by Robert Crais
I stepped up to the Buzz Cut. “We haven't met. I'm Elvis Cole, employed by the family. Who are you?”
The Buzz Cut smiled at Krantz. “We'll wait in the car, Harvey.”
The Buzz Cut and his two friends walked away.
I turned back to Krantz. “What's going on with you, Krantz? Who are those guys? Why didn't you want me here?”
“Our lines got crossed, Cole. That's all there is to it. Look, you wanna go back in there and inspect the body, help yourself. You wanna talk to the ME, talk to her. The girl died of a .22 just like we thought. We recovered the bullet, but it's probably too deformed to give a rifle pattern. I don't know yet.”
Williams shook his head. “No way. There won't be a pattern. Trust me.”
Krantz shrugged. “Okay, the expert says no way. What else you want to know? There was no sign of a struggle or of any kind of sexual assault. We lasered the body for prints and fibers, but it was a wash. Look, Cole, I know you were supposed to be here, but you weren't, and what were we supposed to do? We lose our turn, it might be another three, four days before we can work into the schedule again. You wanna go see the bodies they got stacked in the cooler?”
“I want the autopsy report.”
“Sure. You want the report, fine. Might be tomorrow or the next day.”
“I want the crime scene report, too.”
“I already said you could have that, didn't I? We'll print out a copy for you when we get the autopsy report. That way you'll have everything. I'm really sorry about this, Cole. If it's a problem for the old man, I'll tell him I'm sorry, too.”
“Everybody's sorry, that it?”
Krantz grew red in the face. “I don't need lip from some freelance like you. All you are is a peeper. If you'd been a cop, you'd know we're busting our asses. Bruly and Salerno are knocking on every door up at the lake. No one saw anything. We've interviewed two dozen people so far, and no one knows anything. Everybody loved this girl, and no one had a motive to kill her. We're not just sitting around.”
“Did you ask Dersh about the SUV?”
“C'mon, Cole. Get off of that.”
“What about the homeless guy? Anyone question him?”
“Fuck you. I don't need you telling me how to do my job.”
Krantz and Williams walked away.
“This is bullshit, Dolan, and you know it.”
Dolan's lips parted as if to say something, then closed. She didn't seem angry now. She looked embarrassed, and I thought if they were keeping secrets, she was part of it.
We drove back to Parker Center at the same furious pace, but this time I didn't bother asking her to slow down. When she let me off in the parking garage, I walked up to my car, where it had spent the noon hour parked in the sun. It was hot, but at least nobody had slashed the interior. Even parked at the police station, that can happen, and does.
I pulled out of the lot and drove exactly one block, then pulled to the curb in front of a taco shop, and used the pay phone there to call a friend of mine at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Five minutes later I had Eugene Dersh's home and work addresses, and his phone number. The addresses were the same.
I called him, and said, “Mr. Dersh, my name is Elvis Cole, calling from Parker Center. Be all right if I dropped by and asked you a couple of follow-up questions about Lake Hollywood? It won't take long.”
“Oh, sure. Are you working with Stan Watts?” Watts had been the one who interviewed him.
“Stan's down here at Parker Center, too. I was just talking with him.”
“You know how to get here?”
“I can find it.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
If Krantz wouldn't ask him about the SUV, I would.
Dersh lived in a small California bungalow in an old part of Los Feliz just south of Griffith Park. Most of the homes were Spanish stucco with faded tile roofs, and most of the people in the neighborhood appeared to be older, but as they died off, younger people like Dersh would buy their homes and renovate them. Dersh's house was neatly painted in bright Sante Fe earth colors, and, from the looks of the place, he had put a lot of work into it.
I left my car at the curb, went up the walk, and pressed the buzzer. Some of the yards still showed ash from the fire, but Dersh's was clean. He must've come out and swept. A welcome mat at the front door read Welcome Aboard.
A short, stocky guy in his late thirties opened the door and smiled out at me. “Are you Detective Cole?”
“I'm the detective.”
He put out his hand. “Gene Dersh.”
Dersh led me into an attractive room with bleached oak floors and brightly colored modern paintings over white walls. “I'm having coffee. Would you like a cup? It's Kenyan.”
“No, thanks.”
The room opened into another at the back of the house. It was fixed with a large art table, jars of brushes and colored markers, and a high-end PowerMac. Classical music came from the back, and the house smelled of Marks-a-lots and coffee. His home felt comfortable. Dersh was wearing pressed chinos and a loose knit shirt that showed a lot of chest hair, some of it gone gray. Ink smudges tattooed his fingers. He'd been working.
“This won't take long, Mr. Dersh. I only have a couple of questions.”
“Call me Gene. Please.”
“Thanks, Gene.” We sat on an overstuffed taupe couch.
“Don't feel you have to rush. I mean, what a horror for that poor girl, murdered like that. If there's any way I can help, I'm happy to do it.” He'd been like that in the interview with Watts, anxious to cooperate. Some people are like that; thrilled to be a part of a criminal investigation. Riley Ward had been more tentative and clearly uncomfortable. Some people are like that, too.
He said, “You aren't the first today. When you called, I thought you were more of the TV people.”
“The TV people called you?”
He had some of the coffee, then put his mug on the table. His eyes were bright. “A reporter from Channel 4 was here this morning. Channel 7 called, too. They want to know what it was like, finding her body.” He tried to make himself sound disapproving, but you could see that he was thrilled that newspeople with cameras and lights had come to talk with him. He would dine out on these stories for years.
“I'll check it out this evening. See if I can catch you.”
He nodded, smiling. “I'm going to tape it.”
“You were up at the lake on Saturday as well, weren't you, Gene?”
“That's right.”
“You recall seeing a red or brown SUV up there, like a Range Rover or a Four-Runner or one of those things? Might've been parked. Might've been coming in or going out?”
Dersh closed his eyes, thinking about it, then shook his head, looking disappointed. “Gee, no, I don't think so. I mean, so many people drive those things.”
I described Edward Deege. “You see a guy like that up there?”
He frowned, thinking. “On Saturday?”
“Saturday or Sunday.”
The frown turned into a squint, but then he shook his head again. “Sorry. I just don't remember.”
“I knew it was a long shot, Gene, but I was just wondering.”
“Did that man or the car have anything to do with what happened?”
“Don't know, Gene. You hear things, you have to follow up, you know?”
“Oh, sure. I just wish I could help you.”
“You know anyone else who might've been up there on Saturday?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Mr. Ward wasn't with you on Saturday, was he?” If Ward was there, I could ask him, too.
“No. Riley came with me on Sunday. He'd never been up to the lake before. Can you believe that? Here's Riley, a native for chrissake. He lives, what, two miles from the lake, and he's never been there.”
“I know people who've never been to Disneyland.”
Dersh nodded. “Amazing.”
I stood, and thanked him for his time.
“That
's all you wanted?”
“Told you it wouldn't take long.”
“Don't forget. Channel 4.”
“I'll watch.”
Dersh brought his mug of Kenyan coffee to the door. “Detective Cole? Are you going to be, ah, seeing the girl's family?”
“I will be. Yes.”
“Would you tell them how sorry I am? And give them my condolences?”
“Sure.”
“I thought I might drop around sometime, since I was the one who discovered her body. Me and Riley.”
“I'll tell her father.”
Dersh sipped at his coffee, frowning. “If I remember anything else, I'll be sure to call. I want to help you. I really want to help catch the person who did this.”
“If you remember anything, give Stan Watts a call. Okay?”
“Stan, and not you?”
“It'd be better if you called Stan.”
I thanked him again, then went out to my car. I hadn't really expected that Dersh would have seen the SUV, but, like I told him, you hear something, you have to run it down. Especially when the cops won't.
I said, “What was so hard about that, Krantz? It took fifteen minutes.” The detective, talking to himself.
I worked my way out of the foothills south to Franklin, then east toward Hollywood. Traffic was terrible, but I was feeling better about things, even though I hadn't learned much. Doing is better than watching, and now I felt like a doer, even though I wasn't supposed to be. I thought that I might phone Dolan and tell her that Krantz needn't go back to Dersh about the car. I could probably sound pretty smug when I said it, but Dolan probably wouldn't be impressed. Also, they would find out I'd gone to see Dersh sooner or later. I thought my telling them would make Krantz a little less apoplectic, but you never know. I was hoping it would make him worse.
I left Franklin trying to get away from the traffic, but the roads stayed bad. Another sinkhole had appeared in Hollywood like an acne crater brought on by the subway construction, and Cal Trans had several streets blocked. I turned down Western to pick up Hollywood Boulevard, found the traffic even worse, then cut onto one of the little side streets there, hoping to work my way around the worst of it. That's when the same dark blue sedan that I'd been seeing in my rearview since I'd left the hills turned in behind me.
At first I thought it was nothing. Other cars were turning to get away from the traffic, too, but those cars hadn't been floating behind me since Franklin.
Cars were moving a little better on Hollywood. I passed under the freeway, then turned north and pulled to the curb in front of a flower kiosk with huge signs printed in Spanish. Rosas $2.99.
The sedan pulled past, two men in the front, both with sunglasses and both yucking it up and doing their best to pretend that they weren't interested in me. Of course, maybe they weren't. Maybe all of this was a coincidence.
I copied their tag number, then bought a dozen red roses for Lucy. Serendipity should not be ignored.
I waited for a short Salvadoran man to finish with the pay phone outside the flower stand, then called my friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I asked her to run the tag, and waited some more.
She came back in a few seconds. “You sure about this?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“It came back ‘No ID.’ You want me to run it again?”
“No, thanks. That's fine.”
I hung up, took the roses to my car, and sat there.
“No ID” is what you get when the car is registered to the Los Angeles Police Department.
10
• • •
The sun was settling over the city like a deflated balloon when I got to Lucy's apartment. I had stopped for groceries after the flower stand, and then a liquor store, all the while watching my rearview. The blue sedan didn't return, and if anyone else was following me, I didn't spot them. Just the kind of paranoid experience you want before a romantic evening.
When Lucy saw the roses, she said, “Oh, they're lovely.”
“Do you see their tears?”
She smiled, but looked confused. “What tears?”
“They're sad. Now that they've seen you, they know they're not the prettiest things on earth.”
She touched the flowers, then sighed playfully. “They'll just have to get used to it, I guess.”
Lucy brought a small overnight bag as we went down to my car.
“Ben get off to camp okay?”
“Once he met a couple of the other kids he was fine. I set my call-forwarding to ring at your place. I hope you don't mind.”
“Of course not. You sure you don't want to take your own car?”
“This is more romantic. My lover is spiriting me away for a night of passion at his love nest in the mountains. I can come back for my car tomorrow.”
I had never thought of my house as a love nest, but there you go.
“What's in the bag?”
She smiled at me from the corner of her eye. “Something you'll like. A surprise.”
Maybe having a love nest wasn't so bad.
It felt good to be with her, and good to be with her alone. We had been together a lot since Lucy moved to L.A., but always with Ben or other people, and usually with the major part of our time spent in the necessary tasks of moving them into their new apartment. Tonight was just for us. I wanted that, and knowing that she wanted it, too, made it all the more special. We drove in silence, rarely speaking, though smiling at each other in that way lovers do. She held the roses in her lap, occasionally lifting one to touch her nose.
When we got to the love nest, Joe's Jeep was parked in front.
Lucy smiled at me. Prettily. “Is Joe staying over, too?”
Ha-ha. That Lucy. What a kidder, huh?
We brought the groceries and the roses in through the kitchen. Pike was standing in my living room. Anyone else would've been sitting, but there he was, holding the cat. When the cat saw Lucy, it squirmed out of Joe's arms, ran to the stairs and growled.
Lucy said, “How nice. Always the warm welcome.”
Joe looked at the roses, and the grocery bags. “Sorry. I should've called.”
“It couldn't hurt.”
Lucy went over and kissed his cheek. “Don't be silly. Just don't plan on staying too long.”
The corner of Pike's mouth twitched.
Pike said, “Got a copy of the criminalist's report. I thought you'd want to see it.”
I stopped with the bags.
“Krantz told me it wouldn't be ready until tomorrow.”
Pike nodded toward the dining-room table.
I left the bags on the kitchen counter, then went to the table and found a copy of a Scientific Investigation Division criminalist's report signed by a guy named John Chen. I flipped through a couple of pages, and saw that the report detailed the evidence found at Karen Garcia's murder site. I looked at Joe, then back at the report. “Where'd you get this?”
“The man who wrote it. Got that copy this morning.”
“Something odd is going on here, Joe.”
Lucy said, “Something odd is always going on here. It's Los Angeles.” She took a bottle of Dom Pérignon from one of the bags. Eighty-nine ninety-five, on sale. “Very nice, Mr. Cole. I think I may purr.”
I waved my hand like it was nothing. “Standard fare at the love nest.”
Pike said, “Love nest?”
I frowned at him. “Try not to spoil the fantasy.”
Pike went to the fridge, took out a bottle of Abita beer, and tipped it toward me.
“Sure.”
He tipped the bottle at Lucy.
“No, sweetie, but thank you.” Joe Pike being called sweetie. Amazing.
Joe took out a second bottle, and brought it to me. Abita beer is this terrific beer they make in south Louisiana. Lucy brought five cases when she moved.
I said, “Luce, you mind if I read this?”
“Not at all. I'll put away the food and pretend we're doing it together. I'll preten
d some nice romantic music is on the stereo, and you're reading poetry to me. That way I can pretend I'm about to swoon.”
I looked at Joe. He shrugged.
The report was direct and easy to read because of its clarity. Two detailed drawings noted body position, bloodstains, and the location of physical evidence. The first drawing was the lower site, where Garcia's body had been found, the second was of the trail area at the top of the bluff, where the shooting had occurred. Chen noted that he had discovered several Beeman's gum wrappers, an as yet unidentified triangular bit of white plastic, a Federal Arms .22 caliber Long Rifle shell casing, and several partial and complete shoe prints. Tests were being run on the wrappers, the plastic, and the shell casing, but from the size of the shoe print Chen had estimated the shooter's body weight. I read this part aloud. “Shooter wears a size eleven shoe with an estimated body weight of two hundred pounds. Photographs of the sole imprint have been forwarded to the FBI in Washington for identification of brand.”
Lucy said, “My, that's romantic.” She came out and sat next to me, her foot touching mine beneath the table.
Chen had followed the tracks to tread marks left by a parked vehicle on a fire road above the lake. He had made castings of the tread marks, and had taken soil samples containing what appeared to be oil drips. All of this he had also sent along to the FBI for brand identification. He determined the tire type as F205 radials, matching any number of American and foreign SUVs. These particular F205s showed uneven wear on the front tires, indicating that the front-end camber was out of alignment.
I put down the report and looked at Joe. “Tell you the truth, I thought Deege was making it up, him saying the car looked like yours and you were the driver.”
Pike shrugged.
“So he saw something, then had fun with it.” I glanced at the report again. “Wow. This guy Chen does good work.”
Pike's mouth twitched.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I tapped the pages. “Krantz didn't lie to me only about this.” I told them how Krantz had given me the runaround about the autopsy. “I'm sure Krantz knew when it was scheduled the whole time. Five people were at the table when we arrived, and Williams was grousing about how long the cut had taken.”