So what he needs is quiet time to write. No distractions. No controversies. A clear head so he can create.
What he gets is John McGrave engaging in a shoot-out and a pursuit that shuts down Mulholland Drive in both directions at nine p.m. on a Saturday night.
The scene of the crash is illuminated by portable lights. News choppers swarm overhead, kicking up the air and blowing dust around. Police officers and crime scene investigators scurry around measuring things, bagging stuff, writing notes, and taking pictures. Paramedics treat the drivers of the crashed cars and the tourists in the bus for their mild injuries and what will later be characterized by their attorneys as 'severe infliction of emotional distress.'
McGrave stands at the cliff's edge, drinking a Hawaiian Punch and eating Oreos that he mooched from a paramedic who keeps the stuff around to treat people for shock. He's watching a crane drag the wrecked BMW up from the canyon below. Firemen move through the brush, looking for anything that might spark a blaze.
Captain Thackery joins him and reeks of spearmint. Ever since he quit smoking, he's always got a mint in his mouth. He's like a highly evolved Altoid.
'What brings you out here, Roy?' McGrave says.
'Jesus Christ, McGrave,' Thackery says. 'You drove a car through a house, shot up a collection of rare artifacts, stole a Mercedes, ran it into two cars, chased another one off a cliff, and then crashed into a bus full of tourists.'
'Yeah. So?'
'What were you thinking?'
'That I wanted to catch the bad guys,' McGrave says.
'And as a result, you made things far worse than they would have been if you'd just let the thieves get away with the crime.'
'Do nothing. Now that's an innovative approach to law enforcement that I've never considered before. Is that how you got ahead, Roy? Because I've always wondered what your secret was.'
'Do you see the news choppers up there? You shut down Mulholland Drive. It's all over the news. And since the crash, those tourists in the bus have already sent out a thousand e-mails, tweets, photos, and videos of this fiasco to the entire planet. There's going to be lots of heat on this, so you'd better hope that all of your extreme actions tonight were justified.'
McGrave nods. 'Is the phony cable guy talking?'
'Only to St. Peter.'
The instant Thackery says it, he knows it's a good line, one they'd love on the show. But he doesn't want to reach for his notebook, because that would be so fucking obvious.
'Go ahead, write it down,' McGrave says.
'Fuck you,' Thackery says, but he takes out his pad and makes the note anyway, deciding as he does that he ought to start carrying a little digital recorder around to capture his gems of authentic cop talk.
The BMW is brought to the street.
The car is pancaked.
McGrave goes over and peers inside. Serena is still buckled into her seat, her head twisted at an angle not compatible with living. Her eyes are wide open and look like fogged glass.
The passenger seat is empty.
There could be a corpse in the brush at the bottom of the canyon, but McGrave knows in his gut that there isn't.
He goes back to the cliff's edge and looks out at the glittering lights of the San Fernando Valley.
The bastard is out there somewhere. And McGrave is going to find him.
####
It's a warm, sunny Sunday morning, which is another way of saying there's a stage-two smog alert and Los Angeles residents are strongly advised to stay indoors and not breathe more than is absolutely necessary.
McGrave is at his cluttered cubicle, studying a coroner's photo of Otto's tattoo and talking on the phone.
He asks the watch commander in the North Hollywood station to:
1. Send some patrol cars around to the local Laundromats and see if anybody has complained that some of their laundry is missing or if they've seen a guy who looks like he was shot and thrown off a cliff. 2. Get him a list of any cars reported stolen in the area since nine p.m. The same goes for any reports of break-ins at homes, drugstores, or doctors' offices.
McGrave figures that when the German staggers out of the hills, he's going to want clothes that aren't soaked with blood, a car to get as far from the area as possible, and drugs to kill the pain and prevent infection.
The watch commander agrees to help.
McGrave hangs up and catches a whiff of spearmint in the air, so he starts delivering his update on the case even before Captain Thackery shows up at his cubicle.
'I ran the faces and prints of the three dead thieves past U.S. Customs. Turns out they arrived from Berlin on three separate flights over the last two days. Customs has double-checked the passports. They're fakes.'
The captain leans on the wobbly, chest-high wall of McGrave's cubicle and swallows his mint.
'I just got off the phone with the chief, who has already heard from Wallengren's attorney,' Thackery says. 'Tomorrow they're going to file a lawsuit against the city for twenty million dollars in damages.'
'That much? I've got to hold on to my toilet,' McGrave says. 'In three thousand years, it could be worth a fortune.'
'There's more. Frank Russell wants you arrested for attempted murder. He says you shot him because he's sleeping with your ex.'
'I shot Frank to nail the guy who was holding a gun to his head.'
'The security camera footage and audio strongly back Frank's side of the story. The DA is taking this very seriously and is contemplating charges. But the chief isn't waiting for the DA's decision. He wants you off the street now.'
'You're suspending me?'
'I'm firing you. You have twenty minutes to clean out your desk and get the hell out of here.'
'You can't just fire me, Roy. There's a whole bunch of tedious, bureaucratic crap you have to go through first, hearings and review boards and that kind of thing. It'll be weeks, maybe months, before you can actually fire me. So in the meantime, I'll catch the bastard responsible for all of this and everything will be fine.'
'You don't get it, McGrave. It's a done deal. The city is tired of getting sued every time you step out of the building. I'm tired of the aggravation. And you won't find any support with your union rep. They're standing behind Frank on this one.'
'Looks like your 'do nothing' approach to policing is catching on,' McGrave says. 'I guess this means I can't count on you as a reference.'
'I'd look into a new profession, because you're finished as a cop in this city or anywhere else. No police force is going to hire you with lawsuits and criminal charges hanging over your head. Leave your gun and your badge on my desk before you go.'
The captain walks away.
McGrave is just beginning to absorb the magnitude of what has happened to him when his cell phone rings. He grabs it and answers out of reflex.
'McGrave,' he says.
'She was the only woman who was ever more to me than a warm body in my bed.'
McGrave sits up straight in his chair, his professional problems forgotten.
It's the German.
It's a cramped little bathroom with bloody towels on the linoleum floor, a bloody pair of needle-nose pliers in the blood-splashed sink, and a bloody bullet in the bloody soap dish.
Perhaps you're sensing a theme here.
Richter stands in front of the mirror in a clean but oversize white shirt, his left arm in a crude sling fashioned
