Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

Poitras said, “Hey, Kurt. Can you give me a ballpark on the time?”

Asana tried to bend her shoulder joint, and found it stiff, but yielding. “Rigor's starting to let go. I'd say about twenty-four hours.”

“She came up here to run between nine-thirty and ten in the morning.”

“Well, I'm just guessing right now, but that fits. When I get the BT, I'll be able to calc it out pretty close.”

Asana took a scalpel and a long metal thermometer from the box and moved back into the weeds. Pike and I both turned away. Asana would be going for a liver temperature. When he had the liver temp he would chart it against the outside air temperature and be able to tell how long the body had been cooling.

We were waiting for Asana to finish when three men in good-looking suits came around the finger like they owned the lake. Lou Poitras stepped forward to block the trail. “Can I help you?”

Behind me, Joe Pike said, “Krantz.”

The one called Krantz held up a gold detective's shield about two inches from Poitras's nose. He was a tall, leathery man with a high forehead and lantern jaw. He looked like the kind of guy who liked to jut the jaw at people to show them he meant business. He jutted it now.

“Harvey Krantz, Robbery-Homicide. Detective Stan Watts. Detective Jerome Williams.” Watts was an older white guy with beefy shoulders and a round head. Williams was black, and younger. “Are you Lieutenant Poitras?”

“That's right.”

“Hollywood Division is off this case as of now. RHD is taking over.” Robbery-Homicide Division is LAPD's elite homicide division. Based out of Parker Center downtown, they could and did handle high-profile homicides all over the city.

Poitras didn't move. “You're kidding.”

This was probably the biggest case Poitras had on his table, and he wouldn't like giving it up.

“Pull your men off, Lieutenant. We have the scene.” Krantz tucked his badge away and jutted his jaw some more. I made him for his mid-forties, but he could've been older.

“Just like that?”

“Like that.”

Poitras opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then took a single step back and turned toward the crime scene. His face was as flat as an empty plate. “Two Gun. Chick. We're off.”

The Hispanic detective with Asana looked over. “Say what?”

“We're off. Robbery-Homicide has the scene.”

The Hispanic detective and another detective who'd been poking around in the weeds stepped away as Watts and Williams went over. Neither of the RHD guys seemed to mind the flies.

Krantz was moving past Poitras to join them when his eyes widened, and he said, “Joe Pike.”

Pike said, “When did they start hiring chickenshits like you on Robbery-Homicide, Krantz?”

Krantz's face went bright red. He glared at Poitras and shouted so loud that Asana looked over. “Do you know who this man is? Why is he at this scene?”

Poitras looked bored. “I know who he is. The other guy is Elvis Cole. They're working for the vic's father.”

“I don't give a rat's ass if they're working for Jesus Christ! They don't belong here, and your ass is gonna be in a sling for opening this crime scene to unauthorized personnel!”

A faint smile flickered on Poitras's lips. Poitras and Krantz were about the same height, but while Krantz was bony, Poitras weighed two hundred sixty pounds. I had once seen Lou Poitras lift the front end of a ’68 Volkswagen Beetle and turn the car all the way around. He spoke quietly. “The watch commander ordered me to give them full access, Krantz. That's what I've done. The vic's father has juice with the City Council, and Pike here personally knew the vic.”

Krantz wasn't listening. He stepped past Poitras and stormed up to Joe. Maybe he had a death wish.

“I can't believe that you have the balls to come to a crime scene, Pike. I can't believe you have the gall.”

Joe said, “Step back.” The voice soft again.

Krantz stepped right up into Pike's face then. Right on the edge of the cliff. “Or what, you sonofabitch? You going to shoot me, too?”

Poitras pushed Krantz back and stepped between them. “What's with you, Krantz? Get a grip on yourself.”

Krantz's mouth split into a reptilian smile, and I wondered what was playing out here. He said, “I want this man questioned, Lieutenant. If Pike here knows the vic, maybe he knows how she got like this.”

Pike said, “It won't happen, Pants.”

Krantz's face went deep red, and an ugly web of veins pulsed in his forehead.

I moved close to Pike. “Is there something happening here that I should know about?”

Pike shrugged. “Nothing much. I'm about to put Krantz down.”

Krantz's face got darker. “You're going in, Pike. We'll talk to you at the Division.”

Behind us, Poitras's Handie-Talkie made a popping sound. Poitras mumbled things that we couldn't hear, then held it toward Krantz. “It's Assistant Chief Mills.”

Krantz snatched the radio. “This is Harvey Krantz.”

Poitras led us back toward the trail without waiting. “Forget Krantz. The only place you guys are going is back to Mr. Garcia's. The A-chief is down there now, and the old man is asking for you.”

Pike and I followed the trail back up the slope and through the trees. When we were away from the cops, and there was only the sound of the leaves crunching beneath our feet, I said, “I'm sorry about Karen, Joe.”

Pike nodded.

“You going to tell me what all that was about?”

“No.”

The drive back to Hancock Park took forever.

An LAPD radio car was parked outside Frank Garcia's home, along with two anonymous detective sedans, a black Town Car, and three other vehicles. The older Latina opened the door again, but before we entered, a Hispanic man about Frank's age stepped past her, and offered a firm hand. Ancient pockmarks and steel-gray hair gave him a hard appearance, but his voice was gentle. “Mr. Cole, Mr. Pike, I'm Abbot Montoya. Thank you for coming.”

Joe said, “How's Frank?”

“Not well. His doctor's on the way.”

Somewhere behind him, Frank Garcia shouted, “You cocksuckers as good as killed my little girl and I want you out of my house!”

He wasn't shouting at us.

We followed Montoya into a huge, arched living room that I hadn't seen before. Two command-level uniforms, a man in a suit, and an older man in a charming Nike tennis outfit were clumped together like a gospel quartet as Frank shouted at them. Frank's eyes were hollow red blurs, and every crease and line in his face seemed cut deep by something incomprehensibly sharp and painful. So much pain was in his eyes that it hurt to look at him.

City Councilman Henry Maldenado was standing as far from the cops as possible, but Frank shouted at him, too. “I oughta throw your ass out with them, Henry, all the help I get from you! Maybe I should give my money to that bastard Ruiz next time!” Melvin Ruiz had run against Maldenado in the primary.

Montoya hurried to Frank, his voice soothing. “Please calm yourself, Frank. We're going to handle this. Mr. Cole and Mr. Pike are here.”

Frank searched past Montoya with a desperate hope that was as hard to look at as his pain, as if Joe had the power to say that this horrible nightmare was not real, that these men had made a terrible mistake, and his only child had not been murdered.

“Joe?”

Joe knelt beside the chair, but I could not hear what he said.

While they spoke, Abbot Montoya led me across the room and introduced me. “Mr. Maldenado, this is Mr. Cole. The gentleman with Frank is Mr. Pike. We'd like them to represent Mr. Garcia during the investigation.”

That surprised me. “What do you mean, represent?”