Elvis Cole 06 – Sunset Express – Crais, Robert

*

PROLOGUE:

The sky above the San Fernando Valley that Saturday morning was a deep blue, washed clean of the dirt and chemical particulates that typically color L. A. air by a breeze that burbled out of the San Gabriel Mountains and over the flat valley floor and across the high ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains. Mulholland Drive snakes, along the crest of the Santa Monicas, and, if you were walking alorig Mulholland as Sandra Bernson and her father were doing that morning, you would have been able to look south almost forty miles across the Los Angeles basin to the tip of the Long Beach Peninsula or north some thirty-five miles across the San Fernando Valley and through the Newhall Pass to the deep purples of the Santa Susana mountains and the peaks surrounding Lake Castaic. It was a day of unusual clarity, the far horizons magnified as if by some rare trick of optical law that might even allow you to see into the lives of the sleeping millions in the valleys below. Sandra Bernson later said that as she watched the small private airplanes floating into and out of Van Nuys Airport in the center of the valley that morning, she imagined them to be flying carpets. On mornings like these, she later said, it was easy to believe in magic. Sandra was a fifteen-year-old honor student at the prestigious Harvard-Westlake School, and her father, Dave Bernson, was a television writer and producer of moderate success, then working as the supervising producer of a popular series on the Fox Television network.

The Bernsons lived in a contemporary home on a small private road off Mulholland Drive in Sherman Oaks, approximately one mile west of Beverly Glen, and they left their home at exactly 6:42 that morning. Both Sandra and Dave were able to tell investigators their exact departure time because it was Dave’s habit to call out when their walks began so that they could time themselves. They intended to walk east along Mulholland to Warren Beatty’s home approximately one mile east of Beverly Glen, where they planned to reverse course and return. Their typical walk would cover four miles round-trip and take almost exactly fifty minutes. On this particular Saturday, however, they never made it to Beatty’s and they didn’t complete the walk.

On this Saturday, Sandra Bernson saw the deer.

They proceeded east from their home, climbing one of Mulholland’s steeper grades to a high, flat stretch of road abreast Stone Canyon Reservoir. That was Sandra’s favorite part of the walk because she could see the valley to the north and the reservoir to the south, and just before they came to Beverly Glen Canyon they would reach the Stone Canyon overlook. The overlook is built into the top of a little knoll there beside Mulholland, with manicured walks and observation points and benches if you want to sit and admire what realtors like to call a 36o-degree jetliner view. Sandra remembers that as she and her father reached the top of the overlook she saw the deer creeping up from the valley side of Mulholland, sniffing and listening, and she whispered to her father, ‘Look, Dad!’

‘Mule deer. See the size of his ears? It’s a buck, but he’s already shed his horns. See the knobs above his eyes?’

The deer heard them. It looked in their direction, its huge ears cocked forward, and then it bounded across Mulholland and the overlook’s little parking lot and disappeared. Sandra said, ‘I wanna see where he goes!’

She slid across the overlook’s low wall and ran to the edge of the knoll just as the buck vanished near a cut in the slope that had caught a lot of dead brush and beer cans and newspapers and brown plastic garbage bags. Dave arrived at her side a moment later. Everything caught by the cut looked old and dusty and weathered as if it had been there for a very long time, except for the garbage bags. They looked shiny and new, and Sandra was using them as a landmark to point out to Dave where she had last seen the mule deer when she saw the hand sticking out of the bags. The nail polish was very red and seemed to gleam in the breathtakingly clear morning sun.

It never entered Dave’s mind that the hand might be a movie prop or belong to a mannequin; the moment he saw it he knew it was real. It looked real, and it also looked dead. Dave recalls that he considered working his way down to the body, but then says that he remembered things like clues and evidence, and so he led his daughter back to Mulholland where they flagged down a passing Westec private security car. The security cop, a twenty-eight year old ex-Marine named Chris Bell, parked his unit and went to see for himself, then returned to his car and reported the find to the Westec offices. In less than eight minutes, two LAPD patrol units arrived on the scene. The uniforms observed the hand protruding from the plastic, but, as had Dave Bernson, decided not to venture down the slope. The uniforms relayed their observations in code by radio, then secured the area to await the arrival of the detectives.

Dave Bernson offered to wait also, but by that time Sandra had to pee really bad, so one of the uniforms drove them home. Forty minutes after Sandra Bernson and her father were returned to their home, and thirty-nine minutes after Sandra began calling her friends just as quickly as she could to tell them about this incredibly gross thing that had just happened, the first detective unit arrived on the scene.

Detective Sergeant Dan ‘Tommy’ Tomsic and Detective-two Angela Rossi were in the first car. Tomsic was a powerfully built man who’d spent a dozen years on the street before making the transfer to detectives. He had almost thirty years on the job, and he viewed the world through suspicious, unblinking eyes. Angela Rossi was thirty-four years old, with twelve years on the job, and had been Tomsic’s partner for only five weeks. Rossi spoke her mind, was entirely too confrontational, and, because of this, she had trouble keeping partners. So far Tomsic didn’t seem bothered, but that was probably because he ignored her.

Eleven minutes after the first car, the senior detectives arrived on the scene. Detective Sergeant Lincoln Gibbs was a tall, thin African-American with mocha-colored skin, a profoundly receding hairline, and tortoise-shell spectacles. He looked like a college professor, which was a look he cultivated. He had twenty-eight years on the job, less than Tomsic, but more time in grade as a detective sergeant, so Linc Gibbs would be in charge. He arrived with Detective-three Pete Bishop, a twenty-two-year veteran with an M. A. in psychology and five divorces. Bishop rarely spoke, but was known to make copious notes, which he referred to often. He had a measured IQ of 178 and a drinking problem. He was currently in twelve-step.

The four detectives got the story from the uniforms and the Westec cop, then went to the edge of the overlook and stared down at the hand. Gibbs said, ‘Anybody been down there?’

One of the uniforms said, ‘No, sir. It’s undisturbed.’

The detectives searched the ground for anything that might present itself as evidence – scuff marks, drops of blood, footprints, that kind of thing. There were none. They could see the path that the body had followed as it slid down the slope. Scuffs on the soil, broken and bent plants, dislodged rocks. Linc followed the trail with his eyes and figured that the body had been dumped from a point just at the rear of the parking lot. The body was between twelve and fifteen yards down a damned steep slope. Someone would have to go down, and that presented certain problems. You wouldn’t want to follow the same path as the body because that might disturb evidence. That meant they’d have to find another route, only everything else was steeper and the drop-off more pronounced. Linc was thinking that it might take mountaineering gear when Angela Rossi said, ‘I can get down there.’

The three male detectives looked at her.

‘I’ve done some rock climbing in Chatsworth and I work terrain like this all the time when I’m backpacking.’ She pointed out her route. ‘I can work my way down the slide over there, then traverse back and come up under the body. No sweat.’

Dan Tomsic said, ‘That goddamned soil is like sand. It won’t hold your weight.’

‘It’s no sweat, Dan. Really.’

Rossi looked like the athletic type, and Gibbs knew that she had run in the last two L. A. marathons. Tomsic sucked down three packs a day and Bishop had the muscle tone of Jell-O. Rossi was also fifteen years younger than the rest of them, and she wanted to go. Gibbs gave his permission, told her to take the camera, and Angela Rossi went back to the car to trade her Max Avante pumps for a busted-out pair of New Balance running shoes. She reappeared a minute later, and Gibbs, Tomsic, and the others watched as she worked her way down to the body. Tomsic frowned as he watched, but Gibbs nodded in approval – Rossi seemed graceful and confident in her movements. Tomsic was praying that she wouldn’t lose her balance and break her damned neck – one slip and she’d flop ass over teapot another sixty or eighty yards down the slope.

Down below, Rossi never once entertained the notion that she might fall. She was feeling absolutely confident and more than a little jazzed that it was she who had taken the lead in recovering the body. If you took the lead you got the promotions, and Rossi made no secret that she wanted to become LAPD’s first female chief of detectives. It was a goal she had aggressively pursued since her days at the academy and, though there had been what she called her Big Setback, she still hoped that she could get her career back on track and pull it off.

When Rossi reached the body, she could smell it. The sun was rising and the dark plastic was heating quickly and holding the heat. As water evaporated from the body it collected on the plastic’s inner surface, and, Rossi knew, it would be humid and damp inside the bag. The victim’s abdomen would swell and the gases of decay would vent. Decomposition had begun.

Linc called down to her, ‘Try not to move the body. Just take the snaps and peel back the bags.’

Rossi used the Polaroid to fix the body’s position for the record, then pulled on rubber surgical gloves and touched the wrist, checking for a pulse. She knew that there would be none, but she had to check anyway. The skin was pliant but the muscles beneath were stiff. Rigor.

Rossi couldn’t see much, as yet, but the body appeared intact and double-bagged in two dark brown plastic garbage bags. The bags were secured around the body with silver duct tape, but the job appeared to have been done hastily. The bags had parted and the hand had plopped out. Angela Rossi peeled the bags apart to expose the shoulder and head of a blonde Caucasian woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. The woman was clothed in what looked like a pale blue Banana Republic T-shirt that was splattered with blood. The woman’s left eye was open but her right eye was closed, and the tip of her tongue protruded between small, perfect teeth. The hair on the back and right side of her head was ropey and matted with blood. Much of the blood was dried, but there was a shiny, wet quality to much of it, also. The skull at that portion of the hair appeared depressed and dark, and brain matter and ridges of white skull were obvious. The woman’s nose was straight and her features rectangular and contoured. In life, she would’ve been pretty. Angela Rossi had an immediate sense that the woman looked familiar.

Tomsic yelled down, ‘Don’t pitch a goddamned tent down there. What’s the deal?’

Rossi hated it when he spoke to her that way, but she clenched her jaw and took it. She’d been taking it more and smarting off less since the Big Setback. Anything to resurrect the career. She called back without looking at them. ‘Caucasian female. Early thirties. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head.’ She pushed the garbage bag back farther, exposing the victim’s head and shoulders. She saw no additional injuries and wanted to peel back the bags even farther, but was concerned that the body would dislodge and tumble down the slope, possibly taking her with it. She took more pictures, then said, ‘The blood around the wound appears to be tacky, and it’s wet in some spots. She hasn’t been here long.’

Bishop said, ‘Lividity?’

‘A little, but it could be bruising.’

Above her, Linc Gibbs was growing impatient with all the conversation. He didn’t like Rossi perched on such a steep slope, and he wanted to call in the criminalist. He said, ‘What about a weapon?’ Murderers almost always dumped the murder weapon with the body.

He watched Rossi lean across the body and feel around the bags. She moved out of sight twice, and each time he tasted acid because he thought she’d fallen. Another Tagamed day. He remembers that he was just getting ready to ask her what in hell was taking so long when she said, ‘Don’t see anything, but it could be under the body or in the bag.’

Gibbs nodded. ‘Leave it for the criminalist. Take some more pix and get back up here.’

Rossi took the remainder of the roll, then worked her way back up the slope. When she reached the top, the others crowded around to see the pictures. All of the male detectives pulled out reading glasses except for Gibbs, who wore bifocals.

One of the uniformed cops said, ‘Hey. She looks like somebody.’

Rossi said, ‘I thought so, too.’

She didn’t look like anyone to Gibbs. ‘You guys recognize her?’

Bishop was turning the pictures round and round, as if seeing the victim from every possible view was important. All the turning was making Tomsic nauseated. Bishop said, ‘Her name is Susan Martin.’

The Westec cop said, ‘Holy Christ, you’re right. Teddy Martin’s wife.’

All four detectives looked at him.

The Westec cop said, ‘They live right over here in Benedict Canyon. It’s on my route.’ Benedict Canyon was less than one mile from the overlook.

Gibbs said, ‘I’ll be damned.’

The four detectives later testified that they thought pretty much the same thing at the same time. Teddy Martin meant money and, more important than money, political power, and that meant the case would require special handling. Dan Tomsic remembers thinking that he wished he had called in sick that day so some other asshole would’ve answered the call. Special cases always meant special trouble, and investigating officers almost always caught the short end of the deal. Teddy Martin was a rich boy who’d made himself even richer,- a successful restaurateur and businessman who used his wealth to cultivate friends and social position and notoriety. He was always having dinner with city councilmen and movie stars, and he was always in the newspaper for giving millions of dollars to all the right causes. Tomsic knew the name because Teddy Martin had opened a new theme restaurant with a couple of movie star partners that his wife had been nagging him to take her to. He’d been foot-dragging because he knew it’d cost sixty bucks for a couple of pieces of fish just so the wife could eyeball some second-rate movie props and maybe some closet-fag actor. Tomsic hated guys like Teddy Martin, but he kept it to himself. Guys like Teddy Martin were headline grabbers and almost always phonies, but a phony with the right connections could end your career.

Pete Bishop said, ‘It’s gonna be a headliner. We’d better call the boss.’

Gibbs said, ‘Use your cell phone. You put it on the radio, we’ll have media all over us. Tommy, see if there’s anything on the wire.’

Angela Rossi walked with Tomsic and Bishop back to their units. Fine soil and foxtails had worked down into her running shoes and between her toes, so she sat in the backseat of her radio car and cleaned her feet with a Handiwipe before changing back into her Max Avantes. While she sat in the car, Tomsic and Bishop stood apart from each other in the overlook’s parking lot, each talking into their respective cell phones.

By the time Rossi finished cleaning her feet and had rejoined Gibbs at the top of the slope, both Tomsic and Bishop were off their phones. Tomsic said, ‘Nothing on the board about a Susan Martin.’

Bishop said, ‘I called the boss and notified the coroner. Criminalists are on the way, and the boss is coming out.’

The boss was the detective captain who oversaw the Westside detectives. When he reached the scene, everyone knew he’d decide whether Gibbs would keep the case or it would be reassigned to someone else. Gibbs knew that because of Mr Martin’s stature, the case would almost certainly be assigned to one of the elite robbery-homicide units downtown. He had no problem with that. Gibbs said, ‘Okay, we’d better notify Mr Martin and see what he says.’ He looked at the Westec guy. ‘You know where they live?’

‘Sure. I’ll take you over, you want.’ Gibbs started for his car. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’ Bishop was shaking his head. ‘We’d better stick around for the boss, Linc.’ Tomsic said, ‘Angie and I’ll go.’

Angela Rossi later said that if she’d known where it was going to lead, she would have shot Tomsic right there.

Dan Tomsic and Angela Rossi followed the Westec guy east along Mulholland to Benedict, then south down through the canyon into a lush winding world of million-dollar homes and Mercedes convertibles. Most of the homes were new and modern, but the Westec guy pulled off the road in front of a Mediterranean mansion that could have been a hundred years old. A big mortar wall with an ornate iron gate protected the mansion from the street, the wall laced by delicate ivy with tiny, blood-red leaves. The wall was cracked and crumbling beneath the ivy, but you could see the cracks only if you took your time and looked between the vines. A gate phone stood to the left of the drive so you could identify yourself before being buzzed in. Tomsic figured the grounds for four or five acres, and the house beyond for maybe twenty thousand square feet. Tomsic and his wife and four children were squeezed into a twenty-two-hundred-square-foot cracker box in Simi Valley, but those were the breaks. Anyone could be a cop, but it took real talent to serve bad food in an overpriced restaurant.

They were getting out of the car when Angie said, ‘The gate’s open.’

The big wrought-iron gate was open maybe nine or ten inches. You didn’t live behind walls and gates and security cops, then leave the front gate open so that any stray goofball or passing psycho could come inside and make himself at home. Tomsic remembers that his first thought on seeing the open gate was that they would find a body inside.

They went to the gate and pressed the button on the call box twice, but they got no answers. Angie said, ‘We don’t need to wait for a warrant, do we?’

Tomsic said, ‘Shit.’ He pushed at the gate and went through.

The Westec guy said, ‘We can’t just walk in, can we?’ He looked nervous. ‘I’ll call the office and they can ring the house.’

Tomsic ignored him, and Rossi followed Tomsic toward the house.

The drive was hand-laid Mexican pavers and had probably cost more than Tomsic’s house, his two cars, and the quarter interest he owned in a Big Bear Lake cabin combined. The mansion itself was built of mortar and rough-hewn wooden beams and was finished with an ancient Spanish tile roof. A healthy growth of ivy covered the ground along the east side of the drive, nestling up to a couple of monstrous podocarpus trees before continuing around a four-car-garage. Each car had its own door, and the whole effect was more that of a stable than a garage. A large fountain sat just off the front entry, trickling water.

Tomsic thought that it looked like the kind of house that Errol Flynn might’ve owned. His wife would love the place, but Tomsic knew that most of the old stars, just like most of the new stars, were perverts and scumbags, and if you knew the things that went on in places like this you wouldn’t be so thrilled with being here. Normal people didn’t go into the movie business. Movie people were shitbirds with serious emotional problems who kept their secret lives hidden. Just like most lawyers and all politicians. Tomsic completely believed this, probably because everything he’d seen in almost thirty years on the job confirmed it. Of course, Tomsic had never in his thirty years shared what he knew with his wife because he didn’t want to rain on her parade. It was easier to let her think he was a grump.

Nothing seemed amiss. No bodies were floating in the fountain and no cars were parked crazily on the front lawn. The massive front door was closed and appeared undamaged. A large ornate knocker hung in the center of the door, but there was also a bell. Tomsic pressed the button, then used the knocker. Loud. The Westec guy came running up behind them. ‘Hey, take it easy. You’re gonna break it.’ His face was white.

Angie said, ‘Stay back, okay? We don’t know what we have here.’

Tomsic glanced at Angie and shook his head. Fuckin’ Westec geek, worried about losin’ the account. Angie rolled her eyes.

Tomsic slammed at the door two more times without getting an answer and was starting back to the car when the door opened and Theodore ‘Teddy’ Martin blinked out. Martin was a medium-sized man, a little shorter than average, with pale, delicate skin. He was unshaven and drawn with hollow, red-rimmed eyes. Tomsic says that he would’ve bet that the guy had spent most of the night blasted on coke or crystal meth. ‘Mr Martin?’

Martin nodded, his head snapping up and down. He was wearing baggy gray sweatpants and no shirt. His torso was soft and undeveloped and covered with a thick growth of fine hair. He squinted against the bright morning sun. ‘Yeah, sure. What do you want?’

Both Tomsic and Angela Rossi later testified that Tomsic badged him and identified himself as a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Angela Rossi noted that Teddy Martin never looked at the badge. He kept his eyes on Tomsic and blinked harder as if something were in his eyes. Angela Rossi thought at the time that he might have allergies. Tomsic said, ‘Mr Martin, does a woman named Susan Martin live here with you?’

When Tomsic asked the question, Angela Rossi says that Teddy Martin took a single sharp breath and said, ‘Oh, my Christ, they killed her, didn’t they?’

People say the damnedest things.

Tomsic took Rossi aside, gave her his cell phone, and told her to call Gibbs and tell him to get over here. Rossi walked out to the drive and made the call. When she returned to the house, Tomsic and Teddy Martin and the Westec geek were inside, Tomsic and Martin sitting on an antique bench in the entry. Teddy Martin was blubbering like a baby. ‘I did everything they said. I did everything, and they said they’d let her go. Jesus Christ. Oh, Jesus, tell me this isn’t happening.’

Tomsic was sitting very close to Martin and his voice was soft. He could make it soft whenever he wanted to calm people. ‘You’re saying she was kidnapped?’

Martin sucked great gulps of air as if he couldn’t breathe. ‘Christ, yes, of course she was kidnapped.’ He put his face in his hands and wailed. ‘I did everything they said. I gave them every nickel. They said they’d let her go.’

Angela Rossi said, ‘You gave someone money?’

Martin waved his hands, like a jumble of words were floating around him and he had to grab hold of the ones he wanted to use. ‘Half a million dollars. Just like they said. I did everything exactly the way they said. They promised they’d let her go. They promised.’

Tomsic gently took Teddy’s wrists and pushed his hands down. He said, ‘Tell me what happened, Mr Martin. You want to tell me what happened? Can you do that?’

Martin seemed to regain control of himself and rubbed at his eyes. He said, ‘I came home Thursday night and she was gone. Then this guy calls and says he’s got Susan and he puts her on. I think it was around eight o’clock.’

Rossi distinctly remembers asking, ‘You spoke with her?’

‘She was crying. She said she couldn’t see anything and then the guy came back and he told me that if I didn’t give them the five hundred thousand they’d kill her. I could hear her screaming. I could hear her crying.’

Tomsic said, ‘Did you recognize this man’s voice?’

‘No. No, I asked him who he was and he said I should call him James X.’

Tomsic glanced at Rossi and raised his eyebrows. ‘James X?’

‘He said they were watching the house. He said they if I called the police and they would kill her. Oh, Jesus, I was so scared.’ Teddy Martin stood, taking deep breaths and rubbing his stomach as if it hurt. ‘He said I should get the money and he would call tomorrow and tell me what to do with it.’

Angie said, ‘Tomorrow was yesterday?’

Martin nodded. ‘That’s right. Friday. I got the money just like he said. All in hundreds. He wanted hundreds. Then I came back here and waited for his call.’

Tomsic said, ‘You just walked into the bank and got five hundred thousand dollars?’

Teddy Martin snapped him an angry look. ‘Of course not. My business manager arranged it. He cashed bonds. Something like that. He wanted to know why I wanted the money and I told him not to ask.’

Rossi saw Tomsic frown. Tomsic prompted Martin to continue. ‘Okay. So you got the money, then came back here to wait.’

Martin nodded again. ‘I guess it was around four, something like that, when he called. He told me to put the money in a garbage bag and bring it to a parking lot just off Mulholland at the four-o-five. They have a little lot there for people who carpool. He told me that there was a dumpster, and I should put the money into the dumpster, then go home. He said they would give me exactly twelve minutes to get there, and if I was late they’d know I was working with the police and they’d kill Susan. They said I should just drop the money and leave, and that after I was gone they’d pick up the money and count it and if everything was okay they’d let Susan go. They said it probably wouldn’t be until nine or ten with the counting.’ He sat again and started rocking. ‘I did everything just like they said and I’ve been waiting all night. I never heard from them again. I never heard from Susan. When you rang the bell I thought you were her.’ Teddy Martin put his face in his hands and sobbed. ‘I made it in the twelve minutes. I swear to God I made it. I was driving like a maniac.’

Tomsic told Angie to take the cell phone again, call Gibbs, and this time tell him to have someone check the dumpster. She left, and Tomsic stayed with Martin and the Westec guy. Rossi was gone for only four or five minutes, but when she returned she looked burned around the edges. He said, ‘You get Gibbs?’

She didn’t answer the question. Instead, she said, ‘Dan, may I see you, please?’

Tomsic followed her outside to the ivy alongside the expensive Mexican drive. She took out her pen, pushed aside some leaves, and exposed a ball peen hammer clotted with blond hair and bits of pink matter. Tomsic said, ‘I’ll be damned.’

Rossi said, ‘I was just looking around when I saw it. The handle was sticking up out of the ivy.’

Tomsic stared at the hammer for several seconds, noticing that a single black ant was crawling in the pink matter. Tomsic made the same whistling sound that he’d made at the Stone Canyon overlook when he’d seen the body. Angela Rossi then said, ‘He killed her, didn’t he, Dan?’

Lincoln Gibbs and Pete Bishop turned into the drive as she said it. Dan Tomsic, who had a million years on the job and whose opinion as a professional cynic almost everyone valued, glanced at the mansion and said, ‘The sonofabitch killed her, all right, but now we have to convict him.’

‘Hey, we’ve got this guy, Dan! He’s ours!’

Dan Tomsic stared at her with the disdain he reserved for shitbirds, defense attorneys, and card-carrying members of the ACLU. He said, ‘It’s easier to cut off your own goddamned leg than convict a rich man in this state, detective. Haven’t you been around long enough to know that?’

It was the last thing that Dan Tomsic said to her that day.

Susan Martin’s murder made the evening news, as did the events that followed.

I was able, months later, to piece together the events of that Saturday morning from police reports, participant interviews, court testimony, and newspaper articles, but I couldn’t tell you what I was doing when I heard, or where I was or who I was with. It didn’t seem important.

I did not think, nor did I have reason to believe, that Susan Martin’s murder and everything that grew from it would have such a profound and permanent impact upon my life.

Chapter 1

Jonathan Green came to my office on a hazy June morning with an entourage of three attorneys, a video-grapher, and an intense young woman lugging eight hundred pounds of sound recording equipment. The videographer shoved past the attorneys and swung his camera around my office, saying, ‘This is just what we need, Jonathan! It’s real, it’s colorful, it’s L. A.!’ He aimed his camera at me past the Mickey Mouse phone and began taping. ‘Pretend I’m not here.’

I frowned at him, and he waved toward the lawyers. ‘Don’t look at me. At them. Look at them.’

I looked at them. ‘What is this?’ I was expecting Green and an attorney named Elliot Truly, but not the others. Truly had arranged the meeting.

A man in his mid-forties wearing an immaculately tailored blue Armani suit said, ‘Mr Cole? I’m Elliot Truly. This is Jonathan Green. Thanks for seeing us.’

I shook hands with Truly first, then Green. Green looked exactly the way he had the two times I’d seen him on 60 Minutes, once when he defended an abortion rights activist accused of murder in Texas and once when he defended a wealthy textile manufacturer accused of murder in Iowa. The Texas case was popular and the Iowa case wasn’t, but both were victories for the defense.

The videographer scrambled backward across the office to fit us into his frame, the woman with the sound gear hustling to stay behind the camera as they captured the moment of our first meeting. Armstrong steps onto the moon; the Arabs and the Israelis sign a peace accord; Jonathan Green meets the private detective. The woman with the sound equipment bumped into my desk and the videographer slammed against the file cabinet. The little figures of Jiminy Cricket on the cabinet fell over and the framed photo of Lucy Chenier tottered. I frowned at him again. ‘Be careful.’

The videographer waved some more. ‘Don’t look at me! Not at me! You’ll ruin the shot!’

I said, ‘If you break anything, I’ll ruin more than the shot.’

Green seemed embarrassed. ‘This is tiresome, Elliot. We have business here, and I’m afraid we’re making a bad impression on Mr Cole.’

Truly touched my arm, trying to mitigate the bad impression. ‘They’re from Inside News. They’re doing a six-part documentary on Jonathan’s involvement in the case.’ ,.-.

The woman with the sound equipment nodded. ‘The inner workings of the Big Green Defense Machine.’

I said, ‘Big Green Defense Machine?’

The videographer stopped taping and looked me up and down as if he found me lacking but wasn’t quite sure how. Then it hit him. ‘Don’t you have a gun?’ He glanced around the office as if there might be one hanging on a wall hook.

‘A gun?’

He looked at Truly. ‘He should be wearing a gun. One of those things under the arm.’ He was a small man with furry arms.

Truly frowned. ‘A shoulder holster?’

The woman nodded. ‘A hat would be nice. Hats are romantic.’

I said, ‘Truly.’

Jonathan Green’s face clouded. ‘I apologize, Mr Cole.

They’ve been with us for the past week and it’s becoming offensive. If it bothers you, I’ll ask them to leave.’

The videographer grew frantic. ‘Hey, forget the gun. I was just trying to make it a little more entertaining, that’s all.’ He crouched beside the water cooler and lifted his camera. ‘You won’t even know we’re here. I promise.’

Truly pursed his lips at me. My call.

I made a little shrug. ‘The people who come to me usually don’t want a record of what we discuss.’

Jonathan Green chuckled. ‘It may come to that, but let’s hope not.’ He went to the French doors that open onto the little balcony, then looked at the picture of Lucy Chenier. ‘Very pretty. Your wife?’

‘A friend.’

He nodded, approving. When he nodded, the two lesser attorneys nodded, too. No one had bothered to introduce them, but they didn’t seem to mind.

Jonathan Green sat in one of the leather director’s chairs across from my desk and the two lesser attorneys went to the couch. Truly stayed on his feet. The videographer noticed the Pinocchio clock on the wall, then hustled around to the opposite side of my desk so that he could get both me and the clock in frame. The Pinocchio clock has eyes that move side to side as it tocks. Photogenic. Like Green.

Jonathan Green had a firm handshake, clear eyes, and a jawline not dissimilar to Dudley Do-Right’s. He was in his early sixties, with graying hair, a beach-club tan, and a voice that was rich and comforting. A minister’s voice. He wasn’t a handsome man, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that put you at ease. Jonathan Green was reputed to be one of the top five criminal defense attorneys in America, with a success rate in high-profile criminal defense cases of one hundred percent. Like Elliot Truly, Jonathan Green was wearing an impeccably tailored blue Armani suit. So were the lesser attorneys. Maybe they got a bulk discount. I was wearing impeccably tailored black Gap jeans, a linen aloha shirt, and white Reebok sneakers. Green said, ‘Did Elliot explain why we wanted to see you?’

‘You represent Theodore Martin. You need investigators to help in the defense effort.’ Theodore ‘Teddy’ Martin had been arrested for Susan Martin’s murder and was awaiting trial. He had gone through two prior defense attorneys, hadn’t been happy with them, and had recently hired Jonathan Green. All the hirings and firings had been covered big time by the local media.

Green nodded. ‘That’s right. Mr Cole, I’ve spoken at length with Teddy and I believe that he’s innocent. I want your help in proving it.’

I smiled. ‘Moi?’

The videographer edged in closer. I raised a finger at him. Unh-unh-unnh. He edged back.

Truly said, ‘We’ve talked to people, Mr Cole. You’ve an outstanding reputation for diligence, and your integrity is above reproach.’

‘How about that.’ I glanced at the camera and wiggled my eyebrows. The videographer frowned and lowered the lens.

Jonathan Green leaned toward me, all business. ‘What do you know about the case?’

‘I know what everybody knows. I watch the news.’ You couldn’t read the Times or watch local television without knowing the business about James X and the five hundred thousand dollars and the dumpster. I’d heard Theodore Martin’s sound-bite version of it ten thousand times, but I’d also heard the DA’s sound-bite version, too, that Teddy and Susan weren’t getting along, that Susan had secretly consulted a divorce attorney and told a friend that she was planning a divorce, and that Teddy had offed her to keep her from walking away with half of his estimated one-hundred-twenty-million-dollar fortune. I said, ‘From what I hear, the police have a pretty good case.’

‘They believe they have, yes. But I don’t think all the facts are in.’ Green smiled and laced his fingers across a knee. It was a warm smile, tired and knowing. ‘Did you know that Teddy and Susan loved to cook?’

I shook my head. That one had slipped right by me.

Teddy arrived home early that night, and they had no engagements, so the two of them decided to cook something elaborate and fun. They spent the next couple of hours making a pepper-roasted pork tenderloin with wild cherry sauce. Teddy makes the sauce with fresh cherries, only they didn’t have any, so he ran out to get some.’

Truly took a step toward me and licked points off his fingers. ‘We have the receipt and the cashier whom Teddy paid. That’s where he was when Susan was kidnapped.’

Green spread his hands. ‘And then there’s the question of the money. What happened to the money?’

Truly ticked more fingers. ‘We have the bank transactions and the business manager. The manager says that Teddy was visibly shaken when he came for the money that Friday morning. He says Teddy was white as a sheet and his hands were shaking.’

Green nodded. ‘Yet the cashier remembers that Teddy was relaxed and happy a dozen hours earlier.’ Green stood and went back to the balcony. The videographer followed him. At the French doors he turned back to me and spread his hands again. I wondered if he thought he was in court. ‘And then we have the murder weapon and the crime scene evidence.’

Truly ticked more fingers. He had used up one hand and was starting on the next. ‘There were fingerprints on the hammer, but none of them match Teddy. There were also fingerprints on the garbage bags that Susan was in, but those don’t match Teddy, either.’

I said, ‘You think he’s innocent because of that?’

Green came back to the director’s chair, but this time he didn’t sit. He stood behind it, resting his hands on the wooden posts that hold the back. ‘Mr Cole, I don’t win the number of cases that I do because I’m good. I turn down ten cases every day, cases that would bill millions of dollars, because I will not represent people I believe to be guilty.’

The videographer went down to the floor for a low-angle shot, the woman with the sound equipment with him, and I heard him mumble, ‘Oh, man, this is great.’

Green said, ‘I don’t represent drug dealers or child molesters. I only take cases that I believe in, so that every time I walk into court I have the moral high ground.’

I leaned back and put my foot on the edge of my desk. ‘And you believe that Teddy is innocent.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ He came around to the front of the chair and tapped his chest. ‘In here I know he’s innocent.’

The videographer muttered, ‘This is fabulous,’ and scrambled around to keep Jonathan Green in the shot.

Green sat and leaned toward me, elbows on knees. ‘I don’t yet know all the facts. I need people like you to help me with that. But I do know that we’ve received several calls that are disturbing.’

Elliot Truly said, ‘Have you heard of our tip line?’

‘I’ve seen the ads.’ Green’s office was running television, radio, and print ads offering a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for anything leading to the capture, arrest, and conviction of James X. There was a number you could call.

Green said, ‘We’ve received over twenty-six hundred calls and there are more every day. We try to weed out the cranks as quickly as possible, but the workload is enormous.’

I cleared my throat and tried to look professional. ‘Okay. You need help running these things down.’

Green raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Several of the callers have indicated that one of the arresting officers has a history of fabricating cases.’

I stared at him. The videographer scrambled back across the office, again running into the cabinet, but this time I did not look. ‘Which officer?’

Truly said, ‘The detective who claims to have found the hammer. Angela Rossi.’

I looked at Truly. ‘Claims?’

Jonathan Green, Elliot Truly, and the camera stared at me. No one spoke.

I looked back at Green. ‘Do you believe that Angela Rossi planted evidence against Teddy Martin?’

Green shifted in the chair and the camera swung back toward him. He looked uncomfortable, as if the subject bothered him. ‘I don’t want to say that, not yet, but I believe that the possibility exists. She was the first to go down to Susan’s body, and she went alone.’

Truly said, ‘She had the opportunity to recover the murder weapon and secrete it on her person.’

‘A full-size ball peen hammer.’

Truly smiled. ‘Where there’s a will.’

I shook my head. ‘Why would she take the chance?’

Green said, ‘Elliot.’

Truly leaned toward me, serious. ‘Rossi was on a fast track up the promotion ladder until she blew a homicide investigation two years ago. She failed to Mirandize a suspect who subsequently confessed, and the suspect walked. She might feel she needs a headline case to resurrect her career, and if she tampered with evidence to make this case, it may not be the first time she’s done so.’ Truly made a little hand move at one of the lesser attorneys, and the lesser attorney slipped a manila envelope from his Gucci case and brought it to me. Truly said, ‘Rossi arrested a man named LeCedrick Earle five years ago for possessing counterfeit money and attempting to bribe an officer. He’s currently serving a six-year sentence at Terminal Island.’ Terminal Island is the federal facility down in San Pedro. ‘Earle phoned six days ago and told us that Rossi planted the money.’ He gestured at the envelope. ‘He’s been saying that he was set up since day one, and sent us a copy of his case file and the various letters of complaint to prove it.’

I opened the envelope and fingered through the arrest reports, legal correspondence, and letters of complaint. Terminal Island return address, all right. I said, ‘All perps claim they’re innocent and every cop I know has had charges brought against him. It goes with the job.’

Green nodded, reasonably. ‘Of course, but Mr Earle’s claim seems to have a bit more merit than the others.’

Truly said, ‘A former LAPD officer named Raymond Haig told us about the Earle case, also. Haig was Rossi’s partner.’I said, ‘Haig was her partner at that time?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he said that she planted the goods?’

Truly smiled again. ‘He wouldn’t say that, but he says that he knew her and that she would do anything to further her career. He suggested that we look into it.’

I said, ‘If Earle made the allegation, there would’ve been an internal police investigation.’

The smaller lesser attorney said, ‘There was, but no charges were filed.’

Green said, ‘Mr Haig indicated that Detective Rossi has a history of excessive behavior.’

I put the envelope down and tapped at the edge of my desk. The videographer crept back to the water cooler and focused on me. I said, ‘Mr Green, you should know that my partner, Joe Pike, is a former LAPD officer.’

‘We’re familiar with Mr Pike.’

‘I work with LAPD often, and I have many friends there, and in the district attorney’s office.’

He leaned toward me again, very serious now, sincere. ‘I’m not looking for a stooge. I have plenty of those, believe me.’ He tried not to glance at the lesser attorneys but couldn’t help himself. ‘I’m looking for an honest detective who won’t just tell me what I want to hear. I want the truth. Without the truth, I have nothing. Do you see?’

I nodded. Maybe I could see why he was one of the world’s greatest defense attorneys after all.

Truly said, ‘What we’re discussing with you is only a small part of the larger picture. We have sixteen investigators working with us now, and we’ll probably have as many as thirty, but you’ll be the only investigator working on this aspect of the case.’

The larger lesser attorney said, ‘We have fourteen attorneys on board, in addition to the investigators.’

The smaller lesser attorney’s head bobbed. ‘Not to mention eight forensic specialists and three criminalists.’ He seemed proud when he said it. Peace through superior firepower.

I made a whistling sound. ‘The best defense money can buy.’

Jonathan Green stayed serious. ‘As I said, there’s plenty of work to go around, and more work every day. Will you help us, Mr Cole?’

I leaned back, thinking about it, and then I held up the envelope. ‘And what if I find out that Rossi’s okay?’

‘Then that’s what you find. I owe it to myself and my client to exhaust every possibility. Do you see?’

I said, ‘Wherever it leads.’

‘That’s exactly right.’

The moral high ground.’

‘My reputation rests on it.’

I watched the Pinocchio clock. I looked at the picture of Lucy Chenier. I nodded. ‘If Rossi’s clean, that’s what I’ll report.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Jonathan Green put out his hand and we shook.

Chapter 2

We worked out my fee, Elliot Truly cut me a check, and the Big Green Defense Machine left me to get on with it. I stood in the door as they walked to the elevator, watching the videographer record every moment of the departure. Cindy, the woman who runs the beauty supply distribution office next door, came out of the elevator as they were getting on and saw Jonathan. She stared at him until the doors closed, and then she smiled at me. Incredulous. ‘Isn’t he that guy? The lawyer?’

‘Jonathan Green.’

‘I saw him on Geraldo. He’s famous.’ I held out crossed fingers. ‘We’re like this.’ Cindy opened her door, then cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘I always did think you were cute.’

‘Big time. I am nothing if not big time.’ She laughed and disappeared into her office. That’s Cindy.

I went back into my office, closed the door, and looked at the picture of Lucy Chenier. She was sitting in her backyard wearing shorts and hiking boots and an LSU T-shirt:. I had had the picture in my office since Lucy sent it to me a little over three months ago, and I looked at it a lot. Lucy was a lawyer, too, but she hadn’t been on Geraldo. His loss. I stared at the picture. Something about it wasn’t right and, being an astute detective, I deduced that this was because the videographer had bumped the cabinet. It was not too late to rush down the stairs and shoot him, but that would probably be overreacting.

Besides, he was part of the Big Green Defense Machine, and teammates shouldn’t shoot each other. Jonathan Green might think me small.

I adjusted the picture, then went back to my desk and dialed Lucy’s office in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. If Cindy was impressed with Jonathan Green, so might be Lucy Chenier. I am also nothing if not a show-off.

A warm southern voice said, ‘Ms Chenier’s office.’ Lucy’s assistant, Mrs Darlene Thomas.

‘It’s me.’ I’d phoned quite often in the three months since I’d been in Louisiana, and the calls were becoming more frequent.

‘Hello, Mr Cole. How are we today?’

‘We’re fine, Darlene. And yourself?’ Small talk.

‘Very well, thank you. I’m sorry, but she’s in court today.’

‘Oh.’ Dejected.

Darlene said, ‘She’ll call for her messages, though. I’ll tell her that you phoned.’

‘Tell her that I’m lonely, Darlene.’

Darlene laughed. ‘I’ll tell her that Mr Cole says he’s lonely.’

‘Tell her that I miss her, Darlene. That the longing grows with every passing moment and has become a weight impossible for me to bear.’

Darlene gasped. ‘Oh my, but you do go on!’

I was grinning. Darlene did that to me. ‘Darlene, have I ever said that you’ve got a very sexy voice?’

‘Get on with you, now! You stop this nonsense before I tell Ms Chenier!’

We said our good-byes and I called Joe Pike to tell him that we were once more employed. His answering machine picked up on the first ring and beeped. He used to have a one-word message that just said, ‘Speak,’ but I guess he felt it was long-winded. Now, there was just the beep. When I asked him how people were supposed to know who they had gotten or what to do, he’d said, ‘Intelligence test.’ That Pike is something, isn’t he?

I said, ‘This is the Lone Ranger, calling to inform you that someone has once again been foolish enough to give us money. We’re working for Jonathan Green.’ I hung up. It might be days before I heard from him.

The envelope that Truly left contained a copy of LeCedrick Earle’s arrest report as well as a formal letter of complaint written by a public defender on Earle’s behalf. The arrest report was written by Officer Angela Rossi and stated that Rossi had arrested Mr Earle at his home after Mr Earle attempted to bribe his way out of a traffic code violation with eight hundred dollars in counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bills. The letter of complaint alleged that Rossi had planted the counterfeit money on Mr Earle and that Mr Earle was innocent of all wrongdoing. The arrest report said little, and the letter of complaint said even less. She said, he said. A single sheet bearing both Angela Rossi’s home address and Raymond Haig’s business address and phone number was the last entry in the file. A newspaper photograph of Rossi was clipped to the sheet. It was an old photo that showed an attractive woman with a lean, rectangular face and intelligent eyes. She looked determined.

I put everything back into the envelope, then called my friend Eddie Ditko at the Examiner. Eddie has been a reporter for about ten million years, and he answered with a voice that was maybe three weeks away from throat cancer. ‘Ditko.’

‘Is this Eddie Ditko, the world’s finest reporter?’

He made a hacking sound like a cat gakking up a hairball. ‘Yeah, sure, it says that right here on my Pulitzer. Hold on a minute while I wipe my ass with it.’ That Eddie. Always with just the right thing to say.

‘A guy named LeCedrick Earle was busted on a funny money beef five years ago. He claimed it was a setup by the arresting officer.’

‘They all claim that. It’s a natural law.’ You see?

‘The arresting officer was Angela Rossi.’

‘I’m hearing Notre Dame.’ Bells.

‘Rossi put the cuffs on Teddy Martin. She found the hammer.’

Eddie made the gakking sound again. ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Nope.’

He wasn’t saying anything. Thinking. Sniffing the words and smelling a story. ‘What’s this to you?’

I didn’t say anything.

He gave the big sigh, like I was asking for an organ donation. ‘What do you want?’

‘Whatever you’ve got on the Earle arrest, and anything in your files about Rossi.’ Ever since the Christopher Commission the Examiner kept a database on LAPD officers. The Fourth Estate’s version of Big Brother.

‘What’s this have to do with Teddy Martin?’

I didn’t say anything some more.

‘Yeah, right. I’ll get back to you.’ Then he said, ‘You really give me ass cramps.’

He hung up without another word. Always the pleasant conversationalist.

I put everything back in the envelope, then locked the office and drove up through Hollywood and the Cahuenga Pass and into the San Fernando Valley. I left the Hollywood Freeway at Barham and drove east along the foot of the Verdugo hills through Burbank into Glendale. Raymond Haig owned a Mr Rubber Discount Tire franchise in an area of gas stations and falafel stands and flat single-story buildings with shops that sold secondhand clothes and wholesale electronics. A weathered Hispanic guy in a broken straw hat had set up a little churro cart outside the tire store, the churros hanging in ropes inside the glass cart. The Hispanic guy was decked out in cowboy boots and jeans and a wide leather belt with a gleaming silver buckle inlaid with the image of a Brahma bull. A vaquero. A couple of kids with skateboards were holding fistfuls of wax paper and long brown churros, and a black dog with a bandana around its neck was sitting between them, looking first at one, then the other. Hopeful.

I parked on the street in front of the churro cart, then went into the store. A young Hispanic woman with tired eyes and too much makeup was sitting behind the counter, staring at a little television. I handed her a card. ‘I need to see Mr Haig. If you tell him that Elliot Truly sent me, he’ll know what it’s about.’

She took the card and disappeared through a door leading to the service bay, and a couple of minutes later she came back with a tall guy in his late forties. Haig. He was wearing a plaid shirt and a maroon knit tie, and he had a pencil caddy in his shirt pocket. The caddy’s plastic flap said Beamis Shocks. He came over. ‘You Cole?’

‘That’s right. Elliot Truly said that someone from his office spoke to you, and that you’d be willing to answer a few questions about Angela Rossi.’

His face split with a sleek smile and he put out his hand. ‘You bet. Let’s go in back and I’ll tell you everything you need to know about that rotten bitch Rossi.’ Nothing like an unbiased opinion.

He led me to a small office cluttered with parts catalogs and product manuals and posters of bikinied young women posing on lug wrench displays. Enlightened. A couple of padded chairs sat opposite his desk for customers, and a Mr Coffee with a tower of Styrofoam cups sat on a table next to the glass door. ‘You want a little coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

Haig poured a cup for himself and brought it to his desk. There was a picture of a younger Haig in an LAPD uniform on the desk.

I said, ‘How long were you on the job?’

‘Fifteen bullshit years.’ Unbiased, all right. ‘Best move I ever made was getting out and going into business for myself. Yes, sir.’ He settled in behind the desk, then picked up an unlit cigar and popped it into the side of his mouth. I took out a little pad and a Uniball pen to take notes. He said, ‘Rossi’s the reason I left the goddamned force.’

‘How so?’

‘I didn’t want to ride with a woman.’

I smiled at him. ‘You left because you didn’t want to ride with a woman.’

He pulled the cigar from his mouth and made a move with it. ‘Hey, you get these women in a car, they’re either scared shitless and not worth a damn when things get hairy, or they’re out of their minds aggressive and you never know what they’re gonna do.’

‘And Rossi was aggressive?’

‘Christ, yes. Always tryin’ to be more man than a man.’ He had some of the coffee, then sucked at the cigar again.

I said, ‘You were partners when she made the Le-Cedrick Earle arrest?’

‘Yep. That’s the bust got her into plainclothes. She got a big promotion off that bust.’ He leaned back, and I noticed that small brown flecks of matter were scattered over the catalogs and desk and floor. I squinted at them and wondered what they were.

I said, ‘LeCedrick Earle claims that she planted the money, and Truly says that you agree.’ I felt something gritty on the arms of the chair and looked. More flecks. Sort of like brown dandruff.

Haig chewed at the cigar, then took it out and examined it. The end was soggy and frayed, and while he looked he absently spit little pieces of tobacco off his tongue. I saw a piece land on an air filter catalog. I saw another piece land on the framed photo of young LAPD Haig. Haig didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. I lifted my elbows from the chair and brushed at my arms. Yuck. Haig shook his head. ‘Nope. I didn’t say that. I said that I wouldn’t put it past the bitch.’

‘But you don’t know?’

He shrugged and spit more tobacco. ‘If you read the arrest report you know I wasn’t listed as an arresting officer. Rossi went back later without me. That way only one name gets credit for the collar. You see how she was?’

‘She cut you out.’

Another shrug. ‘Just her way. When it came to wearin’ a uniform she was just passin’ through and she made no secret of it. All she used to talk about was gettin’ ahead, gettin’ that gold shield. She told me she’d do anything to get that gold shield, and that’s what I told Truly. I had to listen to that every goddamned day like a goddamned matrah.’

‘Mantra.’

‘Whatever.’

The Hispanic woman rapped at the glass then stepped into Haig’s office. She was holding a clipboard. ‘Warren wan’s you to sign these estimates.’

Haig grinned and made a little c’mere gesture. ‘Lemme see what you’ve got.’

She kept her eyes down when she crossed to him, probably because Haig was making a big deal out of looking at her. A gold wedding band and a large, ornate engagement ring were on her left hand, the stone square and flat and enormous, and probably zircon. The polished gold of the rings looked warm against her brown skin. She said, ‘Warren says a truck is here with the new tires. He says he needs you to come see.’ Warren was probably Haig’s assistant.

‘Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.’

Haig took the clipboard and flipped through a couple of pages without really looking at them. He used one hand to flip the pages and the other to feel her right hip. He scratched his name and handed back the board, still with the big grin. ‘Gracias, babe. Lookin’ good.’

‘Warren says he needs you about the new tires.’ Like Warren had been making a thing and she didn’t want to mention it, but felt obligated.

Haig’s grin turned brittle. ‘Tell Warren to hold his water. I’ll come when I come. Compiendei’ He patted her hip again, letting his hand linger.

She took the board and walked out, Haig watching her go. He spit more tobacco, and I thought that if any of the flecks landed on me I might shoot him. Haig glanced at his watch and frowned. Warren.

I said, ‘Okay, Rossi was ambitious. But did she ever do anything illegal to your knowledge?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Ever rig an arrest?’

Haig shook his head.

‘Plant evidence?’

‘Not with me around.’ Offended.

‘You told Truly that you thought Rossi was capable of falsifying evidence. You said that your statement was based upon your experience as her partner. Do you really know anything, Haig, or are you just blowing smoke?’

Haig frowned. ‘Look, Rossi used to skirt the line all the time. She’d do anything to make a case, go through a window, pop a trunk, jump a fence. I used to say, hey, you ever heard of the search and seizure laws? You ever heard of a warrant?’

‘And what would she do when you said that?’

‘Look at me like I’m an asshole.’ He chewed at the cigar some more, then suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing and dropped it into the trash. ‘Christ, she made me crazy in the car, always running plates, always looking for the collar.’

‘Sounds like good police work.’

‘Try livin’ with it every day.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘I gotta get going.’

‘One more thing. You weren’t with her when she made the Miranda violation.’

‘Nah. That was later. I was already off the job and she was a detective-one. Rossi the hot shot, bustin’ balls like always.’

‘Then how do you know about it?’

‘I saw her after. Bobby Driskoll’s retirement up at the Revolver and Athletic Club.’ The Revolver and Athletic Club is the Police Academy’s bar. ‘She was goin’ on about it, sayin’ how rotten it was, sayin’ that she was going to do whatever it took to get her career back on track.’

‘Were there other people around?’

‘Hell, yes. Rossi never made a secret about her ambition. “They can’t keep me down.” That’s the way she talked. “All it takes is one big bust and I’m on top again.” Like that.’

‘But you have no personal knowledge of her having done anything illegal?’

Haig frowned at me. ‘Any bitch that in-your-face is up to something.’

I closed the pad and put it away. Jonathan Green probably wasn’t going to like what I had to say about Haig. ‘Tell me something, Haig. Are you an asshole by choice?’

Haig gave me the hard cop eyes, and then the slick grin came back and he stood. ‘Yeah, I guess it sounds that way, but there’s more to it than her attitude. You see where she lives?’

I didn’t know what he meant. ‘No.’

‘Go see where she lives.’

We walked out to the little showroom together. A guy who was probably Warren was standing with a black guy in a Goodyear shirt, and together they were reading what was probably a delivery manifest. They looked up when we came out and Warren said, ‘We got those tires.’

Haig ignored him. He slipped behind the counter and I went to the door, and neither of us said anything to the other.

The Hispanic woman was behind the counter. Haig moved against her and mumbled something that the rest of us couldn’t hear. She didn’t look at him, and didn’t respond. She stared at the TV, as if by staring hard enough it wouldn’t be happening.

I went out into the sun, thinking that maybe I should have shot him anyway.

Chapter 3

The two kids with their skateboards were gone, but the dog was still sitting by the churro cart, watching the vaquero. The vaquero was still waving his churro at the passing cars and looking sad. All the way up from Zacatecas to stand on a corner and sell something that no one except a couple of kids and a dog wanted. A man who had worked with the Brahmas, no less.

I climbed into my car and opened Truly’s envelope and looked at Angela Rossi’s address, wondering what Haig had meant about seeing where she lived. 724 Clarion Way. I looked up Clarion Way in the Thomas Brothers Guide, found it in Marina del Rey, and thought, ‘Well, hell.’

The Marina wraps around the ocean on a stretch of sand just south of Santa Monica. It’s home to sitcom writers and music producers and people who own Carpeteria franchises, maybe, but not cops. The cheapest house in the Marina maybe goes for six hundred thousand, and even the smallest apartments would set you back fifteen hundred a month before utilities. Condos had to start at three hundred grand. Raymond Haig was probably just a raging sexist who had been shown up on the job and was working out on the person who had shown him up, but how did that explain a cop living in the Marina? Of course, there were probably ten million explanations for how Rossi might live there, but I probably wouldn’t ferret them out sitting in front of a tire store in Glendale.

The churro salesman caught me staring at him and gestured with the churro, his eyes somehow embarrassed in their sadness. I climbed out of my car and paid him thirty-five cents for ten inches of fried dough that had been dusted with powdered sugar and cinammon. He thanked me profusely, but he still seemed sad. I guess there’s only so much you can do.

I went back to my car and worked my way across the valley floor, then up onto the San Diego Freeway and down through the westside of Los Angeles to the Marina. It was sunny and bright, with the sun still riding a couple of hours above the horizon. The air smelled of the sea and crisp white gulls floated and circled overhead, eyeing McDonald’s and Taco Bell parking lots for fast-food leftovers. Women with pony tails raced along the wide boulevards on Rollerblades and shirtless young men pedaled hard on two-thousand-dollar mountain bikes, and everybody had great tans. Aging vaqueros selling rubber-hose churros weren’t in evidence, but maybe I hadn’t looked close enough.

I turned down Admiralty Way with its wide green traffic island and drove along the Silver Strand to a short cul-de-sac lined with low-density condominiums partially hidden behind tropical plantings. Clarion Way. Seven twenty-four was part of a four-unit building at the front of the curve, and even from the street I could see that the units were large and spacious and expensive. Definitely not pop digs. A gated drive led down beneath the building, and a gated walk led along the front of the units. A mail drop was built into the front gate, along with a security phone so that you could call inside to let the residents know you’d come to visit. I circled the cul-de-sac, parked across the street at the curb, and walked back to the mail drop to see if Angela Rossi’s name matched the address. No names. I guess the postman was expected to know who lived where.

A thin man with thick glasses and a bulging forehead squinted out at me from behind the gate. ‘May I help you?’

I gave him one of my better smiles and tried to look reasonable. ‘Do you know if Keith’s home?’

He frowned at me. ‘Keith?’

I nodded. ‘That’s right. Keith Adams in seven two four. He said he’d wait for me, but no one answers.’

He shook his head. ‘You must have the wrong address. There are only four of us in the building, and no one by that name lives here.’

I dug out my wallet, drew a cash receipt from Hughes Market, and frowned at it. ‘It says seven twenty-four Clarion.’

He was shaking his head before I finished. ‘Maybe there’s another Clarion. I know the woman in seven twenty-four. I don’t think she’s home now.’ The woman.

‘You don’t think we could be talking about Keith’s wife, do you?’ I peered through the gate. A boy’s red bike was leaning against a planter in the entry to seven two four. A plastic hamper filled with Nerfballs stood behind the bike.

He put his hands on his hips, still shaking the head. ‘Oh, no. It’s just Angie and her kids.’ Angie. You see how it adds up?

I put my wallet away and scratched my head. Klem Kadiddlehopper comes to the big city. ‘Has she lived here long? Maybe Keith moved.’ Trying to find out how a cop could afford to live here. Trying to find out if she rented or stayed with a friend or had won the place in a lottery.

‘Not long. She moved in two years ago.’

‘She own it, or does she rent?’

Now he was frowning. Suspicious. ‘Why don’t you leave your number. Maybe the lady knows something about your friend and will call you.’ The detective presses his luck a tad too hard.

‘That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I’ve got Keith’s number back at the office.’

I thanked him for his time, went back to my car, then drove to a pay phone in a little shopping center at the mouth of the Marina where I called a realtor friend who works in Pacific Palisades. A bright woman’s voice said, ‘Westside Realty, how may I help you?’

I tried to sound like a G-man. ‘Adrienne Carter, please.’

‘May I tell her who’s calling?’

‘Richard Tracy.’

‘Please hold.’

Maybe twenty seconds later another woman’s voice came on. ‘This is Adrienne Carter.’

‘I’d like to buy the Hearst Castle. Wanna handle the deal?’

Adrienne Carter laughed. ‘Dick Tracy. Oh, please.’

I gave her Angela Rossi’s address and asked if she could run an owner-of-record check for me. I told her it was a matter of Utmost urgency and the security of the nation depended on her. She said, ‘I’ll bet, Dick.’ I think I had started something that I was going to regret.

Forty minutes later I made the slow pull up Laurel Canyon into the mountains above Hollywood and the rustic A-frame I have there. It’s woodsy where I live, and though I have neighbors, our homes are separated by mature eucalyptus and olive trees that give us shade and lend stability to the steep slopes upon which we live. I bought the place many years ago when it was in disrepair and, over time, have rebuilt and refinished it both alone and with the help of friends.

I parked in the carport, let myself in through the kitchen, and was looking in the refrigerator for something to eat when the cat-door squeaked and the cat who lives with me walked in. I said, ‘Hey.’

The cat is large and black and one ear sits kind of cocked to the side from when he was head-shot with a .22. The flat top of his head is laced with scars and his ears are shredded and lumpy. When he was younger he would often bring me bits of squirrel and bird to share, but he’s older now and the gifts are not as frequent. Perhaps he’s slowing, or perhaps he’s just less generous. He snicked across the floor and sat by his bowl. ‘Naow.’

‘I’m hungry, too. Hang on.’

I took out leftover chicken that I’d baked with garlic and rosemary, and a half can of tuna. I turned the oven to 350, wrapped the chicken and canned new potatoes together in foil, then set it in the oven to heat. I forked the tuna into the cat’s bowl, then set the can next to it so he could lick the juice. He prefers the chicken, but the garlic gives him gas, so I’ve had to draw the line. He doesn’t like me for it, but there you go.

It was eighteen minutes after seven, and I was getting ready to take a shower when the phone rang. Adrienne. I said, ‘Hi, Adrienne.’ Elvis Cole, Too Hip Detective, pretends he can read minds.

Lucy Chenier said, ‘Adrienne?’ The Too Hip Detective steps in deep doo-doo.

‘A realtor friend,’ I said. ‘I’m expecting her to call with some information I need.’

‘Do tell. Well, heaven forbid I should tie up your line.’

I gave her Groucho. ‘Can’t think of anyone I’d rather have tie me up, heh heh.’

‘Oh, you.’ I love it when she says ‘oh, you.’ And then she said, ‘Hi, Studly.’

I felt the smile start deep in my chest and grow large like an expanding bubble, and then I was standing in my kitchen with the phone and Lucy Chenier’s presence seemed to fill the house with warmth and light. I said, ‘I miss you, Luce.’

‘I miss you, too.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm-rnm.’ We often have conversations like this.

I had met Lucy Chenier three months earlier when I was working in Louisiana for an actress named Jodi Taylor. Lucy was Jodi Taylor’s lawyer and I was Jodi Taylor’s detective, and the attraction, as they say, was immediate. We had called each other regularly since then, and two months ago I had flown back to Louisiana to spend a long weekend with Lucy and her eight-year-old son, Ben. Three weeks after that, Lucy and I had met in Cancun for four days of snorkeling and grilled shrimp and sunburns, and it was harder still to say good-byes when she boarded her plane and I boarded mine. Thereafter, the phoning grew more frequent, and the conversation less necessary, and soon we were in a kind of comfortable,’uncomfortable place where the occasional murmur on the other end of the line was enough, but not nearly enough. Over the weeks an increasing part of my day has become the anticipation of the evening’s call, when I would sit in my home and Lucy would sit in hers and we would share a few minutes together linked by two thousand miles of fiber-optic satellite relays. It wasn’t as nice as actually being with her, but if romance were easy, everyone would do it. I said, ‘You may be interested in why I am waiting for Adrienne to call.’

‘I’m sure I don’t want to know.’

‘Do I detect coolness?’

‘You detect indifference. They are not the same.’

I said, ‘Ha. We’ll see if you feel the same after you hear my news.’

She said, ‘Let me guess. You’ve changed your name to Jerry Lee Lewis Cole?’ You see what passes for humor in Louisiana?

‘I’m working with Jonathan Green.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then Lucy Chenier said, ‘Is that true, or is this more of the famous Elvis Cole wit?’ Not joking, now.

‘Hired me today for the Big Green Defense Machine.’

Lucy Chenier made a soft whistling sound, then said, ‘Oh, Elvis. That’s wonderful.’ You see? Impressed. Lucy being impressed made me want to thump my hind leg on the floor and roll over so that she could scratch my belly. She said, ‘We used to study his cases in law school.’

‘How about that.’

‘It must be very exciting.’

‘He’s just another client.’

She said, ‘I have news, too.’ She sounded happy, like maybe she was smiling when she said it.

‘Okay.’

The firm has business to take care of in Long Beach, and they’re sending me out. Ben’s out of school, so how would you like a couple of freeloading house guests?’

The background noise of the TV and the CNN newscasters was suddenly a million miles away. I said, ‘I could handle that.’

‘What?’ I guess she hadn’t heard me. I guess my voice had come out hoarse and small.

‘Hold on a minute and let me check my calendar.’

‘You rat.’

I was smiling. I was smiling so wide that my face felt tight and brittle, as if I smiled any farther my cheeks would crack. ‘Yes. Yes, I think that would be fine. Are you kidding? That’s great.’

‘I thought so, too.’

I said, ‘I’ll be at the airport in an hour.’

She laughed. ‘You can be there in an hour, but Ben and I won’t be there until the day after tomorrow. I’m sorry to spring this on you, but I didn’t know for sure until this afternoon.’

I was too busy smiling to answer.

‘I’ll call tomorrow and give you the flight information.’

‘Hey, Luce.’

‘Hm?’

‘I’m really happy about this.’

‘Me, too, Studly. Oh, you don’t know.’

We talked for another hour, mostly about where we would go and what we would do and how excited we were that we would see each other again. When my food was warm I sat on the kitchen floor, eating as we talked, and the cat came over and stared at me. Purring. Lucy asked about Green and the Teddy Martin case, and as I told her I listened to the soft country sounds of k.d. lang behind her, and the passing voices of Ben and his best friend as they tumbled through her home. The sounds of Lucy Chenier’s life. I told her about the videographer and that Green was shorter and thinner than he looked on television, though still imposing, but after a while our conversation drifted back to us, and to how our tans from Cancun were fading and how much fun we’d had drinking blue iced cocktails and eating the fresh ceviche that the hotel chefs would make at the beach, and then after a while the conversation was over.

Lucy blew me a kiss and hung up and I lay back on the kitchen floor with the phone on my stomach, grinning at the ceiling. The cat stopped purring, and came closer to stare into my face. He looked concerned. Maybe he didn’t know I was grinning. Maybe he thought I was dying of some sort of hideous facial stricture. Is that possible? Death by grinning. I said, ‘She’s coming to see us.’

He hopped up onto my chest and sniffed at my chin and began to buzz again. The certainty of love.

Later, I washed the dishes and shut the lights and went up to bed. I lay there for a very long time, but sleep wouldn’t come. I could only think of Lucy, and of seeing her, and as I thought the grin seemed to grow. Perhaps the grin would grow so wide that it would crash through the sides of the house and slop down across the mountain and just keep expanding until it became The Grin That Ate L. A. Of course, if that happened, the grin would eat LAX and Lucy couldn’t land. Then where would I be?

At a little after two that morning, I went downstairs to the guest room and stripped the bed and put on fresh linen and then dusted and vacuumed and cleaned the guest bath. I figured I could borrow a camper’s cot from Joe Pike; Ben could use the cot and Lucy could have the bed.

At sixteen minutes before four, I went out onto the deck and stared down at the lights in the canyon below. A family of coyotes who live around Franklin Reservoir were singing, and a great desert owl who lived in the eucalyptus trees made his hooting call. I breathed the cool night air and listened to the coyotes and the owl, and I thought how fine it was that so much of my being could have so suddenly become focused on an airplane’s time of arrival.

I did not sleep, but I did not mind.

Chapter 4

By nine o’clock the next morning I had gained some measure of control over the sappy grin and was once more feeling focused, productive, and ready to swing into investigative action. Sappy grins are fine in your personal life but somehow seem less than professional when one is representing the Big Green Defense Machine. Credibility, as they say, is everything.

By eight-forty I had shaved, showered, and phoned Terminal Island to arrange an interview with LeCedrick Earle. I was eating a breakfast of nonfat yogurt and sliced bananas when Eddie Ditko called and said, ‘Hold on a sec while I fire up a smoke.’ First thing out of his mouth.

‘Top of the morning to you, too, Edward.’

There was the sound of the strike and a little pause like maybe Eddie was sucking up half of the earth’s pollutant supply, and then a burst of coughing that sounded wet and phlegmy. He said, ‘Christ, I’m passing blood.’

So much for breakfast. I pushed the bowl away and said, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Think I’m gonna drop a goddamned lung.’ He croaked it out between coughs.

‘You want to call back?’

The coughs settled to a phlegmy wheezing. ‘Nah, nah, I’m fine.’ When he got his breathing under control, he said, ‘Whadda they make these things outta nowadays, fiberglass? Ya gotta rip the filters off to get any taste.’

‘Jesus Christ, Eddie.’

Eddie Ditko said, ‘Listen, I made a few calls and got some stuff for you.’

‘Okay.’

‘Rossi looks like a pretty sharp gal.’ Gal. ‘Divorced. Got a couple of little boys. Her ex is some kind of middle manager at Water and Power.’

‘All right.’ I was making notes. I had been thinking that she might’ve married well and gotten the expensive house in the divorce, but middle managers at Water and Power aren’t known for their bank accounts.

‘She was top of her class at the academy and moved right up the promotion ladder once she got into uniform. She responded to more calls, worked more hours, and made more arrests than all but three other officers with her time in grade. That’s probably where the marriage went.’

I was still writing.

‘The LeCedrick Earle bust is what led to the gold shield, and everybody kind of figured that Rossi had a shot at being the first female chief of detectives until the Miranda thing. You blow a murder-one case because you failed to Mirandize a suspect, and that’s it for you. She lost a grade in rank and received a letter of censure. That pretty much killed her career.’

I was nodding as I wrote. Everything he said was confirming both Haig and Truly. ‘What happened with the Miranda?’

‘Two idiots armed with machetes robbed a Burito King in Silverlake and hacked three people to death. Rossi spotted a car matching the getaway vehicle and collared one of the suspects after a high-speed chase. She was jazzed from the pursuit and forgot to give the guy his warning before he confessed and implicated his accomplice. They hadda let both idiots walk, and Rossi took the heat for it. You see?’

‘Man. Did she dispute the Miranda?’

‘Nope. She blew it and she admitted it. How about that?’ Like he was surprised that someone would take responsibility for their actions. ‘I can fax you this stuff, you want.’

‘Thanks, Eddie. What about Earle?’

‘Another genius. Rossi tags the guy for a taillight violation and he slides across a C-note with his license, which he saw some moron do in a Dirty Harry movie. Rossi recognizes the Franklin’s a fake and tells him it’ll cost him a lot more than that, so he brings her back to his house where he pulls out a stash and says she can have all she wants. She says thank you very much and let’s go to jail.’

‘That’s her side of it.’

Eddie laughed. ‘Yeah, sure. Your man LeCedrick is what we call a career-type criminal. Prior to the funny-money arrest, he’d been in and out of the system half a dozen times, mostly dope and burglary charges, including two prior associations with a guy named Waylon Mustapha. Mustapha makes his living by selling down funny money for points.’ Selling for points is when you discount the face value of the counterfeit money to sell it in quantity. Sort of like being a broker. ‘My guy at the PD says that the bills they recovered when Rossi made the collar matched up with the goods Mustapha handles.’

I tapped the pen against the pad, frowning. ‘Just because LeCedrick was a creep most times doesn’t mean he was a creep that time.’

Eddie laughed harder. ‘Keep dreaming.’

I said, ‘You hear anything that would indicate she might be willing to fudge a case?’

‘You talk to his mother?’

‘Whose mother?’

‘Earle’s mother was in the house when Rossi made the collar. She saw the whole thing.’

‘Anything in the file?’

‘Nada. I would’ve talked to her, though. ‘Course, whether they listened is a different matter.’

‘Do you have her address, Eddie?’

He did, and he gave it to me. It was the same address in Olympic Park as that listed on LeCedrick Earle’s arrest report. I hung up, then phoned information for Louise Earle’s number and called her. I still needed to see LeCedrick, but maybe I could see her first. Maybe she had something to offer that might bolster his version of events, or clarify it. I let the phone ring ten times but got no answer. Guess I’d have to see LeCedrick sans clarity.

I hung up again, washed the dishes, then climbed into my car and made the long drive south to see LeCedrick Earle.

The harbor town of San Pedro lies on the water at the southeast point of the Palos Verdes peninsula, sixty miles south of Los Angeles. It’s pretty much a straight shot down the San Diego Freeway across a rolling flat fuzz of low buildings and single-family homes, past Inglewood and Hawthorne and Gardena to Torrance, and then yet farther south on the Harbor Freeway to the water. The Port of Los Angeles is down there, with the gleaming white cruise ships that come and go and the great Queen Mary that forever stays and the U. S. Federal Correctional Facility at Terminal Island.

Terminal Island is on the western side of the harbor, and the facility itself is on the outermost end of the island. The Queen Mary is next door, as are the berths for the cruise ships, but neither can be seen from the prison. From the prison, you could only see open water, and the water looked very much like iron. Sort of like the bars of the cells.

I crossed a land bridge to the island and followed the signs to the prison, and pretty soon I passed through a high chain-link gate and parked at the administration building. A tall link fence topped by concertina wire surrounded the prison, which was new and modern and clean. A guard tower overlooked the grounds, but it was new and modern and clean, too. No gun ports. No swivel-mounted machine guns. No snarling guard dogs or barrel-chested yard-bulls sapping prisoners into line. All of the guards wore blue blazers and ties, and none of them carried guns. They carried walkie-talkies, instead. Modern justice.

I went inside to the reception desk, identified myself, and told the guard that I had an appointment to see LeCedrick Earle. The guard was a clean-cut guy in his early thirties. He found my name in his log, then turned it around for me. ‘Sign here, please. Are you armed?’

‘Nope.’

He flipped through a large loose-leaf book until he found Earle’s name, then used his phone to tell someone that he wanted prisoner number E2847 brought out. When he was finished he smiled at me and said, ‘Someone will be right out for you. Wait by the sally port.’

A couple of minutes later a second guard brought me through the sally port to a glass-walled interview room. A neat new table sat in the middle of the floor with four comfortable chairs around it. A second glass door was behind the table, and there was a nice gray berber carpet. The air smelled of Airwick. If it weren’t for the guards peering in at you and the wire in the glass, you’d never know you were in a prison. Portrait of the Big House as corporate America.

Thirty seconds later the same guard opened the rear door and an African-American guy in his late twenties came in and squinted at me. ‘You that guy come about Rossi?’

The guard said, ‘Buzz me when you’re done and I’ll come get him.’ The guard had bored eyes and spoke to me as if Earle wasn’t there and hadn’t said anything.

‘Sure. Thanks.’

The guard left, locking the door.

LeCedrick Earle was maybe an inch shorter than me, with dark glossy skin and a shaved head. He was wearing a prison-issue orange jumpsuit and Keds. I said, ‘That’s right. I work for an attorney named Jonathan Green.’

‘You a lawyer?’

‘Nope. I’m a private investigator.’

Earle shrugged. ‘I saw that ad in the paper and called. I talked to some guy say he was a lawyer.’

‘The ad was about information leading to the arrest of James X for the murder of Susan Martin.’ Truly had filled me in before he’d left the office. ‘You know anything about that?’

He dropped into the near chair, put his feet on the table, and crossed his arms. Showing smug. ‘Don’t give a damn about that. I know about Rossi. I read in the paper she one of the cops arrest Teddy Martin. She put the fuck on me, I figure she maybe put the fuck on him, too.’

‘You don’t care about the reward?’

‘Fuck the reward.’ Giving me righteous. Giving me can-you-believe-this? ‘Can’t a brother just wanna do his civic duty?’

‘I read your arrest report, and I read the letter of complaint your lawyer filed against her. What happened with that?’

‘Shit, what you think happened? They didn’t do a goddamned thing. Say it’s my word against hers.’

‘Your mother was there.’

All the show and the exaggeration flicked away. His eyes darkened and his face seemed to knot. ‘Yes, well, she don’t know nothing. Just a crazy old lady scared of the police.’

I said, ‘Okay, so the arrest report is wrong and Rossi is lying.’

‘Goddamned right. Bitch set me up.’

‘She says that you tried to buy your way out of a traffic violation with a fake C-note.’

‘Bullshit. That money was real.’

‘You really tried to buy your way out with a C?’

‘Man, I had so many outstanding warrants. I was scared she was gonna run me in. That’s what I was tryin’ to avoid.’

‘So what happened?’

He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. ‘I pass her the note and she laughs. She says she don’t come that cheap and I say it’s all I got. She says I guess we gonna get locked down, then won’t we? I’m gettin’ the Hershey squirts cause of all the warrants, so I say I got a few hundred stashed at the house. She says let’s see it, and that’s when we go home.’

‘She followed you to your house to get more money.’

‘Oh, yeah. That part’s true.’

‘Okay.’

‘So We get there and go inside and I got the money back in my room, not much, a few hundred, but it’s real. I worked for that cash.’

‘Okay.’

‘We go back to my room to get the money and the next thing I know the gun’s coming out and she’s screamin’ at me to get on the floor an’ I’m squirtin’ for real ’cause I think the crazy bitch gonna shoot me and so I go down and she snaps on the cuffs and then she takes this little bag of cash from under her jacket and that’s the shit.’

‘The funny money?’

He was nodding. ‘I say, what’s that? I say, whatchu think you doin’? She say shut the fuck up. Oh, man, next thing I know more cars are pullin’ up and she’s tellin’ them other cops that the flash cash is mine and now I’m in here. How you like that shit?’

I stared at LeCedrick Earle and LeCedrick Earle stared back. His eyes did not waver. He said, ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Just thinking.’

Thinkin’ what?’

‘Wondering about you and Waylon Mustapha.’

He waved his hand. ‘That’s just bullshit bad luck.’ He waved the hand some more. ‘Waylon grow up down the street from me. Waylon and me know each other since kindergarten and blow a little smoke together, that’s all. I can’t help it I know Waylon. I know guys who killed people, an’ I ain’t no murderer.’

‘The money Rossi booked into evidence matched with paper that Waylon deals.’

LeCedrick crossed his arms and grinned. ‘Half the funny money on the street come from Waylon. She probably got it from the goddamned evidence room. She mighta even bought it from Waylon his own damn self.’

‘Okay.’ I stared at him some more.

LeCedrick Earle started to fidget. ‘Now what you lookin’ at? You don’t believe me, jus’ say so, callin’ me a liar.’ He got up and walked in a little circle.

I said, ‘I’m going to write down everything you’ve said. I’m going to check it out. I’m going to pass it along to Jonathan Green. You sure you don’t want a piece of the money?’

‘Fuck the money. I just wanna get out of here.’

I nodded.

He jabbed a finger at me. ‘I’m tellin’ you and God and everyone else that bitch set me up. You check it out, you see. Bet she set up this Teddy Martin, too.’

I said, ‘Something about what you’re saying bothers me, LeCedrick. You want to help me with something?’

His eyes narrowed. Suspicious. ‘What?’

‘If she wanted to set you up, she didn’t need to go to your house. All she had to do is bust you on the street and say she found the money under the front seat.’

‘Damn bitch is crazy! Who know how a goddamn crazy bitch think?’ He threw up both hands, then came back to the table and slapped the buzzer for the guards. ‘Shit on this. I shoulda known you asshole muthuhfuckuhs wouldn’t believe me. Fuck you and fuck her, too. I guess a brother just has to rot in here.’

The guard came and took LeCedrick Earle back to his cell.

Chapter 5

As I tooled north back to Los Angeles I tried to keep an open mind. Just because someone looks like a liar and acts like a liar doesn’t mean that he is a liar. It doesn’t even mean he’s a liar when his story is full of holes. Even the truth has been known to have holes. Of course, when his story doesn’t make sense it becomes a little more difficult to swallow. I could see Angela Rossi’s side of it, but not LeCedrick Earle’s. Rossi’s report said that she followed Earle to his house because he only had the single hundred-dollar bill on his person and she knew that he could plead innocent to a knowledge of its being counterfeit; she reasoned that if he had more at home as he stated, he couldn’t reasonably deny knowledge and the intent to defraud, and the arrest would stick. LeCedrick Earle said that she followed him to his home where she produced a hidden amount of counterfeit money and made the arrest. He opined that she might’ve done this so that there would be no witnesses, yet Mrs Louise Earle had been there and Rossi apparently consummated the arrest. Rossi’s version made sense and LeCedrick Earle’s didn’t.

Still, people sometimes do strange things for strange reasons, and I decided to see what Mrs Louise Earle had to offer. I expected that she would support her son’s claims, but in the doing perhaps she would add something to give them greater credence.

I opened Truly’s envelope, shook out my notes, and looked up her address. It would be polite to pull off the freeway and call again to see if she was at home, but when people know you’re coming they often find reasons to leave. I decided to risk it.

Forty-five minutes later I dropped off the Harbor Freeway onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, and five minutes after that I found my way to Olympic Park.

Olympic Park is a downscale residential area just north of USC and Exposition Park and the Natural History Museum, not far from downtown L. A. The Coliseum is nearby, along with the L. A. Sports Arena, and on game nights the surrounding residential streets are jammed belly to butt with parked cars and pushcarts and hawkers selling souvenirs and iced drinks.

Louise Earle lived in a stucco bungalow on Twenty-fifth Street, four blocks south of the freeway, within walking distance of USC. The houses and the yards are small and the drives are narrow, but the properties are neat and clean, and the Earle home was painted a happy yellow with about a million multicolored flowers blooming on her porch in about a million clay pots and wooden planters. Flowers hung from the eaves and filled the porch and two large wrought-iron baker’s racks. There were so many flowers on the porch that you had to walk along a narrow path to make your way to the door. It probably took her two hours a day just to water the things.

A six-year-old Buick Skylark was parked in the drive and an air conditioner was humming in a side window. I parked at the curb opposite her house, then went up the drive past the Buick and through the jungle of flowers to her door. The Buick’s engine was still ticking. Recent arrival. A little metal plaque under the doorbell said WELCOME. I rang the bell.

The door opened and a thin woman in her early sixties looked at me. She was wearing a simple print dress in a flowered pattern and comfortable canvas shoes and her gray hair had been pulled into a bun. Neat. I said, ‘Mrs Earle?’

She smiled at me. ‘Yes?’

I gave her my card. ‘Mrs Earle, my name is Elvis Cole. I’m an investigator looking into your son’s arrest. May I ask you a few questions?’

She frowned, but she might’ve been squinting at the sun. ‘Are you from the police?’

‘No, ma’am. I’m private.’ I told her that I was working for an attorney named Jonathan Green, and though Green did not represent LeCedrick, the events of his arrest might have a bearing on another case.

She shifted in the door, uncomfortable and unsure about what I might want. ‘LeCedrick is at Terminal Island.’

‘I know. I understand that you witnessed his arrest, and I have some questions about that.’ Something moved in the house behind her.

‘Well, I guess it would be all right.’ Reluctant. She glanced back into the house, then stepped aside and opened the door. ‘Why don’t you come in so we don’t let all the cool air out.’

I stepped in and she closed the door.

A short, slight gentleman was standing in the living room. He had wavy marcelled hair and he was wearing a brown summer-weight suit that had probably been new twenty years ago. His hair was more gray than not, and his skin was the color of fine cocoa parchment. He was holding a small bouquet of zinnias. I made him for his late sixties, but I could’ve been off five years either way.

Louise Earle said, ‘This is my friend, Walter Lawrence. He just dropped in, and now he’ll have to be leaving. Won’t you, Mr Lawrence?’ She said it more to Mr Lawrence than to me, and he didn’t seem to like it very much.

Mr Lawrence frowned, clearly disappointed. ‘I suppose I could come back later.’

Louise Earle said, ‘And I suppose you could just phone later and see whether or not a person is busy before you drop around, now couldn’t you?’

Mr Lawrence ground about four inches of enamel off his teeth, but he managed a grim smile anyway. He wasn’t liking this one bit. ‘I suppose.’

She nodded approvingly, then took the flowers. ‘Now you just let me get these lovely flowers in some water and we’ll speak later.’ She cradled the flowers and encouraged him toward the door.

Mr Lawrence stood very straight when he walked, trying to get as much height as he could. He mumbled something to her that I couldn’t hear, frowned at me as he passed, and then Louise Earle shut the door. A couple of heartbeats later the Skylark backed out of the drive. I said, ‘Ah, romance.’

Louisfe Earle laughed, and the laugh made her fifteen years younger. ‘May I offer you coffee, Mr Cole, or something cool to drink?’

‘Coffee would be fine, Mrs Earle. Thank you.’

She took the flowers back to her kitchen, calling over her shoulder. ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’

I sat on a well-worn cloth couch with a handmade slipcover and needlepoint throw pillows. An overstuffed chair made an L with the couch and the couch and the chair were angled around an inexpensive coffee table, and all of it looked across the room at a cherry wood armoire. The armoire was open and its shelves were lined with tiny vases and knickknacks and family photographs, some of which were of LeCedrick. LeCedrick as a teenager. LeCedrick as a child. LeCedrick before choosing a life of crime. He seemed like a happy child with a bright smile. Her home was neat and cared for and smelled of the flowers.

Mrs Earle appeared a few moments later with two cups of coffee, walking carefully so as not to slosh. She said, ‘That business with LeCedrick was several years ago. Why are you interested in that now?’

‘I’m investigating the officer who arrested him.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember her.’ She put the cups on the table, then offered one to me. ‘Would you care for milk or sugar?’

‘No, ma’am. Then you were present during the arrest?’

She nodded again. ‘Oh, yes. The police came to see me about that. They came back three or four times. Those affairs people.’

‘Internal Affairs?’

‘Mm-hm.’ She sipped at her coffee. It was so hot that swirls of steam followed the contours of her face and fogged her glasses.

‘You know LeCedrick is disputing the arrest.’

‘Of course, I know.’

‘LeCedrick claimed at the time of his arrest, and still claims, that Officer Rossi planted counterfeit bills in order to make the arrest.’

Mrs Earle nodded, but it was noncommittal, like she was waiting to hear more.

‘Is that what you told the Internal Affairs people?’

Mrs Louise Earle gave a deep sigh and the mask of noncommittal detachment melted away into eyes that were tired and pained. ‘I know he says that, and I’ll tell you just what I told those affairs people.’

I leaned toward her.

‘You can’t believe a thing that child says.’

I blinked at her.

She put down the coffee and waved toward the armoire. ‘I was standing right there when LeCedrick and that officer came in. I saw every little thing that happened.’ Louise Earle closed her tired eyes, as if by closing them she could see it all again, just like she’d told the affairs people. ‘The officer stood right there, holding her hat and telling me about her day. I remember that she was holding her hat because I thought how polite that was, to hold her hat like that. I didn’t know she’d come to arrest him.’

‘She didn’t go back to his room?’ LeCedrick had said that Rossi had gone back to his room.

‘Oh, no. She just came in and stood there, talking with me the whole time. I was certainly angry when she arrested the boy, but she was very nice about it.’ Very nice about it. I could see Jonathan Green when I related this. I could see his color drain, his eyes bulge. I wondered if he would pass out and Truly and I would have to administer CPR.

‘LeCedrick claims that she accompanied him to his room. He says that she had a bag under her jacket containing the counterfeit bills.’

‘It was summer. What would anyone be doing with a jacket in summer?’ Louise Earle shook her head, and now there was a sadness to her. She crossed her hands in her lap. ‘Mr Cole, you listen to LeCedrick and you’d think he was just the most innocent thing, but that just isn’t the way it is. LeCedrick will lie at the drop of a hat, and always has.’

I sighed. So much for LeCedrick Earle.

Louise Earle said, ‘Make no mistake about it. I love that child and it grieves me no end he’s in jail, but he’s said exactly the same thing every other time he’s been arrested. It’s always somebody else’s fault. It’s always the police out to get him. Like that.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘If you’re lookin’ for me to say that boy is innocent, I can’t. If you’re lookin’ for me to speak against that lady officer, I can’t do that, either.’ She looked stern when she said it.

‘No, ma’am. I’m not looking for that.’

‘He wanted me to lie for him back then, and I wouldn’t. He wanted me to cover for him, and make excuses, and I said no. I said, LeCedrick, you have to learn to stop makin’ excuses, you have to learn to be a man.’ Her voice wavered and she stopped. She picked up the coffee, sipped, then said, ‘It’s cost me greatly, but it’s for him. Something has to shock some sense into that boy.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘He hasn’t spoken to me since the trial. He said he’d never speak to me again.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Earle.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I felt awkward and ashamed that I’d come into her life and driven off Mr Lawrence and made her relive something that was clearly so painful.

‘I tried to raise that boy right. I loved that boy as much as any mother could, and tried to show a good example, but he just went wrong.’ Her eyes grew pink and a single tear worked its way down her cheek. ‘Maybe that was where I went wrong. Maybe I held him too close and excused too little. Is it possible to love someone too much?’

I looked at her, and then I looked at the furniture and the pictures, and then back at her weary eyes and the weight they carried. ‘I don’t think there can ever be too much love, Mrs Earle.’

She seemed to consider that, and then she put her coffee down again. ‘Has this helped you?’

‘Yes, ma’am. It has.’ Jonathan Green wouldn’t think so, but there you go.

She stood, and it was clear that she wanted me to leave. ‘If you don’t mind, then, I should clip those zinnias and get them in water.’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry I interrupted you and Mr Lawrence.’

The tiny smile came back, though it wasn’t as strong as before. ‘Yes, well, it’ll take more than a little interruption to discourage that man.’

‘Men are like that, Mrs Earle. We find something worthwhile, we stay with it.’

The tired eyes crinkled and suddenly the younger self was there again. ‘Oh, you get on with you, now.’

She walked me to the door and I went out into the sun and got on with me.

Chapter 6

The early afternoon heat shimmered off the sidewalks and cars and surrounding roofs in a kind of urban illusion of life’s silver lining. It was just before two on the second day of my investigation into Angela Rossi and the doors of investigative possibility were rapidly closing, and with every closed door Angela Rossi looked better and the people making claims against her looked worse. Louise Earle was credible, cogent, in full command of her faculties, and did not seem to be a person who would miss seeing a cop carrying a bag of funny money through her living room. Of course, maybe Angela Rossi was a master of misdirection and had secreted the money behind her back. She might’ve shouted, ‘Look over there!’ and run to LeCedrick’s room and planted the cash when Louise turned to look. Perhaps my investigative task for the afternoon should be finding out whether or not Angela Rossi was an amateur magician.

Or maybe not. Three teenaged girls with long skinny legs and halter tops came out of the house across the street and went to an ancient Volkswagen Beetle parked in their drive. They were lugging beach towels and bottles of Evian water, and everybody wore thongs. Off to the beach. Maybe I should offer to go with them and protect them from the thugs at the beach. Maybe we could discuss my findings. On the other hand, Lucy Chenier was arriving tomorrow, and maybe I should snap out of it before I found myself in really deep doo-doo. C’est la vie.

When I reached the sidewalk a tall, muscular black guy appeared beside my car. As he reached the car a heavy white guy in his early fifties climbed out of a blue sedan parked across the street and started toward me. The black guy was in impeccably pressed designer jeans and a tight knit shirt that showed his muscles, and the white guy was in a rumpled light gray winter-weight suit. A million degrees, and he’s wearing winter weight. Cops. A woman’s voice said, ‘Excuse me, sir. May I have a word with you?’ Polite, and kind of cheery.

The cheery woman was coming toward me from the adjoining yard as if she had been standing at the corner of the house there, waiting. She was maybe five-eight, and dark the way you’re dark when you spend a lot of time in the sun running and working out and playing sports. I made her for her early- to mid-thirties, but the lines around her eyes and mouth were deep. Probably from all the sun. She was wearing designer jeans like the black guy and Reebok court shoes and a loose linen top that she would probably cover with a linen sport coat if it weren’t so hot. Stylish and attractive, even with the Browning 9mm clipped to her right hip. She badged me with an LAPD detective shield as she approached, still cheery with the smile, and I recognized her just before she said, ‘Mr Cole, my name is Angela Rossi. The detective in the gray suit would like to ask you a few questions.’

She glanced at the guy in the bad suit and I followed her look just as she knew I would, and when I did she stepped close and threw an overhand with a black leather sap, trying for the side of my head. Sucker shot. I picked up her move and tried to twist out of the way, but she was good and fast and I caught most of the sap on my right cheek with a blossom of pain. The guy in the suit yelled, ‘Hey!’ and the black guy grunted, ‘Shit!’ like they were surprised, too. Rossi followed the sap with a hard knee, but it caught me in the thigh instead of the groin, and then the older guy was there, wedging himself between us, forcing her away and saying, ‘Dammit, Rossi, you want another beef in your file? Is that what you want?’

I wobbled, but kept my feet and let the older guy move her back.

The black guy hustled up behind me and his hands went to my wrists, pulling my arms behind me. The three girls ran up onto their porch and watched from the door, one of them with her hand to her mouth. My right cheek felt like someone had popped a firecracker under the skin and my eyes were watering. I didn’t want to double over, but I couldn’t exactly stand up straight either. It’s hard to look tough when you’re thinking that maybe you’ll vomit. Especially when you’ve been suckered with an eye-fake. Maybe Rossi was a master of misdirection after all.

Angela Rossi jabbed her finger at me, saying, ‘This shitbird came to my home! What were you doing at my home, you creep?’ She wasn’t smiling, now. Her face was etched and drawn, and she looked as if she wanted to rip out my eyes.

The older guy pushed her hand down and shoved her further away. ‘Dammit, Rossi. Step back.’

The black guy locked my right arm above the elbow, walked me to a white Cressida, and pushed me down across the trunk. The skin of the car was so hot from the sun it felt like a branding iron. I said, ‘Are you guys really cops or is this America’s Funniest Home Videos!’

The black guy ignored me. He went through my pockets and down my pants, and then he said, ‘He’s clean, Tommy.’

Rossi stopped all the squirming and trying to get at me. The older guy came over and badged me, too. ‘I’m Detective Tomsic, and you’re being investigated for stalking a Los Angeles police officer. Do you understand that?’

The teenage girl with her hand to her mouth disappeared inside the house. The other two stayed on the porch, watching. A couple of faces appeared in the windows, and I said, ‘Hey, look, Tomsic. I think they’ve got a video camera.’

Tomsic said, ‘Good. Let’m watch.’

‘Maybe they got the sap on tape. You think?’ Saps are classified as dangerous weapons. They are illegal to carry, sort of like rocket launchers and samurai swords.

Rossi said, ‘What were you doing at my home?’ She was breathing hard, but she was well back on the sidewalk and she probably wasn’t going to hit me again.

‘ID and license are in my wallet. I’m a private investigator.’ The black guy tossed my wallet to Tomsic.

Rossi said, ‘We know who you are, shitbird. Tell me why you came to my house.’

‘I was investigating a lead that you were living beyond your means.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what I do. Investigate.’

The third girl returned from her house to join her two friends, but Tomsic didn’t seem overly concerned. He was going through the wallet like he had all the time in the world. ‘He’s our boy, all right. California PI license. Elvis Cole.’ He looked at me. ‘You’ve got a license to carry here. Where’s the piece?’

‘Under the seat.’

The black guy laughed. ‘You left it under the seat?’

‘I was talking to a woman in her sixties. Who would I shoot?’

The black guy said, ‘I hear you.’ He went to my Corvette without having to ask which car was mine. They’d probably followed me. Rossi’s neighbor had probably copied my tag number and they’d run the plates and picked me up at my house or maybe even on the way to Terminal Island.

Rossi frowned at Louise Earle’s place. ‘You investigating the LeCedrick Earle thing?’

‘Earle claims you planted the cash.’

‘That’s bullshit.’

I nodded. ‘I had to check it out.’

She put her right hand on her right hip, just above the Browning. ‘Who are you working for?’

‘Jonathan Green. In the matter of Teddy Martin.’

Tomsic said, ‘Well, fuck me.’

The black guy stood out of the Corvette, grinning. ‘You on the Martin defense? Whadda they call it, the Big Green Defense Machine?’ Like he wanted to laugh.

I looked back at Rossi. ‘People are making accusations that may be relevant to the defense effort, and I’m checking them out. So far you look pretty good.’

She looked surprised. ‘What accusations? Teddy Martin killed that woman.’

I made a little shrug. ‘If you planted evidence once, the theory is that you’d plant it again. Some people called Green and told him that you’ve got a history of doing anything it takes to jump your career. Green hired me to see if there’s anything to it.’

Angela Rossi squared herself and took a step toward me. Tomsic shook his head. ‘Angie.’

Rossi took another step closer and the black guy came back to stand with Tomsic between us. Like the two of them were scared of what she might do. She said, ‘Green’s a shithog and so are you.’

Tomsic said, ‘Take it easy, Angie.’

Rossi shoved at Tomsic. ‘Hey, I don’t have to take this shit! Assholes coming into my life and trying to put this on me!’

I said, ‘No one’s trying to put anything on you. I just want the facts. No one’s looking to axe you.’

Rossi jabbed her finger at me, but spoke to Tomsic. ‘This guy’s in my life, Dan!’

Tomsic said, ‘Chill out, will you? This stuff happens. I’ve been investigated nine thousand times.’

I said, ‘Look, Rossi, it’s like I said. I’ve been through most of it and you’re looking good. This is a legal investigation, and if you check out clean I’ll report that to Green and that’ll be the end of it.’

Tomsic said, ‘You hear that? Clean.’ Like we were both on the same team, now, trying to keep her calm. Maybe Haig had been right about her being a nutcase. Tomsic was acting as if he was scared what might happen if she lost control of herself. He turned back to me. ‘You understand why we dropped on you, right? Your nosing around her house.’

‘No problem.’ My cheek was throbbing and the skin around my eye was starting to stretch, but there was no problem. Sure.

A black and white LAPD radio car turned onto the block and came at us with its light bar flashing, probably responding to a call from the three girls. The radio car roared in to a sliding stop with a couple of uniforms unloading even before the car stopped rocking. An Asian guy in his mid-forties was driving with an Hispanic guy in his late-twenties along for the ride. Tomsic said, ‘Fuckin’ great. A cheering section.’ He nodded toward the black guy, then the uniforms. ‘Robert, chill out these guys, okay?’

Robert badged the uniforms and trotted over. The Asian guy had a couple of stripes on his sleeve and was built like he’d spent the last twenty years in the LAPD’s weight room. His name tag read SAMURA. Robert met Samura first and spoke to him in low tones as they walked back to us. When Samura heard my name he looked at me. ‘You’re Cole?’

‘Unh-hunh.’

He looked at Tomsic. ‘This guy works with Joe Pike.’

Robert and Tomsic stared at me. So did Rossi. Robert said, ‘No shit?’

I spread my hands. ‘Somebody has to.’

Tomsic’s face went red and he wasn’t so friendly any more, like he and I were no longer on the same team. ‘The Joe Pike!’

‘How many you know?’

His jaw worked, and he said, ‘The Joe Pike I know can kiss my goddamned ass.’ When Joe left the PD it hadn’t gone well.

I smiled at him. ‘I’ll give you his number. You can tell him yourself.’

A little tick started in Tomsic’s left eye. ‘Maybe we should march your butt in, after all. Dig around and see if you’re in violation of your license.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, please, Tomsic. Spare me.’

The tick fluttered into a rapid-fire blink, but then he stepped back and looked embarrassed. Samura pretended not to notice. ‘We got a robbery in progress call. What’s the deal?’

Tomsic filled him in, telling him about my nosing around Rossi’s home, telling him about Teddy Martin and Jonathan Green and Rossi’s role in the Martin arrest. Samura listened, but didn’t seem particularly interested. You spend enough years on the street, you’re not even interested if a nuke goes off.

When Tomsic was finished, Samura said, ‘Cole has a good rep. I know guys who’ve worked with him.’ He squinted at me, then took off his hat and wiped his face. It had to be a million degrees, standing in the sun. ‘You remember a guy named Terry Ito?’

‘Sure.’ I’d worked with Ito four or five years back.

Samura put his hat back on and looked at Tomsic. ‘You don’t have to sweat it. Ito thinks that this guy’s the cat’s ass.’

I said, ‘Terry has a way with words, all right.’

Robert said, ‘We didn’t know who the guy was and he was poking around an officer. You know how it is.’

‘Sure.’ Samura squared his hat, then nodded toward his radio car. His partner drifted away. Samura started after him, then turned back and looked me over. ‘I’d never heard Terry Ito say a good thing about anybody. Terry know you work with Joe Pike?’

‘Yes.’

Samura cracked the world’s smallest grin, then went back to his car and drove away. The three girls were still gaggled at their front door, but most of the other faces had disappeared from the windows. You’ve seen one crime scene, you’ve seen’m all.

Tomsic looked at Rossi. ‘Okay. We know who this guy is and what he’s doing. You okay with it?’

She made a grudging shrug.

Tomsic looked back to me. ‘How about you? You gonna file a beef because of the sap?’

‘Barely touched me.’

Robert laughed. ‘Yeah. Look at you.’

Tomsic said, ‘Okay, then. Everybody knows where it stands.’ He nudged Rossi. ‘We don’t have to like it, we just have to know where it stands.’

Rossi said, ‘One thing.’

I looked at her.

‘You’re doing a job, and I can live with that. Investigate all you want, but stay the hell away from my home. If you come around my home again, I’ll break you down. If you even look at my kids, I’ll kill you on the spot.’

Tomsic said, ‘Jesus Christ, Angie, knock that shit off. Sayin’ shit like that is what gets you in deep.’

She raised a neutral hand. ‘Just laying it out.’

I said, ‘You’re looking good, Rossi. Don’t sweat it.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ She stared at me for another couple of seconds, but she didn’t look relaxed and she didn’t look as if she believed it was over. She was breathing hard, and the crinkled skin around her eyes was jumping and fluttering as if tiny butterflies were trapped there, trying to get out. Then something that looked like it might’ve been a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth and she said, ‘Tell Joe that Rossi says hi.’

Angela Rossi turned away without another word, crossed the street, and slid into the passenger side of Tomsic’s dark blue G-ride. Tomsic joined her, and Robert got into a tan Explorer. In a couple of minutes they were gone. Even the three girls were gone, vanished in their Volkswagen for a belated trip to the beach.

I stood there for a time, alone except for the dull ache in the side of my face, and then I got into my car and drove to my office.

Chapter 7

I stopped at a 7-Eleven to buy ice for my eye. A Pakistani gentleman was behind the counter, watching a miniature TV. He was watching an episode of COPS, and he viewed me with suspicion as I paid.

I told him what the ice was for and asked if I could use the bathroom to look at myself, but he said that the bathroom was for employees only. I asked if he had a little mirror that I could borrow, but he said no again. He sneaked a look toward the door as if he wanted me to leave, as if whatever wraith of urban violence had assaulted’me might suddenly be visited upon him and his store. Guess I couldn’t blame the guy. You look at enough episodes of COPS, and pretty soon you’re thinking that life is a war zone.

I thanked him for the ice, then went out to the car and looked at my eye in the rearview mirror. A neat little mouse was riding high on my right cheek and was already starting to color. Great. I wrapped a handful of ice in my handkerchief and drove back to my office with one hand. Nothing like bucking rush-hour traffic with a faceful of ice.

It was just after five when I reached my building and turned down the ramp into the building’s garage. A line of cars was on its way out, but most of the garage was already empty. Cindy’s Mazda was missing, and so were the cars belonging to the people who worked at the insurance company across the hall from my office. I left my car in its spot, walked up to the lobby, then took the elevator to my floor. Lights off, doors locked, empty. Empty was good. Maybe if Los Angeles had been empty I would’ve been able to spot two carloads of cops tailing me around half the city.

I let myself into my office, popped on the lights, and found Joe Pike sitting at my desk. I said, ‘You could’ve turned on the lights, Joe. We’re not broke.’

Pike cocked his head to the side, looking at my eye. ‘Is that a pimple?’

‘Ha-ha.’ That Pike is a riot. A real comedian, that guy.

Joe Pike is six foot one, with long ropey muscles, dark hair cut short, and bright red arrows tattooed on the outside of each deltoid. He got the tattoos in a faraway place long before it was stylish for rock stars and TV actors and Gen X rave queens to flash skin art. The arrows point forward, and are not a fashion statement. They are a statement of being. Pike was wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and Levi’s and dark pilot’s glasses. Even at night he wears the glasses. For all I know he sleeps in them.

I went to a little mirror I have on the wall and looked at the eye. The side of my face hurt like hell, but the ice was working; the swelling had stopped. ‘Your friend Angela Rossi hit me with a six-ounce sap. Suckered me with an eye move.’

‘I know.’

I looked at him. ‘How do you know?’

He got up, took two Falstaffs from the little fridge, and handed one to me. If you listened as hard as you could, you still wouldn’t hear him move. ‘Angie called and told me. She wanted to know what we were doing.’

‘She called you.’

He popped the tab on his Falstaff and had some. ‘I’ve been here a while. Lucy called. I didn’t know she was coming out.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I left her flight information on your desk.’ Pike took his beer to the couch. ‘Why are we working for Theodore Martin?’

‘We’re not. We’re working for Jonathan Green.’ I told him about Haig and his allegations that Rossi would fabricate evidence to boost her career. I told him about LeCedrick Earle and his allegations that Rossi had done just that. ‘Green hired us to look into the allegations. I told him that we would report what we found, even if it hurt his case. He said okay.’

‘Lawyers are lizard people.’ Life is simple for Pike.

‘Lucy’s a lawyer.’

Pike’s head shifted a quarter of an inch. ‘Not Lucy.’

I said again, ‘Angela Rossi called you.’

He stared at me with impenetrable black lenses. Two months before I’d had canvas Roman shades installed on the French doors to cut the western exposure in the afternoon, and when the shades were down the office filled with a beautiful gold light. They were down now, and Pike was bathed in the light. It made his dark glasses glow. ‘We worked Rampart Division together. She was coming on when I was going out.’ Pike had spent three years riding in a radio car for LAPD. ‘I knew Haig. Haig was an asshole. I knew Rossi, too. I didn’t ride in a car with her, but she seemed like a straight shooter.’

‘Okay.’

‘That what you find?’

I took my ice and my Falstaff and went to my desk. I saw the notepaper with Lucy’s flight information. Pike’s printing was meticulously neat, but so small it was almost impossible to read. ‘She’s aggressive, ambitious, and no one likes her much, but there’s no evidence that she dumped LeCedrick Earle or anyone else. Haig comes across like a crank, and Earle’s own mother said that her son is a liar.’

Pike nodded.

‘The only thing that doesn’t fit is her house. Two years ago she bought a condo in the Marina that had to go for four hundred thousand dollars. I’ve got a call in to Adrienne Martin.’

‘Forget the house. Her mother left her an apartment building in Long Beach. When Rossi sold it she had to roll the cash into another property or get hit with the capital gains.’

I stared at him.

‘We were close.’

‘I see.’

‘Very close.’ Still hidden behind the black lenses.

I stared at him some more, and then I nodded. ‘I guess that’s it, then. No crime, no graft, no corruption. Jonathan won’t like it, but there it is.’ There hadn’t been much to check and it hadn’t taken long, but it rarely does when everything is above board.

‘She’s a sharp cop, Elvis. It’s a tough game for a woman, tougher still if the woman is better than the boys and lets them know it.’

I smiled at him. ‘She doesn’t seem like the retiring type.’

He canted his head a couple of degrees. ‘She had a real shot at being the first female chief of detectives. She still might, even with the Miranda beef.’

‘High praise coming from you.’

Pike shrugged.

I said, ‘Joe, are you soft on this woman?’

Pike finished his beer, then got up and placed the empty can carefully into the wastebasket. ‘I admire her, Elvis. In much the same way I admire you.’

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said, ‘Since you admire me so much, I’ve got a favor to ask.’

He waited.

‘Lucy and Ben are coming, and I’ve got the two-seater. Can I borrow your Jeep to pick them up?’

Pike stood motionless. The Jeep was in immaculate condition, and Pike kept it flawless. You could shave in the fender. You could eat off the engine block.

I said, ‘I’ll wash it before I give it back. If someone dents it I’ll shoot them.’

Pike’s head swiveled one-half a degree. I think he was stricken. ‘Why don’t I come with you to pick them up?’

‘Joe.’ It was like pulling teeth.

He still wasn’t happy about it, but he finally nodded. Once.

I said, ‘I’ll draft the report on Rossi tonight. I’ll call Truly and tell him that I’m going to turn it in tomorrow, and he’ll probably want to see me. You want to go along?’

Pike said, ‘No.’ Lizard people.

‘Just thought I’d ask.’

Pike went to the door, then looked back at me, and gestured to his right eye. ‘That’s going to look nice for Lucy.’ , ‘Thanks, Joe.’

‘Good to see Angie hasn’t lost her touch.’ His mouth twitched a single time and he left. Pike never smiles or laughs, but sometimes you’ll get the twitch. Mr Hilarity.

I had the rest of my beer, then phoned Elliot Truly. When Truly came on the line, I said, ‘I’ve concluded the investigation into Angela Rossi. I’m going to write the report tonight.’

He didn’t say anything for a second. ‘So soon?’

‘I’m fast, Truly. Cases solved in no time flat or your money back.’

Truly said, ‘Well, hell.’ Like he was disappointed it hadn’t taken longer, like he was maybe thinking that I had given the job short shrift. ‘What did you find?’

‘She’s clean. Earle is a liar and Haig is a crank with a grudge. There’s absolutely no evidence that Rossi’s ever been anything other than a good cop.’

Another silence. ‘You’d better come in. Jonathan will want to talk about it.’ You see?

‘I have guests coming in from out of town at five tomorrow evening.’

I could hear him fumbling with something. ‘We’re going to have a staff meeting here tomorrow morning at nine. Can you make that?’

‘I’ll be there.’

It took less than twenty minutes to write the report, and then I drove home listening to k. d. lang. k. d. lang was Lucy’s favorite, and as I drove I found that I was thinking less about Jonathan Green and Angela Rossi, and more about Lucy Chenier. I thought that I might clean the house and make a shopping list. The house was already clean and it was too late to shop, but that didn’t matter. My work was done and Lucy was coming, and what could be better than that? Anticipation is everything.

When I got home, Pike’s Jeep was waiting in the drive, freshly washed, immaculate and gleaming. I found a note under the windshield that said, Give my love to Lucy, and please drive carefully.

That Pike is something, isn’t he?

Chapter 8

At twenty minutes before nine the next morning I worked my way down the mountain along Laurel Canyon to Sunset, then turned west toward Jonathan Green’s office.

Most prominent attorneys in Los Angeles will blackjack their mothers to find office space in Beverly Hills or Century City, both of which are considered prestige addresses for the legal community. Jonathan Green’s office was on Sunset Boulevard in an ornate four-story Spanish office building across from the Mondrian Hotel. I guess if ypu’re Jonathan Green, any place you happen to be is a prestige address.

The building was older, with an established landscape of royal palms and bougainvillea, and state-of-the-art security equipment discreetly hidden from public view. A tasteful sign built into the front of the building simply said THE LAW OFFICES OF JONATHAN GREEN. The parking garage was gated, and the gate wouldn’t open until a gentleman wearing a red blazer strolled out to my car and asked my name. He was exceedingly polite, and possessed of a bulge in the line of his jacket beneath his left arm. The bulge, like the sign and the security equipment, was also discreet.

I left my car in the garage, then followed the guard’s directions past a Spanish tile fountain in the lobby to the elevators, and then to the top floor. Another blazered gentleman smiled at me in the lobby, and a third just happened to be on the elevator. Both were polite and both, like the guard in the parking garage, had the corded necks of men who spent a lot of their time honing confrontational skills. Corded necks are a dead give-away.

When the elevator opened, Elliot Truly was waiting for me. I guess the parking guard must’ve called. I said, ‘Some security.’

He stared at my eye.

‘Cut myself shaving.’

Truly realized he was staring and looked away. ‘Yes, well, I guess that happens.’

I followed him past the floor receptionist and along a glass hall. ‘Why all the spooks?’

‘Many of Jonathan’s cases are unpopular, as you might imagine. You’d be surprised at the number of people who don’t believe that defendants are entitled to the best possible defense.’

‘No kidding.’

Men and women in business suits hurried in both directions, some carrying files, others long yellow legal pads, still others small Styrofoam cups of what I took to be coffee. Nine in the morning, and everyone looked tense. I guess tension is a way of life when you’re trying to give people the best possible defense. Especially at five hundred dollars an hour.

I said, ‘Are all of these people working for Teddy Martin?’

‘Oh, no. The firm is involved in over two hundred active cases.’

‘Mm.’

‘Jonathan only involves himself in the more, ah, trying cases.’ He gave me a sly smile.

I nodded.

He looked at me. ‘”Trying.”‘

‘I got it.’

Truly looked disappointed. ‘Oh.’ Lawyer humor.

We turned down another hall and then into a conference room about the size of Rhode Island. A breakfast buffet had been set up at one end of the room with coffee and mineral water and enough lox and bagels to sink the Lexington. Six men and three women were crowded around the buffet, talking in soft whispers. Everyone had coffee, but no one was eating. Probably too tense. Truly said, ‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘Just coffee.’ Elvis Cole, at one with the team.

‘Let me introduce you. Jonathan will be along in a moment.’

We got the coffee, and Elliot Truly introduced me. Everyone in the room was an attorney except me. While the introductions were under way, yet more attorneys arrived. I stopped counting at fourteen. The large lesser attorney came in, followed by the small lesser attorney, both of whom were wearing beige linen Armani suits. So was Elliot Truly. I said, ‘Beige.’

Truly said, ‘Pardon me?’

‘Nothing.’ Jonathan Green would be wearing beige, too. You could bet your house on it.

Thirty seconds later Jonathan Green came in wearing a beige linen Armani. You see? I said, ‘Shucks.’

Truly glanced at me and whispered, ‘What?’ Now that Jonathan was here I guess we would whisper.

‘No videographer. I was hoping for more air time.’

Truly blinked at me, then seemed to get it. ‘Oh, right. Ha-ha.’ Ha-ha. We’re just a riot at nine A. M.

Another man came in behind Jonathan. He was a little shorter than me, but his arms were as long as backhoe shovels and his shoulders so wide they looked like they had been built of steel frame girders. The arms and the shoulders didn’t go with the rest of him, as if they had once belonged to King Kong or Mighty Joe Young or some other large mammal, and now this guy was using them. He was carrying a manila envelope.

Green smiled when he saw me and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for coming. This is Stan Kerris, our chief of security. Stan, this is Mr Cole.’ Stan Kerris was the guy with the shoulders. He had a monstrously high forehead, sort of like a Klingon’s, and eyes that looked at you but gave you nothing, like windows to an empty room.

Truly said, ‘Let’s get started.’

Jonathan Green took his seat at the head of the table with Stan Kerris sitting next to him. The two lesser attorneys elbowed each other to sit nearby. Like the lesser attorneys, everyone else tried to jockey as close to Jonathan Green as possible. Truly sat next to me. When everyone was down, Green crossed his legs, and smiled at me. ‘So. Elliot tells me that you’ve found no corroborating evidence to Mr Earle’s claims.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And the same for Mr Haig?’ He raised his eyebrows in a question.

‘That’s right. I spoke with Haig and with Earle, then with Earle’s mother. I did a cursory background check on Earle, and reviewed the Internal Affairs investigation into the funny money bust. I found that Rossi made a quality bust.’

Truly was shaking his head. ‘What does that mean? Of course, they would say that.’

‘No, Mr Truly. They wouldn’t. LAPD takes these things seriously.’ I looked at Green. ‘I concur.’

Green laced his fingers across a knee and settled back. ‘Please tell us why.’

At least seven of the assembled attorneys copied what I said. I started with Raymond Haig and worked my way through Eddie Ditko and Rossi’s condo and my interviews with both LeCedrick Earle and Louise Earle. I told them about LeCedrick’s past record, including his close association with Waylon Mustapha, and I described in detail how Louise Earle’s version of events matched with Rossi’s police report. I spoke for close to twenty minutes, and for twenty minutes pens scratched on legal pads and Jonathan Green sat unmoving. His eyes narrowed a couple of times, but mostly he watched me as if he could absorb the details without effort and assimilate them. Or maybe he was just bored.

When I finished Kerris said, ‘Anything we can use in the Miranda?’

‘What do you mean, use?’

Truly smiled. ‘Was there anything in her action indicative of malice aforethought or a willingness to commit an illegal act?’

I took the reports that Eddie Ditko had faxed me from my file and passed them to Truly. I told them about the guys with the machetes. I described what had happened at the Burrito King. ‘They let both these guys walk and Rossi took the heat for it. I don’t think there was much forethought to blowing out her career at the end of a highspeed chase because of an adrenaline rush.’

Truly smiled again and shrugged at Kerris. ‘Guess not.’

Jonathan Green said, ‘You’re sure about these things?’

‘Yes, sir. There is no evidence that this woman has ever done anything illegal or even improper other than the Miranda beef, and she stood up for that one. She wouldn’t have had to set up LeCedrick Earle. He’s a career criminal.’

Green nodded. ‘Then you don’t believe that she could’ve planted the hammer on Theodore’s property?’

‘No, sir.’

‘We should abandon this as a legal theory?’

‘That would be my opinion, yes, sir.’

Jonathan Green nodded again, then stared at the far wall for what seemed like several minutes. No one moved, and no one spoke. All of the other attorneys stared at Jonathan as if he might suddenly utter some dictum and they would have to act on it. Apprehensive.

I looked at my watch. It was nine forty-two, and the staring continued. Maybe Jonathan Green had lapsed into a trance and no one knew it. Maybe he would continue to stare all day and I’d still be sitting here when Lucy and Ben landed at LAX. I drummed my fingers on the table and Elliot Truly looked horrified. I guess it just wasn’t done.

Jonathan Green suddenly spread his hands, then placed them on the table and leaned forward. ‘Well, that’s that. Better to know now than embarrass ourselves in court. You’ve done an outstanding job, Mr Cole. Thank you.’

The other attorneys breathed as one and broke into large smiles, saying what an outstanding job I’d done.

Green swiveled toward Truly and said, ‘It was one theory, and there’s still plenty of ground to cover. We’ll just have to roll up our sleeves and try harder.’ Green -swiveled back to me and leaned forward again, absolutely serious. ‘I remain convinced of Teddy’s innocence, and I’m determined to work all the harder to prove it.’

The fourteen other attorneys around the big table nodded, and I guess I could understand why. Green seemed to bring it out in you. I wanted to nod, too.

Jonathan Green said, ‘Mr Cole, I know you were hired for this specific part of our investigation, but it’s very important to me that people of your caliber work with the team.’

Elliot Truly said, ‘Here, here.’ Really.

Green gestured toward Kerris. ‘We’ve been absolutely overwhelmed with people calling our hotline, haven’t we, Stan?’

Kerris nodded, but the nod conveyed nothing, sort of like his eyes. ‘We’ve gotten several hundred calls from people claiming to have information about the kidnapping. We can dismiss some based on the phone interview, but most have to be checked. We’re dividing these things up among our investigators.’

Green said, ‘Stan, give him the envelope, please.’

Kerris pushed the envelope down along the table to me. I opened it. Twenty single-sheet interview forms were inside.

Jonathan said, ‘Each sheet contains the name, phone number, and address of a person claiming to have information about Susan Martin’s murder. If you could see your way clear to staying with us on this and checking these people out, we would appreciate it.’

I looked at the sheets. I slipped them back into the envelope. ‘I have guests coming into town.’

Truly shrugged. ‘There isn’t a rush with this, Cole. Sure, sooner is better than later, but you know the justice system.’

‘Okay.’

Green broke into a wide smile. ‘Well, that’s just great. That’s fabulous.’

The assembled attorneys told me how great it was.

I glanced at my watch, thinking I could knock off three or four interviews before Lucy’s plane. The more I finished before Lucy’s plane, the more time I’d have for her.

Truly said, ‘We don’t know anything about these people. As Stan said, our screeners were able to rule out the obvious cranks, but you never know. We want you to use your best judgment to determine if they have anything of merit to offer.’

‘Judgment. Okay.’ I looked at my watch again. ‘I’ve got it.’

Truly spread his hands. ‘And when you’re done with those, of course, there’s more.’

The lesser attorneys chuckled and someone said, ‘A lot more.’ Even Jonathan Green chuckled at that one.

Green stood and everyone stood with him, and I was hoping I hadn’t been too obvious with all the watch-glancing. Jonathan came around the table and offered his hand again, and this time when we shook he held it. He said, ‘I want you to know that I appreciate the good, fast work you’ve done, Mr Cole. It’s important to me, and it’s important to Teddy, also. I spoke with him yesterday and told him that you’re on the team. You’re going to like Teddy, Mr Cole. Everyone does.’

‘I’ll look forward.’

‘Good hunting.’ He tried to let go of my hand, but this time I held onto him, not realizing that I had. In that instant he smiled warmly and I let go.

Jonathan Green swept out in a wave, Kerris beside him and the lesser attorneys in his wake, jostling each other to better their positions.

Chapter 9

It was a little before ten when I followed the trail of security men down to my car, then zipped to the Virgin Megastore, bought the new k.d. lang and a collection of Louisiana hits called Cajun Party, then sat in the Megastore’s parking structure and went through the envelope of hotline tipsters. I had almost seven hours until Lucy’s plane; plenty of time for the world’s fastest detective to do his marketing and work his way through a significant number of interviews, especially if he attacked his investigatorial responsibilities in a methodical and professional manner.

I organized the twenty statement forms by location and decided to start with those people who were closest and work outward.

I went back into the Virgin, got change from a pretty young woman with a pin through her nose, then found a pay phone on Sunset Boulevard to arrange the interviews. A homeless man with a shopping cart filled with neatly folded cardboard squares was seated beneath the phone, but he graciously moved aside when I told him I needed to make some calls. He said, ‘Please feel free. It is, after all, a public instrument.’ He was wearing spats.

I fed in a quarter and dialed Mr C. Bertrand Rujillio, who lived less than five minutes away. A man with a soft, raspy voice answered on the fourth ring and said, ‘Who is this?’

‘My name is Cole, for the law firm of Jonathan Green. I’m calling for Mr C. Bertrand Rujillio, please.’

There was a pause, and then the rasp came back. ‘Do you have the money?’

‘Is this Mr Rujillio?’

Another pause, softer. ‘The money?’

‘If you mean the reward, that won’t be paid unless the information you provide leads to the arrest and conviction of Ms Martin’s murderer.’ Truly said that the phone bank operators had explained all this. Truly said I wouldn’t have to worry about it. ‘I need to take your statement, Mr Rujillio. Can we arrange that?’

The pause again, and this time the line went dead. I stared at the phone for a couple of seconds, then hung up and scratched C. Bertrand Rujillio’s name off the list.

The homeless man said, ‘No luck?’

I shook my head.

Of the next three calls, two reached answering machines and one went unanswered. Nobody home. I said, ‘Damn.’

The homeless man said, ‘Four out of four is poor luck.’

‘It can’t last forever.’

‘Will you have many more calls?’

‘A couple.’

He sighed and looked away.

Two more calls and two more answering machines and all the nearby people were done. So much for efficiency. So much for my plan of starting in close and working out. I said, ‘Well, hell.’

The homeless man said, ‘Tell me about it.’

I looked at him. ‘I had a plan, but no one’s home.’

He made a sympathetic shrug, then spread his hands. ‘Flexibility, my friend. Flexibility is the key to all happiness. Remember that.’

I told him that I would and shuffled through the witness forms and decided to hell with starting close. I called Floyd M. Thomas in Chatsworth. Chatsworth was a good forty minutes away. Floyd M, Thomas answered on the third ring in a fast, nervous voice and told me that he had been expecting my call and that he would be happy to see me. I hung up. The homeless man said, ‘You see? When we force events we corrupt them. Your flexibility allowed events to unfold in a way that pleases you. We know this as synchronicity.’

‘You’re a very wise man. Thank you.’

He spread his hands. ‘To possess great wisdom obliges one to share it. Enjoy.’

I drove to Chatsworth.

Floyd Thomas lived in a studio apartment on the second floor of a ten-unit garden apartment just off Nordhoff. Scaffolding was rigged around the front and sides of the place, and Hispanic men in baggy pants were chipping away cracked stucco. Earthquake repairs. Thomas himself was a thin, hunched man in his early fifties who opened his door only wide enough to peer out at me with one eye. When he opened the door a cloud of moist heat oozed out around him like a fog. I slipped in a card. ‘Elvis Cole. I called you about the Martin murder.’

He looked at the card without taking it. ‘Oh, yes. Floyd Thomas saw that. Floyd Thomas saw exactly what happened.’ Floyd Thomas. Don’t you love it when they speak of themselves in the third person.

‘That’s great, Mr Thomas. I’ll need to take your statement.’

He unlocked four chains and opened the door just wide enough for me to enter. If it was in the high nineties outside, Thomas’s apartment must’ve been a hundred ten with at least three industrial-strength humidifiers pumping out jets of water vapor. Stacks of newspapers and magazines and periodicals sprouted around the room like some out-of-control toadstool jungle, and everything smelled of mildew and body odor. I said, ‘Hot in here.’

‘Floyd Thomas chills easily.’ Sweat leaked down out of his scalp and along the contours of his face and made his thin shirt cling to his skin. Thirty seconds inside his apartment, and I was beginning to sweat, too.

‘So what did you see, Mr Thomas?’ I dug out the form and prepared to take notes.

He said, ‘We were over the Encino Reservoir, They were in a long black convertible. A Mercury, I think.’

I looked at him without writing. ‘Over the Encino Reservoir?’

He nodded. ‘That’s right. I saw them with a woman in their car, and I’m sure it was her. She was struggling.’ His eyes shifted side to side as he spoke.

I put down the pen. ‘How were you over the reservoir?’

His eyes narrowed and he looked suspicious. ‘They’d taken me up in the orb to adjust the chips.’

‘The orb?’ I said. ‘The chips?’

He pulled back his upper lips so that his gums were exposed. ‘They force chips into my gums that no one can see. They won’t even show up on X-rays.’ He made a tiny laugh. Hee-hee. Like that.

I said, ‘You believe you saw Susan Martin in a black Mercury convertible when you were up in the orb.’

He nodded again. ‘There were three men in black and they had the woman. Black suits, black ties, black hats, dark glasses. She had seen the orb and the men in black had to make sure she was silenced. They work for the government, don’t you know.’

‘Of course.’

‘When will I get the reward?’

‘We’ll let you know, Mr Thomas.’

I thanked Floyd Thomas for his time, then drove to a nearby 7-Eleven and made five more calls, which resulted in three more interviews. Mr Walter S. Warren of Van Nuys was a retired general contractor who was convinced that his younger brother, Phil, was behind the kidnapping. He revealed that Phil had once eaten in Teddy Martin’s Santa Monica restaurant, had cracked a tooth while enjoying the steak tartare, and had promised to ‘get that prick’ for what had happened to his tooth. Ms Victoria Bonell, also of Van Nuys, was an extremely thin woman who shared her ranch-style home with seven pug dogs and nine million fleas. Ms Bonell described an elaborate scenario in which ‘lipstick lesbians’ and ‘power dykes’ were behind Susan Martin’s murder, information she had overheard while having her hair colored at a place called Rosa’s. I dutifully noted these things, then went to see Mrs Lewis P. Reese of Sherman Oaks, who offered me tea and finger cakes, and who clearly knew nothing of Teddy Martin, Susan Martin, or the kidnapping. She was elderly and lonely, and I stayed twenty minutes longer than necessary, chatting about her dead husband. The detective does his good turn.

I left Mrs Reese at twenty minutes after two, bloated on tea cakes, itching from fleas, and smelling of Floyd C. Thomas’s pod-person environment. I thought that if I was going to make any more calls maybe they should be to Jonathan. Maybe I should ask him if he really wanted to spend his money having me interview these people?