The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin (18 page)

So. Graves was in the meth business. Keaton had worked for Graves, at least for a little while—maybe, probably, in the meth business, because according to Craig Helton he'd told people he was
killing
it. And now Jim had confirmed for me what I had already thought to be true: that the kill shot was the kill shot of a pro.

Jim and I walked back over to the Focus. Jim, who'd put both his smokes out on the bottom of his boots and was holding the butts in his left hand, produced a ziplock bag from the pocket of his coaching shorts and housed the butts in it. Then he put the bag back in his pocket.

“Don't want to leave the butts here, litter. Don't want to accidentally light the Hollywood Hills on fire either, wind comes along, lights one of them back up. And, of course, I don't want to mar the pristine beauty of the ashtray in your Ford whatever-the-hell-it-is.”

“Thanks, Jim. Hey, because we're here, let's go down to Sunset Plaza and have a Hollywood lunch.”

“You pay, I'll go.”

“You got it.”

Typically, I choose restaurants by temperature. Not of the food but of the actual restaurant. Most restaurants get it so wrong. It's just scorching inside them so often. Uncomfortable. Not pleasant to eat in. Pay attention to this next time you go to your favorite restaurant. Ask yourself: Is the temperature right in here? Is it
exactly
right? I'll go to a restaurant whose food isn't as good as the next guy's if the temperature is more comfortable.

Today Jim and I didn't have to make that call. We sat outside at a chic Sunset Plaza joint. It was pleasant, always a bit cooler on this side of the hill. Out on the patio with us were skinny, tan people doing shots of wheatgrass, others chatting over strawberry soy smoothies, chickpeas everywhere you looked.

Jim, looking at the menu, said, “What's keeeen-wa?”

He pronounced it correctly. But it took him forever to get it out, like it was the first time he'd seen the word.

I said, “Quinoa. It's—”

He interrupted me. “I know what it is, my man. I'm just having some fun. I actually like some of this shit.”

We both got Niçoise salads. As we ate them, I told Jim what I thought might happen with Lee Graves and company. And how I'd like him to be involved.

Jim didn't say anything. He just nodded. Took bites of his salad. Nodded some more.

We finished eating. I paid the seventy-six-dollar bill and we got back in the Focus.

I said, “Want to go get some hot dogs at Pink's? I'm starving.”

“Absolutely.”

So we did. Two dogs each, with mustard, ketchup, kraut, and relish.

Afterward Jim said, “I feel much better.”

“Me too.”

I took Jim home. I walked him to his door and said, “I think this is going to get hot, Jim. Soon. I'm going to need you on call.”

Jim looked at me, his big, broad face behind the gold aviators, and said, “Phone's never off, boy.”

A
fter Jim went inside, I got in the Focus and sat there for a minute. I was thinking, I hope Graves calls me. I hope the spiderweb in his mirror gets him to call me.

I decided to wait in the Valley and see if it happened. Because if he did call me, maybe he'd invite me to come see him as well. Or maybe I could get him to invite me. That was the real hope, a face-to-face conversation.

I needed to kill some time.

I drove down the street to my childhood home and looked at it. For quite a while. Just sat there and looked at it. It filled me with a mix of emotions, some happy, some sad, some somewhere in between. The house, this inanimate object, because of my history with it, had an energy to it. As I looked at it, I thought, It's not really inanimate
at all. It's
alive
, sending me vibrations, stirring me up.

I looked down at my phone sitting in one of the cup holders. Still no call from Graves.

I drove over to Studio City, to the public golf course right there on Whitsett. I bought a bucket of balls, then grabbed two loaner clubs, a driver and a nine iron, and walked over to the driving range.

I teed up a ball, grabbed the driver, got set, took a big swing, and shellacked the ball straight—280, maybe 290 yards. I looked up, around, down the line of other people at the range. No one had seen my drive.

I thought right then, I really did: Maybe I'll get great. Just practice constantly, and try out for the senior tour someday. I teed up another ball. I got set. I guided the driver back, then swung as hard as I could. I guess I hit just a sliver of the side of the ball closest to me, really hard. Because the ball slammed into the wooden partition in front of me, then ricocheted off it and came back and hit me in the right ankle. It stung. It stung bad. In two ways. The pain way. And the pride way.

I looked up, and then down the line of other golfers. Two men and one woman were staring at me, judgment in their eyes. I stared back for about ten seconds, then teed up another ball.

I finished off my bucket and returned the clubs.

Still no call from Graves.

I went into the little restaurant that bordered the driving range. I got a Bud Light and sat down. I enjoyed it at a very leisurely pace. Then I walked back out to the Focus. And that's when my cell buzzed. Graves.

“Darvelle, it's Lee Graves.”

“Hi, Lee.”

“When you were here last, you asked me to call you if I thought of anything that might help you.”

“That's right, I did.”

“Well, I thought of something.”

“Oh, good. Stuff that helps me is good.”

Before he could say anything else, I said, “You know, I'm not too far from you right now. Want me to come by?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. Good.”

“See you in thirty.”

Thirty-three minutes later I was
sitting in front of Lee Graves's desk, his slick skeleton face in front of me, the Chinese high-fin smoothly swimming around to my left.

I said, “So, Lee, what do you got for me?”

He slid a piece of paper across his desk toward me. I picked it up, looked at it. It was a bill for a side-view mirror replacement on a Tesla Model S. It was expensive. I did my best Laurence Olivier. “Is this supposed to be some sort of clue that connects to Keaton Fuller that I'm not understanding?”

Graves said, “You don't know why I'm showing you this?”

“Was I not clear a second ago? No, I don't.”

“You broke my mirror.”

I said, giving Graves a smug smile, “What are you doing, man? Is this your way of getting back at me because I pretended to be interested in your fish?”

Lee Graves looked at me. He wanted it to be a casual
look, but I could see the intensity. He was trying to tell whether I was lying. Trying to determine whether I had been looking around in the dark out at his farmhouse in Pomona. Trying, still, to determine whether I was trouble.

Graves ultimately had to know that I would never admit it. Why would I? Why would anyone? I would be showing my cards, and admitting that I'd committed a small crime. No, he was using the mirror bill to see whether he could make out the truth under the bluff. That was his game. Which is just what I wanted.

Graves said, “Someone broke my mirror. It wasn't an accident. I didn't run into something, or back into anything. Someone broke it. I don't know when, exactly. But it was yesterday. My car was parked right out there.”

He pointed out the window behind him.

Here was my chance to tell him I'd done it, without telling him I'd done it. That was my goal. That and to make him think, through my performance, that I was a little macho, a little small-time, a little green. Somebody he could handle.

I said, with just enough of a smarmy smile, “You sure it didn't happen somewhere else?”

Graves said, “Why would you say that?”

“Well, if someone is going to break your mirror, why would they do it when your car is parked right outside your window?”

“I don't know. But that's when it happened. Because I noticed it when I walked out of here and got in my car. It's not the kind of thing that takes a while to notice. If someone keyed my car, I might not notice for a while. Might not
see it. But because it's the
mirror
, a place I look every time I'm driving, I noticed it right away. And the person who did it knew that. Knew I would know where the car was when it happened. I just think whoever did it wanted to piss me off. Do it right out there in my own parking lot.”

I was pretty sure now that he thought I'd done it. That he thought his little game had uncovered the truth. Now it was time for him to back off and start implementing his plans for me.

He continued. “Look, I thought it might be you, as you are the only person who has come into my life lately who I don't trust.”

Clever. He's not going to be too nice. Not yet.

I said naively, “You don't trust me? How come?”

“Well, why should I? You've already lied to me.”

I sighed. “So is this the only reason I'm here? To talk about your mirror? I didn't break it. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Okay,” he said. “You didn't break it. My bad. Maybe it was an ex-girlfriend. My exes tend to know I love my cars. Or maybe it was a business thing. Most of my customers, all my customers, are happy. But sometimes my competitors aren't.”

Graves took a breath, reset, and said, “All right, done with that. Truth is, I actually do think I have something that can help you. I want to show you why Keaton didn't work out.”

“Okay,” I said. “Good. I'd like that.”

“See that Chinese high-fin right there? The one looking right at you?”

I looked over at the black fish with its downward-pointing mouth, and it was indeed now facing me, giving me its two black eyes.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, like I told you, they aren't the most valuable fish in the world. They're just a fish I like. And because I like them, I started breeding them. I have a little house in Calabasas. It's not where I live. I live here in Thousand Oaks. On the golf course. The one where they have the invitational every year. The place in Calabasas is a second home, with some land behind it. I put in a couple of breeding pools. The high-fins aren't that hard to breed because they live in cool water. Some of these other fish, the clarion angelfish you saw . . . impossible to breed.”

I nodded along. Graves was trying to charm me. Trying to tell me that he had no clue that I knew anything about him. I went with it.

“Anyway,” he said. “I started breeding some koi too. I put the high-fins in one pool and the koi in the other. Eventually, as they got bigger and more colorful, some of the koi attained some real value. Clarion angelfish value. So I took Keaton up to the pools to show him the fish, and . . .” Graves paused like a thought had just come to him and said, “You know what? Why don't you come to the house. I'll show you what he did.”

“Okay,” I said. “When?”

Graves made a show of looking at his computer, checking his schedule. “I just have one more appointment today. You want to meet me at the house at the end of the day?”

I needed the address. I wasn't going to go to the house that day, no way, but I needed the address.

“Sure, where is it?”

He gave me the address.

And then I said, “Oh, wait. Shit. I can't do it this evening. I've got a tail to do on a husband who might be running around on his old lady. This is supposedly the night he goes out with his boys to drink a few beers. Well, we're going to see about that.”

Said by John Darvelle with clueless macho flair. See, Lee? I'm a small-time PI. Nothing to worry about here. Don't let this throw you off your plan.

It didn't. Graves said casually, “Cool. Well, I could do tomorrow end of day too. Around seven.”

Just when it's getting dark.

“Sure,” I said. “Good with me. See you there at seven.”

T
hat night at midnight, Jim Douglas and I cased Lee Graves's house in Calabasas. Calabasas is high-dollar, pastoral mountain living just inland from Malibu. It's home to thick sections of tall green trees, horse ranches, and verdant, wide-open stretches of land, all mixed in with gray rock, steep hills, mountains forcing their way toward the sky. Many of the properties in Calabasas have a spooky isolation about them, a Manson-y California energy. Graves's place wasn't an exception.

Through the darkness, Jim and I first established that no one was at the house, just a few lights on to give the appearance of inhabitants. We then moved around the property, analyzing its layout. Off the main road up one of the
mountains, a dirt road took you to the entrance to Graves's property, where, to get into the actual property by car, you had to drive through a locked gate.

Jim and I walked through the trees and brush on the west side of the gate to find the house. A small ranch-style house, off-white adobe with a red-shingled roof, one story, maybe two bedrooms. Behind it, where we were now, we could see the two breeding pools sitting in the ground, just visible in the darkness. They looked like rectangular, swimming-pool-sized ponds. Behind the pools was a section of grass, then about a hundred yards of thick woods. Tall California pines. Behind the woods there was a big, wide clearing, a mountain shooting up to the east of it, and the Pacific, a black force in the distance, way, way down to the west.

We spent sixty minutes casing the property. Then we made our plan, figured out where Jim would be positioned, and got out of there.

The next morning, I got
up and did a light workout. Took an easy, slow three-mile run. Did a light, loose thirty minutes on my punching bag. Punches, elbows, kicks, knees. Followed by twenty minutes of stretching on the floor mats.

I showered and got dressed. Loose-fitting olive green pants, a loose, long-sleeve brown T-shirt, a loose, worn-in navy blue hoodie, my all-black Adidas running shoes. The colors were a form of camouflage, but I didn't think Graves would notice. The pants were loose to conceal my Sig, and the two layers of upper-body clothing were loose to con
ceal my Colt. I hoped Graves wouldn't notice that either.

At noon, I drove to my office and updated my case notes.

After a light lunch and some water, I went over the hill to Northridge, to the Firing Line. I got in the booth with my Colt and my Sig. I fired eight rounds out of my Colt and ten rounds out of my Sig. Relaxed, but focused. Loose, but tight. I looked at my targets. They both looked just exactly how I wanted them to look.

I reloaded both guns, hit the safeties, and hit the road.

At six o'clock, I entered the city of Calabasas and went to a nice, well-kept-up little strip mall. Starbucks, Panera, Chipotle. I parked the Focus, killed the engine. Then I put on my ankle holster, nice and tight, and housed the Sig in it. I put the Colt on the passenger seat and covered it with a magazine. Then I leaned my seat back, closed my eyes, and tried to just relax. Breathe a little bit, in and out, in and out.

At 6:35, I left for Graves's house. At 6:50 I was pretty high up in the Santa Monica mountains, parked on the dirt road just outside the gate that let you onto the property. My Colt was no longer on the passenger seat. It was tight against my lower back, with my pants, my T-shirt, and my hoodie over it, concealing it.

At 7:05, I looked in my rearview and saw a new, blue Toyota Land Cruiser pull onto the dirt road, then drive up and park behind me. Graves got out and walked over to my window. I powered it down.

“Pull over and hop in my truck. Road's a little tough to get down. Keeps the house a little more protected.”

After he told me that, I suspected, more than ever, that
what I thought might happen here really might happen here.

I moved the Focus off to the side of the dirt road, got out, and got in Graves's slightly jacked-up Land Cruiser.

Graves pressed a button on a little handheld remote and the steel gate slid to one side, opening up.

We drove down a long, bumpy dirt road. Could the Focus have made it? Yeah, easily. The road eventually revealed the low-slung, Spanish-style ranch house that Jim and I had seen last night in the shadows.

Graves and I got out, walked into the house. Inside, it was simple, spare, a typical California ranch. Sparse. Native American blankets on the backs of some couches. Lots of exposed tan tile on the floors. Like the farmhouse in Pomona, it looked unused, unreal, set up for show.

We walked out the back door to the backyard. And although the sky was beginning to darken a bit, everything I'd seen last night was now crisp and clear and laid out in front of me. The two perfectly rectangular breeding ponds, and then the woods, and then the clearing flanked by the mountain to the east and the sea to the west.

Graves and I walked over to a ten-foot strip of grass between the two big ponds.

He pointed to the pond on his right, the one on the east side of the strip of grass, and said, “This pond has the high-fins in it.” He pointed to the other pond. “That one has the koi.”

From where we stood, the water wasn't that clear in either pond, but you could still see movement, fish sliding around in the water. If you got up close, though, you'd
be able to see them clearly. I walked over, leaned down, put my face near the surface of the pond with the Chinese high-fins. Some were about the size of the one in Lee Graves's office. Some were bigger. But there were lots of smaller ones too, fitting the description Graves had given that day in his office. They were more colorful, had the banded, vertical white stripes and of course the high fin. On the smaller fish, the fin looked like a big, oversized triangle, out of balance with the body. I crossed over to look closely at the pond with the koi in it. I'd seen koi before. To my eyes, they were just enormous, wildly colorful goldfish. Not beautiful. They seemed kind of deformed looking at times, kind of disgusting.

As I watched all the colors moving beneath the surface, Graves said, “Like I told you, some of those have some real value. The idea is to breed them so the color patterns are unique and beautiful and striking.”

I stood up, turned to Graves, and said, “I'll ask you what I asked you when I saw the fish in your office. Who takes care of them? Where is everyone?”

“Yeah,” Graves said, “it's lonely out here, isn't it? The staff is gone. They come in the morning, leave in the afternoon.” And then he added with sarcasm beneath a smile, “Thank you for your concern.”

He and I stood there in that strip of grass between the two ponds, facing each other. I could feel the adrenaline rising up in my body. I could feel something coming.

I said, “So, Lee. What did you want to show me? What was it exactly that Keaton did here that you wanted to show me?”

Graves flashed me his teeth and pointed at the pond with the high-fins in it. “He took a piss in the pond. The day I took him out here to show him the fish, we had a little party. Just a handful of people. He gets drunk, walks over to this pond, this pond filled with the fish I love, whips it out, takes a whiz. I knew from that moment, this guy is a piece of utter dog shit. Now, it didn't do anything to the fish. It's not like it killed them or anything. The pond, the fish, fine. It was just a blatant act of disrespect. I fired him on the spot. Sent his drunk ass home.”

I looked at Graves. “Is that story true?”

“Do you think it's true, John?”

“It's the type of story about him that could be true. But I don't think it is. I think you just made it up.”

Graves started clapping his hands, light applause. “You're right. I did just make it up.”

“I know why I'm here, Lee.”

“Tell me.”

“I'm here so you can kill me.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because of what I know.”

We both stood there on that strip of grass, still, tense, neither of us making a move but both of us ready to.

“And what do you know?”

I said, “I know that the fish are a cover for your other business. The one that's illegal. You thought I
might
know about that. Well, now you
know
I know it. Either way, you tell me to come here. Tell me to leave my car outside the gate. That way, you can catch me
on
the property. Trespassing. You have to figure I carry, so as soon as you es
tablish that, you shoot me. Or somebody else does. And then you tell the police that I was going to shoot you. I'm a stranger with a gun on the property trying to get at your fish. Your expensive koi. The cops will identify me as a private investigator probably looking into something, but that doesn't really make a difference. You just play dumb. To you I'm just a trespasser, a trespasser with a loaded gun. On your land, practically in your house. The castle doctrine will cover you. You're
allowed
to shoot me if you're threatened. You're allowed to have guards on your property shoot me. It's smart. Your plan. It's really smart. And, shit, you've probably already made the call to move all the meth I saw, shut down the farmhouse, whatever. And that's it. Once I'm gone, you're back in business. You're just a guy pushing high-dollar fish.”

Graves sneered at me, a satisfied look on his skeleton face, and said, “So you
did
break my mirror?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”

I knew at that point that I was right. I was here to be killed. And Graves wouldn't be relying on just himself to do it. There had to be a man on me. Maybe two.

This. This is the risk, the gamble, the roll of the dice. I thought that this was where the story was heading, and now I was here. I could have called Ott, tried to explain what I'd gotten myself into, tried to get him to set up a cover. One that would be much less dangerous. But I hadn't. Because that would mean meetings, and red tape, and endless complications that would probably result in the whole thing
not
happening. And even if it did happen, it would mean that there would be men involved who I
didn't want to be involved. And it might mean the whole situation turning in a direction I didn't want it to go.

But the other reason—the real reason—I didn't call was that I wanted the risk of this situation. I felt that if I took it, if I took the story all the way to the edge, I could get the answer. Who killed Keaton Fuller. That other life I'd seen on the beach that day, the Treadways'—this is why I didn't think I could have it.

Graves reached around to the back of his belt, pulled his gun, and pointed it at me. A Smith & Wesson M&P nine millimeter, now two feet from my face.

I said, “You're not going to shoot me until you know I'm armed. You're pulling your gun so I'll pull mine. If I have one.”

“Shit,” he said, “these days? I'll just say you were reaching for something and I
thought
it was a gun.”

“If you were an innocent man, sure. But you'll take that risk with all you've got going? I doubt it. You've got to
know
that I've got one. That I brought one. Then you shoot me and you got no problems.”

He said, “You're a licensed PI. You've got a gun on you.”

I said, “Of course I do.”

He raised his left hand just slightly, giving a signal to someone, I thought—giving a shooter in the woods the green light—but giving a signal to me too. I ran toward him and at the same time ducked, jerked my head down. I heard a crack from the woods. A bullet whizzed above my head and clipped the corner of the house. I grabbed Graves's right hand with my left, hooked my right leg
around both of his legs, and pushed forward. We slammed down on the grass, on the strip between the ponds. I was on top of Graves, making sure to keep contact with him, making it a very risky shot for the gunman in the woods. I pinned Graves's right wrist against the ground so that the gun lay flat on the earth. I was putting all my energy, my focus, there. Graves head-butted me, hard. He went for my nose, to crack it, to make my eyes fill with tears and blood, but I moved just enough that instead he caught the side of my face and my right eye. The swelling started instantly.

With my left hand still pinning Graves's right wrist, his gun hand, I punched him one, two, three, four times in the face with my right hand. Quick, fast, hard shots. I got his nose twice, got the blood flowing. Graves went for another head-butt. Got me again in the same eye. It stung. Killed. My eye was already nearly swollen shut.

I shifted my energy back toward the gun. Into getting that Smith out of his hand. I started slamming my right fist down into his right arm, just below his wrist. Again, one, two, three, four. As hard as I could, with everything I had. Then I did it again. One, two, three, four. Pummeling his arm, trying to kill it. As I punched his right forearm, he got his left arm out from underneath my knee and started going at my face. He got me, once, twice, three times. In my jaw, in my mouth, and again in my eye. I didn't care. I took the hits.

I brought my right elbow up high, put all my weight behind it, and slammed it down on that right arm just below his wrist. Slam. Right on the spot I'd been going at just before. It had to have damn near broken his arm. He re
leased the gun. I reached over with my right hand, grabbed it, tried to toss it into the pond with the high-fins. As I threw the gun, Graves got me in the neck with his left hand and I went backward.

As I fell back toward the grass, I could see that the gun I'd thrown had landed on the edge of the pond. It hadn't made it into the water. Just before my head hit the earth, another crack came from the woods, another bullet zipped over my skull.

Holy fuck.

I pushed myself up and ran for the woods. I zigzagged fast, moving in three directions at once. Straight, then to one side, then to the other side, then straight.

Another crack. Another bullet screaming by my face.

At the edge of the woods, I yanked my head around to look back at Graves. A bloody-faced skeleton, he was now staggering to his feet. I didn't want to pull my gun and fire at him because I didn't want him out of the picture prematurely. I—Jim and I—had to get the gunman in the woods first. I take out Graves now, and the gunman might retreat. I leave Graves, and he, or they, doesn't go anywhere. And I wanted them all.