One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  Jarsdel and Morales exchanged a look, then faced their superior. “We don’t know,” said Jarsdel.

  Gavin nodded as though he’d expected nothing more. “What do you know?”

  “We know that Punyawong was Grant Wolin’s employer and that shortly after the murder, he began liquidating all his U.S. assets. Now both he and his son have left the country. And also, of course, there’s the red quarter that was glued to Wolin’s palm, which we can now link to Dan Punyawong—”

  “That’s the son?”

  “Yes, sir. We can now link the quarter to where he works—the arcade on the pier.”

  “Well, you’re right, Detective,” said Gavin. “You don’t know a whole lot. There isn’t a case here, guys, just more questions.”

  “There’s something else,” said Jarsdel. “A search on Dan Punyawong turned this up.” He produced a computer printout of an article from the Seal Beach Sun and handed it across to Gavin. “They had a week of particularly high surf there. Attracted people from all over. That picture is him, riding the wave.”

  “So?”

  “The name, sir.”

  Gavin scanned the article, then read the caption accompanying the photograph: Dan “Brahma” Punyawong, of Santa Monica.

  “So?” Gavin asked again.

  “His nickname—‘Brahma’—that was the statue the body was left in front of in Thai Town. Put that together with the red quarter—which also happened to be minted in 1996, same year Dan Punyawong was born—and we definitely think we’re on the right track.”

  “On the right track to what? To this kid as a suspect?” When Jarsdel didn’t answer right away, Gavin grunted in exasperation. “You know what? I happen to know Captain Sturdivant gave you a way out of this and you didn’t take it. Could’ve let Morales here determine the course of the investigation. Now we’re more than a month into this thing, and all you’ve got is the weakest kind of circumstantial evidence, no motive, not even a working theory. The only thing you’ve actually accomplished is nearly derailing someone else’s investigation and almost setting a killer free. Good work.”

  “If I may, sir,” said Morales. “Detective Jarsdel did everything I would’ve done. I don’t feel he left out anything or made any procedural errors. That business with the shell casing was just bad luck, and he cleared it up. It was a solid piece of police work.”

  Gavin was shaking his head vigorously. “Oscar, you know better, okay? You know what the captain cares about. You know what Chief Comsky cares about. Math. Closure rates up, crime stats down. Avoiding catastrophic fumbles should be par for the course, not something you expect praise for. I tell you x, y, and z, and you tell me, ‘Hey, Lieutenant, it could’ve been worse.’ That’s basically all you’re saying. Well, that doesn’t impress me. And where are we with that goddamned Dog Catcher thing? Do you realize how badly I want that fucker buttoned up? I’m just so tired of hearing about it. One meeting after another, I have to listen to jokes and all kinds of bullshit. So how ’bout it? How ’bout a single actual piece of news?”

  The meeting continued in that vein for several more minutes, concluding when Gavin resolved to make a report to Chief Comsky recommending the disbanding of HH2, despite its overall success. “Nothing Olympic Division or RHD can’t handle. We’re just burning city funds.” Then, on an oddly conciliatory note, he said to Jarsdel, “Look, I’m not singling you out. It’s not your fault you don’t have the years. Put some time in at Auto Theft or Vice and work your way back to Homicide when you’re ready. For now, keep going and just try not to fuck up too much.”

  Back at their desks in the squad room, Morales was philosophical. “Don’t listen to that brasshole. Ultimately, it’s Chief Comsky’s decision, so we’ll make it as tough on her as we can. Let’s close it up. I think we’re almost there.”

  Jarsdel nodded in the direction of the other two detectives who made up HH2, who were working nearby, filling out paperwork. “Maybe we should give it to Barnhardt and Rutenberg. Seems like they clear everything they get handed.”

  At the mention of her name, Detective Kay Barnhardt raised her head. She looked around, spotted Jarsdel, and gave him a smile. She was only a year older, but premature wrinkles and the severe, regulation women’s hairstyle made her look to be more in her midforties. She was pretty, if a bit plain, her petite physique offset by a heavy bosom she did her best to conceal under conservative business attire. Barnhardt pointed a finger at herself and raised her eyebrows, asking if she was needed. Jarsdel returned her smile and shook his head, and she went back to her work.

  “Here,” said Morales, getting out the murder book for the Wolin case. “You were a history teacher. Let’s look at some history. You take half, I’ll take half. Nine times out of ten, the answer’s already in there somewhere.”

  “History,” murmured Jarsdel, but he took the offered pages. They sat and read for an hour. One look exchanged between them was all it took to communicate that neither had had any revelations. Jarsdel poured them some old coffee, and they listened to a drunk rave for a while in the prisoner intake area, then switched their stacks of paper and went back to work.

  Jarsdel started by reviewing Wolin’s cell phone records. His last call had been to Ramesh Ramjoo on October 1 and had lasted three and a half minutes. Before that, Wolin had received two incoming calls—one from a tire store on Franklin, probably to tell him his car was ready for pickup, and the other from an 800 number they’d determined was a solicitation call. Going back further in the records revealed pretty much the same pattern, with the exception of several calls made to Tony Punyawong’s cell phone. These, Morales had highlighted.

  Abe Rutenberg, Barnhardt’s partner, sixty, with a shiny bald dome framed by wiry brown hair, stopped behind Morales’s desk and read aloud over his shoulder. “According to Dr. Ipgreve, victim was baked alive in a large container but not exposed to a direct flame. Trauma was uniform, and the body—”

  Morales turned the page facedown with a sigh. “Help you, Abe?”

  “Just fascinated,” said the detective. “And a little hungry. Could go for some brisket.”

  “Ha, that’s funny.”

  Rutenberg shrugged. “What do you want? It was either that or something about your Dog Catcher case. You guys really excel at catching the weird shit. Just got regular old homicides over here. Any time you wanna switch, let us know. Love to take a walk on the wild side.”

  Rutenberg spotted Jarsdel, gave him a slight nod, then went back to join his partner.

  “Prick,” said Morales with affection.

  After another hour passed, the men conferred again. “White van,” said Jarsdel. “Any way we can get back to that white van?”

  “Don’t see how,” said Morales.

  “I feel like we’re missing something obvious. Let’s go over the timeline again. Who was the last person to actually see Grant Wolin alive?”

  “Hard to say for sure. Because we weren’t able to ID him for about two weeks after he died, no one seems to know exactly when he disappeared.”

  “But we do know,” said Jarsdel, “that it couldn’t have been any later than the night of October 2. Ipgreve said it would take time for the body to end up like that. No charring. Slow-cooked, then more time for it to cool to the temperature we found it at. I mean, I guess it’s possible he was snatched sometime after midnight on the third, but for our purposes, let’s say it was the second.”

  “I’m with you,” said Morales.

  “Body gets spotted early next morning by Sparks when he’s out hustling Oxy. He waits to call it in because he doesn’t want to get involved but breaks down and makes the call at”—Jarsdel checked his paperwork—“7:03. You and I roll on it around eight, maybe a little before. Talk to Sparks just after nine. Tells us about the van and the guy driving it. Just one guy, right? Says he gets out, dumps the body at the Brahma statue, gets back in, pulls a U
-turn.”

  Morales nodded. “Then we’re at sea until Ipgreve comes back with the DNA. We talk to the piece-of-shit brother at the Towers, who puts us onto the Indian guy, then there’s the whole mess with the shell casings…”

  “Slow down,” said Jarsdel. “Go back to Ramesh for a second.” Jarsdel leafed through his stack of papers, didn’t find what he was looking for, then sifted through the one in front of Morales. “Here,” he said, pulling out a few sheets. “Transcript of our interview. He’s vague about when he last saw Wolin.”

  “Vague or not sure?”

  “Not sure, I guess. I don’t think he was being cagey, but it’d been almost three weeks since they’d seen each other, and their last meeting obviously wasn’t that memorable. Probably just hung out and smoked.”

  “Potheads,” growled Morales. “Life’s a blur to them at the best of times. Add a couple weeks on top, and you can forget about it.”

  Jarsdel scanned the transcript. “Fantasy Tours. Okay, so we get Fantasy Tours, and that leads us to where we are now. What else do we know about them?”

  Morales checked a printout on his desk. “Permit approved by the city, July 9 of this year. Owned in totality by Anthony Punyawong of Santa Monica.”

  “July 9,” said Jarsdel. “That puts them in business for only about three months before he decides to shut it all down. Why?”

  “Because his son kills a guy.”

  “Okay. Then why does an arcade attendant, a surfing arcade attendant—if you can conceive of a mellower-sounding person, please let me know—kidnap one of his father’s employees, cook him alive, then leave clues to his own identity at the crime scene? The red quarter? The Brahma statue?”

  “Kid’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” But Morales said it without conviction.

  Jarsdel stared at the transcript, as if willing the answer to come to him. “Couldn’t have really been any more theatrical, right? What do you think? Ever seen anything this carefully staged before?”

  Morales shrugged. “Worked a stabbing once. Dead hooker, posed like Jesus on the cross. Lying down on a bed, but other than that, it was perfect. Arms out to the sides, wounds on the hands and feet, gash in the side. In place of a crown of thorns, the killer’d wrapped a cell phone charging cord around her head. Everyone thought we had a religious nut on our hands, you know, out there convinced he’s doing the Lord’s work, and we’re all bracing ourselves for the next body. But it was all a big show. Ended up being her pimp boyfriend. Wanted to scare her with the knife, ended up killing her instead, then tried covering it with the phony Passion play.”

  “That’s what you think all this is? A big misdirection?”

  “Could be.”

  Jarsdel thought about that, then shook his head. “I don’t buy it. It’s too organized. Too ritualistic. This was about satisfying the killer’s fantasy, his ego. I think sending a message or making a statement or whatever was second to that.”

  “You sound like one of those wannabe FBI profiler guys.”

  “No, it’s just…” Jarsdel trailed off, embarrassed. He actually had been trying to recall some of the behavioral analysis techniques he’d learned through his informal study of FBI textbooks. He began stuffing pages back into the murder book and was about to suggest a lunch break when he noticed something in the Ramesh transcript. He studied the section more closely, reread it, then dragged a highlighter across the lines of text. He handed the paper across the table.

  Morales took it and read aloud. “‘It wasn’t an easy life. You know, dangerous. He didn’t have any protection. One time, I was working the ticket counter, and he came running over to tell me he’d just been attacked. Some guy in front of the theater flipped over his cart and broke all his jars. And when Grant called the police, they didn’t come.’” Morales set it down and looked at Jarsdel expectantly. “So?”

  “I wonder what theater he’s talking about.”

  “Theater?” Morales skimmed the paragraph. “Probably the Chinese or the Dolby. Who cares?”

  But Jarsdel already had his phone out. It rang twice before Darius answered.

  “Hi, Son.”

  “Hey, Baba.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. I was actually wondering if you could get me your friend Richie Berman’s number.”

  There was a long pause, then, “What for?”

  “I’d like to ask him something. About that guy he brought over to dinner that night. The big guy. Jeff.”

  “I suppose I was hoping you were calling about something else.”

  “About what?”

  There was a heavy sigh on his father’s end. “Oh, I don’t know. Reconciliation.”

  Jarsdel marveled at how a single word could carry so much baggage. The man was a master.

  “I think it might take more than a three-minute phone call while I’m at work to solve all our problems.”

  There was an even longer pause this time. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead, please.” Jarsdel took down the number and was about to say goodbye when Darius changed tactics.

  “We were hoping you’d come by to dinner again soon.”

  Now it was Jarsdel’s turn to let a long moment go by. “Why?”

  “Because we miss you.”

  “I miss you guys too, but not when you get the way you did last time.”

  “We’re concerned about you. About what you do.”

  What you do. It was said with the kind of contempt reserved for people who robbed corpses for a living. “And that’s always your refrain,” said Jarsdel. “You’re concerned.”

  “It’s true. You think it comes from a place other than love?”

  “Baba, I can’t get into this right now. I got work. Can we talk later?”

  “Now you’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry. I’m busy. I love you guys. Can we just talk later? I’ll call tonight before bed.”

  “Don’t call too late. Your dad’s getting over a cold.”

  “Okay.”

  “Love you, Tully.”

  Jarsdel glanced at Morales, who watched him expectantly. He turned away and cupped the phone with his other hand. “Love you too.” After he hung up, he sat down at his computer, typing rapidly.

  “So what’s goin’ on?” his partner asked. “Got me in suspense.”

  Jarsdel skimmed the website he’d brought up. “Wanna go to the movies?”

  * * *

  It was a two-tone poster, magenta and white: Mods and Rockers!—19th Annual Film Festival. There was a line of maybe a hundred people, even though show time wasn’t for an hour. The first of them who caught Jarsdel’s eye wore a dashiki and drainpipe jeans, while others wore bell-bottoms, chain belts, go-go boots, Jesus sandals. A girl, perhaps sixteen, wearing a tie-dyed headband and purple teashades, sported a peace sign medallion the size of a salad plate. Toward the back of the line, a barefoot woman in a flower-print caftan moved her arms in slow, swimming gestures.

  “This was a whole scene I never got into,” said Morales, watching the woman with rare curiosity.

  “I’m shocked.” Jarsdel looked back at the poster. A double bill tonight. At six thirty would be The Jokers, with Oliver Reed and Michael Crawford, followed by Privilege, starring Paul Jones and Jean Shrimpton. Jarsdel hadn’t heard of either movie.

  They started toward the box office, making their way around a few ticket holders who’d broken from the line and set up a portable speaker. They held hands, circling it as if it were a bonfire, and swayed clumsily to “Crystal Blue Persuasion.”

  They reached the ticket window, and Jarsdel badged the attendant, whom he recognized as the vampire doorman from Halloween. They explained what they were doing there, and the man looked first amazed, then troubled.

  “You know he’s got a show tonight, right? In an hour? H
e’s probably getting set up. I don’t know if he’ll be in the mood to talk.”

  “Let us worry about that,” said Morales. “Can you open up?”

  “It’s unlocked. Just…”

  They moved away from the window and pushed through the lobby door. A teen behind the concession stand looked up from wiping down the counter. “Hey, we’re not open yet.”

  Before Jarsdel could answer, the ticket attendant emerged from the box office, arms stiffly at his sides. “It’s okay, Scott. They’re…um…uh. He’s…” He couldn’t seem to bring himself to say “cops” or “police officers,” as if doing so would only summon more.

  Not interested in prolonging the moment, Jarsdel led the way across the lobby and up the staircase toward the projection booth. It was dark, as dark as it had been on Halloween, but he was able to make out the faint outline of the projection booth door.

  Morales grunted his way up behind him. “If I fall down these pinche stairs, I’m takin’ you with me.”

  Thinking of his partner’s epic knocks, Jarsdel bunched his fist and rained three punishing hammer blows upon the wood.

  “Uh, what the fuck?” came a voice from inside.

  Jarsdel touched the button to activate his recorder.

  The door swung open to reveal Dinan, immense and furious. His normally volcanic hairstyle had been sculpted with hairbands into half a dozen shaggy protrusions. It made him look maniacal.

  “Easy, Jeff. That temper’s gonna catch up with you some day.”

  Dinan’s twisted features softened as recognition set in, first into surprise, then unease. “Oh. What are you doing here?” He saw Morales and added, “Who’s that?”

  “We came to have a talk.”

  Dinan exhaled and leaned on the doorjamb. “Hey, look, okay, I was a dick on Halloween.”

  “Yes.”

  “That why you came? To give me shit about the whole thing?”

  “What if I did?”

  “I’d tell you with all due respect that I was a little bit inebriated, and all in all, it wasn’t even that big a deal.”