Cut to the Quick (11 page)

The children were especially enthralled with a Test-Your-Strength device. A nickel bought a chance to arm-wrestle a metal hand, sending a needle around a gauge. Cartoon drawings described one’s achievements. Yellow, the first category, said: Wimp. You’ll get sand kicked in your face. The pale man examined the accompanying drawing of a sunken-chested man that could have been a caricature of him. Red, the highest category, said: He-Man. Nobody better fool around with your girl.

The pale man blinked rapidly as he watched the children, the corners of his thin lips twitching. The sound of children at play was spontaneous music.

After the last child had played to his satisfaction, an older sibling holding him up so he could reach the metal hand, their mother, mindful of the pale man, turned down their pleas for more tries. Gathering her children, she hustled them from the broad alley toward the boulevard.

The man approached a glass and wooden case. Painted on the wooden frame in old-style writing in black and gold leaf was: S
WAMI
W
ILL
T
ELL
Y
OUR
F
ORTUNE
. Inside the case were the head and shoulders of a mannequin. The painted wooden figure was dark skinned, kohl eyed, clothed in robes of satin and velvet with a tall turban on his head. He held a crystal ball in one outstretched hand. His other hand was suspended, palm down, above it.

The pale man inserted a dime in the slot and shoved it in and out. It made a mechanical chi-chink sound. The swami’s hand rotated in a half circle over the crystal ball, which flashed with colored lights. His heavy-lidded
eyes blinked and his hinged lower jaw trembled up and down. A small card was spit out of a slot in the front of the case.

The man took it out and silently read it, cornflower eyes traveling over the text: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

He sucked in his cheeks, creating deeper hollows. He put the card in his pants pocket. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he mopped his forehead and scrubbed perspiration from his scruffy hair.

An outside table in front of Jake’s became free when a family got up, leaving partially eaten meals in the red baskets. Slipping the backpack from his shoulders, he sat, resting the pack on the seat of a chair. The top of a spiral-bound pad poked from the pack’s outside pocket. A couple at the next table paused in their eating to look at the man and the leftover food.

While he was unzipping the pack, a college-aged waitress in shorts, tennis shoes, and a Jake’s T-shirt arrived, a pencil stuck through her topknot of hair. While clearing the table she announced, “You have to order if you’re gonna sit here.”

He nodded. After she left, he hoisted his foot atop his knee and pulled off his shoe. He did the same to the other foot, to the consternation of people at the surrounding tables, even though his black socks were sound. He set the shoes on the ground.

He stood to unbuckle his belt. Down dropped his slacks, revealing white BVD briefs. Laughter and protests went up, and a crowd began to gather. A few people shouted encouragement. The man seemed oblivious to the commotion he was causing and pursued his task with a single-minded focus.

Still standing, he folded the slacks, coiled the belt, and put them in the pack. The briefs came next, to the hooting
delight of some in the crowd and the dismay of others. Next to come off was his shirt, button by button, exposing porcelain skin and his nearly hairless, gangly body to the brutal sun. An odd touch enhanced the already-peculiar scene, in the way that only a well-chosen accessory can. In this case, the accessory was a pearl necklace around the man’s neck, revealed when he removed his shirt. On the string was a pendant—a dark blue gem surrounded by sparkling diamond-like stones. The necklace remained on.

One zealous man stepped from the crowd, taking it upon himself to seize control of the situation. He reached for the stripper’s backpack, perhaps to withdraw clothing, but didn’t get the chance. The pale man, nude save the necklace and black socks, wordlessly snatched up his pack. His blue eyes fired off an icy gaze as he shoved his feet back into the loafers. The action riled the misdirected Good Samaritan, who grabbed the man’s arm. With wiry strength and an angry grimace, the pale man wrenched free and hoisted the straps of his pack over his shoulders.

He ran.

He ran down the alley, onto Colorado Boulevard. He darted through dense holiday traffic and edgy drivers. Brakes screeched. People pointed. Some parents tried to shield the eyes of young children.

Two Pasadena Police uniformed officers on foot patrol gave pursuit, after shouting a command to halt.

A car bumped the man, sending him careening into the path of another car that barely stopped in time. He nearly lost his balance, long arms windmilling, long legs flailing herky-jerky, but he kept going.

One of the officers became entangled with a bicyclist and both went down.

The second officer, John Chase, who had a recognized
competitive streak and a hunger when it came to catching bad guys, especially ones who ran from him, kept going.

Patrol cars and a mounted unit now joined in. The patrol cars were hampered by the traffic, and the officers pulled over to engage in the foot pursuit. The officer on horseback made good progress until the man headed down Mercantile Place, an alley parallel to Colorado Boulevard. White tents were set up there, and an annual chili cook-off to benefit a local children’s home was under way.

Long tables were covered with chili makings and cooking utensils. Cook stations were manned by groups of chili chefs of all stripes wearing aprons with their team names. The team of soccer moms showed off their tanned and toned physiques, to the delight of gray-haired executives. The wives of a certain age tried to pay no mind with mixed success. Beer and wine flowed. A local jazz band played. Everything came to an abrupt stop when the commotion started at one end of the alley and barreled through. Everything except the burbling vats of red.

The officer on horseback could go no farther, stymied by the tents, but officers on foot entered the alley from both ends.

The pale man was fast and agile. Heading beneath the tents, he zigzagged in and out, jostling tables and people, causing mayhem and spilled drinks. Officer Chase remained maddeningly a few steps behind, growing angrier by the second. He stepped it up, scattering the team from a local gym, not even noticing the scantily clad female members.

Chase pulled closer. Finally, he was close enough. He flung himself headlong, latching onto the man’s legs, sending them both flying into the work area of the Golden
Oldies team from the local Kiwanis club. They’d just dumped crushed tomatoes from twenty-four-ounce cans into their lucky cast-iron pot, completing the first of three timed phases of potent secret ingredients, and were bringing up the heat on the portable range.

Over went the table, range, chili, and nearly the Kiwanians, most of whom hadn’t moved that fast in years. The officer and the streaker slid facedown into the chili, skidding, drenching them both in lukewarm red-hot.

Chase and the streaker grappled on the ground, each struggling for purchase on the chili-smeared asphalt. Chase got his knee against the streaker’s back and wrenched one of his slippery arms behind him.

“Why were you running, man?”

Another officer pulled off the backpack, which had stayed in place throughout it all. “Anything in here gonna stick or hurt me?” He shoved aside heads of garlic and assorted produce and meat on a table before unzipping the pack and dumping the contents onto it.

The streaker, his face half submerged in chili where his cheek was pressed against the ground, stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Officers arrived on scene, some of them just to check it out and laugh.

Chase snapped on handcuffs and hauled the man to his feet with another officer’s assistance. “What’s your name?”

The streaker just looked at the officers, squinting at chili that ran into his eyes, shrinking from an officer who tried to wipe his face with napkins.

“I asked you a question.” Chase ran a towel that one of the Kiwanians handed him over his own face. “What’s your name?”

The Golden Oldies team from the Kiwanis kept its
distance except for one angry man. “That’s our Nitro in a Pot,” he cried. “It’s ruined.”

Officers razzed Chase.

“The Chaser. My man!”

“Looks like a dangerous criminal you got there, Chase.”

Chase ignored them, not letting up. “Why were you running? Why did you take your clothes off?”

A citizen came forward with a beach towel that an officer wrapped around the streaker’s waist. He passively endured the attention.

“What are you going to do about the Nitro?” The Golden Oldie wouldn’t let up. Except for his sour disposition, his long white beard and round belly made him a natural to play Santa Claus at Christmas events.

An officer asked the older man, “Sir, what’s the problem here?”

“Our chili. Nitro in a Pot.” Santa held one arm out to indicate the spilled mess. “We were a shoo-in to win this year until you cops busted through.”

“I’m not finding any I.D. in here,” said an officer who was looking through the streaker’s backpack. “He’s got about forty bucks in cash.” Searching his pants pockets, he found the card with the fortune from Swami. “Journey of a thousand miles? You’re taking a journey, all right. To the Big G.” He used the station jargon for L.A. County-USC Medical Center in East L.A., commonly known as General Hospital.

Sergeant Terrence Folke arrived. “What the hell, Chase? What have you got all over you?”

“Nitro in a Pot,” a Golden Oldie offered.

“It’s chili, Sarge.” Chase drew his finger through a blob of the concoction on his uniform and tasted it. “Good stuff.”

“Thanks,” the Golden Oldie said. “It’s our prizewinner.”

Santa pushed his big belly into the discussion. “And we would have won this year too. Sergeant, I want to know what you’re going to do about the behavior of your officers here today. They chased this man through here with total disregard for private property.”

“My officers did what they needed to do to apprehend this man and to maintain public safety.”

“Public safety? Keeping us safe from him?” Santa gestured to indicate the streaker, who had the beach towel wrapped around his skinny frame, the hair on one side of his head matted with chili, and his head hanging. “He looks about as dangerous as a canary.”

“Sir, I’m not going to debate this with you. If you feel our actions were out of line, you can file a complaint with the police department.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Lighten up, Frank. They’re just doing their jobs.” A Golden Oldie handed Santa a beer. “Vera and Marge went to buy more fixin’s. We have time to make another pot of Nitro. Have a drink and relax.”

“Dangerous.” Santa was not appeased. “Doesn’t look dangerous to me.”

“That’s what Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors said about him,” Sergeant Folke couldn’t resist adding. He turned his attention to the streaker. “You have a name?”

“He won’t talk.” Chase was still wiping chili off himself. “Doesn’t have any I.D.”

Folke got in the streaker’s face. “What’s your name?”

The pale man cringed, stepping back into Officer Chase, who gave him an angry shove.

“Can he talk?” Folke asked Chase.

“He was making noise when I had him on the ground. Grunting.”

Folke tried again. “What’s your name?”

The streaker rapidly blinked like a dog that had been rapped on the snout too many times with a rolled-up newspaper.

“What else did he do besides resisting arrest?” Folke asked Chase.

“From what I understand, he stripped off his clothes and ran down Colorado Boulevard.”

“Through traffic.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what I understand right now, Sarge, without having interviewed witnesses.”

“Looks like we’ve got a fifty-one and a half here,” Folke said.

A Golden Oldie said, “Right now, he looks like Nitro in a Pot.”

Folke leaned toward the streaker, causing him to rear back again. “Nitro in a pot. Since you won’t tell us your name, that’s what we’ll call you: Nitro.” He lifted the chili-smeared necklace that the streaker still wore around his neck. “Where did you get this, Nitro?”

Chase laughed. “Got no clothes but he didn’t forget to wear his pearls.”

TEN

K
issick’s briefing
in the detective’s section conference room was cutting into lunchtime. Vining’s stomach had started to rumble, inaudibly so far, but that wouldn’t last. She knew that some in the meeting could go all day without eating. Not her, but she wasn’t going to be the first to suggest lunch. They should be breaking soon since Lieutenant George Beltran was scheduled to give a press conference in half an hour on the steps of the PPD.

The location was Beltran’s favorite, as it provided a nice view of the Mission Revival–style police station and Beltran a podium suitably above the fray. The blow-dried breeziness of his black-to-silver locks betrayed a visit to the hairstylist that morning in preparation. He carried a year-round tan, but playing golf during the waning days of summer had turned his skin a warm chestnut hue, making his broad white smile stand out all the more. Rumor was, he slept in molds custom-made for his teeth filled with dental bleach. He’d recently shaved his mustache. He liked being in the glare of the media, and everyone else at the PPD was happy to let him stand there.

Vining had been neutral about Beltran until he’d interfered in her last homicide investigation. While he could be a strong ally, she’d learned that his ambitions too often colored his decisions. He also sought notoriety beyond his law-enforcement career. He had been shopping
around his screenplay,
Death in a Blue Uniform
, for months and reported interest among Hollywood’s power brokers. The gossipmongers sneered that he better not quit his day job.

Kissick outlined what they knew so far. “The knock-and-talks in the neighborhood turned up zilch. None of Mercer’s neighbors saw anyone coming or going. The autopsy showed that Mercer died from knife wounds to his chest. The dismemberment was done postmortem. Richards died immediately from a broken neck. Time of death is estimated between eighteen hundred and twenty-one hundred hours.