LA Requiem ec-8

by Robert Crais

  Joe shook his head. "Not yet."

  A black minivan turned off Wilshire and came along Ocean Avenue, washing them with its headlights. It stopped in the middle of the street near where the coyote had crossed.

  Trudy said, "Gotta be Matt. It was nice talking with you, Running Man."

  She hitched the backpack, then trotted to the van. Trudy

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  spoke to someone through the passenger's window, then the door opened, and Trudy climbed in. The van had no plates, and no dealer card, though it gleamed with the newness of a vehicle just driven off the lot. In seconds, it was gone.

  Pike said, "Goodbye, Running Girl."

  Pike glanced toward the garbage cans, but the coyotes were gome. Back to their own place in the hills. Wild things lost in the dark.

  Pike leaned against the rail to stretch his calves, then ran inland up Wilshire.

  He ran in the darkness, away from cars and people, enjoying the solitude.

  Amanda Kimmel said, "Good riddance!"

  Seventy-eight years old, loosely wrapped in skin that made her look like a pale raisin, and with a left leg that tingled as if bugs were creeping in all the little wrinkle troughs, Amanda Kimmel watched the two detectives sneak out of the house they were using to spy on Eugene Dersh and drive away. She shook her head with disgust. "Those two turds stand out like warts on a baby's ass, don't they, Jack?"

  Jack didn't answer.

  "Wouldn't cut the mustard in Five-O, I'll bet. You'd have their sorry asses back on the mainland faster than rats can fuck."

  Amanda Kimmel dragged the heavy Ml Garand rifle back to the TV and settled in her BarcaLounger. The TV was the only light she allowed herself these days, living like a mole in the goddamned darkness so she could keep an eye on all the cops and reporters and nutcase lookieloos who had been crashing around outside since they'd learned her neighbor, Mr. Dersh, was a maniac. Just her goddamned luck, to live right behind the next fuckin' Son of Sam.

  Amanda said, "This is the shits, ain't it, Jack?"

  Jack didn't answer because she had the sound off.

  Amanda Kimmel watched Hawaii Five-O reruns every night on Nick-at-Nite, feeling that Jack Lord was the finest police officer who ever lived, and Hawaii Five-O the finest cop

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  show that had ever been made. You could have your Chuck Norris and Jimmy Smits. She'd take Jack Lord-any day.

  Amanda settled back, had a healthy sip of scotch, and patted the Ml lovingly. Her second husband had brought the Ml home from fighting the Japs a million years ago and stuck it under the bed. Or was it her first husband? The Ml was as big as a telephone pole, and Amanda could barely lift the damned thing, but what with all the strangers creeping around outside these days as well as her living next to a maniac, well, a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

  "Right, Jack?"

  Jack grinned, and she just knew that he'd agree.

  The first few days, armies of people poured through her neighborhood. Cars filled with rubberneckers and mouth breathers. Numbskulls who wanted their picture taken standing in Dersh's yard. (Get a goddamned life!) Reporters with cameras and microphones, making God's own noise and not giving two hoots and a damn who they disturbed. She'd even caught one reporter, that horrible little man on Channel 2, tromping through her roses as he tried to get into Dersh's yard. She'd cursed him a blue streak, but he'd gone ahead anyway, so she turned on her sprinklers and hosed the weaselly sonofabitch down good.

  After that first few days, the crush of reporters and numbskulls had slacked off because the cops ran out of places to search, so there wasn't much for the TV people to tape. The cops pretty much stayed on the street in front of Dersh's house, leaving when he left and coming when he came, except for the cops who sucked around the empty house next door at four-hour intervals. Amanda suspected that the reporters didn't know about the cops in the house, which was fine by her because the cops made enough noise by themselves, managing to wake her each time the shifts changed, because she slept so poorly what with the leg and all.

  "Being old is hell, isn't it, Jack? Can't sleep, can't shit, and you don't get laid."

  Jack Lord punched a fat Hawaiian on the nose. Yeah, Jack knew that being old was hell.

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  Amanda drained the rest of her scotch and eyed the bottle, thinking maybe it was time for a little refill when a car door slammed, and she thought, "Those goddamned cops with their noise again." Probably forgot their cigarettes up in the house.

  Amanda shut the TV, then dragged the big Ml back to the window, thinking that she just might scream holy hell at the bastards, keeping her up like this, only it wasn't the two cops.

  Between the half-moon and the streetlamp, she could see the man pretty well, even with seventy-eight-year-old eyes and a belly full of scotch. He was walking from the street down along the alley toward Dersh's house, and he certainly wasn't a cop or a reporter. He was a large man, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt without sleeves, and something stuck out about him right away. Here it was the middle of the night, dark as the inside of a cat's butt, and this asshole was wearing sunglasses.

  Her first thought was that he must be a criminal of some kind—a burglar or a rapist—so she hefted up the Ml to draw a bead on the sonofabtich, but before she could get the gun steadied, he disappeared past the hedges and was gone.

  "Goddamnit! C'mon back here, you sonofabitch!"

  She waited.

  Nothing.

  "Damn!"

  Amanda Kimmel propped the M1 against the window, then went back to her chair, poured a fresh slug of scotch, and took a taste. Maybe the guy was some friend of Dersh's (he had male friends visit at all hours, and she certainly knew what that meant), or maybe he was just an after-hours lookieloo (Lord knows, there'd been plenty, often dressed more oddly than this).

  The short, sharp bang damned near knocked her out of her chair.

  Amanda had never in her life heard that sound, but she knew without doubt what it was.

  A gunshot.

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  "Holy shit, Jack! I guess that sonofabitch wasn't a lookie-loo, after all!"

  Amanda Kimmel scooped up her phone, called the police, and told them that Eugene Dersh hadjust been murdered by a man with red arrows tattooed on his arms.

  PART TWO

  22

  The morning heat brought the smell of wild sage up from the canyon. Something rumbled far away, a muffled thumping like the sound of heavy bombs beyond the horizon. I hadn't thought of the war in years, and pulled the sheet over my head.

  Lucy snuggled into my back. "Someone's at the door."

  "What?"

  She burrowed her face into me, her hand sliding across my side. I liked the dry heat of her palm. "At the door."

  Knocking.

  "It's not even seven."

  She burrowed deeper. "Take your gun."

  I pulled on gym shorts and a sweatshirt, and went down to see. The cat was squatting in the entry, ears down, growling. Who needs a Doberman when you've got a cat like this?

  Stan Watts and Jerome Williams were on the other side of the door, looking like they'd been up a while. Watts was chewing a breath mint.

  "What are you guys doing here?"

  They stepped in without answering. When they did, the cat arched his back and hissed.

  Williams said, "Hey, that's some cat."

  "Better watch it. He bites."

  Williams went over to the cat. "Hell, cats like me. You'll see."

  Williams put out his hand. The cat's fur stood up and the growl got as loud as a police siren. Williams stepped back fast.

  "He got some kinda thing with black people?" 211

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  "He's got a thing with everybody. It's seven in the morning, Watts. Did Dersh confess? You guys ID the shooter?"

  Watts sucked at the mint. "Wondering where you were
last night, is all. Got a few questions."

  "About what?"

  "About where you were."

  I glanced at Williams again, and now Williams was watching me.

  "I was here, Watts. What's going on?"

  "Can you prove it?"

  Lucy said, "Yes, he can. But he doesn't have to."

  The three of us looked up. Lucy was standing at the loft's rail, wearing my big white terry-cloth robe.

  I said, "Lucille Chenier. Detectives Watts and Williams."

  Watts said, "You here with him?"

  Lucy smiled. Sweetly. "I don't think I have to answer that."

  Watts held up his badge.

  "Now I know I don't have to answer that."

  Williams said, "Man. First this cat."

  Watts shrugged. "We were hoping to be nice."

  Lucy's smile dropped away. "You'll be nice whether you want to be or not, and unless you have a warrant, we can and will ask you to leave."

  Williams said, "Well, -for Christ's sake."

  "Lucy's an attorney, Watts, so don't get cute on us. I was here. Lucy and I went down to the Ralph's for some things, and made dinner. The receipt's probably in the trash. We rented a movie from Blockbuster. It's over there on the VCR."

  "How about your buddy Pike? When was the last time you saw him?"

  Lucy had come down the stairs and was standing next to me with her arms crossed. She said, "Don't answer him until he tells you why, and maybe not even then. Don't answer any more of his questions." She faced me and her eyes were serious. "This is the lawyer talking, do you understand?"

  I spread my hands. "You heard her. Watts. So either tell me what's going on or hit the road."

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  "Eugene Dersh was shot to death last night. We picked up Joe Pike for it."

  I stared at him. I glanced at Williams.

  "Are you guys joking?"

  They weren't joking.

  "Is Krantz running a number on Joe? Is that what this is?"

  "Eyewitness saw him going into the house. We've got him downtown now to run a lineup."

  "That's bullshit. Pike didn't kill anyone." I was getting excited. Lucy touched my back.

  Watts spoke quietly. "Are you saying he was here at the house with you two?"

  Lucy stepped directly in front of me. "Are you arresting Mr. Cole?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Are you exercising any warrants at this time?" Her voice was all business.

  "We just wanted to talk, is all." He looked at me past her. "We don't think you're good for it. We just wanted to see what you knew."

  Lucy shook her head. "This interview is at an end. If you are not prepared to arrest him, or me, please leave."

  The phone rang even as I locked the door.

  Lucy answered, scooping up the phone before I could get there. "Who's calling, please?"

  She was in full-blown protectress mode, still my girlfriend and the woman I loved, but now as focused as a female tiger protecting her mate; face down, concentrating on what was being said.

  Finally, she held out the phone. "It's someone named Charlie Bauman. He says he's a criminal attorney representing Joe."

  "Yeah."

  Charlie Bauman had been a United States attorney prosecuting federal cases until he decided to make five times the money defending the same guys he'd once tried to put behind bars. He had an office in Santa Monica, three ex-wives, and, at

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  last count, eight children among them. He paid more in child support than I earned in a good year, and he'd represented Joe and me before.

  He said, "Who in hell is that woman?"

  "Lucy Chenier. She's a friend of mine. She's also a lawyer."

  "Christ, what a ball-buster. You hear about Joe? "

  "Two cops were just here. All I know is they said Dersh was murdered, and they've got an eyewitness who puts Joe at the scene. What in hell is going on?"

  "You know anything about it?"

  "No, I do not know anything about it." Irritated that he would ask.

  "Okay, okay. Watch out, dickhead! Christ!" Horns blew. Charlie was on his car phone. "I'm on my way down to Parker Center now. They're waiting for the lineup to book him."

  "I want to be there."

  "Forget it. They'll never let you."

  "I'm coming down there, Charlie. I'm going to be there. I mean it."

  I hung up without another word. Lucy was watching me, her face grave.

  "Elvis?"

  I've been in war. I've faced men with guns, and dangerous stronger men who were doing their best to hurt me, but I could not recall a time when I was more afraid. My hands trembled.

  Lucy said, "Elvis? Is this man good?"

  "Charlie's good."

  She still watched me, as if she was searching for something.

  I said, "Joe didn't do this."

  She nodded.

  "Joe didn't do this. Dersh didn't kill Karen. Joe knows it. He wouldn't kill Dersh."

  Lucy kissed my cheek. There was a kindness in her eyes that bothered rne.

  "Call me when you know more. Give Joe my best."

  She went up the stairs, and I watched her go.

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  Parker Center uses the ground floor for booking and processing suspects. A few minutes after I checked in, Charlie hurried out a gray metal door.

  "You just made it. Another five minutes, you'd've missed it." Charlie Bauman is several inches shorter than me, with a lean pockmarked face and intense eyes. He smells like cigarettes.

  "Can I see Joe?"

  "Not till after. We get in the room, there's gonna be the witness. She's some little old lady. You let the cops do all the talking, doesn't matter what she says."

  "I know that, Charlie."

  "I'm just telling you. No matter what she says, you don't say anything. Me and you, we can't talk to her, we can't ask her any questions, we can't make any comments, okay?"

  "I got it." Charlie seemed nervous, and I didn't like that.

  I followed him back along a tile hall as we spoke. The hall opened into a wide room that looked like any other corporate workplace, except this one had posters about drunk-driving fatalities.

  "Have you had a chance to talk to him?"

  "Enough to get the gist. We'll talk more, after."

  I stopped him. Behind us, two detectives I didn't know were positioning a black guy in front of a camera like they use to take driver's license pictures, only this guy wasn't up for renewal. His hands were cuffed, and his eyes were wide and afraid. He was saying, "THIS IS BULLSHIT. THIS THREE STRIKE CRAP IS BULLSHIT"

  "Charlie, do these guys have anything?"

  "If the witness makes a positive ID and they write the paper, then we'll see. She's old, and when they're old they get confused. If we're lucky, she'll pick the wrong guy and we can all go home early."

  He wasn't answering me.

  "Do they have anything?"

  "They've already got a prosecutor coming down. He'll lay it out for us when he gets here. I don't know what they have,

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  but they wouldn't've called him down if they didn't think they have a case."

  Krantz and Stan Watts came out of an adjoining hall. Krantz was holding a cup of coffee, Watts was holding two.

  Charlie said, "Okay, Krantz. Whenever you're ready."

  I looked at Krantz. "What are you pulling on Joe?"

  Krantz appeared more calm than I'd ever seen him. As if he was at peace. "I can show you Dersh's body, if you want."

  "I don't know what happened to Dersh. What I'm saying is that Joe didn't do it."

  Krantz raised his eyebrows and looked at Watts. "Stan here told me that you were at home with a woman last night. Was he wrong about that?" He looked back at me. "Were you with Pike?"

  "You know what I'm saying."

  Krantz blew on his coffee, then sipped. "No, Cole, I don't know that. But here's what I do know: At thre
e-fifteen this morning a man matching Pike's description was seen entering Eugene Dersh's backyard. A few moments after that, Dersh was shot to death by one shot to the head with a .357 magnum. Could be a .38, but judging from the way the head blew apart, I'm betting .357. We've already recovered the bullet. We'll see what it tells us."