L.A. Requiem

by Robert Crais

  Rollins poked the older black guy, who looked like he'd rather be anyplace else on the planet. “Yeah, this muthuhfuckuh the one. I got a nose for shit like that. I heard'm talkin' about him.”

  Pike had arrested a hundred men like Clarence Rollins, and had fronted off five hundred more. Pike knew by looking at him that Rollins had been institutionalized for most of his life. Jail was home. The world was where you went between coming home.

  “You a real Aryan muthuhfuckuh, ain't you, them fuckin' pale ass eyes o' yours. Lemme tell you somethin', muthuhfuckuh, it don't mean shit to me you killed some muthuhfuckuh. I killed so many muthuhfuckuhs you can't count, an' there ain't nuthin' I hate more'n a motherfuckin' cop like you. Lookie here—”

  Rollins peeled back a sleeve to show Pike a tattoo of a heart with LAPD 187 written inside it: 187 was the LAPD's code for homicide.

  “You know what that means, muthuhfuckuh? LAPD one eighty-seven? Means I'm a cop-killin' muthuhfuckuh, that's what it means. You best fear my ass.”

  Rollins was working himself up for something. It was as predictable as watching a freight train round a bend, but Pike didn't bother paying attention. Pike was seeing himself in the woods behind his boyhood home, smelling the fresh summer leaves and the wet creek mud. He was feeling the steambath heat of Song Be, Vietnam, when he was eighteen years old, and hearing his sergeant's voice shouting at him across the dry scrub hills of Camp Pendleton, a voice he so wished to be his father's. He was tasting the healthy clean sweat of the first woman he loved, a beautiful proud farm girl named Diane. She had been from a proper family who despised Joe, and had made her stop seeing him.

  “How come you ain't sayin' nothin, muthuhfuckuh? You goddamned well better answer me when I talk to your muthuhfuckin' ass, you know what's good for you. Your ass is trapped in here with me.” When he said that, Rollins flashed the long slender blade hidden in his sock.

  The other places and people melted away, leaving only the van and Pike and the man across from him. Pike felt as peaceful as the woods behind that childhood home.

  “No,” Pike whispered. “You're trapped with me.”

  Clarence Rollins blinked once, clearly surprised, then launched off the bench, driving the blade square at Pike's chest and pushing with all the power of his legs.

  Pike let the blade slip past his hands, then trapped and folded the wrist, channeling all the speed and power of Rollins's own attack in turning the knife. Gunnery Sergeant Aimes would be pleased.

  Rollins was a large, strong man, and considerable force went back into his forearm. The radius and ulna bones snapped like green wood, slicing through muscles and veins and arteries as the bones exploded through his skin.

  Clarence Rollins screamed.

  Deputy Sheriffs Frank Montana and Lowell Carmody both jumped at the scream, bringing their Mossbergs to port arms. The three Hispanic prisoners were bunched together at the front screen, making it hard to see, but Rollins was thrashing around in the aisle like something was biting him.

  The driver shouted, “The fuck is going on back there?”

  Carmody yelled, “Knock it off! Get back in your seats!”

  Pike was down in the aisle with Rollins, who kept turning over and flailing and spinning around. Rollins was screaming in a high, little girl's voice as a three-foot geyser of blood sprayed all over the back of the van.

  Montana said, “Holy fuck! Pike's killing him!”

  Montana and Carmody both tried to sight past the Hispanics over their Mossbergs. Montana screamed, “Get away from him, Pike! Get back in that seat, goddamnit!”

  The Mexicans saw the shotguns and scrambled out of the way, still trying to avoid the blood. They were probably thinking about AIDS.

  Pike lifted his hands away from Rollins and eased back onto the bench.

  Clarence continued thrashing and rolling and screaming as if his whole body was on fire.

  Montana shouted, “Shut up, Rollins! What the hell is going on back there?”

  The older black man said, “He's hurt! Can't you see that?”

  Montana shouted, “Knock off that shit and get back in your seat, Rollins! What the hell are you doing?”

  The older man said, “He's bleeding to death, goddamnit it. That's blood.”

  Rollins kept howling, the blood spraying everywhere. The older man was squatting on his seat, trying to stay clear.

  Pike said, “I can help him. I can stop the bleeding.”

  “Stay the fuck in your seat!”

  Carmody peered through the mesh. “Shit, he ain't faking it, man. He's bleeding like a stuck goat. One of these bastards musta cut him.”

  The older man said, “He ain't been cut! That's his goddamned bones stickin' out! His arm's broke. Can't you see that?”

  Montana could see it even with the way Rollins was carrying on. The bones looked like pink ivory.

  The driver said that they were only another ten minutes from the jail, but when he said it they were locked down in the thick traffic. The van didn't have a flash bar or siren, so there was no way to get the cars to move.

  The old man yelled, “Ten minutes in your butt! This man needs a tourniquet. We ain't got no belts or nothing back here. You just gonna let him bleed like that?”

  Montana said, “Fuck. We'd better do something.” He could see the bastard bleeding out back there, and the three of them getting sued by the ACLU.

  Montana told the driver to radio their sit-rep and request a medical unit. He left his shotgun and his sidearm with Carmody because he didn't want to tempt any of these bastards with a weapon, then pulled on vinyl gloves. He just knew that bastard had AIDS. Every one of these scumbags probably had it.

  “You cover my ass, goddamnit,” he told Carmody.

  Carmody shouted at everyone to stay in their goddamned seats, trying to make himself heard over Rollins's moaning and flopping. Every time the blood squirted toward the Mexicans, they jumped in a little herd.

  Montana trotted around to the rear, keyed open the door, and looked inside. Christ, there was blood everygoddamnedplace.

  “Settle down, Rollins. I'm gonna help you.”

  Rollins spun around on his back like he was breakdancing, kicking his feet and crying. Montana thought that Mr. 187 was a big goddamned baby.

  Pike was sitting to his left and the old guy was to his right and the Mexicans were all bunched together in the front on the left side. Carmody had the shotgun at port arms, and the driver had his handgun out.

  Carmody said, “Just drag his ass out of there and lock the fuckin' door. We can take care of him outside.”

  That's the plan.

  Pike said, “You want help?”

  “Stay on that goddamned bench and don't move a fuckin' muscle.”

  Montana climbed into the van, trying to watch the prisoners and get a handle on Rollins at the same time.

  Rollins rolled end over end, squirting blood on Montana's pants, then flopped backward up the aisle toward the Mexicans. All three jumped up on the seats in front of Carmody.

  “Goddamnit, Rollins. You got the AIDS I'm gonna beat you to death, you fucker. I swear to God I'll kill you myself.”

  Montana scrambled up the aisle past Pike and the older guy to where the three Mexicans were trying to kick the hysterical Rollins away.

  Montana gritted his teeth, cursed, then grabbed Rollins by the leg, standing to tow him back down the aisle, when both Carmody and the driver shouted, “Getouttatheway getouttatheway! He's running!”

  Both their Mossbergs were pointing right at Montana.

  Frank Montana felt an icy rush in his stomach as he dropped to the floor, spun around, and saw that Joe Pike had escaped through the open door.

  30

  • • •

  The mirrored towers of Los Angeles rose up out of the basin like an island from the sea. Reflections of the setting sun ricocheted between the buildings, making them glow hot and orange in the west, backdropped with a purple sky. The freeway was a lava flow of red lights
chasing the sun. Twilight was beginning.

  When you're coming to my house and reach Mulholland at the top of the mountain, you make a hard turn onto Woodrow Wilson Drive, then follow it along its winding path through the trees until you reach my little road. Wide shoulders flare off Mulholland there at the mouth of Woodrow Wilson, and are often used as parking by guests visiting the surrounding houses, so I don't usually pay attention. But tonight a boxy American sedan with a man and a woman in the front seat was the only car off the road. They looked away when I glanced at them. It was like having a neon sign that read COPS.

  Five minutes later, I pulled into the cool shadows of my carport, let myself in, and knew why the cops were there.

  Joe Pike was leaning against my kitchen counter in the dark, arms crossed, the cat sitting nearby, staring at him with abject worship.

  Joe said, “Surprise.”

  It seemed normal and natural that he was here in my home, only there was no Jeep outside and he was supposed to be in jail. He wore a loose cotton beach shirt that showed little brown dolphins jumping free in the sea, the sleeves hiding his red tattoos, the shirt's tail out over his jeans. He was wearing the glasses again, even standing here in my dark house.

  I flipped on the light.

  “Don't.”

  I flipped it off.

  “Charlie didn't get you out, did he?”

  “It was a do-it-yourself program.”

  I went around the ground floor, pulling the drapes and drawing the shades.

  “I'm home now. It would look odd if there weren't lights.”

  He nodded, and we turned on the lights.

  “There's a car on Mulholland at Woodrow Wilson. Anything else, or should you just start telling me why the hell you escaped?”

  “There's another car at the top of Nichols Canyon. They probably have a third unit down below, coming up out of Hollywood. Two units are on my condo and another on the gun shop.”

  “Sooner or later, the police are going to come here to question me.”

  “I'll leave before then.”

  “You have a place to stay? You've got wheels?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, like it was silly of me to ask.

  “They're probably watching my house, too. Maybe they weren't when you got here, but they've had time to set up. Wait until it's full dark before you leave. Full dark, you can get all the way down to Hollywood and they won't see you.”

  He nodded.

  “Jesus, Joe. Why?”

  “I'd rather be out, Elvis. Krantz has a case. Even though

  I didn't do it, they have a case, and they could win. Out here I can help clear myself. In there, I could only be their victim. I don't do victim.”

  Pike told me what had happened, and how. As he spoke, he picked up the cat and held it, and I thought that there were times when even tough men needed to feel a beating heart.

  When he told me that the murder weapon had been recovered off the point where he'd met the girl, I said, “They planted it.”

  “Someone did. Else we're back to coincidences again. You hear about Deege?”

  “He's dead.”

  “Murdered. A couple of kids saw a red Jeep where it happened. Saw a guy who looked like me behind the wheel.”

  I stared at him. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what to say. It just kept getting deeper.

  “It fits together pretty well. I killed Dersh. I killed Deege. Pretty soon it's going to look like I killed all these people.”

  “Except Lorenzo. You were in jail when Lorenzo was killed.”

  Pike shrugged, like maybe he thought there might be a way to pin that one on him, too.

  I said, “Krantz hates you. It all comes back to Krantz.”

  “It all comes back to me and Woz and DeVille. Krantz was part of that. So was Karen.”

  I said, “Maybe it isn't just Karen and Dersh. Maybe all six victims go back to that day. Before Dersh we've got a shooter who's murdered five people. He's sent no notes, left no messages, but he used the same method to murder all five. That means part of him wants the cops to know that he's responsible.”

  “A power thing.”

  “His way of sticking out his tongue. The vics are killed three months apart, no one can find a connection, and everything points to a serial killer. But what if he's not a serial killer? What if he's just a murderer with a grudge, and a plan for his killings?”

  Pike nodded.

  “I tried pulling DeVille's file, but it was missing. I know you and Wozniak located DeVille through an informant, so I pulled Wozniak's file, too, but there was nothing in there. Do you know where he got the information?”

  “No. Woz had people up and down the food chain.”

  “I went to see his widow, but she didn't know, either.”

  Pike stopped stroking the cat.

  “You went to see Paulette?”

  “Her name's Renfro now. She didn't want to talk about it, but her daughter is trying to help.”

  Pike stared at me for a long time, then let the cat slip from his arms. He got two beers from the kitchen, handed one to me, then poured a little beer on the counter. The cat lapped at it.

  “It's been a long time, Elvis. Leave Paulette alone.”

  “She might be able to help.”

  A car pulled up then, and Joe vanished into the living room, but I knew the car.

  “It's Lucy.”

  I opened the kitchen door, letting her in with a bag of groceries and two suits still in plastic laundry bags. I guess she'd gone by her apartment. Her face was ashen, and she moved with quick short steps, looking nervous. The cat hissed once, then sprinted through his cat door.

  “Oh, shut up. Something's happened. Joe escaped custody.”

  “I know. He's here.”

  As I closed the door, Joe stepped out of the living room.

  Lucy stopped in the center of the kitchen, looking at Joe. She was not happy to see him.

  She said, “What were you thinking?”

  “Hello, Lucy.”

  She put her purse and the grocery bag on the counter, but did not put down the two suits. Her face was hard; no longer nervous, but angry. “Do you know what a bad move this is?”

  Joe didn't answer.

  “They've got him in a box, Luce. I don't know if this is the smart way to play it, but it's done.”

  Lucy glared at me, and there was an anger in her face I did not like. “Don't defend this. Let there be no doubt, I can assure you both that this is not the smart way to play it.” She turned back to Joe. “Have you spoken to your attorney yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He's going to tell you to give yourself up. You should.”

  “Won't happen.”

  Lucy turned back to me. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  It felt like Mama was angry at her two little boys, and I was liking it even less.

  “No, I didn't have anything to do with it, and what's with you? Why are you so upset?”

  She rolled her eyes as if I were an idiot, then draped the suits over the grocery bags. “May I see you?”

  She stalked across the living room.

  When we were as far from Joe as we could get, I said, “Do you think you could be a little less supportive?”

  “I don't support this, and neither should you.”

  “I don't support this, either. I'm dealing with it. What would you like me to do? Kick him out? Call the cops?”

  Lucy closed her eyes, calming herself, then opened them. Her voice was measured and calm.

  “I have spent the last three hours worried sick about him, and about you. I tried to reach you, and couldn't. For all I knew, you were part of this. You and the Sundance Kid over there, partners jumping off a cliff.”

  I started to say something, but she held up a hand.

  “Do you realize that his being here jeopardizes your license under California law? You're harboring a fugitive. That's a felony.”

  “He's
here because we have to work together if we're going to beat this thing. He did not murder Eugene Dersh.”

  “Then let him prove that in court.”

  “We've gotta have proof to prove it. So far, the state has a case and we don't have any way to dispute it. We're going to have to find the person who really killed Dersh, and right now I'm thinking that's the same person who killed Karen Garcia and those other five people.”

  Lucy's mouth was tight, her face set in a hard mask because it wasn't what she wanted to hear.

  “It's dangerous for him here, Lucy. He knows that, and I know it, too. He's not going to stay, but he can't leave until it's dark.”

  “What if the police knock at your door right now? With a search warrant?”

  “We'll deal with it if it happens.”

  She stepped back from me.

  “You're not the only one in jeopardy here.”

  She steeled herself in a way that was visible. “I am not Joe's attorney. As long as I'm living here with you, my license to practice law could be at risk. Worse, what is happening here now could call into question my fitness as Ben's mother if Richard sues for custody.”

  I glanced at Joe, then back to Lucy.

  Lucy kept the emotionless eyes on mine.

  “If Joe stays, I have to leave.”

  “He's going as soon as it's dark.”

  She closed her eyes, then said it again, slowly and carefully.

  “If Joe stays, I have to leave.”

  “Don't ask me this, Lucy.”

  She didn't move.

  “I can't ask him to go.”

  A long time ago in another place I was badly wounded and could not get immediate medical attention. Little bits of hot steel had ripped through my back, tearing the arteries and tissues inside me, and all I could do was wait to be saved. I tried to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were behind me. My pants and shirt grew wet with blood, and the ground beneath me turned to red mud. I lay there that day, wondering if I would bleed to death. The minutes turned to hours as the blood leaked out, and the passage of time slowed to a crawl in a way that made me think that I would always be trapped in that single horrible moment.

  The time passed like that now.