Gregg Hurwitz - The Crime Writer

"Who's this guy to you?" Lloyd asked.

I'd been asking myself the same question. Had my path crossed Richard Collins's during my days of wine and roses? Had I dated his sister? Elbowed him aside in a cocktail lounge?

"I don't know. I don't recognize him."

"Well, if he's been trying to frame you, it's a safe bet he recognizes you."

"Now what?"

"You hand it off to a detective."

"You can't run with it?"

"This isn't like on TV. The criminalist doesn't solve the case. Even if I didn't have my hands full." Lloyd placed the tape lift and a computer disk containing the digital photo into a Ziploc and said, "Anyone can take it from here. And don't tell them I ran it for you, or the secret handshake guys'll get after me."

His step seemed a little lighter as we headed out. Despite the caveats he'd offered to brake my excitement, he, too, felt the exhilaration of circling a suspect. I was winning him over, one selfish demand at a time.

My shoes crunched on the gravel driveway. "Good luck, Drew," he called after me. His tone was uncharacteristically upbeat, but when I turned around, the door had already closed behind him.

This is a fingerprint lifted off a piece of evidence found at the Kasey Broach crime scene. It belongs to a convicted felon, Richard Collins. As a free citizen, I am going to his residence to ask a few questions. I think you should accompany me."

Cal stared back at me through his screen door, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wore a wife-beater that showed off thick shoulders marked with Calvin and Hobbes tattoos that had probably been a good idea when he was eighteen and drunk. The tape lift and computer disk, visible through an evidence bag, made a far more dramatic impression than the Spago take-out bag had the last go-round.

He palmed the screen open. "You out of your fucking mind?"

"Pronounced so by a jury of my peers."

"You have no peers, asshole. Talk."

I gave him a full account, leaving out Lloyd. His silence indicated his interest. Or he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open.

When I finished, he asked, naturally, "How'd you run the print?"

"I just recognized the whorl pattern. Don't you?"

He grimaced, entertained by my wit. "You sure you didn't leave that fingerprint yourself? In a mystically induced trance, of course?"

"I'm currently certified one hundred percent brain-tumor-free."

"Aside from your overactive imagination."

"My overactive imagination didn't produce this." A shake of the bag, in case he'd failed to notice it.

"The chain of custody is shot "

"Fuck chain of custody. It's been blowing around there all week because your colleagues didn't find it. This isn't about making a case right now, it's about asking some questions. Which I'm going to do."

He tried to take the Ziploc, but I pulled it back.

He said, "Give it to me. I'll look into it."

"Look, pal, you had a chance to play RHD detective when I came to you yesterday, but you were too busy bemoaning violence in the media. So this is now a citizen's investigation. I'm going to visit Mr. Collins, and there's no law that can stop me from doing so. If you'd like to come, I think it might be beneficial to your career."

"You said you were a free citizen. Let me remind you, you're a relatively free citizen." He held out his hand for the bag, but I kept it. "Determined fucker, aren't you?"

"Are you driving or am I?"

He stared at me for maybe ten seconds. That's a long time to be stared at, especially when you're staring back. I bet he regretted not having his tough-guy sunglasses to complete his expression. Finally he stepped aside from the door, letting it swing open in unspoken invitation. On the couch behind him, I could see the well-thumbed pages of my manuscript.

He turned, walking away. "Let me grab my badge. It'll impress Mr. Collins."

Christened the Ronald Reagan Freeway in '94 by nostalgic legislators, the 118 runs unglamorously through the north San Fernando Valley to Simi. Cal stared out his car window as Granada Hills rolled by in a blur of strip malls and tract housing. We'd stopped by the station for him to rescan the print. When Richard Collins and his Northridge address had popped up on the computer screen, Cal had glanced over at me and said, deadpan, "Nice eye, Danner."

We took in the passing view, indistinguishable from one mile to the next. Away from the city, beyond the fringes of manufactured cool, these neighborhoods lacked even the glamour of the urban wastelands, the Crenshaws and South Centrals and Comptons, where dead presidents change hands and bullets crackle and tricked-out Escalades brighten dingy blocks. I wondered if the people out here resented the blandness. The year-round sun, beach access, and just-right humidity ensure they don't even get to suffer.

Maybe that's what had made Richard Collins murderous. An address at Corbin and Parthenia.

After a while I realized that something more than the scenery had soured Cal's mood. "Why so cranky?"

A pause as he considered whether we were friends again. "Annoying date. This broad could be from one of your books. If you wrote horror."

"That annoying?"

"'When Patches meows like this, she's saying she's hungry. When Patches meows like this, she's saying she loves me.' "

I laughed. He didn't. "Nothing doing with the ex, huh?" I asked.

"She's remarried. To an agent. He's got a punch-me face, and he's named Jeremy. Jeremy." Cal shook his head.

I decided not to ask any more questions.

We exited the freeway and pulled up on an apartment building that looked like every other apartment building we'd passed. He climbed out, but I sat for a moment, the reality of the situation sinking in. We were going to knock on the door of a man who might have killed two women and set me up. I wondered what was keeping my fingers from the door handle. A cold blade of doubt in the base of my spine. What if we discovered that Collins was our guy but that he'd framed me for only one murder? What if the Bertrands' hateful courtroom stares proved to be justified?

Cal came around the car and leaned over my open window. "Lose your nerve?"

I shook my head.

"Maybe you should. We knock-noticed a guy last year who crapped in his hands so no one would want to cuff him."

"What gets someone to that place?"

"Daddy put out cigarettes on his forehead. Mom didn't shower him with affection. Too much Black Sabbath before puberty." Cal straightened up. "Sometimes there is no good reason. Sometimes people are just fucked up."

Yeah, I thought, but reasons are more interesting.

He started for the stairwell, and I had to move to catch up. His hand darted inside his jacket, unsnapping the break on his shoulder holster. One of Apartment 11B's windows overlooked the floating hall. The pane was shoved back a few inches, but the curtains were drawn.

Standing to the side of the jamb, Cal knocked with the butt of his flashlight. "Richard Collins? LAPD. Please open up."

A clattering inside, perhaps a chair falling over.

"Open up, please. We just have a few questions."

"The hell you guys want?"

"Sir, open this door now." Thumping footsteps across the room. "Last chance, then I'm sending in tear gas." Glancing over at me, Cal shook his head reassuringly.

He strode down the hall, lifted a fire extinguisher from its mount, and returned. He pulled the pin and tossed it to me across the door, then loosed a carbon-dioxide blast through the window's gap. A shriek, and then Collins stumbled into the hall, arms raised.

Cal spun him against the wall and frisked him. "Let's go back inside."

The apartment smelled of pot. As Cal stood Collins up against the wall, I strolled around the front room. A table had been pushed into the corner by the alcove kitchen. A fork protruded from a pot of reheated SpaghettiOs. A chair lay overturned, resting on the bright orange button-up shirt that had been slung over it.