if he was using or just writhing in anger. Either way, the ground was hard and it looked painful.
She reached out to check his forehead. When he tried to bite her, she pulled her hand away, leaned over him, and shouted.
“You got a name, mister?”
He shook his head back and forth and started grunting. It sounded a lot like he was telling her to fuck off.
She glanced at Rhodes. “We don’t have time for this, Stan.”
Rhodes agreed and they started going through the man’s pockets and tossing his possessions aside as quickly as they could. When Lena found his wallet, it seemed larger than most and she flipped it open. Inside were a set of press credentials. She read the ID, then checked the man’s face against the photo. She hadn’t recognized him with the baseball cap and glasses, but she could see it now.
“Who is he?” Rhodes said.
She held up the ID and noted the fear and uncertainty washing over their captive’s face. Rhodes scanned the document and started laughing.
The man squirming on the pavement was Dick Harvey, a lowlife gossip reporter from
“Dick Harvey,” Rhodes said, his voice peppered with a joyous sarcasm. “Crossing a police line and breaking into an LAPD car at a homicide investigation. Man, you’re good.”
Harvey finally settled down and found his voice. But it all seemed a little too smooth, and Lena wondered if the convulsions hadn’t been some weak attempt to fake them out.
“Come on, guys,” he said, pleading. “You’ve gotta understand the spot I’m in.”
Rhodes laughed again. “We get it, Harvey. You’re on a secret mission. You’re working undercover. But what I really want is your autograph. I can’t wait to see it right below your fingerprints when you get booked tonight. Remember to smile when they take your picture. I guarantee it’ll make the rounds.”
“But I’ve got a deadline to make. Give me a break. I’m just covering a story.”
Lena had reached her limit. “Not anymore,” she said. “What were you doing in the car? What were you up to?”
Harvey’s voice rose an octave and he began whining. “It was just a mistake. It’s late and I didn’t know where the fuck I was going. Come on. I’m working a story, guys. Jacob Gant’s dead, right? Lily Hight’s old man blew his brains out. You’re in charge, right, Lena?”
Something inside her clicked as she measured him. The hat and glasses, the sudden barrage of questions, his use of her first name. The dirtbag reporter was cuffed but still busting-still running out line.
“You stink, Harvey,” she said. “You need a shower and clean clothes. And what’s with the hat and glasses? What are you up to?”
She reached out for his glasses, but he jerked his head away.
“Fuck you both. I want a lawyer.”
He flashed a big smile at them like he’d just said the magic words. Like he thought he was in charge.
Rhodes slapped the smile off his face and yanked him back. “You’re gonna need one, Harvey. And if you bite me, you’re gonna need a new set of teeth. Now shut up and don’t move.”
Lena ripped away the glasses, tossing the baseball cap over to Rhodes. Within a few moments, she knew that they were on the right track. Both items were wired for video and sound. Harvey had probably hoped that he wouldn’t be seen in the car. At least not until he’d recorded a sound bite with enough juice for tomorrow’s broadcast of
“I want a lawyer,” he repeated. “I want one now.”
Lena didn’t respond to the magic words. She’d found the camera lens, but the frames were split. On the left was a battery pack. On the right, a small thumb drive. She switched off the power and turned to watch Rhodes. The camera hidden in the hat was about the size of a dime with a high-capacity media card attached. Rhodes was holding them in front of Harvey’s face as if he’d won them at the racetrack.
“You’re a wild man, Harvey,” he said.
“I’m a reporter, and I have rights. That’s my stuff and I want an attorney.”
Rhodes shook his head. “Sounds like a mantra, but it won’t work until we’ve processed the crime scene. You’re the crime scene, Harvey, so answer the question. Did you plant something in our car?”
“I don’t have to say anything. I’m a reporter. This is a free country. You guys are assholes.”
“And I think I saw you running out of the building,” Rhodes said. “Where did you hide the gun, Harvey? Is that what you were doing in our car? Getting rid of the murder weapon?”
Harvey stopped and cocked his head as he tried to read Rhodes’s face. “What are you saying?”
Rhodes traded a hard look with Lena, then turned back to the reporter. “You were found hiding in a detective’s car on the wrong side of a police line. Maybe you don’t get it. Maybe you think homicide investigations are a game. You’re a suspect, Harvey. A person of interest.”
“You can’t pull that shit. Jesus Christ! You know it’s not me.”
“I don’t know jack,” Rhodes said. “All I know is where we found you.”
Lena could see fear crystalizing all over Harvey’s face, dirty little wheels turning inside his dirty little head. As Rhodes continued to pat him down, she glanced at his possessions piling up on the asphalt. She noted the pad and pen, his cell phone, and a small leather case that looked like it held his business cards. After a second glance, the case seemed too big for cards. She picked it up and felt the weight in her hand. As she unzipped it, she noticed Harvey staring at her with those beady eyes of his. He was more than nervous now. Unusually quiet. Utterly still.
Once she opened the case, she understood why. It was a complete set of lock picks and auto jigglers.
Most of the auto jigglers Lena had seen on the job were handmade from hacksaw blades. After a few minutes with a Dremel grinder, the flat pieces of scrap metal could be shaped to look a lot like skeleton keys and were capable of opening a car door in less than a minute or two. But Dick Harvey’s set was better than that. These jigglers were made of stainless steel, crafted with precision, and could unlock a car door as well as the owner’s key. Lena knew how well they worked because she owned a set herself. She’d found the manufacturer over the Internet and made the purchase for about twenty dollars, plus shipping and handling.
She held up the case and noticed a label on the back that read THE ESSENTIAL BURGLAR. Rhodes’s eyes sparkled as he gazed at the tools.
“You’re better than a dream, Harvey,” he said with delight. “You’re the gift that just keeps on giving.”
7
Lena cruised off the Santa Monica Freeway and made a left on Lincoln. She was driving Rhodes’s Audi, the Crown Vic left behind until SID could sweep the car and dust it for Dick Harvey’s greasy fingerprints. Harvey had been left chained to a streetlight in the parking lot under the supervision of two patrol officers. By now, detectives would have arrived and Harvey was probably on his way downtown.
The thought brought on a smile and she glanced over at Rhodes. His head was back, his eyelids shut but fluttering. Obviously, Harvey wasn’t really a person of interest in the murders tonight. But for ten minutes, Rhodes’s play against the man had provided a short break from the pressure. Depending on the charges, Harvey would spend anywhere from a few hours to a night or two in jail. He would be confined to a cell for however long they could stretch things out. Lena had to admit that the image of the gossip reporter being hosed down with disinfectant and issued a jumpsuit before he got that jail cell felt pretty good, too.
She blew through the red light and started up the hill on Ocean Park. The streets were dead, the trip from Hollywood to the beach made in record time. As she turned onto Sixteenth Street, she tried to think through what she would say to the father of a young man who murdered his sixteen-year-old neighbor, got away with it, then got himself killed. She had mixed feelings about it because what Jacob Gant did to Lily Hight was essentially irrelevant
