I returned to my car, removed the tape recorder from my briefcase, and walked down the dock alongside the channel, dodging bird droppings. When I found a bench on an isolated stretch, I plugged in my earphones and listened again to the interview with Silver.
As I was finishing the interview, the sun pierced a slit in the fog, streaking the shimmering water with specks of honeyed light. Looking out at sea, I felt disheartened. I had no idea how I would identify the shooter.
CHAPTER 27
I drove back downtown in a sour mood. I could feel the case stalling out, heading for unsolved purgatory. I was close to the truth, but I had no idea what to do next, how to take that final step to IDing the shooter. It was Friday evening, I was at a dead end, and I had only a few days left to work on the case. On Monday, Duffy would put me back on call, and I would soon be jammed up with another case, another cluster of characters to interview, another set of priorities and pressures, another mystery to unravel.
I pulled into the parking garage, walked to PAB, and took the elevator to the squad room. At my desk, I opened the murder book, but immediately shut it. I felt exhausted and couldn’t concentrate. If I could sleep for a few hours, maybe I would have the energy to return to the squad room and have another go at the case tonight. I locked the murder book up in the bottom drawer and returned to my loft. After undressing, I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. I tried to relax, but the horns, the squealing tires, the hydraulic hiss from the buses, the music blaring from passing cars kept me awake. I grabbed a pair of earplugs from the end table and slipped them in. But disconnected images from the case continued to flash in my mind: Relovich on the autopsy table; the crime scene photos; the blood splatter pattern on the wall; the netsukes and ojimes, their eyes glowing like coals.
In an attempt to relax, I forced myself to think about surfing, and tried to recreate the magnificent ride I had the morning at Point Dume with Razor. Finally, I dozed off.
I’m on the flank of a T-formation, searching for land mines and booby traps. My sergeant is in the center. The first thing an Israeli soldier learns is to fill his canteen to the top before going on a patrol because a sloshing sound can give him away. But I forgot. And now every step I take I hear the splash of water against metal. And every step it gets louder and louder and louder, until it sounds like huge waves pounding the shore with a deafening roar. Finally, my sergeant holds up his right hand, silently halting the unit. He grabs my canteen and pours out the water, steam rising from the desert sand. The steam becomes thicker and thicker. It soon envelops the unit. I hear footsteps in the distance, but I can’t see through the thick mist. I hear shouts in Arabic. Then the metallic click of a magazine shoved into an assault rifle. Then rapid-fire shots. Panicked, I run, but I’m blinded by the mist.
The ringing of my cell phone woke me. I bolted up, covered with sweat. Grabbing the sheet, I wiped my face, brow, and the back of my neck.
I picked up the phone. It was the vacuum metal deposition tech at the Orange County laboratory.
“Any luck getting a print off that desk handle?” I asked.
“It ain’t luck, my man,” the tech said. “We raised a latent for you.”
“And?” I asked.
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“Just a routine check. Probably a patrol officer at the scene.”
“It usually is. Give me a minute. I’ve got to find the file. Okay. I’ve got it right here.”
I yawned and wiped the sleep out of my eyes.
“A cop named Velang.”
“First name?”
“Sorry,” the technician said. “I can’t read my own writing. It’s Wegland. Wally Wegland. He’s a commander.”
So Wegland was at the crime scene. Why didn’t anybody tell me? That’s strange. But maybe it isn’t. He was good friends with Relovich’s father. When the old man retired, he asked Wegland to keep an eye out for his son. It would make sense for Wegland to head over to Relovich’s as soon as he heard about the homicide.
I remembered scanning the crime scene log, but couldn’t recall seeing Wegland’s name on the list. I decided to scan the names again. Maybe I’d missed Wegland. Maybe it would be worth looking through the log again and checking the other names on the list.
The murder book, unfortunately, was at my desk. I decided to walk over to PAB and read the log again.
I took a quick shower, shaved and dressed, and headed out the door.
CHAPTER 28
I swung open my front door. I was about to jog down the steps.
But standing a few feet down the hall, dressed in khakis, a polo shirt, and a blue blazer, holding a Heckler amp; Koch. 45 at his hip was Wally Wegland.
“Let’s head back inside,” he said. “No sudden movements.”
I glanced at the stairs, calculating how quickly I could avoid the trajectory of his shot. Wegland jammed the HK in my back and said softly, “Move. Now.”
I slipped my key into the lock. Wegland followed me inside and slammed the door.
As I moved toward my shoulder holster, which was slung over a chair, Wegland said, “You take one more step, and it’ll be your last.”
Wegland was aiming at the center of my chest in a perfect Weaver Stance: right arm partially extended, gun supported by his left hand, knees slightly flexed, left foot forward.
He motioned with the gun for me to sit on the couch. “Take it real slow.”
I sat on the edge. Wegland eased into a chair across from the couch.
“So I guess you’ve got a contact at the VMD lab,” I said.
“ Fortunately, they caught me while I was at my desk. Fortunately you’re only a few minutes away. Unfortunately, they called you first.”
Wegland studied me for a moment and then shook his head sadly. “If you weren’t so damn obsessive, if you could have just left well enough alone, we wouldn’t be here at this painful juncture.”
He jabbed the gun at me and said, “Why couldn’t you let Fuqua take the fall? Why couldn’t you just follow the obvious leads and let him go directly to jail?”
My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard. “Because he didn’t kill Relovich.”
“So what? Who cares about a predator like him?”
“So you broke into Fuqua’s place in South Central, grabbed a Kleenex out of the trash, and planted it at Relovich’s,” I said softly, more to myself than to Wegland. “You knew he’d been charged with rape, so his DNA would be in the state DOJ database. You also knew that Relovich had arrested him and you heard about how Relovich kicked his ass. So you assumed we’d stumble on the obvious motive.”
Wegland looked at me and frowned. “It all could have been so easy, but you had to make it so hard. I knew things would get dicey when that cretin Grazzo brought you back for this case.”
“When he wanted to pull me off the case, why’d you persuade him to keep me on?”
“I didn’t. But that’s what I told Duffy. Actually, I lobbied hard to get you off the case. But Grazzo wouldn’t budge because the chief was already on board with you. So I tried another tack. I told him all about how you went postal on Graupmann. I convinced him to suspend you. He tried, but you outfoxed him on that one.”
“So it wasn’t Graupmann who put all that Nazi shit on my desk. It was you. Trying to provoke me. Trying to get me to do something stupid, something that would get me thrown off the case.”
“Almost worked,” Wegland said.
I wanted to keep Wegland talking until I could figure out a way to make my move.
“Then why come after me now? Why not just let things play out and hope I wouldn’t be able to put it all together?”
“You were getting too close to the bull’s-eye.”
