of July took about as much technical expertise as hammering a nail into a two-by-four.
Right up until the moment he pulled the Cobra into her driveway, Gunner wasn’t sure why he wanted to talk to Carlton Elbridge’s mother before the young man’s wife. Thanks to her ex-husband, he already had a good idea who Coretta Trayburn would say she believed was responsible for the “murder” of her son—Bume Webb, naturally—and it didn’t seem likely that she would offer him any proof of that theory, or suggest any alternatives to it. Danee Elbridge, on the other hand, seemed to promise much more in the way of new and useful info relative to Gunner’s investigation. Carlton and his mother may indeed have been close, but he and Danee had been sharing a home, and a bed, and that was a level of daily intimacy with the deceased no one else could claim. If Danee Elbridge didn’t know how or even if her husband had been murdered, it was doubtful that anyone did.
Still, Gunner went to see Trayburn first. One, because he wanted a look at the so-called suicide note both her ex-husband and Kevin Frick of the Beverly Hills PD claimed she was in possession of, and two, because he was anxious to see for himself if she was in fact the closed-minded, moneygrubbing shrew Benny Elbridge said she was.
That she looked the part was never in question. Just as she had on her brief television interviews, Coretta Trayburn in the flesh exuded all the charm and sensitivity of a rusty hacksaw blade. She was taller than most men Gunner knew, and her lean build almost bordered on the skeletal. But there was nothing frail about her. From her high-cheekboned face to her narrow ankles, she looked like someone you could pound with a mallet for an hour and only get tired for your trouble.
At Gunner’s ring of the bell, she came to the door herself—a sure sign of a woman who lived alone and had no qualms about doing so—and led him into her living room with a minimum of discussion. He’d arrived halfway expecting to have her door slammed in his face, but had only had to state his name and the nature of his business to win her approval. Initially, anyway.
“Who you workin’ for, Mr. Gunner?” she asked as soon as they were both seated. He couldn’t remember a cop ever asking a question more directly.
“I thought you might hit me with that question at the door,” he said.
“I could have. But you looked like a good man to me. I didn’t think I needed to know everything about you right away.”
“You could tell I was a good man that quickly?”
“I can spot the bad ones faster than that. Answer my question, Mr. Gunner.”
“My client was kind of hoping to remain anonymous, Ms. Trayburn. Would you mind if I just said it’s somebody who, like you, believes there may be more to your son’s death than suicide, and left it at that?”
She considered the offer carefully, her eyes trying to read him from the inside out. Finally, she said, “All right. I think I can guess who it is, anyway. Tell me what I can do to help you.”
“You believe your son was murdered, and that it was Bume Webb who murdered him. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You have any proof of that theory, Ms. Trayburn?”
“No. Would we be sitting here now if I did?”
Gunner smiled, rightfully embarrassed, and said, “You’re right. That was a stupid question. I’ll see if I can make the next one a little smarter.”
Trayburn folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to try.
“The prevailing train of thought seems to be that Bume had Carlton killed to keep him from abandoning Bume’s record label, Body Count. Is that your feeling too?”
“It is.”
“Yet the two of them were supposed to be quite close.”
Trayburn had no response to that.
“What, that isn’t true? Bume and Carlton weren’t close friends?”
“A ‘friend’ is what the Devil always pretends to be before he puts the knife in your back, Mr. Gunner. Surely you know that.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. But—”
“My baby’s dead because he didn’t understand that. He thought a smile was just a smile, and that everyone who showed him one meant him no harm. He wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to tell him that that monster he was workin’ for was no good. He thought I was just bein’ jealous.”
Gunner could see she was building up to a good-sized outrage; all he had to do was slip up once, give her some excuse to cut loose with it.
“I don’t mean to suggest you aren’t right about Bume, Ms. Trayburn,” he said. “But my understanding is that Carlton’s decision to leave Body Count hadn’t really been made yet.”
“So?”
“So Carlton was practically the last major rapper Bume had left under contract. In fact, he was all that was holding Body Count afloat, by most accounts. If his departure had been a done deal, I could see how Bume might’ve thought killing him would serve some purpose. But before then? When there was still a chance Carlton might re-up?” Gunner shook his head. “Why would Bume want to do that?”
Trayburn almost smiled at the inanity she found in the question. “You’ve never met Bume Webb, have you, Mr. Gunner?” she asked.
“No. Can’t say that I have.”
“When I called him the Devil a moment ago, I bet you thought I was exaggerating. But I wasn’t. Bume Webb is as purely evil as any man who has ever walked this earth. He has one love—money—and for that love, there is nothing, and no one, he will not destroy. Do you hear what I’m tellin’ you?”
“Yes ma’am. I only meant—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant. When I tell you it was Bume Webb who killed my son, you can take my word for it.”
“Carlton had no other enemies outside of Bume?”
“Enemies? Of course he had enemies. Young man with money always has enemies. But that don’t mean any of Carlton’s had the backbone to kill him.”
“No, but—”
“Most of ’em are just children, same as Carlton was. All talk, and no action. They like to act big and bad, but that’s all they can do. Act.”
“You talking about other rappers?”
“Yes.”
“Like 2DaddyLarge, for instance?”
Trayburn made a small sound deep in her throat, as if the name alone were something beneath her contempt. “2DaddyLarge,” she said, sneering. “That little fool’s the biggest coward of ’em all.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yes. He likes to carry himself like a killer, sure, especially when he’s got that so-called ‘crew’ of his all around. But soon as he finds out you aren’t afraid of him, that you aren’t gonna run off just ’cause he said boo to you, he don’t want any part of you anymore. I know, Mr. Gunner, ’cause I sent ’im runnin’ with his tail between his legs once myself.”
“You did?”
“Sure did. It was last year in Detroit, at the Soul Train awards show. They nominated Carlton for three awards, and he took me out there with ’im. He was gettin’ ready to go on backstage when 2Daddy got in his face, started yellin’ and screamin’ about what him and his boys were gonna do to Carlton when the show was over. I stepped in between the two of ’em, told that crazy fool he’d better turn his ass around and leave my boy alone before I put my high heels in his behind, and I wish you’d’ve seen how fast he shut up, went on back to his dressin’ room like he
had some sense.”
Gunner smiled and said, “You don’t think your being a woman could’ve had something to do with that?”
Trayburn laughed outright this time. “Are you serious? These children don’t have any respect for women, Mr. Gunner. They think we’re all bitches and ‘ho’s, they’d just as soon knock one of us down as hold our hand. Only reason 2Daddy ran off that night was ’cause he knew I was gonna rip his eyes out of his head if he didn’t. Not because I was a woman, or a mother, or anything else.”
“And that’s what leads you to believe he couldn’t have been responsible for Carlton’s death. The fact that he ran away from you once.”
“Yes.”
Gunner paused, forming the language of what he was about to say next with great care. “I’m sorry, Ms. Trayburn, but I’m afraid that places you in a very distinct minority. Most people I’ve talked to up to now say 2Daddy was more than capable of murdering your son. Maybe not in the way it would’ve had to be done, but—”
“I don’t care what other people think, Mr. Gunner. I know what I know. And what I know is, 2DaddyLarge was neither brave enough nor stupid enough to ever touch my son.”
“So all the threats you say he made against Carlton at the Soul Train awards were just talk.”
“Yes.”
“And they were precipitated by what? Did something get him started, or …”
“Did something get ’im started? No, didn’t nothin’ get ’im started! The boy was just bein’ evil, that’s all. Lookin’ to shake Carlton up before he went on stage, so maybe he’d go out there and embarrass himself or somethin’.”
“That was it? He was just being evil?”
“Yes. That was all.”
“It didn’t have something to do with Danee?”
He could have slapped her across the face and angered her less. Her eyes caught fire and her back stiffened, and Gunner was certain the order to leave was coming, when she said, “No. It certainly did not.”
“The question seems to have upset you.”
“It upset me because I know why you asked it. Someone told you that Danee had been messin’ round with 2Daddy behind Carlton’s back. Isn’t that so?”
Gunner didn’t answer, preferring to see where Trayburn would go from here on her own.
“Of course it is. That boy’s been spreadin’ that lie around for months now, you couldn’t’ve helped but hear it from somebody.”
Gunner paused a moment, proceeding with caution, and said, “Are you sure it is a lie, Ms. Trayburn?”
Trayburn affixed her gaze on Gunner’s own, spoke with an even timbre that had the strength of tempered steel. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” she said. “Danee’s been through with that fool for years, Mr. Gunner. She doesn’t want nothin’ more to do with ’im.”
“You don’t think—”
“No. I don’t. Danee has been the finest wife my son could’ve ever asked for, she’s been faithful and loyal to him to a fault.”
It was an odd thing to hear a son’s overly possessive mother say about her daughter-in-law, but there was no question in Gunner’s mind that she believed it.
“And Carlton? What about him?”
“Pardon me?”
“Was he faithful to Danee to a fault? Or was that strictly a one-way street?”
Trayburn rubbed her hands together in her lap as she glared at him, scrubbing them clean beneath an invisible tap. “Carlton was a fine young man, Mr. Gunner,” she said, “but he wasn’t perfect. He had flaws and weaknesses, just like anybody else.”
“Meaning …”
“Meaning I’m not going to be the hypocrite you think I am, sit here and tell you my son didn’t sometimes forget he was a married man.”
“I see. And Danee was okay with that?”
“No woman is ever ‘okay’ with it. But the good ones learn to deal with it over time. It’s either that, or learn to be alone.” She smiled sadly, said, “Are we about through? I think I’ve answered all the questions I feel like answering right now.”
“I only have two more.”
“Yes?”
Gunner asked her if the name Ray Crumley sounded familiar to her, and she shook her head in response, having betrayed no sign of discomfiture in the process. Afterward, he said, “Final question, then. It’s my understanding you have the suicide note your son wrote before he died. Is that correct?”
“It’s not a suicide note,” Trayburn said sharply.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have called it that. What I meant to say—”
“It’s a rap poem, that’s all. I told the police that a thousand times, but they wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Do you think I could have a look at it? Would that be possible?”
“Why? I told you, it’s just a poem.”
“Yes ma’am, I know. But I’d like to judge that for myself, if that wouldn’t be a problem.”
Trayburn shook her head, said, “I’m sorry, no. That note is the last thing my son ever wrote, Mr. Gunner. I might release it to the public someday, but for now, I’d like to keep what’s in it private.”
“Even if it could help determine what really happened to Carlton?”
“I already know what happened to Carlton. And I think you do too. You’re just pretending not to so you can keep Desmond on the clock.”
“Desmond?”
“That’s who’s payin’ you, isn’t it? Desmond Joy?”
Finding the assumption intriguing, Gunner asked, “What makes you think that?”
Trayburn smiled knowingly. “Well, you aren’t workin’ for free, are you? Who else has got the money to hire somebody like you to prove my boy was murdered?”
It was a question Gunner should have long ago thought to ask himself, but somehow never had. He showed Trayburn a smile of his own, hoping to mask his embarrassment, and said, “I like the way you think, Ms. Trayburn.” He took a business card from his wallet, reached across the space between them to hand it to her. “You change your mind about showing me that note, give me a call. Could be there’s more to it than you realize.”
Carlton Elbridge’s mother rolled the card around in one hand as she studied it, looking on both sides for the hidden strings she suspected were attached, and nodded before Gunner found his own way back to her front door.
e i g h t
THE GATES LEADING ONTO THE GROUNDS OF CARLTON Elbridge’s Hollywood Hills estate on Woodrow Wilson Drive were the kind no one ever left open, so when Gunner found them standing that way later that afternoon, he considered it a bad omen.
And more were yet to come. No one responded to his calls from the gateside intercom, and his drive up the red brick driveway to the front door of the mammoth Tudor home went completely unimpeded. The bronze Lexus coupe Danee Elbridge had tried to run him over with the day before sat nearby, its hood as cold to the touch as the water in the ornate stone fountain that graced the front lawn. Gunner looked to the winged female nude atop the fountain for clues as to what was going on here, but the figure remained silent, unmoving.
“Thanks,” Gunner said.
He turned to start for the portico when the first shot rang out, a slight buzzing noise filling his left ear as the bullet passed within a few inches of his head.
“What the f—!”
He ducked for cover behind the Lexus, reached under his left arm for a Ruger that wasn’t there as his attacker fired on him again, succeeding only in punching an ugly hole in the crown of the Lexus’s left front quarter panel. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, Gunner would have had the Ruger with him, but not today; he’d put the gun back in its drawer at home the previous evening upon learning the giant who had had Mickey so spooked was only Jolly Mokes. One day, Gunner chided himself now, he’d learn to carry the damn thing twenty-four/seven just for occasions such as this.
“Hold your goddamn fire!” he shouted, trying to give his voice all the authoritative power he could raise above his fear. “I’m unarm
ed!”
But a third round sounded all the same, shattered the Lexus’s side glass just over his head after entering the car’s interior through the roof. A clear and unsettling indication that the gunman he was facing was perched above him, on a second-floor balcony, from where he was no doubt at least partially visible.
“Hey! I said I’m unarmed!” Gunner barked again.
“Bullshit!”
A fourth shot followed the tiny, childlike cry, struck nothing but air and green grass this time. Gunner poked his head up, caught a quick glimpse of the diminutive black woman leaning over a balcony railing, both hands clutched tightly around the grips of a silver-plated automatic: Danee Elbridge.
“I’m telling you the truth, Ms. Elbridge! I’m not armed!” Gunner steeled himself, gradually raised one empty hand into the air, then the second, jerked both back simultaneously when the Digga’s widow fired two more rounds in his direction, hit the driveway an inch from his right foot with the first, the hood of the Lexus with the second. “Shit! Put the goddamn gun down already!”
He was still alive only because the lady couldn’t shoot straight, but that was a shortcoming she could eventually overcome, if he gave her enough chances. He quickly ran over his options in his mind, realized he had only two: stay where he was and hope she’d keep missing him forever, or make a run for it, either away from the house and out the main gate the same way he’d come in, or toward the house and the safety of the portico beneath her. Jumping back into the topless Cobra to try and save his car as well as his skin was out of the question.
As impatient as she was silent, Danee Elbridge fired her silver automatic at him again, actually scored a hit this time: the bullet grazed Gunner’s left calf, ripped a hole in his pants leg as it gouged a painful if benign trench through his flesh. He yelped, furious, and instantly made his decision: he would go for the portico. If he could get that far now.
He slid quickly toward the rear of the Lexus, head down and body low, and provoked the woman above him to fire three more rounds at him wildly in a desperate effort to halt his advance. None hit anything but the Lexus, the resale value of which was plummeting by the second. When the last bullet zinged off the trunk lid, Gunner made his move, sprinted as fast as his bad left leg would allow through the space between the Lexus and the Cobra, up onto the front porch. He had to dodge two more slugs to get there, but he managed to make it without suffering any further injury.
All the Lucky Ones Are Dead Page 9
