Cicero's Dead (10 page)

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.

“Listen, Jade, I’m up to my neck in this too, so
stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’m late ‘cause the cops held me for
questioning. They tried to fit me up for killing Ron, but couldn’t make it
work. The cops aren’t stupid; they did that because they know something is
going on and they want to find whoever did do him.”

She looked at me, her face a mask of despair, and
whispered, “It’s my fault.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He knew how psychotic Arnold
was, and could’ve gotten out of Dodge anytime. For some reason he didn’t. It
sucks, but that’s on him.”

She nodded as tears pooled in her eyes and started
to tumble down her cheeks. I handed her a tissue.

“You know better than anyone that Richie’s fucked
up for a whole bunch of reasons that I’m not privy to, nor do I wanna be. Be
pissed at Cicero. He’s the one who let your brother down. Not you.”

I watched the emotions play across Jade’s mobile
features. Her despair still held sway but there were ephemeral glimpses of
something else, something stronger.

“You’ve got to meet with the cops in less than 2
hours. Pull yourself together and get your story straight, or you’ll screw this
up.”

She nodded and was suddenly matter-of-fact. “I
won’t screw it up. I Promise.” The change was remarkable, if not slightly
disturbing. “I’m sorry I’m such a pussy.”

“Bad choice of words,” I smiled.

“You know what I mean. What do I tell the cops?”

“Very simple. Just describe your interaction with
Fishburne and Koncak. Give them details. Their phone calls. Your meetings. They
are going to want to take your cell phone to trace your calls. Give it to them.
Tell ‘em how Koncak was tailing us at the library. Do not mention Halladay.
Pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Jade was genuinely surprised. “But he’s the one
who contacted me.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s what he wants.”

Jade was incensed. “But he’s my father’s lawyer,
for Chrissake! He’s my fuckin’ lawyer. Now he wants to stick his head in the
sand?”

“For now, he’s not the focus. Our whole game plan
hinges on you convincing the cops that we really don’t know very much.”

“But you really know a lot more, don’t you?” Jade
looked hopeful and wary at the same time.

“Stay focused. I want you to cry real tears. Be
helpless and pathetic.”

“Why? Are they suspicious?”

“They’re cops. What d’you think?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“They know I’m not telling them everything, so
they’re gonna press you, hard.”

“Most men are suckers for a crying, helpless
chick.”

“Most.” I smiled wryly. “You’re smart, and strong.
You’ll be fine.”

We looked at one another. I could see gratitude in
her eyes, and something else that made me nervous. She could read me like a
book and she reached out and closed her slim, warm hands over my wrist and
started to pull me toward her. I shook my head almost imperceptibly, but it was
enough for her to notice. She let go of my wrist and drifted past me, heading
toward the kitchen. She made coffee and I tried to read Newsweek.

Audrey phoned and I was grateful for the
distraction. “You were right. It’s Arnold Clipper’s name on the house deed.”

“Meet up with Brad tonight at The Abbey, on
Robertson, at 9:00 p.m.”

No sooner had we signed off than Sheri Thomas, a
skid row basehead, called. She’s hit me up for money, on and off, over the last
five years, but knows better than to call unless she’s got something legit to
sell me.

“Nicky, gotta to talk to you, Baby.”

“Where are you?”

“Where do you think I am? On the street. Same old
same old.”

“I’ll meet you in 15 at the convenience store on
4th, just east of the 60 turnoff. I’ll be in a grey Yukon.”

I took the back streets through East L.A. When I
got to there, Sheri was waiting astride her old Schwinn bicycle, bundled up in
a dirty orange ski parka. She glistened with sweat, and her eyes were big and
dilated. I jumped out of my truck. “Let’s put your bike in the back.”

“Okay, yeah, cool. Let’s book. Bad for my image to
be seen with you.”

Sixty seconds later we were tooling slowly down
Boyle Avenue, past the tire recappers and miscellaneous businesses. “You gonna
tell me, or not?”

She held her hand out. “Cash money.”

“Don’t waste my time, Sheri.”

“Okay, chill, Dog.” I opened my mouth to respond
and she cut me off. “Just before I called you, I ran into a pipehead I know. It
was luck. Good luck, for a change.”

“Yeah? For who?”

“You, a’course.”

Baseheads can conjure up any number of bullshit
scenarios, especially when they’re Jonesing. I was getting irritated and pulled
over hard to the curb.

“What the fuck, Nicky?”

“Get out.”

“Come on, man, I need money for my beauty
products.”

I tried not to smile, but I just couldn’t help it.
“Beauty products?”

“I know I ain’t much to look at now, but I was a
fine woman back in the day.”

I’d hurt her feelings and although I hadn’t meant
to, the damage was done. Tears started popping out of her big brown eyes in
discrete individual packages.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

She nodded, sniffed and wiped her eyes with dirty
fingers, calloused and dry from living on the street for all these years. I
handed her a tissue and a Franklin. She looked at the C note with a surprising
amount of disdain.

“That ain’t enough.”

“Give me something and if it’s good, you’ll get
more.”

“Why’d five-oh take you in today?”

I stared at her. “What’re you, psychic?”

“Hell no. I don’t believe in that witchcraft
bullshit, but I peeped yo’ ass in a cruiser, ‘bout five o’clock this afternoon,
over on 2nd and Central.”

“It was about that body on Towne.”

“Did you do it?”

“What’d you think?”

“Shit, Baby, I know you didn’t, but I got a
description of them that might have.”

Sheri let that hang in the air and when it had
become sufficiently weighted, I handed her another hundred. She looked at the 2
beans in her hand and bit the inside of her cheek.

“I don’t have all day.”

“Aw’ite.” She slipped the folding money into her
jeans. “When the body got dumped off, a friend of mine was asleep and the car
woke him up. Not too many white people down there at night.”

“Who was driving the car?”

“Uh-huh. Hang on, Baby. I’m getting’ there.
Anyways, Drew, he was hid between these dumpsters in his raggedy ass sleeping
bag, and he watched the whole thing go down. These two guys got out and dragged
the other white boy outta the trunk. He said one dude was tall, real white,
with red hair. Other dude was short with dark hair. The tall dude was laughing
when he dumped the head on the sidewalk, sick motherfucka, and the other one
came around and turned it this way and that. Then they split.”

“Was there a driver?”

“Yeah, Drew said he didn’t get a good look at ‘im
but said he was one of ‘dem Hollywood types. You know, hair combed back,
lookin’ all cool.”

“You did good.”

“How good?”

I peeled off another 2 Franklins and pressed them
into her hand. Her eyes widened and for a second, I thought she was going to
cry again.

“Did Drew talk to the cops?”

“Hell no.”

“Okay then.”

She smiled; teeth yellow and chipped. “I’m a’get
me a room for tonight.”

I peeled off another Franklin. “I need your
jacket.”

“For reals?”

I held up the money. She handed me her dirty, worn
ski parka, snapped her digits around the C note and climbed out. As I pulled
her bicycle out of the back, she gave me a long, hard look and pursed her lips
thoughtfully.

“Yo, Nicky, you gonna be aw’ite?”

I smiled. “Yeah, I’m gonna be alright. Make sure
you are too.”

Bobby arrived home a little after I did, followed
by Brad ten minutes later. We sat in the living room, sipping coffee.

“I got pinched this morning and taken to see Ron
Cera’s corpse, over on Towne Street.”

“Damn,” said Brad.

“The cops couldn’t make me for it, so here I am.
They wanna interview Jade in about 30, at the Croatian church. Bobby, you have
any warrants out?”

“I’m a patriot. I served this country. Only thing
they want me for is to pin on the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

“Good. You’re gonna take her.”

“Cool.”

“Jade, put on the wig Audrey bought you and some
of that pancake make-up.”

“I don’t wear pancake,” she protested.

“You do today.”

Ten minutes later she emerged from Bobby’s spare
bedroom -- stained, baggy chinos, an even baggier flannel shirt, a frizzed-out
bleached-blonde wig and orange stage make-up.

“Wow,” said Brad, “I’m impressed. You look ready
for rehab.”

“Not now. Not ever,” she grinned.

Bobby clasped his hands in prayer and raised his
eyes to heaven. “Lord, forgive these sinners that have come unto my house.”

I pointed at his skintight jogging shorts, his
muscular thighs bulging like a college fullback. “It’s getting cold. How about
you put on some long pants for your important meeting with law enforcement?”

“Why?”

“I want them to think you’re halfway normal.”

“I am. Just not all the way.”

He went into his room and came back out wearing
jeans, and a long-sleeved button down shirt, which made him look like a DEA
agent showing up for sentencing in a Federal narcotics case.

“I grinned. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“You owe me,” he growled.

I handed Jade Sheri’s ski parka. She pulled it
over her flannel shirt, and was now a pretty good facsimile of a wigged-out bag
lady.

“Okay, guys. Get to it.”

They nodded and left.

I turned to Brad. “What’s with the old guy at
Gideon’s Gamble?”

“I felt sorry for him. He had that hunger. I had
the feeling he would be eternally grateful if I only gave him a little man
love.”