Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“You were, but I accept. Forget it.”

“Just wanted to get that out. Makes me feel small.”

“That's your girlfriend's problem.”

I looked over at her, but she was staring out the window. Ouch.

“You know where Krantz is this morning?”

“On Dersh?”

“A surveillance team is on Dersh. Krantz and Bishop are going to the service. Mills is going, too. They want to sit where Councilman Maldenado can see them.”

I couldn't do what she did. I couldn't work with guys like Krantz and Bishop. Maybe that was why I'm on my own.

“I thought you said you were coming at nine-thirty.”

“I figured you'd try to beat me, so I came earlier.”

I looked over at her, and she was smiling.

“You're something, Samantha.”

“Guess we're cats of the same stripe, World's Greatest.”

I smiled back. “Okay. So it's me, you, and two other guys. How do you want to play it?”

She glanced up the hill toward a marble mausoleum. “Got a guy up at that mausoleum, and another guy down below. They see anyone who looks suspicious, they'll get the license numbers.” The high man was sitting on the grass outside the mausoleum above us. A little road ran in front of it, identical to the road where we were parked. If the killer wanted to come and watch, he could park up there. People were scattered throughout the slope below us, the low man invisible among them. “I figure you can work in close with the crowd since you know some of these people. I'll stay here snapping shots of the procession, then I'll come up.”

“Okay.”

“Right now, why don't you walk the perimeter.”

It wasn't a question.

She looked at me. “Well?”

“Yes, ma'am.” If you're on free time, I guess you can tell everyone what to do.

As I slid out of the Beemer, she said, “By the way, that was the first time you called me Samantha.”

“I guess so.”

“Don't let it happen again.”

But she was smiling, and I grinned as I walked away.

I spent the next few minutes drifting along the perimeter of the crowd, counting sixteen Anglo men between twenty and forty. When I glanced down at Dolan, she was pointing the camera at me. I guess she was bored.

A blue Nissan Sentra came up the hill a few minutes before ten, parked where the other cars had parked, and Eugene Dersh climbed out.

I said, “Oh, man.”

Dersh was conservatively dressed in a beige sport coat and slacks. He locked his car, and was walking up the hill when two unmarked detective rides turned in and idled by the front gate, unsure what to do. Williams was driving the second car. The first car was the same guys who had followed me.

The cop by the mausoleum stood and stared at them. He hadn't seen Dersh, but he recognized the RHD cars.

I trotted down to Dolan. “Looks like the gang's all here.”

Dersh saw us looking at him, recognized me, and waved.

I waved back.

At a quarter after ten, four LAPD motorcycles escorted the hearse through the main gate. Three gleaming black limos followed, trailing a line of cars that had been waxed and buffed until they glittered with bits of the sun. Dersh watched them come, a kind of benign curiosity on his face.

When the line of cars reached us, a dozen people who looked like family members emerged from the limos. The driver of the lead car took Frank's wheelchair from the trunk as Joe and another man helped Frank out. Joe was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. The dark glasses made him look like a Secret Service agent, but since this was L.A., everyone was wearing sunglasses. Even the priest.

Councilman Maldenado and Abbot Montoya climbed out of the last limo. Bishop and Krantz and Assistant Chief Mills squeezed out of the sixth car, and hurried to fall in behind the councilman. Anxious to protect and to serve him, I guess.

Dolan and I were walking over when Krantz and Bishop saw us. “What in hell are you doing here with Cole?”

Dolan pointed at Dersh.

Krantz and Bishop turned and saw Dersh looking back. Dersh smiled broadly and waved.

Krantz said, “Holy shit!”

Bishop nudged Krantz. “Wave back, goddamnit, before he suspects something.”

They waved back.

Bishop said, “Smile!”

Krantz smiled.

Joe had pushed Frank most of the way up the hill when a news van from one of the local network affiliates tore through the gate. Vans from a second network affiliate and then Lucy's station barreled through ten seconds behind it, braking hard alongside the hearse. Their microwave dishes extended even as camera operators and on-air reporters jumped out.

Dolan said, “This can't be good.”

Dolan and I walked faster, Krantz and Bishop after us.

The three reporters hurried toward Frank, two of them with radio mikes and one without.

I said, “Wake up, Bishop. Have the uniforms keep those people away.”

Dolan and I put ourselves between Frank and the reporters as Krantz ran for the motorcycle cops. A good-looking red-haired woman leaned past me, reaching for Frank with her microphone. “Mr. Garcia, have the police made any progress in catching the serial killer?”

Bishop said, “Oh, shit.”

A tall African-American reporter who had played professional football tried to press between me and one of the uniforms, but neither of us gave ground. “Mr. Garcia, do you believe a man named Eugene Dersh killed your daughter, and, if so, sir, why?”

Bishop jerked at Krantz's arm, his voice a panicked whisper. “How in hell did these bastards find out?”

Behind us, Frank Garcia said, “What is this? What are they talking about, serial killer? Who's this man, Dersh?”

Councilman Maldenado stepped forward, trying to turn the press away. “Please. His child is about to be buried.”

Eugene Dersh had come to the edge of the growing crowd, too far away to hear, but curious like everyone else.

The redhead's camera operator saw Dersh and punched her in the back. He didn't tap her; he punched her. “ Sonofabitch! That's Dersh .”

She shoved the black reporter out of the way and ran toward Dersh. The black reporter ran after her. Dersh looked as surprised and confused as everyone else.

Frank Garcia tried to see Dersh, but since he was in the chair, people blocked his view. “Who is that?” He twisted around to Maldenado. “Henry, do they know who killed Karen? Did that man kill Karen? ”

Up the hill, Dersh was afraid and embarrassed as the two reporters barked questions. The mourners around the grave heard the reporters with Dersh, and began to murmur and stare.

The final reporter was an Asian-American woman who stayed with Frank. “There were others, Mr. Garcia. Haven't the police told you? Five people have been murdered. Karen was the fifth.” The reporter glanced from Frank to Maldenado, then back to Frank. “Some maniac has been hunting human beings here in Los Angeles for the past nineteen months.” You could see she liked saying it because of how the words would play on the news. She pointed at Dersh. “The police suspect that man. Eugene Dersh.”

Frank lurched higher in his chair, craning to see Dersh. “That man killed Karen? That sonofabitch murdered my daughter?”

Maldenado shouldered in and forced the Asian-American reporter away. “This isn't the time. I'll make a statement, but not now. Let this man bury his daughter.”

Above us, Eugene Dersh pushed past the two reporters, walking fast back down the hill to his car. They dogged him, peppering him with questions as their cameras recorded it. Dersh would be able to see himself on the news again, though he probably wouldn't be as happy about it this time.

Frank's face was the color of dried blood. He bobbed in his chair, wrestling the wheels to try to chase after Dersh. “Is that him? Is that the sonofabitch?”