LA Requiem ec-8

by Robert Crais

  The black jailer with the big arms came down the cellblock and stopped next to Krantz. "Time to take your ride, Pike. Step into the center of the floor."

  Krantz started away, then turned back. "Oh, and one other thing. You heard we found the homeless guy dead, didn't you?"

  "Deege."

  "Yeah, Deege. That was kind've goofy, wasn't it, Pike, him telling you guys that a truck like yours stopped Karen, and a guy who looked like you was driving? "

  Pike waited.

  "Someone crushed his throat and stuffed him in a Dump-ster on one of those little cul-de-sac streets below the lake."

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  Pike waited.

  "A couple of teenagers saw a red Jeep Cherokee up there, Joe. Parked in the middle of the street and waiting on the very night that Deege was killed. They saw the driver, too. Guess who they saw behind the wheel? "

  "Me."

  "This gets better and better."

  Krantz stared at Pike a little longer, then turned and walked away.

  Earlier, there had been a prisoner who made monkey sounds—oo-oo-oo—that Pike had thought of as Monkeyboy, and another prisoner with loud flatulence who had thrown feces out of his cell while shouting, "I'm the Gasman!"

  They had been taken away, and Pike had dubbed the jail cop with the big arms the Ringmaster.

  When Pike was standing, the Ringmaster waved down the hall. Jailers didn't use keys anymore. The cell locks were electronically controlled from the security station at the end of the cellblock, two female officers who sat behind a bulletproof glass partition. When the Ringmaster gave the sign, they pushed a button and Pike's door opened with a dull click. Pike thought that it sounded like a rifle bolt snapping home.

  The Ringmaster stepped through, holding the handcuffs. "We won't use the leg irons for the ride, but you gotta wear these."

  Pike put out his wrists.

  As the Ringmaster fit the cuffs, he said, "Been watching you work out in here. How many push-ups you do?"

  "A thousand."

  "How many dips?"

  "Two hundred."

  The Ringmaster grunted. He was a large man with overdeveloped arm and shoulder and chest muscles that stretched his uniform as tight as a second skin. Not many prisoners would stand up to him, and even fewer could hope to succeed if they tried.

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  The Ringmaster snugged the cuffs, checked to see they were secure, then stepped back.

  "I don't know if you're getting a square shake with this Dersh thing or not. I guess you probably did it, but if some asshole popped my lady I'd forget about this badge, too. That's what being a man is."

  Pike didn't say anything.

  "I know you're an ex-cop, and I heard about all that stuff went down when you were on the job. It don't matter to me. I just wanted to say I've had you here in my house for a couple of days, and I read you as a pretty square guy. Good luck to you."

  "Thanks."

  The two female cops buzzed them out of the cellblock into a gray, institutional corridor where the Ringmaster led Pike down a flight of stairs and into the sheriff's prisoner holding room. Five other prisoners were already there, cuffed to special plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor: three short Hispanic guys with gang tats, and two black guys, one old and weathered, the other younger, and missing his front teeth. Three sheriff's deputies armed with Tasers and nightsticks were talking by the door. Riot control.

  When the Ringmaster led Pike into the room, the younger black prisoner stared at Pike, then nudged the older man, but the older man didn't respond. The younger guy was about Pike's size, with institutional tats that were almost impossible to see against his dark skin. A jagged knife scar ran along the side of his neck, as if someone had once cut his throat.

  The Ringmaster hooked Pike to the bench, then took a clipboard from the deputies.

  Pike sat without moving, staring straight ahead at nothing, thinking about Krantz, and what Krantz had said. Across the room, the younger guy with the knife scar kept glancing over. Pike heard the older man call him Rollins.

  Fifteen minutes later, all six prisoners were unhooked from then" chairs and formed up in a line. They were led out into the parking garage and aboard a gray L.A. County Jail van, climbing through a door in the van's rear while two deputies

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  with Mossberg shotguns watched. A third dep, the driver, sat at the wheel with the engine running. They needed the engine for the air conditioner.

  Inside the van, the driver's compartment was separated from the rear by the same heavy-gauge wire mesh that covered the windows. The rear compartment where the prisoners sat was fixed with a bench running along each wall so that the prisoners faced each other. The van was set up to hold twelve, but with only half that number everyone had plenty of room.

  As they climbed in, a deputy named Montana touched each man on the shoulder and told him to sit on the left side or the right side. One of the Mexicans got it wrong and the deputy had to go inside and straighten him out, holding up the process.

  Rollins sat directly across from Pike, now openly staring at him.

  Pike stared back.

  Rollins snarled up his lips to show Pike the double-wide hole where his teeth should be.

  Pike said, "Sweet."

  The trip to the Men's Central Jail would take about twelve minutes with the usual downtown traffic delays. When the last of the six was in and seated, Deputy Montana called back through the cage. "Listen up. No talking, no moving around, no bullshit. It's a short trip, so nobody start any crap about having to pee."

  He said it a second time in Spanish, then the driver put the van in gear and pulled out of the parking garage and into traffic.

  They had gone exactly two blocks when Rollins leaned toward Pike.

  "You the one was a cop, aren't you, muthuhfuckuh?"

  Pike just looked at him, seeing him, but not seeing him. Pike was still thinking about Krantz, and about the case that was slowly coming together against him. He was letting himself float and drift and be in places other than this van.

  Rollins poked the older black guy, who looked like he'd

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  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 muthuh-fuckin' ass, you know what's good for you. Your ass is trapped in here with me." When he said that, Rol
lins flashed the long slender blade hidden in his sock.

  The other places and people melted away, leaving only the

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  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 His-panics 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.

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  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

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  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 everygoddamned-place.

  "Settle down, Rollins. I'm gonna help you."

  Rollins spun around on his back like he was break-dancing, 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 getoutta-theway! 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.

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  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.

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  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 thi
rd 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.