Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“The man who wrote it. Got that copy this morning.”

“Something odd is going on here, Joe.”

Lucy said, “Something odd is always going on here. It's Los Angeles.” She took a bottle of Dom Perignon from one of the bags. Eighty-nine ninety-five, on sale. “Very nice, Mr. Cole. I think I may purr.”

I waved my hand like it was nothing. “Standard fare at the love nest.”

Pike said, “Love nest?”

I frowned at him. “Try not to spoil the fantasy.”

Pike went to the fridge, took out a bottle of Abita beer, and tipped it toward me.

“Sure.”

He tipped the bottle at Lucy.

“No, sweetie, but thank you.” Joe Pike being called sweetie. Amazing.

Joe took out a second bottle, and brought it to me. Abita beer is this terrific beer they make in south Louisiana. Lucy brought five cases when she moved.

I said, “Luce, you mind if I read this?”

“Not at all. I'll put away the food and pretend we're doing it together. I'll pretend some nice romantic music is on the stereo, and you're reading poetry to me. That way I can pretend I'm about to swoon.”

I looked at Joe. He shrugged.

The report was direct and easy to read because of its clarity. Two detailed drawings noted body position, bloodstains, and the location of physical evidence. The first drawing was the lower site, where Garcia's body had been found, the second was of the trail area at the top of the bluff, where the shooting had occurred. Chen noted that he had discovered several Beeman's gum wrappers, an as yet unidentified triangular bit of white plastic, a Federal Arms .22 caliber Long Rifle shell casing, and several partial and complete shoe prints. Tests were being run on the wrappers, the plastic, and the shell casing, but from the size of the shoe print Chen had estimated the shooter's body weight. I read this part aloud. “Shooter wears a size eleven shoe with an estimated body weight of two hundred pounds. Photographs of the sole imprint have been forwarded to the FBI in Washington for identification of brand.”

Lucy said, “My, that's romantic.” She came out and sat next to me, her foot touching mine beneath the table.

Chen had followed the tracks to tread marks left by a parked vehicle on a fire road above the lake. He had made castings of the tread marks, and had taken soil samples containing what appeared to be oil drips. All of this he had also sent along to the FBI for brand identification. He determined the tire type as F205 radials, matching any number of American and foreign SUVs. These particular F205s showed uneven wear on the front tires, indicating that the front-end camber was out of alignment.

I put down the report and looked at Joe. “Tell you the truth, I thought Deege was making it up, him saying the car looked like yours and you were the driver.”

Pike shrugged.

“So he saw something, then had fun with it.” I glanced at the report again. “Wow. This guy Chen does good work.”

Pike's mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I tapped the pages. “Krantz didn't lie to me only about this.” I told them how Krantz had given me the runaround about the autopsy. “I'm sure Krantz knew when it was scheduled the whole time. Five people were at the table when we arrived, and Williams was grousing about how long the cut had taken.”

Lucy said, “That isn't necessarily odd. You said he doesn't like you. Maybe he kept you out of the autopsy just to annoy you.”

“After the autopsy I went to see Dersh. When I left Dersh, two guys in a blue sedan were on me. It was an LAPD license.”

Pike thought about it. “You sure they didn't follow you from Parker Center?”

“Nobody knew I was going to see Dersh, so that means they were already there. Only why would they be sitting on Dersh?”

Pike nodded. “Now we're talking odd.”

“Yeah.”

Lucy touched my arm and traced her fingers to my hand. She tangled her feet with mine and smiled.

Joe stood. “Guess I'll be going.”

Lucy realized what had happened and took back her hand, blushing. “I was teasing before, Joe, really. You're welcome to stay for dinner.”

Joe's mouth twitched again, then he left.

Lucy groaned and covered her face. “God. He must think I'm a slut.”

“He thinks you're in love.”

“Oh, sure. I'm pawing at you like I'm in heat.” I had never seen Lucy that red.

“He's happy for us.”

“Mr. Stoneface? How can anyone tell what he's thinking? God, I'm so embarrassed.”

We stared at each other then, not speaking. The depth and movement that glimmered in her eyes held me until I said, “Wait.”

The Dom wasn't as cold as I wanted, but that was okay. I filled two flute glasses, and brought them out. I put Natalie Merchant on the CD player, singing “One Fine Day,” and then I opened the big glass doors. The canyon was still. The early evening air was cooling, and the smell of summer honeysuckle was sweet. I offered Lucy my hand, and she stood. I offered a glass of the champagne. She took it.

Lucy glanced at her overnight bag, still on the floor in the kitchen, and her voice came out husky. “I want to change. I've got a surprise for you.”

I touched her lips. “You're my surprise, Lucille.”

Her eyes closed as she rested her head on my chest.

I thought for a moment of dead girls, heartbroken old men, and things that I did not understand, but then those thoughts were gone.

Natalie sang sweetly about a love that was meant to be. We danced, slowly, our bodies together, floating on an unseen tide that carried us out to the deck, and finally up to my bed.

Forged

The boy sat in a green world. The broad, furry elm leaves that sheltered him caught the afternoon light like floating prisms, coloring him with a warm emerald glow. Hidden there, staring between the mask of leaves at the small frame house that was his, the boy felt safe. Three black ants crawled on his bare feet, but he did not feel them.

Joe Pike, age nine. Tall for his age, but thin. An only child. Wearing shorts cut off just above the knee, and a striped tee shirt long since grimed to a murky gray. Known as a thoughtful, quiet boy at school. A bright child who kept to himself and, some teachers thought, seemed moody. In the third grade now. His first-grade teacher had asked to test the boy to see if he was retarded. The teacher then was a young man fresh from an out-of-state teachers college. Joe's father had threatened to beat him to death and cursed him as a faggot. Joe didn't know what a faggot was, but the teacher had paled and left the school midway through the year.

Joe sat cross-legged beneath the young trees at the edge of the woods, low branches cutting his line like breaks in a jigsaw puzzle as he watched his father turn into the yard and felt the same rush of fear he felt every day at this time.

The blue Kingswood station wagon stopped by the front porch, gleaming as if he had just driven it off the showroom floor. Joe watched a short, powerfully built man get out of the wagon, climb the three wooden steps to the front porch, and disappear into the house.

Daddy.

Joe's father built the house himself, three years before Joe was born, on a plot of land at the edge of the small town in which they lived, only two miles from where Mr. Pike worked as a shift foreman at the sawmill. Not much out here except some woods and a creek and some deer. It was a modest clapboard design of small unimaginative rooms sitting on a raised foundation. The house was painted a bright clean yellow with white trim, and, like the car, gleamed spotlessly in the bright sunlight. It looked like such a happy home. Every Wednesday afternoon, when Joe's father got home from work, he washed the house. Three times every week, he washed the Kingswood. Joe's father worked hard for his paycheck, and believed in taking care of the things that he had. You took care of things by keeping them clean.