L.A. Requiem

by Robert Crais

  I went back to my car, drove down the hill to the Jungle Juice, and used their phone book to look up Riley Ward & Associates. I copied the phone number and address, then drove to West Hollywood.

  Ward had his offices in a converted Craftsman house on what was once a residential street south of Sunset Boulevard. The Craftsman house had a lovely front porch, and elaborate woodwork that had been painted in bright shades of peach and turquoise, neither of which went with the two television news vans that were parked out front.

  I parked in a little lot belonging to a dentist's office, and waited. Two people went into Ward's building, one of them being an on-air reporter I recognized because he looked like a surfer dude. They were inside maybe three minutes, then came out and stood by their van, disappointed. Ward was still refusing interviews. Or maybe he wasn't there.

  A third van arrived. Two young guys got out, one Asian-American with black horned-rim glasses and the other blond with very short hair. The Asian-American guy had white streaks in his hair, going for that Eurotrash look. The new guys joined the surfer and his friend, the four of them laughing about something as a young woman got out of the other van and went over. She was wearing a bright yellow spring dress and thick-soled shoes that had to be damned near impossible to walk in, and cat's-eye glasses. Fashion slaves.

  I went over, grinning like we were all just journalists together. “You guys here to get Ward?”

  The surfer shook his head. “He's not having it. We'll wait him out, though.”

  “Maybe he's not in there.”

  The young woman in the canary dress said, “Oh, he's in there. I saw him go in this morning.”

  “Ah.”

  I headed across the street.

  The girl said, “Forget it, amigo. He won't talk to you.”

  “We'll see.”

  The little porch opened to what had once been the living room but was now a reception area. The smell of fresh coffee was strong in the little house, hanging over a sweeter smell, as if someone had brought Danish. A young woman in a black body suit and vest watched me suspiciously from behind a glass desk with a little name plate that read Holly Mira. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, Holly. Elvis Cole to see Mr. Ward.” I gave her the card, and then I lowered my voice. “About Karen Garcia.”

  She put the card down without looking at it. “I'm sorry. Mr. Ward isn't giving interviews.”

  “I'm not a reporter, Holly. I'm working for the dead girl's family. You can understand how they'd have questions.”

  Her face softened, but she still didn't touch the card. “You're working for the family.”

  “The Garcia family. His attorney is a man named Abbot Montoya. You can call them if you like.” I took out the card Montoya had given me and put it next to mine. “Please tell Mr. Ward that the family would appreciate it. I promise that I won't take much of his time.”

  Holly read both cards, then gave me a shy smile. “Are you really a private investigator?”

  I tried to look modest. “Well, I'm what you might call the premier example.”

  Holly smiled wider. “I know he's got a conference call soon, but I'm sure he'll speak with you.”

  “Thanks, Holly.”

  Two minutes later Riley Ward followed Holly out to the reception room, and now Ward was holding the cards. He was wearing a burgundy shirt buttoned to the neck, gray triple-pleated slacks, and soft gray Italian loafers, but even the nice clothes couldn't cover his strain. “Mr. Cole?”

  “That's right. I appreciate your seeing me, considering what's happened.”

  He bent the cards back and forth, looking nervous and uneasy. “You wouldn't believe. It's been a nightmare.”

  “I'll bet.”

  “I mean, all we did was find her, and now, well, Gene isn't a killer. He just isn't. Please tell her family that. I know they won't believe me, but he isn't.”

  “Yes, sir. I'll tell them. I'm not here about Mr. Dersh, though. I'm trying to put some of the family's concerns to rest, if you know what I mean. About the body.” I glanced at Holly and let it drop, implying that the family's concerns were better discussed privately.

  Ward nodded. “Well, okay. Ah, why don't you come into my office.”

  His office was spacious, with a large plank desk, an overstuffed couch, and matching chairs. Pictures of Ward with an attractive woman and two bucktoothed children lined a narrow table behind the desk. Ward gestured to the couch. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Riley peeked out the window at the news vans, then took the chair facing the pictures. “They're driving me crazy. They came to my home. They were here when I arrived this morning. It's insane.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Now I have to waste my day hiring an attorney, and it's so much worse for poor Gene.”

  “Yes, sir. It is.” I took out a pad as if I were going to take notes, then leaned toward him, glancing at the windows like they might have ears. “Mr. Ward, what I'm going to say here, well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't repeat it, okay? The family would appreciate it. You let this out, and it might hurt the investigation.”

  Ward peered at me, his eyes nervous and apprehensive. You could almost hear him think, now what?

  I waited.

  He realized I was waiting for him, and nodded. “All right. Yes. Of course.”

  “The family thinks that the police are off base about Mr. Dersh. We're not confident that they have the right man.”

  Hope flashed over his face, making me feel like a turd.

  “Of course they don't. Gene couldn't do this.”

  “I agree. So the family, well, we're conducting our own investigation, if you know what I mean.”

  He nodded, seeing a way out for his friend Gene.

  “So I have a few questions, you see?”

  “You bet. I'll help any way I can.”

  Anxious now. Raring to go.

  “Okay. Great. It has to do with why you left the trail.”

  He frowned, and didn't look so anxious anymore. “We wanted to see the lake.”

  I smiled. Mr. Friendly.

  “Well, I know, but after I read your statements I went up to the lake and walked through it with the police.”

  Ward pursed his lips and glanced at his watch. “Holly, hasn't that damned attorney called yet?”

  She called back, “Not yet, Riley.”

  “I found the little tape they used to mark where you left the main trail. The underbrush was pretty dense right there.”

  He crossed his arms and frowned harder, obviously uncomfortable. “I don't understand. These are things the family wants to know?”

  “I'm just curious about why you left the trail where you did. There were easier places to walk down.”

  Riley Ward stared at me for a full thirty seconds without moving. He wet his lips once, thinking so hard that you could almost see the wheels and gears turning in his head. “Well, we didn't discuss it. I mean, we didn't research what was the best way to get down. We just went.”

  “Another ten yards the brush was a lot thinner.”

  “We wanted to go down to the lake, we went down to the lake.” He suddenly stood, went to the door, and called to Holly again. “Would you try him for me, please. I can't stand this waiting.” He put his hands in his pockets, then took them out and waved at me. “Who cares why we left the trail right there? Can it possibly matter?”

  “If you left because someone threatening scared you, then, yes, it could matter a great deal. That person could be the killer.”

  Ward blinked at me, then suddenly relaxed. As if whatever was bothering him had receded to a far spot on the horizon. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “No, I'm sorry. No one scared us off the trail. We didn't see anyone.”

  I pretended to write.

  “So it was pretty much Gene saying let's go down to the lake right here, and you just went? That's all there was to it?”

  “That's all. I wish
I had seen someone up there, Mr. Cole. Especially now. I'm sorry about the girl. I wish I could help you, but I can't. I wish I could help Gene.”

  I stared at the notebook as if I knew there was something missing. I tapped it with my pen. “Well, could there have been another reason?”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “A reason you had for leaving the trail at that certain spot.” I looked at him. “Maybe to do something that you didn't want anyone else to see.”

  Riley Ward turned white.

  Holly appeared in the door. “Riley. Mr. Mikkleson is on.”

  Ward lurched as if he'd been hit with a cattle prod. “Thank God! That's the attorney, Mr. Cole. I really do have to take this.” He went behind the plank desk and picked up the phone. Saved by the bell.

  I put away my pad and joined Holly at the door.

  “I appreciate your time, Mr. Ward. Thank you.”

  He hesitated, his palm covering the phone.

  “Mr. Cole. Please give the family my condolences. Gene did not harm that girl. He was only trying to help.”

  “I'll tell them. Thanks.”

  I followed Holly back out to the reception area to the front door. The reporters were still out there, clumped in the street. A fourth van had joined the others.

  I said, “He seems like a nice man.”

  “Oh, Riley's a peach.”

  “Can't blame him for being nervous, I guess.”

  Holly held the door for me, fighting a tiny smile. “Well, he's had to answer a lot of delicate questions.”

  I looked at her. “What do you mean, delicate?”

  “Riley and Gene are very close friends.”

  She looked at me.

  “Very close.”

  I stepped out onto the porch, but she stayed inside.

  I said, “Closer than hiking buddies?”

  She nodded.

  “We're talking really close?”

  She stepped out with me, closing the door behind her. “Riley doesn't think we know, but how can you hide it? Gene went head over heels for Riley the first time he came into the office, and chased him shamelessly.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Not long. Riley takes these walks with Gene three times a week, but we know.” She raised her eyebrows when she said it, then leaned back inside and glanced over her shoulder to make sure that no one could hear. “I wish some good-looking guy would chase me like that.”

  I gave her my very best smile. “I think some guy is going to knock himself out for you, Holly.”

  She fluttered the big eyes at me. “Do you think?”

  “Got a girlfriend, Holly. Sorry.”

  “Well, if you ever decide to trade up.” She let it hang, gave me her nicest smile yet, and started back inside.

  “Holly?”

  She smiled at me.

  “Don't tell anyone else what you just told me, okay?”

  “It's just between us.” Then she shut the door and was gone.

  I stepped off the porch of the pretty little Craftsman house, and crossed the street to my car, the reporters and camera people watching me. The surfer guy looked pissed. He called, “Hey, did Ward talk to you?”

  “Nope. They let me use their bathroom.”

  The reporters let out a collective sigh and relaxed. Feeling better about things.

  I sat in my car, but did not start the engine. Working a case is like living a life. You could be going along with your head down, pulling the plow as best you can, but then something happens and the world isn't what you thought it was anymore. Suddenly, the way you see everything is different, as if the world has changed color, hiding things that were there before and revealing things you otherwise would not have seen.

  I once was close to a man, a police officer with sixteen years on the job, who was and is a good and decent man, who had been married and faithful to his wife for all of those years, had three children with her and a cabin in Big Bear and a fine and happy life, until the day he left her and married another woman. When he told me the news, I said that I hadn't known he and his wife were having problems, and he said that he hadn't known, either. His wife was devastated, and my friend was horribly guilty. I asked him, the way friends will, what happened. His answer was both simple and terrible. He said, “I fell in love.” He had met a woman while in line at their bank and in the course of a single conversation his world turned upside down and would never be the same. Blindsided by love.

  I thought about Riley Ward, and the woman and two children in the pictures in his office. I thought that maybe he had been blindsided, too, and suddenly the inconsistencies in his and Dersh's version of events at the lake, and why Riley Ward seemed evasive and defensive in his interview, made all the sense in the world, and none of it mattered a damn with the theories of cops and private operators with too much time on their hands.

  Dersh and Ward had left the trail in thick cover to be hidden from other hikers. They had not wanted to see; they had wanted to be unseen.

  They went down to the water's edge because of its impassable nature, never guessing that Karen Garcia's body was waiting in a manner that would force them to cook up a story to explain how they had come to be in such an unlikely place. They had lied to protect the worlds each had built, but now a greater lie had come to feed on their fear.

  I sat in my car, feeling bad for Riley Ward with his wife and two kids and secret gay lover, and then I left to call Samantha Dolan.

  The office was filled with a golden light when Dolan returned my call. I didn't mind. I was on my second can of Falstaff, and already thinking about the third. I had spent most of the day answering mail, paying bills, and talking to the Pinocchio clock. It hadn't answered yet, but maybe with another few beers.

  Dolan said, “She sounds like Scarlett O'Hara, for Christ's sake. How can you stand it?”

  “I went to see Ward this morning. You were right. They were lying.”

  I finished the rest of the can and eyed the little fridge. Should've gotten the third before we started.

  “I'm listening.”

  “Ward and Dersh left the trail because they're lovers.”

  Dolan didn't say anything.

  “Dolan?”

  “I'm here. Ward said that? He told you that's why they left the trail?”

  “No, Dolan, Ward did not say that. Ward's got a wife and two kids, and I would think he'd do damned near anything to keep them from knowing.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “I picked it up from someone who works in his office. It's all the talk, Dolan, and it took me about twenty minutes to find out. I guess you people didn't exactly break your asses doing the background work.”

  “Take it easy, I said.”

  I listened to her breathe. I guess she listened to me.

  She said, “You okay?”

  “I'm pissed off about Dersh. I'm pissed off that all of this is going to come out and hurt Ward's family.”

  “You want to go have a drink?”

  “Dolan, I'm doing okay on my own.”

  She didn't say any more for a while. I thought about getting the next beer, but didn't. Pinocchio was watching me.

  She said, “I was going to call you.”

  “Why?”

  “We found Edward Deege.”

  “He have anything?”

  “If he had anything, we won't know it. He was dead.”

  I leaned back and stared out the French doors. Sometimes the gulls will swing past, or hover on the wind, but now the sky was empty.

  She said, “Some construction guys found him in a Dumpster up by the lake. It looks like he was beaten to death.”

  “You don't know what happened?”

  “He probably got into a beef with another homeless guy. You know how that goes. Maybe he was robbed, or maybe he snatched somebody's stash. Hollywood Division is working on it. I'm sorry.”

  “What are you going to do about Ward?”

  “I'll tip Stan Wa
tts and let him follow up. Stan's a good guy. He'll try to go easy.”

  “Great.”

  “It's the only chance Dersh has.”

  “Great.”

  “You sure about that drink?”

  “I'm sure. Maybe some other time.”

  When Dolan finally spoke again, her voice was quiet.

  “You know something, World's Greatest?”

  “What?”

  “You're not just mad about Ward.”

  She hung up, leaving me to wonder what she meant.

  20

  • • •

  That Day

  The pain burns through him the way his skin burned when he was beaten as a child, burns so hot that his nerves writhe beneath his skin like electric worms burrowing through his flesh. It can get so bad that he has to bite his own arms to keep from screaming.

  It is all about control.

  He knows that.

  If you can control yourself, they cannot hurt you.

  If you can command yourself, they will pay.

  The killer fills the first syringe with Dianabol, a methan-drostenolone steroid he bought in Mexico, and injects it into his right thigh. The next he fills with Somatropin, a synthetic growth hormone also from Mexico that was made for use with cattle. He injects this into his left thigh, and enjoys the burning sensation that always accompanies the injection. An hour ago, he swallowed two androstene tablets to increase his body's production of testosterone. He will wait a few more minutes, then settle onto the weight bench and work until his muscles scream and fail and only then will he rest. No pain, no gain, and he must gain strength and size and power, because there is still murder to be done.

  He admires his naked body in the full-length mirror, and flexes. Rippling muscles. Cobblestone abs. Tattoos that desecrate his flesh. Pretty. He puts on the sunglasses. Better.

  The killer lies back on the weight bench and waits for the chemicals to course through his veins. He is pleased that the police have finally found Edward Deege's body. That is part of his plan. Because of the body, they will question the neighbors. Evidence he has placed will be discovered, and that is part of the plan also; a plan that he has crafted as carefully as he crafts his body, and his vengeance.