Driving toward downtown, I kept one eye on my rear view mirror. I considered heading over to Forest Grove to see if William Jameson would corroborate Dr. Tarkanian’s story, but decided against it. Fishburne/Borders and the ersatz Officer Koncak were right in the middle of Cicero’s death. That was enough for now. I wanted to get on Merlin and do a search on Halladay, as my instinct was screaming that he might be connected to Cicero’s death. I tempered myself with the thought that him jogging in Arnold’s old neighborhood might be purely circumstantial; it could mean nothing, but it could also mean he lived nearby and had known Arnold for some time.
I called Bobby to check in but he didn’t pick up, so I called Audrey.
“Hi, Boss.”
“I need you to go down to the L.A. County Recorder’s Office in Norwalk, to check on a grant deed for 3655 Beachwood Drive.”
“Sure, but why?”
“Arnold Clipper owns it, but I need verification.”
“I’ll call you soon as I’ve got the info.”
“Thanks.”
I called Jade. She didn’t pick up ‘til the fourth ring and when she did she sounded distraught. “Nick, is that you? Nick!”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Every time a car drives by, I think it’s them.”
“Relax. There’s virtually no traffic there.”
“I know. That’s why I keep thinking they’re sneaking up on me. I can’t believe I was taken in by those creeps. They had the gall to sit in my living room, and lie to me about my father’s death.”
“Do you have the electricity on?”
“The fence? Yes, of course.”
“They’d have a helluva time getting in.”
“What if they shoot up the house? Nobody in this neighborhood would even notice.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Please hurry.”
“Watch TV and try to calm down. Do you want me to bring you any take-out?”
“No. Just get here.”
When I got back to the office, I parked two blocks north on 1st Street, east of Alameda. The neighborhood is gentrifying and condos are going up by the hundred. Construction guys wearing masks to protect them from the bad air worked steadily in the gray light. I threaded my way through the back streets and let myself in the side door. It was stuffy, so I turned on the air and skimmed my email -- nothing significant. I logged onto Merlin. James Halladay’s current residence was on Linforth Drive, which intersects Beachwood half-a-mile below Arnold’s house.
I was now certain that Fishburne and Koncak were involved in Cicero’s death. The problem was Halladay. If he was, too, I was obviously compromised since I was now working for him. The motivation was the Lamont family fortune. Fishburne and Koncak could be employees, working for Halladay or Arnold or both. Halladay might be unaware of Arnold’s more bizarre tendencies. His involvement, however, was made less likely by the fact he was going to a lot of trouble to see that Jade was protected. That, on the other hand, could be mere subterfuge.
I set the alarm and had barely hit the sidewalk when two LAPD detectives closed in.
“Nick Crane?”
I knew from their fine sense of dress they were dicks. “Who wants to know?” They pulled back their jackets revealing shields and guns. I grinned. “In that case, yes.”
Officer Sanchez, all shaved head and glaring eyes, didn’t like my sense of humor. He slammed me up against the side of their cruiser and snapped the cuffs on me. “Lemme know if they’re too tight,” he snarled.
He turned me around and his partner, Officer Tomito, yanked my Colt Commander. “Nice artillery.”
“It does the job.”
“You got a backup?”
“Right ankle.”
He pulled up my trouser leg and took my Walther P22. Fortunately, I wasn’t carrying lock picks or anything else that might be viewed as compromising. They opened the back door of the cruiser and shoved me inside. Sanchez sat next to me. Tomito climbed behind the wheel.
The cop riding shotgun, who was casually dressed in street clothes, gave me a look that was seven-eighths contempt and one-eighth sympathy. I seriously doubted that Tarkanian would have had either the courage or just plain bad sense to lodge a complaint, which meant I had no idea what this was about.
“I’m Detective Jansen. You’ve already met Officers Sanchez and Tomito.”
“Let’s get this over with. I’ve got an appointment in 30.”
Sanchez jabbed me hard in the ribs. “Shut the fuck up.”
I grimaced, gritted my teeth and locked eyes with him. “You’re real tough when I’m cuffed.”
Sanchez opened his mouth to reply, but Jansen cut him off. “Tony Bott speaks highly of you. Says you’re good people. Nonetheless, we’ve got us a little problem.” He fixed me with a dead eye cop stare. “Murder One.”
“I’m outta the hit business.”
“Glad to hear that. Try to keep it that way.”
“I will. Trust me.”
“Never trust anyone who says ‘trust me,’” added Officer Tomito.
This brought a round of laughter.
Detective Jansen looked at my .45, flexed his jaw muscles and said to Tomito, “Let’s ride.”
We pulled away from the curb, turned left on Central and right on 5th. When we got to Towne Street, we parked and got out.
Jansen looked at Sanchez. “Uncuff him.”
I rubbed my wrists to get my circulation back. For years, Towne Street was the center of the Skid Row open air crack market, but in recent years it’s moved down to 5th and San Carlos, near the missions. That way a basehead can get a fix on his way into rehab, and on his way out, without ever leaving the block.
Towne, between 5th and 6th was completely cordoned off. The only officials on the scene were the investigator, the coroner’s investigator and the photographer. A few rubberneckers watched from behind sawhorses, as we ducked under the tape and headed down the block. The victim came gradually into focus: flat on its back, feet almost touching the rust-colored brick wall of what had once been a foundry. The body was nude and bloated and had been decapitated. The severed head rested on one cheek, facing north along the sidewalk. Its eyes stared lifelessly and what should have been hair was blood-smeared skull.
“At least the perp didn’t cut his dick off,” said Officer Tomito.
The cops wouldn’t have brought me here unless they somehow connected me to the victim, which meant I must know him. It hit me like a sledgehammer. Ron Cera. My head started pounding. I turned and started walking back toward 5th Street. Officer Sanchez followed me and threw up just before we reached the sawhorses, thick gray bile that splattered across the already stained sidewalk. Tomito joined Jansen who yanked Sanchez to his feet. We walked back to the cruiser in silence.
When we got to the stationhouse, Sanchez and Tomito dispersed. Jansen ushered me into his office, and a homicide detective named Karsagian joined us. Mid-fifties, barrel-chested with sagging jowls, latticed with broken capillaries. He had a deep vertical cleft between his eyebrows and thick salt-and-pepper hair which he combed straight back. This guy looked like something straight out of an old black and white movie.
As we shook hands, he looked me right in the eye and chuckled. “Nick Crane. Private dick.” He rolled his chair over until it was literally touching mine and glared at me, his face only inches from mine. “So how’d you meet Ron Cera?”
I made a disgusted face. “Your mouthwash ain’t making it.”
Karsagian frowned but didn’t move away. Jansen tried not to smirk, lost that battle and instead cleared his throat.
I pushed my chair back a couple of feet. “If I’m a suspect I want my lawyer.”
Karsagian balled up a fist that looked like a block of granite. “You got some balls.”
“You think this is my first time around the block?”
“I don’t give a goddamn.”
“That makes two of us.”
His face turned a nasty shade
of red. He got to his feet, anger flashing across his eyes.
Jansen once again refereed. “Relax.” Karsagian relaxed. “As of right now, you’re a material witness.”
I locked eyes with him. “All right then.”
“On Wednesday morning you visited Ron Cera at his apartment in North Hollywood,” growled Karsagian. “You drive a silver Toyota Camry XLE. This morning Ron Cera’s mutilated corpse gets dumped on Towne Street out of a silver Japanese mid-size car. The two sets of eyeballs weren’t sure if it was a Camry or not, but they were damned sure the car was silver and Japanese.”
“What time was this?”
“Crackheads don’t keep time too well, but they said it was about 4:00 a.m.”
“At 4:00 a.m., I was home in bed with my wife.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Last night my Camry was at Leo’s Paint and Brake Shop, in East L.A., getting painted forest green. I picked it up this morning about 8:00.”
“What color is your wife’s car?” asked Jansen.
“Gold Altima.”
“Why,” said Karsagian, “were you having your Camry painted forest green?”
“Long story.”
“I’m not gonna ask you again.”
So I told them I’d been hired by Jade Lamont to find her brother, and that I’d talked to Ron Cera because he had recently been in touch with him. I explained that Ron was scared of Arnold Clipper and was in process of moving, and that I thought Cicero Lamont had been murdered.
Jansen glared at me. “Wait, you’re working for the Cicero Lamont? The dope dealer?”
“Did you miss the part about him being dead?” The detective’s eyes flashed hard. I grinned and added, “Again, it was his daughter who hired me.”
“At least the son-of-a-bitch is dead.”
“You’re all heart, Jansen.”
Karsagian asked, “You got any idea who killed him?”
“Could have been those two bogus cops, Fishburne and Koncak.”
He nodded. “But what do we have to connect them to Cicero?”
I needed a minute to make sure I didn’t spill too much. I got up and went over to the water cooler, took a paper cup and drank two of ‘em down, slow and easy. In this business you learn to feign calmness. It’s an art form and absolutely necessary. If I told them everything I knew about Fishburne and Koncak, even if I kept Halladay out of it, it could set in motion a chain of events that could end up with Arnold disappearing, and Richie right along with him. If the cops arrested the fake cops for the murder of Ron Cera, that was almost guaranteed. My plan was for Bobby to shadow them, assuming one or both of them showed up at McDonald’s to meet Dr. Tarkanian, and to play it cool until they led us to Arnold.
I dumped the empty into the trashcan. “Those two clowns impersonating Fishburne and Koncak informed Jade Lamont that her father had been killed in a hit-and-run. They dressed like cops and showed her their badge numbers.”
“How do you know they weren’t police officers?” said Jansen.
“I contacted the county coroner’s office. It turns out there was a hit-and-run fatality on Sepulveda, in Mission Hills, on the night of August 16th. Problem is, the deceased is not Cicero Lamont. It was a Mexican gangbanger, Mario Cantrell.”
“One less asshole,” said Jansen.
Karsagian said, “This is very interesting, but it doesn’t prove squat. It’s conjecture. You haven’t offered any proof to go with your story.”
“I’ve ordered Lamont’s Death Certificate.”
“So what? We can do that, assuming the son-of-a-bitch is dead,” barked Jansen.
Suddenly he was now the surly one, with Karsagian relaxed and friendly. I was getting sick of their lame ass good cop, bad cop, switch-up routine.
“I’m not the jerk off here. I’m doing my job. There was absolutely no good reason to jack me. I would have been glad to answer any questions. All you had to do was ask.”
“Relax yourself,” snarled Jansen.
“You both know I’m not the murderer. The way I know that Cicero is dead is his kids attended his memorial service at Forest Grove. That’s how it usually works when somebody dies.”
Karsagian gave Jansen a look that said ‘lay off.’
“Look at it from our perspective,” said Karsagian. “Grisly murder/mutilation. Body dumped on skid row. People panic. The victim was a regular middle class kid from a decent family. Not good.”
“My client’s been through hell. Her father’s killed, her mom commits suicide and her brother disappears. It’s not her fault that her father ran weight any more than it’s mine.”
“All right,” said Karsagian. “But there’s one part of this I don’t understand. You told us that Ron was scared because Arnold had threatened him.”
“He wanted Ron to set up a meet between him and Jade. He didn’t want Richard involved because he didn’t want him connected to the meeting. Ron wouldn’t do it, so Arnold got pissed.”
“We’ll find him. In the meantime, I need the contact information for Ms. Lamont.”
“You tell her about Ron’s death and it’s liable to push her over the edge. She and Ron were good friends.”
“Good friends?” said Jansen.
“Very good friends,” I said.
“That’s tough,” said Karsagian, “but given what we’re up against, Ms. Lamont is gonna have to deal with it.”
“For obvious reasons, Ms. Lamont is in hiding.”
“Where?” asked Karsagian.
I glued my mouth shut.
“We can do this dance all night, if you want. Or, you can tell us where she is.”
My mind was whirling but I managed to come up with some semblance of a plan. “All right. Let’s meet at the Croatian Church on La Flora, in East L.A. Six o’clock tonight.”
“Shit,” said Jansen. “That’s my cocktail hour.”
“We’ll be there,” said Karsagian.
“I’m going to send her over with my investigator, Bobby Moore. Big husky guy. Vietnam vet. Walks with a limp. I don’t want to be seen with Jade in public. She’ll be disguised.”
“Okay,” said Karsagian, offering me his granite hand to shake. I did, then shook Jansen’s and left.
Part Two
Chapter I - Eyewitness
Officer Tomito dropped me off at my car on 1st Street. I drove slowly toward the river. Someone could have been following me for all I knew but I was too wrecked to care. The image of Ron Cera, big, good-natured pothead, full of wit and laughter, mutilated on Towne Street, seemed to blot out the whole horizon. The fires could have been raging down the city streets and I wouldn’t have cared.
I stopped at a neighborhood dive around the corner from Abel’s diner, and poured down some bourbon. The place was so low rent that it didn’t even have television, just wall-to-wall drunks. I called Jade.
“Where the hell are you, Nick?”
“Sorry. I got hung up, but I’ll be there soon.”
“You okay? You sound exhausted.”
“Yeah, I’m good. Later.”
I didn’t wait for her to respond and hung up. One old guy caught my eye and motioned for me to join him. I was in no mood for conversation. I paid up and slammed out of there.
Out front a skeletal and bearded homeless guy in a wheelchair, made me for some change. I gave him what I had; he rasped his thanks and scooted away quickly, hands working to propel his wheels. I watched him go, got in my car and headed for the freeway.
Cassady answered on the third ring.
“Hi, Baby,” I said.
This time there was no ‘How is your day going?’ She could tell by my voice that something was wrong. “We’re in danger, aren’t we?”
“I dunno, but to be safe, you guys need to leave, tonight.”
“I’m already packed. We’ll catch the 6:50 flight out of Ontario.”
“Good.” I didn’t know what else to say but I wanted to hear her voice, so I hesitated.
“I love you,”
she said.
“Me too,” I mumbled.
“I’ll call you when we touch down in Salt Lake.”
“Okay.”
“And if you fuck Miss Perfume, I guarantee you’ll never fuck me again. And don’t think I won’t know.”
She hung up and I pulled onto Highway 10. On my way to City Terrace, I swung by Leo’s and temporarily exchanged my forest green Camry for a grey primered Chevy Yukon. I called Bobby.
“Nick, where you been?”
“Meet me at your place a.s.a.p.”
“Brad found a guy who knows Arnold. We were in a dive bar, Gideon’s Gamble. He approached this old guy drinking alone, bought him a Long Island Iced Tea and the old guy told him that Arnold hardly ever missed Thursday or Friday nights, cause that’s when all the hot young trade make the scene. Said he would probably put in an appearance at Full Throttle tonight. Old guy invited him back to his apartment.”
“He’s not drinking, is he?”
“He knows I’ll kick his ass if he even looks at a beer.”
“Has the guy seen Richie?”
“He thought he has, but he’s not sure. Said Arnold’s arsenal of young men is the envy of half of Los Angeles. Word is Arnold’s tossed everybody aside for the new boyfriend. It has to be him.”
“I’m at your place. Have Brad come back with you. I don’t want him working alone.”
“Okay,” replied Bobby.
When I got to his house, I parked and phoned Jade. “You here?”
“Right out in front, so turn off the juice.”
A moment passed. I could hear her footsteps crossing the room. “It’s off.”
Her voice sounded flat, halting and I don’t know why but I had the feeling she knew about Ron Cera. Maybe she saw it on the news. I greeted the goats as I climbed the hill. Jade was a mess. Her beautiful café con leche complexion was streaked with tears, and her eyes red and puffy. Her movements were wooden and she seemed tiny, lost inside her clothes. She couldn’t meet my gaze, looked away and collapsed back on the couch.
“I’ve wrecked everything. Poor Ron. Poor good-hearted Ron.” She was nearly hysterical, and I knew that nothing I could say would change what had happened.
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