by Robert Crais
Mixed with the money were half a dozen printer’s catalongs, all of which bore a mailing label addressed to one Wilson Brownell in Seattle, Washington. Clark was definitely printing again, and probably with Brownell’s help. Maybe they were partners.
It was two minutes after nine when I put the money back into the duffel, and the duffel back into the attic. I kept the catalogs. I had a pretty good idea who Clark had phoned, and after I stowed the duffel I called my friend at the phone company and had her run a line check on the Hewitts’ number covering the past three days just to be sure. It didn’t take long. She told me that three calls had been made to two numbers, one of which lasted twenty-six minutes and showed a Seattle area code. Brownell. The other two numbers were both in the Los Angeles calling area, and belonged to Tre Michaels. Charles had called it right on that one.
If I hung around the house long enough, Clark would return. The money was here, and, as far as Clark knew, so were his kids, but considering Clark’s track record I might have to wait for days. Since Clark had phoned Tre Michaels, I was sure he was looking to connect, and that meant either he had been or would be visiting Culver City. Junkies may never go home, but they always go back to their connection. Ergo, Tre Michaels might know something. Maybe they were shooting up together right now.
I washed up, locked the house, and drove south to Culver City and the Bestco. I asked a Pakistani salesclerk named Rahsheed for Tre, but Rahsheed told me that Tre had the day off. Great. I went along Overland to his apartment, figuring it was a long shot, but as I turned onto his street Michaels passed me going in the opposite direction in a dark blue Acura. Lucky is better than good every time.
I swung around in a fast K-turn, thinking my luck might hold and he might bring me to Clark. He didn’t He turned into the Culver City park and parked next to a rusted-out Dodge van where a couple of younger guys with long, sun-bleached hair were jumping skateboards. The younger guys were well muscled and shirtless, with dark tans and baggy shorts and high-top felony flyers, and they stopped the jumping and opened the van’s side door when Tre got out of the Acura. Michaels opened the Acura’s trunk, and everybody carried brand-new Sony laser-disc players to the van. Still in their boxes and almost certainly ripped off from Bestco. Tre closed his trunk, and everybody climbed into the van. The van didn’t start and didn’t move, and its windows were curtained over. Your friendly neighborhood dopemobile.
I parked at the far end of the lot, then crept back to the van and listened. Nothing. Out in the park, two women were jogging with babies in three-wheel strollers and a couple of guys had their shirts off to catch the sun and a half-dozen Latin guys were playing soccer and here in the parking lot Tre Michaels was scoring dope. Life in the big city.
I took out the Dan Wesson, waited for the women with the strollers to pass, then threw open the sliding door, and yelled, “Police!”
Tre Michaels and the two young guys were sitting cross-legged on the bare metal deck, dividing up money and nickel bags of white powder amid the laser-disc players, all three of them frozen in mid-count, staring at the Dan Wesson with bulging wet eyes. The money was a short stack of worn hundreds, and I wondered if Tre had gotten them from Clark. One of the kids said, “Oh, shit.”
Tre Michaels said, “It’s you.”
I lowered the gun. “Good job, Officer Michaels. Couldn’t’ve done it without you.”
The two kids looked at Tre.
Tre Michaels opened his mouth, then closed it and looked at the kids. “I’m not a cop.”
The bigger kid’s eyes narrowed. “You prick.”
Michaels said, “Hey. This is bullshit.”
I pulled Michaels out of the van. “I think we can cut these kids a deal, don’t you?” I jerked him harder, then slammed the side door and walked him away. The van’s engine roared to life and its tires smoked. Michaels said, “Are you nuts? Do you know what you did to me?”
“They’re kids, Tre. You’re not scared of a couple of kids, are you?”
His eyes were wide and bright, and his face was sheened with sweat. “Jesus, you gotta be nuts.”
I walked him to the car. “Tell me something. You think Bestco would press charges if they knew you were ripping off goods to turn over for dope?”
Michaels chewed at his lip and didn’t say anything, staring after the departing van like it was the last bus to salvation and he had missed it. Across the park, the driver gave us the finger and yelled something I couldn’t understand. Charles in five years.
I said, “Clark Haines.” Tre wouldn’t know “Hewitt.”
Michaels stared at the van.
I jerked his arm. “Wake up, Tre.”
He looked at me. “That was my whole score. They got my money. They got the goods. Now what am I going to do?”
I jerked him again. Harder. “Me or Bestco.”
Tre Michaels wet his lips, still staring after the van. “Jesus, didn’t we go through this before? I dunno where Clark is.”
Another jerk. “He called you, Tre. Twice.”
He finally looked at me and his eyes were confused. I’ve never known an addict who wasn’t. “Well, yeah. He came by last night and scored a couple bags.”
Another jerk. “C’mon, Tre. He’s up to something and a crummy two bags wouldn’t cut it.”
“He bought eight bags, okay? That was all I had.” He scrunched up his face like he was regretting something. “I gave him a really good price.”
Eight bags was a lot. Maybe enough to travel on. Maybe he was going back to Seattle. “Did he say why he needed so much?”
“He said he’d be gone for a few days.”
“He say where he was going?” I was thinking Seattle. I was thinking Wilson Brownell, again.
“Long Beach.”
I looked at him. “He said he was going to Long Beach?”
Michaels made the scrunched face again. “Well, he didn’t say he was going to Long Beach, but he asked me for a connection down there, so what would you think?” Long Beach.
“Did you give him a name?”
Michaels frowned. “Hell, I don’t know anyone in Long Beach.” He started to shake. “You really screwed me with those guys.” He waved his hands. “Now what am I gonna do, you tell me that? Now what?”
He was crying when I walked away.
I drove to my office. I still wanted to call Tracy Mannos, but first I needed to call Brownell and ask him about Long Beach. I would also call Teri and ask her. Maybe saying the words would ring a bell.
At fourteen minutes after eleven, I left my car in the parking garage, walked up the four flights to my office, and found the place filled with cops.
Reed Jasper was sitting at my desk, while three other guys that I’d never seen before were going through my files. Papers were scattered around on the floor and the place had been turned upside down. Jasper smiled when he saw me, and said, “Well, well, well. Just the guy we wanted to see.”
I looked from Jasper to the other guys, then back to Jasper. They were heavy men in dark rumpled suits with anonymous faces. Feds. I said, “What the hell are you doing, Jasper?”
“Trying to get a line on Clark Hewitt, my man.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket and dropped it on my desk. “Federal order to search and seize, duly signed and hereby presented.” He leaned back in my chair and crossed his arms.
The other three guys were staring at me, and I felt myself run cold. “Why?”
“Wilson Brownell was found tortured to death yesterday afternoon. I think Clark Hewitt might’ve been involved.”
19
I said, “If I wanted to remodel, I wouldn’t have called the government.”
Jasper said, “These are Agents Warren and Pigozzi of your Los Angeles Marshals’ Office, and this is Special Agent Stansfield of the FBI.” Warren was black. Pigozzi sported bright red hair, and Stansfield’s chin was littered with serious zit-craters. “We’re here because we believe you have knowledge of Clark Hewitt, eithe
r under that name or another.”
I dropped onto the couch and frowned at him. “Didn’t we go through this in Seattle?”
Warren said, “I would encourage you to contact an attorney at this time.”
“Why?”
“Because anything you say will be used against you.”
I spread my hands. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” Mr. Confident. “Other than being pissed off that you guys are ransacking my office.”
Warren went back to the files like it didn’t really matter to him either way.
Jasper shook his head. “I don’t get you, Cole. I know you’re holding out, but I don’t get why.”
I didn’t say anything. How do you explain a promise to a fifteen-year-old?
He said, “Your buddies the Markovs have come to town. If they haven’t been around to see you, they will.”
“I hope they’re neater than you guys.”
The red-haired agent looked up from the file cabinet, then let six or seven files dribble through his fingers to the floor. The floor was covered with yellow work sheets and billing statements and slim stapled reports. I said, “That’s really bush.”
Jasper looked over and frowned. “Jesus Christ, Leo.”
Leo said, “Maybe he shouldn’t try to be funny.”
I said, “That’s a good line, Leo. You practice in front of the mirror?”
Leo made a ragged smile. “Let’s see if you’re that good when it comes time to renew your license.”
“Pardon me while I catch my breath.”
Leo let more files dribble to the floor.
Jasper came around the desk like we were in his office, not mine. “Look, Cole, all I want is a little cooperation.”
“You got a great way of showing it.”
“Clark Hewitt is up to his ass here, and so are his kids. You’ve met the Markovs. You know what I’m talking about.”
I tried to look like it didn’t matter.
“My partner got blown away to keep Clark Hewitt whole. You don’t think we’re going to let anything happen to him now, do you?”
I tried to look like I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about, but I knew he was right. I also knew that if Clark was printing again these guys would lock him down without a second thought, and that the Markovs would like that just fine. If he was in prison, the Markovs would know exactly where to find him.
Jasper motioned me out onto the balcony. “Let’s talk out here, Cole. It’ll be easier while these guys work.”
I went out with him, but I didn’t like it much. The sky had filled with a deep white haze that masked the Channel Islands. You could barely see the ocean. I stared at the haze and breathed the sea air. “Did you guys do my house?”
“Before we came here.”
“You find anything?”
Jasper smiled. “You know we didn’t, and you know we’re not going to find anything here either, but we gotta cover the bases.”
“Great, Jasper. That makes me feel better.”
Jasper crossed his arms and leaned with his back to the balcony rail. He was wearing little round government sunglasses and a dull gray suit, fine for Seattle but hot down here. It would be hot, and it just screamed “fed.” He said, “I don’t like doing this, but I think you’re holding out.”
“Moi?”
“I asked people about you, and those people said if you were looking for a guy, then you probably found him. I just can’t figure why you won’t come clean.”
“Maybe they’re wrong.”
He nodded. “Could be.”
“But maybe I just don’t like being muscled, so I’m being petulant.”
He laughed. “They said that, too.” He let the laugh fade. “I know that Clark Hewitt was in Seattle. I know from eyewitnesses that a man matching Hewitt’s description was seen in contact with Wilson Brownell, a former close associate and master counterfeiter. I’ll bet you know that, too.”
“I saw Brownell when I was in Seattle. He didn’t know anything.”
“I hope for Clark’s sake he didn’t.” Jasper watched the men inside work for a while. The black agent discovered the Pinocchio clock and nudged the red-haired agent, then they both stared at it. Jasper said, “Brownell was tortured to death with a steam iron. I brought down the pictures. You wanna see?”
I shook my head.
“Here’s a safe bet, Cole. Whatever Brownell knew, the Markovs now know. If Brownell knew whatever name they’re living under, or an address or a phone number, they’ve got it now. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I get it, Jasper.” I took a breath, and stared south toward Catalina. I tried to see through the haze, but I could only make out the island’s outline without seeing what was really there. “I don’t know where Clark is.”
The pocked agent came to the French doors and said, “Jasper.”
Jasper went in and the four of them gathered by my desk and mumbled in low whispers, the red-haired agent standing with his hand on the pocked agent’s back. It wasn’t enough that I was ducking Russians and had the weight of the U.S. government on my case, but now I was thinking that maybe Brownell had known exactly where Clark was, and what he was doing, and maybe Dobcek and Sautin were on their way now. Maybe they already had Clark, but if they did there was nothing that I or Jasper could do about it, and I told myself that thinking about it did no good. The kids were the important thing, and the kids were safe. Maybe Clark was still okay, and if I could find him I could save him. If I could find him, maybe I could even bring him to Jasper without having to worry about them nailing him for a counterfeit beef. If he was still alive.
The black agent shook Jasper’s hand and walked out of my office. The red-haired agent pointed out the Pinocchio clock to the pocked agent, and the pocked agent shook his head. Jasper came back to the balcony. I said, “Is the party over?”
Jasper said, “You’re not in the clear. You just get a pass for today.” He gave me a card. “I’m staying at the Marriott downtown. I wrote my room number here. You decide to do the right thing, gimme a call.”
“Sure.” The right thing.
He looked at the haze and shook his head. “How do you people breathe this shit?”
“Makes us tough, Jasper. Angelinos have the toughest lungs in America.”
He nodded, probably more to himself than to me. “Yeah, sure.” Then he took a deep breath of it and went back to the door. “I’ve known Clark Hewitt since he came to us, begging us to save his ass from the Markovs, and I can tell you he isn’t what he seems.”
I stared at him.
“He comes across like this doof, but he’s more than that.” He smiled at me, but there was no joy in it. “Whatever you think you know about him, I can promise you this: It ain’t what it seems, and neither is he.”
Reed Jasper showed me his palms like he had given me the Rosetta stone and it was up to me what I did with it. Then he walked back through my office and out the door. The red-haired agent and the pocked agent walked with him, and they didn’t bother to close the door.
I stayed on the balcony until they left the building and climbed into two dark blue G-rides and melted into the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. Then I went in, closed the outer door, and picked up my papers. It took most of an hour, but no more than that because there hadn’t been a lot in my files. Nothing seemed to be missing, though a small ceramic statue of Jiminy Cricket had fallen and broken. I threw it away.
When the papers were in their folders and the folders back in their files and the files once more in the cabinet, I opened a longneck Budweiser, sat at my desk, and put my feet up. I said, “Clark, you’d better be worth it.”
The phone rang then, and I scooped it up. Mr. Happy-go-lucky. Mr. Shirttail-out-and-nothing-on-my-mind, hanging around his office with a liplock on a longneck, the very image of the depressed detective contemplating the loss of his license and livelihood to the weight of the United States government. “Elvis Cole Detective Agency, professional de
tection at going-out-of-business rates.”
Tracy Mannos said, “Are you drunk?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, bag it. Can you come see me?”
I frowned at the Pinocchio. “Now?” Thinking about Pike and those kids at the safe house. Thinking about following the Long Beach lead. “You find out something about Lucy’s negotiation?”
“I’d rather do this in person, here at KROK.” Ah.
“Why there?”
She sounded irritated. “Stop being stupid and get over here.” Then she hung up.
I locked the office, then slowly drove to KROK to see Tracy Mannos. No one followed me.
No one that I could see.
20
KROK Television, Power Channel 8 (Personal News from Us to You—We take it personally!!), was housed in a large brick and steel building off Western Avenue in the east side of Hollywood. I parked in the little security lot they have next to the building, and found Tracy waiting for me in the reception area. I hadn’t expected her to be waiting, but she was, and she looked anxious. I said, “Guess you found something.”
“Let’s talk in my office.”
Tracy Mannos was a tall, attractive woman in her early fifties. Her hair was streaked with gray and cut close, and she carried herself with an erect, no-nonsense corporate manner, every inch the authoritative station manager. Lucy and I had met her when I was working on the Theodore Martin murder case, and she had been impressed enough with Lucy’s bearing and legal analysis to suggest to her bosses that Lucy be offered the job of on-air legal analyst.
She led me through a heavy glass security door and along a sterile hall, near deserted because of the time of day. She said, “Stu Greenberg’s our head of business affairs. I asked him about Lucy’s negotiation, and he said that there was nothing unusual about it. In fact, he told me not to worry.”