Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“The shits.”

I poured a cup anyway and tasted it. The shits.

His ID tag said that his name was Curtis Wood. Since Curtis was around all day, going from office to office and floor to floor, he probably knew which desk belonged to Stan Watts. Might even know where Watts kept the book. “That Dolan is something, isn't she?” The professional detective goes into full-blown intelligence-gathering mode, furtively establishing rapport with the unsuspecting civilian wannabe. I was thinking I could work my way around to Watts and the murder book.

“They made a television series about her, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. I liked it.”

“I wouldn't mention it. She gets kinda weird if you bring it up.”

I gave Curtis one of my friendliest smiles and put out my hand. “Already made that mistake. Elvis Cole.”

“Curtis Wood.” His grip said he spent a lot of time in the gym, probably trying to get in shape for the physical. He glanced at my pass.

“I'm helping Dolan and Stan Watts with the Garcia investigation. You know Watts?” The trained professional smoothly introduces Watts to the conversation.

Curtis nodded. “Are you the guy who works for the family?”

These guys hear everything. “That's right.” Note the relaxed technique. Note how the subject has proven receptive to the ploy.

Curtis finished his coffee and squared around to look me in the eye. “Robbery-Homicide has the smartest detectives in the business. How's some dickhead like you come off thinking you can do better?”

He pushed the cart away without waiting for an answer.

So much for furtive intelligence gathering.

I was still standing there when Krantz steamed through the double doors, saw me, and marched over. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you, Krantz. It's been an hour.”

He glowered at Dolan, who was leaning back in her chair. “You letting him just walk around like this?”

“For Christ's sake, Harvey, I'm right here. I can shoot him if I have to.”

I said, “I had a cup of coffee.” Like it was a federal case.

Krantz calmed down and turned back to me. “Okay, here's the deal. We're still not sure about the autopsy, but I'll let you know this afternoon.”

“I had to wait here an hour for that?”

“You don't have to be here at all. Bishop says you can have the reports, so when they come in tomorrow we'll copy you on them. That's it.”

Stan Watts appeared in the hall, the Buzz Cut with him, but not the other two guys. Stan said, “Harve. We're ready.” The Buzz Cut was still staring at me like I owed him money and he was trying to figure a way to get it.

Krantz nodded at them. “Okay, Cole, that's it for today. You're out of here.”

“If I can have the reports, can I take copies of Dersh's and Ward's interviews?”

Krantz looked around for Dolan. “Run off the copies for him.”

“You want me to suck his dick, too?”

Krantz turned red. Embarrassed.

“She's something, Krantz.”

“Get him the goddamned copies, then get him out of here.” Krantz started away, then stopped and came back to me. “By the way, Cole. I'm not surprised you're here by yourself. I knew Pike didn't have the balls to come down here.”

“You didn't look so tough up at the lake when he stood in your face.”

Krantz stepped closer. “You guys are in on a pass. Remember that. This is still my shop, and I'm still the man. Remember that, too.”

“Why'd Pike call you Pants?”

When I said it, Krantz flushed hard, then stalked away. I glanced over at Dolan. She was smiling, but when she saw that I was looking at her, the smile fell away. She said, “Hang on and I'll make those copies.”

“I can make'm. Just show me where.”

“You have to enter a code. They don't want us running off union flyers or screenplays.”

Cops.

A few minutes later Dolan gave me copies of the two interviews.

“Thanks, Dolan. I guess that's it.”

“I've got to walk you out.”

“Fine.”

She brought me out to the elevators, pushed the button, and stared at the doors while we waited.

I said, “I gotcha, didn't I?”

She looked at me.

“There at the end, with Krantz. I made you smile.”

The elevator doors opened. I got in.

“See you tomorrow, Dolan.”

She answered as the doors closed.

“Not if I see you first.”

In the Matter of Officer Joe Pike

Detective-Three Mike McConnell of the Internal Affairs Group was certain that he'd gotten a bad clam. He'd had lunch at the Police Academy's cafe some two hours ago where the special of the day was New England clam chowder, and ever since he could feel it rumbling through his intestines like the LAPD's battering ram. He'd been terrified that the Unmentionable would occur crossing the always crowded lobby here in Parker Center, where the Internal Affairs Group had their offices, or, worse still, riding up that damned elevator which had been jammed with the entire LAPD top command, not to mention most of the goddamned mayor's staff.

But so far so good, and Mike McConnell, at fifty-four years of age and two years away from a thirty-year retirement, had made it to his office for the case file, and now to the interview room, where, as senior administrative IAG officer, he could hurry that officious prick Harvey Krantz through the interview before he crapped his Jockeys.

When he walked in, Detective-Two Louise Barshop was already seated at the table, and inwardly McConnell frowned. The lead investigator on this case was that putz Harvey Krantz, whom McConnell hated, but he'd forgotten that the third IAG was a woman. He liked Louise fine, and she was a top officer, but he was having the Lord's Own rotten gas with the clam. He didn't feel comfortable farting in front of a woman. “Hi, Louise. How's the family?”

“Fine, Mike. Yours?”

“Oh, just fine. Fine.” He tried to decide whether or not to warn her of his flatulence or just take things a step at a time and see what passed, so to speak. If he had a problem, maybe he could act like Krantz was responsible.

McConnell took his seat and had decided on the latter strategy when Krantz entered, carrying a thick stack of case files. Krantz was tall and bony, with close-set eyes and a long nose that made him look like a parrot. He had joined IAG less than a year ago after a pretty good run in West Valley burglary, and would be the junior detective present. Because it was his case, he would also handle the bulk of the questioning. Krantz made no secret that he was here to use IAG as a stepping-stone to LAPD's upper command. He had left the uniform as fast as he could (McConnell suspected the street scared him), and had sniveled his way into every stepping-stone job he could, invariably seeking out the right ass to kiss so that he could get ahead. The sniveling little prick never passed up an opportunity to let you know that he'd graduated from USC with honors, and was working on his master's. McConnell, whose personal experience with college was pulling riot duty during the late sixties, had joined the Marines right out of high school, and took great pride in how far he had risen without the benefit of a college diploma. McConnell hated Harvey Krantz, not only for his supercilious and superior manner but also because he'd found out that the little cocksucker had gone over his head two months ago and told McConnell's boss, the IAG captain-supervisor, that McConnell was mishandling three cases on which Krantz was working. The prick. McConnell had vowed on the spot that he would shaft the skinny bastard and fuck his career if it was the last thing he did. This, even though Mike McConnell only had to sweat out two more years before retiring to his beachside trailer in Mexico. Jesus, even looking at the little skeeze made McConnell's skin crawl. A human parrot.