Demolition Angel

by Robert Crais

Marzik slammed the trunk and looked annoyed.

  “Why shouldn’t I? They didn’t mind. I made a good sale.”

  “Do me a favor and leave it in the trunk. I don’t want to see that again on this case.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. I got two children to feed.”

  Starkey was going to say more when a short, thin Latino teenager stepped out of the flower shop and looked at Marzik. “Detective? My dad says I got to get going soon. We got morning deliveries.”

  Marzik introduced her to Lester Ybarra as the lead investigator on the case.

  Starkey offered her hand. Lester’s felt clammy from being inside the flower shop. He smelled of chemicals and baby’s breath.

  “Hi, Lester. I really appreciate your helping us out like this.”

  Lester glanced at Marzik, flashing a shy smile.

  “’s no pro’lem.”

  Marzik said, “Lester saw someone using the phone across the street between one and one-fifteen the day the bomb went off, right, Lester?”

  Lester nodded, and Marzik nodded with him.

  “Can you describe that person to Detective Starkey?”

  Lester glanced at Starkey, then snuck a quick peek back at Marzik. His eyes went to Marzik so much that Starkey figured he had probably developed a crush on her, which made Starkey wonder if he had fabricated parts of his story to impress her.

  Starkey said, “Before we get to that, Lester, how about helping me set the scene, okay? So I can picture it?”

  “’s no pro’lem.”

  “Your van was where? About here where my car is?”

  “Yeah.”

  Starkey was parked directly outside the florist’s front door in a red No Parking zone about fifteen feet from the corner.

  “You always load the van out here in the street, bringing the flowers through the front door?”

  “We got three vans. The other two was using the alley, so I had to be out here. I was supposed to leave by twelve-thirty, but we got this big order right when I was set to go. A funeral set, you know? Twelve sprays. We make a lotta money from funerals. My dad said I hadda wait, so I brought the van around front here.”

  “You were sitting in the van, waiting, or you were loading flowers?”

  “When I saw the guy, I was sitting there behind the wheel. Nothing to do, you know? My sisters hadda make the sprays. So I was just sitting there in case the cops come and I hadda move.”

  Marzik said, “He was in the red zone.”

  Starkey nodded. Standing there listening, she had noticed that very few cars turned off Sunset onto the little side street. Lester would have an easy, unobstructed view of the pay phone hanging on the laundry across the street. She watched an older couple emerge from the laundry with a pink box and made a note to herself to mention it to Marzik.

  “Okay, Lester, would you describe him for me? I know you described him for Detective Marzik, but now for me.”

  Starkey and Marzik locked eyes. They were getting down to it now. Whether the caller was Anglo or Latino.

  Lester launched into his description, describing an Anglo man of medium height and build, wearing a faded blue baseball cap, sunglasses (probably Wayfarers), dark blue trousers, and a lighter blue work shirt. Lester’s impression was that the man was wearing some kind of a uniform, such as a gas station attendant or bus driver. Starkey took notes, not reacting to Lester’s statement that the caller was an Anglo. Lester had not heard the man’s voice. He thought the guy had to be in his forties, but admitted to being a lousy judge of age. As Lester spoke, Starkey felt the pager at her hip vibrate, and checked the number. Hooker.

  When Lester finished, Starkey folded her pad on a finger.

  “If you saw this guy again, you think you’d recognize him?”

  Lester shrugged.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe. I didn’t really look at him, you know? Just for a couple seconds.”

  “Did you see which way the man came from when he went to the phone?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “How about when he left? You see where he went?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention, you know? He was just some guy.”

  “He get out of or into a car?”

  Lester shrugged.

  Starkey put away the pad.

  “Okay, Lester, I’ve got just one problem with this. We have reason to believe that the person making the call was Latino. You sure this guy was Anglo?”

  “I’m pretty sure. His hair was light, you know? Not gray, but light.”

  Starkey and Marzik traded another look, neither as enthusiastic as they had been yesterday. “Pretty sure” was an equivocation.

  “Light brown?”

  “Yeah. A light brown. Kinda sandy.”

  Marzik frowned. “You could tell that with the cap?”

  Lester touched his own ears.

  “The part I could see down here, you know?”

  That made sense to Starkey. She brought out the pad again and made another note. As she wrote, she had another thought.

  “Okay. One more thing. Do you recall any identifying characteristics? A scar, maybe? A tattoo on his arm?”

  “He was wearing long sleeves.”

  “He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I couldn’t see his arms. I remember it was greasy and old, like he’d been working on a car or something.”

  Starkey glanced at Marzik, and found her staring. Marzik was clearly unhappy with Lester’s uncertainty. When Starkey glanced back at Lester, he was watching Marzik.

  “One last thing. You were out here, about, what? Fifteen minutes?”

  “You keep sayin’ that, one last thing. My old man’s gonna kick my ass. I gotta go make these deliveries.”

  “I mean it this time, Lester. Just this last question. Anyone else make a call from that phone while you were out here?”

  Starkey already knew that no other calls had been made from that phone. She wanted to see if he would lie about it to impress Marzik or to make himself more important.

  “I didn’t see anyone else. No.”

  Starkey put away her pad.

  “Okay, Lester, thanks. I want you to come in with Detective Marzik and work with a sketch artist, see if we can’t build a picture of this guy, okay?”

  “That sounds pretty cool to me. My dad ain’t gonna like it, though. He gonna raise hell.”

  “You go take care of your deliveries, and we’ll square it with your father, maybe get you down there later this morning. Detective Marzik will buy you lunch.”

  Lester nodded his head like a collie.

  “Okay. Sure.”

  Lester vanished into the flower shop, but Marzik and Starkey stayed on the sidewalk.

  “Why’d you have to tell him that, for Christ’s sake? I don’t want to spend all day with him.”

  “Somebody has to be with him. You’ve set up the rapport.”

  “It’s not going to do any good. You hear that, ‘pretty sure’? The guy’s wearing a cap, sunglasses, and a long-sleeved shirt on a day it’s ninety-five fuckin’ degrees. If it’s our guy, he’s wearing a goddamned disguise. If he’s not, he’s just some asshole.”

  Starkey felt the urge for more antacid.

  “Why do you always have to be so negative?”

  “I’m not being negative. I’m just stating what’s obvious.”

  “Okay, then try this for obvious: If he’s our guy, and if he’s wearing the same clothes when he set off the bomb, and if he’s on the news tape, the goddamned hat and sunglasses and long-sleeved shirt should make him easier to spot.”

  “Whatever. I’ll go talk to the kid’s father. He’s a bastard.”

  Marzik stalked into the shop without another word. Starkey shook out a cigarette, lit it, and went to her car. She was so angry that she was trembling. First Pell, now this. She was trying to get past it because she had a job to do, and she knew the anger was getting in her way. She tried to remember some of the techniques
that Dana had told her for setting aside her anger, but couldn’t remember any of them. Three years in therapy, and she couldn’t remember a goddamned thing.

  Just as Marzik reappeared, Starkey was considering the people coming and going from the laundry, and how many of them passed the pay phone. She took a breath, calming herself.

  “Beth, you talked to the people at the laundry, right?”

  Marzik answered without looking at her. Sulking.

  “I told you I did.”

  “Did you run the time and description by them? I’m thinking that one of their customers might’ve seen our guy.”

  Marzik pulled her pad from her purse, opened it to a list of names, then held it out with the same sulky indifference.

  “I asked them for any customers they recalled between noon and two. I’m not stupid, Carol.”

  Starkey stared at Marzik, then dropped her cigarette and crushed it.

  “Okay. I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but I think you and I need to clear the air.”

  “About what? Your busting my balls about the Amway or because the kid isn’t as solid as I thought he was?”

  “You told Kelso that you thought I was drinking on the job.”

  Marzik went a bright crimson, confirming Starkey’s suspicion.

  “No, I didn’t. Did Kelso say that?”

  “Beth, this is hard enough. If you’re going to lie to me, do me the kindness of not saying anything and just listen.”

  “I don’t like being accused.”

  “If you don’t want to work with me, let’s go to Kelso and tell him we can’t work together. I’ll tell him it’s mutual, and neither of us will lose points.”

  Marzik crossed her arms, then uncrossed them and squared herself in Starkey’s face.

  “If you want to talk about this straight-up, then let’s get straight-up. Everyone on the squad knows you have a drinking problem. Jesus Christ, we can smell it. If you don’t reek of gin, you’re blowing Altoids to cover it.”

  Starkey felt herself redden and fought the urge to step away.

  “Everybody feels sorry for you because of what happened. They set you up over here in CCS and took care to bring you along, but you know what? That shit doesn’t cut any ice with me. No one set me up, and no one is looking out for me, and I got two kids to raise.”

  “No one’s looking out for me.”

  Starkey felt as if she was suddenly on the spot, and defensive.

  “My ass there isn’t. Everybody knows that Dick Leyton used his clout at Parker to make Kelso take you, and he’s still watching out for you. I’ve got these two kids to raise, and I gotta have this job. That job isn’t babysitting you, and it sure as hell doesn’t include taking a career fall to cover your bad habits.”

  “I’m not asking you to cover for me.”

  “Good, because I won’t. I also won’t ask off this case because this is the kind of case that leads to a promotion. If this thing about the guy being Anglo turns out to be real, I want the credit. I’ve been a D-2 for too damned long. I need the bump to D-3. I need the money. If you can’t handle it, then you ask off, because I need the money.”

  Starkey felt her pager vibrate again, and, again, it was Hooker. She went into her car for her cell phone, thankful for the excuse, and berating herself for bringing up the business about the drinking. She knew that Marzik would deny ratting to Kelso, and as long as Marzik denied it, it was a no-winner. Now Marzik was openly hostile.

  “Hook, it’s me.”

  “You and Marzik get anything from the flower kid?”

  “Marzik’s going to bring him in to work with an artist. Can you get that set up?”

  “Right away. Listen, we got the news tapes you wanted. From three of the stations, anyway. You want me to set up the room for us to watch?”

  “It’s the tape they shot from the helicopters over the parking lot?”

  “Yeah. There are a lot of tapes here. You want me to set the room?”

  Starkey flashed on the images trapped on the tape. She would see the bomb explode. She would see Charlie Riggio die.

  “Set up the room, Jorge. I want the kid to look at them, too, but only after he’s done with the artist, okay? I don’t want him seeing the videos first, then describing someone he’s seen just because he thinks they look suspicious.”

  “I’ll get it set up.”

  “One more thing. What happened with Pell last night?”

  “He didn’t like something in the coroner’s report. Kelso had me take him over there.”

  Starkey felt her stomach knot.

  “What didn’t he like?”

  “The M.E. hadn’t done a full body X-ray, so Pell made him do it.”

  “Jesus, Kelso’s letting him work the case like he’s local?”

  “I can’t talk, Carol. You know?”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “They found some more frag, but he said it didn’t amount to very much.”

  Starkey felt herself breathe easier. Maybe Pell would lose interest and go back to Washington.

  “Okay, arrange for the artist and lock down the room for the tapes. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She ended the call, then went back to Marzik. She had decided that she needed to smooth over things.

  “Beth? We’ve got the videotape. Jorge’s going to set up the artist for you. After that, how about you bring Lester back to watch the tapes? Maybe he’ll pick out the hat man.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Look, I didn’t mean to step on your toes about the laundry people. That was good thinking, getting the customer names.”

  “Thank you too much.”

  If that’s the way she wanted it, Starkey thought, fine.

  She got into her car and left Marzik waiting in the heat for Lester Ybarra.

  Starkey intended to drive back to Spring Street, but as she passed the site where Riggio died, she slowed and turned into the parking lot.

  Hearing that the videotapes had arrived had gotten her thinking. The remote-control manufacturer had told her that the maximum possible range for the transmitter was one hundred yards. Per Bomb Squad policy, the area had been cleared out to one hundred yards, which meant that whoever had the transmitter would have to be right at the edge of the boundary. Starkey thought that maybe the news tape would show the crowd where someone had been close enough to pull the trigger.

  The parking lot had been released as a crime scene, and all of the shops except for the bookstore were once more open for business. Two young Latinos were painting the damaged wall, the Dumpster had been replaced, and the blast crater was now a black patch against gray tarmac. Life was moving on.

  Starkey parked on the street, then walked over to the patch. She stared across Sunset Boulevard, trying to figure how far one hundred yards was, then looked south up the little side street past the apartment buildings, trying to gauge the distance. The sun beat down on her dark gray pants suit, making the fabric hot and uncomfortable. She took off her jacket and folded it across her arm. The painters stared at the pistol on her hip, so she unclipped it and held it in the fold of her jacket.

  Starkey crossed Sunset at the light, then continued north past the Guatemalan market, counting paces until she reached one hundred and thirty. She figured this to be about a hundred yards. She was standing six parking meters north of Sunset Boulevard, about a car length north of a telephone pole. She noted the telephone pole in her casebook, figuring it would be easy to spot on the news video, then went back to the patch and counted the same number of paces south. She found herself beside a tall, spindly palm tree. With so many palms in the area, it would be hard to spot the right one. The apartment building across the street had a blue tile roof, so she noted that in her book. Starkey returned to ground zero twice more, counting paces east and west to fix obvious landmarks. When she was done, she lit a cigarette, then sat in her car, smoking.

  She thought that somewhere within these boundaries the killer had watche
d, and waited, and murdered a man.

  She wondered if he was the man that Lester Ybarra had described, if it was Pell’s Mr. Red, or if it was someone else.

  Hooker was sorting through the tapes in a cardboard box when Starkey reached CCS.

  First thing he said was, “The ATF guy called.”

  “Pell called?”

  “Yeah. I put it on your desk.”

  “Screw’m. Did you get Marzik set up with the sketch artist?”

  “They didn’t have a computer free until later. She wanted me to ask if they can’t come here and start on the tapes while they wait.”

  “No, I told her why not. I want the kid to describe who he saw before we show him any faces. Marzik knows better than that.”

  “I told her you’d say that. She wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Marzik complains about everything.”

  Starkey saw a short stack of pink message slips as she dropped her purse into her file drawer. Chester Riggs, who was working out of Organized Crime, and Warren Perez, a D-3 in Rampart Bunco, were both returning her calls. Riggs and Perez were profiling the minimall shopkeepers to look for motives behind the bomb. Neither of them expected to find a link, and neither did Starkey. She didn’t bother to read the message from Pell.

  Starkey returned to Santos and fingered through the cassettes. They were in two sizes, big three-quarter-inch master tapes and half-inch VHS dubs that could be played on home machines.

  Santos saw her frowning.

  “These are only from three of the stations, Carol. We got more coming in. Man, it’s hours. The running times are written on the outside, along with whether it’s a close-up or the wide-angle.”

  Starkey turned the tapes so that she could see what he was talking about. The shortest tape showed a recorded time of seventy-four minutes. The longest, one hundred twenty-six minutes. Each tape was also marked CLOSE or WIDE.

  “What does that mean, close or wide?”

  “Some of the helicopters carry two cameras mounted on a swivel that pokes out the bottom of the nose, just like a couple of guns. Both cameras focus on the same thing, but one of the cameras is zoomed in close, and the other is pulled back for a wider field of view. They record both cameras up in the chopper and also back at the studio.”