Robert Crais - Free Fall

I said, “Four months ago, Mark’s REACT team went into a place called the Premier Pawn Shop to arrest Lewis Washington for fencing stolen goods. There was a struggle, and Lewis Washington died of massive head injuries.”

She stared at me.

“The REACT team statement is that Washington pulled a gun and the head injuries resulted accidentally when team members tried to subdue Washington without the use of firearms. Washington’s family said that Lewis didn’t own a gun and was trying to go straight. The Washingtons sued the city and the LAPD, claiming wrongful death. The LAPD investigated, but found that there had been no wrongdoing.”

Jennifer Sheridan didn’t move. She was staring at the far pictures. Mark and Jenny at the prom. Mark and Jenny after the big game. See them smile. See them laugh. “Was it Mark?”

“The REACT team statement was that it was a combination of all five officers present, though Eric Dees, the team leader, took responsibility.”

She took a deep breath. “Mark never told me any of that.”

“How about the name Akeem D’Muere?”

“No.”

“Akeem D’Muere is a gangbanger in South Central Los Angeles. He bosses a street gang called the Eight-Deuce Gangster Boys. Lewis Washington’s family dropped their lawsuit because Akeem D’Muere told them that he’d kill them if they didn’t.”

“He didn’t tell me any of this. You think Mark has something to do with these people?”

“I don’t know if these two things are connected or not. Maybe they’re not. Maybe Mark didn’t tell you about Akeem D’Muere because he doesn’t know.”

“He didn’t tell me about any of this.” She was shaking her head.

“This isn’t going to be easy, Jennifer. What we find out about Mark might be a bad thing, just like Riggens said. It might be something that you’ll wish you didn’t know, and what you find out might change forever what you feel about Mark and about you with Mark. Do you see that?”

“Are you telling me that we should stop?”

“I’m not telling you one way or the other. I want you to know what you’re dealing with, that’s all.”

She turned away from me and looked at the pictures on the white Formica table, the pictures that had charted her life from the ninth grade until this moment. Her eyes turned pink and she rubbed at them. “Damn it, I didn’t want to cry anymore. I’m tired of crying.” She rubbed her eyes harder.

I leaned forward and touched her arm. The arm that Riggens had hurt. I said, “Crying is dangerous. It’s wise of you to avoid it this way.”

She said, “What?” Confused.

“First, there’s the dehydration, and then the lungs go into sob lock.”

She stopped the rubbing. “Sob lock?”

I nodded. “A form of vapor lock induced by sobbing. The lungs lose all capacity to move air, and asphyxiation is only moments away. I’ve lost more clients to this than gunshot wounds.”

“Maybe,” she said, “that doesn’t so much speak to the clients as to the detective.”

I slapped a hand over my chest. “Ouch.”

Jennifer Sheridan laughed, forgetting about the tears. “You’re funny.”

“Nope. I’m Elvis.” You get me on a roll, I’m murder.

She laughed again and said, “Say something else funny.”

“Something else funny.”

She laughed again and made a big deal out of giving me exasperated. “No. I meant for you to say something funny.”

“Oh.”

“Well?” Waiting.

“You want me to say something funny.”

“Yes.”

“Something funny.”

Jennifer Sheridan threw the stuffed lion at me but then the laughter died and she said, “Oh, my God. I am so scared.”

“I know.”

“I’ve got a college education. I have a good job. You’re supposed to go out a lot, but I don’t do that. You’re supposed to be complete and whole all by yourself, but if I can’t have him I feel like I’ll die.”

“You’re in love. People who say the other stuff are saying it either before they’ve been in love or after the love is over and it hasn’t worked out for them, but no one says it when they’re in the midst of love. When you’re in love, there’s too much at stake.”

She said, “I’ve never been with anyone who makes me feel the way that he makes me feel. I’ve never tried to be. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe it’s all been a horrible mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake if it’s what you wanted.” I was breathing hard and I couldn’t get control of it.

She stared down into her flute glass, and she traced her fingertip around its edge, and then she stared at me. She didn’t look sixteen, now. She was lean and pretty, and somehow available. She said, “I like it that you make me laugh.”

I said, “Jennifer.”

She put down the flute glass. “You’re very nice.”

I put down my glass and stood. She went very red and suddenly looked away. She said, “Ohmygod. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

She stood, too. “Maybe you should go.”

I nodded, and realized that I didn’t want to go. The sharp pain came back behind my eyes. “All right.”

“This wine.” She laughed nervously, and still didn’t look at me.

“Sure. Me, too.”

I backed away from her and went into the entry hall by the kitchen. I liked the way the tights fit her calves and her thighs and the way the sweatshirt hung low over her hips. She was standing with her arms crossed as if it were cold. “I’m sorry.”

I said, “Don’t be.” Then I said, “You’re quite lovely.”

She flushed again and looked down at her empty glass and I left.

I stood in the street outside her apartment for a long time, and then I drove home.

Pike was gone and the house was cool and dark. I left it that way. I took a beer from the refrigerator, turned on the radio, and went out onto my deck. Jim Ladd was conning the air waves at KLSX. Playing a little George Thorogood. Playing a little Creedence Clearwater Revival. When you’re going to listen to radio, you might as well listen to the best.

I stood in the cool night air and drank the beer and, off to my left, an owl hooted from high in a stand of pine trees. The scent of jasmine now was stronger than it had been earlier in the evening, and I liked it. I wondered if Jennifer Sheridan would like smelling it, too. Would she like the owl?

I listened and I drank for quite a long while, and then I went in to bed.

Sleep, when it finally came, provided no rest.

At ten-forty the next morning I called my friend at B of A. She said, “I can’t believe this. Two calls in the same week. I may propose.”

“You get that stupid, I’ll have to use the Sting tickets on someone else.”

“Forget it. I’d rather see Sting.” These dames.

“I want to know who financed the purchase of a place called the Premier Pawn Shop on Hoover Street in South Central L.A.” I gave her the address. “Can you help me on that?”

“You at the office?”

“Nope. I’m taking advantage of my self-employed status to while away the morning in bed. Naked. And alone.” Mr. Seduction.

My friend laughed. “Well, if I know you, that’s plenty of company.” Everybody’s a comedian. “Call you back in twenty.”

“Thanks.”

She made the call in fifteen. “The Premier Pawn Company was owned in partnership between Charles Lewis Washington and something called the Lester Corporation. Lester secured the loan and handled the financing through California Federal.”

“Ah ha.”

“Is that ‘ah ha’ as in this is important, or ‘ah ha’ as in you’re clearing your throat?”

“The former. Maybe. Who signed the papers?”