There was a bang of steel, and then the crowd dispersed, my attacker pried off me. Two deputies at his side, Kaden hauled me up and hustled me out, down a corridor, onto an elevator, where he and Delveckio stood silently on either side of me like executives getting offwork. Before my breathing had slowed, they'd moved me through the lobby and out into the bright afternoon.
Kaden stuck his finger in my cheek. 'Let us give you some pointed advice. You are to stay the fuck away from this investigation. Entirely. No. Let me correct. From all investigations and all LAPD activities. Understood?'
My breath was still hammering through me. 'Understood.'
Delveckio shoved a shoe box into my chest, filled with my personals. The glass doors glinted, and they were gone. I took a few unsteady steps and sat on a planter.
Two seconds of still, and then I began shaking violently.
People passed oblivious, discussing weekend plans, complaining about coffee.
After a few minutes, I was able to pull together my thoughts. My handwriting on the skull-and-bones matchbook? Maybe I was further gone than I'd imagined. But there was evidence, also, to the contrary. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. In fact, it would be easier to frame someone on perpetual edge.
The night of Kasey Broach's murder, Morton Frankel had been busy raping another party. But he'd been set up as Broach's murderer, just like me. Was he the backup fall guy? Or had he been framed as the guy framing me? Was he really after me? Or was I being set up to take him out? There I was, hanging off the ledge in the treadmill shot from Vertigo.
Finally I fished my cell phone from the shoe box and punched in Chic's number.
He answered on a half ring.
'Pick me up,' I said. 'I've got a lot of work to do.'
I'd settled considerably by the time Chic got there, but the thought of those unprotected minutes in the jail rec room still sent acid washing through my stomach.
Chic pulled up and said, 'I'm getting tired of picking you up from jail.'
'Pretend you're my pimp.'
'Talk about your low-wage jobs.'
When I explained that I had given the hair sample to Johnny Ordean, Chic just shook his head. 'Come on, Drew-Drew. That's minor leagues. You know better than to entrust a piece of evidence to someone who's hysterical by vocation.'
'What should I have done?'
'I'm sure someone knows someone in the paternity-testing biz who could've run a hair. It's quiet where it's shady. Not under the klieg lights.'
Not for the first time, I wished that I had been born with Chic's sense.
We drove for a while in silence as I ran through my next move in my head.
My cell phone rang Preston, desperate for an update. I brought him up to speed, and then Chic started talking in my free ear, so I clicked on the speakerphone.
We all started talking at the same time; Preston, of course, prevailed. 'So, fine, you were framed, Mort was framed. You're missing the point.'
'That's what I been trying to tell him,' Chic said. 'If Mort ain't your guy '
'Then why'd he act so bizarrely hostile toward you?'
Annoyed by their ebony-and-ivory routine, I took a moment to respond.
But Chic didn't give me a moment. 'Because homeboy thought you was framing him.'
'He's on the wrong side of the story, just like you are,' Preston said. 'You're still not asking the key question. And that is '
Preston and Chic, now side by side on the piano keyboard: 'Who framed Mort?'
Chic stared at me expectantly. Static from Preston. Clearly they were better at posing questions than coming up with answers. We sat in frustration for a few moments before Preston signed off. The silence that followed felt like defeat.
My Highlander was parked on the dirt shoulder off Mulholland where it had been left.
Chic gave me a wink as I climbed out. 'Call when you find what you find.'
I'd left the moonroof shoved back, and the seats gave off a deep warmth. Closing my eyes, I worked every link in the case like a rosary. How was I gonna know who would have a motive to frame Mort? I didn't know anything about him. I stared at the view, the world's most expansive dead end. It dawned on me by degrees Preston and Chic's motive approach was wrongheaded. It came down to opportunity.
Not why would somebody have framed Mort? But who could have?
I pictured that telltale dent on the right front wheel well of Frankel's Volvo. My mind kept realigning the data, and I didn't like what it was coming up with.
I called the hospital and asked to be put through to Big Brontell's unit.
An unreasonably pleasant clerk answered. 'I'm sorry, he stepped out for a bite. He'll be back shortly.'
I left my cell-phone number, which she kindly jotted down, and then I drove the remaining two miles home. Xena had pulled my high-tops from the coat closet and chewed the toes to a pulp, but last night she'd likely saved my life, which I figured worth a pair of Nikes. I reheated some taco meat and put it in her salad-bowl dish to reward her for her bad behavior. Then I went to my office and got the murder book and all the notes I'd gathered on the investigation.
I was halfway down the stairs when I stopped, went back up, and grabbed my manuscript.
For the drive across town, I twisted and turned the evidence, trying to make a pretty picture. I got a few variations on the picture, none of them pretty.
Though the four o'clock sun was strong, the lights shone at the window of Frankel's apartment, a reminder of the detectives' late-night visit. I drifted up the street past the hot-dog stand, past the fabric store with the creepy mannequins tilting in the window, and parked by the car-rental lot. Frankel's mechanic was across the way, locking up the garage. I caught him as he fastened the security screen.
'Hi, I'm Drew. I was referred to you by one of my neighbors. Mort?' I offered a hand, and he held his up in apology, grease etching the lines in the rough skin.
He had wonderfully elaborate tattoos, dragons and busty nymphs, sheathing either arm. The ink stopped in neat cuffs at his wrists. 'Oh, yeah. Mortie. Sure.'
'He said you do great work.'
'Dings to wrecks.'
'You must be good. Mortie doesn't exactly lavish praise, does he?'
'No, he don't.'
'You banged out that dent for him.'
'That's right.'
'I got one myself. Came out to my car in the morning and there it was. Wheel well.' I shook my head, galled by the imaginary scofflaw. 'Just like Mort's. No note, no nothing.'
'He figured some asshole smacked it with a bike.'
'We park side by side. I think the guy hit mine at the same time. A week ago Wednesday.'
The mechanic shook his head. 'Not Mort's. His got hit just a couple nights ago. You know Mort he brought it to me the next morning.'
'You sure?'
'Course I'm sure. He dropped the car first thing Tuesday, I had it back to him by the time he got off work.'
The very night I'd gotten the vehicle ID from Junior, a ding had appeared in Mort's wheel well. And there was only one person other than Junior who could've known to put it there.
Acutely aware of the breeze across my suddenly hot face, I said, 'You work fast.'
'He's funny about that car. You'd do better to punch him in the nose than ding it. Though I wouldn't want to punch him in the nose.'
'No,' I said, 'neither would I.'
I sat in my car, elbows on the steering wheel, face tilted into my hands. My eyes ached, especially when I rubbed them.
