Robert Crais - Free Fall

Charlie said, “Okay. You’ve got to come in. Come to my place, and we’ll go in together. I’m sure we can pull bail, even after this.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I can’t come in yet, Charlie. There’s something I’ve got to do.”

Charlie went ballistic. “Are you fucked ?”

I hung up.

The house was quiet with a stillness that went beyond the auditory or the visual. Outside, a police helicopter tracked across the horizon, overflying Hollywood. Closer, cars wound their way along mountain roads. The phone rang, but I did not answer it. The machine caught it, and Charlie said, “Okay, so you’re not going to go in. Shit, pick up, willya?”

I picked up.

He made a sigh. “All right. I’ll talk to the DA. I’ll start trying to work things out.”

“Sure.”

“Shit, don’t get killed.” He hung up. What a way to say good-bye.

I went back to the aloneness of my house and wondered if in fact Jennifer Sheridan was going to call. Maybe I was just wasting my time, and risking my freedom.

The cat came out of the kitchen and watched me for a while, the way cats will, but then he tired of it and left. I thought that, were I a cat, it might be nice to go with him. Creep through a little grass, stalk a few field mice, maybe hang with a couple of nice lady cats. I guess cats grow weary of human pursuits. So do humans.

Thirty-six minutes later gravel crunched outside my front door and a light played through the entry windows. The cops from the sedan, come to take a look-see.

Footsteps moved to the carport and a second light tracked along the opposite side of the house. I scrambled behind the couch, and tried to wedge myself under it. The footsteps came out onto the deck, and now both lights raked over the couch and the living room and the stairs that lead up to my loft. There was maybe eight feet and a couple of dust bunnies between me and the two cops. I held my breath. The lights worked over the couch again and then the footsteps went away. My, my. Nothing like an adrenaline jolt to help you wile away the hours.

Seventy-two minutes after the cops had come to call, the phone rang again, and this time it was Jennifer Sheridan. When I picked up, she said, “Thank God you’re there.”

“Where are you?” Her voice was low, as if maybe she were calling without Mark knowing. Or maybe because she was just tired.

“I’m with Mark.”

“Where with Mark?”

“I made a mistake getting you involved in this. You have to stop, now. You have to leave us alone.”

“It’s too late to leave you alone, Jennifer.” I told her about the Eight-Deuce Gangster Boys. I told her about Eric Dees working through the Eight-Deuce to set me up and I told her about James Edward Washington getting his brains blown out. I said, “They’re killing people. That means Mark is involved. They set us up with the Eight-Deuce and Akeem D’Muere killed James Edward Washington and that’s the same as if they had ordered him killed. They’re accessories before the fact, and if you’re a part of it now, then you’re an accessory after the fact. Do you understand that?”

She was breathing hard, but she didn’t sound frantic. She sounded resolved. “We can’t come back, yet. We have to stay away.”

“Because of Mark?”

“It’s not like what you think. Eric is going to work everything out. We only have to be up here a little while.” Up here.

I said, “Eric isn’t going to work it out, Jennifer. D’Muere is out of control. You need to come in. Tell me where you are.”

“I can’t do that I’m calling to ask you to stop. I want you to leave us alone.”

“I can’t do that. It’s larger than you now, Jennifer. There’s James Edward.”

Jennifer Sheridan hung up.

I stood in the dark with the phone in my hand, and then I replaced the receiver and reset the answering machine. I made sure all of the windows were locked and the alarm was armed and the faucet still dripped for the cat, and then I picked up the overnight bag, let myself out, and moved back down the slope to the trees.

It took just under an hour to work my way back to Mulholland and to the turnout where Joe Pike was waiting. It was a broad, flat area looking out on the valley. Pike’s Jeep was there. So were a Toyota Celica and a Chevy van. Music came from the van.

I slipped into the passenger side of the Jeep and Pike looked at me. The smell of coffee was strong. “She call?”

“Yes. She wouldn’t tell me where she is.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

“I think they’re all in danger. I’m just not sure who they’re in danger from.”

Pike’s mouth twitched. “It’s often like that, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Often.” I stared at the lights of the San Fernando Valley and listened to the music from the van. It sounded Spanish. I said, “If we can’t find her, then we have to stop Akeem. That means we go back to the source.”

Pike nodded. “The guy who set us up.”

“Cool T. Cool T might know.”

Pike shook his head. “What a name.”

Pike started the Jeep and we drove back down into the city and to the motel, and the next day we went for Cool T.

Joe Pike and I left the motel for Ray Depente’s place at five minutes after eight the next morning. We drove to Ray’s much as you would drive anywhere. SWAT wasn’t waiting on the roof, and the police hadn’t cordoned off the area, and a squadron of black-and-whites with screaming sirens didn’t give chase. We were just two guys in a Jeep. Wanted for murder, maybe, but there you are.

We stopped at a Denny’s for breakfast, and while we were eating, two uniformed cops came in and sat in the smoking section. Pike and I paid, and walked out past them, but they never looked our way. Detective material.

At seven minutes before nine, we pulled into the little parking lot next to Ray Depente’s, and went inside.

Ray Depente was sitting at his desk in the little glass cubicle, talking on the phone and leaning back with his feet up. The older woman who managed the office was behind him, peering into a file cabinet When we stepped out of the door, Ray saw us and put down his feet and stood up. He mumbled something into the phone, then hung up and came around the desk and out onto the floor. The cops would’ve been here. They would’ve talked to him.

I said, “Hi, Ray. This is a buddy of mine. Joe Pike.”

Ray stopped just outside of striking range and looked over Joe Pike and then squinted back at me. You could see him braining out what he’d have to do and how he’d have to do it to neutralize us. Pike slid two steps to the side, giving himself room if Ray made the move. There weren’t many people in the gym. A young Asian guy sporting a black belt worked three women and a man through an intermediate kata , and a young Hispanic guy practiced roundkicks on a heavy bag in the far corner. Some of his leg moves were so fast you couldn’t follow them.

Ray said, “You’ve got no business here. Leave now, before I call the police.”

“I didn’t kill James Edward, Ray. Akeem D’Muere set me up for the bust and D’Muere pulled the trigger.”

“Ain’t the way the police tell it.” Ray took a half step back and turned so that his shoulders were angled to the plane of attack. “Why don’t we give’m a call, let everybody sit down and talk about it.” He made a little head move toward his office.

Pike said, “That won’t happen.”

Ray shifted again, adjusted his angle more toward Joe. “Maybe not, but you never know.” Behind him, the class grunted and worked through their kata , and the heavy bag snapped with deep coughing whumps. “I won’t tell you again to leave, then we’ll see what happens.” The woman in the little office closed the file and looked out at us and then came around the desk to stand in the door as if she could somehow read the tension.