Chapter 15
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Holt looked from Jimmy to where Rollo sat at the kitchen table. The two of them together always appeared guilty.
“Just the usual felonies and misdemeanors.” Jimmy kissed her, lingering for a brief moment, and she hated the fact that she noticed how long their kisses lasted, trying not to compare the way they were now with the way they had been a few months ago. “Come on in. This is a pleasant surprise.”
Holt hoisted her package, the brown-paper wrapping rustling as she handed it to him. “I hope this is too.”
Jimmy pretended to shake it. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“Not a thing. Open it anyway.”
Jimmy tore at the wrappings.
“The DA has decided to present the Strickland case to a grand jury,” Holt said lightly, pleased that the news immediately got his attention.
“That’s great!” Jimmy looked as happy for her as she had felt nailing that son of a bitch. If Holt had her way, serial rape would be a capital offense—a point of view that would have shocked her before she became a police officer. Now she knew better.
Her parents had been appalled when she had decided to enter the Academy, to the point of getting the mention removed from her alumni newsletter. Her father said he knew he should have put his foot down when she opted for criminal law instead of corporate at Stanford. He had barely gotten used to the idea of a federal prosecutor or a district attorney in the family, but a
police officer
? “
Our
sort
don’t get their hands dirty, Jane,
” her father had intoned. “
I
do,
Daddy,
” she had responded. Her mother said her father would get over it, but they both knew better.
Jimmy kissed her again. “If the jury indicts Strickland, I hope the case gets put on Cheverton’s docket. Hang-’em-high Cheverton— that would be sweet.”
“I’d like that too. The lieutenant gave me the afternoon off after the DA gave the go-ahead. He acted as if was a reward for a job well done, but we both knew he just wanted the TV cameras all to himself. I called you at the office, but they said you were on assignment. You have
no
idea what you missed.”
“I have a vivid imagination,” said Jimmy, warming her with his eyes. He broke contact just long enough to tear apart the wrapping paper and pull out a framed photograph. He was smiling so hard now that it had to hurt.
Out of the corner of her eye, Holt saw Rollo quietly shut down his laptop and disconnect it from the cell phone. He had either been accessing a porn site or hacking into someplace he shouldn’t be.
“This is . . . wonderful.” Jimmy stared at the photograph, an eleven-by-fourteen black-and-white casual portrait of the young Elvis, sensual and full lipped, gazing into the camera. The future King was sprawled in a lawn chair outside a mobile home. He held a bottle of Pepsi-Cola in one hand. A teenage boy with a bad haircut and a man sat nearby, looking surprised that anyone was taking a picture.
“What is it?” asked Rollo, craning his neck to see, his hands working independently, tucking telephones inside his jacket.
“I thought you would like it,” said Holt. “I was at an auction, and it reminded me of you somehow. I don’t know why. It just seemed so . . . unposed and authentic.”
“I love it.”
“I hate to interrupt this magic moment, but do
I
get to see?” complained Rollo. He squinted as Jimmy showed him the photo. “Who is it?”
Jimmy laughed. “It’s
Elvis,
you fucking cultural illiterate.”
“I don’t think so,” said Rollo, completely serious. “Elvis was fat, and he wore spangly jumpsuits with belt buckles the size of peanut butter sandwiches. This dude looks like he belongs pumping gas at an Esso station off the interstate.”
“This is the way Elvis
used
to look,” explained Jimmy, more patient with Rollo than Holt ever saw him with anyone else. “This photo was probably taken around 1957, before he hit it big, but close enough that he could smell it coming.” He turned to Holt and kissed her. “Thank you.” He kissed her again. Longer this time.
It took an effort for Holt to separate herself from him, flustered by Rollo’s presence. “I don’t know who the boy and the other man are,” she said, pointing to the photograph. She could feel perspiration along the back of her neck.
“The kid is Elvis’s cousin Donny, and the man who looks like he just came from checking the still in the woods, that’s his dad, Vernon,” said Jimmy.
“You know the names of his relatives?” Jane was astounded.
Jimmy tapped the photo. “Check out Elvis, Jane, just
look
at him. This was taken before Colonel Parker took over his career and cleaned him up, made him presentable to Ed Sullivan and Dick Clark and the rest of those white-bread motherfuckers. The Colonel let Elvis keep the hip swivel, but those hungry cracker eyes were too scary for prime time. No telling what nastiness that boy was thinking as he looked at the bobby-soxers on
American Bandstand.
This picture was taken at the last moment, when Elvis was still himself and unashamed of it, when he was still pure.”
Rollo stood up, phones falling out of his jacket and clattering onto the floor. There must have been a dozen of them. “I got to go,” he said, hastily retrieving the phones, not sure what to do with them, finally placing them in the sink. “Jimmy and I—we were doing an experiment, Jane,” he said, hurrying for the door. “These phones, I found them in a Dumpster behind a Radio Shack. I was going to see if I could fix them up and donate them to some homeless shelter. Or maybe a battered women hideout.”
“Here I was thinking they were stolen,” said Holt. “I’m ashamed of myself.”
Rollo pushed back his glasses, not sure if she was serious. He was intelligent but a bad liar, which meant that lying still bothered him— he was still salvageable. As Rollo shifted from one foot to the other, Holt got a glimpse of what Jimmy saw in him.
“Good night, Rollo,” said Jimmy.
“Right.” Rollo’s eyes darted from side to side. “I’ll work on that stuff we talked about.”
Holt watched the door close after him, then turned to Jimmy. “Stuff?”
“It’s code. You’ll never crack it.”
“I’ll just have to guess.” Holt took off her jacket and neatly folded it across the back of a chair. “I hear you’ve been calling around trying to locate the lead detective on the Heather Grimm homicide. Evidently you’re still looking into Garrett Walsh’s death,” she said, trying not to make it sound like an accusation, almost succeeding.
“The cop’s name is Leonard Brimley. He’s retired, and nobody knows where he’s living. His retirement checks are directly deposited into a bank in Oxnard, but that’s as close as I can get.”
“Why would Brimley help you reopen a case that he already got credit for clearing?”
“Maybe he’s more interested in getting it right than getting credit.” Jimmy smiled. “Or maybe he’s not going to know that I want to reopen the case.”
“Why turn this into a crusade? The autopsy report was conclusive: ‘accidental death, precipitated by drug and alcohol intoxication.’ Why isn’t that good enough for you?”
“I never had much faith in the official version of events. It’s not a matter of conspiracies or evil intent. Human error, Jane, it’s everywhere.”
Holt couldn’t disagree with that, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him. She wandered over to the kitchen sink and took a look at the jumbled phones, smiling at the thought of Rollo donating them to a homeless shelter.
Jimmy leaned against the table, not bothering to hide the paperwork spread out there.
“Quite a collection of phone logs you have here.” Holt shook her head at the computer printouts, the legal pads filled with notations, knowing immediately what he had been up to. “How lovely not to need court orders or due process to get information.”
“Walsh was murdered.”
“Not according to Helen Katz. I’m not a fan of her methodology, but she runs a tight investigation. She says it was an accident. Dr. Boone says it was an accident. You’re the only—”
“Boone?”
Jimmy looked angry. “Katz told me she was going to make sure that Rabinowitz did the autopsy. I read the report—it had her signature on it.”
“Rabinowitz is chief medical examiner; she signs off on all official documentation. But I got a look at the autopsy notes, and Dr. Boone did the actual work. Don’t worry, he’s a good pathologist.”
“Not nearly as good as Rabinowitz.” Jimmy slowly smiled, and Holt knew she was in trouble. “You looked at the autopsy notes, didn’t you?”
“Just a glance.”
“That Walsh case wasn’t in your jurisdiction. You wouldn’t even run a phone number for me when I asked—you said it was a violation. Now you tell me you’re checking out Boone’s raw notes?” Jimmy eased closer to her. “Had to be a reason.”
Holt picked up the Elvis photograph. “Let’s see how this looks in your room.”
“You’re not getting off that easy.” Jimmy was right behind her. “You believed me, didn’t you? You thought I was right and Katz was wrong.”
“Not at all.” Holt held the photograph on the wall opposite the bed, set it down on the dresser, and stepped back to check it out. “It was a slow day at the office. I thought I’d make some calls.”
“I don’t think so.” Jimmy was right behind her now.
“I was talking to a friend of mine in the ME’s office about a blood-spatter seminar he’s leading. The autopsy report just happened to come up.” Holt led Jimmy over to the bed. “This is probably the best place to view your new photo. What do you think?”
“I think you believed me.”
Holt kicked off her shoes, lay down, and stretched. “I think you should get a bigger bed.”
Jimmy joined her on the bed, nuzzled her neck. “You
believed
me,” he whispered.
Holt unbuttoned his shirt and slid a hand against his bare chest, pinching his nipple hard enough that he jumped. “I was curious, that’s all.” She undid his jeans. Mr. Up and Ready. “You’ve actually been right once or twice before. I thought you might be due.”
“I’m
overdue.
” Jimmy eased his hand up her skirt and played with the lace of her panties, higher now, caressing her. “I’m right about Walsh, Jane.” He kissed her as he gently slipped two fingers inside her. His hands were strong, but his touch—it was silk. “I’m right, and you know it.”
“Shut up while you’re ahead,” gasped Holt, and Jimmy did as he was told. This time, anyway. She never knew what he was going to do the next time. She rocked gently against his grip for a long time, just long enough, then eased away, kicking off her panties, unhooking her skirt. She watched as Jimmy peeled off his shirt, then helped him out of his jeans, the two of them moving faster now, all bare arms and legs, kisses and bites.
“Be right back,” said Jimmy, getting up and crossing the room, his white ass stark against his deep tan. He turned the photo of Elvis to the wall and slid back into bed beside her.
Holt bounded over to the dresser and turned the photo back so the King could get a good view, his pompadour and knowing smirk lending just the right tone to the action. A couple of bad boys and a bad, bad girl. She took her time returning to bed, giving Jimmy a little show as he lolled on the sheets, enjoying his reaction. “I was never a big fan of Elvis,” she said, straddling him, “but I just
know
I’m about to change my mind.”
Chapter 16
The radio exploded in static, the crowd at the arena cheering so hard it must have felt like an earthquake inside the building. Laker girls bouncing, balloons and confetti drifting down from the rafters . . . the Butcher switched it off in the middle of the echoing victory chant. The Lakers had won in double overtime by eleven points, but it felt anticlimactic. Houston had just given up and played loser-ball, letting the Lakers run the court, destroying the poetry and ferocity of the game. The Butcher stared through the rain-spattered windshield, his long legs cramping in the tight confines of the Geo Metro. The Lakers might be champions, but
he
hadn’t won anything.
He shifted in his seat. The lady was still up in Jimmy Gage’s apartment. Some four-eyes had stumbled out about fifteen minutes ago, looking around before he scampered down the stairs like a rabbit. The lady though—she was probably making a night of it.
Must be nice writing for that fancy magazine, getting your pussy home-delivered, and fucking with people’s lives for fun and profit. The Butcher had been shadowing Jimmy Gage off and on for a few weeks, still not sure what he was going to do when he cornered him. This morning the Butcher had waited near the exit of the SLAP security garage, waited for hours until Jimmy had driven past in his black Saab. The Butcher remembered the car from the first time they met, but of course big-shot Jimmy Gage didn’t recognize the Geo Metro with the dented door. He didn’t know what the Butcher drove. Didn’t care either. The Butcher had followed the Saab, but lost it on the freeway. Fucking Geo.
The Butcher turned the key in the ignition, listening to the starter grind, cursing it, threatening it, until the engine finally turned over. It sounded like a coffee grinder, metal clanging against metal. Yeah, life was fair. The Butcher got to drive through the rain to his nowhere job on the graveyard shift, hoping that the Geo didn’t throw a rod on the freeway or the bald tires didn’t blow. Meanwhile, Jimmy Gage got to bone the lady with the nice calves.
The Butcher slipped it into first gear and pulled away from the curb. He turned on the wipers and bent forward, trying to see as the old rubber blades left streaks across the windshield. He wiped at the condensation on the inside of the glass. It was almost the last fucking straw.
Chapter 17
“Twenty-eight bucks for a room; same rate for an hour or for a night.” The man in the wheelchair didn’t even look at Jimmy, his attention on the television.
Jimmy rapped on the thick glass that separated them. “I don’t want a room.”
The man in the wheelchair glanced over at him, then went back to the TV. Paperback books were haphazardly stacked on the counter of the tiny office, next to an open liter bottle of Evian. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray shaped like a tiny tire, smoke wafting through the air like nicotine incense.
“I called you a couple days ago. I asked you about a . . . guest you might have had.”
“A
guest
?” The man in the wheelchair cackled, then choked, spit into a wastebasket. “I remember you now.”
“Harlen Shafer.” Jimmy slid the photo of Shafer through the security slot of the window.
The man in the wheelchair made no move to retrieve it. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Christopher Reeve.”
Jimmy looked around the tiny lobby of the Starlight Arms Motel, the orange carpet stiff with years of street grime, pintoed with undetermined stains. Fly-specked publicity photos of dead movie stars were taped next to the door. The wall next to the pay phone was dotted with tacked-up business cards, most of them dog-eared and greasy: cards for bail bondsmen, taxi companies, escort services, take-out Chinese food and pizza, drug and alcohol counseling services.
“You’re blocking my doorway,” said the man in the wheelchair, eyes on the television. He was probably in his forties, thin-faced, his hair shot with gray, pulled back into a ponytail, his legs lost in desert-pattern surplus cammies. He was oddly dapper in a white shirt and clip-on tie, but his upper body was caving in on itself, the tie falling to one side. His hands were in half-gloves, his fingers wiggling. “Take a hike. You’re killing my walk-in trade.”
Jimmy shifted closer to the window, curious to know what the man was watching. The small color set showed a man standing at a podium with a screen behind him showing an operation in throbbing pinks and reds. Jimmy took a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and pressed it against the glass. “Twenty bucks for an honest answer.” No response. “Would bumping it up to fifty make a difference?”
The man in the wheelchair kept watching the TV, his fingers stitching along with the surgeon on screen. “What do you want with him?”
“Is he here?”
The man in the wheelchair looked over at Jimmy. “Are you Harlen’s supplier?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Harlen peddled painkillers and other pharmaceuticals. Real sweet stuff too. He wasn’t averse to passing out samples once in a while. How about you? You feeling generous?”
“I can’t help you.”
The man in the wheelchair scooted over to the glass. “That’s
good,
mister, because they don’t make dope that helps what ails me. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t coming by to collect from him.”
“So he skipped out?”
The man in the wheelchair picked up the photograph Jimmy had left on the counter, smiled at the mug shot. “That’s right, Harlen is no longer a
guest.
” He grinned at Jimmy. His teeth were too big for his emaciated face. “What do you really want with him?”
“A man named Garrett Walsh made at least five phone calls to your office in the last couple of months. He probably left messages for Shafer. The two of them were in prison together.” Jimmy glanced around the shabby office and checked the street. “I’m sure you remember the calls. Short-term place like this, no luggage required— anyone staying for weeks at a time would have to feel comfortable here.”
The man in the wheelchair started coughing, arched a gob of phlegm into the wastebasket, and shook a cigarette out of the pack on the counter. He narrowed his eyes at Jimmy as he lit up, taking shallow drags.
“I’m not looking to hurt Shafer. I just want to talk with him.” Jimmy slid his business card through the slot in the window. Added fifty dollars. “Have him call me. There’s another hundred in it for you. A hundred in it for him too, just for calling.”
“Well, well—I always wanted to meet a fool with some money.” The man in the wheelchair sank deeper into his chair, ashes tumbling past the buttons of his white shirt. He picked up the card. Left the money.
“Garrett Walsh was murdered a few weeks ago. I think Shafer was the last person to see him alive.”
“Harlen didn’t kill him.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
“Harlen was no saint, but there is no violence in him. Anyone who says different is a liar.”
“Walsh and Harlen were buddies: yard buddies, drinking buddies—dope bodies. Walsh kept things close, but if he talked to anyone, he would have talked to Harlen. I’d like to ask him what got said, that’s all.”
The man in the wheelchair swiveled back to face the television, his eyes on the medical channel again. “Most of the street trash walk through that door, it’s ‘Hey, Ironsides?’ or ‘Yo, wheels?’ Harlen—the very first time he came in, he asked me for my name. Never used anything else afterward, either.”
Jimmy felt himself flush.
“Amazing how many John Does and John Smiths and Johnny Wadds there are in the world,” mused the man in the wheelchair, “and all of them checking into my motel. The ones who
truly
piss me off, I stick in room number five.” He smiled to himself. “I gave Harlen room seventeen. Peaceful, and the hot water never runs out. He stayed almost three months. I gave him a rate, but I never had to remind him to pay his bill. Always paid cash.” He remained focused on the television, his fingers deftly mirroring the surgeon’s movements onscreen. “I had an accident one time—problem with my personal plumbing. Harlen helped me out and acted like it was no big deal. He said he had seen worse. I guess he had. Harlen. He was the only one I ever took messages for. I
did
take a few from this Garrett Walsh. Harlen was proud that they were friends, told me he was some famous movie director. Me, I never heard of the man before.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“He left a few weeks ago, just cleaned out his room and disappeared. Had two more days on his prepaid too.” The man in the wheelchair stared at the TV. “He didn’t even say good-bye. That’s why I thought you were his drug supplier come to collect. I thought maybe that’s why he skipped out so sudden like.”
“Walsh was worried that someone was going to kill him. Harlen may have seen something. I just need to talk to him.”
The man in the wheelchair kept watching television—it looked like he was knitting. “We have pay TV in the rooms. All kinds of channels, all kind of options: gay, straight, tranny, rough, lesbo, fetish, B&D, and you’d be surprised at the choices some people make. You’d never guess to look at them. I study these things. Psychology is a hobby of mine.” He glanced at Jimmy. “Glad you didn’t laugh.” He went back to the television. “Harlen. His taste in movies ran to
Anal Fever, Anal Coeds, Bend Over Baby.
Always the same. No variety whatsoever.” He nodded to himself.
“Harlen—was he still driving a white Camaro?”
The man in the wheelchair nodded. “He loved that car.”
“You said Harlen took off suddenly. I’d like to talk to whoever cleaned up the room afterward.”
The man in the wheelchair picked up the cigarette from the ashtray and took a tentative puff. “Her name is Serena. Room eighteen.” He put the cigarette down as though it might explode. “If you find Harlen
—when
you find Harlen—tell him to stop by sometime and say hello.”
Jimmy started to leave, stopped. “What’s your name?”
The man in the wheelchair turned back to the television. “Too late for that now.”
Room 18 was right beside Shafer’s old room 17, both of them set back from the street, a short walk from the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour liquor store but away from the street noise. Jimmy knocked, waited, then knocked again.
A woman’s voice called out, muffled by sleep.
Jimmy knocked again, and the door finally opened, a woman peeking out through the security chain. “Serena? The manager said I could talk to you for a few minutes, if it’s all right with you.”
Serena rubbed at her eyes with her fists, a chubby woman in an extralarge Mickey Mouse T-shirt. “I don’t do that oral thing—I’m Catholic. And the intercourse thing, that’s out too, because my husband may come back, no matter what Ronald says, and I don’t want to have to lie to him.” She yawned. “So if that’s what you’re interested in, there are plenty of ladies on Sunset who will help you.”
“That’s not—”
“I will pleasure you with my hand for ten dollars,” said Serena, yawning again. “That is not a sin. Not a sin for
me,
” she corrected herself. “For you, it is a sin, but that is between you and God.”
“How about twenty dollars just to answer a few questions?”
Serena stared at Jimmy, confused, her round face bisected by the security chain. “I don’t do that dirty talk thing either.”
“I just want to ask about Harlen Shafer. The manager said you cleaned out his room when he moved out.”
A ripple of awareness crossed Serena’s placid face. She fumbled with the chain and opened the door, shuffling toward the rumpled bed, her squishy hams jiggling as she walked.
Jimmy entered the room cautiously, checking the corners before stepping into the twilight of the single room. Brightly colored dresses hung neatly in the open closet, shoes lined up below. The television was in a cage of steel, bolted to the dresser, a 3-D postcard of Christ on the cross taped on the wall over the set. A large Styrofoam cooler sat on the floor beside a round table, a bag of mangos beside it. In the corner the wall air-conditioner rattled away, not making much progress against the heat and humidity. The room smelled of orange blossom perfume and overripe bananas.
Serena opened the nightstand drawer beside the bed and took something out, then closed it. “This is what Mr. Harlen sent you for,” she said, approaching him with a Gideon Bible in her hand. “You tell him I touch nothing. I do not steal.”
Jimmy stared at the Bible.
Serena rubbed her fingers together.
Jimmy handed over the money and took the Bible from her. He opened it up and saw that a compartment had been cut out of the pages, the space filled with four quarter-ounce Baggies of pot, assorted vials of pills, and a large Baggie filled with a sparkling white powder—crank or coke, it didn’t matter.
“You tell Mr. Harlen Shafer that I do not approve of cutting up the word of God,” chastised Serena. “You go now.”
Jimmy closed the Bible. “Serena, Harlen Shafer didn’t send me. I’m trying to find him.”
Serena shook her head. “You asked me if I cleaned the room.”
“No, I was hoping . . .” Jimmy checked the Bible again, closed it. Shafer might have been in a hurry when he left, but no way a dealer leaves his goods behind. “This was all you found in the room?”
“Only that.” Serena nodded. “When I clean, I always make sure that the Bible is in the top drawer of the left-side nightstand.” She yawned, and Mickey Mouse on her T-shirt seemed to yawn too. “That way you reach for the Word with your right hand.”
Jimmy nodded. It made as much sense as anything else. “Room seventeen is right next door. did you hear anything when he left?”
“The walls, they are thin,” said Serena. “It was very late, but the walls are thin.”
“Did you see him?”
Serena sat down on the edge of the bed as though the conversation was exhausting. “I heard noises in Mr. Harlen’s room, clothes being pulled off hangers, very fast, and a glass breaking in the bathroom.”
“Did you
see
him?”
“Why so many foolish questions? I am sleepy.”
“Please?”
Serena shrugged. “I heard noises in his room and footsteps past my window toward the parking lot. Who else could it have been?”
Jimmy fingered the Bible as though the answers were in there. In a way they were. Harlen Shafer hadn’t cleaned out his place and left his stash; somebody else had emptied his room. Somebody who didn’t know about what was hidden in the Good Book. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
“You are taking the Bible?” asked Serena, as Jimmy turned toward the door. “What do I do if Mr. Harlen comes back for his drugs?”
“Harlen Shafer isn’t coming back.”
“I do not want Mr. Harlen to think I am a thief.”
“Shafer isn’t coming back.” Jimmy fumbled in his wallet and handed her his business card. “If anyone comes around asking about him, tell them to call me.” Serena was still staring at the business card as Jimmy closed the door behind him.