by Robert Crais
Joe felt liquid fire in his arms and legs, as if all the strength and control drained from them and he couldn 't make himself
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move. His breath came in deep gasps, tears and snot blowing out of his nose. "Daddy, don't! Please stop!"
His father punched her in the back of the head then, and she went down onto her stomach. When his mother looked up again, her left eye was closing, and blood dripped from her nose. She didn 't look at her husband, she looked at her son.
Mr. Pike kicked her then, knocking her onto her side, and Joe saw the fear flash raw and terrible in her eyes. She cried, "Joe, you call the police. Have them arrest this bastard."
Nine-year-old Joe Pike, crying, his pants suddenly warm with urine, ran forward and pushed his father as hard as he could. "Don't hurt Mama!"
Mr. Pike swung hard at the boy, clipping the side of the boy's head and knocking him sideways. Then he kicked, the heavy, steel-toed work boots catching Joe on the thigh and upending him with an explosion of nerve-shot pain.
His father kicked him again, and then the old man was over him, pulling off his belt. The old man didn't say anything, just doubled the thick leather belt and beat the boy as his mother coughed up blood. Joe knew that his father couldn 't see him now. His father's tiny red eyes were lifeless and empty, clouded by a rage that Joe did not understand.
The thick belt rose and fell again and again, Joe screaming and begging his father to stop, until finally Joe found his feet and bolted through the door, running hard for the safety of 'the trees.
Nine-year-old Joe Pike ran as hard as he could, crashing through the low sharp branches, his legs no longer a part of him. He tried to stop running, but his legs were beyond his control, carrying him farther from the house until he tripped over a root and fell to the earth.
He lay therefor what seemed like hours, his back and arms burning, his throat and nose clogged with mucus, and then he crept back to the edge of the woods. Shouts and cries still came from the house. His father kicked open the door again and threw a pot of mashed potatoes into the yard before going back into the house to curse some more.
Joe Pike sat hidden in the leaves, watching, his body slowly
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calming, his tears drying, feeling the slow burn of shame that came every time he ran from the house and left his mother alone with his father. He felt weak before his father's strength, fearful before his rage.
After a time, the shouting stopped and the forest grew quiet. A mockingbird chittered, and tiny flying bugs spiraled through shafts of dimming sunlight.
Joe Pike stared at his house, and seemed to float free of time and place, simply being, existing invisible and unseen here at the edge of the woods, hidden.
Here, he felt safe.
The sky grew red and the forest darkened, and still Joe Pike did not move.
He took the hurt and the fear and the shame and imagined himself folding them into small boxes, and placing those boxes away in a heavy oak trunk at the bottom of a deep stair.
He locked the trunk. He threw away the key. He made three promises:
It won't always be this way.
I will make myself strong.
I will not hurt.
As the sun set, his father emerged from the house, got into the Kingswood, and drove away.
Joe waited until the Kingswood disappeared, and then he went back to his house to see about his mother.
I will make myself strong.
I will not hurt.
It won't always be this way.
11
Light from the morning sun shone through the glass steeple that is the back of my house and filled the loft. Lucy was naked, sleeping on her belly, her hair tangled from the hours before. I snuggled against her, fitting myself to the line of her hip, enjoying her warmth.
I touched her hair. Soft. I kissed her shoulder. The salty warmth good on my lips. I looked at her, and thought how lucky I was to have this view.
Her skin was a dark gold, the line of her legs and back strong even in sleep. Lucy had attended LSU on a tennis scholarship, and worked hard to maintain her game. She carried herself with the easy grace of a natural athlete, and made love the way she played tennis, with aggression and passion, yet with moments of shyness that moved me.
The cat was perched on the guardrail at the edge of the loft, staring at her. She was in his spot, but he didn't look upset. Just curious. Maybe he also liked the view.
Lucy murmured, "Go back to sleep."
Her eyes half opened, drowsy with sleep.
Hearing her, the cat bolted down the stairs and growled from the living room. You just have to ignore him.
"We never got to your surprise."
She snuggled closer. "You can look forward to it tonight."
I touched my tongue to her back. "I'm looking forward to it right now."
She giggled. "You're insatiable."
"For you."
"I've got to go to work."
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"I'll call and tell'm you're busy making love to the World's Greatest Detective. They'll understand. They always do." She pushed herself up on her elbows. "Always?" "A slip of the tongue. Sorry," "Not half as sorry as you're going to be." She jumped on top of me, but I wasn't sorry at all.
Later that morning, I took Lucy back to her car, then drove down to Parker Center without letting Krantz know I was coming. I thought he would raise nine kinds of hell because I'd gone to see Dersh, but when I pushed through the double doors, he said, "Hope you didn't get in trouble about the autopsy screw-up."
"No, but the family wants the report."
"We'll have it for you in a few minutes. You ready for the brief?" Like we were buddies, and he was only too happy to include me on the team.
"Sure. By the way, you get the criminalist's report yet?"
"Should be soon. Get you both at the same time."
Then he smiled and disappeared down the hall.
Maybe someone had slipped him Prozac. Maybe his good humor was a ploy to get me into the briefing where he and Watts and Williams would beat me to death for having seen Dersh. Whatever the case, he was still lying to me about the report.
We assembled in the conference room where Stan Watts gave the brief, telling me that they had checked out the ex-husband (playing softball in Central Park at the time of Karen's murder), finished canvassing the homes surrounding Lake Hollywood (no one had seen or heard anything), and were in the process of questioning those people with whom Karen worked and attended school. I asked Watts if they had developed a theory about the shooter, but Krantz answered, saying they were still working on it. Krantz nodded at every point Watts ticked off, more relaxed than at any other time I'd seen him, and still none of them mentioned my visit to Dersh. They had to know, and I found that even more odd than Krantz's behavior.
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I said, "When can I expect the reports? I'd like to get out of here."
Krantz stood, reasonable, but all business. "Dolan, see if you can chase down that paper. Get Mr. Cole on his way."
Dolan flipped him off behind his back as she left.
After the briefing, I went back to the squad room looking for her, but she wasn't at her desk. Krantz wasn't the only one in a good mood. Bruly and Salerno high-fived each other at the Mr. Coffee and walked away laughing. Williams and the Buzz Cut came through the double doors, Krantz offering his hand and the Buzz Cut taking it. The Buzz Cut was smiling, too.
When I was here before, the fabric of the room had been stiff with tension, as if the place and the people were caught in the kind of electrified field that made their hair stand on end. But now something had happened to cut the juice. A sea change had occurred that had freed them from electric hair, and let them overlook the fact that I had interfered with their investigation by visiting Dersh. That is no small thing to overlook.
I got a cup of coffee, sat in the dunce chai
r to wait for Dolan, and wondered about it until the kid with the mail cart pushed his way in through the doors. Bruly slapped the kid a high five, the two of them laughing about something I couldn't overhear. Salerno joined the conversation, and the three of them talked for a few minutes before the kid moved on. When he moved on, he was smiling, too, and I wondered if he was smiling about the same thing as everyone else.
When he pushed the cart past, I said, "Hey, Curtis. Can I ask you a question?"
He eyed me suspiciously. The last time I tried to milk Curtis Wood for information it hadn't gone so well.
"First, you were right when you told me that these guys are the best in the business. I've got a whole new respect for them. They really get results."
"Uh-huh."
"I was wondering if you hear what they say about me."
Now he wasn't looking so much suspicious as confused.
"What do you mean?"
"I guess it's just a professional consideration, you know?
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I've really grown to respect these guys. I want them to respect me, too."
I watched him hopefully, and when he understood what I was driving at, he shrugged. "They think you're okay, Cole. They don't like it that you're around, but they've checked up on you. I heard Dolan say that if you were half as good as people say, your dick would be a foot long."
"That Dolan is a class act, isn't she?"
"She's the best."
This time it was going better. I had established rapport, and put our conversation on an intimate basis. Soon, I would have him eating out of my hand.
"It's good you're telling me these things, Curtis. With all the whispering today, I thought they were cracking jokes about me."
"Nah."
I gave a big sigh as if I were relieved, then made a show of looking around at Bruly and Salerno and the others. "With all the grinning around here, they must've made a breakthrough in the case."
Curtis Wood turned back to his cart. "I don't know anything, Cole."
"Anything about what?" Mr. Innocent.
"You're so obvious, Cole. You're trying to pump me for information I don't have. If you think something's going on, have the balls to ask someone instead of just sneaking around."
He shook his head like he was disappointed, then pushed the mail cart away, muttering.
"Foot long, my ass."
Shown up once again by the civilian wannabe. Maybe next time he'd just shoot me.
Dolan came out of the copy room a few minutes later and handed me a large manila envelope without meeting my eyes. "These are the reports Krantz wants me to give you."
"What's going on around here, Dolan?"
"Nothing."
"Then why do I get the feeling I'm being kept out of something?"
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"You're paranoid."
So much for the direct approach.
I went down to my car, raised the top for the sun, and waited. Forty minutes later, the Buzz Cut nosed out of the parking garage behind the wheel of a tan Ford Taurus. He made his way to the Harbor Freeway, then drove west through the center of Los Angeles, then north on the 405 into West-wood. He didn't hurry, and he was easy to follow. He was relaxed, too. And smiling. I copied his tag number to run his registration, but I needn't have bothered. I knew what he was as soon as he turned onto the long, straight drive of the United States Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard.
The Buzz Cut was FBI.
I cruised past the Federal Building to a little Vietnamese place I know for squid with mint leaves. They make it hot there, the way I like it, and as I ate, I wondered why the FBI would be involved in Karen Garcia's homicide. Local police often call in the Feebs to use their information systems and expertise, but the Buzz Cut had been around at almost every step in the dance. I thought that odd. Then, when I introduced myself at the autopsy, he'd refused to identify himself. I thought that odd, too. And now the Feeb was smiling, and they don't smile for very much. You make one of those guys smile, you'd need something pretty big.
I was pondering this when the woman who owns the restaurant said, "We make squid you like?"
"Yes. It's very nice." The woman was small and delicate, with a graceful beauty.
"I see you in here very much."
"I like the food." The conversation I could do without.
The woman leaned close to me. "Oldest daughter make this food you like. She think you very handsome."
I followed the woman's eyes to the back of the restaurant. A younger imitation of the woman was peeking at me from the kitchen door. She smiled shyly.
I looked at her mother. Mom smiled wider and nodded. I looked back at the daughter, and she nodded, too.
I said, "I'm married. I've got nine children."
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The mother frowned. "You no wear ring."
I looked at my hand. "I'm allergic to gold."
The mother's eyes narrowed. "You married?"
"I'm sorry. Nine children."
"With no ring?"
"Allergies."
The woman went to the daughter and said something in Vietnamese. The daughter stomped back into the kitchen.
I finished the squid, then drove home to read the reports. Some days you should just eat drive-thru.
The autopsy protocol held no surprises, concluding that Karen Garcia had been killed by a single .22 caliber bullet fired at close range, striking her 3.5 centimeters above the right orbital cavity. Light to moderate powder stippling was observed at the wound entry, indicating that the bullet had been fired at a distance of between two and four feet. A cut-and-dried case of homicide by gunshot, with no other evidence having been noted.
I reread the criminalist's report, thinking that I would call Montoya to discuss these things, but as I thought about what I would say to him, I realized that the white plastic was missing.
When I read the report that Pike brought last night, I recalled that Chen had recovered a triangular piece of white plastic on the trail at the top of the bluff. He had noted that the plastic was smudged with some sort of gray matter and would have to be tested.
In this new report, that piece of plastic was not listed.
I checked the page numbers to make sure all the pages were there, then found Pike's copy and compared them. White triangle in Pike's report. No white triangle in Krantz's report.
I called Joe. "You get the report you brought over directly from John Chen?"
"Yes."
"He gave it to you himself?"
"Yes."
I told him about the missing plastic.
"That sonofabitch Krantz doctored this report. That's why he delayed giving it to me."
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"If he left something out of Chen's report, I wonder what he left out of the autopsy."
I was wondering that, too.
Pike said, "Rusty Swetaggen might be able to help."
"Yeah."
I hung up and called a guy I know named Rusty Swetaggen at his restaurant in Venice. Rusty drove an LAPD radio car for most of his adult life, until his wife's father died and left them the restaurant. He retired from the cops the same day that the will was read, and never looked back. Dishing out fried cheese and tap beer was more fun than humping a radio car, and paid better. Rusty said, "Man, it's been forever, Elvis. Emma thought you'd died." Emma was his wife.
"Your cousin still work for the coroner?" I'd heard him talk about it, time to time.
"That's Jerry. Sure. He's still down there."
"A woman named Karen Garcia was cut two days ago."
"The one belongs to the tortilla guy? The Monsterito?"
"His daughter. I'm on the case with Robbery-Homicide, and I think they're keeping something from me."
Rusty made a little whistling sound. "Why does Robbery-Homicide have it?"
"They say it's because the tortilla guy owns a city councilman."
"But you don't think so?"<
br />
"I think everybody's keeping secrets, and I want to know what. An ME named Evangeline Lewis did the autopsy. Another report these cops gave me was doctored, so I'm thinking maybe the autopsy protocol was altered, too. Could your cousin find out about that?"
"He doesn't work down in the labs, Elvis. He's strictly front office."
