'I didn't say that. I said the ME report said that.'
She looked at me, trying to figure me out. 'I guess I don't understand,' she finally said.
'I'm going to devote a little time to it and shake this tree. See what falls out.'
'Good.' Her mouth shifted slightly. It was probably as close as she usually got to a smile. 'We're having a pallbearers' meeting at six tonight,' she said. 'We've also all decided we're going to work on this. I want you to attend it with the rest of us, sir.'
'The Pallbearers' Murder Club. Slick. Who's got the movie rights?'
'Don't make fun,' she admonished.
'You're all amateurs, Seriana. You're just going to slow me down.'
'You weren't the only one who loved him, sir,' she said without expression.
'Who said I loved him?' I shot back. 'When I was at Huntington House, I wasn't capable of love. Back then, and for most of the last twenty-five years, I was running from my past. I barely ever went over there to see what he was up to. I never helped him. I have no idea why he wanted me to carry his coffin. But I'll grant you one thing, Corporal. I sure do owe the man. So I'm going to take some time and see if I can put a case on somebody. If not, then it's like that report says. Suicide. We suck it up and all go on with our lives.'
'Bullshit,' she said softly.
'What about that sounds like BS?'
'You loved him, sir. I can see the truth in your eyes. I see the pain and loss.'
Of course, she was right. But admitting to her that I loved Walt made my betrayal seem even more devastating.
Til tell you why he picked you to be a pallbearer,' she continued. 'It was because he also loved you. He saw past the cruel stuff we all did. He understood our selfishness. That's what made him so special.'
I felt about six inches tall. I knew all this. Its why I had already decided to look into his suicide. But I didn't need their help. Didn't want it. The idea of doing this with my fellow pallbearers was way too Agatha Christie for me.
'Come to the meeting at six tonight,' Seriana said. 'It's at Sabas Vargas's office in East L. A. Here's the address.' She slid a piece of paper across the table. I glanced down at it.
She had neat, careful handwriting. Sabas's office was on Whittier Boulevard in the twelve hundred block in Boyle Heights. The Hispanic hood.
'I'm not sure. I've got a lot to do,' I said.
Seriana leaned forward and studied me. 'Please come, sir,' she said. 'I promised the others I would convince you because you're a homicide detective. You're the only one who knows how we should go about this.'
I sat there looking at her. A very imposing woman. I don't know exactly why, but my resolve suddenly weakened. 'Okay, but you have to stop calling me sir.'
'Shane, then.' She finally smiled. It came and went so quickly I almost missed it. But it lit her face, turning it beautiful for a brief second before it fled.
Chapter 13
Homicide detective Cassie Kovacevich was a pretty, thirty-year-old blonde who looked like she should be employed as a party planner, not a cop. Her partner, Burt Cole, was your standard old-school LAPD burnout-a hammered-down skeptic from his bad crew cut and exploded face capillaries to his orthopedic shoes. He looked twenty years older than his partner and about half as smart, which turned out to be an elaborate disguise.
'There was nothing to investigate,' Detective Cole said, after Yd asked them about Walts death.
We were standing in the lobby of the brand-new, forty-million-dollar Harbor Community Police Station. I'd waited for almost half an hour for them to appear. The clean cop-shop lobby was a sharp contrast to the victimized people who came and went, dragging improbable tales of violence, their faces etched in misery.
'Nothing to investigate?' I asked, sounding concerned and judgmental. I was trying to get them to defend their conclusion so I could draw out more facts.
'Shotgun blast, so there were no ballistics,' Detective Kovacevich said, taking the bait. 'Suicide note left on his computer, no forced entry, no sign of a struggle. Just a wooden chair tipped over on the back porch with him still in it. A small lawn painted red with blood, brain splatter, and cerebrospinal fluid.
'We get ten rollouts a week and we re short handed. We gotta put the easy ones down fast or we'll choke on the caseloads.' She sounded defensive and a little angry. My party-planner take quickly shifted. Kovacevich was as hard and cynical as her slumping, ready-to-retire partner. Just better hair, legs, and posture.
'You got the suicide note?' I asked. 'I'd like to see it.'
Cole looked at Kovacevich and the two of them had a silent conversation. They had a good rhythm like most seasoned police teams and had learned to communicate without talking. You struggled to get to that place with a partner. I'd just recently reached the plateau with Sally Quinn.
'Okay, why?' Cole asked. 'What's going on here?'
Kovacevich stood with her arms crossed, waiting for my answer.
'Look, you guys. I do this same job. I'm not trying to embarrass anyone. This guy was my friend.' Then I went through the same 'some of us at the group home need closure' story and waited while they processed it.
'We must look like a couple of slow, fat Guernseys to you,' Kovacevich said. 'You're not down here looking for closure. You're looking for clues. You want to reverse this finding, 'cause you don't think your dearly departed friend could have possibly capped himself.'
'She's right,' Cole agreed. 'If we give you our case file and you find a way to reopen this, we look like a couple of enema bags.'
Tm not gonna do anything but try and convince my friends there's nothing wrong here. I know you got it right,' I lied. 'It's just so they can get over this, mourn his passing, and move on.'
They exchanged another look. More telepathic information passed between them.
'Okay,' Cole answered. 'Out of professional courtesy, we'll show it to you because we're dead certain we got it right and Dix was a suicide just like we wrote it up. But on the off chance you kick up something we missed, you gotta promise to bring it back here first and don't put me and Cassie in the blender.'
'Fair enough. But I won't find anything. I agree with you. I just have these other people who…'
'Save it for The Today Show' Kovacevich interrupted.
We went to their homicide cubicle. It was a lot like mine. The desk was newer, the chairs softer. 'Wanted' flyers covered every available surface. 'Asshole wallpaper' we called it. Cole found the folder in his desk's bottom file drawer, pulled it out, and handed it over to me.
'We dusted the victim's personal computer,' he said. 'Only his prints on the keyboard, so he typed the suicide note himself.'
The case file was thin. They'd worked it fast, closed it in twelve hours, just like they'd said. There was nothing in the folder I didn't already know. Just ten short entries along with some crime-scene photos that showed Pop sprawled on the lawn in a tipped-over chair with that brutal head wound, the shotgun on the grass behind and just to the right. I forced myself to study them. There was a copy of the ME's report, which I already had, and Walt's suicide note, which I didn't. I pulled it out. Walt's last earthly communication was only seven lines. Short and sweet.
To Whom it may Concern, I caught a bad wave. Got pulled down by leash drag.
I wasn't trying to hurt anyone.
Sorry about the yard sale, but it was the only way off the ride.
Don't hate me for what I did.
If you need the reason, tap the source, Walt.
I looked up from the note, into the stone-cold eyes of the two detectives.
'We had to get somebody who surfs to translate,' Kovacevich said. 'Leash drag is like getting held under by the ankle leash. A yard sale is a brutal wipeout. 'Tap the source' was painted on his board and his surf stuff. Apparently, it's the place where good waves come from.'
'Yeah, I know what it all means,' I said. 'That's the way Walt talked.'
