by Twisted
Isaac laughed.
“Funny,” said Flaco. “Very fuckin’ funny.” But he laughed, too.
Isaac got off the downtown bus and found his way to the bar on Fifth near Los Angeles Street. Not far, he realized, from the alley where one of the June 28 victims, the sailor Hochenbrenner, had breathed his last.
Bad neighborhood, even with Downtown getting rejuvenated.
Cantina Nueva was where Flaco hung out during the day, did whatever it was he did. Isaac avoided asking but Flaco was eager to brag. There were stories Isaac listened to. Others he allowed to pass right through his consciousness.
Sometimes Flaco got really quiet, didn’t talk about anything. Both of them were young men, now. Knew it was in their mutual interest if some things remained unspoken.
Isaac had been to the bar twice this year, both times at Flaco’s request. Once, Flaco had needed some papers deciphered: the deed to a house on 172nd. Flaco’s real estate agent had assured him everything was cool but the dude was a slippery motherfucker and Flaco knew who he could trust.
Flaco, at twenty-three, would soon be a homeowner. Isaac was broke and the irony didn’t escape him.
The second time Flaco claimed he just wanted to talk, but when Isaac got there, Flaco remained in his booth at the rear and it was one of those days when he said little. He kept ordering beer-and-shots for both of them and Isaac tried to nurse his to the max. He got drunk anyway, grew really tired, and sat there as people streamed in and out of the cantina, made their way over to Flaco. Exchanged glances. And cash. Shiny chromium things in paper bags. Powders in plastic baggies.
All I need is for the place to be busted right now. Bye-bye med school.
Flaco had seated Isaac on the inside of the booth, facing the pool table, back to the moldy wall. Then he’d gotten in, next to Isaac. Trapping Isaac.
Wanting Isaac to see everything. To know.
A couple of beer-and-shots later, Flaco said, “My old man died, got cut in the shower at Chino.”
Isaac said, “Oh, man, I’m sorry.”
Flaco laughed.
This afternoon the bar was overheated and dim and sweat-sour, mostly empty except for a couple of old Tio Tacos hunched at the bar and three young guys who looked like they’d just crossed the border, shooting pool at the solitary, warped table. Snick snick snick as cues impacted plastic balls. A disagreeable clang as the balls slid down the metal chute. The Doctors Lattimore had a pool table at their house—had a whole, paneled room set aside for billiards. No noisy chute on that one, leather mesh sacks caught the balls silently.
Clang. Spanish curses. Bad mariachi-rock fusion blared from the jukebox.
Flaco slumped in the booth, wearing a black denim jacket over a black T-shirt, empty beer and shot glasses in front of him. He’d grown his hair out, but in a weird style. Shaved on top with two black stripes running along the side and a short, tightly pleated braid dangling at the back like a reptilian tail. Mustache wisps at the corner of his mouth. All he could grow.
He looked, Isaac decided, like some Hollywood director’s notion of an evil Chinese guy.
He looked up as Isaac approached. Sleepily, Isaac thought.
Isaac stood there until Flaco motioned him in.
Quick soul shake. “Bro.”
“Hey.” Isaac slid across from him. He’d stopped at a pharmacy, bought a tube of cover-up makeup, done his best to hide the bruise. A patchy job at best, but if you weren’t looking for it, maybe you wouldn’t notice.
Nothing could be done about the swelling, but between Flaco’s short attention span and the bar’s poor lighting, he hoped he wouldn’t have to explain.
“Whussup?” Flaco’s voice slurred. His long sleeves were buttoned at the wrist. Usually, he rolled them up. Hiding needle marks? Flaco always denied shooting, made a point of preferring inhalation, but who knew?
He’d always been restless; unable to leave well enough alone.
Isaac said, “The usual.”
“The motherfuckin’ usual but you’re motherfuckin’ here.”
Isaac shrugged.
“You always do that,” said Flaco. “With the shoulders. You do that when you wanna hide something, man.”
Isaac laughed.
“Yeah, it’s funny, asshole.” Flaco’s head rolled.
“I need a gun,” said Isaac.
Flaco’s head rose. Slowly. “Say what?”
Isaac repeated it.
“A gun.” Flaco snickered. “What, like to shoot down planes, you gonna be one of them terrorists?” His cheeks puffed as he tried to imitate cannon fire. Feeble puffs resulted. He coughed. Definitely on something.
“For protection,” said Isaac. “The neighborhood.”
“Someone fuck with you? Tell me who, I kill their ass.”
“No, I’m cool,” said Isaac. “But you know how it is. Things get better, then they get worse. Right now, it’s worse.”
“You having problems, man?”
“I’m cool. Want to keep it that way.”
“A gun . . . you mama . . . those tamales.” Flaco licked his lips. “Those were fine. Kin you get me some more?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“No problem.”
“When?”
“Whenever you want them.”
“I come over knock on your door, you invite me in, introduce me to you mama, get me some of them sweet tamales?”
“Absolutely,” said Isaac, knowing it would never happen.
Flaco knew it, too. “A gun,” he said, suddenly reflective. “It’s like a . . . you know a . . . responsibility.”
“I can handle it.”
“You know how to shoot?”
“Sure,” Isaac lied.
“Bullshit, motherfucker.”
“I can handle it.”
“You end up shooting off your ass—you shoot your own cojones off, man, I ain’t gonna cry.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Bang bang,” said Flaco. “No, I don’t think so, man. What for you need to mess with motherfucking guns?”
“I’m going to get one,” said Isaac. “One way or the other.”
“You stupid, man.” Then Flaco realized what he’d said and cracked up.
Isaac started to get up. Flaco clamped a hand over his wrist. “Have a drink, bro.”
“No, thanks.”
“You turnin’ me down?”
Isaac swung around in the booth, faced Flaco full-on. “The way I see it, you’re doing the turning down.”
Flaco’s smile dropped. His hand remained clawed over Isaac’s wrist. Another 187 tattoo. On the other hand. Larger, fresher. Black ink. A tiny grinning skull nested in the upper circle of the 8. “You ain’t gonna drink with me?”
“One drink,” said Isaac. “Then I’m going. Got to take care of business.”
Flaco slid out of the booth, teetered to the bar, returned with two beer-and-shots. As the two of them drank, he drew a white plastic shopping bag out of the black denim jacket and lowered it beneath the table.
Isaac glanced down. Jewelry Mart logo on the bag, a vendor called Diamond World.
“Happy birthday, motherfucker.”
Isaac took the bag from Flaco. Heavy. At the bottom was something swaddled in toilet paper. Keeping his hands low, he unwrapped it partially.
A shiny little thing. Squat, square-barreled, perfectly malevolent.
CHAPTER
20
FRIDAY, JUNE 14, 4:34 P.M. DETECTIVES’ ROOM, HOLLYWOOD DIVISION
Petra left two additional messages with Dr. Robert Katzman, the last unmistakably cross.
Then she regretted her tone. Even if she finally reached the oncologist, big deal. He’d treated Sandra Leon for leukemia, what else could he tell her?
Then again, she was sure the Oncology clerk had gotten antsy talking about Sandra. But who said that related to the girl with the pink shoes or any other aspect of Paradiso?
She went downstairs, found Kirsten K
rebs idling by the watercooler in a tank top and jeans, told Krebs to put Katzman through immediately if he called back.
Krebs stared at the floor and said, “Yeah, fine.” When she thought Petra was out of earshot, she muttered, “What-ever.”
Petra returned to her desk feeling aimless. She’d slept fitfully, burdened with too much of nothing. Just two weeks until June 28. No sign of Isaac for a few days. Had the kid lost his youthful enthusiasm about the nefarious plot? Or was it something to do with that bruise?
Either way, who cared?
Unfortunately, she did. She turned to the file copies, reviewed the two she knew the best—Doebbler and Solis—for new insights and failed to come up with any.
It stayed that way until she reviewed the coroner’s report on Coral Langdon, the dog walker, and found something she’d missed the first few times around. Stuck in the middle of a small-print hair-and-fiber list stapled under some lab results.
Two types of canine hair had been found on Langdon’s clothing. No mention of that in the coroner’s nonquantitative summary. The pathologist hadn’t deemed it important. Maybe it wasn’t.
The presence of cockapoo hair was self-explanatory. Little Brandy had been bludgeoned along with her mistress.
Stupid little bitch. The world is my toilet.
But along with the champagne-colored curls raked from Coral’s purple, cashmere blend, size M, Robinsons-May cardigan and her black, size 8 poly-cotton Anne Klein pants, was a smaller, but substantial number of straight, coarse hairs.
Short, dark brown and white. Canine. No DNA had been analyzed to determine the breed.
No reason to get that fancy. There were plenty of reasonable explanations, including maybe Coral Langdon had owned two dogs. Except according to the file she hadn’t. Detective Shirley Lenois might have missed the June 28 link, but Shirley had been a dog person, owned three Afghan hounds, would have been sure to note the presence of a second pet.
Perhaps little Brandy had hung with a canine buddy, picked up hairs, transferred them to Coral.
Or a stray dog had come upon both corpses, sniffed around.
Or, Coral Langdon, walking alone, at night, in the Hollywood Hills, in the company of a pint-sized pooch that provided zero protection, had encountered another dog walker.
The two of them stop to swap dog chat. Dog people were like that, being devoted to your pet was grounds for instant rapport.
Because of that, dogs could be a great ruse for bad guys. Petra recalled a case she’d worked early in her grand-theft-auto days. Pleasant-looking frat-boy-type thief—what was his name—who always took along a lumbering, seventy-pound bulldog . . . Monroe. She remembered the dog’s moniker but not the guy’s. What did that say?
Frat-boy’s modus was to “chance” upon women pulling late-model luxury wheels into shopping center parking lots. As they got out of their cars, he’d saunter by, Monroe in tow. The women would get one look at the stubby dog’s wrinkled frog face and melt. Chitchat would ensue, Frat-boy—Lewis something—was brilliant at putting on the wholesome dog guy act, though Monroe really belonged to his sister. The women would coo and pet the stoic, panting beast, then walk off happy. Fifty percent of the time they forgot to lock their cars and/or set the alarms.
Yup, canine companionship could definitely impart instant decency to a stranger.
Petra thought about how Langdon might’ve gone down. A guy with a dog—a white, middle-class-looking guy—someone who wouldn’t seem out of place in Coral Langdon’s Hollywood Hills neighborhood—shows up on the quiet, hillside road.
Coral with her fluffy pal, the guy with a larger pooch. Nothing scary, like a pit bull. Short, dark brown and white hairs—could be a pointer, a mixed-breed, whatever.
Something mellow and nonthreatening.
She stayed with the scenario, imagining Coral and Dog Guy stopping to talk. Maybe laughing as their furry buddies engaged in mutual squatting.
Exchanging cute little “aren’t dogs almost human” stories.
Coral—single, fit, and youthful for her age—might have welcomed some male attention. A bit of flirtation ensued, maybe even a phone-number exchange. No number had been found on Coral’s body, but that meant nothing. Dog Guy could’ve lifted it when his job was done.
His job.
Biding his time as he and Coral exchange amiable have-a-nice-evenings.
Coral and Brandy turn to go.
Boom.
Bashed from behind. Like all the others. A coward. A calculating, manipulative coward reluctant to face his victims.
Creative, Milo Sturgis would call it. His favorite euphemism when cases bogged down.
Petra wondered what he’d think about all this. Delaware, too.
She was pondering whether to call either of them when Kirsten Krebs stomped up to her desk and straight-armed a message slip right in her face.
“He hung up?” said Petra.
“It’s not the one you said to put through,” said Krebs. “But seeing as you’re so into your messages I brought it to you personally.”
Petra snatched the slip. Eric had phoned three minutes ago. No return number.
The message on the slip, in Krebs’s cramped writing: “Don’t believe everything you see on the news.”
“Whatever that means,” said Krebs. “He sounded kinda strange.”
“He’s a detective, here.”
Krebs remained unimpressed.
Petra said, “You told him I wasn’t here?”
“He wasn’t the one you said,” Krebs insisted.
“Damn . . .” Petra reread the message. “Fine. Bye.”
Krebs clamped her hands on her hips, cocked one leg, sucked in her cheeks. “If you’re going to be choosy, you have to give me detailed instructions.” She marched away.
Don’t believe everything you see on the news.
Petra headed for the locker room, where the latest cast-off TV sat.
This one was a Zenith, static-plagued, with no cable hookup, perched on a windowsill. Petra switched it on, flipped channels until she found a local broadcast.
Regional news, nothing remotely related to the Middle East.
Was Eric even there?
Don’t believe . . . okay, but he was fine, he’d called, nothing to worry about.
Why hadn’t he insisted on speaking to her?
Because he didn’t want to. Bad situation? Something he couldn’t talk about?
Her heart pounded and her stomach hurt. She hurried back to the detectives’ room. Barney Fleischer was at his desk, sports coat bunched up at his shoulders. Humming and stacking his paperwork neatly.
She said, “Does anyone around here get CNN?”
Barney said, “I prefer Fox News. Fair and balanced and all that.”
“Either way.”
“The closest place would be Shannons.”
Petra had never been to the Irish pub, but she knew where it was. Up Wilcox, just south of the Boulevard, a brief walk.
Barney said, “They’ve got a nice flat screen, sometimes they keep the news on when there’s no game.”
She racewalked to Shannons, sat at the bar, ordered a Coke. The flat screen was a fifty-two-inch plasma set like a window into the wall above the booze-rack. Tuned to MSNBC.
Nothing about the Middle East for one complete news cycle and the running banner at the bottom of the screen was cut off. She asked the bartender if there was any way to fix that.
“We format it this way on purpose,” he said. “You format the other way, it burns lines in the screen.”
“How about for a few minutes? Or maybe we can try one of the other stations.”
He frowned at her soft drink. No way that justified special treatment. But business was slow, no one else shared the bar, so he fooled with the remote and the banner appeared.
She endured financial news, a basketball finals recap, then the international stories: an earthquake in Algeria—the Middle East—but nothing Eric would call her about.
; Why couldn’t he have just come out and—
The anchorwoman’s voice rose in pitch and Petra’s ears opened. “. . . reports that American military personnel may have been at least partly responsible for reducing the death toll from a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv . . .”
A beachside café on a restaurant-chocked avenue that paralleled the Mediterranean. People trying to enjoy themselves on a hot, sunny day. Israelis, a couple of German tourists, some foreign workers from Thailand. Unnamed American “security officers.”
Scumbag with a bomb vest under his raincoat approaches from across the street.
Scumbag’s black raincoat on a hot day would’ve tipped off anyone with the slightest powers of observation.
It had. He’d been wrestled to the ground, put out of commission before having a chance to yank the detonator cord on his plastique-and-ball-bearing-and-nail-stuffed vest.
Score one for the good guys.
Moments later, Scumbag Number Two saunters over, gets twenty feet away and pulls his plug. Turning himself to jihadburger. Taking two Israelis with him—a mother and her teenage daughter.
And: “Scores are reported injured . . .”
Two evil shit-heads. But for someone’s sharp eyes, it could’ve been worse.
Someone.
Scores injured could cover a lot of territory.
Eric had to be in good enough shape to call.
Why hadn’t he insisted on talking to her, dammit?
“Seen enough?” said the bartender. “Can I format it back?”
Petra tossed him a ten and left the bar.
CHAPTER
21
Back at the station, she ran upstairs to the locker room, flicked on the old Zenith, caught the four P.M. broadcast on KCBS. The Tel Aviv bombing was the third-ranked story, after the legislature’s credibility problems and a new bank fraud scandal in Lynwood.
Same bare-bones facts, nearly identical wording. What had she expected?
She entered the detectives’ room, nearly collided with Kirsten Krebs.
“There you are. He’s on hold.”
Petra ran to her desk and picked up. “Connor.”