Back Story

by Robert B. Parker

  “She have a boyfriend?”

  Barry shrugged.

  “Is that a yes?” I said.

  “We had a sort of informal marriage, man. You know?”

  “So she had a boyfriend?”

  “She had a lot of them.”

  “But this one she followed to Boston.”

  “I guess,” Barry said.

  “You know his name?”

  “His name?”

  “Barry, are these questions too hard for you?”

  “It’s been thirty years, man.”

  “Twenty-eight, and in that time you forgot the name of the guy that your wife ran off with?”

  “She didn’t run off with him, she followed him, there’s a difference.”

  “Sure there is, what was his name?”

  “Coyote,” he said. “He was an African-American dude.”

  “You have any idea where Coyote is now?”

  “Naw, man, how would I know that?”

  He took a last drag on what was now a very small roach and snipped it and put it on the orange crate.

  “What did Coyote do for a living?”

  “He was a hippie, man. We all were. Mostly, we ripped off the system. Sold a little dope.”

  “Welfare?”

  “Sure.”

  “What else do you know about Coyote?”

  “What’s to know, man? He was part of the movement, you know. We didn’t ask a lot of questions. I think he mighta done time.”

  “Where?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe California?”

  “I guess.”

  “What was he doing in Boston?”

  “Hey, man, you think he calls me up, tells me what he’s doing?”

  “There were a couple of other women there when Emily was shot,” I said. “Any idea who they were?”

  “No, man.”

  “You know any of her friends?”

  “Sure. I knew a lot of them.”

  “What were their names.”

  “Names? All of them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Been a long time,” he said.

  “Give me any you can remember.”

  “I . . .” he spread his hands. “My head’s a little scrambled . . . Bunny.”

  “Bunny who?”

  “Ah Bunny . . . Bunny Lawrence, Lombard. Lombard, Bunny Lombard.”

  “Excellent, Barry. Gimme another one.”

  We did this for maybe half an hour, during which time I coaxed three other names from him. I wrote them down. He didn’t know where any of them were anymore.

  “They were just around, you know, in the movement,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “And when Emily was killed, you had sole custody of Daryl.”

  “Yeah. That’s when I got us this house.”

  “You bought this place after your wife died.”

  “Yeah. Emmy’s parents bought her a little insurance policy when she was born. Typical.”

  “Typical of what?” I said.

  “Middle-class mentality,” Barry said. “Have a baby, buy it insurance.”

  “And you were the beneficiary?”

  “No. Emmy changed it to Daryl. But I was her father, so I used the money to buy her this house.”

  “Which she still owns?”

  “Hey, I been paying the mortgage for twenty-eight years.”

  “World’s best dad,” I said. “How long was Daryl with you.”

  “She took off when she was eighteen.”

  “You mean she ran away.”

  “Whatever. We wasn’t mad at each other or anything. She just wanted to be on her own.”

  “You stay in touch?”

  “She wrote me sometimes.”

  I decided not to ask if he wrote her back. Barry started to roll another joint. On his big, cedar-shaving dog cushion, the Lab made some lip-smacking noises in his sleep. He was probably half snookered on secondhand smoke.

  “Is there anything else you can think of,” I said, “that might help me find who killed your wife.”

  Barry got his cigarette burning.

  “Not a thing, man.”

  “Ever hear of a guy named Abner Fancy?”

  “Abner Fancy, hell no, man. I wouldn’t forget a name like Abner Fancy. Goddamn.”

  “Ever hear of a group called the Dread Scott Brigade?”

  “Wow,” he said, “a blast from the past. The Dread Scott Brigade. Yeah, I think so. I think Emmy had some friends was in Dread Scott. Emmy hung out with a lot of blacks.”

  “Coyote a member?” I said.

  Barry shrugged. He was getting tired.

  “Coulda been. I don’t know. Mostly I did my music, smoked a little dope.” He smiled modestly. “Scored a few ladies myself, you know?”

  “Way to go,” I said.

  I gave him my card. He looked at it.

  “Anything occurs to you,” I said, “get in touch.”

  “Hey, man,” Barry said. “You’re from Boston.”

  “I am.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I came to talk with you.”

  “Me? Hey, that’s really cool.”

  “Way cool,” I said. “Anything you can think of.”

  “Sure,” Barry said. “Sure thing.”

  He took in a long pull of marijuana smoke and held it. I walked to the door. Barry was still holding the smoke. As I opened the door, he let it out slowly and smiled pleasantly at me through the smoke.

  Reefer madness.

  28

  Hawk and I were staying up in La Jolla, at La Valencia. I called Susan. After that, Hawk and I took a run along the cove and had dinner in the hotel restaurant, which was near the top of the hotel and had spectacular views of the Pacific. We each started with a martini.

  “It always amazes me,” I said to Hawk, “how some kids can grow out of the trash heap they started in.”

  “Daryl?” Hawk said.

  I nodded.

  “Her mother,” I said, “apparently slept with everybody that would hold still long enough and then got murdered. Her father did dope until he turned into a mushroom. And she grows out of that, apparently on her own, to become a functioning adult and a good actress.”

  The sun was almost touching the far rim of the ocean. Five pelicans swung over the cove, flying in an orderly arrangement. The last two divers came out of the water. I drank a little of my martini. Hawk’s martini was the traditional straight up with olives. Always the rebel, I had mine on the rocks with a twist. I sipped again. The martini tasted like John Coltrane sounds.

  “A little like Paul,” Hawk said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But Paul had me. Who has she had?”

  Hawk looked out at the wide, slow ocean, with the evening beginning to settle onto it.

  “Maybe she have a lot of stuff in her,” Hawk said.

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe she have Paul,” Hawk said.

  I thought about it, and so as not to waste time while I was thinking, I drank some more martini.

  “I don’t know if he’s known her long enough,” I said.

  “Paul a smart kid,” Hawk said.

  “I know.”

  “And he pretty strong,” Hawk said.

  “He is.”

  “Got from his uncle,” Hawk said.

  “Uncle Hawk?”

  “Sho’ nuff.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  29

  In the morning, Hawk and I ate huevos rancheros outside on the patio. Then we strapped on our rental guns, got in our rental car, and headed for the 405.

  It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive from San Diego to L.A., unless Hawk drives, in which case it’s just less than two hours. At twenty past noon we checked into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel at the foot of Rodeo Drive.

  “This pretty regal,” Hawk said in the high marble lobby, “for a couple of East-Coast thugs with loaner guns.”

  “We deserve no le
ss,” I said.

  “We deserve a lot less,” Hawk said. “But I won’t insist on it.”

  Captain Samuelson had his office in the Parker Center. I left Hawk outside on Los Angeles Street with the car. It saved parking, and I figured Sonny Karnofsky wouldn’t make a run at me inside LAPD Headquarters.

  Samuelson’s office was on the third floor in the Robbery Homicide Division, in a section marked Homicide Special Section I. Samuelson came out of his office in his shirt sleeves. He was fully bald now, his head clean shaven, and he’d gotten rid of his mustache. But he still wore tinted aviator glasses, and he was still one of my great fans.

  “The hot dog from Boston,” he said, standing in his office doorway.

  “I thought I’d swing by,” I said. “Help you straighten out the Rampart Division.”

  “Not possible,” Samuelson said. “Besides, I’m out of town, fishing in Baja, won’t be back until you’ve left town.”

  “You can run,” I said, “but you can’t hide.”

  Samuelson jerked his head and stood aside, and I went into his office. I walked in and sat and looked around.

  “Slick,” I said.

  “I’m a fucking Captain,” Samuelson said. “Section commander. Of course I have a slick office. Whaddya want?”

  “Coyote, don’t know his real name,” I said. “Formerly of San Diego. Black, about sixty. Maybe done time. Maybe for possession with intent.”

  “You think I know every two-bit dope slug in the city?” Samuelson said.

  “Yes.”

  Samuelson took out a package of Juicy Fruit gum, unwrapped two sticks, and folded them into his mouth. He held the package out toward me. I shook my head.

  “Every time I chew gum,” I said, “I bite the inside of my cheek.”

  “Clumsy bastard,” Samuelson said.

  “Have trouble walking, too,” I said.

  Samuelson nodded and swung his swivel chair around to a computer on a table at a right angle to his desk.

  “See what I can pull up,” he said.

  He played with the computer for a couple minutes. “Okay,” he said, reading off the screen. “Holton, Leon James, AKA Coyote. Born in Culver City, February tenth, 1940. First arrest in San Diego, August eleventh, 1953, for assault, dismissed because the plaintiff never showed. October 1960, in San Diego, suspicion of armed robbery, lack of evidence. List goes on. I’ll print it out for you.”

  Samuelson tapped the keyboard.

  “He did time in 1966 for armed robbery,” Samuelson said, still reading. “And in 1980 for dope.”

  “Long dry spell,” I said.

  “Both those collars were in San Diego, too,” Samuelson said.

  “Anything else interesting?”

  “You first,” Samuelson said.

  Seemed fair. I told him what I knew about Emily and Daryl and Barry and Leon.

  “Ah, yes,” Samuelson said and leaned back in his chair. “Flower power. That sounds like our Leon, doesn’t it?”

  “Lot of drugs around,” I said.

  “Liberated,” Samuelson said. “Lot of pussy, too.”

  “Now you tell me,” I said.

  Samuelson was looking at the screen as we talked.

  “This is kind of interesting,” he said. “Had a couple of FBI inquiries on Leon. Late ’74, early ’75. Local SAC requested any information we had.”

  “What did you give him?”

  “I’m using the term ‘we’ loosely. I wasn’t even around here then.”

  “Sorry, I just assume you know everything. How about any of these names?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why don’t you try your pal del Rio. He knows a lot about crime in Southern California.”

  “Being the source of much of it,” I said. “He’s in Switzerland with his, ah, staff.”

  “For crissake,” Samuelson said. “You called him first.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” I said.

  “Then stay the fuck back in Boston and eat beans,” Samuelson said. “You bother me every time you get west of Flagstaff.”

  “Well, I guess I should go see Leon,” I said. “Got an address?”

  “No. But he’s on parole,” Samuelson said. “His PO is Raymond Cortez.”

  “You got a phone number?”

  “Sure.”

  “So why don’t you call Raymond and ask for Leon’s address.”

  “What am I, your secretary?”

  “L.A. Police Captain will get a lot more response than a private guy from Boston,” I said.

  “And should,” Samuelson said and picked up his phone.

  Leon had an address on Mulholland Drive, west of Beverly Glen. Samuelson wrote it out on a memo pad, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “How about a woman named Bunny Lombard?”

  “Bunny?” Samuelson said.

  “Only name I got,” I said.

  Samuelson leaned forward and tapped his computer keys.

  “I feel like I’m on a fucking quiz show,” he said.

  “You are an absolute model of transcontinental cooperation,” I said.

  Samuelson studied the computer a little longer, then he shook his head.

  “Nix on Bunny,” he said. “Nothing.”

  “I got plenty of that,” I said.

  “And deserve every bit of it,” Samuelson said.

  “I may as well go see Leon.”

  “You got any backup? This is a tough coast. Leon may be a tough guy.”

  I nodded. “I have backup,” I said.

  “He any good?” Samuelson said.

  “Captain,” I said. “You have no idea.”

  30

  It was one of those days in L.A. There was enough breeze to keep the smog diluted, and the sun was bright and pleasant, shining down on the flowering trees and blond hair. At quarter till two we were heading up Beverly Glen. At the top we turned left onto Mulholland and went along the crest of the hill with the San Fernando Valley spread out below us to the right, orderly and smog-free.

  Leon Holton’s house was built onto a hillside at the end of a long driveway that slanted off Mulholland so that the house overlooked the Valley. When we pulled up to the security gate and rang the bell, a voice on the speakerphone said, “Yeah?”

  “We’re here to see Leon Holton,” I said. “Emily Gordon sent us.”

  There was a long silence, then the intercom buzzed and the security barrier swung open. We drove another hundred yards and parked in a circular driveway outside. The house in front of us was some sort of glass pyramid with a wide double door recessed into the front. The door was painted turquoise. To the left, built into the down slope toward the valley, was a full-sized basketball court made of some kind of green composition from which tennis courts are sometimes built. A red, white, and blue basketball sat on the ground near midcourt. A slim black man with a small patch of beard under his lower lip came to the door as we got out of the car.

  “I’d like to see some ID, please,” he said.

  “We’re not cops,” I said.

  The slim guy was wearing a black Armani suit and a black silk T-shirt. He glanced quickly over his shoulder into the house. Then he turned back and stared at us for a time.

  “Getting a little scared?” I said to Hawk.

  “Chilled,” Hawk said. “The man’s stare is chilling.”

  “Who’s this Emily Gordon?” the slim man said.

  “You Leon?” I said.

  “No. What’s this shit about Emily whosis?”

  “We’ll need to talk with Leon about that,” I said.

  The slim guy looked at us some more. Hawk and I bore up as best we could. Finally, the slim guy said, “Wait here,” and turned and disappeared into the ridiculous glass pyramid. We waited. In a few minutes he came back out, and with him was backup. There was a little white guy with big hands who looked like he might have been a jockey once, and a 300-pound black man with very little body fat who stood about 6'8".

&
nbsp; “If there’s trouble,” I murmured to Hawk, “you take him.”

  “Might be better,” Hawk said, “we run like rabbits.”

  “We need to search you,” the slim guy said, “before you go in.”

  “We each have a gun,” I said.

  “Can’t bring in no gun,” the slim man said.

  “We’ll lock them in the trunk,” I said.

  “I’ll do it,” Slim said. “Pop the trunk.”

  I did.

  “Now, first, White Guy, take the gun out and hold it in two fingers and hand it to me.”

  I did and he took it, and, holding it in his left hand, he went around to Hawk.

  “Now you, bro.”

  Hawk gave him his gun. Slim put both guns in the trunk.

  “Okay,” he said. “Step out, put your hands on the roof.”

  We did. The big black man stood close to us. The jockey stood away a little and at an angle. The big guy was muscle. The jockey would be the gun hand. Slim patted us down and stepped away.

  “Okay,” he said.

  The whole first floor of the pyramid was without walls. Seen from the inside the glass had a bluish tint, as if we were standing inside an aquarium. In the center of the space was an open fire pit with a stainless steel hood and stainless steel chimney. There was a big fire in the fireplace and a lot of air-conditioning to overcome it. In the far lefthand corner was a small glass elevator with stainless steel trim. The vast space was furnished as a living room, with stainless steel and blue leather furniture, and several big television screens suspended in midair. It was bigger than O’Hare Airport, but not as warm. There was a black man sitting beyond the fireplace in a stainless steel and blue leather Barcalounger. Slim pointed us out to him. Then he and his helpers went and stood near the front door.

  Leon didn’t get up when we walked over. He was a taut, middle-sized black man with noticeable cheekbones, wearing rimless glasses. His graying hair was cut in a short afro, and he wore a long, blue-patterned dashiki. His feet were bare. There was a prison gang tattoo on his left forearm. He and Hawk looked at each other for a long time.

  “Who is Emily Gordon?” Leon said softly.

  His voice was flat and controlled and careful, as if he thought about every word.

  “You were with her in Boston,” I said. “In 1974.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “You let us in here,” I said, “so you could find out what we knew about her . . . and you.”