Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“Yes, sir. May I ask a question?”

“Fire away.” McConnell glanced at his watch and felt a cold sweat sprout over his skin. They had been at this only eight minutes, and the pressure in his lower gut was building. He wondered if anyone else could hear the rumble going on down there.

“Do you suspect that I'm involved?”

“Not at this time.”

Krantz glared at McConnell. “That's still to be determined, Officer.” Krantz actually stalked around the table and leaned over so the three of them could have a little huddle, Krantz whispering, “Please let me drive the questions, Mr. McConnell. I'm trying to create a certain mood with this man. I have to make him fear me.” Saying it like McConnell was just some incompetent old fuck standing in the way of Harvey Krantz driving in the game-winning run so he could be elected Chief of Police of the Lord Jesus Christ Amen!

McConnell whispered back, “I don't think it's workin', Harvey. He don't look scared, and I wanna finish up.” McConnell was certain that if he didn't find a way to pass some gas soon, he was gonna have a major explosion back there.

Krantz turned back to Pike and paced the length of the table. “You don't expect us to believe this, do you?”

The blue eyes followed Krantz, but Pike said nothing.

“We're all police officers here. We've all ridden in a car.” Krantz fingered through his stack of files. “The smart way to play this is to cooperate. If you cooperate, we can help you.”

McConnell said, “Son, why did you become a police officer?”

Krantz snapped an ugly scowl his way, and McConnell would've given anything to slap it off his face.

Pike said, “I wanted to do good.”

Well, there it is, McConnell thought. He was liking this boy. Liking him just fine.

Krantz made a hissing sound to let everybody know he was pissed, then snatched a yellow legal pad from the table and started barking off names. “Tell us whether or not you know anything about the following places of business. Baker Metalworks .”

“No, sir.”

“Chanceros Electronics.”

“No, sir.”

One by one he named fourteen different warehouses scattered around the Ramparts Division area that had been burglarized, and after every location, Pike answered, “No, sir.”

As Krantz snapped off the names, he paced in an ever-tightening circle around Pike, and McConnell would've sworn that Pike was following Krantz with his ears, not even bothering to use his eyes. McConnell reached under the table and rubbed his belly. Christ.

“Thomas Brothers Auto Parts.”

“No, sir.”

“Wordley Aircraft Supply.”

“No, sir.”

Krantz slapped the tablet in frustration. “Are you telling us you don't know about any of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

Krantz, red-faced and eyes bulging, leaned over Pike and shouted, “You're lying! You're in on it with him, and you're going to jail!”

McConnell said, “I think we've walked far enough down this road, Harvey. Officer Pike seems to be telling the truth.”

Harvey Krantz said, “Bullshit, Mike! This sonofabitch knows something!” When he said it, Krantz jabbed Pike on the shoulder with his right index finger, and the rest happened almost too fast for McConnell to see.

McConnell would later say that, for a guy who looked so calm that he might've been falling asleep, Pike came out of the chair as fast as a striking snake. His left hand twisted Krantz's hand to the side, his right clutched Krantz's throat. Pike lifted Krantz up and backward, pinning him against the wall a good six inches off the floor. Harvey Krantz made a gurgling sound and his eyes bulged. Louise Barshop jumped backward, scrambling for her purse. McConnell jumped, too, shouting, “Step back! Officer, let go and step back!”

Pike didn't let go. Pike held Harvey Krantz against the wall, Krantz's face turning purple, his eyes staring at Pike the way deer will stare at oncoming headlights.

Louise Barshop shouted, “Leave go, Pike. Leave go now !” She had her purse, and McConnell thought she was about to pull her Beretta and cut loose.

McConnell felt his stomach clench when Pike, who hadn't let go, whispered something to Krantz that no one else could hear. For years afterward, and well into his retirement, Detective-Three Mike McConnell wondered what Pike had said, because, in that moment, in that lull amid the shouting and the falling chairs, they heard the drip-drip-drip sound and everybody looked down to see the urine running from Krantz's pants. Then the most awful smell enveloped them, and Louise Barshop said, “Oh, God.”

Harvey Krantz had shit his pants.

McConnell said, as sternly as he could muster, “Put him down, now, son.”

Pike did, and Harvey hunched over, his eyes filling with rage and shame as the mess spread down his pants. He lurched knock-kneed out of the room.

Pike returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.

Louise Barshop looked embarrassed and said, “Well, I don't know.”

Mike McConnell retook his seat, considered the young officer who had just committed a dismissible offense, then said, “He shouldn't have laid hands on you, son. That's against the rules.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's all. We'll contact you if we need to see you again.”

Pike stood without a word and left.

Louise said, “Well, we can't just let him leave like that. He assaulted Harvey.”

“Think about it, Louise. If we file an action, Harvey will have to state for the record that he shit his pants. Do you think he'd want to do that?” McConnell turned off the Nagra. They'd have to erase that part of the tape to protect the boy.

Louise glanced away. “Well, no. I guess not. But we'd better ask him when he returns.”

“That's right. We'll ask him.”

Harvey Krantz would choose to let the matter drop, but Mike McConnell wouldn't. As he and Louise waited awkwardly for Krantz's return, it occurred to McConnell just how he could fuck the arrogant, supercilious little prick for going over his head the way he had. In less than six hours, McConnell would be playing cards with Detective Lieutenant Oscar Munoz and Assistant Chief Paul Winnaeker, and everyone knew that Winnaeker was the biggest loudmouth in Parker Center. McConnell was already planning how he would let the story slip, and he was already enjoying how the word of Harvey's “accident” would spread through the department like, well, like shit through a goose. In the macho world of the Los Angeles Police Department, the only thing hated worse than a fink was a coward. McConnell had already chosen the name he would dub the little prick: Shits-his-pants Krantz. Wait'll Paul Winnaeker got hold of that!

Then McConnell felt his own guts knot and he knew that the goddamned clam had finally gotten the best of him. He rocked to his feet, told Louise he was going to check on Harvey, then hurried to the men's room with his cheeks crimped together tighter than a virgin's in a whorehouse, barely making it into the first available stall before that goddamned clam and all of its mischief came out in a roar.

As the first wave passed, he heard Harvey Krantz in the next stall, sobbing with shame. “It's okay, boy. We'll keep the lid on. I don't think this will hurt your career too badly.”

The sobbing grew louder, and Mike McConnell smiled.