Body Copy (13 page)

Yeah, that was the next step. Tremaine was going to visit Bill Peterson in person. The cop who’d moved, who had personally guaranteed Phillip Cook there was no infidelity. Tremaine knew he had to go to Atlanta. He couldn’t just call because if Bill Peterson was going to tell him anything interesting, it would have to be face to face. If he just dialed him up, Peterson would either avoid him or just simply say, nope, everything he knew, Tremaine could find in the good old police report.

Tremaine threw his dishes in the sink, drank a beer while he cleaned them. Now his mind went somewhere 122

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else in the case. To the person who gave him the business in the first place. Nina, Nina Aldeen. Man, those sad, pretty eyes. He thought, wonder what she’s doing over there in her cool Venice house with all the books. She’s probably writing her own book, back there in her office, by the back deck. Tremaine, done with the dishes, stood there for a minute, the warm water running over his hands.

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The next morning, even before walking Lyle, Tremaine dialed up the Atlanta Police Department and asked for Bill Peterson, knowing he wouldn’t get him. When Tremaine got kicked back to the receptionist, he said, “So’s Bill around? I mean, is he on vacation or anything?”

And the receptionist said, in a Southern accent, “Oh, he’s around. He just got back from a two-week vacation about a month ago, so he’ll be around for a good while before he leaves again.”

“Thank you,” Tremaine said.

He hung up the phone, good, he wouldn’t have to cancel his trip. Then Tremaine called Marvin Kearns and asked him to look after Lyle for a couple days. Marvin said, of course, and that was that. Marvin had the key to Tremaine’s B O D Y C O P Y

trailer and Lyle liked Marvin—as much as Lyle could like anyone.

In the car on the way to LAX, Tremaine saw a conspicuous silver Crown Vic in his rearview.

“Perfect,” he said. And he meant it.

At the airport, Tremaine parked the Cutlass in Short Term, outside in plain view, so the guy in the Crown Vic would be sure to know exactly where Tremaine’s car was.

And could pick Tremaine up easily upon his return from Atlanta.

On the flight, wedged in between two rather large human beings—fucking frequent flier seat, Tremaine got out his L.A.
Times
, his pencil, and his stopwatch.

Quickly, in fifty-three seconds, he turned ixamm into maxim, yafle into leafy, liftle into fillet, flabel into befall, then finally, xlfitef into left in a fix.
When the
mechanic got sick, his boss was left in a fix.

Done with that, he turned his attention to a picture of Bill Peterson, a picture Lopez had given him. Bald, hair on the sides like Terry Bradshaw, mustache, looked to be about fifty. Tremaine studied the picture, Bill Peterson in his LAPD uniform, his official photo.

The big guy to the left of Tremaine began looking at the photo as well and said to Tremaine, “Who’s that?”

Tremaine looked at the guy and said, “It’s a guy named Bill Peterson.”

The man said, “Oh.”

Tremaine picked up his rental at the Atlanta airport, a Geo Prizm. Not a particularly masculine car, but what are 125

Michael Craven

you going to do? It was free, for Chrissakes. He’d made his reservation at a Day’s Inn downtown, near the police headquarters. He got directions from the people at Avis.

Peachtree Boulevard to Peachtree Place to Peachtree Drive to Peachtree Court. Or something like that.

Tremaine found the hotel and checked into his room. A dark little styleless, charmless room. But clean. And quiet.

And not a bad view. Downtown looked pretty cool—very metropolitan, lots of interesting-looking buildings, even a circular skyscraper. The feel of the city enhanced by dusk falling over the sky.

It was almost seven already, Tremaine losing three hours by flying east. Tonight he’d just relax, watch a little tube, and mull over the case. Then tomorrow he’d go down to the station and see if he could arrange for thirty minutes of face time with Bill Peterson.

He clicked on
SportsCenter
, then cracked open his com-plimentary copy of the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. He read the front section, then sports, then the arts. Pretty good paper.

Later, he ordered a cheeseburger and two beers from room service and just enjoyed the little private sanctuary that is an out-of-town hotel room.

The next morning, bright and early, Tremaine went downtown to the headquarters of the Atlanta police. He walked right into the building, looked at the computerized listing in the lobby of department employees, found Bill Peterson’s name, then hopped on an elevator to the fourth floor.

Not so much as a look from the security guards.

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There was a receptionist’s desk on the fourth floor. At it was maybe the same woman with the Southern accent that he’d talked to. Tremaine approached her and said, “Hi, I’m Donald Tremaine. I don’t have an appointment, but I’m a friend of a friend of Bill Peterson’s and I’d like to say hello.”

“Let me call Bill, see if he’s back there.”

“Thank you,” Tremaine said.

Tremaine sat down in the little waiting area and picked up an old, a really old,
People
magazine. He helped himself to some water in a Styrofoam cup. A couple minutes later, he heard, “Can I help you?”

Tremaine looked up, Bill Peterson stood in front of him in a brown suit with a vest. Must be hot when he’s outside.

Tremaine had an idea how he was going to handle this, but he wasn’t sure if Peterson would take the bait. We’ll see.

“Bill, my name’s Donald Tremaine. I’m a private investigator.”

Peterson, playing the role of the cop, just looked at Tremaine. He was stone-faced. Not upset, not anything. He was just waiting for Tremaine to continue, so Tremaine did.

“I’m investigating a case you worked on, the murder of an advertising guy named Roger Gale.”

Peterson spoke. “Are you here from L.A.?”

A great cop question—direct, with some implications.

But Peterson seemed a little surprised. He couldn’t quite keep his cop stare. He looked, just in that instant, rumpled as opposed to worn. Not quite the veteran cop. He looked worried.

Tremaine continued. “Yes, I’m here from L.A. I’m actually a friend of one of your old coworkers on the force.”

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“Who?”

“John Lopez.”

“Good cop,” Peterson said.

Tremaine knew his next comment would calm Peterson down, if he bought it. “Listen,” Tremaine said. “This is a tough case. I’m sure you remember, there’s no . . . what’s the word I’m looking for . . .
evidence
.”

Peterson smiled, but he wasn’t totally calm. Not yet.

Tremaine said, “I’m here because I heard you were good.

I wanted to bounce some of my theories off you, see what you think. I’m working on conjecture here, and I need a sounding board, but I need a good sounding board, someone who not only knows the case but knows what they’re talking about.”

“You came all the way here to ask me if I think you’re on the right track?”

“There’s a steak dinner in it for you. Ruth’s Chris.”

Peterson said, “I remember the case well; it’s a tough one. If you want me to tell you what I think, well, I’m happy to help a fellow investigator, private or otherwise.”

Praise, Tremaine thought—nobody ever gets sick of it.

Well, that was that, he had Peterson coming to dinner. And he was indeed going to tell him some of his ideas.

Ruth’s Chris, Buckhead, big red booth in the heart of the joint. Bustling, but not really that loud. But not too quiet either. Just right, nice for his purpose, and a nice feel in general. Nothing like a nice restaurant to get a cop talking. That’s what Tremaine was thinking, half-joking to himself. They both had a couple beers and Tremaine assumed they would engage in some small talk, life in L.A., life in Atlanta, the Dodgers, the Braves, whatever. Tre-128

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maine realized quickly, however, that he was principally going to do a lot of listening. Bill Peterson being one of those guys who’s not afraid to talk about himself. The beer helping him, even though he didn’t need any help.

“Atlanta’s a nice town, but I gotta admit, I’m a little lonely,” Peterson said.

Tremaine nodded.

“I took the job because I had a friend down here. The captain, actually. I knew he was planning on leaving the force. He didn’t tell anyone else that, but I knew. Anyway, after he did leave, man, getting to know a new town takes time. I’m bored as shit. Maybe even depressed.”

Tremaine thought, tell it to Dr. Phil, but he listened politely. Thankfully the steaks arrived and Bill Peterson began to dig in, forgetting for a moment about his social situation in Atlanta. Now he was eating as opposed to talking.

Peterson started talking again, this time about something Tremaine was interested in. “So, what’s new with the Roger Gale case?” he said. “Why are you looking into it?

Who hired you?”

“Family member,” Tremaine said, a little surprised to hear his own voice. “Niece.”

“The one from Connecticut.”

“She lives in L.A. now.”

“We never talked to her,” Peterson said. “She was thousands of miles away, married and all, living her life.”

Peterson took a big bite of his steak and said, still chew-ing, “So what’s up? What did you want to bounce off me?”

“I’m working a few angles,” Tremaine said.

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“The other ad guy and the possibility that Gale was running around?” Peterson said.

“Right,” Tremaine said, “and one other thing, the thing I wanted to hear your thoughts on.”

Tremaine looked right at Peterson now and saw Peterson register his stare, think about it a little.

“What is it?” Peterson said.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Tremaine said. “About your involvement in everything.”

Peterson was listening carefully.

“You had an offer here in Atlanta that you took right after the Roger Gale thing went cold. You knew you were leaving.”

“Yeah,” Peterson said.

“Well, I talked to Phillip Cook the other day, and he mentioned you. He mentioned you in a way that I found unusual.”

“So, he mentioned me. So what? I worked on the case, why wouldn’t he mention me?”

“Phillip Cook and his mother are desperate to prove to everyone in the world that Roger Gale didn’t have affairs.

Gale wouldn’t do that to Evelyn, embarrass her like that.

When Phillip brought your name up, it was almost like he had a relationship with you, like he knew you as more than a cop. And then, when I indicated I might talk to you, he didn’t like that. But I got to thinking, maybe you and Phillip had some kind of agreement. That no matter what you knew, you were going to say what Phillip wanted you to say.”

“Tremaine, this case is tough. There’s nothing to go on.

I understand your frustration. But you’re creating some-130

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thing out of nothing here. The guy mentioned my name—

so what. Read the report—get Lopez to give it to you.

Everything I know is in there.”

“Everything you wrote is in there. But is everything you know in there? Detectives don’t make much money, Peterson. Everyone knows that. Say you found something and Phillip paid you to keep quiet. You were leaving anyway—out of sight, out of mind. You were the perfect guy to do it. And Lopez told me you were a good cop, no one would suspect you, you just took a better-paying job in a different city. A lot of cops would do that.”

Peterson downed his beer. Tremaine flagged a waiter, who came over. An old man who looked like a butler.

“Let’s do a shot,” Tremaine said to Peterson.

No objection from Peterson.

“Two shots—Maker’s, please,” Tremaine said.

They waited, not talking now, for the booze to arrive.

Peterson had his head down, making his way through the remainder of his steak. Eating the fat. Tremaine just sat still, watching him. Peterson in this moment looked like an animal to Tremaine. Head down, eating away.

The shots arrived. Peterson put his fork down, and he and Tremaine threw back the bourbon.

Tremaine looked at Peterson and said, calmly, “I’m not going to sell you out, Peterson. If you tell me something, it will never come back to bite you in the ass. Never. But if I don’t leave this restaurant with something, something you know that I don’t, I’m going to drop the Roger Gale case and investigate you.”

“Are you threatening me, Tremaine? Are you threatening a cop?”

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“Yes.”

“I don’t know shit. You came all this way and I don’t know shit.”

“Bullshit,” Tremaine said.

“Pay the bill, Tremaine.”

“Peterson, tell me what you know, and go back to your life. Don’t tell me, and I’ll find out about you if I have to rip out Phillip’s glass eye and feed it to him.”

Peterson laughed, the comment had caught him off guard. He’d evidently forgotten about that bizarre glass eye for the moment. He looked at Tremaine.

Tremaine said, “I’m not going to fuck with you, Peterson, no matter what you tell me. As long as you tell me.”

Peterson slumped in his chair. Then, calmly, the veteran cop back for the moment, he said, “You got me, Tremaine.

If I don’t tell you, you’re going to look into me. I don’t want you looking into me. So I’m going to tell you.”

Peterson paused, took a breath, and said, “I took a payoff from Phillip Cook to keep something out of the report.”

Tremaine looked at Bill Peterson, not changing his expression, not expressing any satisfaction that he’d been right. He just looked at the guy.

“The only reason I took the money is because I found out, personally, that the information I had did not have anything to do with Roger Gale’s murder. They were separate things.”

“So what’s the point in omitting it?”

Bill Peterson said, “Phillip Cook came to me with some information, something from Roger Gale’s past. He gave it to me, I didn’t find it through the evidence, he gave it to me. Said he’d give me the tip if I’d talk to him first about 132