Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“All the time you spent investigating, and that's what you came up with. You really think I murdered Woz in that room to keep him quiet?”

Krantz smiled. “I don't think you killed him because you thought he'd give you up, Pike. I think you killed him because you wanted his wife.”

Pike stared.

“You had something going with her, didn't you?”

Pike swung his feet off the bunk. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Krantz smiled. “Like your asshole friend says, I'm a detective. I detected. I was watching her, Pike. I saw you with her.”

“You're wrong about that, and you're wrong about Dersh, too. You're wrong about everything.”

Krantz nodded, agreeable. “If you've got an alibi, bring it out. If you can prove to me that you didn't do Dersh, I'll personally ask Branford to drop the charges.”

“You know there's nothing.”

“There's nothing because you did it, Pike. We've got you on tape casing his house. We've got the old lady picking you out of the line. We've got the residue results and your relationship with the girl. We've got this.”

Krantz showed Pike what he was carrying. It was a revolver wrapped in plastic.

“This is a .357 magnum. SID matches it with the bullet that killed Dersh. It's the murder weapon, Pike.”

Joe didn't say anything.

“It's a clean gun. No prints, and all the numbers have been burned off, so we can't trace it. But we recovered it in the water off Santa Monica exactly where you said you talked with the girl. That puts you with this gun.”

Pike stared at the plastic bag, and then at Krantz, wondering at the coincidence of how the murder weapon turned up at the very place where he admitted to being.

“Think about it, Krantz. Why would I admit to being there if that's where I threw the gun?”

“Because someone saw you. I think you went there to ditch the gun, and did, but then someone saw you. I didn't believe you about the girl at first, but maybe you were telling the truth about that part. Maybe she saw you there, and you were worried we'd find her and catch you in a lie if you denied it, so you tried to cover yourself.”

Pike looked at the plastic bag again. He knew that cops often showed things to suspects and lied about what they were to try to elicit a confession.

“Is this bullshit?”

Krantz smiled again, calm and confident, and in an odd way Pike found it warm. “No bullshit. You can ask Bauman. The DA's filling him in on it right now. I've got you, Joe. I couldn't make the case with Wozniak, but this time I've got you. Branford's making all this noise about Special Circumstance, but he's full of shit. I couldn't get that lucky, Pike, you getting the needle.”

“I didn't put the gun there, Krantz. That means somebody else did.”

“That's some coincidence, Joe, you and the gun just happening to be in the same place.”

“It means they knew my statement. Think about it.”

“What I think is that we've got plenty for a conviction. Charlie is going to tell you the same thing.”

“No.”

“Bauman's already floating plea arrangements. Bet he didn't tell you that, did he? I know you're telling Bauman no plea, and he's saying sure, like he's going along with it, but he's not an idiot. Charlie's smart. He'll let you sit in Men's Central for six months, hoping you're telling the truth about this girl you claim you saw, but when she doesn't turn up he'll deal you a straight hand about taking the plea. My guess is that Branford will let you cop to twenty with the possibility of parole. Saves everybody looking bad about how we fucked over Dersh. Twenty with time off means you serve twelve. That sound about right to you?”

“I'm not going to prison, Krantz. Not for something I didn't do.”

Krantz touched the bars. He slipped his fingers along the steel like it was his lover.

“You're inside now, and you're going to stay inside. And if you're dumb enough to go to trial, and I'm thinking you might do that because you're such a hardhead, you'll be in a cage like this for the rest of your life. And I did it, Pike. Me. You're mine, and I wanted to tell you that. That's why I came here, to tell you. You're mine.”

The black jailer with the big arms came down the cellblock and stopped next to Krantz. “Time to take your ride, Pike. Step into the center of the floor.”

Krantz started away, then turned back. “Oh, and one other thing. You heard we found the homeless guy dead, didn't you?”

“Deege.”

“Yeah, Deege. That was kind've goofy, wasn't it, Pike, him telling you guys that a truck like yours stopped Karen, and a guy who looked like you was driving?”

Pike waited.

“Someone crushed his throat and stuffed him in a Dumpster on one of those little cul-de-sac streets below the lake.”

Pike waited.

“A couple of teenagers saw a red Jeep Cherokee up there, Joe. Parked in the middle of the street and waiting on the very night that Deege was killed. They saw the driver, too. Guess who they saw behind the wheel?”

“Me.”

“This gets better and better.”

Krantz stared at Pike a little longer, then turned and walked away.

Earlier, there had been a prisoner who made monkey sounds-oo-oo-oo-that Pike had thought of as Monkeyboy, and another prisoner with loud flatulence who had thrown feces out of his cell while shouting, “I'm the Gasman!”

They had been taken away, and Pike had dubbed the jail cop with the big arms the Ringmaster.

When Pike was standing, the Ringmaster waved down the hall. Jailers didn't use keys anymore. The cell locks were electronically controlled from the security station at the end of the cellblock, two female officers who sat behind a bulletproof glass partition. When the Ringmaster gave the sign, they pushed a button and Pike's door opened with a dull click. Pike thought that it sounded like a rifle bolt snapping home.

The Ringmaster stepped through, holding the handcuffs. “We won't use the leg irons for the ride, but you gotta wear these.”

Pike put out his wrists.

As the Ringmaster fit the cuffs, he said, “Been watching you work out in here. How many push-ups you do?”

“A thousand.”

“How many dips?”

“Two hundred.”

The Ringmaster grunted. He was a large man with overdeveloped arm and shoulder and chest muscles that stretched his uniform as tight as a second skin. Not many prisoners would stand up to him, and even fewer could hope to succeed if they tried.

The Ringmaster snugged the cuffs, checked to see they were secure, then stepped back.

“I don't know if you're getting a square shake with this Dersh thing or not. I guess you probably did it, but if some asshole popped my lady I'd forget about this badge, too. That's what being a man is.”

Pike didn't say anything.

“I know you're an ex-cop, and I heard about all that stuff went down when you were on the job. It don't matter to me. I just wanted to say I've had you here in my house for a couple of days, and I read you as a pretty square guy. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.”

The two female cops buzzed them out of the cellblock into a gray, institutional corridor where the Ringmaster led Pike down a flight of stairs and into the sheriff 's prisoner holding room. Five other prisoners were already there, cuffed to special plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor: three short Hispanic guys with gang tats, and two black guys, one old and weathered, the other younger, and missing his front teeth. Three sheriff's deputies armed with Tasers and nightsticks were talking by the door. Riot control.

When the Ringmaster led Pike into the room, the younger black prisoner stared at Pike, then nudged the older man, but the older man didn't respond. The younger guy was about Pike's size, with institutional tats that were almost impossible to see against his dark skin. A jagged knife scar ran along the side of his neck, as if someone had once cut his throat.