"Okay, honest shitbird. Tell me where you were on Saturday night."
"I was right here, as I explained earlier. I was even on TV, I believe. I'm sure the stations must keep video records."
• • •
Hess went back down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the garage. It was nice to be able to get into the garage from inside the house, and Hess wished his apartment at 15th had the same feature. He turned on a light and looked at the decrepit little pickup truck. It was so old they were called Datsuns back then. Seventy, maybe, seventy-two? The doors were unlocked and the windows down. The registration and insurance were current. The odometer said 00000. The tires were in good shape and matched. Hess looked at the bed: lightly rusted and dented, no chemical or solvent stains. The glove box had the usual: tire pressure gauge, maps, pencils, cassette tapes. Hess pulled out three and read the titles: Eternal Health Through Yoga, by Sri Ram-Hara; TravelAudio #35—Destination Romania; Deadwood, a novel by Pete Dexter.
Hess looked at the picture on the novel cassette: a longhaired, mustachioed gunslinger he recognized as Wild Bill Hickok. ... or that guy Paul Newman played tn Buffalo Bill and the Indians.
Wrong Bill, right hair, thought Hess. He sat down in the passenger's side and put back the tapes. He examined the headrest of the driver's seat for hair. Same with the floorboards and the transmission hump. Nothing.
Outside the crowd started up again:
MAKE our NEIGHborhood
SAFE for the CHlbdrenl
Hess was sure there were no crimes against children in Colesceau's jacket, but told himself to check again. He was a little surprised by the volume of the chant, the way the combined voices reverberated through the thin plywood of the garage door. The voice of fear, he thought. The papers said the vigil had been twenty-four hours a day for four days now, and that the neighbors had vowed to continue it until Colesceau got into his miserable little Datsun and left forever. The mob had set its own noise curfew at 9 P.M. so as not to interfere with work, school and sleep. Hess also read the people were driving in from other cities of the county to join the protest and that CNB had cameras set up round the clock, going to them live when Colesceau was visible or during slow periods during the news day.
He got out of the truck and looked around the garage. It was small, with two cabinets against the wall, which contained nothing of interest to him. No Deer Sleigh'R, no gambrels or ropes, no big game cleaning implements, no Porti-Boy embalming machines or fluids. No blond wigs made of genuine human hair. No canning jars with missing lids. No chloroform. Clean, Hess thought. If he does it, he doesn't do it here.
• • •
Merci joined Hess in the small downstairs bathroom. She leaned against the sink, and could see Colesceau still sitting in his living room. She couldn't tell by Hess's look whether he'd scored big, small or not at all. His eyes sparkled in the bright bathroom lights and she wondered what he was thinking.
"No silver van with mismatched tires, I take it."
"Not one."
"Well?"
"He'd take them somewhere else."
"He says the crowd outside saw him here at least twice on Saturday night, when Ronnie got it. Says he was at the movies on the Kane date, and may have a ticket stub to corroborate. The Jillson night, he was having dinner here, with his—get this—his mom."
"He's got a Tuesday night ticket stub upstairs. One of several."
"It doesn't mean much."
"I know that."
"Did he say anything about the second bedroom?"
"It's for his beloved mother, of course. She comes to dinner often and stays over."
Hess nodded and the vertical lines between his eyes deepened.
"I vote no, Hess. Much as I'd like to pinch his vicious little head right this instant. He's supposed to be chemically castrated—until Wednesday, anyway. He's weird. He raped helpless old women, not strong young ones. He's got a spare bedroom for his mommy. Everything physical about him is wrong except for those eyes that Kamala dingbat Petersen fell in love with. She saw his face on TV, for Chrissakes. Or was it a dream? Nobody's said anything about our golden-haired boy talking with an accent—not LaLonde, not the Arnie's guy, nobody. This place is clean. He sure as hell didn't walk in and out of here Saturday night without the lynch mob seeing him—that's for sure. I'd love to pop him for something—anything—but I think we ought to keep turning over rocks for our main man. Let's put a loose surveillance on this nutcase and forget about him. Give him line. If he swims anywhere pertinent we'll yank him aboard and see what he's been nibbling."
"All right."
She looked into Hess's eyes in the hard light. The fact that she couldn't determine his thoughts irritated her because he was the only person whose thoughts she wanted to determine.
"Do you agree T' she asked.
"You're the boss."
"Damnit, that's not what I asked."
"I agree. But I get a bad feeling here."
Merci tried to think it through. What she kept seeing was an elaborate waste of precious time. One thing about Hess was sometimes he acted like they had all the time in the world. When, theoretically, he had less than most people.
She said, "My fear is, he speeds up, now that he's got the hang of it. And while we're firing down on this nutless, teary-eyed little creep, the real guy's out there looking for number four. I think we'd be better off with ten lady cops, dressed to kill, hair up, planted at ten malls."
"That's a real possibility, Merci."
She looked out at the back of Colesceau's head. He sat motionless where she had left him. She could see the shine of his scalp below the thinning black hair.
"Hess, I mean, look at that guy. Look at the back of his head. He's crawling with progesterone and he's got the muscle tone of a bean bag. He's beyond pathetic and disgusting. He's like a bug that's already been stepped on."
"There is that about him."
"I think we're after someone with a higher octane rating."
"There's something about him I don't get."
"Maybe you should be thankful for that. Look, if he so much as shows his face, those people start blowing gaskets. It's about time we got some help from the spoiled middle-class fatheads we serve and protect."
"Well said."
Outside, several of the protesting neighbors said they saw Colesceau not once but twice on Saturday night, Ronnie Stevens's last. They concurred that Colesceau had come out once around six and once later—around nine or nine-thirty. The rest of the time he watched TV. They described what he said to them and what he was wearing, and Hess took notes. He discovered that before Colesceau's cover was blown, none of these neighbors paid him much attention at all. They'd see the little faded truck come and go, and that was about it.
One of the organizers was a woman named Trudy Powers, whom Hess remembered from a newspaper article. She said that she received from the "damaged man" a hollow decorated egg—a promise of his good behavior until finding a more suitable place to live. She said she believed he was looking for a new apartment because he had promised her he would. Trudy Powers implied an understanding and relationship with Colesceau that she seemed proud—or somehow obligated—to not explain. Hess wondered about her. She had enough qualities in common with Lael Jillson and Janet Kane to make him genuinely uneasy. But how could he tell her that? What he did do was look her straight in the eye and tell her to be careful. She seemed to pity him, but Hess couldn't tell if it was because of what he said or how he looked.
A young man with a camera case hanging from his shoulder said he saw Colesceau not twice but several times Saturday night because he crept up close and looked through a crack in the blinds. He did this around seven-fifteen, eight-thirty, and again around ten-thirty, before he left for home. Colesceau was watching TV. The neighbor said it was the news, then a police drama, then a movie.
Hess asked if Colesceau saw him peering in.
"No. The TV in there feces the street, so all I saw was the
back of his head."
"How come you kept checking in on him?"
The young man shrugged and looked away. "I took some pictures. But the film's still in the camera."
"I want that film," Hess said.
"I thought you might. Three left." He unslung the case, took out the camera and shot one picture of Hess and one of Merci and one of them together. He rewound the film and smiled with an odd expression of pride as he handed it over to Hess.
"I'm glad to help. Can I have them back when you're done?”
Hess got his name, address and phone number.
Rick Hjorth of Fullerton, ten miles north.
The County News Bureau reporter assigned to "Rape Watch, Irvine," was a tense blonde who fell into step with them and introduced herself as Lauren Diamond. Her video shooter trailed behind with a heavy-looking rig over his shoulder. She proffered a microphone to Hess, who kept walking. Hess remembered Merci's early orders to leave all public relations to her. Merci didn't break stride either.
"Why were you inside with convicted rapist Matamoros Colesceau?" Lauren asked Hess.
"No comment," said Merci.
Still to Hess: "You're heading up the Purse Snatcher investigation. Any connection to the Purse Snatcher?"
"I'm heading up the Purse Snatcher investigation, lady, and it's still no comment."
Hess shook his head, mostly to himself. He saw the shooter getting all this down, wondered if Merci was even aware of him.
"Then what is it in connection with?"
Hess could feel the heat emanating from right beside him. It was like walking next to a solar panel. She was about to speak but he beat her to it.
"Routine parole stuff, Lauren," said Hess. "That's all."
"Is Colesceau a suspect?"
Hess fixed a look on her, hooked his thumb back toward the crowd. "Pretty good alibi."
"Miss Rayborn, can you tell us something about your sexual harassment suit?"
"Absolutely not."
"Lieutenant Kemp has denied all the charges."
"Wouldn't your
"Five other female deputies have come forward since you did. Phil Kemp is a twenty-five-year employee of the department with a clean record. Why all of this, so suddenly?"
Merci whirled and pressed her face into that of Lauren Diamond. "Buzz off, lady."
Lauren Diamond slowed, then stopped, but the shooter kept up behind them. Hess turned, gave him a little wave, tried to make things look casual, and kept going. Merci was half a step ahead of him now as they headed toward the car.
"Thanks," she said.
"You're welcome."
"Do not tell me I should have felt what she was feeling, or thought what she was thinking."
"Oh hell, no. She's just an ambitious young reporter who might be happy to help you someday. It would have taken about thirty seconds of your time to be civil."
"So I screwed up again."
"Why be a bitch all the time?"
"I'll get the hang of good manners sooner or later."
"I'm starting to think you don't want to."
"Now you're thinking what I'm thinking."
When they got into the car Merci exhaled and looked at Hess.
"I'll tell you something, partner—bringing that suit was the dumbest. damned thing I've ever done in my life. How can I get out of it now, after I've started all this?"
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hess lied to his partner then, excusing himself for an oncologist appointment. He was puzzled by this Colesceau, no matter what Merci thought, and he was going to ride that feeling for a couple more hours, before they headed up to Sacramento and the state Morticians' Licensing Board. He was tiring of watching Rayborn start fights wherever she went. He felt like a nanny for the neighborhood bully.
First he went by Pratt Automotive and had a talk with Marvis Pratt, his wife, Lydia, and an employee named Garry Leonard. They told him Colesceau did his job okay, though Pratt didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. He hired guys like Colesceau because he thought people deserved a second chance, and because Holtz was a friend.
They showed him through the place—the front shop and office area, the high bay in back with the beautiful yellow and black Shelby Cobra that Hess just stood and stared at. It was the most beautiful car he ever seen.
"Four hundred fifty horse," said Pratt.
"That's a car and a half."
"We've done a lot of restorations. They come here dogs and leave here dolls."
"How much?"
"One eighty. Firm."
"Colesceau ever drive a different vehicle to work here, not that old red Datsun?"
"No, just the truck."
Hess looked at the expansive bay, the clean racks, the orderly tools, the rafters catching the late morning light through high windows. In dogs and out dolls, he thought. Paradise, for a car nut.
They went back to the office. "Does he call in sick, miss work, spend time on the phone?"
"No. He's good about being here. It's easy work. Mainly what he does is sits on that stool, helps some customers and wiggles his tits around every once in a while."
"They hurt, Pratt," said Lydia.
"Whatever. I gave him his walking papers. I can't have a crowd demonstrating outside the place. Jesus, it's hard enough to make a living anymore."
Hess knew from LaLonde's statement that "Bill" had computer printout sheets containing nine different car manufacturers' specs on the alarm system frequencies. He noted the computer and monitor on the office desk, and a similar one behind the counter in the front store.
"The computers replace those old catalogs?"
Pratt said they did that, but lots more: he got daily updates, changes, recalls and corrections right from the factories. They'd get information on new models coming out, incentives going to dealers, even newsletters from different plants around the world.
Hess asked him to print out repair/replacement data on the 1998 Infiniti Q45 and 1996 BMW 525 antitheft systems.
Lydia sat down and two minutes later Hess had eight pages of specs and exploded drawings.
"You can go on and on with this stuff," she said.
"Colesceau know how to work the computer?"
"Sure. That's part of his job," said Lydia. She looked at Hess with a dark expression, then away. "I think it's lousy what you guys did to him. Getting his neighbors all riled up for nothing. He's a lamb, really. Mixed up, but a lamb."
"I hope you're right," he answered mildly.
Hess then showed them the drawing of the Purse Snatcher and gave all three his work and pager numbers. Per usual, he got a home number from them, just in case. You never know.
• • •
In the office of Quail Creek Apartment Homes, the middle-aged and overweight supervisor, Art Ledbetter, told Hess that Colesceau had never complained or been the subject of a complaint until now. He assumed Colesceau paid his rent on time, but rent checks went to corporate up in Newport. Ledbetter did light security and scheduled maintenance work, took applications, fielded questions and complaints. But they had no choice but to evict. Thirty-day notice already served. What could you do with protesters camped out around the clock?
Hess stood and looked at a model of the complex, which hung from one wall. The aerial view was interesting. He saw that the complex was actually an enormous circle, and the quadrants of apartments were designed in perfect symmetry with each other. He noted the way that the developers were packing them in these days: each snaking row of units had a front facing one street and a front facing another, but shared a common rear wall. Thus, the illusion of privacy without real privacy at all.
"Ever see any unusual activity around his unit?"
"None at all. No complaints, like I said."
"What about his hours? Come and go all the time, late at night, maybe?"
"I ride that little golf cart around 'til ten some nights. I've never seen him out and about at that hour. But, you know, one of the nice things here is you can use th
e remote, open your garage door and drive in without hardly disturbing anyone. Walk right into your unit from the garage. That's the idea, keep things quiet, private."
"Do you know most of the tenants?"
Ledbetter shook his head. "Some. There's a batch of ghost people I never see. Maybe they work nights and sleep all day, never use the pool, I don't know. Some fly in for business, stay a month, fly back out. But they pay rent every month, or corporate would serve them."
"How about visitors to Colesceau's?"
"His mother. And a couple—man and a woman. Twice, maybe. Not often."
Hess asked him to describe them and he did: Holtz and Fontana, right down to Holtz's Corrections Ford. Ledbetter was good with cars, like a lot of men are.
Hess looked down at the map of the complex that Ledbetter had given him. Colesceau's was an end unit apparently no different than any other two-bedroom end unit.
"What about his immediate neighbor, to the left?"
"Nice young lady, works nights."
"What about the unit behind his?"
"Old lady, never see her. One of the ghost people."
"Ever seen a silver panel van at Colesceau's?"
Ledbetter frowned. "Silver panel van. Well, yeah, a few months back I did see a silver van pulling out of the complex. One of those fancy conversion things with the running boards and the riser on top. But who knows what unit it came from. Driver could have been lost for all I know."
Hess made his notes, gave Ledbetter a card and thanked him. "Would you mind giving me your home number, just in case?"
"Not a problem."
Hess did a brief door-to-door after that, but six of the neighbors he called on were gone, and the other three had nothing of note to say about Matamoros Colesceau except
that he should get the hell out of their city.
• • •
He got the Lifestyler's address from the phone book—the closest wig shop to Colesceau. It was in a little shopping center by the freeway, between a community newspaper office and a walk-in clinic.
A young Chinese woman stepped up to greet him while an elderly woman who looked like her mother regarded him placidly from behind the counter. The walls were high, with long shelves full of white heads wearing all styles and colors of wigs.
THE BLUE HOUR Page 23