Текст книги "Flat Spin"

Автор книги: David Freed

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“I find that hard to believe,” Savannah said condescendingly.

I shot her a disapproving glance. She looked at me as if to say, “I’m just trying to help.”

“I used to be a cop,” the man said, “before them geniuses at Parker Center said I wasn’t fit to—” He pressed his left index finger to his ear, like he was on a long distance phone call with a bad connection. “But you just told me… Well, if they ain’t from Langley, where the hell are they from?”

He looked up at me, his face suddenly contorted with fear.

“You’re not from Langley at all,” he said. “The sulfur, I can smell it on you!”

He slowly backed away from me, then turned and ran back into his house, slamming and locking the door behind him. “I am Gabriel, the archangel!” he yelled. “You hear me, Beelzebub? I invoke the power of the Holy Spirit, the power of the burning bush, and order you to return to the bowels of Abaddon! Now, get the fuck off my property!”

I heard the click-clack of a round being chambered. A rifle barrel poked through a broken window. It was aiming at me.

“Five seconds, devil! Then I’m blastin’!”

Buddhism has no devils. No demons or mythological beasts. Not even any flammable shrubbery. No special effects. If any religion is low-fat, it’s Buddhism. The crazy old coot could’ve benefited from a teaching or two. But I wasn’t about to start sermonizing. Not with a rifle barrel pointed in my direction by a man who thought I was El Diablo.

I grabbed Savannah by the arm and got off his property.

TWENTY-FOUR

“You’re dreaming,” Czarnek said. “Some lunatic gives you a plate number and you expect me to just drop everything and roll out the cavalry, especially after chasing your last tip? You can forget it, Logan. I’m already in enough trouble with my supervisor as it is.”

“That lunatic’s a former cop,” I reminded Czarnek.

Savannah and I were parked down the street from the dead teacher’s house. I put the phone on speaker so she could listen in.

“I know who he is,” Czarnek said. “His name’s Norman Buckhalter. Everybody calls him ‘Abnorman.’ Got tossed off the department for a bad shooting back in the eighties. Been in and out of the psych ward ever since. Calls us all the time with all kinds of crazy shit.”

“Run the plate, get me an address, I’ll do the legwork myself. It’ll take you five minutes.”

“I run that plate, I go to jail. It’s called misuse of police resources.”

“OK, then run the plate and you check it out.”

“The cases aren’t connected, Logan.”

“Two murders, days apart, one block apart, same street number, both middle-age Latinos, and they’re not connected? We have a saying where I come from, Czarnek: ‘If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, the goddamn murders are connected.’”

“There were two different weapons used. Echevarria got shot with a .40-cal. The teacher got it with a .45. Plus, every witness we talked to said Echevarria’s shooter had brown skin. Two wits on Elmira said the guy who shot the teacher was Caucasian. And nobody except Abnorman Buckhalter said anything about seeing any white Honda.”

I let Czarnek know about the white Honda that had been seen lurking near my garage apartment shortly before the place caught fire, and how Detective Ostrow from Rancho Bonita PD was eager to compare notes with him.

“There’s a million white Hondas in the United States,” Czarnek said. “It’s probably just coincidence.”

“This is hardly what I would describe as proactive law enforcement, Detective.”

“I told you, I got gang case files piling up on my desk faster than I can read ‘em. Look, I’ll get to your Detective Ostrow when I can. And if it’ll get you off my butt, I’ll drop by Abnorman’s place. Maybe next week, OK?”

“Joe Friday’s rolling over in his grave,” I said.

“I’m sure Joe Friday would find the situation less than ideal,” Czarnek said, “as we all do.”

“You know what I find, Detective Czarnek?” Savannah blurted into the phone. “I find it amazing that you’re getting paid to be a detective, because from where I sit, it doesn’t look like you could find your ass in the dark with both hands tied behind your back, let alone find the man who killed my husband.”

She hung up on him.

“Well played,” I said.

“You think that whacko knew what he was talking about, with the license plate?”

“Just because somebody’s nuttier than a port-a-potty at an almond festival doesn’t make them incapable of conveying the truth.”

“You are one profoundly articulate guy, Logan,” Savannah said, shaking her head in disgust.

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

The sky was streaked brown. She sniffed the air. “There’s a fire somewhere. You can smell it.”

There was always a fire somewhere in Southern California this time of year, when the offshore winds turned the arroyos and hillsides to tinder. A spark from a weed wacker and entire neighborhoods went up in flames. Yet regardless of the risks, whether by fire or temblor or mudslide or murder, no true Angelino ever gave serious thought to living anywhere else. They were all too busy, I suppose, vying for their own reality shows.

“I’ll take you to the bus station now,” Savannah said.

I didn’t protest.

She slid the Jag’s polished walnut gear shifter into drive. We drove south on Elmira Avenue, toward the freeway.

Strange how random recollections can pop into your head at any given moment for every reason and no reason at all. At that moment, my mind’s eye filled with the image of Ray Allen, my high school football coach, flinging a helmet at me in the locker room after a game for failing to catch a pass. We’d been down by three touchdowns with less than a minute to play, and the football had been thrown ten yards in front of me, but that didn’t matter to Coach Allen. “If you don’t believe in your heart you can win,” he screamed, his cheeks florid with rage, “then there’s no point in getting out of bed at the end of the day.” No one dared to correct Coach Allen. Certainly not to his face.

“Never quit,” was the message Coach Allen was selling that day. Back then, I took to heart every dumb sports cliché every coach ever trotted out – too much, probably. Now I was stuck with them. My overwhelming urge was to get on the bus and get the hell out of Dodge. The only problem is, quitters never win and winners never quit.

Screw it.

I called Buzz and asked him to run the license plate the crazy ex-cop had volunteered. Buzz gave me grief about the illegalities of accessing official government records for unofficial purposes, and how I already owed him big-time for all the many other favors he’d done for me, then said it would probably take a few minutes to get back with the information I wanted. He was in the doctor’s office, he said.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Hemorrhoids are flaring up. Plus, I’m out of Viagra.”

“Too much information, Buzz.”

“You ever wonder why they call it an asteroid when it’s outside the atmosphere, but they call it a hemorrhoid when it’s inside your ass?”

“Gotta run, Buzz,” I said and signed off.

“One of your marketing contacts,” Savannah said sarcastically.

“A buddy.”

“Why can’t you just tell me the truth, Logan?”

“That is the truth.”

She shook her head, aggravated with me per usual, and turned on news radio. The fire she’d smelled was burning in the mountains northwest of Los Angeles. Nearly twenty structures were already burned, and hundreds more threatened. Evacuations were being ordered. Water-bombing helicopters and a DC-10 carrying 12,000 gallons of retardant had been called in to stop the advancing flames. Much depended on the winds, and the winds weren’t cooperating. I ached for those who’d lost their homes, and those who soon would. I knew the feeling.

“People just don’t call up a ‘buddy’ and get confidential DMV records,” Savannah said.

“It’s a good buddy.”

“It’s the CIA. That’s who you and Arlo used to work for, isn’t it?”

“You know, Savannah, you could continue busting my huevos, or we could go get a drink and wait until my good buddy gets back to me with the information I requested.”

Savannah thought about it for a minute. “I’d prefer busting your huevos.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

* * *

Jingle’s Happy Place was anything but. Just another dive watering hole on Lankershim Boulevard, across the street from an empty used-car dealership gone bust. A big screen plasma was tuned to Sports Center. A hockey game was on. The Fun Room regulars, a handful of aging bikers and what looked to be blue collar retirees on fixed incomes, paid little attention to the television, preoccupied as they were with getting hammered on long-necked Buds and shots of tequila. They nudged each other and checked out Savannah as she walked in. We laid claim to two stools near the door.

The bartender was bald, with a wife beater T-shirt that afforded an unobstructed view of his heavily tattooed arms and neck – a multicolored kaleidoscope of hobbits, skulls and dragons. Five gold loops dangled from each of his earlobes. He tossed down a couple of cocktail napkins and stared in sullen silence at us, waiting. I ordered club soda with a lemon twist. Savannah went with a glass of Chardonnay.

“Something dry,” she said.

The barkeep stalked off to get our drinks without a word.

“I just realized something,” she said. “I don’t even know what your favorite season is.”

I looked over at her.

“I’m serious. We were married for how long? That’s how private you were, Logan. Always distracted, rarely engaged – except when we were in bed. And every year, it just got worse.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“Are you kidding? I said everything I could think of. Over and over. You just never heard me.”

A covert life is lived in boxes. Marriage and family are locked in one box; career in another. The arrangement isn’t for everyone. Every member of Alpha had been divorced at least once. Perhaps if I’d had it to do all over again, I might have gone a different route. Left the Air Force and gone to work for the airlines. Moved Savannah to the suburbs and started a family. Shared a life together. A real life. But that was the past. A Buddhist doesn’t dwell on the past. He concentrates on the present.

“Fall,” I said.

She looked over at me.

“My favorite season.”

“I would’ve guessed summer,” Savannah said. She got up to go to the ladies room.

“You coming back this time?”

“There’s a possibility.”

I smiled.

The regulars ogled her as she walked.

Our drinks arrived. There was no lemon twist in my club soda, but I let it slide. You pick your battles. My phone rang. Caller ID indicated it was Buzz.

“That was quick.”

“How long does it take to go rooting around somebody’s anus and write a prescription?” Buzz said. “The guy tells me I need more fiber. More fiber? Talk to my wife. I’m already tooting like a foghorn.”

“You run that plate?”

“No. I’m calling because I went to the doctor and now I’m conflicted about my sexual orientation and need some advice from somebody who’s been there. Even though I now realize that there’s no gift certificate in it for me to my favorite restaurant, yes, Logan, I ran your license plate. Because I love you, man.”

“Maybe you are conflicted, Buzz.”

“You ready to copy, wise guy?”

“Go.”

“The plate belongs to a 2007 white Honda coupe. Registered to an address on Sea View Lane in the Mount Washington area of Los Angeles.”

“Who’s it registered to?”

“The owner of record: Richard no middle initial Smith.”

My mouth went dry, the same way it used to just before I pickled a bomb or pulled the trigger on a target. Richard Smith. The same name on the stolen American Express card used to buy the Sawzall at the Home Depot in Phoenix.

Being the pro that he is, Buzz had gone one step further, looking up Smith’s driver’s license description: five-feet-eight and 178 pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. He was sixty-one years of age, considerably older than any suspects that witnesses to Echevarria’s murder had described to police. He didn’t match the description of the suspect that Abnorman Buckhalter said he’d seen fleeing the house where Ortiz, the math teacher, was killed, nor did he resemble the man I’d seen on the Home Depot surveillance tape, exchanging heated words with Robbie Emerson before buying a power saw.

“What’s the deal with the Honda?” Buzz wanted to know.

“The week before Echevarria got hit, there was another shooting, same address, one street over. Retired schoolteacher. A witness said he saw the shooter drive off in a Honda with that license plate. Richard Smith also reported his credit card stolen. That card was used to buy a power saw in Phoenix that might be connected to another murder linked to Echevarria’s.”

“You’re thinking this guy Smith with the Honda took out the teacher and Echevarria?”

“That’s the thing. Smith doesn’t match up. Witnesses described a different shooter. I’m wondering if somebody else might’ve been driving his car.”

“The same somebody else who was using Smith’s allegedly stolen credit card,” Buzz said.

“Read my mind.”

“So why don’t you go ask him.”

“Maybe I might just do that.”

“Good. That way, you can stop demanding favors from me every twenty seconds. You’re worse than my kids. At least they remember me on Father’s Day. You, I get nothing from but empty promises.”

Savannah returned from the ladies room, drawing another round of lustful glances from the regulars.

“Hold the fort,” Buzz said, “did you say power saw? What’s up with that?”

“We’ll talk later.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

“I love you, too, Buzz.” I got off the phone as Savannah sat back down.

“I didn’t know you loved anybody,” she said.

“You’d be surprised.”

“What’re you, some kind of fuckin’ narc or something?” the bartender said accusingly, having overheard my phone conversation with Buzz.

“Me? I’m just a simple country doctor.”

Savannah sipped her drink and made a rancid face as the taste settled on her tongue.

“Yuck.”

“You want wine? Go to the west side.” He snatched Savannah’s glass and dumped it out into the sink.

“Not to resort to clichés, amigo,” I said, “but that’s no way to treat a lady.”

“This is my bar. I’ll treat her any way I want.”

“C’mon, Logan, let’s go,” Savannah said, sliding off her stool.

“We’re not going anywhere until Lord of the Rings here apologizes to you for his crass behavior.”

“You want an apology?” He reached under the bar and produced an aluminum baseball bat. “I got your apology right here.”

I held my ground and stared him down.

“Please don’t do this, Logan,” Savannah said, tugging on my arm. “Let’s just go.”

“Listen to your bitch, Logan,” the barkeep said.

“My bitch?” Something inside me snapped. “Now I’m afraid you’re going to have to apologize twice.”

“Bullshit.”

He jabbed the bat at my face. I twisted it out of his grip and rammed the knobbed handle into his belly. He collapsed to his knees behind the bar, gasping for breath.

“Apologize to the lady.”

“Sorry,” he groaned.

“Again. This time with feeling.”

“I’m really sorry for calling you a bitch.”

I tossed the bat on the floor and followed Savannah out to her car.

“About damn time somebody put that turd in his place,” one of the regulars said.

“Hell, I don’t even know why I even drink here,” said another.

The others all murmured in agreement.

* * *

We drove up Mount Washington toward Richard Smith’s house. Not much of a mount. More like a hill. Savannah acted like she was irked that I had resorted to violence defending her honor. And, while she wouldn’t admit it, maybe a little flattered.

“I never realized Buddhists go around pounding people.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

She shook her head like she was disappointed in my behavior and downshifted.

“Well, anyway, I guess I should thank you.”

“Just don’t expect me to hold your umbrella or throw my coat down over any mud puddles. A man does have his limits, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sea View Lane was twisty and narrow, an eclectic hodgepodge of old and new homes, most with canyon views. Smith’s house was a flat-roofed affair with stucco walls and metal-frame windows, cantilevered precariously over the lip of the canyon on wooden stilts that looked as if they might collapse with the mildest temblor. A black Lexus sedan with Nevada plates was parked out front, behind a VW Beetle with California tags and a bumper sticker that read, “Don’t Forget to Floss.” The white Honda coupe was nowhere to be seen. I tried not to look too obvious as we drove past.

There are thousands of Richard Smiths in America. And, as Czarnek had so astutely pointed out, the country is filled with white Hondas. So, yes, it was very possible that the Richard Smith who’d reported his credit card stolen, and whose Honda was purportedly observed by a crazy ex-cop leaving the scene of one murder, had nothing to do with another. But, I mean, c’mon. What are the odds?

Buddhists believe that events rarely happen by chance, that karma truly does govern the universe. As a budding Buddhist, I suppose I was about to find out. I directed Savannah to park down the street, around the corner and out of sight, which she did. I told her to stay put and got out of the car. She ignored my instructions and got out, too.

“You’re not in charge of me, Logan.”

“I’m not ordering you, Savannah. I’m asking. For your own good. Stay here.”

“If this man was involved in Arlo’s murder, I have a right to confront him.”

“You have a right to get hurt, too. I don’t want that to happen.” And then I said, impulsively, “I care too much about you.”

The expression on her face was something between disbelief and rapture. At least I think it was. Hell, I never could read the woman anyway.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“You said you cared about me. Isn’t that what you just said?”

“Yes, OK. I said I cared about you, Savannah. Can I go now?”

She smiled. “I care about you, too, Logan.”

“If he has anything relevant to say, I’ll come and get you.”

“Just call me. We do live in the Digital Age, you know. Most of us, anyway. Some of us still live in the Pleistocene Era.”

“Was that an insult?”

“Scientific observation.”

I grinned and started walking.

* * *

Richard Smith’s doorbell chimed like Big Ben. No one responded. I pushed the button again and pounded my fist on the door because nothing says “You have a visitor” like pounding and impatiently ringing at the same time. I tried the doorknob. Locked. No one appeared to be home.

There was an attached two-car garage. I stood on tiptoes and peeked in through a narrow transom window at the top of the door. No vehicles inside. No newspapers piled up on the short driveway. Two large terracotta clay pots planted with pink geraniums flanked the front door. I checked the soil in the pots. Damp. I looked in the mailbox out front. Empty. The postal carrier would’ve already come and gone, this late in the day. Somebody had to have picked up the mail.

I called directory assistance. The operator said she could find no listing for a Richard Smith on Sea View Lane. I took out a business card from my wallet, jotted “I need to speak with you,” and slipped the card under the front door.

My work was done.

I was on my way back to Savannah’s Jaguar when a two-door white Honda Accord with black-tinted windows and a spoiler on the back cruised past me. Smith’s garage door opened electronically. The Honda pulled into the driveway and rolled into the garage. A squat, middle-aged man in a brown UPS uniform got out of the car and retrieved two paper bags bulging with groceries from the trunk.

“Mr. Smith?”

He turned toward me, startled.

“Can I help you?”

“My name’s Logan. I’m looking into a murder that occurred up in the Valley a few weeks ago. A witness said he saw your car leaving the scene. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“A murder? There must be a mistake.”

“That’s possible, though the witness was pretty adamant he’d seen your car. This is your car, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s my car. But I just can’t understand who would ever possibly say something like that. I mean—” he laughed nervously– “I’m no murderer.”

“The witness is a former police officer.”

“Really?” Smith was beginning to breathe hard. His upper lip glistened with sweat. “You a cop, too?”

I knew he’d be more willing to talk if he assumed that I was.

“What do you think?”

“Well, I really don’t know what more I can tell you. I don’t know anything about any of this, OK? So, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to go in now. I’m not feeling too good. Must’ve been something I had for lunch.”

“Do you ever loan your car to anyone, Mr. Smith?”

“Loan my car? Umm, lemme think.”

He set his grocery bags down on a woodworking bench inside the garage and licked his lips, running the back of his left hand across his mouth. Hand tools hung from a pegboard behind the bench, with various power tools stored on shelves below.

Among the tools was a Sawzall.

“It’s possible I may have let my daughter’s boyfriend borrow it when his car was in the shop, something like that but, you know, no big deal. That’s his car, right there.” Smith pointed to the black Lexus parked in front of the house. His hand was trembling. “He lives outta town, visits quite a bit.”

“Mr. Smith, did you report your American Express card stolen recently?”

“What’s that got to do with anything? Why are you asking me all these questions? I told you, there’s been a mistake. I don’t know anything about any shooting.”

“I said someone was murdered, Mr. Smith. I didn’t say anything about anybody getting shot.”

“Oh my God.” He slumped to the concrete floor, clutching his chest.

“Are you OK?”

“He told me it wouldn’t come to this,” Smith cried. “The Russian, he made him do it. Either he did what the Russian wanted, or they were gonna turn him in.”

“Turn who in?”

“My daughter, her boyfriend. He said if we told anybody, they’d kill us, too. Jesus. I think I need an ambulance. Oh my God.”

“Just breathe, Mr. Smith, try to relax. I’m calling 911 right now.”

I was punching in the number when the door connecting the garage to the house opened, revealing a young woman in pink dental scrubs and the shadow of a tall, angular young man standing behind her. I heard her scream, “Don’t!” as the man shoved her aside. All I saw was the nickel-plated semi-automatic he was raising up to fire at me. His right arm was straight, his hand flat, palm down, the pistol horizontal to the floor, the way gangsta rappers like to shoot.

Had it been Hollywood, I would’ve rolled to throw off his aim, bullets whizzing in slow-mo’ inches from my face. But this was no movie. I held steady and reached for the little revolver tucked in the small of my back. Instinct shooting is about smoothness, not speed. I could hear Laz Kizlyak, my old firearms trainer from Alpha, talking like he was standing there beside me. Grasp butt of weapon firmly, hand high on grip panels, and draw, not jerk, in single fluid motion. Trigger finger extends parallel to barrel, falling alongside frame above trigger as weapon is withdrawn.

Something hot smacked me in the shoulder. I ignored it, elevating the muzzle of my gun as I extended my shooting hand, swinging my other hand up and locking both hands together just as the revolver entered my peripheral vision. Wrap support hand around middle, ring and small fingers of gun hand, overlapping thumbs on backstrap of weapon. Do not clutch weapon. Clutching makes weapon shake. Face target squarely as weapon rises. Spread legs shoulder-width, assuming solid and braced firing platform. Bend slightly forward from torso and flex knees. Thrust hands out from the midline of your chest. Lock wrists, lock elbows, lock shoulders. Level muzzle just below eye level sliding index finger on shooting hand from frame of weapon onto trigger.

Even without a stopwatch, I knew that no more than a second had elapsed from the moment I first glimpsed the gun in the man’s hand to the moment I double-tapped my trigger.

Only after he was down and I had kicked his pistol away from his body did I realize that the man I’d killed was Lamont Royale.