A check of the C.L.E.T.S. computer system revealed registration to Lumbrowski. A uniformed patrol would be dispatched from Seaside immediately, a tow truck to follow.
Dewitt returned directly to the Mustang to inventory the car prior to its being impounded, the CHP 180 form in hand. Excited, he forgot about the loud pop the door would make. He froze momentarily at the sound of it.
The interior light came on, illuminating the well-worn bucket seats in a yellow pallor. Dewitt reached toward the glove compartment.
Without a warning, a hairy claw took him from behind and a monstrous weight crushed down on him. He was jerked backward by the hair. “Get outta my fuckin’ car,” Lumbrowski’s voice rasped in his ear. Dewitt smelled the hot acrid odor of a man who hadn’t showered in days. His neck jerked backward and a ten-pound ball of knuckles, skin, and hair split his lip. Dewitt reared backward. Lumbrowski’s head smacked the convertible’s frame. He stumbled away from the car. Dewitt scrambled out of the car, ready for the fight, but Lumbrowski stopped abruptly and brushed himself off. He finger-combed his hair and nodded at Dewitt. His hand came out bloody. “Okay,” he said. “Truce.”
Dewitt didn’t understand the change in attitude until he saw a Seaside radio car approaching. It pulled to a stop. The driver, in no hurry, had obviously not witnessed their struggle. He said hello to Lumbrowski by name, nodded at Dewitt, saying, “You must be Dewitt.”
Smart kid.
To Lumbrowski, Dewitt said, “We’re impounding your car as possible evidence in a homicide investigation.”
“What?” Lumbrowski whined, realizing if his car was towed, he would not only risk missing the phone call from the snitch but wouldn’t have a car in which to get anywhere. “This is bullshit, Dimwit.”
“Do it,” Dewitt told the uniform, touching his raw lip and coming away with blood on it.
“You all right, sir?” the uniform asked, suddenly realizing both men looked disheveled and were breathing hard.
Dewitt glanced at Lumbrowski, knowing he had the opportunity to file assault charges but realizing how it could bias the entire investigation by making it appear that the attention on Lumbrowski was motivated by personal reasons, not professional ones. Better to pretend nothing had happened. “Fell down,” he said unconvincingly.
“This is a stupid thing to do, Dimwit,” Lumbrowski warned. “It’ll never hold.”
“It’ll hold, Lumbrowski. I’m not worried about that. I’d get a lawyer if I were you.”
“Meaning?”
“That requires translation?” Dewitt asked. And as long as I have a witness standing right here,” he said, referring to the cop, “you are hereby requested not to leave town.”
“Leave town?” Lumbrowski griped. “In what?”
***
Dewitt waited for the tow truck, and then left the Mustang in the care of the uniform, as Saffeleti had advised. He had turned up nothing of use in his initial inventory. He needed a warrant to dig any deeper and still protect the evidence. He planned to head home and complete the 180, fully aware he faced an uphill battle of obtaining a warrant on a Saturday, even with all the paperwork properly handled. His temptation was to rush everything: get the vial of oil to the lab tonight, compare the triangle of oil on his butcher paper to the scaled photos from the crime scenes. The lab had been closed for hours, however. To convince Brian Marney, the director, to open the lab on a Saturday would be quite the accomplishment, but he just might win that one—homicide investigations had a way of creating exceptions. Friday night? No way.
At nine, he stopped by Clarence’s to discuss Lumbrowski.
When Tona Backman opened the door, Dewitt felt an immediate sense of unease, because Clarence wouldn’t invite Tona over when Emmy was spending the night. Their time together limited, these two tended to make the most of it. It was on these nights that Dewitt took Briar, not the other way around. Tona, a runner and a horsewoman, carried a casual elegance in her slim and well-toned body. She wore a brilliant blue dress and was barefoot. On the table behind her, Dewitt saw the remains of their dinner still on the plates.
“It’s James,” she said enthusiastically, as if he hadn’t interrupted.
Hindeman rounded the corner.
“Surprise,” Dewitt said, not entering. “What time were you going to get the girls?”
“Me?”
“I dropped Em over here.”
“Right, and I drove them to the mall, and you’re supposed to pick them up and take them home.”
“I thought they were staying here.”
“You guys are thick, especially for cops,” Tona interrupted. “Em says she’s staying here. Briar says she’s staying there. Oldest trick in the book.”
“Talbot,” Dewitt said. “The guy has been sniffing around the bushes in the past few weeks. Has his own car. Shows up at odd hours. Gives me the creeps. I checked him out with Tammy Cary, the attendance supervisor at the high school. He’s a complete JD. I warned Em off him. That was brilliant thinking, huh?”
“A Conquistador?” Hindeman asked.
“A what?” Tona questioned, signaling Dewitt, who again refused to go inside.
“Conquistadors,” Hindeman told her. “There’s been a string of well-hushed-up pregnancies in the past two months. One of the boys held responsible was being charged with statutory and he plea-bargained information on a teen gang calling themselves the Conquistadors.”
“The object,” Dewitt said, “is to ‘have’ the most virgins by year’s end.”
“That’s disgusting.”
To Clarence, he said, “From what Tammy’s told me, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit. He views himself as a Ferris Bueller type.”
“I’m coming with you,” Hindeman said, turning toward the hall.
“Let me have a look around first. See if they’re at the mall. See if there is a party. I’ll give you a call.”
10
He spent thirty minutes at the Monterey Mall, a favorite teen hangout, and then checked the phone book for the address.
Several cars crowded the driveway of the Pebble Beach home. Rock music pounded loudly. He blocked the driveway with the Zephyr, radioed in that he was going off duty, and locked his gun inside the glove compartment. A civilian father, he marched angrily to the front door and opened it without knocking.
The rooms were dark, the music unbearably loud. He smelled the heavy stench of pot smoke.
Switching on the lights got their attention. Kids wrapped in pairs. He began moving frantically room to room. He broke in on one teen couple in the throes of lovemaking, switched on the light and told them to get dressed. He found Briar, Emmy, Billy Talbot, and another boy in the hot tub out back, all of them naked. Emmy kept herself together quite well. Briar came undone. “I’ll be in the living room,” Dewitt said.
A few of the kids escaped. Dewitt ordered anyone who had driven to phone their parents. He found an empty paper bindle, a mirror, and a razor blade on the coffee table.
Talbot approached from Dewitt’s left in a terry-cloth robe. He was a good-looking athletic kid.
“Parents home, Billy?”
“You didn’t knock.”
The gall, he thought, the audacity.
“Are they due home?”
“You’re here uninvited, Mr. Dewitt. You have not shown me any kind of warrant. You are trespassing.”
The boy’s stoned expression was almost frightening in its coldness. When Dewitt had been a kid, the word had been warped. Billy Talbot was warped: the embryo of intellect developing improperly. “So call the police.”
“We might have worked this out,” said Billy Talbot in an improbable monotone as his friends continued to use the phone. “There was no need for this.”
“These girls are underage, Billy. That can mean serious charges. Very serious.”
Talbot smirked, cocky and insolent. “I thought you’re supposed to be catching this murderer. Or are high school parties more your speed?”
Dewitt t
urned abruptly and took a step toward the boy, his intention obvious.
“Try it,” the kid challenged, drawing him on with an inviting wave of his fingers. Big, tough Billy Talbot. Dewitt stopped. The investigation was wearing on him: Threatening a kid was something Howard Lumbrowski would do.
“Or maybe you guys are too busy down at the station snorting the dead dude’s soda to actually look for the guy who killed him.”
“What are you talking about?” Dewitt was genuinely puzzled for a moment.
“From what I hear, the dead guy was carrying some coke that never got delivered. I hear you guys found it and haven’t said anything about it.” Talbot was showing off now, growing even cockier. Seeing Dewitt’s surprised expression, Talbot said, “Shit, you didn’t know, did you? You cops are too fuckin’ stupid for words. Don’t you know anything?”
“How could you know, Billy? Was he your connection?”
“I just told you: You hear things.”
Had Dewitt told Emmy that they suspected Osbourne of dealing? Had he mentioned it around Emmy? Had Emmy violated one of their most sacred agreements, to never discuss police business with anyone but himself? He looked over at her now, searching those young eyes that reminded him of his wife, but he came up blank. “Amelia, wait with Briar in the car, please,” he said curtly. Emmy backed out, leaving Dewitt alone with Talbot in the living room.
He took a couple of steps toward the boy, then a deep breath to settle himself. “Where was this coke supposed to be delivered, Billy?” Behind his anger, Dewitt felt a sense of urgency, too. There might be a lead here. “You heard a shipment never arrived,” Dewitt guessed, making it a statement. Talbot did not reply. “Listen, boy, this may be your way out of one hell of a lot of trouble. You want to think about that, or you want to try your luck at a charge of contributing to the delinquency of a minor? I can make that stick, Billy.”
Talbot stared blankly at Dewitt.
“Do you understand this is a murder investigation? I’m not fucking around here!”
Talbot blinked; the intensity in Dewitt’s voice had startled him. He looked away, then back at Dewitt. He said, “There’s coke in the school, right? Weekends come along and demand goes up. You hear things, that’s all.”
“Goon.”
“I heard that if you wanted anything for the weekend, then you had to buy early Thursday, and you had to pay a few bucks more. Supply was down, so the price went up.”
“What else did you hear?” Dewitt prompted. “If you don’t give me specifics, Billy, you’re sizing yourself up for a pair of bracelets.”
“I heard, you know, from no one in particular, that the guy who bit it was carrying, that someone might have been expecting a delivery that never happened. The way I heard it, you guys lifted the soda and then decided to keep it out of the news. It caused a few impromptu vacations from the area, if you understand me.” This kid seemed to get all his lines from “Miami Vice.”
“A name would help your situation a lot, Billy.”
Talbot grinned. It was a practiced expression, intended to imply a knowing slyness. He looked stupid. “These kinds of people don’t have names, Mr. Dewitt. Trust me, the guy was carrying an ounce of coke, whether you guys found it or not.”
***
The first parent arrived then and spoke with Dewitt privately, concerned, it seemed, more with the legal ramifications for himself than with how sex, drugs, and alcohol might affect his son. This first experience stunned Dewitt, but it prepared him for the parents who followed. Most had the same legal concerns.
Talbot grew impatient, and was less able to hide his intoxication as the hour wore on. He protested loudly on several occasions, from his confident repose in an overstuffed chair. Each of his complaints came closer to a direct threat. Did Dewitt realize what he was doing? Did Dewitt know that crashing parties brought people bad luck? The threats began to wear on Dewitt, but he refused to show it, refused Talbot any success.
When the last of the kids was gone, Dewitt walked over to Talbot and, looking down at the boy, said, “What you’re going to learn someday, Billy, is that playing it tough is risky because there’s always someone tougher than you.”
“My sentiments exactly,” agreed Talbot, deliberately misconstruing Dewitt’s warning.
“I’ll be checking in with the narco boys. Your name comes up in the future and you’re dead meat. This time, we’ll let it slide.”
“You wouldn’t want to drag Emmy into this, would you?” Talbot asked.
“As for having sex with fourteen-year-old girls… you can be put away for years. Put away in places where guys tape your ankles to broomsticks and take turns checking your oil. Loads of fun.”
“I’m trembling all over. Can’t you see?”
“You think I’m joking? I’ll arrange a little tour for you and your pals.”
“Me? I think you’re a hypocritical asshole, Mr. Dewitt. I think if Emmy hadn’t been at this party, you would have driven right by tonight. Or is this some sort of teen crusade you’re on? Am I missing something here?”
“What you need, Billy, is some physical education.”
“Ready when you are,” the boy said.
11
Dewitt reached home in a foul mood, Emmy silent in the backseat. As he turned the car off, he said, “This is life without parole, young lady. You’re grounded forever. No phone privileges. No arguments. When you’re ready, I’d like a full explanation and an apology. No bullshit, Amelia. I won’t tolerate any more bullshit. Now go to your room and stay there.”
She ran from the car in tears, fished in her purse for keys, and let herself inside. Dewitt remained behind the wheel, hating himself, wishing Julia were around to balance him out, wishing this case was solved and that life could get back to normal—whatever that was.
Clare’s note was taped to the door. “Have some interesting stuff. Call.”
She dropped off her notes a few minutes later. He invited her in for a drink, but his invitation was less than enthusiastic, and she declined.
Interesting stuff, indeed, he thought as, drink in hand, he reviewed her lab report. Plexiglas under McDuff’s nails. From his work, or had he been scratching at Plexiglas immediately prior to his death? The cotton/polyester pills found on the skin of both men seemed to be “identical” and had been treated with the same commercial bleach, though Clare had yet to identify the manufacturer. The tread of the bicycle tire indicated a Korean brand manufactured exclusively for Schwinn. Clare was in the process of getting paint samples from the company to compare with the flakes of paint found in McDuff’s truck.
As a former criminalist, Dewitt knew the feeling: The evidence was building, the investigation gaining momentum. It took him two Scotches and an hour and a half to fall asleep.
***
He came awake with a start at 3 A.M. “Dad, Dad.” Emmy leaned over, shaking him, her breath still tainted with the beer of the party. Emmy, who lived with nightmares of her mother’s death. Despite all his anger, he immediately felt sorry for her. He prepared himself to talk her through it as he had dozens of times. Blue light from a street lamp colored the walls of the room. Slanted shadows formed patterns like prison bars. “Someone’s out there,” she whispered. “Outback. Dad, Dad.”
He pulled himself out of bed and tried to clear his head.
“I heard someone out there.”
“Rusty,” he explained, coming to his feet sleepily.
“No. Rusty hasn’t even barked.”
“It’s raining,” he said, reaching the window. “That’s all you heard.” Then, spotting the open gate, he exclaimed, “Damn! The gate’s open. It was Rusty.”
“I suppose Rusty opened the gate? I heard the shed door twice. I’m sure I did.” She handed him his holster and gun. “Please.”
This was something she never did. Dewitt looked at her curiously and accepted the weapon. “Stay here,” he said.
Dewitt pulled on a pair of pants and, gun in hand, walked throug
h the kitchen, unlocked and headed out the kitchen door. A warm rain fell on his shoulders. Silver drops slipped in single file from the back-porch light like teardrop diamonds. He called for Rusty, whistling the three-note tune that was theirs and theirs alone. The young stud was probably out terrorizing the bitches of the neighborhood. Six months ago, he had broken through a garage window to get to a Labrador in heat. Dewitt put the gun in his pocket and inched his way down the back steps in the dark, the vines to his left extinguishing the porch light. He smacked his shins against the wheelbarrow and cursed. It wasn’t in the shed as it belonged. Tempted to return inside and get his flashlight, he turned and saw a worried Emmy in the doorway. She got the flashlight for him. Dewitt kept hoping to hear the familiar rattle of Rusty’s collar. Instead, he heard the roar of the rain striking the vegetation.
With the fog-clouded illumination of the flashlight leading him, James pushed past a stubborn branch, soaking his trousers, and broke into the shrub-choked driveway, less than half its functional width. The weather-beaten wood of the dilapidated toolshed held oddly shaped patches of shifting shadows on the twin barnlike doors. The bolted piece of two-by-four that served to hold the doors shut was rotated out of its opposing block, leaving the doors hanging open a crack. Dewitt stepped closer, thinking, Something’s wrong. He spread the light around him, suddenly uneasy. Perhaps Emmy had heard someone. His hand touched the butt of the gun.
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