The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin (12 page)

G
reer Fuller stood in front of my desk. I looked at him, the dark, curly hair, the freckles, the innocent face.

He seemed uncomfortable.

“Greer,” I said. “How you doing? What's up?”

“Hey, I was . . . uh . . . I was in the neighborhood. Got your address off your card.”

“Cool. That's why I gave it to you. Have a seat.”

He sat in one of the chairs in front of my desk.

He still looked uncomfortable.

“You want a drink? Beer? Peach Fresca?”

“It's pretty early for a beer, I think. But . . . Peach Fresca? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, Greer. As a heart attack.”

I produced a can out of the minifridge next to my desk. And watched with excitement as Greer popped it open and took a sip.

“That's actually really good,” he said.

I love turning people on to Peach Fresca.

“Consider your life changed. I buy the product by the case. Peach flavored, that is. It comes in some other flavors too. Original Citrus, of course. Black Cherry. Both are pretty good, but not as good as Peach.”

Greer, now with a vaguely confused look in his eye, nodded, took another sip. But confusion wasn't the primary thing Greer was communicating with his body language, his facial expression. He looked like he wanted to talk about something, something that made him, well, uncomfortable.

He looked over at my Ping-Pong table and said, “You play a lot of Ping-Pong?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Want to play?”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed a couple of paddles out of my desk drawer. Not anything advanced. Not like a two-hundred-dollar Killerspin that feels kind of heavy in your hand and has thick, tacky, difficult-to-handle rubber that makes the ball explode off the face with wicked spin. No, nothing like that. I just grabbed a couple of hard bats, basement style, dimples out. Bats that are much, much easier to play with.

I had a feeling Greer wasn't going to be so good.

You know, there are really three kinds of Ping-Pong players. One, people who just have no ability. It's just not
in them. They can't even really rally. They miss the ball entirely sometimes. Two, people who have some ability and with some practice can be okay, pretty good, even. These are people you can hit around with, even if they aren't going to give you a particularly good game. But you can put some music on, have a couple beers, hit around, not want to kill yourself. And three, people who have some real innate talent and who, with practice, can become quite good, maybe even great. This third group encompasses a lot of people, because there's a wide gap, a really wide gap, between someone who's very good and someone who's pro-level great. Like, I'm a good player, but I would get killed—killed—by Xu Xin out of China. Or Ma Long, also out of China. Or Vladimir Samsonov out of Belarus. Look, these guys are top ten in the world, but you get my point.

Greer, unfortunately, was in group one. Could not really even hit the ball back. Now, this was a guy I pretty much just innately liked. With his sort of wounded-bird friendliness and all. But it was tough to like him when he made such poor contact, if he made contact at all, with the new orange Halex three-star balls I'd opened just for this occasion. That's another thing about Ping-Pong. The other thing that players don't always share with others. When you love the game and are pretty good at it, watching someone with zero talent kind of makes you not like them. Like, I was literally starting to not like Greer as I watched him flail around. Well, to be honest, I was starting to kind of hate him.

But, as most people do when they play Pong, he was having a good time, and it was loosening him up. So that
was good. And it kept my opinion of him just above total disdain. You know? Because maybe Ping-Pong was going to be the conduit to his actually telling me what was on his mind.

I hit a ball with a little zip on it to his forehand side to see what would happen. He took a swing at it and missed entirely, and then, as it bounced around on the concrete floor of my office, he scurried wildly after it, flailing around as he tried to grab the ball. Zero coordination, this one. Zero. He finally got his hands on it, walked back over to the table, and stood there.

He said, “I came by because I wanted to tell you something else about Keaton.”

“Okay.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess my mom hiring you made me think about stuff again. And the truth is, I want to know what happened as well. I want to help you. So that's why I thought I'd tell you . . . I didn't tell the police this . . . Not many people know about it. My parents do, but I'm not sure if they told the police either. I told them about it, my parents—not when it happened, but later. After the murder. And I know . . . I know they haven't shared this with you. I don't know, you said anything might help you, so . . .”

He was really uncomfortable. This wasn't easy for him. So I said, “Thanks, Greer. Yeah, you never know what might help.”

He nodded and said, “Pig Hunt.”

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

Greer continued. “Pig Hunt. That's what Keaton called
it. When Keaton and I were young, teenagers, we had two pet guinea pigs. Do you know what a guinea pig is?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“So ours lived in this cage in our backyard. It was pretty big, pretty nice. They lived there year-round. And Keaton and I played with them all the time. We'd take them out of the cage and hold them and let them walk around, you know, play with them. And see, another thing we used to do is, we had this gun. A twenty-two. A rifle. And when we first got it, our dad would take us on trips to the woods somewhere to shoot it. But after a while, sometimes Keaton and I would shoot it in our backyard, at cans and stuff, when our parents weren't around. You know, they wouldn't have allowed it, probably.

“Anyway, one day, out of nowhere, our parents weren't home, Keaton just started saying ‘Pig Hunt.' Walking around the house saying ‘Pig Hunt.' Kind of chanting it over and over. Almost turning it into a song,
‘Pig Hunt, Pig Hunt.'
Over and over. I just thought he was being weird. And then he stopped. So then later, we go outside with the gun and we're shooting stuff around the yard, like we had a bunch of times. And then he puts the gun down and says, ‘Let's go play with the guinea pigs.' So we go over to the cage and he tells me to grab one of them. You know, to play with. And I'm not thinking anything, so I grab one. And I remember, right then, he said: ‘Okay, that's the one you chose.' And I didn't know what he meant. So he grabs the guinea pig from me, puts it down on the ground, and yells at it and scares it, so it runs off, runs across our lawn, and hides in the bushes. And then he does what he'd been do
ing earlier. Over and over.
‘Pig Hunt. Pig Hunt. Pig Hunt.'
And then he picks up the rifle and aims it in the direction of the guinea pig. And then, kind of right then, it runs out from behind the bushes. And Keaton shoots it and kills it. I mean, blows its head off. I have no idea why. It was maybe the strangest thing I've ever seen. And I stood there and watched him do it. You know? I guess I let him do it.”

I looked at Greer. He looked ashamed, and exhausted.

He continued. “I didn't yell at him or anything. I didn't say a word. I was just shocked. So we buried the guinea pig in a far corner of our backyard—we, well, my parents, have a pretty big backyard . . . We told them we were playing with it and it ran away. Once they realized it was gone, that is, which was, like, two weeks later. Keaton told me never to tell anyone what really happened, and I never did. Until Keat was murdered. Like I said, that's when I told my parents.”

Greer wiped at his eyes, the sunlight coming in through the slider catching some smeared tears on the back of his hand. He said, “I just thought, I don't know, maybe knowing that would help you understand him, or help you with your investigation somehow. I don't know anything about what you do, but it seems like the kind of thing that might help.” He looked at me with his watery eyes and added, “To know that's the kind of thing he was capable of.”

Did it help? Would it help? Not sure. But, man, before Greer arrived, I didn't think I could dislike Keaton Fuller any more. But I was wrong. Guy wasn't just an asshole, he was a sick fuck too. I mean, punching his mom? Roping his little brother into telling him which of their pets to kill? Fuck, I thought, I hate this guy. I'm glad he's dead.

I said, “Thanks for telling me, Greer. I appreciate it.”

He took a deep breath and gave me a relieved smile. “Yeah. Thanks for playing Ping-Pong. That was fun.”

I walked over to his side of the table and shook his hand. And instinctively, I gave him a little reassuring pat on the back. Which I think he wanted. And maybe needed.

He looked at me, a little mist still covering his eyes, and said, “Bye. See you later.”

And then he walked out the open slider, rounded the corner, got in his Jeep, and left.

I stood there and thought, Geez, what a weird story. And I wondered if it was easier for Greer to share that story with, basically, a stranger. As opposed to someone who really knows him, knows his family, his world. Sometimes that's how it works. I also wondered whether Greer realized that—despite the fact that Keaton pulled the trigger in that particular story—he had confessed to me that he knows how to shoot a gun.

A
fter Greer left, I decided to go practice my own marksmanship. I drove over the hill to the Valley, to Northridge, to the Firing Line. I got in the firing booth and, just like last time, squeezed twenty-four rounds out of my Colt and twenty rounds out of my Sig.

And again, I studied my targets. Better. I was finding my form. I had the muscle memory from years of practice, but the
active
practice, the
current
practice, was helping. Yeah, the targets looked better. Tighter clusters of bullet holes. Fewer loose shots. Would my shots hold up in a pressure situation? Maybe. Perhaps even probably. But the sword still needed some sharpening.

I'd be back.

I got back in the Focus, put my mind back on the case, and headed back over the hill.

One of the things I've learned as a PI is that even when people ask you for your help and then tell you “everything” you need to know to help them, they sometimes still don't tell you everything-everything. It's the strangest thing. It's like when people go to a shrink and then hide things from the shrink, even though that goes directly against their own self-interest. Is it embarrassment? Fear? Or, more simply, just the fact that certain subjects are difficult to talk about? Shit, is it stupidity? It's probably fear. Most of the things that hinder us as humans funnel back to fear. Greer's story was an example of what I'm talking about. And, look, I understand that that particular story might not help me. But it is an interesting glimpse into Keaton, and it is interesting that Greer had held it back.

With Marlon the Marlin's thoughts still jumping around in my head, I had the idea that Jackie Fuller might have more to tell me. Had more information that might help me, that might lead to me figuring out who murdered her son. So I called her and asked if I could come see her. And she said yes.

This time, it was just the two of us in her living room, no sweater-clad, comb-over-sporting Phil. Well, the dogs were there too. Roaming quietly through the house with those placid, peaceful-eyed expressions. I thought, Man, they're kind of like fish too, just moving silently about. I liked them enormously.

I looked at Jackie Fuller, at her tired, tragic face. I told her generally what I'd been up to, minus the Prestige Fish
part. Next thing you know, she or her husband calls them or starts looking into it. Who knows? If you know me, I've told you this before: Most people do not know how to process, how to handle, sensitive information. People so often misinterpret it, or even do something destructive with it. Even if they don't mean to.

“I have a question for you, Jackie.”

She raised the brows above her worn-out eyes.

“Was Keaton involved with drugs in any way, at any point?”

“You mean, did he do drugs?”

“Sure. We can start there.”

“Yes. We had a few incidents where we caught Keaton with drugs.”

“What happened? What kinds of drugs?”

“Well, pot. Coke. We caught him with opium once. We didn't know what it was. Phil took it to someone to find out. Can I ask why you're wondering?”

Again, I didn't want to get into any theories I had. I didn't want to give her that information. That some random fish seller
might
be a cover for some drug operation. And, specific to Keaton, that often people who get into drugs are the ones who want to start making a profit off them. So I just told her a half truth. Or a quarter truth. Or maybe less.

“I'm putting together the people Keaton associated with. And now I'm seeing if they, or Keaton, or both, were into drugs. Drugs can lead to trouble. Not always, but sometimes. And sometimes that trouble can be very serious.”

Basically true. A politician's answer, but basically true. Jackie Fuller nodded.

“Keaton had a couple of incidents in high school, a couple in college. It all started with this girl he hung around with a bit during both those periods.”

“You're not talking about Sydney?”

“No, no. Not that gold digger Sydney.”

I was surprised to see Jackie's fangs come out. Although I thought her analysis was right.

“Then who?” I asked. “What girl?”

Jackie Fuller sighed and said, “A girl named Andrea. Andrea Cogburn.”

“And Andrea is someone Keaton dated?”

“Well, not exactly. It was never that official. But he did hang around her. She was a bad influence. I always thought that.” Switching gears a bit, she said, “She grew up not too far away from here, actually. Just south of the Pico–La Brea area.”

This was Jackie telling me Andrea didn't come from money. The Pico–La Brea intersection is pretty close to Hancock Park, but south of it lies a very different neighborhood in terms of bank balances.

“Okay, so Keaton hung around this girl off and on during high school and college. And they did drugs together? Were they the same age?”

Jackie shifted a bit in her chair and kind of half-nodded, and then added, “Same age, yes. But they went to different schools. Both for high school and college. Keaton went to high school here in Hancock Park. I'm not sure where Andrea went. And then Keaton, as you know, went
to USC, and Andrea went to a small community college somewhere. Here in L.A. I can't remember. I knew it at one time. Somewhere small.”

I wondered, Is Andrea Cogburn the girl Sydney Scott had meant when she'd said Keaton might have had another relationship entirely? Might have been dating someone else while he was dating her? In a way, Sydney and Jackie talked about her in a similar way. Dancing around her. Downplaying this girl with their words but putting a spotlight on her with their subtext. It's interesting how that happens. When someone or something is on someone's mind and they don't want it to appear that way, they say things and do things with their body language that end up achieving the reverse of their intentions. Jackie Fuller was presenting this girl as an afterthought, but the total communication was that she wasn't one at all.

I said, “Okay. So they went to different schools. But when they were together, high school, college, they did drugs together. And she's the one who got Keaton interested in drugs initially?”

Jackie nodded. “Yes. I think both those things are true.”

“Okay. So where is Andrea now?”

Jackie Fuller didn't answer. She looked down and to her right and put her hand on the back of one of the dogs, who had positioned himself near her. And then she looked at me. I would never have thought her eyes could get more defeated than they already were.

Then she said, “Andrea died.”

I looked at Jackie and asked, “When?”

“A few years, several years, after college. She and Keaton weren't in touch anymore. But it was still very sad. Keaton, I remember, tried not to show it, but he was upset. And even though Phil and I weren't particularly fond of Andrea, we were upset too. It was very sad.”

“And how? How did she die?”

“She overdosed. She'd gotten way more into coke and things. Again, this was after she and Keaton had stopped hanging around together. Well after. Yeah. Yeah. She OD'd. She OD'd on drugs.”

“Is her family still here? Do they still live over near Pico and La Brea?”

Some reluctance flickered in Jackie's eyes. I thought, Here we go again. She's asked me to find out what happened, but now she's reluctant to give me the things I might need to do that very thing.

To Jackie Fuller's credit, she forged ahead and said, “Her dad was never around. I think I have an old number for her mom.”