“Out. How about you, Detective? Giving B&E a try? Looking for a new career?”
“Like you’ve got anything I want. I got better things to do than roll your place, Sunday.”
The back and forth is just going to piss us both off, so I drop it. “So what happened at the morgue?”
“Got a call from a guy I know over there. Owes me for not busting his ass on a narcotics charge. I asked him to keep an eye out for anything weird and let me know soon as it happens. I dropped some cash to have him go over the nightly security tapes. Thinks he’s got something.”
“Anybody else know?”
“Shouldn’t. He’s too freaked out to talk about it.”
We pull into the parking lot and slide into a space reserved for police officers. The morgue has been here for a long time, white facade and redbrick all around. Never been in myself. Always figured when I popped by, it’d be in a bag.
“They do the autopsy yet?”
“Doubt it. They’re backlogged over a week. Goddamn mess. Corpses stacked on corpses. Three to a drawer on a bad day.”
We go in. Disinfectant, heavy stink of days-old rot, cut open bodies. I’d fit right in.
Air fresheners in random corners of the lobby add a nice floral tinge. It might help, but with my newly sensitive nose it just smells like somebody shit on a rosebush.
Frank flashes his badge and signs us in. The receptionist hands us ID badges.
“We’re here to see DeWalt.”
The receptionist makes a call, and a nervous looking guy in surgical scrubs comes out a minute later. He’s got a haggard look, bloodhound jowls.
“Frank,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. I don’t look like a cop. I just don’t give off that vibe. Then again, this guy’s been around cadavers so long, maybe I’m tipping his radar.
“This is Detective Patterson,” Frank says pointing at me. “He’s cool.” DeWalt calms down instantly.
He takes us into one of the refrigerator rooms. The place is all cold steel and ceramic tile. Noticeably rank. There’s a small desk and computer crammed over to the side. He’s talking in a low whisper. God knows why, nobody back here but him, Frank, and dead people.
“So, I’m checking last night’s tapes and around one a.m., I get this.” He brings up the video on his computer. It’s the hallway we just came through.
Nothing for a second. Then a naked man, old and withered, hobbles out of the refrigeration room, crosses over to another room. It’s hard to tell if it’s Giavetti, because his face is turned away from the camera.
DeWalt fast-forwards the video. “That’s the locker room he went into. He comes out about twenty minutes later.” Sure enough, he hobbles back out, but now he’s got surgical scrubs and a lab coat. He turns and heads toward the front door, and that’s when we catch his face.
It’s Giavetti all right.
“Fuck me,” Frank says.
“Is this what you were looking for?” DeWalt asks. “This guy hide in a bag and come in or something?” He’s reaching and he knows it, but the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, it’s what we’re looking for. Anybody sign out last night around then?”
“Nope. Camera caught him leaving, though. Walked right past the night receptionist like she didn’t even see him.”
“Probably didn’t,” I say. Frank gives me a look telling me he’d rather DeWalt stayed in the dark.
“Okay. Can you crack open one of these drawers?”
DeWalt hesitates. “This is just some guy hopped a ride on a morgue wagon, right?”
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Just some psycho. Probably came in to fuck an overdose or something. Good thing you brought this to me.”
DeWalt’s nodding. Necrophilia’s something he can understand. “Yeah. Just some psycho,” he says. “So, what drawer you’re looking for?”
“Guy came in yesterday morning from that shootout up in the hills.”
DeWalt winces. “He’s not one of the messed up ones, is he? Most of them are still double bagged to keep them in one piece.”
“GSW to the skull.”
“Oh, the headshot? Yeah he’s right here. We had to double them up. He’s in here with a multiple stab wound.”
DeWalt starts to slide open a drawer. Frank stops him.
“Why don’t you go and get some coffee, okay?” he says.
DeWalt looks from Frank to me and back again. “You sure?”
“Yeah. We’ll let you know if we need anything.”
DeWalt leaves, anxiously looking over his shoulder at us. Frank closes the door behind him.
I slide the drawer open, unzip the body bag.
“This isn’t Giavetti,” I say. “I’m not even sure it’s a person.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” he says, coming over to me. I step aside to give him a good look.
“Fuck me,” he says.
The body looks like it was pulled from the pyramids at Giza. It’s nothing but a mummy dressed in a Lakers T-shirt and jeans that are now five sizes too big. The skin is tight and dried out, bones poking through the stab wounds. I’d swear he was a hundred years old before he died. The toe tag says he’s nineteen.
There’s a list on the inside of the drawer, an extra body bag underneath.
“DeWalt said he was double drawered. So this is the second guy,” I say.
“Christ, what happened to him?”
I pull the drawer next to Giavetti’s, unzip the bag. A woman. Same thing.
“Same thing that happened to this one,” I say.
I pull more drawers open, check bodies. All of the ones around Giavetti’s drawer are in the same condition. Mummies. They’re all the same up to three bodies away from where he was stored. Some of them are more dried out than others.
“How did he do this?” Frank says.
I shrug. “Fuck if I know. Sucked ’em dry, maybe? Pulls out fluids like a vampire?”
“That’s disgusting,” Frank says. I agree. The human body’s got some pretty vile things in it. I should know, I oozed a lot of them out last night.
“Maybe it’s something else. All of these were brought in within a day after he was. Maybe there was some, fuck, I dunno, life left in ’em? Maybe he pulled it out of them? Used it on himself?”
“That’s insane.”
“You got a better idea? It’s not like he walked out of here with half his head missing.”
Frank looks at the open drawers, the mummified corpses. “I need a cigarette,” he says, walks out the door.
It explains a lot, but Frank’s still having trouble with it. Hell, I’m having trouble with it. Dead’s dead. You’d think he’d need a live body to pull some kind of vampire schtick. But the hell do I know? Maybe he just needs meat.
We’re smoking out back near the loading dock, a couple of morgue wagons sitting ready to go out at a moment’s notice.
“So, he dies, but he doesn’t really die. And then he finds another body and pulls shit out of it?” Frank says.
“Well, he’s always looked the same, right?”
“Yeah. Jesus. I thought …” He lets the sentence fade to nothing.
He thought that this was all really a nightmare, I’m thinking.
I looked at Frank. “You haven’t slept much, have you?”
“That obvious?”
“Just a little. Nightmares?”
“Yeah. Man, you saw what he did to those people. You know what he did to you. Of course, I’m having fucking nightmares. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t sleep anymore.”
He shakes his head, the look on his face disgust or exasperation. I’m not sure which. “There,” he says. “That right there. That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t sleep anymore. You don’t breathe. The fuck are you?”
“You think I don’t ask myself that same question every five minutes?”
“Yeah, but you’re so goddamn accepting of all this. Why you and not Julio? Why not
those others Giavetti tried to change? You just seem to roll with it.”
I grind the butt of my cigarette under my heel, pull a fresh one from a pack.
“Maybe that’s it,” I say. “Maybe I’m, I dunno, more resilient?”
“More stupid, maybe.”
That was going to be my next choice. But I think I’m onto something there. Julio was a good guy, but he just couldn’t handle change. Me, hell, I’m an L.A. boy. Change is our chief export. You want to reinvent yourself, come to this town.
I think that’s it. Yeah, stuff gets to me, but mostly none of it fucking matters. It is what it is, you know? Lose an eye, big fucking deal. You’ve got another one. Shit happens.
We redefine normal like nobody’s business out here. You accept it and move on.
Of course, I have to admit, being dead sort of stretches that one a bit.
I change the subject. “So, Giavetti’s out. What now?”
“I’ll put a BOLO out on him. He’s bound to pop up somewhere. I might be able to get some tapes of the area. ATMs, security cameras, that kind of thing. I gotta wonder where he’d have headed.”
I remember the piece of blue plastic card I found earlier. I pull it from my pocket. Looking at the damn thing for the last couple hours, I should have made the connection earlier. My mind fills in the gaps of the letters on the back. Put them all together and they spell out LA DEPARTMENT OF CORONER.
“What’s that?” Frank asks.
“Part of a toe tag,” I say. I know exactly where Giavetti headed when he left the morgue. I do the math. He would have had plenty of time to get to my place, ransack the shit out of it, and walk off with the stone.
And he left the tag as a souvenir. But where’d he go after that?
“I don’t even want to know why you have that,” he says. He stubs out his cigarette, rubs a hand over his haggard face. “Jesus. You should be in there wearing that thing and stuffed in a body bag, not out here walking and talking.”
“Well, I am,” I say, “so get used to it.”
“No. That I won’t do. I don’t know what the fuck you are, but I am not going to getting used to you.” He starts toward his car, shows me a hand when I follow him. “Find your own ride home. I’m fucking done here.”
“Gee, thanks, detective. And I thought we were getting to be friends.”
He gives me the finger, slides behind the wheel of his Crown Vic. Bastard.
To be honest, I can’t blame him. I’m not sure I’ll get used to me, either.
Chapter 13
I pull out my phone to call a cab and see the little flashing light of a missed call. Samantha’s number. It must have rung while I was in the morgue, but the heavy brick and metal drawers swallowed the signal.
I dial her back. It rings four times before it goes to voice mail—Samantha’s voice on the other end telling me to leave a message.
“Hey,” I say when the machine beeps. “This is Joe. Thought you might want to know Giavetti’s out of the morgue.” She picks up with a speed that says panic, and a voice that says anything but. I’m not sure which one to believe.
“Joe,” she says. “So nice to hear from you. How are you doing?”
“Not bad. All things considered.”
“You say Sandro’s up and about?”
“Yeah, last night. You sound surprised.”
“A little. He’s usually much quicker about that sort of thing. Especially if he’s in a morgue. How was your meeting with Doctor Neumann? I assume that’s where Archie and his friend took you?”
Much quicker about that sort of thing? I’m sure he is. He’s probably had a lot of practice.
“Well enough,” I say. “I’d like to see you some time. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m sure we do,” she says. “Any idea where Sandro is now?”
“Funny, I thought you might be able to tell me.”
She laughs. “Hardly. If he confides in anyone anymore, it’s not likely to be me.”
“Sounds like you two had a falling out.”
“It was a long time ago. Now, did you just call to tell me Sandro was running around again, or did you have something else in mind?”
“Well, you know, that was just an excuse.”
“An ulterior motive, Mr. Sunday? I’m shocked. Whatever happened to ‘I was just in your neighborhood’?”
“That only works if I know where your neighborhood is.” I pull the card she gave me from my pocket. No address. But a bit of the conversation from last night sticks in my memory. “Santa Monica’s a big place, after all.”
“Oh, please,” she says. “It’s not that big. A resourceful man such as yourself, I’m surprised you haven’t shown up on my doorstep yet.”
“I’m a little surprised you haven’t shown up on my doorstep,” I say.
“That would be showing a little too much interest, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t stalk a man’s house until at least the third date. And only if he’s married.”
“Guess I’ll never come home to find you sitting on my couch, then?”
“Do you have a couch?” she says. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
“I’m funny that way. I even wear matching socks and clean underwear. You should see it sometime.”
“The couch?”
“The underwear.”
“I may have to take you up on that. In the meantime, why don’t I help you out a little? I’m near Wilshire and Ocean. I’m sure you can figure out the rest. Come on over when you have time.”
“Is this your idea of hard to get?”
“If I were hard to get I’d be in Paris by now. No, I just like a man who’s not afraid to show his intelligence. I’ll see you later? Tonight, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“Until then.” She hangs up with a click.
So she and Giavetti had a falling out. Don’t get along. So, why’s she so eager to find out where he is? Is she afraid of him?
Women. They can never fucking make it easy.
Knowing that Giavetti’s up and about doesn’t change much. I still don’t have anything to go on to find him. The Bel Air address is the only lead I’ve got, and that’s iffy at best.
Bel Air’s not my usual stomping ground. These aren’t mansions, they’re residential complexes. A-Listers, big time producers, moguls. If you take a deep breath you can smell the cash.
Which means nobody in their right mind is going to talk to me.
When Giavetti broke into my safe he wasn’t exactly subtle. The outside hinges are scratched all to hell, and the dial was ripped out the front. He had a crowbar, a lot of patience, and even more motivation. My poor safe didn’t stand a chance.
I pull off the duct tape I’ve secured it with and rummage through the back until I find a black plastic case with a couple of fake LAPD badges in it. I grab one and clip it onto my belt.
It won’t stand up to too much scrutiny, and I don’t need to use it often. Sometimes, though, a badge can help get me into places I might not normally be able to.
I take the canyon roads above UCLA past the Bel Air Country Club into the winding streets north of Sunset. My car’s not the greatest, but it’s not as if anything I could afford would ever fit in this neighborhood.
The house is a sprawling mansion complex with a Sotheby’s Real Estate sign out front. The man’s been dead what, a week? Guess money buys speed.
I pull up outside the gates behind a Mexican dragging a lawnmower out of the back of a beat-up Chevy truck.
“Hey,” I say, “You work on this house here?”
He looks at me, confused. Maybe doesn’t speak English.
I flash him the badge, say “¿Usted trabajan aquí?” in broken Spanish.
He laughs. “Man, you really need to work on that accent. I heard you the first time. Yeah, I’m working here. What do ya need?”
“You work the house for long?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. The realtor brought me in to clean up the
grounds. I got three other guys already inside.”
“So you never been here before?”
“Yesterday was our first time. Hey, I hear the guy lived here got killed. That true?”
“Yeah. Burglary.”
He gives a low whistle. “Damn. That was stupid.”
“How do you mean?”
“I heard the guy had security cameras, dogs. Alarms comin’ out his ass. I’ve got like, ten codes I gotta put in just to get into one of the backyards.”
And three bozos waltzed in and snagged the stone?
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re still looking into it. They showing the house yet?”
“No. Got cleaners inside, though. Driveway’s overloaded.” He kicks his tires. “That’s why I got this piece of shit parked out here.”
“Thanks.”
I head inside, leaving him to struggle with his equipment. I walk through the open gates onto a sea of cars parked in front of a place that looks more like Versailles than Los Angeles.
Did he live alone? Wife? Girlfriend? At the least there should be a maid or two. I head up the enormous staircase, looking for anyone who looks like they might be more than temporary help.
A thick man in a Tommy Bahama shirt, silk pants, and a tan the color of old wood steps out of the door as I’m coming up the front stairs. He smiles with teeth so white I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses.
“Peter Lippscomb, Sotheby’s Realty. Sorry, but the house isn’t ready to be seen yet.”
“That’s okay, Peter.” I flash him the badge. “I’m not here to buy.” His face falls as he leans in to see it. I pull it back before he can get a good look at it.
“Oh. Uh, what can I do for you, officer—?”
“Detective,” I say.
He blinks at me, waiting for a name. I don’t give him one. “Oh,” he says. “This is about Mr. Henderson isn’t it?”
“I’m just following up on some things. Getting some paperwork closed out. Did you know him?”
“No. I never met him. Never heard of him before Sotheby’s brought me in, in fact. I think some of the cleaning crew worked here before—well, before.”
“If I could talk to one or two of them, that’d really help me out. Paperwork, you know.” He nods knowingly, like he cares.
He leads me inside through a pair of wrought iron and glass front doors. One side has a board where the glass should be.
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