At the end of the corridor Sergeant Brickhouse swept into the fingerprint bay. The room was empty. Blown-up photographs of fingerprints were pinned up everywhere. Two long benches containing print photographs in labled boxes were pushed against the walls. There was a large, overstuffed chair in the corner. Jo turned around and glanced out into the hall, looking for the criminalist.
'Chuck oughta be down in a minute. On the phone a minute ago, he told me he was just going to check on our print upstairs. They ran our latent through the federal print index.'
We stood in the lab with the silence between us growing painfully.
'Answer me one thing,' I said to break the awkward spell.
'Shoot.'
'Did Bill Messenger instruct you to investigate the Hidden Ranch thing? Is that why you were up at Smiley's burned-out house poking around, and over in the apartment on Mission Street?'
'I've been sworn to secrecy,' she deadpanned.
'Only, when I partner up with somebody there can be no secrets.'
'Scully, grow up. I'm not telling you what I've been ordered not to, but use your imagination.'
'Okay. So Messenger had you up there even after he promised the mayor and Tony he'd leave it in my hands?'
'I don't wanta talk about this. Let's just move on, okay?'
I was about to tear her a new asshole, when into the room waddled the fattest, baldest, young man I had ever seen. He even made Ruta look svelte. His appearance was made even worse by his wardrobe. He had on an oversized, bilious, lime-colored Hawaiian shirt that flapped around the thighs of his frayed, tent-like jeans. The effect was startling. His head looked like a pale, medicine ball sitting atop a mountain of green Jell-O.
Jo said hi and introduced me. 'Shane Scully, meet Doctor Charles Gouda.'
Charles Gouda-Dr. Chuck E. Cheese. Got it.
He lowered himself carefully into the overstuffed chair, letting out a long sigh as he dropped.
'Just got back the run from the federal print index,' he said. 'Nada. But it was pretty thin to begin with. Only four identifiers.'
He leaned over and picked up a photograph of the print, then showed it to us. 'Whoever fumed this thing saved the print, but with round surfaces like shell casings we rarely get a full ten point match anyway.' Chuck pointed to the photograph with his pen. 'What it comes down to is, you got two pretty good typicals here, a good core and an okay whorl, half an isle up here. This tent arch ain't too bad. Basically, it's pretty low-yield. Call it four and a half points to be generous. Since it's a sole index finger, there's not enough here for the federal computer. If I had a comparison print to put next to it I could get some eyeballs on it and give you an opinion, but nothing you'd want to take in front of our awesome denizens of justice. In court, you need at least six out of ten identifiers or the defense is gonna feed it to you.'
Then, to make that gastronomic point absolutely clear, he belched.
'How long till tool marks is finished?' I asked.
Doctor Gouda belched again, this time more delicately, catching the burp in his baseball mitt of a hand. He opened his desk drawer and took out a half-eaten sandwich. It looked like tomatoes and anchovies, which, in my opinion, ranks right up there with shit on a bun. He took a bite, frowned, then threw it in the trash.
After all that I really wasn't expecting an answer, but I got one anyway.
'Beats me,' Doctor Chuck E. Cheese said through an ugly mouthful of chewed fish.
Chapter 21
I met chooch, Alexa, and Delfina at Mijares Restaurant for dinner. Chooch's sports-injury doctor was in Pasadena, and Mijares is one of the best Mexican restaurants on the east end of the L. A. Basin. I arrived last and was led to their table out on an enclosed patio. Chooch was wearing a new white cast and a glum look.
I kissed my wife, said hi to Chooch and Del, then dropped into a wood-backed chair and ordered a double margarita. Long day, so screw it. In the other room was a ranchedo duet, two guitarists in traditional dress, picking Malagueha Salerosa on humpbacked Martins.
'I see you didn't get the plaster off,' I said.
'Nope.' Chooch was staring morosely down at a Coke on i 3d the placemat in front of him. Delfina reached out and took his hand.
'But the doctor said in a week, maybe,' she explained. 'It's coming along good. The bone is almost healed.'
Chooch nodded bleakly, as if the idea that his foot would ever mend was just too far away to grasp.
I had the Pop Warner League book with me, and I looked at Delfina and gave her a little eyebrow raise. A silent question. She nodded, so I laid the blue binder on the table, then pushed it over to him. I had called the league on the way over and had received some additional information.
'What's that?' Chooch asked.
'Pop Warner League rule book. You're good to go if you want the gig. Emo's team, the Rams, is in the Junior Bantam division.' Chooch was looking down despondently at the binder, so I added: 'That's twelve through fourteen. The kids can be in the hundred-fifteen-to hundred-sixty-pound range at the beginning of the season, which was August, but nobody can weigh more than one-sixty-nine by the end of the season in December. As of late, they've been holding workouts, but with no head coach they had to forfeit their last game.'
Chooch opened the book and stared at the front page. Then, with no enthusiasm, he started flipping through it. Delfina frowned, as Alexa and I traded looks.
'iQue haces tuDelfina said angrily. 'We talked about this. You said you wanted to do it for Emo Rojas. Now your father has made it happen and you sit here like a troll on a rock.'
'Okay, okay,' he said and put the book on the floor by his feet.
'Honey, if you don't want to coach the team, don't coach it,' Alexa said. 'It's not going to help these kids to have a coach who doesn't want to be there.'
'You guys-you don't…' Chooch stopped, then put his head down. 'Forget it.'
'Do you want me to talk to your coach?' I asked. 'Make sure it's okay with him? Is that what you're worried about?'
'No, Coach Norris said it was fine. He even said he'd look at the playbook and help me with some revisions if I wanted.'
'So, what's the problem?'
'It's like…' He paused, then took a deep breath. 'It's like, by agreeing to do this, I'm saying my season is over. Maybe my college career with it.'
'These Pop Warner teams play on Saturday or Sunday. Harvard-Westlake plays Friday nights. Once your foot heals, you go back on your team and set the Pop Warner practices to fit your schedule,' I said.
'I know, it's just…'
'Then, don't do it, son,' I interrupted. 'Mom's right. You have to want to.'
'I'll do it, okay? I said I'd do it, so I will.'
But he sure didn't sound happy about it.
Then our conversation turned to Delfina's West Side Story rehearsals. She was excited and animated as she told us about the full run-through with music. Chooch remained strangely quiet while she talked.
# # #
When we got home I went to my office and booted up my PC. Then I typed in Cactus West.
A few seconds later a welcome screen came up. There was a window for a password. I punched in: MCAS Yuma TACTS
A message popped up:
Access denied. This is a U. S. Marine Corps secure site. Your computer will be scanned if you attempt to reenter.
