LA Requiem ec-8 Page 6

  Montoya walked me back through the big house. "Mr. Cole, I know this isn't the kind ofjob that you normally take. I personally want to thank you for doing this."

  "It's a favor for a friend, Mr. Montoya. Thank Joe."

  "I will, but I wanted to thank you, too. Frank and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Brothers. Do you know White Fence?"

  "Yes, sir. I know that Mr. Garcia was a member when he was young." The White Fence gang.

  "As was I. We ran on Whittier Boulevard and Camulos Street. We fought the Hazard gang and the Garrity Lomas gang on Oregon Street, and we paid respect to the veteranos. It's a long way from the barrio to UCLA Law."

  "I imagine it is, Mr. Montoya."

  "I'm telling you these things because I want you to know the depth of my loyalty to Frank, and my love for him, and Karen. If the police aren't cooperative, call me and I will take care of it."

  "Yes, sir. I'll call."

  "You are helping my brother, Mr. Cole. If you need us, we will be there."

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  "Sure."

  He put out his hand. We shook.

  Latins.

  I let myself out into the heat, and went down the drive to the street, ash from the fires still sifting down from the sky. Krantz and Stan Watts were standing by a clunky LAPD detective ride, smoking.

  Krantz said, "Where's your asshole friend?"

  I kept walking. I wasn't happy about going back to the lake, and I wasn't happy about spending the rest of the day with a dead girl.

  "Stop it, Krantz. It'll go someplace you won't like."

  Krantz flipped his cigarette into the street and followed me. "See where it gets you. You'll go to Men's County and I'll own your license."

  I got into my car. Krantz stood on the street in front of me, ash collecting on his shoulders like dandruff.

  "That old man might have the juice to jam you down my throat, but if you interfere with my investigation, I'll snap your license."

  "That old man just lost his daughter, you turd. Try being human."

  Krantz stared at me for about five centuries, then went back to Stan Watts.

  I drove away.

  I imagined that I could still hear Frank Garcia crying, even as I climbed the mountain to the lake.

  Robbery-Homicide worked at the Karen Garcia crime scene for the next six hours. Everyone appeared professional and competent, as I knew they would. Even Krantz. A young criminalist named Chen, consulting with the detectives, photographed the area around her body in minute detail. I knew enough about homicide investigations to know that they would map the area for physical evidence, then map her life for suspects to fit that evidence. Every investigation is the same that way because most homicide victims are murdered by people they know.

  I tried making conversation with the detectives, but no one answered me. I swatted at the bottle flies, all too aware of where they had been. I didn't want to be there, didn't like it, and would rather have been wrestling Lucy Chenier's couch. When the shadows down in the crook of the mountains made it hard to see, Krantz finally released the body.

  The medical examiner's people zipped Karen Garcia into a blue plastic body bag, strapped the bag onto a stretcher, then worked their way up the slope. When the body was gone, Krantz called out to me. "That's all you're here for. Beat it."

  He turned away without another word. An asshole to the end.

  I watched them load the body into the coroner's van, then drove down to the little strip mall at the bottom of Lake Hollywood, where I phoned Lucy.

  She said, "I moved the couch without you." First thing out of her mouth.

  "The woman we were looking for was found murdered. Her father wanted me to be there while the crime scene people did

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  L.A. REQUIEM 49

  their jobs. That's where I've been. She was thirty-two years old, and going to school so that she could work with children. Somebody shot her in the head while she was jogging at Lake Hollywood." Lucy didn't say anything, and neither did I until I realized I had dumped it out on her. Then I said, "Sorry."

  "Would you like to be with us tonight?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that very much. Would you guys come for dinner?"

  "Tell me what to bring."

  "I'll stop. Shopping is good for the soul."

  At the Lucky Market, I bought shrimp, celery, green onions, and bell peppers. I also bought one bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, two limes, and a case of Falstaffbeer. I drank a can of the Falstaff while I was waiting in line, and got disapproving looks from the other shoppers. I pretended not to notice. They probably hadn't spent the day with a young woman with a hole in her head.

  The cashier said, "Are we having a nice day, sir?"

  "Couldn't be better." I tried not to blow beer in her face.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled into the carport of the little A-frame house I have perched on the side of a mountain just oif Woodrow Wilson Drive in Laurel Canyon. A fine layer of ash had blown into the carport, showing a single set of cat prints going from the side of the house to the cat hatch built into my door. People in Minnesota see things like this with snow.

  The cat was waiting by his water bowl. It was empty. I put the groceries on the counter, filled the cat's bowl, then sat on the floor and listened to him drink. He's large and black, the black shot through with gray that grows from the lacework of scars on his head and shoulders. When he first came to me, he would watch me when he drank, but now he ignored me, and when I touched him, he purred. We had become a family.

  When the groceries were away, I made a drink, drank most of it, then went up to my loft and took a shower. I showered twice, letting the hot run until the water was cold, but the smell of the crime scene stayed with me, and even the rush of water wasn't as loud as the buzz of the bottle flies. I pulled on

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  a pair of loose cotton pants and went downstairs, barefoot and shirtless.

  Lucy was in the kitchen, looking over the vegetables I had left in the sink.

  I said, "Hey."

  "Hey, yourself." She eyed my empty glass without expression. "What are we drinking?"

  "Sapphire and tonic."

  "Pour. What are we making?"

  "I was hoping you'd teach me how to make shrimp etouffee."

  She smiled then, softly and to herself. "That would be nice."

  "Where's Ben?"

  "Outside on the deck. We rented a tape for him to watch while you and I cook."

  "Back in five."

  "You take your time."

  Her smile pushed the bottle flies farther away.

  Ben was on the deck that juts from the back of my house, hanging over the rail to look for the blacktail deer that browse in the wild grass between the olive trees below me. Here in the middle of fourteen million people we've got deer and coyote and quail and red-tailed hawks. Once, I even saw a bobcat on my deck.

  I went out, leaned over the rail beside him, and looked down the slope. I saw only shadows.

  "Mom said the woman you were trying to find was murdered."

  "That's right."

  "I'm sorry."

  His face was concerned and sorrowful. Nine years old.

  "Me, too, buddy." Then I smiled at him, because nine-year-olds shouldn't have such sorrow. "Hey, when are you heading off to tennis camp?" Lucy and Ben were serious tennis players.

  Ben leaned farther over the rail. "Couple of days."

  "You don't look happy about it."

  "They make you ride horses. It's gonna smell like poop."

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  Life is tough when the world smells like poop.

  Inside, I got him set up with the VCR, then went back into the kitchen with Lucy. "He says tennis camp is going to smell like poop."

  "Yes," she said. "It will. But it gives him the chance to meet three boys who go to his new school."

  "Is there anything you haven't thought of ?"

  "
No. I'm a mom."

  I nodded.

  "Also, it gives us two weeks alone."

  "Moms know everything."

  It took about an hour to make the etouffee. We peeled the shrimp, then wilted the vegetables in canola oil, and added tomatoes and garlic. I found peace in the small motor activity, and in telling Lucy about Frank and Joe and Karen Garcia. To cook is to heal.

  Lucy said, "Here's the important part. Pay close attention."

  "Okay."

  She pulled my face down, brushed her lips against mine, then let them linger.

  "Feel better?"

  I held up my hand. She laced her fingers through mine, and I kissed them.

  "Better."

  We were waiting for rice to cook when Joe Pike let himself in. I hadn't expected him, but he'll drop by like that. Lucy put down her drink, and gave him a warm hug. "I understand you knew her, Joe. I'm sorry."

  Joe seemed gigantic next to her, like some huge golem masked in shadow even in my bright kitchen.

  Ben yelled, "Hey, Joe! I've got Men in Blackl You wanna watch?"

  "Not tonight, little man." He looked at me. "Montoya worked out a deal with Bishop. We can report to Robbery-Homicide at Parker Center tomorrow morning. They'll assign a contact officer, and we'll be briefed."

  "All right."

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  "They'll give us copies of all reports, transcripts, and witness statements."

  He was giving me the information, but I wondered why he had come. He could have phoned it over.

  I said, "What?"

  "Can I talk to you about this?"

  "Sure."

  Lucy and I followed Joe out onto the deck. Outside, the cat appeared, moving between Joe's legs. Joe Pike is the only other human being I've known who can touch this cat.

  "How's Frank?"

  "Drunk."

  Pike didn't say anything more. He picked up the cat, and stroked it. Lucy slipped her arm through mine and settled herself against me, watching him. She watches him often, and I always wonder what she's thinking when she does.

  Finally, he said, "The Garcias are my friends, not yours, but now you're going to have to carry the weight with the police."

  "You talking about Krantz?"

  "Not just Krantz. You're going to have to deal with Parker Center. I can't do that." He was talking about the entire Los Angeles police force.

  "I figured that, Joe. It's not a problem."

  Lucy said, "What do you mean, deal with Parker Center?"

  Pike said, "I won't take money from Frank, but I can't expect you not to."

  "Forget that."

  He looked at the cat, and I realized he was embarrassed. "I don't want to forget it. I want to pay you for your time."

  "Jesus, Joe. How could you even ask that?" Now I was embarrassed, too.

  Lucy said, "Let's pretend I asked a question."

  I answered her just to change the subject. "Parker Center is the LAPD headquarters. These cops we're dealing with, the Robbery-Homicide Division, they have their offices there. I'll have to go down tomorrow to get briefed on their investigation. It's no big deal."

  Lucy said, "But why wouldn't they cooperate with Joe?"

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  She wasn't making a point of it. She was just curious, but I suddenly wished she wasn't out here with us.

  "Joe and LAPD don't get along. They'd freeze him out."

  Lucy smiled at me, still not understanding. "But why on earth would they do that?"

  Joe put down the cat and looked at her. "I killed my partner."

  "Oh."

  The black lenses stayed on Lucy for a time, and then Joe left. The winds had died and the smoke hung over the canyon like a curtain, blurring the lights that glittered below us.

  Lucy wet her lips, then had more of the drink. "I shouldn't have pried."

  We went inside and had the etouffee, but nobody said very much.

  Nothing stops a conversation like death.

  Predation

  Edward Deege, Master Carpenter, citizen of the free world and Dave Matthews fan, waited among the wild acacias that covered the ridge above Lake Hollywood until the twilight sky deepened and the bowl of the lake was dim and purple. The shadows would hide him from the police.

  He had watched them work the murder site for most of the day, until the fading light had forced them to stop. Two patrol officers, one man, one woman, had been left to preserve the scene, but they seemed more interested in each other than in walking the yellow tape.

  Edward had no knowledge of the murdered girl, no interest in the crime scene, and no wish to be questioned by the police. His interest was simpler: dinner. Restaurants dotted the strip malls at the foot of the mountain, where well-fed people could be depended upon to part with a dollar or two. An hour's panhandling, and Edward could purchase fresh double-A batteries for his Discman, then stroll to the food stands along Ventura Boulevard, where he might choose between a Black

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  Angus hamburger, perhaps, or a came asada burrito, or Vietnamese spring rolls. The choices were limitless.

  Later, having fed, he would enjoy the climb back up to the shack he'd fashioned for himself above the lake. There, his interests would shift to partaking of a bit of the evil weed, jotting thoughts on the world eco-balance in his journal, and a satisfying bowel movement.

  Now, however, Edward stayed among the trees until he was past the radio car, then worked his way down the spiderweb of roads through the neighborhoods that spilled down the mountain. He knew these neighborhoods well, walking them several times each day on his way to panhandle the traffic lights and freeway exits during the cooler parts of the day, returning to the lake at night, and when the day grew warmer.

  Edward, behind his evening schedule because of the saturation of police at the lake, was anxious not to miss the prime panhandling hour. Lost time meant lost wages. He took the fast route down, headphones in place, matching his pace to Mr. Dave Matthews's frenetic, multi-world beat. Edward slipped between two houses, skidded downhill along a watercourse, and emerged behind a gutted house that was being remodeled. He had come this way a hundred times, and thought nothing of it. The house sat on a cul-de-sac, most of the houses there hidden by shrubs or walls. Eyeless houses. Edward often wondered if anyone really lived in them, or if they were movie facades that could be struck and moved at will. Such thoughts creeped out Edward, and he tried to avoid them. Life was uncertain enough, as is.

  He was hurrying around a great blue Dumpster, expecting to see absolutely nothing, the same empty dark street that he'd seen a hundred times before, and was surprised when he saw the four-wheel-drive truck idling in the lightless street. He stopped, his first thought to run, but the hour was late, and his hunger gave him pause.

  The truck was familiar. It took a moment for Edward to realize that this was the same vehicle he had earlier described to the two men looking for the jogging girl.

  Run, or not run?

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  Hunger got the better of him. So did base greed.

  Edward averted his face and plowed forward, hoping to slip past the truck and vanish between the houses before whoever was within could interfere. He was doing a good job of it, too, until the man with the sunglasses stepped out from behind the wheel. Here it was night, but he still wore the dark glasses.

  "Edward?"

  Edward quickened his pace. He did not like this man, whose muscular arms glowed blue in the moonlight.

  "Edward?"

  Edward walked faster, but the man was suddenly beside him, and jerked him roughly behind the Dumpster. Edward's headphones were pulled askew, and Dave Matthews's voice became tinny and faraway.

  "Are you Edward Deege?"

  "No!"

  Edward raised his hands, refusing to look into the bottomless black glasses. Fear burned brightly in his stomach, and blossomed through his veins.

  The man's voice softened, and grew calm. "I think
you are. Edward Deege, Master Carpenter, no job too small."

  "Leave me alone!"

  The man stepped closer then, and Edward knew in that crazy, insane, heat-stroked moment that he was going to die. This man glowed with hostility. This stranger was awash in rage.