LA Requiem ec-8

by Robert Crais

  Pike nodded.

  "You sure you want to go down there, Pike? You could stay up here at the car."

  Pike walked past him and through the gate.

  Poitras grunted. "Same old talkative Pike."

  We followed a narrow, winding trail through the trees. The leaf canopy above us rustled from the wind, but down on the floor the air was still. Ash from the fires to the north filtered through the canopy, floating in the still air. Poitras swatted at it as if the ash was insects he could drive away.

  I said, "What about the cause of death?"

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  "Coroner investigator just went down."

  "We saw him. What's your take?"

  Poitras tipped his head toward Pike, clearly uncomfortable, and slowed his pace to let Pike pull ahead. "Unofficial, it's one shot to the head. Looks like a .22, but it could've been a .25. She was popped up here on the trail, then fell down into a little ravine. No sign of assault or a sexual attack, but that's just my eyeball. They'll have to take smears back at the coroner's." Smears. Looking for semen.

  "Any wits?"

  "I've got people making a house-to-house up along the ridge trying to get names, but you know how it is."

  The trail ran along a ledge about fifteen feet up from the water, sometimes in dense trees, sometimes not. When we reached a barrier of yellow crime scene tape, we followed a freshly broken path down to the lake, then traced the shoreline around a small finger. That's where we found the crime scene.

  "The vie is right over here."

  Pike took two steps up the slope and stopped.

  Karen Garcia lay head down at the bottom of a narrow ravine, wild purple sage obscuring her body. Her right arm was twisted behind her, her left extended straight from her torso. Her left leg was bent at the knee, left foot under her right leg. What I could see of her face was discolored with lividity, and the ugly smell of decay gases hung at the water-line like a pall. Giant black bottle flies and yellow jackets swarmed around the body. The CI swatted at them with his clipboard, as a Hispanic detective said, "Fuckin' meat eaters."

  If Pike felt anything I could not tell.

  The CI, now wearing latex gloves, leaned over her to look at something that the Hispanic detective was pointing out. Her exposed hand had already been taped into a plastic bag to preserve evidence that might be under her fingernails. They would check later when she was at the morgue.

  "Who discovered the body?"

  "Couple of hikers. They found her down here, and called it in up at their car. You guys know Kurt Asana? "

  L.A. REQUIEM 39

  The CI made a little wave. Asana.

  Pike said, "How'd you get an ID so fast?"

  "Doofs who found her. She had her driver's license in her shorts." Officers arriving on the scene wouldn't touch the body. No one was allowed to touch the victim before the coroner investigator had his shot. That way, when a suspect was brought to trial, the defense attorney couldn't argue that ham-handed cops had contaminated the evidence. If the hikers hadn't done their search, the police would still be wondering who she was until Asana emptied her pockets.

  Poitras said, "Hey, Kurt. Can you give me a ballpark on the time?"

  Asana tried to bend her shoulder joint, and found it stiff, but yielding. "Rigor's starting to let go. I'd say about twenty-four hours."

  "She came up here to run between nine-thirty and ten in the morning."

  "Well, I'm just guessing right now, but that fits. When I get the BT, I'll be able to calc it out pretty close."

  Asana took a scalpel and a long metal thermometer from the box and moved back into the weeds. Pike and I both turned away. Asana would be going for a liver temperature. When he had the liver temp he would chart it against the outside air temperature and be able to tell how long the body had been cooling.

  We were waiting for Asana to finish when three men in good-looking suits came around the finger like they owned the lake. Lou Poitras stepped forward to block the trail. "Can I help you?"

  Behind me, Joe Pike said, "Krantz."

  The one called Krantz held up a gold detective's shield about two inches from Poitras's nose. He was a tall, leathery man with a high forehead and lantern jaw. He looked like the kind of guy who liked to jut the jaw at people to show them he meant business. He jutted it now.

  "Harvey Krantz, Robbery-Homicide. Detective Stan Watts. Detective Jerome Williams." Watts was an older white guy

  40 ROBERT CRAIS

  with beefy shoulders and a round head. Williams was black, and younger. "Are you Lieutenant Poitras?"

  "That's right."

  "Hollywood Division is off this case as of now. RHD is taking over." Robbery-Homicide Division is LAPD's elite homicide division. Based out of Parker Center downtown, they could and did handle high-profile homicides all over the city.

  Poitras didn't move. "You're kidding."

  This was probably the biggest case Poitras had on his table, and he wouldn't like giving it up.

  "Pull your men off, Lieutenant. We have the scene." Krantz tucked his badge away and jutted his jaw some more. I made him for his mid-forties, but he could've been older.

  "Just like that?"

  "Like that."

  Poitras opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then took a single step back and turned toward the crime scene. His face was as flat as an empty plate. "Two Gun. Chick. We're off."

  The Hispanic detective with Asana looked over. "Say what?"

  "We're off. Robbery-Homicide has the scene."

  The Hispanic detective and another detective who'd been poking around in the weeds stepped away as Watts and Williams went over. Neither of the RHD guys seemed to mind the flies.

  Krantz was moving past Poitras to join them when his eyes widened, and he said, "Joe Pike."

  Pike said, "When did they start hiring chickenshits like you on Robbery-Homicide, Krantz?"

  Krantz's face went bright red. He glared at Poitras and shouted so loud that Asana looked over. "Do you know who this man is? Why is he at this scene?"

  Poitras looked bored. "I know who he is. The other guy is Elvis Cole. They're working for the vic's father."

  "I don't give a rat's ass if they're working for Jesus Christ!

  f

  L.A. REQUIEM 41

  They don't belong here, and your ass is gonna be in a sling for opening this crime scene to unauthorized personnel!"

  A faint smile flickered on Poitras's lips. Poitras and Krantz were about the same height, but while Krantz was bony, Poitras weighed two hundred sixty pounds. I had once seen Lou Poitras lift the front end of a '68 Volkswagen Beetle and turn the car all the way around. He spoke quietly. "The watch commander ordered me to give them full access, Krantz. That's what I've done. The vic's father has juice with the City Council, and Pike here personally knew the vie."

  Krantz wasn't listening. He stepped past Poitras and stormed up to Joe. Maybe he had a death wish.

  "I can't believe that you have the balls to come to a crime scene, Pike. I can't believe you have the gall."

  Joe said, "Step back." The voice soft again.

  Krantz stepped right up into Pike's face then. Right on the edge of the cliff. "Or what, you sonofabitch? You going to shoot me, too?"

  Poitras pushed Krantz back and stepped between them. "What's with you, Krantz? Get a grip on yourself."

  Krantz's mouth split into a reptilian smile, and I wondered what was playing out here. He said, "I want this man questioned, Lieutenant. If Pike here knows the vie, maybe he knows how she got like this."

  Pike said, "It won't happen, Pants."

  Krantz's face went deep red, and an ugly web of veins pulsed hi his forehead.

  I moved close to Pike. "Is there something happening here that I should know about?"

  Pike shrugged. "Nothing much. I'm about to put Krantz down."

  Krantz's face got darker. "You're going in, Pike. We'll talk to you at the Division."

  Behind us, Poitras's
Handie-Talkie made a popping sound. Poitras mumbled things that we couldn't hear, then held it toward Krantz. "It's Assistant Chief Mills."

  Krantz snatched the radio. "This is Harvey Krantz."

  Poitras led us back toward the trail without waiting. "Forget

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  ROBERT CRAIS

  Krantz. The only place you guys are going is back to Mr. Garcia's. The A-chief is down there now, and the old man is asking for you."

  Pike and I followed the trail back up the slope and through the trees. When we were away from the cops, and there was only the sound of the leaves crunching beneath our feet, I said, "I'm sorry about Karen, Joe."

  Pike nodded.

  "You going to tell me what all that was about?"

  "No."

  The drive back to Hancock Park took forever.

  5

  An LAPD radio car was parked outside Frank Garcia's home, along with two anonymous detective sedans, a black Town Car, and three other vehicles. The older Latina opened the door again, but before we entered, a Hispanic man about Frank's age stepped past her, and offered a firm hand. Ancient pockmarks and steel-gray hair gave him a hard appearance, but his voice was gentle. "Mr. Cole, Mr. Pike, I'm Abbot Montoya. Thank you for coming."

  Joe said, "How's Frank?"

  "Not well. His doctor's on the way."

  Somewhere behind him, Frank Garcia shouted, "You cock-suckers as good as killed my little girl and I want you out of my house!"

  He wasn't shouting at us.

  We followed Montoya into a huge, arched living room that I hadn't seen before. Two command-level uniforms, a man in a suit, and an older man in a charming Nike tennis outfit were

  L.A. REQUIEM 43

  clumped together like a gospel quartet as Frank shouted at them. Frank's eyes were hollow red blurs, and every crease and line in his face seemed cut deep by something incomprehensibly sharp and painful. So much pain was in his eyes that it hurt to look at him.

  City Councilman Henry Maldenado was standing as far from the cops as possible, but Frank shouted at him, too. "I oughta throw your ass out with them, Henry, all the help I get from you! Maybe I should give my money to that bastard Ruiz next time!" Melvin Ruiz had run against Maldenado in the primary.

  Montoya hurried to Frank, his voice soothing. "Please calm yourself, Frank. We're going to handle this. Mr. Cole and Mr. Pike are here."

  Frank searched past Montoya with a desperate hope that was as hard to look at as his pain, as if Joe had the power to say that this horrible nightmare was not real, that these men had made a terrible mistake, and his only child had not been murdered.

  "Joe?"

  Joe knelt beside the chair, but I could not hear what he said.

  While they spoke, Abbot Montoya led me across the room and introduced me. "Mr. Maldenado, this is Mr. Cole. The gentleman with Frank is Mr. Pike. We'd like them to represent Mr. Garcia during the investigation."

  That surprised me. "What do you mean, represent?"

  The man in the suit ignored me. "Letting in an outsider would be a terrible mistake, Councilman. If he were privy to our investigation, we would have no security control."

  The tennis outfit agreed. "We're more than happy to work with families to keep them informed, Henry, but if someone like this were to interfere, it could hamper the investigation or even jeopardize the case."

  The man in the suit was Captain Greg Bishop, boss of the Robbery-Homicide Division. The tennis outfit belonged to Assistant Chief Walter Mills. I guess he'd been called off his Sunday morning tennis game, and wasn't happy about it.

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  I cleared my throat. "I don't mean to be obtuse, but am I the outsider in question?"

  Montoya glanced at Frank, then lowered his voice. "Rightly or wrongly, Frank blames the police for his daughter's death. He believes they were unresponsive, and would prefer his own representatives to monitor the investigation and keep him informed. He told me that Mr. Pike and yourself would do that."

  "He did?"

  Montoya looked surprised. "You wouldn't?"

  Bishop and Mills were watching me now; the two uniforms sizing me up like a couple of peregrines eyeing a chicken.

  I said, "If the police are involved, Mr. Montoya, I'm not sure what it is I can do for you."

  "I think that's clear."

  "No, sir, it's not. We're talking about a homicide investigation. Joe and I can't do anything that LAPD can't do more of. They have the manpower and the technology, and they're good at it." The uniforms stood a little taller and the assistant chief looked relieved. Like he had just dodged a runaway pitbull.

  Bishop said, "Mr. Montoya, I will personally stay in touch with you and Mr. Garcia to keep you apprised of the investigation. I'll give you my home number. We can have a daily chat."

  Maldenado nodded, encouraging. "That seems reasonable to me, Abbot." As he said it, the Latina showed in Krantz, who looked neither relieved nor encouraging. He eased up behind Bishop.

  Montoya touched the councilman's arm, as if neither of them understood. "The issue isn't the department's willingness to keep Mr. Garcia informed, Henry. The issue is trust."

  Behind us, Frank Garcia said, "When my little girl went missing yesterday, I called these people, but they didn't do a goddamned thing. I knew where she was going. I told'm where to look, but no, they said they couldn't do anything. Now I'm supposed to trust these same people to find who killed her? No. That will never happen."

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  Maldenado spread his hands, and there was a plea in his voice. "Frank, if you gave them a chance."

  "They're with Karen right now, probably messin' things up like with O.J., and I'm stuck in this goddamned chair. I can't be there to watch out for her, and that means someone else has to do it for me." He twisted around to look at Joe. "My friend Joe. His friend Mr. Cole." He twisted back to Councilman Henry Maldenado. "That's the way it's going to be, Henry."

  Montoya said, "We'd like Mr. Cole and Mr. Pike to have full access to all levels of the investigation. We wouldn't expect them to function as part of an official LAPD investigation, or to interfere, but if you allow them access, they can keep Frank informed in a way that lends comfort to a man who needs it right now. That's all we're asking." Montoya turned back to me. "You'd be willing to do that, wouldn't you? Just observe, and let Frank know what's going on."

  I glanced at Joe again. Joe nodded.

  "Yes."

  Montoya turned back to Maldenado, and smiled like a priest explaining why you had to empty your pockets if you wanted to get to heaven. "Frank will appreciate it, Henry. He'll remember this kindness come election time."

  Maldenado stared at the assistant chief, who stared back. They were looking at each other like a couple of mind readers, Maldenado thinking about campaign funding, and the assistant chief thinking that if he ever wanted to be chief, he'd need as many friends on the City Council as possible.

  Finally, Councilman Maldenado nodded. "That seems a reasonable position to me, Walt. I think that we can show Mr. Garcia this small courtesy, don't you?"

  Assistant Chief Mills offered his hand to Maldenado as if he were already being sworn in as chief. "Councilman, we understand what Mr. Garcia's going through, and we'll find a way to make this work."

  Montoya put his hand on my shoulder, and the soft voice was satisfied. "It's settled, then. We'll work out the details and give you a call later this evening. Would that be all right?"

  "That would be fine."

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  Behind us, Frank said, "Karen's still up there. I want somebody with her."

  Everyone looked at him.

  Frank Garcia took my arm as he'd taken Joe's. He had a grip like pliers. "You see that they take care of her. You go up there and watch these guys and make sure."

  Bishop looked as if someone had just suggested surgery. Krantz stared at Joe, but it was thoughtful and vague, not hard.

  Montoya looked questioningly at the A-chief, who n
odded, giving his permission.

  I said, "I will, sir."

  "I won't forget this."

  "I know. I'm sorry about Karen."

  Frank Garcia nodded, but I don't think he was seeing me. His eyes filled, and I think he was seeing Karen.

  Krantz left before me. Pike wanted to stay with Frank, and told me that he would call later.