Private Eyes

“I didn’t get the impression they took it seriously- took any of it seriously. They just seemed to be throwing things out- scattershot. My impression was that they’re not going to spend a lot of time on this particular case.”

“Why’s that?”

“Their attitude. I’m used to it. Death is a frequent visitor around here but he doesn’t give too many interviews on the six o’clock news.” The priest’s face fell. “Here I go again, judging. And there’s so much work to be done. You must excuse me, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Sure, Father. Thanks for your time. But if you do think of something, anything that would help that little girl, please let me know.”

Somehow a business card had made it into Milo’s palm. He handed it to the priest. Before Andrus slipped it into a pocket of his jeans, I got a look at it. White vellum. Milo’s name, in strong black letters, over the word INVESTIGATIONS. Home number and beeper code in the lower right-hand corner.

Milo thanked Andrus again. Andrus looked pained.

“Please don’t count on me, Mr. Sturgis. I’ve told you all I can.”

***

Walking back to the car, I said, “ “I’ve told you all I can,’ not “all I know.’ My bet is that McCloskey bared his soul to him- formal confession or some sort of counseling. Either way, you’ll never get it out of him.”

“Yup,” he said. “I used to talk to my priest, too.”

We walked to the car in silence.

Driving back to San Labrador, I said, “Who’s Gonzales?”

“Huh?”

“What you told Lewis? It seemed to make an impression on him.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “Ancient history. Gonsalves. Lewis used to work at West L.A. when he was still in uniform. College boy, tendency to think he was smarter than the others. Gonsalves is a case he fucked up. Domestic violence that he didn’t take seriously enough. Wife wanted the husband locked up, but Lewis thought he could handle it with his B.A.- psych B.A., matter of fact. Did some counseling and left feeling good. Hour later, the husband cut up the wife with a straight razor. Lewis was a lot softer then- no attitude. I could have ruined him, chose to go easy on the paperwork, talk him through it. After that he got harder, got more careful, didn’t fuck up again, notably. Made detective a few years later and transferred to Central.”

“Doesn’t seem too grateful.”

“Yeah.” He gripped the wheel. “Well, that’s the way the Oreo deteriorates.”

A mile later: “When I first called him- to scope out McCloskey and the mission- he was frosty but civil. Given the Frisk thing, that’s the best I can hope for. Tonight was amateur theater- putting on an act for that little macho asshole he’s partnered with.”

“Us and them,” I said.

He didn’t answer. I regretted bringing it up. Trying to lighten things, I said, “Nifty business card. When’d you get it?”

“Couple of days ago- insta-print on La Cienega on the way to the freeway. Got a box of five hundred at bulk rate- talk about your wise investment.”

“Let me see.”

“What for?”

“Souvenir- it may turn out to be a collector’s item.”

He grimaced, put his hand in his jacket, and pulled one out.

I took it, snapped the thin, hard paper, and said, “Classy.”

“I like vellum,” he said. “You can always pick your teeth with it.”

“Or use it for a bookmark.”

“Got something even more constructive,” he said. “Build little houses with them. Then blow them down.”

32

Back at Sussex Knoll, he pulled up beside the Seville.

I said, “What’s next for you?”

“Sleep, hearty breakfast, then financial scumbags.” He put the Porsche in neutral and revved the engine.

“What about McCloskey?” I said.

“Wasn’t intending to go to the funeral.”

Revving. Drumming the steering wheel.

I said, “Any ideas about who killed him and why?”

“You heard all of ’em back at the mission.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay.” He sped away.

***

My house seemed tiny and friendly. The timer had switched the pond lights off and it was too dark to tell how my fish eggs were doing. I crept upstairs, slept for ten hours, woke up Monday thinking of Gina Ramp and Joel McCloskey- bound together, again, by pain and terror.

Was there a link between Morris Dam and what had happened in the back alley, or had McCloskey been simply another piece of Skid Row garbage?

Murder with a car. I found myself thinking about Noel Drucker. He had access to lots of wheels and plenty of time on his hands during the Tankard’s indefinite hiatus. Were his feelings for Melissa strong enough to knock him that far off the straight and narrow? If so, had he been acting on his own, or at Melissa’s bidding?

And what of Melissa? It made me sick to think of her as anything other than the defenseless orphan Milo had portrayed to the detectives. But I’d seen her temper in action. Watched her channel her grief into revenge fantasies against Anger and Douse.

I recalled her and Noel, entwined on her bed. Had the plan to get McCloskey been hatched during a similar embrace?

I switched channels:

Ramp. If he was innocent of causing Gina’s death, perhaps he’d avenged it.

He had lots of reasons to hate McCloskey. Had he been at the wheel of the death car, or had he hired someone? The poetic justice would have been appealing.

Todd Nyquist would have been perfect for the job- how would anyone connect a surf-jock from the west side with the downtown death of a brain-damaged bum?

Or maybe Noel was Ramp’s automotive hit man, not Melissa’s.

Or maybe none of the above.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

An image flashed across my eyes.

The scars on Gina’s face.

I thought of the prison McCloskey had sent her to for the rest of her life.

Why waste time worrying about the reason he had died? His life had been a case study in wretchedness. Who’d miss him other than Father Andrus? And the priest’s feelings probably had more to do with theological abstraction than human attachment.

Milo had been right to brush it off.

I was playing head-games rather than making myself useful.