Driving east, heading downtown, Roy let his gaze drift now and then to Guinevere’s treasure, and with each stolen glimpse, his mood improved. By the time he was near Parker Center, the administrative headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department, he was buoyant.
Reluctantly, while stopped at a traffic light, he returned the hand to the container. He put that reliquary and its precious contents under the driver’s seat.
At Parker Center, after leaving his car in a visitor’s stall, he took an elevator from the garage and, using his FBI credentials, went up to the fifth floor. The appointment was with Captain Harris Descoteaux, who was in his office and waiting.
Roy had spoken briefly to Descoteaux from Malibu, so it was no surprise that the captain was black. He had that almost glossy, midnight-dark, beautiful skin sometimes enjoyed by those of Caribbean extraction, and although he evidently had been an Angeleno for years, a faint island lilt still lent a musical quality to his speech.
In navy-blue slacks, striped suspenders, white shirt, and blue tie with diagonal red stripes, Descoteaux had the poise, dignity, and gravitas of a Supreme Court justice, even though his sleeves were rolled up and his jacket was hanging on the back of his chair.
After shaking Roy’s hand, Harris Descoteaux indicated the only visitor’s chair and said, “Please sit down.”
The small office was not equal to the man who occupied it. Poorly ventilated. Poorly lighted. Shabbily furnished.
Roy felt sorry for Descoteaux. No government employee at the executive level, whether in a law- enforcement organization or not, should have to work in such a cramped office. Public service was a noble calling, and Roy was of the opinion that those who were willing to serve should be treated with respect, gratitude, and generosity.
Settling into the chair behind the desk, Descoteaux said, “The Bureau verifies your ID, but they won’t say what case you’re on.”
“National security matter,” Roy assured him.
Any query about Roy that was placed with the FBI would have been routed to Cassandra Solinko, a valued administrative assistant to the director. She would support the lie (though not in writing) that Roy was a Bureau agent; however, she could not discuss the nature of his investigation, because she didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
Descoteaux frowned. “Security matter — that’s pretty vague.”
If Roy got into deep trouble — the kind to inspire congressional investigations and newspaper headlines — Cassandra Solinko would deny that she’d ever verified his claim to be with the FBI. If she was disbelieved and subpoenaed to testify about what little she knew of Roy and his nameless agency, there was a stunningly high statistical probability that she would suffer a deadly cerebral embolism, or a massive cardiac infarction, or a high- speed, head-on collision with a bridge abutment. She was aware of the consequences of cooperation.
“Sorry, Captain Descoteaux, but I can’t be more specific.”
Roy would experience consequences similar to Ms. Solinko’s if he himself screwed up. Public service could sometimes be a brutally stressful career — which was one reason why comfortable offices, a generous package of fringe benefits, and virtually unlimited perks were, in Roy’s estimation, entirely justified.
Descoteaux didn’t like being frozen out. Trading his frown for a smile, speaking with soft island ease, he said, “It’s difficult to lend assistance without knowing the whole picture.”
It would be easy to succumb to Descoteaux’s charm, to mistake his deliberate yet fluid movements for the sloth of a tropical soul, and to be deceived by his musical voice into believing that he was a frivolous man.
Roy saw the truth, however, in the captain’s eyes, which were huge, as black and liquid as ink, as direct and penetrating as those in a Rembrandt portrait. His eyes revealed an intelligence, patience, and relentless curiosity that defined the kind of man who posed the greatest threat to someone in Roy’s line of work.
Returning Descoteaux’s smile with an even sweeter smile of his own, convinced that his younger-slimmer- Santa-Claus look was a match for Caribbean charm, Roy said, “Actually, I don’t need help, not in the sense of services and support. Just a little information.”
“Be pleased to provide it, if I can,” said the captain.
The wattage of their two smiles had temporarily rectified the problem of inadequate lighting in the small office.
“Before you were promoted to central administration,” Roy said, “I believe you were a division captain.”
“Yes. I commanded the West Los Angeles Division.”
“Do you remember a young officer who served under you for a little more than a year — Spencer Grant?”
Descoteaux’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, of course, I remember Spence. I remember him well.”
“Was he a good cop?”
“The best,” Descoteaux said without hesitation. “Police academy, criminology degree, army special services — he had
“A very competent man, then?”
“‘Competence’ is hardly an adequate word in Spence’s case.”
“And intelligent?”
“Extremely so.”
“The two carjackers he killed — was that a righteous shooting?”
“Hell, yes, as righteous as they get. One perp was wanted for murder, and there were three felony warrants out on the second loser. Both were carrying, shot at him. Spence had no choice. The review board cleared him as quick as God let Saint Peter into Heaven.”
Roy said, “Yet he didn’t go back out on the street.”
“He didn’t want to carry a gun anymore.”
“He’d been a U.S. Army Ranger.”
Descoteaux nodded. “He was in action a few times — in Central America and the Middle East. He’d had to kill before, and finally he was forced to admit to himself he couldn’t make a career of the service.”
“Because of how killing made him feel.”
“No. More because…I think because he wasn’t always convinced that the killing was justified, no matter what the politicians said. But I’m guessing. I don’t know for sure what his thinking was.”
“A man has trouble using a gun against another human being — that’s understandable,” Roy said. “But the same man trading the army for the police department — that baffles me.”
“As a cop, he thought he’d have more control over when to use deadly force. Anyway, it was his dream. Dreams die hard.”
“Being a cop was his dream?”
“Not necessarily a cop. Just being the good guy in a uniform, risking his life to help people, saving lives, upholding the law.”
“Altruistic young man,” Roy said with an edge of sarcasm.
“We get some. Fact is, a lot are like that — in the beginning, at least.” He stared at his coal-black hands, which were folded on the green blotter on his desk. “In Spence’s case, high ideals led him to the army, then the force…but there was something more than that. Somehow…by helping people in all the ways a cop can help, Spence was trying to understand himself, come to terms with himself.”
Roy said, “So he’s psychologically troubled?”
“Not in any way that would prevent him from being a good cop.”
“Oh? Then what is it he’s trying to understand about himself?”
“I don’t know. It goes back, I think.”
“Back?”
“The past. He carries it like a ton of stone on his shoulders.”
“Something to do with the scar?” Roy asked.
“Everything to do with it, I suspect.”
Descoteaux looked up from his hands. His huge, dark eyes were full of compassion. They were exceptional, expressive eyes. Roy might have wanted to possess them if they had belonged to a woman.
“How was he scarred, how did it happen?” Roy asked.
