Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“You tell Paulette?”

“Some of it. Not all. He was her husband, Elvis. They had the child.”

“So what happened?”

“I told him he had to resign. I gave him the choice, and I gave him the time to think about it. That way it was between me and him. That's why he died.”

I thought that maybe Krantz had been right about many things.

“What happened in the motel, Joe?”

“He didn't want to resign, but I didn't give him any choice. I didn't want to give him to Krantz, but I couldn't let a bad officer stay on the job. If he didn't hang it up, I would've brought in Paulette, and I would've arrested the Chihuahuas.”

“The Chihuahuas would've rolled on him.”

“If he resigned I would've found another way at them, but it never got to that. We got the call about the missing girl and DeVille, and Woz got the location. When we got over there, Woz was already short, and that's when he lost it and hit De-Ville with his gun. I think he was just working up his nut, because he already knew what he was going to do. It was about me, and the box he was in, and how he was going to get out of it.” Pike stopped for a time, then went on. “He let DeVille have it, and when I pushed him away he pointed his gun at me.”

“You shot him in self-defense?”

“No. I wouldn't shoot him. I didn't draw my weapon.”

I stared at him.

“He knew I loved his wife, and he knew she loved me. His career was over, and if Krantz could make the case he would go to jail. Some men can't take the weight. Some men break, and will do anything to stop the pressure.”

“Abel Wozniak killed himself.”

Pike touched his chin. “Pointed the gun here and pulled the trigger, up through his chin and out the top of his head.”

I asked, but I had already guessed. “Why take the blame?”

“It had to be explained. If I tell the truth, Krantz would be able to make the case, and if Woz goes out a felon, his pension and benefits could be withheld. Paulette and the girls would've lost everything. Maybe Parker Center might've felt sorry, and cut them slack, but how could I know? If he goes out a suicide, there's no insurance. The insurance we had then wouldn't pay if you capped yourself.”

“So you took the weight.”

“DeVille was going to wake up and say that Woz hit him. I just went with it. I told them that we struggled, and that's how it happened. It would fit with what DeVille was going to say, and it would explain Woz being dead.”

“Only you get marked rotten for causing your partner's death to protect a pedophile.”

“You do the best you can with what you've got.”

“Did Paulette know the truth?”

Pike stared at the cement. “If Paulette knew, she would've told the department. Even if it meant losing the benefits.”

“Wasn't that her decision to make?”

“I made the decision for all of us.”

“So she doesn't know that her husband killed himself.”

“No.”

Pike just stood there, and I thought that this was his single lonely way of protecting the woman he loved, even if it had cost him any chance at her love, forever and always.

Pike would take that weight.

And had.

I said, “All this time, all these cops hating you for nothing.”

Pike cocked his head, and even in the dim light of the little building the glasses seemed to glow.

“Not for nothing. For everything.”

“Okay. So now what?”

“She still gets his survivor benefits. I want to make sure that whatever leaves here doesn't affect that.”

“Even if it's something that could help you?”

The corner of Pike's mouth twitched. “I didn't come this far to quit now.”

“Then let's see what we find.”

We sat in a Denny's just off the freeway for the next two and a half hours, drinking tea and going through the day books. The Denny's people didn't mind. With the heat, they didn't have much business.

We started with the most recent book and worked backward. Eight pages were missing from that book, but the rest were there, and legible. Wozniak's entries were often cryptic, but pretty soon they made sense to me.

At one point I saw that Pike had stopped reading, and asked him, “What?”

When he didn't answer, I leaned closer and found what had stopped him.

“This Pike is a sharp kid. He'll make a good cop.”

Pike pulled back the book, and kept reading.

Many of the entries were about arrests that Wozniak made, with notes on crimes and criminals and witnesses that he took for future reference, but much of what he'd written was about the street kids whom Wozniak had tried to help. Whatever he had become, Wozniak had been sincere in his efforts to help the people he was sworn to protect and to serve.

In all seven books, only three names were used in a context that suggested they might be informants, and only one of those seemed a possible, that being in an entry dated five months prior to Wozniak's death.

I read that entry to Pike.

“Listen to this. ‘Popped a kid named Laurence Sobek, age fourteen, male hustler. Likes to talk, so he might be a good source. Turned out by the Coopster. ID? Fucked up kid. Gonna try to get him inside .’” I looked up. “What's that mean, get him inside?”

“Get him into a halfway house or a program. Woz did that.”

“Who's the Coopster?”

Pike shook his head.

I stared at the page.

“Could it be DeVille?”

Pike considered it. “Like a nickname. Coupe DeVille.”

“Yeah.”

“Thin.”

“You remember Laurence Sobek?”

“No.”

“Anything else in here look good?”

Pike shook his head again.

“Then this is what we go with.”

We paid the bill, then brought the books out to our cars. I took the notebook that mentioned Laurence Sobek with me.

“How can I reach you?”

“Call the shop and tell them you need me. I'll have a pager.”

“Okay.”

We stood in the heat and watched the trucks go by on the freeway. Behind us, the windmills churned for as far as we could see. Pike was driving a maroon Ford Taurus with an Oregon license plate. I wondered where he'd gotten it. When I finally looked over, he was watching me.

I said, “What?”

“I'm going to beat this. Don't worry about me.”

I made like Alfred E. Neuman. “What, me worry?”

“Something's eating you.”

I thought about telling him about Lucy, but I didn't.

“You take care of yourself, Joe.”

He shook my hand, and then he drove away.

It was late when I got home, but I called Dolan anyway. I called her house twice, leaving messages both times, but by the next morning she still hadn't gotten back to me. I thought that she might be at Parker Center, clearing her desk, but when I called her direct line there, Stan Watts answered.

“Hey, Stan. It's Elvis Cole.”

“So what?”

“Is Dolan there?”

“She's over, man. Thanks to you.”

Like I needed to hear that.

“I thought she might be there.”

“She's not.”

Watts hung up.

I called Dolan again at home, still got her machine, so this time I took Wozniak's notebook and drove over there.

Samantha Dolan lived in a bungalow on Sierra Bonita just a few blocks above Melrose, in an area more known for housing artists than police officers.

I parked behind her BMW, and heard music coming from the house even out in my car. Sneaker Pimps. Loud.

She didn't answer the bell, on my knock, and when I tried the door, it was locked. I pounded hard, thinking maybe she was dead and I should break in, when the door finally opened. Dolan was wearing a faded METALLICA tee shirt and jeans and was barefoot. Her eyes were nine shades of red, and she smelled like a fresh dose of tequila.