Т Паркер - The Fallen

“We saw,” I said.

“This was nothing.”

“Tell Chupa that,” I said.

“Dirtbag deserved what he got,” said Fellowes. “Ask Mincher. He saw it.”

Mincher shrugged. But he didn’t look at McKenzie or me.

It was sunrise when I got home, the second all-nighter I’d pulled in one week. My ears were ringing and I felt slow and stupid.

I walked around my house with an exhausted eye, like a tourist too tired to care. I made frosted strawberry toaster pastries then sat for a while at the yellow table in the breakfast room and looked down at the scores of indentations and scratches and nicks that five years had brought to the cheap pine tabletop. While I traced with a fingertip the codes of my life with Gina, I wondered where she was and what she was doing. It was time for her father to tell me. You don’t leave five years of marriage with hardly a word to the man who loved and cared for you the best he could. Vince didn’t want her to do that. I wasn’t going to let her, though I had no idea what either of us would say.

I knew there were bigger problems in the world than why my wife had left me, so I thought about all of the corrupt and self-serving men and women who were conspiring to make San Diego their own. Why didn’t they care about this wonderful city? I was ashamed that there were men in my department who were so easily bought for a little flesh, a little cash, a little power. And I felt bad for the young guys like Mincher who tried to do the right thing but got in over their heads and couldn’t get out. The others you could understand: Sarvonola, a career manipulator in love with his own power; Rood and Stiles, politicians with grandiose appetites and even bigger senses of entitlement; Jordan Sheehan, a brazen retailer of youth and innocence, in love with money; Trey Vinson, a weakling in a powerful company; Peter Avalos, a vicious, dead hood who hadn’t finished tenth grade; the Squeaky Cleans, a battalion of pretty young women who wanted all the nice things right now; and a city full of guys eager to contribute to their desires a few hundred dollars at a time.

Which led me to Garrett Asplundh, who had found his way to the dark middle of all this, tried to get his bearings and labored under the tremendous weight of knowing. His old department had been compromised and used. His city was in the hands of gamblers and fools. His daughter had drowned. His heart had been broken, then begun to heal. The woman he loved more than anybody on earth was willing to take him back after nine months of hell. And I saw him sitting there alone in the dark and rain by Cabrillo Bridge, thinking of everything that he was going back to, everything he could have again. Like he could get up on that bridge with Stella and let it carry them away from a disastrous past to a future of promise.

I left messages for McKenzie and Captain Villas, then lay down on our bed with my clothes on.

Six hours later, just past noon, I felt the vibration of the cell phone on my belt. I had been dreaming of a distant land with good rivers and was not so sure I wanted to be called away. I sat up and answered it.

“Bob Cramer, DEA Miami,” he said.

“Oh, boy.”

“Sorry about that last call. Look, I’ve been thinking about your question, Detective. About who was present at the evidence transfer in New Orleans that day. At first I thought it was none of your business who was there from DEA. We impound and process a ton of weapons every year, especially here in Miami. You’re not DEA. We don’t open our books to local cops.”

“I heard all that the first time.” I wished I was back in the distant land.

“But it bothered me,” said Cramer. “It wasn’t sitting right. So I had some talks with my people here, to see if I could help you without breaching DEA rules and regs. You wouldn’t believe the levels of bureaucracy here, or maybe you would. Anyway, I got things smoothed out.”

“Good. I’m listening.”

“My partner that day was John Van Flyke. But he signed in, like everybody else. That’s what he says. I remember him making motions on the log with his pen. I didn’t stand there and look over his shoulder, but it sure looked to me like he was signing in.”

My scalp went cool. “New Orleans PD has no record of him being there,” I said.

“Look, Detective, Van Flyke is a good man and he had a spotless record with us. He was there. But there’s bound to be a reasonable explanation for this. If the Property Annex can lose a nine-millimeter autoloader, they can lose a sign-in sheet, right?”

I didn’t tell Cramer that the sheet wasn’t missing. The only things missing were a gun and John Van Flyke’s signature.

“When did you talk to him?”

“An hour ago. I told him San Diego PD was making inquiries. I didn’t name names.”

“Thank you.”

I called McKenzie and gave her the news. She met me outside the Ethics Authority Enforcement office half an hour later. So much for her trip to Jackson Hole.

We walked into the drafty old room and Arliss Buntz told us that Van Flyke had taken the rest of the day off.

“He has vacation time coming,” she said.

“Did he leave right after the call from Cramer?” I asked.

She nodded. “And he asked me to remove the ‘Wanted’ posters from the lobby. He said your sketch was useless. ”

Outside, I dialed the cell number that Van Flyke had given me on our first interview.

“Brownlaw, why didn’t you just ask me if I was in New Orleans that day?” he said. “I fetched more weapons for DEA than you guys see in a year. Cramer bother to tell you that?”

“More or less. But if you signed in, why isn’t your name on the sheet?”

“Police ineptitude? San Diego PD lets a murderer walk out of the courthouse. New Orleans can’t keep track of guns or paper. I think most of you cops must originate down near the bottom of the gene pool.”

“Did you lift the Model 39?” I asked.

“No. And I didn’t shoot anybody either. You’ll have to work a little harder to close your case, Brownlaw.”

No colored shapes came out to greet me. I’d never seen them during a phone conversation. I wanted to see Van Flyke’s answers for myself.

“We need to talk face-to-face,” I said. “I’ve got a few questions.”

“Monday okay?”

“Right now.”

“Fine. I’m at a sushi bar in La Jolla, into my first martini, my first helping of salmon sashimi, and looking forward to the rest of my Friday afternoon away from Ethics, the San Diego PD, Erik Kaven, and Arliss Buntz. I just met an interesting woman. You’re welcome to join the party. So is Cortez. But I’m not going to move one inch from this stool.”

In the background I heard what sounded like faint music and the muted tones of restaurant activity.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Sushi on the Rock, Girard Avenue. The salmon is the best I’ve ever had.”

I aimed my Chevrolet toward Interstate 5.

“You’re not really thinking Van Flyke, are you?” asked McKenzie.

“I’m just thinking.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t see any reason why he’d kill his friend,” said McKenzie. “What on earth does that get him?”

I’d been asking myself that question since Cramer called, and I kept coming up with the same answer. The answer came from somewhere inside me that was disturbing and seldom visited. “It gets him a shot at Stella.”

I merged into the freeway traffic, feeling McKenzie’s stare on the side of my face.

“No,” she said. “It was business, Robbie. It was something Garrett knew. It was something he was going to do.”

“Why can’t it be personal? Van Flyke moved all from Florida a few weeks after Samantha drowned, to be here while the Asplundh marriage collapsed. He hired Garrett. Every time Garrett or Stella turned around, there he was. His office is just a few blocks from Stella’s apartment. Maybe those are Van Flyke’s eyes she’s been feeling for so long. He saw the reconciliation coming and he saw a chance to cancel out Garrett forever. He didn’t listen to the tape of Garrett’s last conversation with Stella — he heard it live from his office in that hollow old building. Sound carries so easily there, haven’t you noticed?”