Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

I reread the criminalist's report, thinking that I would call Montoya to discuss these things, but as I thought about what I would say to him, I realized that the white plastic was missing.

When I read the report that Pike brought last night, I recalled that Chen had recovered a triangular piece of white plastic on the trail at the top of the bluff. He had noted that the plastic was smudged with some sort of gray matter and would have to be tested.

In this new report, that piece of plastic was not listed.

I checked the page numbers to make sure all the pages were there, then found Pike's copy and compared them. White triangle in Pike's report. No white triangle in Krantz's report.

I called Joe. “You get the report you brought over directly from John Chen?”

“Yes.”

“He gave it to you himself?”

“Yes.”

I told him about the missing plastic.

“That sonofabitch Krantz doctored this report. That's why he delayed giving it to me.”

“If he left something out of Chen's report, I wonder what he left out of the autopsy.”

I was wondering that, too.

Pike said, “Rusty Swetaggen might be able to help.”

“Yeah.”

I hung up and called a guy I know named Rusty Swetaggen at his restaurant in Venice. Rusty drove an LAPD radio car for most of his adult life, until his wife's father died and left them the restaurant. He retired from the cops the same day that the will was read, and never looked back. Dishing out fried cheese and tap beer was more fun than humping a radio car, and paid better. Rusty said, “Man, it's been forever, Elvis. Emma thought you'd died.” Emma was his wife.

“Your cousin still work for the coroner?” I'd heard him talk about it, time to time.

“That's Jerry. Sure. He's still down there.”

“A woman named Karen Garcia was cut two days ago.”

“The one belongs to the tortilla guy? The Monsterito?”

“His daughter. I'm on the case with Robbery-Homicide, and I think they're keeping something from me.”

Rusty made a little whistling sound. “Why does Robbery-Homicide have it?”

“They say it's because the tortilla guy owns a city councilman.”

“But you don't think so?”

“I think everybody's keeping secrets, and I want to know what. An ME named Evangeline Lewis did the autopsy. Another report these cops gave me was doctored, so I'm thinking maybe the autopsy protocol was altered, too. Could your cousin find out about that?”

“He doesn't work down in the labs, Elvis. He's strictly front office.”

“I know.”

I waited, letting Rusty think about it. Six years ago he had asked me to find his daughter after she'd run away with a crack dealer who'd wanted to bankroll his business by putting Rusty's little girl in the gang-bang sex business. Without telling her. I had found his daughter and destroyed the tapes, and now his daughter was safe, and married to a nice young guy she'd met in her recovery group. They had a baby. Rusty never let me pay for a drink, never let me pay for food, and after I stopped going to his place because I was embarrassed by all the free stuff, I'd had to beg him to stop sending it to my home and office. If there was a way to help me, Rusty Swetaggen would do it.

“Jerry would have to get into the case files, maybe. Or the ME's personal files.” He was thinking out loud.

“Would he do that and talk to me?”

“Who's the ME again?”

“Evangeline Lewis.”

“He'll talk to you or I'll beat him to death.” Rusty said that with an absolute lack of humor. “I'll give him a call, but I can't say when I'll get through to him.”

“Thanks, Rusty. Call me at home.”

“Elvis?”

“Yeah, Rusty.”

“I still owe you.”

“You don't owe me anything, Rusty. You say hi to Emma. Give my love to the kids.”

“Jerry will do this for you if I have to strangle him.”

“It won't go that far, Rusty. But thanks.” You see what I mean?

I spent the next hour cleaning the house, then went out onto the deck to work my way through two asanas and two katas . As I worked, I thought about Rusty's need to repay something that didn't need to be repaid. Psychologists would speculate that Rusty wanted to vicariously participate in his daughter's salvation, as if he were somehow struggling to recapture the manhood he had lost by the violation of his daughter. I thought not. I knew Rusty Swetaggen, and I knew men like him. I believed that he was filled with such a terrible and powerful love for his daughter, and for me, that the great pressure of that welling love had to be relieved or it would kill him. People often die from love, and this is a secret we all keep, even from ourselves.

When I went back inside there was a message waiting. It was Rusty, telling me to meet his cousin before the day shift began at five the next morning at a place called Tara's Coffee Bar. He had left the address, and he had given directions.

I knew it would be like that.

I left the house at fifteen minutes after four the next morning, leaving Lucy warm in my bed.

Earlier that night, when she had come to me after work, we decided that she would live with me for the two weeks that Ben was away. We had gone down the mountain to her apartment, and brought back clothes and the personal items she would need. I watched Lucy place her clothes in my closet, and her toiletries in my bath, letting myself toy with a fantasy of permanence. I had lived alone for a long time, but sharing my house with her seemed natural and unforced, as right as if I had shared myself with her my entire life. If that's not love, it's close enough.

We ate take-out from an Italian place in Laurel Canyon, drank red wine, and listened to the swing sounds of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy on the stereo.

We made love on the living-room couch, and after that, as she traced the scars on my body in the bronze glow of candlelight, I felt a wetness on my back. When I looked, she was crying.

“Luce?” As gentle as a butterfly's kiss.

“If I lost you, I'd die.”

I touched her face. “You won't lose me. Am I not the World's Greatest Detective?”

“Of course you are.” I could barely hear her.

“You won't lose me, Lucille. You won't even be able to get rid of me.”

She kissed me then, and we snuggled close and fell asleep.

I worked my way down the dark mountain curves under a sky that was clear and bright and empty of stars. No fire now. No heat now. The heat was waiting for later.

When I first came to Los Angeles, I was fresh out of the Army and accustomed to using the constellations to chart my passing. The L.A. skies are so bright with light that only the most brilliant stars are visible, and those are faint and murky. I used to joke that it was this absence of stars that caused so many people to lose their bearings, but back then, I thought answers were easy. Now I know better. Some of us find our way with a single light to guide us; others lose themselves even when the star field is as sharp as a neon ceiling. Ethics may not be situational, but feelings are. We learn to adjust, and, over time, the stars we use to guide ourselves come to reside within rather than without.

Man. I'm something at 4 A.M.

At four-forty I left the freeway for empty downtown streets and a pool of yellow light called Tara's Coffee Bar. Two uniformed cops sat at the counter, along with a dozen overweight, tired men who looked like they worked in the printing plant for the Times . Everyone was scarfing eggs and bacon and buttered toast, and no one seemed worried about cholesterol or calories.

The only man there wearing a suit said, “You're Cole, right?” Soft, so that no one else could hear.