Robert Crais - Chasing Darkness

Michael said, “That’s bullshit. The police said he did it.”

“Marx rushed the investigation so he could make a splash on TV. A lot of things got lost in the rush.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?”

I told them how Debra’s murder was off the time line, how the others had all been murdered on moonless nights. I told them how Byrd was so gimped up in recent weeks with his bad foot he could barely walk, and had been flying on oxycodone the night he died. I told them how Marx shut down the case even before all the forensics were run, and that no one had yet spoken with the most important witness in Yvonne Bennett’s murder-Angel Tomaso. I told them about everything except the blind tests. They would talk about the things I was saying, and they might even tell the police. I didn’t want the wrong people to know I knew about the blinds.

When I finished, Gordon, the youngest, sneered.

“What makes you so much smarter than the police?”

“Maybe I’m just lucky.”

Dennis said, “The cops didn’t tell us any of this.”

“Okay, maybe I’m smarter.”

Michael frowned.

“Maybe you’re just trying to duck the blame.”

“Byrd didn’t die after the first murder or the fourth or the sixth. He died after Debra’s murder, so maybe something about her or her murder triggered everything else.”

Michael glanced at his brothers, then wet his lips.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m the only one looking, and I need your help.”

Dennis shook his head.

“You want us to help you?”

“The only way I can figure this out is to start with your sister. If I knew more about Debra, I might be able to figure out why her murder was different.”

Gordon said, “Like what?”

“The autopsy report shows she had a drink on the night she was murdered. Did she meet a friend after work?”

The three of them stared at me.

“If so, where did they meet? Was the friend a man or a woman, or was Debra alone?”

Dennis glanced at Michael, then shook his head again, but now he was thinking.

“We don’t know.”

“I don’t know either, and I need your help to find out these things.”

Now Dennis and Gordon were both staring at Michael.

“Mikie, I think we should.”

I shrugged, saying the next move was his.

“Here we are, Michael. You can accept what the police say, case closed, done deal, or you can follow it through to find out whether or not I’m trying to duck the blame.”

Michael glanced at his brothers. Dennis nodded, trying to encourage him. Gordon’s good eye was hopeful.

“Our folks have been through a lot.”

“Do they think I’m responsible, too?”

Michael nodded.

“Then it will be hard.”

“We gotta talk.”

I gave him the card with my home and cell numbers. He stared at it.

“You’d give me your home number?”

“I believe what I told you. Decide if you want to help and let me know, but either way I’m going to do it.”

Michael hesitated, maybe thinking of offering his hand to close the deal, but didn’t. We were finished.

Michael went to the Mustang with Dennis and got in behind the wheel. Gordon climbed back into the truck. They drove away, leaving us in the quiet cul-de-sac.

Pike sighed deeply.

“Her brothers.”

I said, “Yes.”

MY PANTS were torn at both knees, my shirt was ripped and missing two buttons, and my hands and right forearm were scraped, dirty, and seeping. I should have gone home or picked up some ice or maybe even gone to the Emergency Room, but I drove to the Best Buy in Hollywood. I bought a computer and a cordless phone for my office to replace the broken things. I would have bought a new chair, but a chair wouldn’t fit in my car. The skin in front of my right ear and above my right eyebrow was tender and swelling, and the back of my head was worse. The register clerk stared as she rang me up.

She said, “You’re bleeding.”

“Tripped in the parking lot.”

“I gotta call the manager if you wanna file a claim.”

“That’s all right. I’m tough.”

I pressed my handkerchief on my forearm to cover the blood.

After the Best Buy, I stopped at a True Value hardware store for two gallons of latex interior paint, a roller, and a package of disposable plastic drop cloths. The color was named Eggshell. The total for everything including the Best Buy came to $1,868.52. Anyone else would get jumped by criminals, rogue cops, or lunatics, but I got pounded by three angry brothers mourning the death of their sister.

When I got home, I filled two plastic bags with ice, stretched out on the couch, then called an old-school newsman named Eddie Ditko. Eddie had worked for every newspaper in Southern California, and most of them more than once. He knew the newspaper business inside and out.

I said, “If a reporter was working on a particular story, and I knew the subject but not the name of the reporter, could I find out who the reporter is?”

“What paper?”

“Don’t know. All I know is the story.”

“Jesus Christ, what story?”

Patience wasn’t one of Eddie’s strengths.

“Lionel Byrd.”

“You got no shot. Every paper in town is working on Byrd.”

Eddie broke into a deep, shuddering cough. Eddie has smoked three packs a day for almost sixty years. I think he was born smoking. He made a gakking sound, then spit.

“You okay?”

“It’s these allergies.”

Smoker’s denial.

“The reporter in question was working on Byrd before everyone else. He was supposedly doing a story on how Byrd had been prosecuted on the Yvonne Bennett murder with a bad confession. He told Byrd there might be a book or a movie in it.”

“You don’t know where the guy works?”

“No.”

“The L.A. Times has something like eight hundred fifty writers, and that’s just the Times. Toss in the Daily News, the L.A. Weekly, La Opinión, and all these little papers, you see what we’re talking about?”

“Don’t writers get assigned these things? Wouldn’t his editor know?”

“Just because the guy was working the story doesn’t mean it was assigned. That’s called sniffing out the news. You do your research, then pitch your piece to your editor if you think it has heat. Some of these feature writers and columnists, they don’t even pitch.”

“So you’re saying there’s no way to ask around. Even though this could lead to a blowout story.”

Eddie was silent. I heard his lighter flick. I heard him inhale. Sniffing out the news.

“What kind of blowout story?”

“Maybe the reporter was a reporter, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this individual had a play with what happened to Lionel Byrd or with the murders.”

“I’m listening.”

“What if I told you even though this case has been publicly closed, the police are continuing to run DNA comparisons against a certain blind sample?”

“These tests are ongoing?”

“These tests are ongoing.”

Eddie inhaled again.

“Lemme see what I can find out.”

I threw away the ice, then searched for Bastilla’s card. Her task force would have identified all the calls going into or out of Byrd’s number, especially on the days leading up to his death. A legitimate writer or reporter would have identified himself, and Bastilla would know the full story. I didn’t trust she would give me the truth, but I wanted to see her reaction.

“Bastilla, it’s Cole-”

“Hey, man, thanks for getting those files to us. Levy messengered them over.”

“No problem. Now how about one for me-were any journalists, reporters, or news agencies on the calls to or from Byrd’s house?”