“Did Melon tell you what happened?”
“Yes, he told me. He said you were an ungrateful prick.”
“I am.”
Fuckit. Scott hadn’t cared what Melon thought of him, and didn’t care what the new guy thought, either, but he was surprised when Orso laughed.
“Look, I know you had a problem with him, but I’m the new guy. I’d like to meet you, and go over a couple of things in the file.”
Scott felt a flare of hope.
“Did Melon turn any new leads?”
“No, I can’t say that. This is just me, trying to get up to speed on what happened that night. Could you roll by sometime today?”
The flare of hope faded to a bitter ember. Orso sounded like a nice guy, but Scott had just relived what happened that night, and was fed up with talking about it.
“I’m on shift, then I have plans.”
Orso paused. This told Scott Orso knew Scott was giving him the brush.
Orso said, “How about tomorrow, or whenever is convenient?”
“Can I give you a call?”
Orso gave him his direct-dial number, and hung up.
Scott dropped his phone on the seat between his legs. The numbness he felt only moments earlier had been replaced with irritation. Scott wondered what Orso wanted to ask about, and if he should have mentioned the sideburns even though he didn’t know if they were real.
Scott cut across lanes and veered toward the city. He punched in Orso’s number as he passed Griffith Park.
“Detective Orso, it’s Scott James again. If you’re there now, I can swing by.”
“I’m here. You remember where we are?”
Scott smiled at that, and wondered if this was Orso’s idea of a joke.
“I remember.”
“Try not to hit anyone when you get here.”
Scott didn’t laugh, and neither did Orso.
Scott phoned Dominick Leland next, and told him he wouldn’t be in to see the new dogs. Leland growled like a German shepherd.
“Why in hell not?”
“I’m on my way to the Boat.”
“Fuck the Boat. There is nothing and no one in that damned building more important than these dogs. I did not let you into my K-9 platoon to waste time with those people down there.”
Robbery-Homicide housed their special units on the fifth floor of the Police Administration Building. The PAB was a ten-story structure across from City Hall. The side of the PAB facing City Hall was a thin, pointy, triangular glass wedge. This made the PAB look like the prow of a ship, so rank-and-file officers dubbed it the Boat.
“They want me at Robbery-Homicide. It’s about the case.”
Leland’s growl softened.
“Your case?”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way now.”
Leland’s voice turned gruff again.
“All right, then, get your ass here as soon as you can.”
Scott never wore his uniform to Goodman’s office. He kept his uniform in a gym bag and his handgun in a lockbox in the trunk. He dropped off the freeway on First Street, and changed in the Boat’s parking garage. He expected more than a few detectives to give him the glare because of his scene with Melon. Scott didn’t give a rat’s ass, either way. He wanted to remind them he was a police officer.
Scott showed his badge and LAPD ID card to the lobby receptionist, and told her he was there to see Orso. She made a brief call, then gave Scott a different ID card to clip to his shirt.
“He’s expecting you. You know where they are?”
“I know.”
Scott tried not to limp as he crossed the lobby, which wasn’t so easy with all the steel in his leg. The night they wheeled him into the Good Samaritan emergency room, Scott had surgeries on his thigh, shoulder, and lower chest. Three more surgeries followed later that same week, with two additional surgeries six weeks later. The leg wound cost him three pounds of muscle tissue, needed a steel rod and six screws to rebuild his femur, and left him with nerve damage. The shoulder reconstruction required three plates, eight screws, and also left him with nerve damage. The PT after the multiple surgeries had been painful, but he was doing okay. You just had to be tougher than the pain, and eat a few painkillers.
Bud Orso was in his early forties, with a chubby scoutmaster’s face topped by a crown of short black hair. He was waiting when Scott stepped off the elevator, which Scott had not expected.
“Bud Orso. Pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
Orso had a surprisingly strong grip, but released Scott quickly and led him toward the Homicide Special offices.
“I’ve been living with this file since they handed me the case. Horrible, what happened that night. How long have you been back on the job?”
“Eleven weeks.”
Polite conversation. Scott was already irritated, and wondered what was waiting for him in the Homicide Special squad room.
“I’m surprised they let you.”
“Let me what?”
“Come back. You were squared up for a medical.”
Scott didn’t respond. He was already tired of talking, and sorry he came.
Orso noted the K-9 patch on Scott’s shoulder as they walked.
“K-9. That should be interesting.”
“Better. They do what you say, don’t talk back, and it’s only a dog.”
Orso finally took the hint and fell silent as he led Scott into Homicide Special. Scott felt himself tense when he stepped through the door, but only five detectives were scattered about the room, and none glanced over or acknowledged him in any way. He followed Orso into a small conference room with a rectangular table and five chairs. A large black file box was on the floor at the head of the table. Scott saw his transcribed statements spread across the table, and statements made by the friends and families of the two men who had been inside the Bentley, a real estate developer named Eric Pahlasian, the driver, who had been shot sixteen times, and his cousin from France, a real estate attorney named Georges Beloit, who had been shot eleven times.
Orso went to the head of the table, and told Scott to sit wherever he liked.
Scott braced himself, then averted his face when he sat so Orso couldn’t see his grimace. Taking a seat always caused a painful jolt in his side.
“Want a coffee or some water?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
A large drawing of the crime scene leaned against the wall on the floor. Someone had sketched in the Kenworth, the Bentley, the Gran Torino, and the Adam car. Someone had sketched in Stephanie and Scott. A manila envelope lay on the floor by the poster board. Scott guessed crime scene photos were in the envelope, and glanced away. When he looked up, Orso was watching, and now Orso didn’t look like a scoutmaster. There was a focus to his eyes that hardened them to points.
“I understand talking about this might be difficult.”
“No sweat. What did you want to know?”
Orso studied him for a moment, then gave him the question.
“Why didn’t the big man finish you?”
Scott had asked himself this ten thousand times, but could only guess at the answer.
“Paramedics, is my guess. The sirens were getting closer.”
