Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Still, the heavy lifting is done, and now all that remains is killing the rest of them, and ensuring with absolute certainty that Pike is convicted.

That means preparing for Pike's partner, Elvis Cole.

What a stupid name.

The killer is considering how he might deal with Cole when he hears Jesus Lorenzo approaching, and grips the .22 caliber pistol that he's taped into a plastic Clorox bottle. There is no mistaking Lorenzo. He is five feet ten, wearing red pumps with four-inch heels, a red satin micro-sheath, and a platinum wig. The killer has watched him cruise MacArthur Park on six separate nights at this time, waiting for this moment.

When Jesus Lorenzo disappears into the men's room, the killer steps out from the oleander and follows. No one else is around, no one is in the men's room. The killer knows this because he's been here for almost two hours.

The plan continues.

Payback, you motherfucker.

Lucy and I started the next day with a careful hesitancy that left me uncomfortable. Something new had been introduced to our relationship that neither of us knew how to approach. We had slept together, but we had not made love. Though she appeared to sleep, I think it was feigned. I wanted to speak with her about Joe. I wanted her to be all right with him, but didn't know if that was possible. By the time I decided to plunge in, she had to leave for work.

As she was walking out, she said, “Are you going to see Joe today?”

“Yes. Probably later.”

“Would you give him my best?”

“Sure. You could come with me, see him yourself.”

“I have to get to work.”

“Okay. I know.”

“But maybe.”

“Luce?”

She looked at me.

“Whatever Joe is, that's what I am, too.”

She probably didn't want to hear that.

“I guess what bothers me is that you're not disturbed by these things. You accept them as ordinary, and things like this aren't ordinary.”

I didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound self-serving, so I didn't say anything.

Lucy pulled the door closed and went to work.

Another fine day in the City of Angels.

I wanted to call Charlie Bauman's secretary to tell her what I had already done, but she probably wasn't yet in the office. Charlie would tell her, but I wanted to tell her, too. I also wanted to contact both the FBI and the California State Sheriffs to access the data bank they keep on missing and runaway children. I wanted to see if I could get any hits on the first names, Trudy and Matt, and I also wanted to run the stolen vehicle reports for a black Dodge minivan. I decided to call Dolan first, and got Williams.

“Hey, Williams. Is Dolan there?”

“What's it to you?”

“I want to talk to her.”

“Haven't seen her. You wanna know what I heard Krantz say?”

“I'm not going to like this, am I?”

“Krantz says you were probably in on it with that bastard, Pike. He says if he can tie you into it, maybe you and Pike can do the IV tango together.” Williams chuckled when he said it.

“Hey, Williams.”

“What?”

“You're the whitest black man I ever met.”

“Fuck you, Cole.”

“You, too, Williams.”

I hung up, thinking that if the day got any better my cat would die.

I was on my way upstairs to take a shower when the door bell rang. It was Samantha Dolan, looking hungover.

“I just called you.”

“Was I there?”

“You know what, Dolan? Today isn't a good day for humor.”

She walked in past me, again without being invited, and peeked into the kitchen. She was wearing a navy blazer over a plain white tee shirt and jeans, and oval Italian sunglasses. The shirt looked very white beneath the dark blazer. “Yeah, well, I have days like that, too. You never fixed the tiles.”

“I don't want to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

“You worried the little woman's going to get jealous?”

“Do me a favor and don't call her the little woman. It's pissing me off.”

“Whatever. You think I could have some juice or water? I'm a little dry.”

I brought her into the kitchen and poured two glasses of mango juice. When I handed the glass to her, she took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were bloodshot, and I caught a whiff of tequila. “Jesus, it's eight in the morning, Dolan. You hit it this early?”

The bloodshot eyes flashed angrily. “Is it any of your business when I ‘hit it’?”

I raised my hands.

Dolan put the sunglasses back on.

“I was thinking about what you said last night. That maybe the killer is connected to Pike through Garcia. Maybe you've got something there, but I sure as hell couldn't call you from the office to talk about it.”

“That mean you'll help?”

“It means I want to talk about it.”

The cat nosed through his cat door. He got halfway inside, and stopped, staring at her.

Dolan scowled at him. “What in hell are you looking at?”

The cat cocked his head, still staring.

“What's wrong with this cat?”

“I think he's confused. The only other person in the world he likes is Joe Pike. Maybe it's the glasses.”

Dolan scowled deeper. “How nice for me. Mistaken for a two-hundred-pound bruiser with a butch cut and no tits.”

Dolan took off the glasses and bugged her eyes at him.

“Better?”

The cat cocked his head the other way.

“Why does he hold his head that way?”

“Someone shot him.”

Dolan squatted and held out her hand.

I said, “Don't do that, Dolan. He bites.”

“Samantha.”

“Samantha.”

The cat sniffed. He eased toward her and sniffed again.

“He doesn't seem so mean to me.”

She scratched his head, then finished her juice.

“He's just a damned cat.”

I stared at him, then her. I had seen that cat claw a hundred people over the years, and I had never seen him let anyone other than me and Joe touch him.

“What?”

I shook my head again. “Nothing.”

She took a hard pack of Marlboros from her pocket. “You mind if I smoke?”

“Yeah, I do. If you gotta have one, we can go out on the deck.”

We went out. Yesterday's gray haze still hung in the air, but it had thinned. Dolan went to the rail and peered down into the canyon. “This is nice. You got your chairs out here. You got your Weber.”

She fired up a Marlboro and blew a great fog of smoke to add to the haze. Inviting.

I said, “So what were you thinking last night?”

“I wasn't on the job when that happened with Wozniak and Pike, but Stan Watts was. I asked him about it. Do you know what happened?”

“I know.”

A little girl named Ramona Ann Escobar had been seen leaving a park with a man the police believed to be a known pedophile and child pornographer named Leonard DeVille. Pike and Wozniak learned that DeVille had been sighted entering the Islander Palms Motel, and had driven there to investigate. When they entered the room, Ramona was not present. Pike had never spoken to me of these things, but I recalled from the newspaper coverage that Wozniak, the father of a young daughter, had apparently been fearful that DeVille had harmed the girl. He drew his weapon, and struck DeVille. Pike, feeling that Wozniak might endanger the suspect, intervened. A struggle followed, during which Wozniak's weapon discharged, killing Wozniak. Internal Affairs conducted an investigation, but brought no charges against Pike. What the articles I'd read didn't say is that even though IAG didn't bring charges, damn near every officer on the job at that time blamed Pike for Wozniak's death, hating him all the more because Pike had killed Wozniak defending an asshole like Leonard DeVille. A child molester.