my juvenile delinquent, I guessed, would knock me from contention for Big Brother of the Year.
Once Frankel was up the block, I pulled out after him.
'Where's his fucking car?'
'That's what I'm wondering. Maybe he's taking the bus.'
'This L.A., homes. Nobody take the bus.'
'Not everybody has a Huffy.'
'Stay further back, homes. Don't you watch no T.J. Hooker?'
'I was watching T.J. Hooker before you boosted your first car.'
'Boosted? The word, Grampa, is 'jacked.' '
And so on.
We followed Frankel another few blocks before he turned in to a body shop. I parked across the street by a rental-car lot plenty of vehicles for the Guiltmobile to blend into. Mort disappeared into the office, a prefab shack. He emerged a few seconds later, rolled a cigarette, and smoked it.
One of the garage doors slid up, and out coasted a brown Volvo wagon.
For an older car, it was in great condition. A few cracks in the paint, but perfectly clean. Clearly Frankel took a lot of pride in his 760. Or he was taking care to keep it free of evidence.
A mechanic with arm-sleeve tattoos hopped out, and Mort gave him a handshake and a shoulder bump. You keep an old car looking that good, you'd better be friends with your mechanic. The guy walked Mort to the right front wheel well and ran his hand over the perfect curve. Mort followed suit, then nodded, impressed with the work.
Why fix the dent? Because he loved his car? Because he wanted to eliminate a potential identifier? Because he'd dented it dragging Kasey Broach's corpse inside?
He pulled a checkbook from his back pocket, leaned over the hood, and signed.
With his left hand.
A hundred eighty-five pounds, left-handed, diabolical gleam in the eyes. Just like me, but with a better gleam.
I stared at his close-cropped brown hair.
I just need one strand. Like you took from me.
I drove back and reclaimed my old spot across the street from the complex. A few minutes later, Mort pulled in to his parking space, slid a Club security bar onto the steering wheel, cranked the window down a few turns, and disappeared into his apartment.
I slapped Junior's knee. 'I gotta get you back.'
'Thass it? Homes, you gots to get your evidence. You gots to break in to the car, see what you can find.'
That was my plan, but I wasn't about to tell Junior. 'If I find anything, the cops can claim I planted it to get my own ass off the hook.'
'Thass why you need me. I'm a witness. Plus, you can't argue with no hair.'
Hearing my own thinking spoken back to me by a fourteen-year-old was a powerful indication that I needed more sleep. 'Why'd he leave the window down?'
'He don't keep nuthin' worth nuthin' in there, and he don't want no one to break a window to find that out. And it ain't worth cutting through a Club to steal no old-ass Volvo. Now, go check the headrest.'
'Thanks, but no.'
'No? You gots to have ethics, homes.'
'Ethics? Breaking in to his car would show I have ethics?'
'Yeah. Like I won't tag no trees or Lutheran churches. Ethics. You got a stone-cold killer out there, and you the only one knows who, and you too bitch-ass to pluck a hair off the headrest?'
'What if the cops come?'
Junior checked his watch. 'It's shift-change time at the Hollenbeck Station. Streets are clear of cops.'
'How would you know that?' I waved him off. 'Never mind. I'm an idiot.' I stared nervously at the black teenagers still playing dice on the lawn a few feet from the parking lot. 'Those guys just watched him pull up. They'll know I'm not the owner.'
'What would you do in one-a your books?'
'Create a diversion.'
He snickered. 'Like light a fire?'
'No. Something clever.'
'Hows about this?' Before I could stop him, Junior climbed out of the Highlander and onto the roof. I scrambled out, looked up to see him cupping his hands around his mouth. 'Yo! Why's there so many niggers up in here?'
He leapt from the roof, seeming to bounce on the sidewalk, and took off up the street in a sprint. I leaned back against my car as the five young black men blew past me in angry pursuit.
Diversion. Clever. Right.
I stole across the street to the parking lot, keeping a nervous eye out to see if the commotion would draw Frankel from his apartment. Ducking through the Volvo's open window, I scoured the headrest. Not a single hair. The interior looked freshly vacuumed. Of course they'd given it a cleaning at the body shop. I reached down and popped the trunk, taking a deep breath before lifting it open.
No blood puddles. No remnants of plastic drop cloth. No stainless-steel boning knife. The worn carpet bore lines from the industrial vacuum.
I slammed the trunk and turned for my car when I looked up and saw Mort filling his doorway, staring at me over the second-floor railing. I jerked back, startled, the soles of my sneakers scraping asphalt.
Whether he'd caught a clear look at my face or seen me at his open trunk, I couldn't tell. He came off his step, moving toward the stairs. I walked a few paces up the sidewalk away from him as if continuing on course, pretending to talk on the cell phone. The adrenaline surge left my senses heightened. I listened for his approach, waited to feel the vibration of his charging footsteps rising from the sidewalk. I sensed him behind, shadowing me maybe twenty yards back.
You're in the real world now. Watch that you don't get yourself killed.
When I risked a glance back, he'd turned off down another street. Keeping a full block between us, I followed. He got to the corner and paused, looking in the window of a clothing store. He took a pen from a slit by his breast, tugged something from his back pocket, and jotted on it. I crossed the street so I could make out the window display while keeping my reflection out of view. Mannequins draped with sequined dresses and cheap suits, a few broken down into inhuman segments and left floating in a mound of uncut fabric to the side. Mort gazed back up through the window, transfixed. A few of the mannequins were bare-chested or naked, stiff and pale like the dead. Was he admiring the smooth, waxy skin?
Whatever he was holding slipped from his hands. He took a step back, still admiring the contorted human forms, then vanished around the corner.
I waited a few minutes before approaching. He'd dropped a matchbook, the creased cover sporting a skull and bones. I crouched, picked it up, thumbed up the flap.
Jagged writing on the underside.
I SEE YOU.
I rose sharply, breath firing in my throat. A movement in the window snared my attention. Standing among the posed plastic bodies, his leering face a few inches from the glass, was Morton Frankel.
Chapter 28
Mort pulled back from the window, knocking aside a mannequin, and jumped off the display ledge, running for the door. I bolted.
Dodging honking cars, I sprinted across the street, tangling up with a pissed-off biker on the far side. Mort was at the curb, waiting for a break in traffic. I yanked my cuff free from the bike chain and ran up the street. A bus was just starting to pull out from a stop. I drew beside it, banging the side and yelling. It stopped with an angry
