by Robert Crais
Angela Rossi squared herself and took a step toward me. Tomsic shook his head. “Angie.”
Rossi took another step closer and the black guy came back to stand with Tomsic between us. Like the two of them were scared of what she might do. She said, “Green’s a shithog and so are you.”
Tomsic said, “Take it easy, Angie.”
Rossi shoved at Tomsic. “Hey, I don’t have to take this shit! Assholes coming into my life and trying to put this on me!”
I said, “No one’s trying to put anything on you. I just want the facts. No one’s looking to axe you.”
Rossi jabbed her finger at me, but spoke to Tomsic. “This guy’s in my life, Dan!”
Tomsic said, “Chill out, will you? This stuff happens. I’ve been investigated nine thousand times.”
I said, “Look, Rossi, it’s like I said. I’ve been through most of it and you’re looking good. This is a legal investigation, and if you check out clean I’ll report that to Green and that’ll be the end of it.”
Tomsic said, “You hear that? Clean.” Like we were both on the same team, now, trying to keep her calm. Maybe Haig had been right about her being a nutcase. Tomsic was acting as if he was scared what might happen if she lost control of herself. He turned back to me. “You understand why we dropped on you, right? Your nosing around her house.”
“No problem.” My cheek was throbbing and the skin around my eye was starting to stretch, but there was no problem. Sure.
A black and white LAPD radio car turned onto the block and came at us with its light bar flashing, probably responding to a call from the three girls. The radio car roared in to a sliding stop with a couple of uniforms unloading even before the car stopped rocking. An Asian guy in his mid-forties was driving with a Hispanic guy in his late-twenties along for the ride. Tomsic said, “Fuckin’ great. A cheering section.” He nodded toward the black guy, then the uniforms. “Robert, chill out these guys, okay?”
Robert badged the uniforms and trotted over. The Asian guy had a couple of stripes on his sleeve and was built like he’d spent the last twenty years in the LAPD’s weight room. His name tag read SAMURA. Robert met Samura first and spoke to him in low tones as they walked back to us. When Samura heard my name he looked at me. “You’re Cole?”
“Unh-hunh.”
He looked at Tomsic. “This guy works with Joe Pike.”
Robert and Tomsic stared at me. So did Rossi. Robert said, “No shit?”
I spread my hands. “Somebody has to.”
Tomsic’s face went red and he wasn’t so friendly any more, like he and I were no longer on the same team. “The Joe Pike?”
“How many you know?”
His jaw worked, and he said, “The Joe Pike I know can kiss my goddamned ass.” When Joe left the PD it hadn’t gone well.
I smiled at him. “I’ll give you his number. You can tell him yourself.”
A little tick started in Tomsic’s left eye. “Maybe we should march your butt in, after all. Dig around and see if you’re in violation of your license.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please, Tomsic. Spare me.”
The tick fluttered into a rapid-fire blink, but then he stepped back and looked embarrassed. Samura pretended not to notice. “We got a robbery in progress call. What’s the deal?”
Tomsic filled him in, telling him about my nosing around Rossi’s home, telling him about Teddy Martin and Jonathan Green and Rossi’s role in the Martin arrest. Samura listened, but didn’t seem particularly interested. You spend enough years on the street, you’re not even interested if a nuke goes off.
When Tomsic was finished, Samura said, “Cole has a good rep. I know guys who’ve worked with him.” He squinted at me, then took off his hat and wiped his face. It had to be a million degrees, standing in the sun. “You remember a guy named Terry Ito?”
“Sure.” I’d worked with Ito four or five years back.
Samura put his hat back on and looked at Tomsic. “You don’t have to sweat it. Ito thinks that this guy’s the cat’s ass.”
I said, “Terry has a way with words, all right.”
Robert said, “We didn’t know who the guy was and he was poking around an officer. You know how it is.”
“Sure.” Samura squared his hat, then nodded toward his radio car. His partner drifted away. Samura started after him, then turned back and looked me over. “I’d never heard Terry Ito say a good thing about anybody. Terry know you work with Joe Pike?”
“Yes.”
Samura cracked the world’s smallest grin, then went back to his car and drove away. The three girls were still gaggled at their front door, but most of the other faces had disappeared from the windows. You’ve seen one crime scene, you’ve seen’m all.
Tomsic looked at Rossi. “Okay. We know who this guy is and what he’s doing. You okay with it?”
She made a grudging shrug.
Tomsic looked back to me. “How about you? You gonna file a beef because of the sap?”
“Barely touched me.”
Robert laughed. “Yeah. Look at you.”
Tomsic said, “Okay, then. Everybody knows where it stands.” He nudged Rossi. “We don’t have to like it, we just have to know where it stands.”
Rossi said, “One thing.”
I looked at her.
“You’re doing a job, and I can live with that. Investigate all you want, but stay the hell away from my home. If you come around my home again, I’ll break you down. If you even look at my kids, I’ll kill you on the spot.”
Tomsic said, “Jesus Christ, Angie, knock that shit off. Sayin’ shit like that is what gets you in deep.”
She raised a neutral hand. “Just laying it out.”
I said, “You’re looking good, Rossi. Don’t sweat it.”
“Yeah, sure.” She stared at me for another couple of seconds, but she didn’t look relaxed and she didn’t look as if she believed it was over. She was breathing hard, and the crinkled skin around her eyes was jumping and fluttering as if tiny butterflies were trapped there, trying to get out. Then something that looked like it might’ve been a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth and she said, “Tell Joe that Rossi says hi.”
Angela Rossi turned away without another word, crossed the street, and slid into the passenger side of Tomsic’s dark blue G-ride. Tomsic joined her, and Robert got into a tan Explorer. In a couple of minutes they were gone. Even the three girls were gone, vanished in their Volkswagen for a belated trip to the beach.
I stood there for a time, alone except for the dull ache in the side of my face, and then I got into my car and drove to my office.
7
I stopped at a 7-Eleven to buy ice for my eye. A Pakistani gentleman was behind the counter, watching a miniature TV. He was watching an episode of COPS, and he viewed me with suspicion as I paid.
I told him what the ice was for and asked if I could use the bathroom to look at myself, but he said that the bathroom was for employees only. I asked if he had a little mirror that I could borrow, but he said no again. He sneaked a look toward the door as if he wanted me to leave, as if whatever wraith of urban violence had assaulted me might suddenly be visited upon him and his store. Guess I couldn’t blame the guy. You look at enough episodes of COPS, and pretty soon you’re thinking that life is a war zone.
I thanked him for the ice, then went out to the car and looked at my eye in the rearview mirror. A neat little mouse was riding high on my right cheek and was already starting to color. Great. I wrapped a handful of ice in my handkerchief and drove back to my office with one hand. Nothing like bucking rush-hour traffic with a faceful of ice.
It was just after five when I reached my building and turned down the ramp into the building’s garage. A line of cars was on its way out, but most of the garage was already empty. Cindy’s Mazda was missing, and so were the cars belonging to the people who worked at the insurance company across the hall from my office. I left my car in its spot, walked up to the lobby, th
en took the elevator to my floor. Lights off, doors locked, empty. Empty was good. Maybe if Los Angeles had been empty I would’ve been able to spot two carloads of cops tailing me around half the city.
I let myself into my office, popped on the lights, and found Joe Pike sitting at my desk. I said, “You could’ve turned on the lights, Joe. We’re not broke.”
Pike cocked his head to the side, looking at my eye. “Is that a pimple?”
“Ha-ha.” That Pike is a riot. A real comedian, that guy.
Joe Pike is six foot one, with long ropey muscles, dark hair cut short, and bright red arrows tattooed on the outside of each deltoid. He got the tattoos in a faraway place long before it was stylish for rock stars and TV actors and Gen X rave queens to flash skin art. The arrows point forward, and are not a fashion statement. They are a statement of being. Pike was wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and Levi’s and dark pilot’s glasses. Even at night he wears the glasses. For all I know he sleeps in them.
I went to a little mirror I have on the wall and looked at the eye. The side of my face hurt like hell, but the ice was working; the swelling had stopped. “Your friend Angela Rossi hit me with a six-ounce sap. Suckered me with an eye move.”
“I know.”
I looked at him. “How do you know?”
He got up, took two Falstaffs from the little fridge, and handed one to me. If you listened as hard as you could, you still wouldn’t hear him move. “Angie called and told me. She wanted to know what we were doing.”
“She called you.”
He popped the tab on his Falstaff and had some. “I’ve been here a while. Lucy called. I didn’t know she was coming out.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I left her flight information on your desk.” Pike took his beer to the couch. “Why are we working for Theodore Martin?”
“We’re not. We’re working for Jonathan Green.” I told him about Haig and his allegations that Rossi would fabricate evidence to boost her career. I told him about LeCedrick Earl and his allegations that Rossi had done just that. “Green hired us to look into the allegations. I told him that we would report what we found, even if it hurt his case. He said okay.”
“Lawyers are lizard people.” Life is simple for Pike.
“Lucy’s a lawyer.”
Pike’s head shifted a quarter of an inch. “Not Lucy.”
I said again, “Angela Rossi called you.”
He stared at me with impenetrable black lenses. Two months before I’d had canvas Roman shades installed on the French doors to cut the western exposure in the afternoon, and when the shades were down the office filled with a beautiful gold light. They were down now, and Pike was bathed in the light. It made his dark glasses glow. “We worked Rampart Division together. She was coming on when I was going out.” Pike had spent three years riding in a radio car for LAPD. “I knew Haig. Haig was an asshole. I knew Rossi, too. I didn’t ride in a car with her, but she seemed like a straight shooter.”
“Okay.”
“That what you found?”
I took my ice and my Falstaff and went to my desk. I saw the notepaper with Lucy’s flight information. Pike’s printing was meticulously neat, but so small it was almost impossible to read. “She’s aggressive, ambitious, and no one likes her much, but there’s no evidence that she dumped LeCedrick Earle or anyone else. Haig comes across like a crank, and Earle’s own mother said that her son is a liar.”
Pike nodded.
“The only thing that doesn’t fit is her house. Two years ago she bought a condo in the Marina that had to go for four hundred thousand dollars. I’ve got a call in to Adrienne Martin.”
“Forget the house. Her mother left her an apartment building in Long Beach. When Rossi sold it she had to roll the cash into another property or get hit with the capital gains.”
I stared at him.
“We were close.”
“I see.”
“Very close.” Still hidden behind the black lenses.
I stared at him some more, and then I nodded. “I guess that’s it, then. No crime, no graft, no corruption. Jonathan won’t like it, but there it is.” There hadn’t been much to check and it hadn’t taken long, but it rarely does when everything is aboveboard.
“She’s a sharp cop, Elvis. It’s a tough game for a woman, tougher still if the woman is better than the boys and lets them know it.”
I smiled at him. “She doesn’t seem like the retiring type.”
He canted his head a couple of degrees. “She had a real shot at being the first female chief of detectives. She still might, even with the Miranda beef.”
“High praise coming from you.”
Pike shrugged.
I said, “Joe, are you soft on this woman?”
Pike finished his beer, then got up and placed the empty carefully into the wastebasket. “I admire her, Elvis. In much the same way I admire you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said, “Since you admire me so much, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
He waited.
“Lucy and Ben are coming, and I’ve got the two-seater. Can I borrow your Jeep to pick them up?”
Pike stood motionless. The Jeep was in immaculate condition, and Pike kept it flawless. You could shave in the fender. You could eat off the engine block.
I said, “I’ll wash it before I give it back. If someone dents it I’ll shoot them.”
Pike’s head swiveled one-half a degree. I think he was stricken. “Why don’t I come with you to pick them up?”
“Joe.” It was like pulling teeth.
He still wasn’t happy about it, but he finally nodded. Once.
I said, “I’ll draft the report on Rossi tonight. I’ll call Truly and tell him that I’m going to turn it in tomorrow, and he’ll probably want to see me. You want to go along?”
Pike said, “No.” Lizard people.
“Just thought I’d ask.”
Pike went to the door, then looked back at me, and gestured to his right eye. “That’s going to look nice for Lucy.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“Good to see Angie hasn’t lost her touch.” His mouth twitched a single time and he left. Pike never smiles or laughs, but sometimes you’ll get the twitch. Mr. Hilarity.
I had the rest of my beer, then phoned Elliot Truly. When Truly came on the line, I said, “I’ve concluded the investigation into Angela Rossi. I’m going to write the report tonight.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. “So soon?”
“I’m fast, Truly. Cases solved in no time flat or your money back.”
Truly said, “Well, hell.” Like he was disappointed it hadn’t taken longer, like he was maybe thinking that I had given the job short shrift. “What did you find?”
“She’s clean. Earle is a liar and Haig is a crank with a grudge. There’s absolutely no evidence that Rossi’s ever been anything other than a good cop.”
Another silence. “You’d better come in. Jonathan will want to talk about it.” You see?
“I have guests coming in from out of town at five tomorrow evening.”
I could hear him fumbling with something. “We’re going to have a staff meeting here tomorrow morning at nine. Can you make that?”
“I’ll be there.”
It took less than twenty minutes to write the report, and then I drove home listening to k. d. lang. k. d. lang was Lucy’s favorite, and as I drove I found that I was thinking less about Jonathan Green and Angela Rossi, and more about Lucy Chenier. I thought that I might clean the house and make a shopping list. The house was already clean and it was too late to shop, but that didn’t matter. My work was done and Lucy was coming, and what could be better than that? Anticipation is everything.
When I got home, Pike’s Jeep was waiting in the drive, freshly washed, immaculate and gleaming. I found a note under the windshield that said, Give my love to Lucy, and please drive carefully.
That Pike is something, isn’
t he?
8
At twenty minutes before nine the next morning I worked my way down the mountain along Laurel Canyon to Sunset, then turned west toward Jonathan Green’s office.
Most prominent attorneys in Los Angeles will black-jack their mothers to find office space in Beverly Hills or Century City, both of which are considered prestige addresses for the legal community. Jonathan Green’s office was on Sunset Boulevard in an ornate four-story Spanish office building across from the Mondrian Hotel. I guess if you’re Jonathan Green, any place you happen to be is a prestige address.
The building was older, with an established landscape of royal palms and bougainvillea, and state-of-the-art security equipment discreetly hidden from public view. A tasteful sign built into the front of the building simply said THE LAW OFFICES OF JONATHAN GREEN. The parking garage was gated, and the gate wouldn’t open until a gentleman wearing a red blazer strolled out to my car and asked my name. He was exceedingly polite and possessed a bulge in the line of his jacket beneath his left arm. The bulge, like the sign and the security equipment, was also discreet.
I left my car in the garage, then followed the guard’s directions past a Spanish tile fountain in the lobby to the elevators, and then to the top floor. Another blazered gentleman smiled at me in the lobby, and a third just happened to be on the elevator. Both were polite and both, like the guard in the parking garage, had the corded necks of men who spent a lot of their time honing confrontational skills. Corded necks are a dead giveaway.
When the elevator opened, Elliot Truly was waiting for me. I guess the parking guard must’ve called. I said, “Some security.”
He stared at my eye.
“Cut myself shaving.”
Truly realized he was staring and looked away. “Yes, well, I guess that happens.”
I followed him past the floor receptionist and along a glass hall. “Why all the spooks?”
“Many of Jonathan’s cases are unpopular, as you might imagine. You’d be surprised at the number of people who don’t believe that defendants are entitled to the best possible defense.”