by Scott Frost
“You don’t pay two people to stay up all night and do one person’s work.”
“Call him,” I said.
“Now?”
“Now.”
He reached behind him, pulled a clipboard off the wall, ran through the list of numbers until he found what he was looking for, and dialed the number.
“He’s probably sleeping, or out eating breakfast.”
It rang a dozen times, then he hung up.
“You want me to write down his number for you?”
I handed him one of my business cards. “And address.”
He wrote the information down and handed it back.
“A fax was sent from here last night. Would you have a record of it?”
He shook his head and motioned to the fax machine on the counter.
“Just a cash register receipt, fifty cents a page for local calls, a dollar for long distance.”
Harrison and I walked outside and stood on the sidewalk. I glanced at my watch. It was already nearly noon. Waves of heat were shimmering off the pavement. Neither of us made a move toward the squad, as if we both knew that by taking that next step a line would be crossed that there was no turning back from.
“A ranger found him around three-thirty,” Harrison said. “It would have been at least another half hour before Homicide reached the scene; that’s four o’clock.”
The knot in my stomach began to tighten.
“Why would a cop confiscate a security tape before an investigation had even begun?” he added.
Neither of us needed to answer that one.
“So who took it? Another agency—ATF? FBI?”
“How would they have known about it?” I said.
“He was under surveillance.”
“There’s another possibility.”
Harrison nodded. “It wasn’t a cop at all.”
We stepped onto the street and walked over to the squad. I started to open the door, but stopped and looked back at the yellow sign on the building across the street. PUBLIC FAX.
“He would have seen that sign last night; that’s why he stopped here. He walked or ran nearly two miles in his socks, his feet were cut from glass, and he saw the sign and thought of me. Why? What could I do for him that no one else could? And it’s not because I was the sister he never had, not at that time of night.”
Harrison looked over at the sign for a moment, then turned to me. “You’re a cop.”
I nodded.
“Why would someone take a tape?” I said.
“They don’t want their picture taken.”
“And who doesn’t want their picture taken?”
I felt myself crossing that line that there was no turning back from.
“Someone about to commit a crime,” Harrison said.
4
A piece of crime-scene tape blowing in the Santa Anas hung from the chain-link gate that John Manning walked through before he died. The fence was off a side road that passed behind a small manufacturing plant. There were no streetlights, no houses. Across the river was a DWP power substation. The nearest traffic was a block to the south, where a bridge crossed the river. The sound of the 5 freeway on the other side of the manufacturing plant would have muffled the sound of a gunshot.
I pushed open the gate and stepped through. The wind carried the heavy odor of the bright green algae that bloomed in the river. Ten feet inside the fence I stopped where a dark stain discolored the soil on the trail leading to a bike path along the riverbank.
“Anything could happen here and no one would know it,” Harrison said.
I looked at the stain for a moment and allowed myself to think briefly that it really was my brother or half brother who bled to death on this spot. I took a deep breath to try to slow things down, but filling my lungs with the stench of the river was not what I needed.
“You okay?” Harrison asked.
I nodded and walked back up the path and through the gate to get away from the smell. I took a breath, and another, and things began to settle. Harrison stepped up behind me but didn’t say a word.
“I spent years wondering what secret life my father led. This wasn’t what I expected,” I said.
A tan Crown Victoria pulled onto the side street and parked behind our squad. Detective Williams of the Northeast division stepped out and walked toward us. He wore the crisp white shirt, pleated pants, and stylish tie that were the standard uniform of LAPD detectives. You always wanted to look good in case a murder got you a stand-up on the six o’clock news, or you met a producer at a crime scene who might option the screenplay you were writing on the weekends.
I had called him on our way here and he’d reluctantly agreed to meet us. Courtesy toward smaller agencies within the county was something LAPD doled out in very controlled bits and pieces. LAPD was the biggest dog on the block, and they liked reminding others of this as often as possible. If he believed that John Manning’s death was a suicide, I knew from experience he wouldn’t like the suggestion that the death was anything else.
“Lieutenant,” he said, extending his hand.
I shook it and introduced Harrison.
“I understand he was your brother.”
“It’s possible he was my half brother, but I never met him. I’d appreciate any information you can share.”
He glanced at Harrison.
“Is this a personal inquiry?” he said, as if firing a warning shot across our bow.
“Yes.”
He motioned toward the gate. “You’ve looked at the scene.”
I nodded.
“It appears he felt responsible for the car accident yesterday afternoon involving a lawyer named Gavin.”
“Is there someone he expressed that to?” I said.
Williams looked at me suspiciously. “He shot himself. I think that’s a pretty good indication that he didn’t feel very good.”
“Have you been able to talk to Gavin?” I asked.
“Gavin died around dawn.”
Williams seemed pleased that I hadn’t known that bit of information.
“What can you tell me about Manning’s movements? ” I asked.
“After leaving County USC he went to Gavin’s, broke in, removed a thirty-two-caliber pistol belonging to Gavin, found his way here, and took his own life.”
“You don’t think it’s odd that he didn’t use the key he had to the office door?”
Williams looked off toward the horizon for a moment.
“I find the whole notion of putting a bullet in your own head odd, Lieutenant. If you’ve already made that decision, logic has long since stopped being a part of your thought process.”
“Do you know where they were prior to the accident? What case they were working on?”
Williams glanced at his watch. “No.”
“Last night he sent me a fax from a Western Union office downtown, but it never arrived. I’d like to know why.”
That I knew something Williams didn’t clearly annoyed him.
“Which office?” he asked.
“On Broadway between Second and Third.”
“Sounds like whatever he was going to send you, he changed his mind.”
“The supervisor at the Western Union office said that someone identifying themselves as a police officer confiscated the tape from their surveillance camera last night sometime after John sent the fax to me.”
“It wasn’t me,” he said.
“That wasn’t my suggestion. But I’d like to know what was on that tape.”
“Did it occur to you, Lieutenant, that they may have been lying to you at the Western Union office?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Maybe they didn’t want you to see something. Maybe they’re skimming money from checks they were cashing. Maybe they’re dealing. Maybe the supervisor forgot to turn the thing on and didn’t want to get in trouble. You’d be amazed at what happens in the big city.”
Harrison looked at me as if to say, Be nice.
“I’m not trying to step on your toes, Detective,” I said.
Williams glanced at his watch again. “Good.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He started to walk away.
“How the hell did you ever get into Homicide?” I said.
He turned and looked at me. “I didn’t have to sleep with anyone, I’ll tell you that.”
“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” Harrison said.
Williams looked at Harrison and smirked. “The boyfriend.”
Harrison moved in one quick motion, taking Williams by the neck and dropping him onto the hood of his squad car.
“Apologize,” Harrison said.
Williams smiled. “Fuck you.”
I walked over, touched Harrison on the shoulder, and looked down at Williams. “Thanks for the information. ”
“Stay the hell out of my investigation,” Williams said.
“From where I stand, Detective, I’ve seen no evidence of any investigation at all.”
Harrison let Williams go.
“If he was your brother, he was a two-bit investigator working for an ambulance chaser,” Williams said. “He put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. There’s nothing else to find. Don’t waste your time, or mine.” He opened the door to his squad and got in.
We walked back to our car without saying a word to each other until Williams began to pull away.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Harrison said.
I turned to watch Williams drive off.
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” I said.
“It’s the first time I’ve heard it,” Harrison said.
I looked over to the gate John Manning walked through just before he died.
“Williams could be right,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” Harrison said. “I’d know it if I was your boyfriend.”
We looked at each other for a second longer than was permitted in professional relationships, then I walked back through the gate to the spot where the blood stained the soil.
“Maybe I’m chasing a ghost,” I said.
“A ghost didn’t send you that fax,” Harrison said.
“I think I’ll take a look at his apartment by myself. I’ll drop you back in Pasadena.”
“Sure,” Harrison said. “I’ll see if any other agencies had surveillance working on either Manning or the lawyer Gavin.”
In the distance, the San Gabriels rose into the bleached sky above Pasadena. A gust of hot wind swept across the surface of the river, nearly knocking me off my feet. The air felt as if one misstruck match and all of Los Angeles would disappear in flames.
5
It was nearing dusk when I arrived at John Manning’s apartment in Los Feliz. It was an old neighborhood with elegant Spanish houses bordering Hollywood and Griffith Park. Dried palm fronds as long as two-by-fours, blown down by the winds, littered the street. The building was a Moorish-looking structure from the thirties painted mustard yellow. I imagined the original builder must have thought the movie Casablanca was going to create a flood of tenants hoping Ingrid or Humphrey would drop by regularly for drinks.
I parked across the street but made no move to get out of the car. From the moment I learned that I might have had a brother I had wanted to make a phone call but resisted. I took out my cell and set it on my lap as I tried to imagine the conversation. None of the scenarios I came up with went particularly well.
I picked up the phone and punched in the number.
“Hello.”
“It’s me, Mom.”
I heard her take a breath as if steeling herself for the next few moments.
“I was thinking of calling you,” she said.
It was the same way she began every conversation we had now, though I was always the one to actually make the call. A coyote wandering from the hills of Griffith Park trotted down the middle of the street right past my car.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said.
“Oh, I see, it’s one of those calls.”
“What calls—” I stopped myself before I let her pull me into an argument.
“I think you know—” she started to say.
“Is it possible that I had a half brother?” I said.
There was silence on the other end for a moment, then she cleared her throat.
“How can you ask me that?” she said.
“It’s a simple question. Is it possible?”
“I suppose someone claimed they were your brother and told you that I knew about it,” my mother said.
“He’s dead,” I said.
I heard her take a deep breath.
“It’s a police matter?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, God forbid you ever talk about living people,” she said.
I let the comment pass without taking the bait. Another palm frond blew loose from a tree and hit the sidewalk next to the car with a loud slap.
“What was his name?” my mother asked.
“John.”
I thought I heard her whisper the name to herself.
“Years ago a friend said she saw your father with a woman. . . . I pretended she was wrong.”
“You did the right thing.”
“What about . . . Did you see . . .” She let it go.
I wasn’t certain until that moment that my mother was still in love with my father after all these years.
“I don’t know anything about him,” I said.
I managed to say good-bye without any more accusations flying between us, then walked over to the apartment building.
He was in apartment eight on the second floor. I let myself in and walked upstairs. The carpeting was a deep maroon. Wall sconces in the shape of Moorish arches lit the hallway. His was the first apartment at the top looking out over the street. The faint sound of opera drifted out from an apartment at the far end of the hall.
I slipped the key in, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The living room was a good size, with an overstuffed couch and a couple of chairs. A dining area was to the left with the kitchen beyond that. A door to the right led to what I assumed was the bedroom. A small tiled fireplace dominated the far wall.
I took a deep breath and could smell the lingering scent of what had been his life. I stepped to the entrance to the kitchen and stopped. The scent of garlic and other spices I couldn’t identify hung in the air. John Manning had liked to cook. Well-seasoned pans hung on hooks on the wall. Fruit that would never be eaten sat in a bowl on the small kitchen table. Bananas, apples, and kiwis. My father had liked kiwis. They were always in the house until the day he left us, and then my mother never bought another.
I walked over to the mantel of the fireplace, where several framed photographs were displayed. There was a picture of Manning as a little boy in a Scout uniform, and a recent picture of him with a woman on the beach. I looked at the next photograph and felt my chest tighten. I had seen the picture before. An early head shot of my father when he was still living with my mother and me—the handsome young actor about to be stepped on by the Cyclops. The same picture sat on my parents’ dresser in their bedroom until my mother removed it after he vanished.
I tried to take a breath but it was as if all the air in the room had settled to the floor. I rushed over to the window and pushed it open. The dry hot wind felt almost like water washing my face and I drew it in, breath after breath.
John Manning was my half brother; whatever doubt I had clung to was gone. He had been held and raised by the same father who had abandoned me. He lived twenty minutes from Pasadena, a secret hidden in plain sight. And on the day he died, nearly to the moment, he had tried to reach out to me.
I closed my eyes and saw his face on the gurney in the morgue, the muscles relaxed in death, the jawline slightly twisted from the impact of the bullet.
I walked back across the living room to the fireplace. The last picture on the mantel was of a pretty young woman with long blond hair. Her clothes, and the peace button on her turtleneck, dated it to the early seventies. She looked as if she could have been an actress. I assumed she was John’s mother.
I started to reach for a light switch, but stopped when I saw the desk in the opposite corner of the room. All the drawers had been pulled out and the contents dumped onto the floor. A computer monitor sat on the desk, but the hard drive was missing. I took a step, then heard the creak of the door behind me.
“I have a gun. Don’t move.”
It was a woman’s voice.
“I’m not moving,” I said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a police officer.”
“I don’t believe you. The police were already here,” she said.
“I can prove it.”
“I have a fucking gun,” she said.
“I know you do. Let me show you my identification. It’s on my belt; all I have to do is turn around.”
“Turn slowly, and don’t move your hands.”
I slowly turned around. The woman was in her late twenties, early thirties with short black hair. I guessed she was the same woman in the photograph on the mantel. A small-caliber silver-plated revolver was pointed right at my face.
“Look at my badge,” I said.
She glanced at it quickly but didn’t lower the gun. Her hand, holding the weapon, began to tremble.
“Why are you back here?” she demanded.
“Would you please lower the gun?”
“Answer my question first.”
“I’m John’s half sister,” I said, the words sounding as if a stranger had spoken them.
She looked at me for a moment, then lowered the pistol to her side.
“He once said he had a half sister.”
“You’re John’s girlfriend?” I asked.
She nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Dana Courson,” she answered.
“Why the gun, Dana?”
“Because I don’t want to get killed, that’s why.”
She stepped forward out of the shadow of the doorway and I could see that she had been crying. She bent down and put the gun in a paper bag at her feet, then stood up and drew her arms around her chest.
