Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“No, but the family wants the report.”

“We'll have it for you in a few minutes. You ready for the brief?” Like we were buddies, and he was only too happy to include me on the team.

“Sure. By the way, you get the criminalist's report yet?”

“Should be soon. Get you both at the same time.”

Then he smiled and disappeared down the hall.

Maybe someone had slipped him Prozac. Maybe his good humor was a ploy to get me into the briefing where he and Watts and Williams would beat me to death for having seen Dersh. Whatever the case, he was still lying to me about the report.

We assembled in the conference room where Stan Watts gave the brief, telling me that they had checked out the ex-husband (playing softball in Central Park at the time of Karen's murder), finished canvassing the homes surrounding Lake Hollywood (no one had seen or heard anything), and were in the process of questioning those people with whom Karen worked and attended school. I asked Watts if they had developed a theory about the shooter, but Krantz answered, saying they were still working on it. Krantz nodded at every point Watts ticked off, more relaxed than at any other time I'd seen him, and still none of them mentioned my visit to Dersh. They had to know, and I found that even more odd than Krantz's behavior.

I said, “When can I expect the reports? I'd like to get out of here.”

Krantz stood, reasonable, but all business. “Dolan, see if you can chase down that paper. Get Mr. Cole on his way.”

Dolan flipped him off behind his back as she left.

After the briefing, I went back to the squad room looking for her, but she wasn't at her desk. Krantz wasn't the only one in a good mood. Bruly and Salerno high-fived each other at the Mr. Coffee and walked away laughing. Williams and the Buzz Cut came through the double doors, Krantz offering his hand and the Buzz Cut taking it. The Buzz Cut was smiling, too.

When I was here before, the fabric of the room had been stiff with tension, as if the place and the people were caught in the kind of electrified field that made their hair stand on end. But now something had happened to cut the juice. A sea change had occurred that had freed them from electric hair, and let them overlook the fact that I had interfered with their investigation by visiting Dersh. That is no small thing to overlook.

I got a cup of coffee, sat in the dunce chair to wait for Dolan, and wondered about it until the kid with the mail cart pushed his way in through the doors. Bruly slapped the kid a high five, the two of them laughing about something I couldn't overhear. Salerno joined the conversation, and the three of them talked for a few minutes before the kid moved on. When he moved on, he was smiling, too, and I wondered if he was smiling about the same thing as everyone else.

When he pushed the cart past, I said, “Hey, Curtis. Can I ask you a question?”

He eyed me suspiciously. The last time I tried to milk Curtis Wood for information it hadn't gone so well.

“First, you were right when you told me that these guys are the best in the business. I've got a whole new respect for them. They really get results.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was wondering if you hear what they say about me.”

Now he wasn't looking so much suspicious as confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I guess it's just a professional consideration, you know?

I've really grown to respect these guys. I want them to respect me, too.”

I watched him hopefully, and when he understood what I was driving at, he shrugged. “They think you're okay, Cole. They don't like it that you're around, but they've checked up on you. I heard Dolan say that if you were half as good as people say, your dick would be a foot long.”

“That Dolan is a class act, isn't she?”

“She's the best.”

This time it was going better. I had established rapport, and put our conversation on an intimate basis. Soon, I would have him eating out of my hand.

“It's good you're telling me these things, Curtis. With all the whispering today, I thought they were cracking jokes about me.”

“Nah.”

I gave a big sigh as if I were relieved, then made a show of looking around at Bruly and Salerno and the others. “With all the grinning around here, they must've made a breakthrough in the case.”

Curtis Wood turned back to his cart. “I don't know anything, Cole.”

“Anything about what?” Mr. Innocent.

“You're so obvious, Cole. You're trying to pump me for information I don't have. If you think something's going on, have the balls to ask someone instead of just sneaking around.”

He shook his head like he was disappointed, then pushed the mail cart away, muttering.

“Foot long, my ass.”

Shown up once again by the civilian wannabe. Maybe next time he'd just shoot me.

Dolan came out of the copy room a few minutes later and handed me a large manila envelope without meeting my eyes. “These are the reports Krantz wants me to give you.”

“What's going on around here, Dolan?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why do I get the feeling I'm being kept out of something?”

“You're paranoid.”

So much for the direct approach.

I went down to my car, raised the top for the sun, and waited. Forty minutes later, the Buzz Cut nosed out of the parking garage behind the wheel of a tan Ford Taurus. He made his way to the Harbor Freeway, then drove west through the center of Los Angeles, then north on the 405 into West-wood. He didn't hurry, and he was easy to follow. He was relaxed, too. And smiling. I copied his tag number to run his registration, but I needn't have bothered. I knew what he was as soon as he turned onto the long, straight drive of the United States Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard.

The Buzz Cut was FBI.

I cruised past the Federal Building to a little Vietnamese place I know for squid with mint leaves. They make it hot there, the way I like it, and as I ate, I wondered why the FBI would be involved in Karen Garcia's homicide. Local police often call in the Feebs to use their information systems and expertise, but the Buzz Cut had been around at almost every step in the dance. I thought that odd. Then, when I introduced myself at the autopsy, he'd refused to identify himself. I thought that odd, too. And now the Feeb was smiling, and they don't smile for very much. You make one of those guys smile, you'd need something pretty big.

I was pondering this when the woman who owns the restaurant said, “We make squid you like?”

“Yes. It's very nice.” The woman was small and delicate, with a graceful beauty.

“I see you in here very much.”

“I like the food.” The conversation I could do without.

The woman leaned close to me. “Oldest daughter make this food you like. She think you very handsome.”

I followed the woman's eyes to the back of the restaurant. A younger imitation of the woman was peeking at me from the kitchen door. She smiled shyly.

I looked at her mother. Mom smiled wider and nodded. I looked back at the daughter, and she nodded, too.

I said, “I'm married. I've got nine children.”

The mother frowned. “You no wear ring.”

I looked at my hand. “I'm allergic to gold.”

The mother's eyes narrowed. “You married?”

“I'm sorry. Nine children.”

“With no ring?”

“Allergies.”

The woman went to the daughter and said something in Vietnamese. The daughter stomped back into the kitchen.

I finished the squid, then drove home to read the reports. Some days you should just eat drive-thru.

The autopsy protocol held no surprises, concluding that Karen Garcia had been killed by a single .22 caliber bullet fired at close range, striking her 3.5 centimeters above the right orbital cavity. Light to moderate powder stippling was observed at the wound entry, indicating that the bullet had been fired at a distance of between two and four feet. A cut-and-dried case of homicide by gunshot, with no other evidence having been noted.