Finally, he slid a manila file folder across the table at me. “There’s all the info on your boy, the guy who tried killing you and your partner this morning . . . have a look.”
I watched the captain’s eyes while pulling the file toward me, still trying to get a feel for him. He seemed to be studying me also, making me think there might be something more to this.
When my eyes shifted to the paperwork, he began, “Have you seen your car?”
“Don’t really care about the car, Captain.”
“That’s two cars in less than a week. You guys—”
“With all due respect, Captain,” I said, looking up at him now with a scowl of my own, “you’re not going to want to push this right now. I don’t really care about the goddamned car.”
“What did you say?” he snapped.
He heard me, of course. The point had been made, no sense in pushing it. I lowered my eyes to the file in front of me, hoping it would end there.
“Nothing to this guy, no criminal history, nothing,” Stover said, quiet now, almost decent. “Looks like he’s a veteran, but we don’t have any information on his service yet. You guys can really pick them.”
I hadn’t yet opened the file; I sat fixated on the photo clipped to the outside. It didn’t resemble this guy we called Fudd. Something was off.
“What about the house?” I asked. “Anything good, like dead bodies?”
“They haven’t come up with anything yet, as far as I know. We have two teams and the crime lab out there now. Just got the warrant signed about an hour ago.”
“He has something to do with these murders,” I said, now looking up at the captain’s smug face, “I can feel it.”
“Can you prove it? Hunches tend to come up flat with the D.A.”
I looked back at the closed file in front of me, choosing to hold my tongue. The captain had never worked as a detective, only supervised various detective teams. Now he was telling me what it would take to get a case filed by the District Attorney. Whatever, man.
“The house across the street from this asshole belongs to a girl named Donna Edwards,” I said. “She grew up with our victim, Shane Wright—”
“The drag queen.”
“Transsexual.”
“Whatever.”
“We’re pretty sure they—Donna and our victim—were together the night before she was killed,” I said. “The victim from Sandy Landers’s case may have been there too. And now, Donna Edwards is missing.”
“That seems a bit thin,” he said. “Interesting, but thin.”
“Maybe it is now,” I agreed, “but it’s a good starting point. We need to get a good interrogation with this guy. If you think we should stay clear, given the circs, you need to put a tough team on him, a couple of seasoned dicks, like Little and Lopes, or maybe Stanton and Gray. Make sure whoever you choose talks to us before they go in, get some background on our case.”
Captain Stover sat with a puzzled look for a moment, and then he seemed to understand. He said, “You realize we don’t have the suspect, don’t you?”
“What?! What do you mean we don’t have him?”
“He wasn’t in the house, gone before SWAT made entry. What do you want me to tell you?”
“He escaped?”
“That’s the way it looks,” he said, his eyes darting away. “The dogs are out there now. Maybe they’ll get a scent and track him down.”
I looked back at the file without seeing it, trying to keep my composure though I wanted to scream. How did he slip out of there, and when? I hadn’t expected that at all; I hadn’t even considered it. It felt like being socked in the gut, knowing the guy who had been shooting at us—trying his best to kill us—had escaped and was out there somewhere.
“So there’s nothing in the house?” I asked, trying to refocus.
“Not really.”
“No torture chamber, body parts?”
“Nope.”
“They check the freezer?”
“Some photos, papers, that’s about it. There in the file,” he said and nodded to the folder in my hand, “about it, really . . . so far.”
I opened the file and thumbed through a couple utility bills. “That’s his name, James Scott?”
“There’s another photo in there, few pages back.”
I thumbed to it, and studied it, told myself I could see the man we know as Fudd in that photo, though it really didn’t look like him. Maybe fifty pounds ago, twenty years ago, whatever. The more I looked at it though, the more I put it on the man in the driveway.
“Yep, that’s him,” I said, “that’s our boy, Elmer Fudd.”
“Keep looking, there’s some interesting photos in the back.”
I flipped through pages of various printouts—DMV records, FBI and DOJ queries with no records, California Criminal History Report, again with no records—and finally came to the first of several photos which were printed on regular printer paper.
“What’s this? Wait, what the hell?”
Captain watched as I continued.
I looked at the next three, each a photo of me walking around Donna’s house. Two different days, evident by the clothes. Photos of Floyd, some zoomed in close and personal. “This is unreal. Why’s he photographing me and my partner?”
“Maybe he likes you two,” he said. Then he leaned over and pointed at the next picture. “Is that your victim there, the ugly bitch in the miniskirt?”
“That’s Shane Wright,” I said, flipping it over and looking at the next one. “This one here’s probably Donna, or that would be my guess. The Mexican guy here—”
“Reed and Knight are handling the shooting. Fugitive’s giving us a team, six deputies and a sergeant to search for this lunatic. You and Floyd keep the drag queen murder—at least for now—and monitor Sandy and the new guy on their case, in the event they do turn out to be related. I’m not so sure she’s sniffing down the right trail on this.”
“There,” I said, still studying photos, barely hearing the captain’s words, “this one here.”
“What?”
“See the dress, the shoes, fishnets?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s my victim—”
“Freak.”
“—and she’s wearing the same thing she wore the night she was killed. Looks like she’s leaving Donna’s house here. This girl behind her right here, this looks like Sandy’s victim.”
“Maybe the only outfit she has.”
“Lanh Hoang, guy does our Vietnamese translations?”
“Yeah, little weirdo.”
“He lives on the next block,” I said. “He saw our victim at Donna’s house, just a few hours before the murder. She was wearing these clothes. They were in the back, near the Jacuzzi, her friend here with her. We need to get a positive I.D. from Sandy on this photo, see if this is her victim.”
“You need to give Reed and Knight a statement.”
“Did they find his gun?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Jesus. Well, what is it, anyway?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The weapon. We’ve got expended cartridges, right? What’s he shooting?”
“No cartridges.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense. How do we not have cartridges? Who the hell’s searching that place?”
“Calm down, Richard. Best we can figure, he policed his brass. Who knows why.”
“This is crazy,” I said, dropping my forehead into the web of my hand, supporting it with an elbow on the walnut conference table. I stared at the file, the photo of James Scott off to one side, the one of my victim wearing that outfit to the other. What was it with this guy, James Scott? Here he was in this D.M.V. photo, his hair slicked back, neat and trim. Clean-shaven, his pale blue eyes crisp and alert, a bit of a grin for the camera, just on that one side of his mouth. But what else was it? Something else about him, something different. The
guy we knew, the one we called Elmer Fudd, fit the bill of a classic society dropout. This guy in the picture looked like the same guy, but somehow appeared very different.
“The statement, Richard, are you ready?”
“Sure.”
“After you give them your statement, go by the crime lab and let Firearms test-fire your gun, you and your partner both. They’ll need to figure out who hit what, if someone turns up with a county bullet in them. Hopefully it won’t be a neighbor, the luck you two seem to have. After that, I want you to go home. Stay there, take a day or two off. We’ll call if we need you.”
“Right, boss.”
“I’m serious, I don’t want you back in the field tonight, or tomorrow.”
“Long as someone keeps us posted,” I said, “let us know if they find our boy.”
“We’ll keep you posted, don’t worry about that.”
11
WEDNESDAY MORNING ARRIVED with A headache, the result of an extended debriefing in Chinatown; Floyd insists on Bombay gin whenever we shoot someone. The fact we had not actually shot anyone, as far as we knew, mattered not according to Floyd. We could make an exception this one time, and hey, who knows, we may have shot him.
I pulled into the crowded office parking lot and backed into the nearest spot with a mental list of ideas and the sound of a passing train’s whistle ricocheting through my aching head, the ground rumbling beneath my feet. It occurred to me how disorganized the hooker case had become.
On our list of persons of interest, we had Charlie Wright, the victim’s father, who sat in county jail on charges of assault, contempt of cop, or something along those lines. We needed to clear him of the murder—assuming he didn’t do it—and speak with a deputy district attorney about charges related to our scuffle with him. The fight with Charlie seemed insignificant after being nailed to the concrete by sniper fire. The truth was, Floyd and I wanted a piece of that bully, and we had our opportunity. Might not have gone the way we had hoped, but now it’s done. And like settling a score with a school classmate, once the fighting is over, there were seldom hard feelings that remained. We could just about shake hands and forget it now, neither of us believing Charlie had committed the murder.
We also had the gangster issue to iron out, the misguided youth on whom Sandy Landers hung her case, as thin as the evidence was. Although the D.A. had rejected the case, Sandy’s report named him as a suspect, something that could eventually cloud our case if not addressed early on.
Finally, I thought, we needed to find out what happened to Donna Edwards and why Elmer Fudd, now officially known as James Scott, had tried to kill us.
I walked toward the rear office door, pausing to lift the front of my gray felt just enough to wipe the sweat from my head, and then I walked in to the sounds of a busy morning at the Homicide Bureau: the pecking of keyboards, phones ringing and answered, chatter coupled with laughter, and then, “Hey Dickie, show us that dive and roll routine.”
Laughter followed the comment and someone else said, “I’ve got a box of bullets for sale, if you’re interested.”
I launched an indirect bite me, assholes as I approached my desk, glaring at Floyd, the prick sitting there with that grin.
“What?” he asked.
“My dive and roll routine?”
“Hey, they asked what happened, I told them how you saved my life.”
“Again.”
“Yeah, again.”
“You done telling war stories?”
“You know what your problem is, Dickie?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You don’t know how to have fun. You don’t even like fun. See, fun is my department, falling under the category of entertainment. This is just a small sample of the shit you don’t know, Dickie. There’s a much larger list but we don’t have time for all that right now.”
“You know what I do know?”
“What’s that, Dickie?”
“I know I liked you better when you were being shot at.”
I tossed my hat onto my desk atop a stack of paperwork, the chatter behind me now faded to a few chuckles. I loosened my tie and headed for coffee, turning my cuffs up twice as I rounded the corner into the hallway. I hoped to make it there and back without encountering the captain, more so today than usual, since we were instructed to take a few days off.
Sandy Landers and her partner, Rick Davenport, were seated in the lunchroom having coffee, both happy, probably just pleased with themselves for solving another case. I put on the best greeting smile I could muster. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Rick said.
“Hey, Richard,” Sandy said, “we heard about that fiasco out there, the sniper?”
“Yeah, pretty exciting,” I said, hoping to have it dropped there.
“You think that guy has anything to do with your murder?” she asked, raising a Styrofoam cup with red lipstick on the rim, blowing across the steam as she awaited my reply.
“I think he might have something to do with a couple murders.”
“A couple?” she asked.
“If he’s involved in mine,” I said, “he’s good for yours too. Maybe he even whacked Donna Edwards.”
“Who’s that, Donna Edwards?”
I turned to rinse a mug over the sink. “Best friend of my victim,” I said over my shoulder. “They were together the night before the two murders, mine and yours. In fact, now that you mention it, I need you to look at a photo, see if it’s your victim with mine at Donna’s house.”
“Okay, but I told you our case is cleared, right?”
“That’s what you said.”
I swiped a paper towel through the inside of my favorite mug, the one with the chalked body outline and My Day Begins When Yours Ends on the side. I filled it with detective-grade caffeine, which is akin to high-test fuel and high-velocity bullets, only cheaper and more practical in a place like this one.
“I’ll be at my desk, you want to take a look at that picture,” I said on the way out.
“Bad news, Dickie,” Floyd said when I passed behind him, pulling my chair out of the desk next to his, “your buddy Charlie’s been released.”
“How’d that happen?”
“You forgot to do a P.C.D.”
“Why’s that my job?”
“Because you’re the one good at making up probable cause. It’s only fitting you should fabricate the declaration.”
“So we’ll go back to his house,” I said, picking up my phone to check messages, “talk to him there.”
“So you can start another fight?”
“Hang on.”
“What?”
I tucked the mouthpiece under my chin, spun my chair toward Floyd and said, “Some asshole lawyer. Says he represents Charlie Wright and would appreciate any future contact be arranged through him.”
“So, next time we go to kick his ass, we should do it at this guy’s office?” Floyd asked with the ever-present smirk.
“I guess.”
I dropped the phone into its cradle and stared at my desk, absently viewing photos beneath the glass: portrait of the wife, a couple hunting trip photos, Floyd . . . one, two, three . . . “You put another picture of you on my desk?”
“The one with Cody?”
“I guess that’d be the new one, I don’t know; I can’t keep track anymore. There’s more pictures of you on here than of my wife.”
“You love me more,” Floyd said, confident of it.
“I don’t mind the ones of your kids, but I’m starting to get tired of seeing your mug everywhere. I see enough of you already, thank you.”
“Dude, that was Cody’s last game. They beat Whittier for the league championship. Didn’t I tell you about it? I thought you’d like it, being his godfather and all.”
“You didn’t have one of him without you?”
“I almost brought you one from our Hawaii trip, me and Cody snorkeling. I’ll have to remember to bring it in.”
“That’s what I need, a swimsuit edition.” I leaned back in my chair. “I think you have issues, pal.”
“How’s your head?” he asked. “You always feel like shit after gin, have you noticed that? I have, because you’re hard enough to deal with day to day, Dickie. Add a night out, and you’re downright miserable. I need a soda. Come on,” he said, rising from his chair, “buy me a Diet Coke.”
“Wait,” I said, “we need to get organized on this case and get something done before our next on-call period. Plus we can’t spend too much time in the office this morning, the captain’s going to lose his mind if he sees us.”
“See what I mean? Impossible to deal with. First, I already saw the captain, and we had a nice little chat. I told him we just had a few things to take care of here in the office, and then we would take the rest of the day off. Now, buy me a soda and tell Uncle Floyd all about your list of shit to do. I’m sure it’s a dandy.”
We walked back to the kitchen, past Sandy and her partner still enjoying the morning over a cup of coffee, nothing better to do. I slid a dollar in the vending machine and hit the button for a Diet Coke. Once Floyd had his soda, we turned and walked back through the office to our desks, remaining silent other than the occasional greeting to others. We pulled our chairs out and sat to face each other.
Floyd, sounding annoyed with the prospect of hearing my thoughts, said: “Okay, Dickie, let’s hear it.”
Then he began looking around the office as I spoke, disinterested.
“What do we have for evidence?”
He didn’t respond.
“Hey, dipshit, can you pay attention here a minute?”
“See,” he said, “you’re all grumpy, probably because I kept you out late. I don’t know how Val puts up with you.”
“Do we have any evidence, yes or no?”
A Good Bunch of Men Page 11