"It was my own fault."
Sugar chuckled. "Usually it's the man that got the worst of it who throws the blame."
"Darryl did get the worst of it."
"If you say so."
"I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble with the police. I'll make sure they know it was my idea to cut him loose."
"Don't worry about it." Sugar shifted his weight and drew Jimmy closer. "Besides, I like a guy who doesn't run to the cops with every little cut and scrape. Most cops won't admit that, but I'm retired, I can tell the truth. When I was in uniform, half the calls I used to get were strictly nuisance beefs: He hit me, she hit me, he called me names, his stereo is too loud. Total waste of time. Even when I became a detective, you'd be amazed at the cases I had to blue-sheet."
"Not Heather Grimm, though. That one wasn't a waste of time."
"No." Sugar shook his head. "That one broke my heart." He cradled Jimmy against his chest. "I thought that's why you were here."
"I'm doing a piece on Garrett Walsh. Sorry, I'm messing you up." Jimmy's nose had opened up again, and blood was dripping onto Sugar's Bermuda shorts.
"Heck, I been bled on before." Sugar brushed off his shorts, grinning as Jimmy disengaged himself, walking on his own now. "Besides, plaid hides everything."
"How-how much farther?"
"Almost there."
Jimmy glanced around at the sleek ocean cruisers on either side of the pier, waxed teakwood and chrome gleaming in the sun. "Nice neighborhood. Yacht city."
Sugar laid a hand on Jimmy's shoulder and caught him as he stumbled. " Yachts-that's a term only we commoners use. The people who pay the luxury taxes call them boats." He had a good laugh, deep and resonant; hearing it made you feel as if you were in on the joke with him, just a couple of old friends out for a stroll. "Here we are," he said, indicating a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, a solid but slightly shabby vessel, paint peeling, the chrome rails flecked with rust. He took Jimmy's arm, guiding him up the gangplank. "Careful. You trip, I'm going to get sued."
"Hello, Sugar!"
Jimmy looked over, saw three girls in bikinis stretched out on the deck of a large yacht-boat, whatever. It was at least an eighty-footer, with three decks and enough electronics gear to signal the Mars lander.
"What happened to your friend?" called a redhead in a polka-dot bikini, her sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead.
"Sports injury." Sugar gave Jimmy a wink.
Seeing the redhead's sunglasses, Jimmy thought of Walsh… remembered the last time he had seen him, the director floating face-down, maggots wriggling in his hair…
Sugar caught Jimmy as he fell and carried him up the gangplank in his arms while Jimmy mumbled apologies. Sugar told him it was no bother at all and laid him down in an aluminum chaise longue. "You rest. I'll be right back."
Jimmy closed his eyes, drifting… then jerked alert and saw Brimley hovering over him.
"Take it easy, I'm not going to hurt you." Brimley's eyes twinkled as he bent down beside Jimmy carrying a basin of water and an ice bucket, a clean white cloth slung over one shoulder, a couple of long-neck beer bottles poking out of his pockets. He pulled up a chaise, ignoring Jimmy's protestations, and began cleaning his face, gently working the edges of the cloth against Jimmy's nose, dabbing at his split lip. The water in the basin reddened as he wrung the cloth out over and over, his movements tender. When he was finished, Brimley emptied the basin over the side, then filled the cloth with ice cubes and handed it to Jimmy. "Keep that against your eye, otherwise it's going to swell shut on you." He opened one of the beers and gave it to Jimmy, then opened the other. He toasted Jimmy with the bottle and stretched out in the warm sunshine on his own chaise, the nylon webbing groaning with his weight. "Life is sweet, huh?"
Jimmy took a tentative sip. The beer burned his torn lip, but it was cold and soothing and he finished half of it in one long swallow. The taste of blood lingered.
"Those are the Whitmore girls," Sugar said, nodding toward the nearby yacht. "They just moved into Daddy's boat for spring break."
Jimmy looked around at the other boats, the sunlight shimmering off the water.
"Not bad for a retired cop, eh?" Sugar grinned at Jimmy, reading his mind. "Like I said, the marina cuts me a deal. Everybody hates to see a cop in their review mirror, but they love living next door to one." He sipped his beer. "What newspaper you work for?"
"Magazine," Jimmy corrected him. "SLAP."
Sugar lifted an eyebrow. "Never heard of it."
"We do lifestyle coverage mostly. Movies and movie stars, TV, fashion."
Sugar puffed out his chest, his teats jiggling slightly against his shirt. "You want to do a fashion spread on me? You should have warned me-I would have gone on a diet."
"Keep eating. I'm doing a retrospective on Garrett Walsh. I thought I'd look you up and see if I could get a new angle. You were-"
"A new angle? Like what? You going to write a happy ending for the son of a seacook?"
"Little late for that." Jimmy squinted in the sun, trying to keep Sugar in focus. "I've read through Walsh's bio, but there's not much information on the crime itself. His plea bargain short-circuited the coverage, so I thought I'd ask you about-"
"How did you find me?" Sugar scratched his belly. "I'm not trying to hide, but I keep a low profile. You must be a real bloodhound."
"Not me. We have people at the magazine who specialize in locating subjects. I don't know how they do it-I just put in a request."
"Wow… put in a request for something, and there you have it." Sugar worked on the beer, smacking his lips. "I thought you might have needed some stitches under that eye, but it doesn't look too bad. You take a pretty good punch."
"I think the idea is to throw a pretty good punch, not take one."
"That's the idea all right." Sugar pulled out an aspirin bottle from his Bermudas and shook a few into his hand. "Four enough? I'll get you some water."
"No, thanks." Jimmy chewed the aspirin, careful to keep them away from his swollen lip. "How did you get the name Sugar? You have a sweet tooth?"
"I do have a sweet tooth, but my mama was the one who gave me the name." Sugar's gaze shifted to the surrounding boats, the distant walkways-not as a series of jumpy glances but as a steady scan of the surroundings, barely moving his head. Brimley might have retired, but he still had cop eyes. "Mama always said you catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar, and she was right about that, like she was right about everything else." He grinned at Jimmy, but Jimmy was drifting on the soft rhythms of Sugar's voice, the boat rolling under them. "Most instructors at the Academy didn't think I had what it took to be a cop-too easygoing, they told me, not aggressive enough. But I knew it wasn't a matter of being a tough guy, throwing your authority around. I got better results with a friendly smile and a sympathetic ear than most of the other uniforms did with a billy. 'Course, me being the large economy size helped, but-" He suddenly grabbed Jimmy's sore shoulder, making him howl. "Hey, stay awake."
Jimmy shook him off and sat up, blinking.
"Falling asleep with a head injury can be fatal. I should take you to the emergency room."
"I'm fine."
"You could have a concussion. I'm a damn fool for giving you alcohol."
Jimmy put down the ice pack. "Why don't we just get out of the sun? That way I could drop dead in the shade." Sugar tried to help, but Jimmy waved him away and followed him into the cabin. Jimmy looked around the main cabin before sitting down on one of the two armchairs. He wanted to get out of the sun, but he also wanted to get into Sugar's living space. He needed the retired cop's cooperation, and for that he needed to get inside the man's head.
The main room was small and compact-if Sugar stood on tiptoes, his head would graze the ceiling. But it was clean and neat, with recessed lamps, hardwood floors, and a flat-screen television. The small galley contained a stainless-steel two-burner and a built-in mini-fridge, an espresso maker, and a microwave. A bowl of ripe mangoes w
as on the counter, next to a half-eaten, store-bought apple pie with a fork resting inside the aluminum pie plate.
He had expected to see the usual career memorabilia on the walls: badges and commendations, framed news clips and photographs of himself taken with the chief or the mayor, maybe a movie star, but there wasn't anything like that. Either Sugar didn't have much of an ego, or he wanted to forget all about his former career. Or maybe he had simply moved on to better things. The decor confirmed that impression. The walls were covered with framed photographs of Brimley holding up fish: bone-fishing near Key West, standing with a near-record tarpon off the Gulf Coast, small fish, large fish. His grin remained goofy and thrilled, and his nose was perpetually peeling. The biggest photo showed him standing beside a nine-foot sailfish hanging off a yardarm.
"Nice-looking black marlin," said Jimmy. "Baja?"
"You know your fish and your fishing holes," said Sugar, pleased. "Seven hundred and eight pounds." He tapped the photo with a thick forefinger. "Hooked him at dusk, and it was nearly midnight before I landed him. A real fighter. Thought I was going to have a heart attack out there on the Sea of Cortez."
Jimmy looked toward the interior of the boat, wondering if Sugar had a wall big enough to mount the marlin.
Sugar shook his head. "Taxidermist lost it," he said, reading Jimmy's mind again. "You believe that? I kept calling and calling for three months, and all I got was 'Sorry, senor, next week, por favor.' Maybe I am too easygoing for my own good. Probably sold it to some rich norteamericano who wouldn't know a marlin from a mackerel."
"Every fisherman has a story about the one who got away. At least you have proof."
"Never thought of it that way. I like that." Sugar sat down in the other armchair and turned it to face Jimmy. His skin was ruddy from the sun, his shanks freckled-he was one of those big white guys who would never tan, only blister, but loved the outdoors anyway. "You ever been to Brazil? I hear the fishing's great down there."
"Never had the pleasure."
"They say you can live off the land-fish in the ocean and fruit on the trees." Sugar nodded. "With my pension… a man can dream, I guess. You sure your head's okay?"
"I read that Walsh actually answered the door when you rang the bell. Did you identify yourself as a police officer first?"
"I guess you're well enough to ask questions."
Jimmy smiled back at him, a couple of grinny-Guses knowing how the game was played. "I'm doing okay. It feels good in here, Sugar. Cozy."
"Thanks. I don't get many visitors, but it suits me. By the way, I did ID myself to Walsh. Standard procedure. I may not be smart, but I know enough to follow the rules."
Jimmy stretched out, his feet almost touching Sugar's well-worn deck shoes. "Walsh opened the door anyway? Covered with blood-"
"He was a mess. Blood… everywhere."
"But he opened the door to a cop. You didn't find that odd?"
Sugar beamed. "I'll tell you a story. True story. My first month on traffic duty, fresh on the job, I make a stop on Pier Street, Mustang convertible driving erratically. It was a Thursday night, streetlights just coming on. I walk up to the car, ticket book in my hand, the full weight and authority of the city of Hermosa Beach behind me, and I see that the driver is… well, he's having a sex act performed on him by the young lady in the passenger seat. Driver just hands me his license. The lady-she doesn't even come up for air. I fill out the ticket, my hand shaking I'm writing so fast. The young lady is sitting up now, checking her lipstick in the mirror like I'm not even there. I tell the driver to watch where he's going in the future, and he promises me he will. Then he drives off." Sugar shook his head. "I learned right there that some people don't have the same respect for the law that police officers do. The night I came knocking on Walsh's door, he was messed up pretty bad on drugs. I think he was in a state of shock, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he had been cold sober opening the door for me, showing me what he had done. That's just the way it is. If people act the way you expect them to act, there wouldn't be any need for police." He winked at Jimmy. "Or reporters."
Chapter 21
Helen Katz rapped on the front door of the Cortez home, a firm knock but not her usual triple-bang that sent the residents scrambling to answer. Deaf, dumb, and blind, you knew that there was a cop at the door when Katz came calling. Right now though, she was feeling kindly toward Mrs. Cortez and didn't feel the need to jump-start her heart. The woman had been through enough, and it was only going to get worse.
"Si?" Mrs. Cortez peered through the steel webbing of the security screen, a short, stocky woman with neatly pinned gray hair and a long-sleeved black dress-mourning clothes for her younger son. Katz's first partner had told her that if she ever wanted to get rich, she should go into business selling funeral dresses to the barrio mamacitas. The paunchy twenty-year vet had looked over at her, grinning. Even fresh out of the Academy and needing a good report, she had looked right through him until he turned away, muttering.
"I'm Detective Katz, senora. Hablas ingles? "
Mrs. Cortez turned away, said something to someone inside, and a teenage girl joined her at the door. Her daughter-Katz recognized her from the drive-by crime scene of Luis Cortez last week. She had been wearing bright orange soccer shorts at the time. This morning she wore a more subdued beaded peasant dress with a black woven choker around her slender brown neck. Her dark eyes were older than her years. "May I help you?" Her voice was soft as flowers.
"I'm Detective Katz. I was the officer-"
"I know who you are," said the girl, opening the door. "Please come in. My name is Estella." She nodded as Katz stepped inside. "Mama!" She conferred with her mother for a moment, then Mrs. Cortez smiled at Katz and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Please, detective, make yourself comfortable." Estella indicated a worn blue-leather sofa, then waited until Katz had sat down before sitting down herself, smoothing her dress as she did so. "We are very glad to see you."
Katz looked around, confused, but the house was quiet-only the sound of water running in the kitchen disturbed the silence. The living room was clean and organized, with a sofa and two matching leather chairs that faced the television, a new thirty-one-inch Panasonic. An ornate wooden crucifix hung on one wall, next to a velvet painting of Cesar Chavez waving in triumph. On the opposite wall was a velvet painting of a muscular Aztec warrior holding an obsidian lance, his expression proud and threatening. In the far corner of the room was a small round table with a framed photograph of Luis Cortez flanked by two flickering votive candles. Luis was thirteen when he was murdered-the photo was recent, his seventh-grade portrait probably, Luis at his desk, hands folded, a mischievous smile on his face, his eyes silky.
"He was a beautiful boy, yes?"
"Yes," said Katz.
"Yes." Estella nodded. "We thank you for coming to the funeral."
"I'm sorry." Katz felt tongue-tied in the girl's presence, wishing that the mother would return. "I'm looking for Paulo."
"Paulo is here last night," Mrs. Cortez said from the doorway, a tray of cookies in her hands. "Toda la noche."
"Mrs. Cortez…" Katz turned to Estella. "I didn't mention anything about last night. Your mother is giving him an alibi before I even asked for one."
"Paulo here toda la noche," Mrs. Cortez repeated, setting the cookies on the coffee table in front of Katz.
"Last night three Latin Princes were shot to death while sitting in their car outside a taqueria in East Anaheim. These men-we believe they were the ones who killed Luis."
Mrs. Cortez crossed herself as she walked back into the kitchen.
Katz took a bite of a cookie. It was a plain biscuit covered with colored sugar. "The man who killed the three Latin Princes…" She wiped crumbs off her lips, remembering the last time she had seen Luis's older brother, Paulo, a huge nineteen-year-old in knee-length cutoffs and Pendleton. He had glowered at her from across the street at the crime scene, arms folded across his chest, his
powerful neck and forearms laced with tattoos. "This man-his description fits Paulo."
"As my mother said, detective, Paulo was home all last night."
"I'm glad to hear that." Katz finished the cookie, reached for another. "It was a nasty shooting. The Princes were drinking beer in their Buick when someone pulled up, leaned out the driver's side, and emptied the clip on an AK-47." She chewed with her mouth open. "Armor-piercing rounds. Swiss-cheesed the Buick something awful."
"I am sorry for their families," said Estella.
"Que lastima," agreed Mrs. Cortez, setting a tray on the table. She poured red hibiscus tea into a cup, dropped in a couple of sugar cubes without asking, and handed it to Katz.
Katz put the cup down without tasting it and reached for another cookie. "You say Paulo stayed home last. That's good to hear." She took a bite. "So… where is he?"
Mrs. Cortez sipped her tea, then spoke to her daughter, who translated.
"My mother says Paulo left early this morning. She does not know where he went. To look for work, perhaps."
"I don't think so." Katz licked her lips, sugar granules drifting onto her lap. "After the shoot-up at the taqueria, I had a unit parked down the street watching this house. They were there all night, and they didn't see anyone leave."
Estella listened to her mother. "Paulo sometimes sneaks out the back. He is worried about being"-she searched for the word-"am-bushed by the Latin Princes. He must have gone out through the back alley."
"I had the alley watched too."
Mrs. Cortez spoke again. She didn't raise her voice, but her eyes watching Katz were small and hard.
"My mother says your fine police officers must have fallen asleep and missed seeing him. She hopes you are not too harsh with them. It was a warm night."
Katz brushed crumbs off her lap. "It would be better for Paulo if the police found him before the Latin Princes."
Mrs. Cortez spoke rapidly as she stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the cup.
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