Violent Spring (27 page)

With that, they settled into a lively conversation on cars and the art of rebuilding them. By the time they reached the area where Ursua had delivered the car to Bong Kim Suh, they both agreed they missed the bygone era of Dodge muscle bangers. It was in the Lincoln Heights section of town, where the houses were neat and tidy California Craftsmen built before the big war, and every backyard seemed to have a dog.

The Caddy slowed to a crawl. “He was standing on the corner, over there.” Ursua pointed at an intersection where a dry cleaners stood. “I came with the car, and he gave me the money, in cash.”

“How'd you get back home?”

“It was the middle of the day, so I took the bus.” Ursua pulled to the curb and put the car in neutral and let the engine idle. “Suh drove off in that direction.” He pointed again. “I saw him get to the corner there and make a left on Darwin. After that, he was gone and so was I.”

“What kind of car was it? And I guess you wouldn't happen to remember the license plate.”

“It was a brown 1988 Volkswagen Jetta. And a man in my profession makes it his business not to know plates. But I do think they started with 2G something.”

“You know, it's none of my concern, but you're a pretty bright guy, Ruben. You could make a decent living fixing up cars legitimately.”

Ursua looked straight ahead through the windshield, leaning forward, his arms folded along me top of the Eldorado's steering wheel. “That's why I took the job in the liquor store my P.O. set up for me when I got out. Thought I was gonna settle down and do the straight and narrow.”

Monk couldn't tell if he meant himself or if he was referring to his parole officer.

Ursua went on. “Really though, it was something I couldn't escape. It's in my blood, my friend. I don't bash in anybody's head, I don't rape your wife or steal money out of a bank. Hell, a lot of the cars I deal with are right from the owners who want to work a scam on their insurance companies. I like the thrill and, like any junkie, I can't stop until they make me. You know what I mean.”

Ursua put the Cadillac back in gear and Monk asked him to drop him off at the Tiger's Den. Tiger Flowers was just locking up as Ursua let him off. “That architect friend of yours sent something over here for you. It's on my desk.

“Thanks, Tiger. I'll shut her up when I leave.”

“See that you do.” He ambled off and got into his car, an AMC Concord, and drove off to whatever it was that Tiger Flowers did in his off-hours. Monk went in, relocking the door once he was inside. He entered the office and turned on the lights.

It was a spare, functional affair reflecting its owner's personality. There were no pictures from Tiger's past on the cracked walls, only those of young—and some not so young now judging from how their photos had yellowed—fighters. There were two Army surplus file cabinets, a desk of the sort one used to find a third grade teacher behind when Monk went to school, three chairs, a weatherbeaten couch, an ancient clock plugged in over the door and a standing lamp.

On the desk was a packet from a messenger service. Monk sat at the desk and opened the envelope. He read the single sheet of paper twice, then folded it up and put it in his back pocket. Monk got up from the desk and paced around the gym thinking, until fifteen before nine when he went out front. Jill's Saab came into view seven minutes later, and he escorted her inside. She carried two plastic shopping sacks.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, after kissing him on the lips.

“Is that basil and garlic I smell, or a new perfume?”

“Asshole.”

They went back into the office, and Monk cleared a space on the desk. Jill sat the sacks down and lifted out two containers and a bottle of wine. “Do you have any glasses around here?”

Monk found a glass with a Texaco emblem on it and one with the logo of the San Francisco 49ers. “There you go, gas station specials.” He sat them down and pulled the cork out of the bottle which had already been worked free. Over a meal of linguine and squid in red sauce, Monk told Kodama what had transpired since he last saw her.

“Do you believe Conrad James and Crosshairs? I don't know about James, but Mr. Crosshairs Sawyer is hardly a candidate for the post of monsignor. I had his jacket pulled and since thirteen he's been busted for assault, attempted assault, aggravated assault, robbery with assault, and did some hard time for second-degree manslaughter.”

“I know, honey, I read his sheet, too. But who better to teach man someone who's been there? It's certainly something that Malcolm was an example of.”

Kodama's lips puckered. “Don't you go pulling your nationalist cloak on me, homeboy. You got the FBI and the Daltons breathing down your neck because they both want you to produce something for them. You can't please both of them, and they both know how to get even. Good and even.”

“On the up side, I've got money from the Merchants Group and SOMA burning holes in my pocket.” He smiled and took another bite of his meal.

“What makes you think that Ursua and James haven't cooked up this story about the other car just to send you on a phantom hunt?”

“To what purpose?” Monk countered. “If they wanted me dead, they could have easily accomplished that anytime when I was with them. Don't forget, Stacy Grimes' death figures in this somehow. He and Samuels both worked strongarm for Jiang Holdings. Their job was to convince the owners of properties damaged after the uprising in '92 to sell.”

“Then you believe Jiang is a front for the Korean Merchants Group.”

“Let's not get that far down the track just yet, Red Rider. I asked O'Day's office to find out who was really Jiang; here's what they got for me.” Monk pulled the paper he had folded up out of his back pocket.

Kodama read the piece of paper and looked from it to Monk, her mouth slightly ajar. “Who gave you this?”

“I had Hendricks look it up for me. She's got friends down in the city planning department who actually produced that information.”

Kodama said, “Curious.”

“Isn't it. There also seems to be a gentleman with a hunchback who was seen in the storeroom of Hi-Life Liquors a week after the riots. A so-far unidentified gentleman who has some kind of connection to our Mr. Samuels.” Monk didn't add the part about his being at Samuels' apartment and getting a glimpse of the other man before he was knocked out. If he did, he'd have to tell Kodama that he entered and searched Samuel's place illegally. It was times like this that reminded Monk how odd his profession was, to one minute be riding around with an accomplished car thief, and the next eating dinner with his girlfriend the judge.

Kodama was talking. “The first thing you have to do tomorrow is call Keys and tell him everything you know.”

“I'm sorry, dear. It sounded like you wanted me to drop a dime on some guys who're trusting me.”

“Keys will ask you point blank if you've made contact with Crosshairs. It is a federal offense to knowingly lie to a federal official investigating a crime. If Crosshairs is as sharp as you and I think he is, I believe he's already moved on to another safe house.”

Monk rose and stared at the photographs on the wall, his hands in his back pockets. “But how's that going to look to the Daltons?”

“That you're a handkerchief head motherfucker who would sell out his own momma to save his ass.” She paused, watching Monk as he turned to face her. “Or they'll see you had no choice. That if they want you to get them their meeting, you had to give your opposition something.”

“I can still lie to Keys, and he'll never know the difference. Left to their own devices, him and Diaz couldn't find Madonna on a bed of coal.”

Kodama crossed her legs. “Then you're making me a party to your complicity. Plus Keys can get you locked up on supposition alone. It won't be hard to convince some judge appointed in the Bush era that you surely must have been going to meet with Crosshairs at two in the morning. Or else why the bait and switch with the cars. And even if you stick to your story, he'll probably get this Ms. Scarn to pull your license, the cops will take away your concealed weapons permit, and your bond will be revoked. And then where would you be?”

“Fucked.”

“Let's keep our sex life out of this.”

“Ha, ha, cute.”

Kodama remained silent.

Monk sat heavily into Tiger Flowers' chair. He closed his eyes but the problem wouldn't go away. The words he had said to Ursua in the bar came back to him and a ball of something nasty rolled around in his stomach. “How come small guys like me are the ones that always have to bend?”

Kodama came over and kissed him. “Because guys like you are always there to take somebody else's heat.”

“Fine,” Monk said crossly.

Monk locked up the Tiger's Den, and he and Kodama got a room at the Bel Age Hotel in West Hollywood. Later in bed, Monk asked Kodama while they were curled up together, “You know things have been jumping since you were shot at and we haven't really talked about it fully. I know you can handle yourself and all, but I'd feel better if you rearranged your court calendar and went down to Dex's place in Lake Elsinore until this thing gets sorted out.”

“I've already rearranged my appointments.” She wriggled some causing Monk to groan with pleasure. “You're my protection, baby.” She dropped off to sleep.

Monk breathed in her aroma, listening to her breathing, his hand cupped under one of her breasts. He could feel the steady drum of her heart and hear the late night growl of traffic not too far away along Santa Monica Boulevard. There they were, safe and warm in their cocoon of plaster and glass, the goddamn FBI and the other wolves circling their lair temporarily abated. But the dam was breaking, and Monk wondered how long he would last in the flood.

T
HE WOMAN COP named Bazeco looked at Keys, then back to Monk. She said, “I think he's up to something.”

Kodama folded her arms and spoke. “Mr. Monk has come to you of his own volition. As a licensed private investigator, it is his duty to cooperate with the authorities.”

“Then why the fuck didn't he get in touch with us yesterday?” Diaz said, stirring milk into his coffee.

“I was exhausted and needed sleep. And there was a pressing matter I had to take care of,” Monk said tersely.

“What was it?” Keys sat at the table with Diaz, his shirt sleeves uncharacteristically rolled up on his forearms.

“That's privileged information, agent,” Monk said.

“Which client would that be, Monk? The Korean Merchants or SOMA?” Roberts piped in, leaning along one of the walls.

Monk, who was sitting with his back against the wall, lifted a hand. “Their interests are intertwined.”

“How lovely for you,” plainclothes detective Haller offered.

“Do you want the information, or not?” Kodama shot back.

“He goes with us,” Keys demanded.

Monk laughed without humor. “No, no. If I show my butt around there holding hands with a bunch of cops and feds, how long do you think I'll live after that?”

“How do we know we'll find Crosshairs once we get out to Imperial Courts?” Diaz had stopped stirring his coffee and was now blowing on it to cool it off.

“I never said you'd find Crosshairs, agent. I said I'd tell you where it was that I met with the murder suspect. Now if he's still there, that's his lookout.”

Roberts got a drink of water from the Arrowhead cooler in the corner. Bazeco knotted her large, mannish hands. Haller sat down at the table and did nothing. Seguin, standing close to the door to the Detectives' Squad room, looked quizzically at Monk. Diaz leaned over to whisper something to Keys. The other man nodded and Diaz left the room.

Kodama, who had been standing near Monk, also sat down at the table. After a fashion, Diaz returned. He again said something in confidence to Keys, who then addressed Kodama. “Your client draws us a map and he signs a statement that the information he has provided is the truth.”

“To the best of his knowledge,” Kodama added.

The paper work was typed up and Monk drew a crude map. He and Kodama read the statement, and he signed it.

“You wait here until we get back,” Keys said, studying the map.

“No. He's not under arrest and he's not a material witness. We're leaving,” Kodama said forcefully.

“Yeah, and call off your lap dog Scarn,” Monk put in.

Keys presented Monk with an odd look. “Who are you talking about?”

“You know who I'm talking about.”

Keys was halfway out of the door when he turned and spoke. “I don't know this Scarn or what the hell you're talking about, Monk. Maybe you ought to go home and lie down again. I think running with the big boys is giving you a headache.” He walked out, rolling down his sleeves as he did.

“You better not be shittin' on us, Monk,” Diaz contributed, also walking away.