Cicero's Dead (17 page)

“Collect only.”

“I know the drill.”

He didn’t like my reply and his eyes narrowed as
he mulled over an appropriate response. I didn’t have time to wait and headed
over to the phone.

I dialed Bobby’s home number.

“Hello?” It was Brad.

“I’m in jail.”

“What the fuck happened?”

“Not now. Later. Get me Cassady.”

“Okay, sure.”

Cassady was on the phone in a flash. “You okay?
What the hell’s going on?”

“They’re holding me and Bobby here at Parker
Center.”

“What’s the charge?” she asked, all business.

“Murder One.”

“Jesus.”

“They’re claiming we killed an Armenian doctor,
but it’s all circumstantial and it’s totally weak. I don’t want to be here ‘til
Tuesday, so tell Bill to work something out.”

“I’m on it.”

The guard came over. “Time’s up.”

“What?”

“You heard me motherfucka, time’s up.”

“Gotta go.”

“I love you,” she said quickly, worry propelling
her words.

The guard reached over and snatched the phone out
of my hand. I glared at him. “What the hell, bro?”

“Get the fuck back in there.”

His attitude assured me that something was about
to go down. As I walked through the door, the already tense atmosphere amped up
about 1000 per cent, and I could feel the heat from the gaze of the gang of
five, searing into my back. I made my way over to Bobby, using every part of my
peripheral vision to watch for the inevitable. He had sensed it, too, and got
to his feet, scanning the crowd for any sudden movement.

I sat next to him and spoke quietly, “Cassady’s
getting the lawyer.”

“Won’t be soon enough.”

“I know.”

“When it goes down, keep your back to the wall.”

I nodded and readied myself for the coming battle.
The gang of five were facing us now, their eyes steely lights in a gunmetal
world. Suddenly the main door opened, and a new batch of detainees shuffled in.
Yep, it was Saturday night and humanity was displaying its warts. This group
was mostly black and Latino with one thin, good-looking white guy with Mediterranean
features. He definitely thought he was riding in the black car. He didn’t even
glance at Bobby and me, instead started jawing with some black guys, his voice
rising shrilly.

“Motherfucking PoPo, fuck dem bitches!”

The blacks looked dubious but made a half-hearted
effort to listen.

“I was getting my grip on, feel me? And they
jacked me fo’ nuttin’. Sheeit, dawg, me and my boy, we was riding on Crenshaw
and the fuckers pulled us over, and planted 2 eight balls on us. Motherfuckas.”

Nobody responded; in fact, the black guys turned
their backs on him. Humiliated, he stood there as inconspicuous as a
rattlesnake smoking a cigarello. He turned away, grabbed a thin,
plastic-covered mattress, and sat on the floor fuming and muttering. A wave of
intense emotion swept over his thin, intelligent face and he looked like he was
about to cry, alerting the predators who are always vigilant for a sucker. I
hoped no one had noticed, but knew that he was already marked. When it
happened, no one would come to his aid, just as no one was going to help us.

It was time and the five gangbangers made their
way through the crowd, which parted without resistance and folded back in
behind them, shielding the impending violence from prying eyes. Not that it
made any difference anyway as the cameras, most likely, were already turned
off. The two white cons glanced at us and melted away, so much for safety in
numbers.

With our backs to the wall, we waited -- muscles
coiled, adrenaline pumping. They oozed out of the crowd and fanned into a line.
Everyone watched and waited for blood. Their Neanderthal leader had a ring of
black skulls tattooed all the way around his neck. He gave us the once over,
then settled his gaze on me.

“You remember me, Holmes?”

“No.”

“You snatched my brother in Dago.”

I shrugged. “Yeah?”

“He was almost to TJ. Now he’s doing 15 to life.”
His voice shrill; odd in such a gorilla of a man.

The penny dropped. “Jose Torres.”

“Si,
cabrón
.”

“So what d’you want?”

“You, motherfuc--”

I didn’t wait for him to finish and stepped
forward, kicking him fast and hard in the balls. He screamed and dropped to his
knees. Bobby was airborne, and slammed his knees into the second dude’s chest,
knocking him back, out cold. The third gangbanger cracked me hard in the face,
I rolled with the punch and spun a 360, jacking him in the side of his neck
with a back elbow. Bobby had the last two in headlocks, one in each of his
burly arms, squeezing the life out of them. The leader was still trying to
force air back into his lungs when I grabbed his throat, and punched him
multiple times, as hard as I could in the face. Flesh split, blood sprayed out
and he was out for the count. No one stopped the beating. No one said a word.
No one looked away. Breathing hard, I looked at Bobby. The two gangbangers were
fading.

“Let ‘em go.”

He was enjoying himself a little too much,
squeezing out whatever life these assholes had left in them. His trademark 1000
yard stare bore into me.

“Bobby!”

His eyes cleared and he let them go. They slumped
to the ground.

Suddenly the emergency buzzer sounded and several
guards came running in. Everyone backed away as they pushed their way through,
bursting onto the five beaten bangers. The lead guard glared at me.

“Get on the ground, asshole!”

“What took you so long?”

“Shut the fuck up!” was the last thing I
remembered.

I woke up in isolation. My mouth felt raw and
tasted like putrid blood. More of it crusted the corners of my mouth and now
the pounding in my head exploded, irritated at being ignored while I was
unconscious and now determined to make up for it. I tried to stand but felt
dizzy and broke out into a cold sweat, so I lay back down and closed my eyes.

At around 8:00 a.m., the steel door was yanked
open and a screw stepped inside with a breakfast tray. He handed it to me and
left. I sat there contemplating the cold scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, dry
toast and lukewarm coffee. Still, I was hungry and tried to suck down a few
bites but my mouth hurt too much, so I sipped the coffee and sat back, feening
for some aspirin. About 20 minutes later, Detective Karsagian and Officer
Jansen stood in the doorway.

Karsaigian looked grim, and his suit looked as
tired as he did. He locked eyes with me, scratching at his five o’clock shadow,
his shirt open at the collar revealing tufts of coarse gray hair.

“Crane, what happened to your face?”

“I got jumped.”

“By whom?”

I nodded. “As if you don’t know.”

“You have a habit of pissing people off,” smirked
Jansen.

“Only your mother.”

Jansen gritted his teeth, balled up his fists and
took a step toward me.

Karsagian almost cracked a smile. “Back off,
Detective.”

He backed off.

“Cut the crap, Nick,” said Karsagian.

“Now we’re on a first name basis?”

Jensen was busily chewing his bottom lip and from
his expression, he wanted nothing better than to work me over.

“So what do you want, Detective?”

“We’ve got a witness who says you killed Dr.
Tarkanian,” replied Karsagian.

“So why should I even talk to you without my
lawyer here?”

“You know how this goes; cooperate and we can make
it much easier for you.”

“Who’s the eyewitness?”

“I don’t have to tell you that.”

“‘Cause you don’t have one, do you?”

“Now listen--”

“--No, you listen; you’ve got nothing to hold me
on. You know I didn’t kill anybody and you sure as hell don’t have this mystery
witness ‘cause if you did, you’d have already charged me and doofus over there
would be working me over.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Karsagian
nodded, took a deep breath and said, “We had to take you in. The witness says
it was you.”

“Obviously she didn’t witness the murder ‘cause if
she had she’d be dead too.”

“She said you were at Tarkanian’s office on
Thursday morning and that you and he had an altercation.”

“But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

“She also said you said you were a personal injury
lawyer named Brian Bellamy. She gave me a business card with his name and your
fingerprints.”

“So what? You ever watch the Rockford Files?”

“I don’t get you.”

“He had all kinds of business cards. It goes with
the territory.”

“And?”

“Yeah, I gave his receptionist the card, but that
doesn’t make her a murder witness, unless she actually saw me doing it, which
she didn’t, ‘cause I didn’t do it.”

“But you know who did.”

“And that would make me an accessory, wouldn’t
it?”

Karsagian nodded and sat on the other end of the
bunk. “We rousted you ‘cause we figured you knew more than you were telling.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

“Okay, I’m asking now.”

“First of all, I flew to San Francisco late
Thursday night with Ms. Lamont. I got back around 1:00 a.m. Saturday morning, and
went straight to Bobby’s house in City Terrace.”

“So why did you hold back on Thursday?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Not ‘til we’d checked it out, no.”

“So either way we’d have landed in here.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” They looked at me without expression.
“And can you guess where Bobby is?”

Jansen said, “Next door.”

“Is he okay?”

He snickered. “About the same as you.”

I nodded and wanted nothing more than to knock the
smirk off his face. I put that thought on hold and continued, “We drank a few beers
and went to sleep. The only time I’d ever seen Tarkanian was Thursday morning.”

“Why’d you think he’d be interested in personal
injury cases?”

I sighed inwardly. I knew where this was heading
and unless I revealed Halladay’s involvement, which I was avoiding like grim
death, this could be a very slippery slope. Right at the moment the death
certificate was sitting in the glove compartment in my Camry.

“I was tipped off that he might be involved in
Cicero’s death, and used that as a ruse to get in to see him because I felt he
was the guy who signed the death certificate.”

“How in hell did you figure out that this dead
doctor, the same guy who had his face burned off with a blowtorch, was the one
who signed the death certificate? Unless you already had it, in which case, you
should’ve also told us that on Thursday afternoon.”

“After I realized Cicero wasn’t killed in a
hit-and-run, one of my contacts told me to check out Tarkanian.”

“Crane,” said Jansen, “you’re not getting out of
here until you produce that contact.”

I ignored Jansen and continued to address
Karsagian. “I tell sawbones I have evidence he signed Cicero’s death warrant.
He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack and he tells me that the family
called him, and he went over to their house. It turns out that Cicero’s had a
massive myocardial infarction and that his gig’s up.”

“Wow, you’re really quite the detective,” said
Jansen.

“Yeah, I am. Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment, asshole.”

“Knock it off!” snapped Karsagian. “Finish what
you were saying.”

“I happen to know that nobody in Cicero’s family
was around when he got whacked, so I knew the doctor’s lying. I threaten to
make a citizen’s arrest and this time I really thought he was gonna stroke out.
He says that Koncak and Fishburne, you know, the two fake cops you still
haven’t found?” They looked at me like I was a freshly laid turd. I grinned and
continued, “He told me they still owed him 5 large and were sending someone to
pay him off Friday, at the McDonald’s on 3rd, in Koreatown. I send Bobby to
tail whoever makes the drop, and he confronts him. The dude tells him that
Koncak used to live in his building and that his name is Ernie, but that’s all
he knows.”

“You should’ve told us this on Thursday,” said
Karsagian.

“Yeah, except Bobby didn’t witness the exchange
‘til late Friday afternoon.”

“So why didn’t you tell us on Thursday that they
were gonna pay him off on Friday?”

“I didn’t think it really much mattered. Turns out
I was right.”

“Wrong. You concealed key evidence concerning a capital
crime,” barked Jansen. “You, Crane, are a true asshole.”

“I know this might be difficult for you, Jansen,
but try and think it through. If you’d have arrested Tarkanian, he’d have been
sprung in five minutes. We all know that. You’re not gonna hold a guy for
signing a phony death certificate. You’d release him and give him a date. And
you might tip off the medical board to start proceedings to get his license
pulled. But that’s it. Tarkanian got in bed with the wrong snake and got bit.
He knew too much, so they smoked him.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“You made it very clear you weren’t interested in
solving Cicero’s murder. You wanted to pinch the fake cops. Had you done it,
the doc might still be alive.”

Jansen was incredulous. “You’re blaming us?”

“Why not? It’s as ridiculous as blaming me.”

He looked at Karsagian. “I need some quality alone
time with the prisoner.”

The detective ignored him and said quietly, “We
haven’t been able to find ‘em. Can you?”

I sighed. “Maybe.”

Karsagian stood up and paced around as best he
could, given the limited space of my cell.

I watched him and said, “Arnold’s the key to all
this.”

“Why do you think that?”

“The guy’s a psycho. Everything’s a game to him.”

“How so?” asked Jansen.

“I’m working for Ms. Lamont. Clipper’s already got
his fingers into Richard and his money; now he wants her and her money. But,
what’s more important to him, is how he plays the game.”