Scavenger Hunt (12 page)

Chapter 18

Helen Katz was on one knee by the curb, lifting the sheet that draped a body. The draping was unusual for the big rawboned detective, who didn’t care enough about spectators to shield them from the sight of death. A bicycle lay in the street near the body, a new red mountain bike with a bent front rim. Bright yellow police tape ringed the crime scene. Two units had blocked off the street, light bars flashing, one of the uniforms redirecting traffic. “Just another drive-by,” the dispatcher had told Jimmy when he called looking for Katz. Another drive-by, not even worth a TV news crew.

Jimmy inched his way through the crowd of onlookers to the edge of the crime scene tape, surrounded by tourists on their way to the nearby entrance to Disneyland, and locals caught up with curiosity. A fat man with mouse ears had a camcorder out, documenting the moment, whispering commentary into the built-in microphone. Closer now, Jimmy could see that the victim was a Hispanic boy with the top of his head torn away, his shiny black hair matted with brain tissue. He watched Katz work, noticed the care with which she examined the body, her pink surgical glove flecked with blood. She glanced at the street, then at the surrounding apartments, trying to gauge where the shooter had been and who in the vicinity would have had a clear line of sight from the front window. She was good.

Katz looked even angrier than usual. Her face was flushed, and her thick jaw clenched whenever she spied the two women across the street: an older Hispanic woman wearing a supermarket clerk’s uniform, and a teenager in orange soccer shorts and a white jersey, the two of them clutching each other. Standing on the grass behind them was a huge glowering young man, his arms folded across his chest. He wore knee-length cutoffs and a buttoned-up Pendleton, his neck and forearms laced with tattoos.

Jimmy had decided to find Katz as soon as he left the Starlight Arms Motel, sitting in his car, working it out. Time to call in the professional. Shafer had probably been used as a stalking horse, a decoy to gain access to Walsh. The two of them would have been murdered shortly thereafter, Shafer’s body dumped somewhere like a bag of rotten oranges. A murder to cover up a murder, to cover up a murder— an infinite series, backward in time. Perhaps forward too. Jimmy was going to keep looking for the good wife, but he needed Katz’s help. Somebody had to find her before she disappeared too or drowned in her bathtub.

Katz stood up, peeled off her gloves, and tucked them into the back pocket of her trousers. She beckoned over the photographer and directed him to take pictures, barking out which shots and angles she wanted. Her short dirty-blond hair was limp from the heat. She caught sight of Jimmy on the fringe of the crowd and brightened, then walked over to him. The people beside Jimmy took a step backward as Katz ducked under the police tape, and he knew just how they felt. “Glad to see you,” Katz growled. “A stringer from the
Times
showed up, took a look around, and drove off. How did you catch the call?”

“I need to talk with you.”

Katz noticed the tourist with the mouse ears videotaping their confrontation. “Excuse me, sir,” she said to him, “but if you don’t cease your taping, I’m going to have to confiscate your equipment as potential evidence. It should be returned to you in three or four months.”

The tourist gulped, put the camera down, and retreated back into the crowd.

Katz took Jimmy by the elbow and led him back under the tape, the two of them walking toward the body.

Jimmy’s whole arm was numb in her grip. “Ouch,” he said quietly.

Katz looked at her hand as though she hadn’t realized her own strength. “Sorry,” she said, releasing him. “I’m in a bad mood. I knew this kid.”

A uniform walked up to Katz, a full-gutted veteran keeping his head tilted so he didn’t have to look at her directly. “Beaners don’t know nothing,” he said, jerking a hand toward the nearby apartments. “Ten to a room, but they don’t see nothing, they don’t hear nothing. ‘No hablamos inglés,’” he singsonged.

“I wouldn’t talk to a
puto
like you either,” Katz said. “Relieve Simmons on traffic control, and send him over to talk to me. He’s better looking than you, and he doesn’t slur the people he’s asking for help.”

“Hey,
detective,
” sputtered the uniform. “I know my job better—”

“You don’t know shit, Wallis. That’s why I just told you to send Simmons over.”

Wallis slunk off, cursing softly.
Dyke, cunt, bitch
floated on the breeze like dandelion seeds.

Katz bent down beside the body again. “Take a look, Jimmy.”

“I think there’s a misunderstanding.” Jimmy bent down beside her. This close he could see a single gold hoop in the boy’s ear, the earring gleaming in the sunlight; it made him seem even more innocent. “I’m not here because of—”

“Meet Luis Cortez.” Katz gently closed the boy’s eyes, her fingers lingering on his smooth brown skin. “Luis was thirteen years old. Good kid, never in trouble, a solid student. He played third base on the Boys Club team. Lousy player, but he loved the game. He just . . . loved it.” She glanced over at the bike lying broken a few yards away. “Police Athletic League bought him that bike not a month ago. You should have seen his face.” She chewed on her lower lip. “He hardly got a chance to break it in.” She looked at Jimmy. “You put that in your article. He hardly got a chance.”

“I’m sorry.”

Katz glared at the sullen homeboy watching them from across the street, arms crossed. “That’s his big brother, Paulo.” She gently pulled the sheet over the boy’s head. “Killing Luis was supposed to send a message to Paulo. If you ask me, they should have delivered it direct and smoked his gangbanging ass.” She stood up, and Jimmy stood up with her. “You know the thing I hate the most about my job? The wrong people die.”

Jimmy looked in her eyes. “That’s what I hate about my job too.”

“Why aren’t you writing this down?”

“Detective?” A young uniform hustled over. “You wanted to see me?”

“Go ring some doorbells, Simmons,” said Katz. “They’ve already been asked once, so try it with a smile. And take off your hat when you talk to the
señoras.
”

“Yes, detective.”

“Wipe you feet before you walk inside,” she called as Simmons took off at a dogtrot. She stared off into the distance. The tip of Disneyland’s Matterhorn ride was visible over the jacaranda trees, the mountain’s fake snow glistening in the heat. “The happiest place on earth, my
ass.
”

“Detective, I’m not here to write a story about Luis.”

Katz turned to him, her face frozen.

“You told me at the restaurant that you had pulled Harlen Shafer’s prints off Walsh’s trailer. I followed up on him.”

“Luis Cortez isn’t worth your time, but Garrett Walsh is?” Katz scowled. “A thirteen-year-old kid gets blown away riding his bike, and it’s who-gives-a-shit. A convicted killer drowns in a fishpond, and you treat it like the Kennedy assassination.”

It was a good question, but Jimmy didn’t have an answer. Instead, he pulled the Gideon Bible out of his jacket and offered it to her.

Katz didn’t touch the book. “It’s a little late in the game for me to get religion.”

“Take it.”

Katz took the Bible and flipped it open. One of her eyebrows raised.

“I ran down Shafer to a motel off the Strip. He moved out just after Walsh died. Cleared out in the middle of the night and left the Bible behind.”

Katz moved around the Baggies of pot and pills with a fingertip.

“You ever hear of a small-time dealer who loads up his shirts and underwear, his socks and toothbrush, but forgets to take his stash?”

Katz closed the Bible, her expression impenetrable.

“No one saw Shafer scoot,” said Jimmy, standing close, not afraid of her. “The motel manager and he were friends. The man was disappointed that Shafer didn’t stop by to say good-bye. Detective, I don’t think Shafer cleaned out his room. I think he’s dead, and whoever killed him wanted to make it look like he had run off.”

Katz didn’t answer, waiting for more. Like good reporters, good cops knew when to be quiet.

“Walsh was paranoid, listening for the sound of a car on the gravel road, but Shafer made regular visits to his trailer. Walsh wouldn’t have thought twice seeing his Camaro driving up some evening. He would have figured the two of them were just going to sit around the koi pond getting loaded and talking about bad times in the joint. I think on that last visit Shafer had company. That’s why the crime scene unit didn’t find any tire tracks they couldn’t account for.”

Katz waved the first uniform over, tapping her feet as the paunchy sergeant took his time. “Make sure that Paulo doesn’t leave the scene,” she told him when he finally arrived. “I want to interview him after he’s stewed a while, after he’s gotten a chance to see his baby brother’s blood leaking into the storm drain. Not yet, sergeant,” she ordered, as the man turned to go. “Have someone bring the mother and sister a cold drink, a
female
officer. Tell Morales to drive to McDonald’s, pick up some lemonades, then come back and hold their hands.
Now
you can go.”

“Whoever killed Walsh used Shafer to help with the job,” said Jimmy, trying to regain her attention. “Shafer got him so high he could hardly move. That’s why the coroner didn’t find any defensive wounds on Walsh’s body, no signs of a struggle. Just dope and alcohol. Shafer probably thought he was saving his own life by cooperating, but all he was doing was buying a little time.”

Katz checked her watch. “Maybe it was just Shafer and Walsh getting high that last night, so wasted they both passed out.” She shook the Bible and set the pills rattling, “Only Shafer was lucky— he passed out in the dirt. Walsh stumbled into the koi pond and drowned.”

“Walsh didn’t drown.”

“A few hours later Shafer wakes up, sees Walsh floating, and he panics,” continued Katz, paying no attention to Jimmy’s protests. “Shafer knows the drill
—he’s
the one who supplied Walsh with the drugs,
he’s
looking at manslaughter. So he drives back to the motel, grabs his gear, and splits. Unlike you, though, Shafer isn’t a deep thinker. He forgets his dope, and by the time he remembers it, he’s too scared to come back.”

“Boone did the autopsy on Walsh. You told me you were going to make sure that Rabinowitz handled the job.”

“Rabinowitz was on vacation when we brought in Walsh, not that it’s any of your business.” Katz patted him on the cheek; to a bystander it would have looked almost affectionate, but it rattled Jimmy’s teeth. “Walsh was a rapist and a murderer, and he drowned with a mouth full of fish shit.”

“
Somebody
took Walsh’s screenplay,” said Jimmy.

“Maybe Shafer took it.”

“Shafer’s dead.”

Katz laughed.

“The letter Walsh got in prison,” said Jimmy, wanting to convince her, needing to convince her, “it was from a woman he had been having an affair with when Heather Grimm was murdered. A
married
woman. She wrote him, said she had found out that her husband knew about the affair the whole time they were together. She suspected that her husband set Walsh up for the murder.”

Katz shook her head. “Your story just keeps getting better and better.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth is, we have a missing screenplay you never read. A missing letter you never saw. Written by a married woman whose name you don’t know.”

“I’ve got some possibilities on that.”

“I’m sure you do.” Katz patted his cheek again, and he tasted blood in his mouth. “I did a little follow-up myself after our lunch date. I called around to a few studios, and what do you know? Walsh had hit them all up about his new screenplay. He actually described it as ‘the most dangerous screenplay in the world.’ You believe that? I’m surprised the studio execs could keep a straight face. Strange thing, though—Walsh wouldn’t let any of them read it, either. Not a word. Said it was a work in progress.” She grinned those wide, flat horse teeth at him. “See where I’m heading?”

“I believed him.”

“Of course you did—that’s
your
job.” Katz cocked her head, hearing a siren approaching. “So here’s Walsh, getting nowhere with the studios, and suddenly you show up, and he pitches this wild story about a prison letter and a wife and a jealous husband, and you can see the headlines already. Walsh isn’t a loser who murdered a young girl, he’s an innocent artist wronged by the system. Too bad he died before you resurrected his career.” She leaned closer. “The only thing I can’t decide is whether he really fooled you, or if you knew it was a scam and were using him too.”

A crime scene van approached, the siren turned off now as it moved past the police line.

“What are you afraid of?” Jimmy said quietly, so furious he didn’t trust himself to raise his voice. “Did you get all weepy about Luis Cortez because he was an innocent kid, or because it’s an easy case? Putting away gangbangers, how hard is that? They don’t even try to hide what they’ve done. They
brag
about it.”

Katz waved to the van. “Go home, Jimmy. Go home, get stoned, get laid, go do whatever it is you do when you’re not playing boy detective.”

“Whoever killed Walsh knew how to get away with it. He was smart enough to get away with killing Heather Grimm. Smart enough to—”

Katz jabbed him in the chest with a forefinger. “Shoo.”

“I’ll throw you another steak. Maybe that will get you to do your job.”

Katz poked him with the Gideon Bible, poked him hard, a vial of pills falling out and rolling across the street. “We’re done here.”

“You are. I’m not.”

Chapter 19

Jimmy climbed over the NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT PERMISSION gate, then started down yet another long dock at the Blue Water marina, checking names on the sterns of the boats parked there, past seventy-foot oceangoing yachts and four-masted schooners, and— fuck it, Jimmy didn’t know what he was talking about. His knowledge of boats began with Captain Hook’s pirate ship in
Peter Pan
and ended with the doomed fishing boat in
A Perfect Storm.
And, oh yeah, those fat rich guys who hired fit young guys to race their yachts every few years for the America’s Cup, while sportscasters desperately tried to get the rest of the country to give a shit. All Jimmy knew was the marina was filled with boats, lots of boats, some with inboard engines, some with sails, but all of them big and beautiful and costing way too much money, even before you got to the tricked-out electronics sprouting from their rigging. If Detective Leonard Brimley really was living here, he had retired in style.

Jimmy had been walking up and down the docks for the last half hour looking for Brimley’s boat, the
Badge in a Drawer,
without success. He had tried the main office, but according to a note taped on the door, the harbormaster was home sick with flu. Jimmy had stopped at two or three boats asking for directions, but he had gotten nothing but blank stares and misinformation.

Leonard Brimley had retired after twenty-five years on the Hermosa Beach PD, a mostly unremarkable career marked by a few commendations, a few community service awards, and not one civilian complaint. Not one. Brimley had evidently been a low-key cop who didn’t go looking for trouble and kept his emotions in check. His most notable achievement in the twenty-five years was arresting Garrett Walsh for the murder of Heather Grimm, and even that had been mostly accidental. According to the news accounts, Brimley had been off duty, driving home from his shift, when he heard a call over the police band to investigate a disturbance at a beach cottage a few blocks away. The nearest cruiser reported they were already involved in something else, and Brimley, the good soldier, had broken in and offered to take the call. Like the queen of England said, better to be born lucky than smart.

Jimmy reached the end of the dock, then started back, wondering if Jane had been wrong. There
had
to be a first time. Jane had called him this morning and said she had gotten Brimley’s address. Jimmy hadn’t even known she was looking, which was Jane’s style—she’d argue with you, say that you were wasting your time, then go behind your back and help you out.

Holt had gotten a copy of the Police Guild newsletter from the month that Brimley retired and taken down the names of the people in the party photo with him. One of them, a woman working the switchboard at his station house, said that Brimley had bragged to her at the party that he was moving into a fishing boat, going to be living the good life in a marina just north of the city. It had taken fourteen phone calls before a secretary at the Blue Water Marina in Ventura had confirmed that Leonard Brimley was a live-in.

It had been three days since his conversation with Katz; her dismissal of his theory about the death of Garrett Walsh didn’t surprise him, but Holt agreeing with her
—that
stung. Not that Jane would ever admit that she agreed with Katz—she was too diplomatic for that. But when Jimmy told her what had happened at the gangbanging crime scene, Holt had just looked at him and asked, “What did you expect?” There was more, of course; Holt explained basic police logic to him as they sat on her patio, half naked, half drunk, watching the sun set into the ocean. Holt said that when there were two equally logical explanations, a good cop always chose the interpretation that had a coroner’s report to back it up. He told her it didn’t sound like Pythagoras to him. Holt just sipped her drink, one bare leg perched on the balcony railing as she looked out over the waves.

Jimmy scampered back over the security fence and onto the public sidewalk, hot and tired, his shirt sticking to his back. He should have worn shorts. Not sure which direction to go in, he took a right. Behind him he could hear a faint, steady thumping—it sounded like someone beating on a drum. He glanced around, still walking, then spotted a soft drink machine and hurried over. He fumbled in his pocket for change as he scanned the options, his throat dry. No Coke, no Pepsi, no root beer or RC Cola. Instead there was iced tea, fake-sweetened and unsweetened, four different brands of mineral water, and two sports drinks that promised to replace his electrolytes. Jimmy put his quarters back into his pocket. If it didn’t rot your teeth, he wasn’t interested.

Jimmy turned toward the next dock when something hit him on the side of the head, slamming him into the pop machine. He clung to the machine, clung to it like they were dancing, when something hit him again, knocking his head into the glass front of the machine. Jimmy slid slowly down to the sidewalk. He could hear the thumping sound again, louder, getting closer. He got to his knees, bleary now, blinking at the sight of a tall, muscular white man in Lakers shorts and tank top a few feet away, the silky material billowing in the breeze. He looked familiar, but Jimmy couldn’t focus. The man nimbly passed the basketball from hand to hand, round and round his body. Jimmy started to rise, when the man whipped the ball from around his back and threw it into his face. Jimmy’s nose exploded with blood.

“Fouled in the act of shooting. Two free throws,” said the man.

Or maybe Jimmy just imagined it. He could barely hear anything with the pain and the roaring in his skull. He had fallen down again, slumped against the pop machine. He pushed himself up, trying to stand. You stay down, it was too easy to get used to it.

The basketball player stood over him, holding the ball in two hands. Set shot. He bounced the ball, once twice, three times, and Jimmy heard the pounding of drums. The natives are restless . . . he smiled, and then the ball smashed against his right eye, snapped him back to where nothing was funny anymore. “One point,” said the player. “The crowd goes wild.”

Jimmy groaned. Monotonous game. Every time he tried to get up, he found himself on the pavement again. Breathing made red bubbles, which was not a good sign.

The player was doing the round-the-world move again, the ball a blur. He acknowledged the cheers of the crowd with a goofy smile, then let loose, just as Jimmy slid down the pop machine and the ball slammed into the metal, just inches from his head. The player looked disappointed. “Off the rim,” he said, his eyes filled with hate.

Jimmy watched the player take the ball back a few yards, dribbling rapidly, the ball bouncing through his legs effortlessly, keeping up a steady tom-tom beat. Jimmy knew him from
somewhere.
He tried to push himself off the sidewalk, but he was shaking too hard and it was raining blood. Time to stay inside, stay right where he was until the storm blew over. Jimmy shook his head. No, he couldn’t stay here.

The player dribbled closer, then backed away, moved in again, then back out, a regular matador. His baggy shorts and tank top were flapping in the wind. Or maybe it was the pennants on the yachts nearby—every one of those tubs had a dozen flags on it. The player dodged left, then right, trying to attract Jimmy’s attention, the ball bouncing louder now, BAM BAM BAM.

Jimmy held one hand out.

The player smiled, the ball beating against the pavement. “That’s good, Jimmy. You
try
and block my shot.”

Jimmy squinted, but his eyes kept tearing over.
Who is this asshole?

“Think fast, Jimmy,” said the player, dribbling closer now. “Here it comes.” BAM BAM BAM. “Here it comes.” BAM BAM BAM.

Jimmy watched the player, helpless. It seemed to him that the player was uncertain now, taking too much time dribbling, hesitant to take that final shot.

“You ready?” said the player, louder now, trying to convince himself. BAM BAM BAM. “You ready for it? BAM BAM BAM. “I’m going to do—”

A beefy arm reached out from behind the player, grabbed his ball hand, and jerked it behind his back, bending him forward. The player howled as an older man planted a knee in his back and drove him into the sidewalk, then deftly pulled the other hand beside the other. The older man wasn’t as tall as the player, but he was a lot broader, and he moved with confidence and certainty, his takedown so fluid that it was over before Jimmy or the player realized what was happening.

The basketball bounced free, rolled over against Jimmy’s foot, and stopped.

The older man snapped a pair of handcuffs around the player’s wrists and dragged him over to the security fence. He glanced over at Jimmy and smiled, and it was a good smile, then he grabbed the player at the waist and lifted him high, hooking his handcuffed wrists over the top of the fencepost. The player was left suspended, his toes just touching the ground. As long as he didn’t struggle, he could keep from dislocating his shoulders with his own weight.

Jimmy stared at the player up there on the post, utterly amazed.

The player was equally stunned. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

The man walked over to Jimmy, a fleshy old bear with cropped reddish blond hair, built like a wine vat, wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a pink short-sleeved shirt with crossed nautical flags on the breast pocket. He peered down at Jimmy. “How are you, son?”

Jimmy licked his lips. It hurt.

The older man knelt down beside him. He had an easygoing round face with a peeling nose and lively blue eyes. A man who liked a good joke. “What did you do to that fella I hung up to dry, anyway? First time I ever saw a basketball used as a lethal weapon.”

“I didn’t do anything to him.” Jimmy stirred, winced.

“Don’t move. I’m going back to my boat and call the police. And an aid car.”

“Aren’t
you
a cop?” Jimmy pointed at the player hanging on the fence. “The handcuffs . . . ?”

“I used to be a cop,” said the older man. “I’m retired now, but I keep an eye on things, and the marina gives me a break on the slip fee. Only way I could afford a place like this.”

“Are you—you Leonard Brimley?”

The older man looked surprised. “That’s me. Who wants to know?”

“I’m Jimmy Gage. I came here looking for you. I’m a reporter.”

Brimley scratched his head. “It’s been a while since anyone wanted to talk with me.”

“Hey!” shouted the player. “What about me? You’re tearing my fucking arms off.”

“Hush now,” Brimley said without rancor. “I’ll get to you presently.”

Jimmy pulled himself to a sitting position. “Forget the ambulance.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been beat up worse than this.”

“You’re
proud
of that?” Brimley grinned.

“Just let me sit here for a while,” said Jimmy, sounding tougher than he felt. Something about Brimley made him want to sit up straighter, not give in to the pain.

“That’s always a good idea.” Brimley patted him gently on the shoulder. “I’m going to put a call in to the locals. They’re good boys; they know me.”

Jimmy watched Brimley saunter down the sidewalk to the next gate, open it with a key, then continue down the dock. He was still impressed at the ease with which the older man had handled his attacker. Jimmy felt blood dripping from his nose. He looked over to the fence and saw the player struggling, dancing on his tiptoes. “Who
are
you?”

“You don’t even recognize me?” The player spit at him, missed. “Perfect. Just fucking perfect.”

Jimmy pulled out his shirttail, lightly wiping at the blood on his face. His right eye was swelling up, but he didn’t think his nose was broken. “Tell me your name. You owe me that.”

“I owe
you
?” The player’s voice cracked. “You’re the one who owes
me.
”

“What did I do to you?” Jimmy carefully pulled himself upright, then had to bend over, resting his hands on his knees until the world stopped spinning. He hobbled closer to the fence and stared at the player. The man’s arms were powerful, lumped with muscle, his face all rough edges and thick brow ridges. Jimmy squinted. “Butcher?”

The man on the fencepost kicked at Jimmy, howling as his full weight tore at his bound wrists.

Jimmy had to sit down again.

“My name is Darryl Seth Angley, you
fuck,
” snarled the Butcher.

Jimmy’s head throbbed so loudly he thought someone was dribbling another basketball. It must have been five or six months since he had written the article about the Butcher. It was no big thing, just a short piece on the regular two-on-two pick-up basketball games at Venice Beach. Napitano had held it for a few issues, printing it only last month. Jimmy had almost forgotten about it.

“You turned me into a joke,” moaned the Butcher. “The ballers just laugh at me now.”

Jimmy had spent the afternoon courtside, taking notes, doing a few interviews. The Butcher had owned the court, playing with a succession of partners, always winning. The Butcher played a hyper-aggressive game, even for street ball, elbows flying, bumping, and thumping, forcing even bigger players to back off. Better players too. The Butcher wasn’t the best one out there, but he made up for it with a ferocious, full-contact game, even knocking aside his own team-mate going after a rebound. Jimmy had named him “the Butcher” in his notes, giving all the players nicknames: the Butcher, Stringbean, Ghettoblaster, the Phantom.

The Butcher went limp on the post, sweat rolling down his up-raised arms.

The Butcher had ruled the court all day, driving away his last partner an hour earlier, challenging the waiting players to a little one-on-one, bouncing the ball as he called them out. They stood up, one after the other, and one after the other he sent them away bleeding. No one could beat the Butcher. Until the Waiter showed up.

“What did I ever do to you?” wailed the Butcher.

Jimmy had been ready to leave when the Waiter first walked onto the court, but there was something about the new guy that made him stay. The waiter was a tall, skinny white guy wearing black trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled. A black bow tie was tucked into his shirt pocket. He wore street shoes. The Butcher tossed the ball to the Waiter, giving him a few minutes to warm up, then walked over and drank from his water bottle. One of the bikini girls who had been hanging around all day tried to speak to the Butcher, but he ignored her, his eyes on the Waiter shooting jumpers. Jimmy sensed something interesting was going to happen, and the other players must have too—they drifted over from the other courts to watch, whispering among themselves.