Scavenger hunt

by Robert Ferrigno

  Estella blushed. "My mother-she thanks you for your concern. She will tell Paulo that you wish to speak with him."

  Katz stared at the photograph of Luis Cortez and wondered where that shy knowing smile had come from. "Estella, you know what's going to happen to your brother if he doesn't turn himself in. Make your mother understand that you two could also be in danger."

  "God will provide."

  "What happens if the Latin Princes don't believe in God?"

  "Everyone believes in God, detective."

  Katz shook her head, then laid her business card on the table. "Call me if you change your mind. My pager is always on." She grabbed a couple more cookies as she stood up.

  Mrs. Cortez stood up too and spoke to Estella.

  "My mother thanks you very much for sending Senor Jaime to talk with us. It-it was a very rare occasion for us."

  Mrs. Cortez took Katz's hand and squeezed it between her two palms, ignoring the cookies crumbling onto the carpet. "Gracias."

  "I don't understand," said Katz, feeling the heat of Mrs. Cortez's hands.

  "Muchas gracias." Mrs. Cortez let her go.

  "Mr. Jaime-he said you sent him. He asked about Luis. He wanted to know everything. We spent the whole afternoon together. All of us cried. Me, my mother, Mr. Jaime. Even Paulo, who pretended it was the dust in the air making his eyes water."

  "I didn't send anyone to talk with you."

  "Mr. Jaime said he was a writer for a magazine-"

  "SLAP." Mrs. Cortez acted like it was funny. She lightly slapped her own cheek. "SLAP."

  "Jimmy's writing about Luis?"

  Estella nodded. "He said he wanted people to know who Luis was. To put a face on the killing, to show what the world had lost." She was crying again. "He said he wanted everyone who read about Luis-he wanted them to feel what we feel-to feel the weight of a stone in their heart."

  Mrs. Cortez nodded, her eyes ferocious. She had cried herself dry. Katz might as well take her card back-no way they were going to turn in Paulo.

  "Mr. Jaime-we can trust him, yes?" asked Estella.

  Katz turned over the idea of Jimmy tracking down the Cortez family, facing off against a desperate and grieving Paulo to write a story about a boy who was just a statistic, a kid whose death didn't even make the local TV news. "Yes, you can trust him."

  Chapter 22

  "Where's your bathroom?"

  "First door on the left," said Brimley, pointing. "And it's called the head."

  "Aye-aye, captain." Jimmy was still unsteady on his feet, but he made it into the narrow corridor, one hand on the wall, closing the door behind him. There was no lock. He ran cold water in the small sink and gingerly splashed his face. His reflection wasn't pretty-his right eye was swollen and purple, and dried blood was crusted over his eyebrow. He rinsed his mouth out and spat into the basin. He hadn't come in here to wash his face or use the toilet, though; he was interested in what Sugar's bathroom looked like. Private zones revealed more than a mirror.

  Brimley said he had been greeted at the door of the cottage by a disoriented Garrett Walsh. The director had been wearing an open purple robe and was clutching a gold statuette caked with blood. Brimley hadn't even recognized the statue as an Oscar. He had quietly taken it away from Walsh, peeling away the man's fingers while Walsh mumbled apologies. Jimmy had already read that in the official transcript, but a few minutes ago Brimley had added that Walsh had wiped his hands on his robe and offered to do a PSA warning kids against using drugs. Brimley had shaken his head when he told Jimmy, still amazed after all these years.

  The room was small and wood-lined, just a sink and commode, a stall shower with a bathing-beauties curtain. A single rectangular window was slightly propped open, looking out at the furled sails of the boat next door. The rack next to the commode contained recent issues of Deep Sea Fishing, Power Boating, Travel and Leisure, Play-boy, and Gourmet. He glanced at the door, then carefully opened the medicine cabinet, coughing to cover the squeak. Colgate toothpaste, a toothbrush with wild boar bristles, mint-flavored dental floss, aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, eyedrops, a double-edged razor, and Aqua Velva after shave. No hair dye. No denture cream. No prescription bottles. Nothing that would indicate high blood pressure, ulcers, colitis, diabetes, rickets, or scurvy. Sugar was healthy as a bull elk.

  He checked the window again-it was small, but there was room enough to wiggle through. He instinctively checked for ways in and out of places, marked exits and unmarked ones. His first job in journalism had been at a free rock magazine; without press credentials or credibility, Jimmy had learned how to bypass concert security, regularly sneaking backstage, sitting in on closed soundchecks. A conservative three-piece suit and a briefcase allowed him to blow past rent-a-cops; Jimmy simply declared himself the band's attorney and kept walking. He enjoyed the subterfuge more than the music. Jimmy flushed the toilet and opened the door. He smelled coffee.

  "Thought you could use this," said Brimley, handing him a mug. "You look like a black coffee type to me."

  "Good guess." Jimmy blew steam off and took a sip, favoring his lip.

  "My personal blend-half Hawaiian, half French roast." Brimley drank from his own mug. "You talked to anybody else about the case?"

  "Not yet."

  "The assistant DA could probably tell you more than I can. He was looking over my shoulder before I even finished my report. Can't blame him; from an investigative standpoint, it was pretty open and shut."

  "I'm more interested in the crime scene itself-what you saw, what you did. Even though it was open and shut, forensics still got a workout, right?"

  Brimley stared at him. "What are you getting at?"

  "I'm just asking questions, Sugar, trying to get a sense of things- an immediacy that was missing from most of the newspaper accounts. You were hardly quoted at all."

  Brimley leaned against the counter. Backlit from the window behind him, tiny red hairs were visible at the edges of his ear canal. "I was under orders to run all requests through the public information officer and the DA's office. Bosses were afraid I was getting too much attention, and to tell you the truth, that was fine with me. I was never a glory hog."

  Jimmy sat down, dizzy again. "The man who called in the noise complaint that night-the screams-I was hoping to interview him, but I couldn't find his name in any of the news accounts."

  "You find him, let me know-I'd like to buy him a prime rib dinner."

  "He never came forward?"

  Brimley shook his head. "Sometimes an anonymous tip wants to remain anonymous. The tabloids put out a reward for him to come forward and tell his story, but all they got was crackpots and phonies."

  "Hermosa Beach has Caller ID on their 911 system, don't they?"

  "Call came in from a pay phone a couple blocks away. We figured it was somebody out walking their dog-jogging or roller-skating maybe." Sugar eyed the apple pie on the counter. "I canvased the area, but nothing came of it."

  "Interesting that a jogger heard screams from the house but not the neighbors."

  "You did your homework, I like that. Neighbor on one side was out of town, people on the other side had their air-conditioning turned up. I never cared much for air-conditioning myself. Not natural. Besides, a little sweat never hurt anybody."

  Jimmy carefully sipped his coffee, biding his time. Getting beaten up had given him an advantage; there was no way Brimley was going to rush him now, and Jimmy had learned that letting someone help you was one of the best ways to ensure their cooperation. He often started difficult interviews with a simple request: a glass of water, an aspirin, a pen to use in place of his own, which had "suddenly" gone dry. Brimley was easy; he was helpful by nature. Jimmy crossed his legs, winced.

  "You all right?"

  "I'm not going to be dancing the tango for a few days, but I'm fine."

  "Tango-that's the national dance of Brazil. Gosh, I'd love to see Rio."

  "Argentina," Jimmy corrected him. "Brazil is more like the samba,
bossa nova."

  " 'Blame it on the bossa nova,'" Brimley singsonged, snapping his fingers, his voice light as he danced around the kitchen, holding an invisible partner around the waist.

  Jimmy had to laugh at the big man's smooth moves and his self-assurance in showing them off, not caring what anyone thought. It made him like the old cop. "You should take a trip to Brazil. A friend of mine was born and raised in Rio-she's a travel agent. I could put you in touch with her. She'll get you there cheap, find you a hotel on the water, and line you up with some great fishing. She knows everybody."

  "I might just take you up on that. Brazil. They have fish down there I've only read about, game fish that put my marlin to shame." Brimley sat down, beaming now. "What's your name again? Jimmy who?"

  "Gage."

  "Jimmy Gage. I know that name. You did something a while ago- I remember seeing you on TV." Brimley stared at Jimmy, nodded. "You saved a cop's life. That was it. I don't remember what you did exactly, but it was a big deal."

  "Right place, right time, that's all."

  "That's plenty." Brimley patted Jimmy's knee. "Sorry you had to take your lumps, but meeting you sure turned out lucky for me. I don't usually get to meet a genuine hero."

  Jimmy let the hero crap pass. "You must have been born under a good sign, Sugar. 'One Lucky Cop'-that was the headline in the News-Herald the next day. They said you were on your way home after your shift change when the call came."

  "We still used two-way radios back then. Now calls come in to squad cars on the computer. Whole new world."

  "I just thought it was strange for a detective to follow up on a noise complaint himself."

  "Hermosa is a small department; we covered for each other whenever we could, and I've never been one to stand on ceremony. The nearest squad car that evening was investigating a report of gunshots fired, and I was in the area." Brimley shrugged. "Don't think those two uniforms didn't rub it in; they should have been the one getting the commendation and their picture in the paper, not me. 'One Lucky Cop'-gee whiz, I thought I'd never live it down."

  Jimmy laughed along with him, but not too hard. His head did hurt.

  "Maybe I should take you home. We can get together when you're feeling better."

  "Just let me sit here a few more minutes."

  "Stay as long as you want."

  "One thing I never understood. Was what Heather Grimm was doing in Hermosa, anyway? She lived in Whittier. Why didn't she go to Huntington? It's closer, and it's a better beach too."

  "If you want help figuring out the mind of a fifteen-year-old girl, you're on your own."

  "That's what I mean, she was fifteen. She wouldn't go to the beach by herself. She was too young to drive. So who drove her there?"

  "I asked her mother the same thing myself. She said Heather drove herself to Hermosa Beach that day. It wasn't legal, but neither is tossing a gum wrapper on the sidewalk. Mrs. Grimm was raising Heather on her own, working double shifts as a waitress, doing her best. Heather used to drop her mama off at the restaurant around eleven, then pick her up again at ten that evening. Mrs. Grimm said most days Heather went to the beach, she took a girlfriend or two along for company. No boys, Mama was adamant about that-no boys in the house when she wasn't there, no boys in the car."

  "Did you talk to any of her girlfriends?"

  "Mrs. Grimm is dead now. Less than a year after Heather was killed. Officially she overdosed on her prescription medicine, but if you ask me, she died of a broken heart. That girl was her whole world."

  Jimmy remembered the crime scene photos of Heather Grimm, her skull shattered, bone and brain matter on the carpet. Mrs. Grimm would have had to identify the body too. Yes, that's my daughter.

  "You okay, Jimmy? You don't look so good again."

  Jimmy cleared his throat. "You said forensics gave the scene the full treatment."

  "We're back to forensics?" Brimley chuckled. "I need a scorecard with you."

  Jimmy put the ice pack against his face again. "Did they find any prints that didn't belong to either Walsh or Heather Grimm?"

  "Plenty. Cleaning lady, furniture movers-some of the actors working on that film of his, the last one, whatever it was called. I guess they had a party one time. The crime scene detail said they hoovered enough cocaine out of the rugs to-"

  "What about Mick Packard? Did you find his prints there?"

  Brimley did a mock karate chop. "Marvelous Mick? I don't remember. I like that guy's movies. Whatever happened to him?"

  "I may be seeing him in a few days. If you want, I'll get his autograph for you. He'd probably be thrilled."

  "That's all right. After the Heather Grimm case… let's just say I lost my respect for Hollywood. All those pretty faces getting interviewed, talking about what a talent Walsh was-it made me sick."

  "The crime scene report just said the prints of 'persons known and unknown' had been found in the cottage."

  "You say you're writing a story about Walsh, but you keep asking questions about fingerprints and Mick Packard, and did I do this and did I do that." Brimley scratched his head. "I guess I'm confused. What's going on?"

  Jimmy loved the head-scratching routine, the prelude to the amiable old cop asking for help. "I know I'm not making a lot of sense." He shifted the ice pack slightly. "Maybe we can talk more when I'm feeling better. We could get together at Walsh's beach house. You could take me on a walkaround. I'd really appreciate-"

  "I'd like to help, but I got no special pull with the new owners. A few years ago one of those True Police Stories TV shows was going to do a reenactment, but they couldn't get permission to film inside the cottage. Not for love or money. The people who owned it said any kind of publicity just drove down their property value. Can't blame them-no one wants to be reminded that they're living in a slaughterhouse."

  "We could do it outside then. Just being there with you, talking about what happened that night-you've got a perspective that no one else does."

  Brimley was looking out the window again, lost in thought.

  "I want people to know what you saw when Walsh opened the door, what you saw when you walked inside."

  Brimley turned to face him, and Jimmy glimpsed the other side of the sweetness, the weight and power held in check. "It's all in my report. Isn't that good enough for you?"

  "I trust a cop's memory more than any report he wrote for the brass. The question is, Sugar, do you trust me? Do you trust me to do right by you? And do right by Heather Grimm too? I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I'm sure you've been burned by reporters before- everybody has. I could sit here trying to convince you that I'm worth your time and your trust, but I'm going to go home, lie down on the couch, and watch a ball game. When we get together again, I hope we can do it at the beach house."

  Brimley chewed it over and finally nodded. "Don't pin me down on a time and date, though. The bluefin are running off San Luis Obispo, and I promised myself I'd get me one."

  "You call the shots. Oh yeah, one more thing."

  Brimley's eyes narrowed, his instincts sharp enough to know he wasn't going to like it.

  "When we do the walkaround at the beach house, would you mind bringing your notes?"

  "You can get them from legal affairs. Just put in a written request."

  "I meant your field notes."

  Sugar laughed. "You want to see my tax returns and high-school transcript too?"

  "I'm trying to get it right, Sugar. You don't have to show me the notes. Having them along might help put you back to what you saw, what you felt that night, the little details that didn't make it into the official report. You don't have to commit yourself now. Just bring them along. You can decide then if you trust me with them."

  "I bet most folks have a hard time telling you no."

  "Look who's talking."

  Brimley shared a tiny smile with him. "I'll give you a call in a week or so, but don't get your hopes up about the notes. Hero or no hero."

  Jimmy left his card on
the coffee table and stood up. "Call me anytime, day or night." They shook hands, Jimmy feeling lost in Brimley's grip.

  "Let me give you a ride home."

  "I'm okay to drive." Jimmy had to hang on to the counter. He had stood up too fast.

  "I'll take you home. You can get a buddy to bring you back here tomorrow and pick up your wheels."

  Jimmy sat down again and rested his head in his hands.

  Brimley patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on your car for you. What are you driving?"

  Chapter 23

  "I don't know how you found me, but make it snappy," said Lashonda, pacing, a black wireless microphone dangling from her earpiece. All twelve phone lines on her board were blinking. "You got five minutes, and that's only 'cause you say you going to write something nice about Sugar."

  Jimmy followed her as she walked her spacious living room in Pacific Palisades, the house a half-acre view property with a swimming pool and a tennis court. "You were the police dispatcher who took that 911 call on the Heather Grimm homicide."

  "Weren't no homicide call." Lashonda listened to her earpiece as the board switched lines again. It was on a thirty-second interval- Jimmy had timed it. "It was a four one five domestic disturbance call. Wasn't till Sugar got there, it turned into a homicide call."

  "Right."

  "What happened to your face? You ask somebody a question they didn't like?"

  Jimmy smiled, and it hurt. One side of his face was still swollen from his pick-up basketball game with the Butcher, his eye blackened. "The reason that Sugar took the call that night-"

  "'Cause lazyass Reese and Hargrove was on another call and wasn't in no hurry to take a four one five. Sugar broke in, told me he was in the area. Everybody knows that." Lashonda peered at Jimmy over her half-glasses, a well-dressed, smooth-skinned black woman with four-inch nails and a turban of hair rising high above her head. "You wasting my time."

  "Sugar was off shift. Did he jump in like that very often?"

  "Teresa, you blowing it," Lashonda said, talking to someone on the end of the microphone. "The client wants to talk about himself, and you keep bringing up your own damn aura." She looked at Jimmy. "Why you asking how many times Sugar grabbed calls after he went off shift?"