Bad Night Is Falling (28 page)

“What am I, a child? You gonna use that kind of tone with me?”

Astonishment iced Monk's words. “Dex, we can go 'round and 'round on this all you want, it doesn't change the past, nor what you did—for whatever reasons. It also doesn't change what I think of you, deep down. Yes,” he conceded, getting up, “I'll admit it sticks with me, but you can't honestly believe I'd be any other way about this.”

“If it was the other way around, what would you think of me?”

“Maybe you would've been man enough not to go along with the program.” The fury dissipated from Grant, and he leaned against the back of the couch.

Monk walked toward him. “I don't know mat and neither do you. I haven't had a family to worry about.”

“That's what I tell myself, Ivan. Sometimes I even half believe it.”

Monk fixed him with a look. “I know you're the one who told DeKovan about Wilkenson's idea for the job training center.”

Grant snorted. “That wasn't exactly heroic. But it did let me sleep a little better.” His light greys were wet.

“DeKovan,” Monk said.

Grant punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, boss. But I haven't heard much about the son of a bitch for some ten years now myself.”

A hole opened up in his chest. “Nothing?”

“I said
not much
, not
nothing
,” Grant replied. “Since we're being on the up-and-up, Perry Jakes was doing work for DeKovan when he left the force.”

Jakes had died over a year ago. “What kind of work?”

Grant made a gesture as though he were describing a globe to a blind man. “Security. In the old days it meant setting up the banging parlors for the starlets and debutantes he was bedding.” For the first time since Monk had arrived, Grant finally loosened up.

“That was then,” Monk prodded.

Grant shook his head up and down. “Right. I saw Jakes every once in a while after we retired. He never told me directly what his odd jobs were for DeKovan. He always liked to be more obtuse than necessary. Make himself into a big man, you know? But the work was mostly bullshit, I gathered.”

He made for the kitchen and Monk followed him. There he opened the battered Frigidaire with its pull spring handle. He produced two Millers and handed one to Monk.

“How do you mean?”

“DeKovan had nutted up, or at least seemed to. He'd gotten into going to these conspiracy meetings, UFO clubs out in the Nevada desert, even had a flirtation with those Heaven's Gate yahoos for a few months.”

“Lovely,” Monk said sarcastically.

“And he got wrapped up in divining secret Masonic ceremonies, studying Illuminati writings, all kinds of weird shit.”

“What brought it on? Drugs, booze? Some bimbette squeeze his head too tight between her thighs one night?”

Grant grinned, holding the bottle of beer to his mouth. “I haven't the foggiest. Perry did say one time he was in a poker game with DeKovan, Yorty—this is after Bradley beats him, see?—and a couple of the businessmen from the old days. Now mind you, mis cat was still making money, and for the rest of them their day on the mountaintop had passed.”

“Anyway, here sits DeKovan, his hair is damned near to his shoulders, the nails on both little fingers grown out and pointed.”

“Did he act strange?”

“No, Perry said. His hair was combed, he didn't stink. He was dressed casual-like. But they're talking and so forth—Jakes said Yorty even made fun of DeKovan's appearance and he seemed to take it just fine. So they're playing and carrying on, and they get to talking about why didn't DeKovan ever marry.”

“And …?”

“Perry, for one of the few times while I knew him, gets serious when he's telling me this. He says DeKovan stopped laughing and suddenly got all choked and maudlin. He started lamenting the death of a woman named Irene. But as he's telling them this, Jakes realizes he's describing the movie
Laura
. He's changed this “Irene” woman's death from a murder to a car accident, but it's the plot of the goddamn movie.”

“The one with Dana Andrews?”

“Yeah. Now, Jakes never lets on and the others, as far as he can tell, believe this story to be true. So what do you make of that, Bulldog Drummond?”

“What? A confirmation that DeKovan's a fuckin' loon?”

“Or doing the biggest performance of his life.” Grant said. “Later, out of earshot of the others, DeKovan nudges Jakes and asks him how did he do? Jakes told me this, right. Well, there was a little something I told him. Something only I knew 'cause one night I had to fetch one of DeKovan's B-picture maidens from a laudanum and brandy party up in the hills.” Grant's eyes shone brightly.

“She's whacked out and rambling on and mentions when DeKovan was in college, he'd studied at the Pasadena Playhouse. Pretty good student too. A natural, she said.”

Monk unscrewed his top. “He is crazy, and he's pretending like he ain't.”

Grant held up a finger. “He was making all kinds of smart money deals, Ivan. This is the period in which his holdings grew.”

Monk took a swig. “I don't care if this chump believes the alignment of Pluto and the starship
Enterprise
over the Washington Monument will bring back vaudeville. The supposed stolen license turns up on the vehicle of the two looking to send me to Jesus. Big Loco had a comp ticket to the Airport Casino, a place where an OG of the Scalp Hunters was also getting the house treatment.” Monk produced the pass he'd retrieved from the gang leader's wallet and waved the card.

“Fascinating,” Grant said with a smirk.

“Fascinating my ass,” Monk retorted. “Fletcher has a Xerox of a shot from the
Herald Examiner
showing Maladrone and DeKovan together at the opening of the job training center.”

“That goddamn job training center.” Grant slowly rubbed the bottle of beer between his hands. “What do you want me to do, Ivan?”

“How tough will it be to get me a meet?”

Conflicting thoughts contorted Grant's seasoned face. “It means I'll have to see Jakes's widow.”

Thinking he was understanding his tone, Monk asked, “You two didn't get along?”

“She's the third wife. Ex-stripper and silicone for brains.” He shook his head in private amazement. “No, that's not fair. Actually, Khristi is alright. Bad breaks and shitty husbands. She really made an effort at, ah, self-enlightenment I'd guess you'd call it.”

“She's read
The Celestine Prophecy
twice?”

“Some of us aren't gifted with your raw insight.”

“Oh,” Monk drawled, Grant's previous expression finally making sense. “She hot for teacher?” he jibed him.

“Don't start,” he snarled.

“Her name again?”

“Khristi,” he said, and spelled it for him.

“If he only married this Khristi for her body, would Jakes have told her anything worthwhile about DeKovan?”

“You'd be surprised what a man will tell a woman after he's rubbed the ol' fire pole between breasts the size of casabas.”

Monk considered Grant's sagacity. “Master Po may have something there.”

Beer in hand, he made a call on the wall phone in the kitchen. “Khristi? This is Dexter…. Uh-huh, yeah, I know, I meant to call sooner. Well …” Grant listened and drank. “Listen, I was wondering if me and a friend might come on over. No, no, don't get a date for him, this is kind of a business and social call.” He had more Miller while she talked on the other end. “Khristi, Khristi, I don't mean it like that. It's just that my friend—His name? It's Ivan. No, he's not Russian. Anyway, he's on a case and I need to talk with you about Perry's work with DeKovan.” He was quiet again.

“Yeah”—he laughed, ingratiating himself—“he was a fucking maniac. Calling Perry at all hours and everything…. Oh yeah? He sent him to get that once? Oh, more than once.” He winked at Monk.

The conversation went on another ten minutes and then the two drove out to Khristi's in their respective cars. She lived in San Dimas, in the San Gabriel Valley. The journey took serious navigation of the several freeways laced about the grid of the Southland: the 15 north into San Bernardino County, to the 10 west into Los Angeles County, then a quick swing north again along the 210.

Heading there they got hung up by a jackknifed tanker, which fortunately had left one lane open so their delay was only an extra forty minutes. To fight agitation, Monk tried to calculate how many millions of tons of concrete it had taken to lay out a freeway system that had begun with the building of the curvy Pasadena, first called the Arroyo Seco Parkway, in the late '30s. Southern California now had more than fifteen hundred miles of freeways, and others were either being considered or under construction. Maybe, Monk fantasized, he ought to see about erecting an elevated Continental Donuts at a busy freeway exchange to service gridlocked commuters.

The day was hot and the smog was fierce. By the time they got to Khristi Jakes's house, it was past four, and the back of Monk's shirt was soaked. “We better get something out of this,” he complained to Grant.

“Relax.” Monk had the sense that Grant was anticipating something, and it made him even more irritable.

Her house was a modest frame job with a covered redbrick porch and colorful flowers lining each side of the matching brick walkway. A pewter boar's head with a massive ring in its snout was centered in the peeling, pale blue door. Grant rapped gently.

Presently the door was opened by a tallish, slightly heavy but solid-looking woman. She was wearing white espadrilles, black peddle pushers, and a worn-out man's single-stitch oxford. The shirt's color nearly matched that of the door's. Her brunette hair was pulled back, strands of gray untouched in its masses. There was a touch of rouge on her cheeks and she'd applied a deep terra cotta-colored lipstick, the kind Monk had seen young Latina
rukas
use. She was either in her late forties or early fifties. Time had been on her side.

“Doll face.” She reached up and bestowed a wet kiss on a willing Grant.

“This is Ivan,” he said, looking at her, his arms still around her waist.

“Hi,” she said, still staring at Grant.

Jesus Christ, Dex, you lascivious bastard. “We sure appreciate your time, ma'am.”

“You bet.” She finally managed to unwrap herself. “Come on in, sports fans.”

Monk had expected the woman to have gaudy taste, given her background. The home was done in somber but warm hues with dashes of pastel. The furnishing was neat, the knickknacks at a minimum. Late afternoon light gave the living room an airy, springtime feel, and it helped to ease the tension he'd built up on the long drive.

Khristi Jakes was holding Grant's hand and guided him to an oxblood-colored leather couch. Monk found a perch in a similarly styled chair. Grant and the woman made small talk and Monk crossed his legs, taking in the room.

“Here, let me get you fellas something to drink.” She got up with a bounce. “I hope fresh orange juice is okay. I don't drink the hard stuff anymore.”

Monk was amused by the disappointment on Grant's face. “Sure Khris, that's fine,” he fibbed.

She left and the older man went out of his way not to look at Monk. She returned with their drinks.

“Thanks,” Monk said.

The two got involved in stories about mutual friends while Monk sipped and sipped. He was able to stand it for another fifteen minutes, then he said, “If you don't mind, I am about to be indicted, Dex. That is, if I don't get capped first.”

“Right you are, old son.” He shifted on the couch to look directly at the woman. “I need to find DeKovan.”

She laughed briefly, touching his arm. “After you called, I went through what I have left of Perry's stuff. You can look at it. Mostly it's his morgue books and funny little items he collected over the years.” Morgue books were cops' personal Polaroids of crime scenes and gruesome deaths. Grant's included dead and bloated bodies that had imploded in rooms where the deceased had lain for several days in still air, until discovered when someone opened a door.

“That'd be fine, dear.” He nodded knowingly at Monk.

“While you two do that, I'll fix us something to eat.” She touched his arm again.

Monk had the impression he was included reluctantly in the dinner invitation.

Out in the attached garage, amidst now-unused fishing equipment, Monk looked over several file boxes of the ghoulish photo albums; notes on a book Jakes had planned to write; a TV pilot script he'd consulted on; and his assortment of remains from various cases—a gold tooth with a diamond lightning bolt embedded in it, a bra with an interior pocket for a derringer which Grant pointed out, a stuffed Aardvark whose base Monk took apart to reveal a circuit board, a lead model of the Capital Records building which Grant pulled apart to reveal a serrated knife, and other such matters. The material was an exhibition on the archeology of crime.

“But no goddamn clue to DeKovan—as you figured,” Monk summed up.

Grant had been going through the other things in the garage. A broken wicker chair, the tackle box, lamps, and so on. He was on his knees, crawling around on an area of the concrete.

“Dex—”

“Hand me a screwdriver, Ivan.” He was probing the edges of a portion of the sectioned concrete with his blunt fingers. “Perry was a Cadillac man. He'd lease a new one every two years or so.” Monk handed him a screwdriver from a shelf of tools. He stood nearby.

“Big on leather seats,” Grant added. “He used to park his car in this part of the garage. The head would be that way,” he explained, pointing toward the back, “the tail end hanging over this part of the floor. It would have to be like that so he could get to it by lying flat on that piece of carpet.” Grant pointed toward a stack of boxes and paint cans along the wall. Looking behind it, Monk saw a rolled-up section of a rug used by shade tree mechanics.