'We'll see about that,' Jenkins muttered. Lips pursed, he looked down at his younger sister's face, blistered and swollen. A pulse beat in his temple. 'Is the fucker in custody?'
'Have they confirmed it was an assault rather than an accident?'
Jenkins's laugh stabbed the air. 'I don't think she tripped and fell face first into a vat of Drano.' The skin under his eyes was puffy, as though he'd been crying. His hair was mussed up in one spot in the back; it looked all the more sloppy, given the neatness of the rest of his appearance. 'Nancy wasn't the kind of girl to have enemies.'
'Isn't,' David said. 'She isn't the kind of girl to have enemies.'
'That's right,' Jenkins said. 'No enemies at all.' He smoothed the front of his uniform shirt with his hands. 'Just an ex-husband.'
'Look,' David said. 'We don't know-'
'Guess what he does?' Jenkins said, with a crisp little smile.
Diane shook her head.
'A plumber. Fucker totes Drano for a living.' He glanced back down at the gelatinous lesions pocking his sister's face, and his grin vanished. 'Thank you for your help.' He walked so briskly from the room that David felt the breeze across his cheeks.
He and Diane exhaled audibly. One of the nurses shook her head. 'He can sure give off some heat,' she said.
Diane glanced over at David. 'Do you think it was an assault?' she asked.
'I know one thing,' David said. He pulled his stethoscope from across his shoulders and repositioned it around his neck. 'I'd hate to be her ex-husband right now.'
Chapter 3
The black-and-white idled up to the front of Tavin's Tavern, a shady bar off Pico in the West Side. Hugh Dalton, a gruff heavyset man with wrinkled, sallow skin that resembled a paper bag, hunched over the wheel, squeezing it with two thick hands. He stared at the cheap signage-backlit plastic letters mounted on the cracked stucco next to the door. The second T was flickering.
'Witty name,' he grumbled.
'You call your guy at the Times?' Jenkins asked.
'Not yet.' Dalton's eyes shifted along the dash. 'UCLA's been pushing to keep this under wraps.'
Jenkins glowered at him. 'We both know that if we don't get a media storm going, this case'll get triaged in an evidence locker along with every other garden-variety assault.'
'I doubt it. It's throwing heat on its own. Press is already running.' He held up his hands in calming fashion. 'Relax. I'll call the Times anyways. Stoke the fire.'
Jenkins snapped the casing off his hefty Saber radio. Hair and clots of dried blood clogged the mouthpiece beneath. He rolled down his window and blew into the unit, clearing it, then clipped it back onto his belt. He pushed open the passenger door and started to step out of the vehicle, but Dalton grabbed his arm.
'You sure you want to do this?' Dalton asked.
Jenkins leaned back into his seat. Dalton kept his bulldog head steady, studying Jenkins's face. He was more than ten years Jenkins's senior; his experience and three years of partnership made him one of the few people who could question Jenkins directly.
'Her eyes were opaque,' Jenkins said. 'Looked like soggy hard-boiled eggs.' He shook his head. 'Opaque.'
He got out of the car and, after a moment, Dalton followed suit, grunting as he shifted his weight. 'If it's his regular hangout,' Dalton said, 'we'd better keep an eye out for buddies steeled with liquid courage.'
Jenkins hit the thick wooden door with both palms. The bartender's hand made a nervous grab for under the counter before he saw the uniforms. Dalton wagged a finger at him as Jenkins surveyed the room, and the bartender showed off a grin resembling a piano keyboard.
Two older men nursed something on the rocks at the bar. The tables in back hosted a blue-collar crew, mostly construction guys and carpenters drinking the aches from their joints. A smattering of Bud Ices decorated the tables. Saloon-style doors guarded the bathrooms and the back door.
Nancy's ex-husband was not there.
'Help you boys with something?' the bartender asked.
Dalton turned him a wan grin that bunched the bags under his eyes. 'We'll let you know.'
Back stiff, Jenkins crossed to the first full table. 'I'm looking for Jesse Ross.'
A blond construction guy looked up, his bottle frozen midtoast. Bits of pink insulation clung to his mustache. 'What's going on?'
Jenkins calmly reached over and plucked the bottle from his hand. He set it down firmly in front of the guy, a single knock on the table, then leaned forward until their noses almost touched. Dalton scanned the bar quickly, then took a step to the side so his view of the other workers was clear.
'I'll tell you what,' Jenkins said, still inches from the man's face. 'I'll ask the questions, you supply the answers.' He stood back up, crossed his arms, and flashed a quick bullshit grin. 'How's that sound?'
'Shit, man,' one of the other workers mumbled. 'Terry didn't mean no harm.'
'Terry can answer my fucking questions,' Jenkins said.
The saloon doors creaked open, and Jesse stepped forth, a short stump of a man whose small head was accented by wide, spoonlike ears.
'Watch out,' Dalton said in a bored monotone. 'I think he's holding a gun.'
Jesse cocked his head slightly to one side, confusion melting into panic. His hands sank nervously into his pockets when Jenkins's head snapped around.
Jenkins crossed the bar toward Jesse at a near sprint, his body blocking the construction workers' view of him.
'Don't reach for the weapon!' Jenkins shouted. 'I told you not to-'
He hit Jesse with the bar of his forearm, knocking him off his feet and through the saloon doors, one of which swung back and clipped him in the forehead, breaking the skin. He swore loudly and kicked one door free from the hinges, exposing Jesse's quivering body. Jesse had rolled onto all fours, his head bouncing as he tried to breathe. Jenkins hammered a black Rocky combat boot down into his ribs, knocking him flat to his belly. 'Don't reach for the piece!'
Two of the construction guys rose to their feet and Dalton pivoted, snapping his fingers. He shook his head, the sagging skin of his jowls swaying with the gesture. They sat back down.
Jenkins grabbed Jesse by the collar of his flannel shirt and his belt and hurled him out the back door, out of sight. Pausing, Jenkins faced his partner through the broken saloon door, an anachronistic player in a bad Western. Blood ran down his forehead, forking over his right eye. He slapped his hands together twice, slowly, as if dusting them off, then turned and stepped through the back door.
The bar was deathly silent.
Dalton scratched his cheek, his knuckles pushing his rubbery skin to the side, then he unholstered his pistol and trudged slowly back through the broken saloon door and out into the alley behind the building. Jenkins had already worked Jesse over pretty well. His fist, which was hammering up and down on Jesse's face, was tightly wrapped in a terry cloth. The terry cloth, freshly borrowed from a car wash, looked nice and hard, crusted with dried soap and wax.
Jesse's nose bent hard to the left, and his teeth were black with blood. His cheeks were swollen and abraded; the terry cloth would obscure any fist marks, making his injuries look the result of a fall during pursuit. He'd pulled himself to his knees, arms curled protectively over his head, cringing and crying.
Jenkins spat out words as he battered Jesse. 'How could you do that to her face? Her pretty fucking face? How could you?' His blows were mostly missing now, glancing off Jesse's arms and the top of his head. His voice was high and unusually emotional. 'Maybe she wouldn't have left you if you saw to her fucking needs, you little monkey!'
The blood from Jenkins's cut had smeared, rouging his cheek. He stopped punching and turned to Dalton.
