Т Паркер - The Fallen

I’d heard tales of the chupacabra. It meant “goatsucker” in Spanish. It was a vampirelike creature with huge red eyes and a row of spines down its back. They were reputed to stand five feet tall and suck the bodies of goats, sheep, and other animals almost completely dry.

I thought about Carrie Ann Martier versus three hundred pounds of Chupa Junior and hoped she wasn’t foolish enough to run a hustle on her boss. She couldn’t win that one.

I thought of Gina again. I imagined her at work now, standing beside her chair, arms raised, shears and comb in hand, snipping away. Last year for her birthday, I bought her a pair of Hikari Cosmos scissors, among the best money can buy. They had molybdenum-alloy blades that were said to be able to “melt” through hair. The Rylon glides were for accuracy from pivot to point. They cost twelve hundred dollars. They fit her small hands particularly well without the inserts she sometimes had to use. I’d had them inscribed along the inside of the tang, which is where the cutter rests his or her finger. It said Hugs and Kisses, Me, though because of limited space the words were hard to read. She somehow left them at the Mick Jagger trimming up in Beverly Hills not long after. The next day she’d made a dozen phone calls to the hotel but had never gotten them back. She was crushed. She couldn’t believe she’d just forgotten to put them back into their case and box. I couldn’t either so I scanned eBay for them and sure enough, there they were, with “genuine hair from Mr. Jagger.” I tried to quickly trump all bids by offering five hundred dollars over the asking price of thirty-five hundred, so long as I could authenticate the engraving first. I was willing to travel at my own expense and would of course pay in cash. The owner of the shears and hair turned out to be in Culver City. When I got to a squalid apartment I felt bad for the young maid who had found or more likely stolen them. Her muscular husband suddenly demanded seven thousand so I thanked the woman, put the shears in my pocket, and headed for the door. When the husband charged me I finally lost the temper I’d been trying so hard to keep and I punched him sharply in the solar plexus, pulled his shirt over his head, and pushed him to the floor. He was balled up and gasping when I walked out. I’d committed more than one crime in all of this, including assault and battery, and I drove home to San Diego with my stomach in a knot.

McKenzie interrupted my thoughts. “Hollis Harris called me yesterday afternoon. Asked me out for a drink after work and I said yes.”

“McKenzie, that’s good.”

“You don’t think he’s yuppie scum?”

“I liked the cut of his jib. And I could tell he was showing off for you.”

“Me too. But I didn’t think he’d call. I gotta give him some credit, leaving a message on some lady cop’s answering machine, asking her out on a date. We had drinks at Dobson’s. You get a lot of attention when you walk in with Harris. For some reason, when I’m on duty I can stare people down. Anybody. But when I’m just me I want to look away. What the hell. Drinks led to dinner and I had the lobster. Whew, good. Did you take Gina out?”

“We stayed in.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Really was.”

We’d gotten to the Seabreeze Apartments by then, in the heart of National City. Built along the waterfront south of San Diego, National City used to be a railroad town but now it’s all ships. Huge Fifth Fleet Navy vessels tie up to the massive shipyard piers for repair and maintenance, thousands of men and women scurrying over them. Every ship is a small, self-supporting city. Booms and cranes bristle into the sky, welders’ torches join steel to steel, and at night the bars are edgy and rough.

The Seabreeze was three stories, gray, built in the fifties. One outside wall was claimed in black spray paint by the Ten Logan 30s. The foyer had dusty windows and a glass door with a metal handle that scraped when I pulled it open. There was a wall of mail slots with the names mostly missing or marked over. Jazz came from a downstairs unit that said MANAGER on its open door. An amused-looking black man stared at us from the doorway, then slowly raised his hands.

“I didn’t do it.”

We both badged him. “Here to see Garrett’s place.”

“Bet you are. Two-oh-five, upstairs. He was Jimmy around here. Didn’t know nothing about any Garrett until the picture in the paper. Elevator’s busted.”

“We’ll need a key,” I said.

“Oh, no you won’t. Just knock.”

“And who’s going to answer it?” asked McKenzie.

The man smiled. “You tell me.”

His laughter followed us up the stairs. The carpet was worn away on the steps and landing and the air smelled like disinfectant and mildew.

Garrett’s unit was the last on the left of a short hallway.

McKenzie popped the holder on her hip holster and stood left of me. I knocked and stood to the right.

“Who’s there?”

A woman’s voice.

McKenzie frowned. “Detectives Cortez and Brownlaw, San Diego Police. We’d need to talk to you.”

I heard a chain latch click, then a dead bolt thunk back.

The door swung open. She was just a girl, young and pretty. She wore jeans and sheepskin boots and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled. Brown eyes and fair skin and her cheeks had a blush to them. Dark hair, up and disorganized. She looked like Stella Asplundh.

“We’d like to talk about Garrett,” I said. I told her our names again.

“Okay. I’m April Holly.”

She stepped back to let us in, then closed the door. McKenzie badged her and April Holly looked at me uncomfortably.

The apartment was neat and sparsely furnished. Hardwood floor and an old red sofa that looked comfortable. There was a small gas-burning fireplace with a tidy little flame running the length of the logs. Two bedrooms off a short hallway. Framed photographs on the wall, black-and-whites that looked like Garrett Asplundh’s. There were no high buildings to the west, so a swatch of Pacific showed in the distance.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “I can make coffee. You can look around. Or—”

“Just sit down,” said McKenzie. “You don’t have to entertain us.”

April Holly pointed at the red sofa, then clunked softly into the small dining area and brought a chair over for herself.

“You know that Garrett’s dead,” I said.

She nodded. “I saw the papers. And TV. He told me his name was Jimmy Neal. I saw him the night it happened.”

McKenzie glanced at me as she got out her notepad and pen.

“I want you to tell us about that,” I said. “But first, April, can you tell us who you are and why you’re here?”

She blushed and looked away. “Gee, that’s kind of a lot, isn’t it?”

“It might help us find out who killed him,” I said.

She continued to look away from us. Down at her boots or maybe the floor.

“You know... um, basically what it is... I ran away from home and was heading for some trouble and Jimmy, he was all, ‘You’re ruining your life, April.’ So he made me come here and basically get my act together.”

“Were you working for Jordan?” I asked.

April shook her head and blushed. She wouldn’t look at either of us. I was heartened to see her shame because so few people have it anymore.

“I was about to,” she said quietly. “But Jimmy said no way. He wouldn’t let me.”

McKenzie looked at me again, then scribbled.

“How old are you?” asked McKenzie.

“Eighteen.”

“Tell us about Garrett and how you met him,” I said.

When she finally looked back at us her eyes were shiny with tears. She wiped them with her palm. “Why would anybody want to kill that man? He was the most gentle and kind man I’d ever met. Ever.”