LA Requiem

But finally he couldn't stand it and said, 'What, for chrissake?'

'Car.' The man pointed. 'Parked here.' Pointed again. 'Coolant or oil drips here. Tire tread there.'

John was already marking the spots with wire.

The man said, 'Off-road tread. Long wheelbase.'

'Off-road? Like a Jeep?'

'Like that.'

John wrote notes as fast as he could, thinking that he'd have to call his office for the things he'd need to take a tire impression.

'He parked here because he's been here before. He knew where he was going.'

'You think he knew her?'

The man looked at John Chen then, and Chen reflexively stepped back. He didn't know why.

'Looked to be about a size-ten shoe, didn't it, John?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Pretty deep on the hard pack, which makes him heavier than he should be.' Pretty deep. Three grains of dust. 'You can use the shoe size and his weight to build a body type. An impression of the shoe print will give you the brand of shoe.'

'I know.' John was annoyed. Maybe John wouldn't have found any of this evidence on his own, but he wasn't an idiot.

'Take an impression of the tires. Identify the size and brand. From that, you get a list of makes.'

'I know.'

The man stared down at the lake now, and John wondered what could be going on behind those dark glasses.

'You one of the detectives from downtown?'

The man didn't answer.

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'Well, you gotta tell me your name and badge number for the report.'

The man angled the glasses back at him. 'If you tell them this came from me, they'll discount it.'

John Chen blinked at him. 'But... what do I tell them about all this?'

'I was never here, John. What does that leave?'

'/turned the evidence?'

'If you'll play it that way.'

'Yeah. Well, sure. You bet.' His palms were damp with excitement. He felt his heart speed.

'Get the make of the tires and the list of cars. I'm going to call you. There won't be a problem with that, will there, John?'

'No, sir.' Automatic.

The man stared at him for a time, and then said something that John Chen would recall from time to time for the rest of his life, and wonder what the man had meant, and why he had said it. 'Never turn your back on love, John.'

The man slipped downhill through the brush, gone almost before Chen knew he was leaving.

John Chen slowly broke into a huge white smile, and then he was running, crashing down through the brush, tripping, stumbling, rolling once, then coming to his feet as he ran past the radio car to his SID van as fast as he could, yelling for those horny fuckers to knock off the lip lock.

Suddenly, advancement seemed a lot closer.

Suddenly, the 'tang-mobile was already parked in his garage.

Coming out a second day had paid off after all.

8

Parker Center is an eight-story white building in downtown L.A., just a few blocks from the Los Angeles Times and two dozen bars. The bars are small, and see most of the cop business after the shift changes; their reporter business is steady throughout the day. Letters on the side of Parker Center say POLICE DEPARTMENT—CITY OF LOS ANGELES, but the letters are small, and the sign is obscured by three skinny palm trees like maybe they're embarrassed.

The lobby guard gave me a visitor pass to clip to my lapel, phoned up to Robbery-Homicide, and four minutes later the elevator doors opened. Stan Watts peered out at me like I was eye boogers.

'Hey, Stan. How's it going?'

Watts ignored me.

'Look, no reason for us to get off on the wrong foot.'

He pushed the button for the fifth floor.

When we got up there, he led me to a large, brightly lit room, centered on a long rectangle of cubicles occupied by men with at least fifteen years behind a gold shield. Most were on phones, some were typing, and damned near everyone looked at home in the job. Krantz was talking with an overweight guy by the Mr. Coffee. Williams was leaning against a desk, laughing about something. You'd never think that twelve hours ago they were swatting blowflies off a dead girl.

Krantz frowned when he saw me, and yelled, 'Dolan! Your boy is here.'

The only woman at the table was sitting by herself at the corner desk, scribbling on a yellow legal pad. She slid the pad

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into her desk when Krantz called, locked the drawer, and stood. She was tall, and looked strong, the way a woman who rowed crew or worked with horses might be strong. Other women worked the room, but you could tell from how they carried themselves that they weren't detectives. She was it. Guess if I were her, I'd lock my desk, too.

Dolan glared at Krantz as if he were a walking Pap smear, and glared at me even harder.

When she came over, Krantz said, 'Dolan, this is Cole. Cole, this is Samantha Dolan. You're with her.'

Samantha Dolan was wearing a stylish gray pants suit with a cameo brooch and dark blond hair that was cut short without being mannish. I made her for her early forties, but she might've been younger. When Krantz said the name, I recognized her at once from the stories and interviews and dozens of times that I'd seen her on TV

I said, 'Pleased to meet you, Dolan. I enjoyed your series.'

Six years ago, CBS had made a television series about her based on a case in which she'd almost been killed apprehending a serial rapist. The series had lasted half a season and wasn't very good, but for a short period of time it had made her the most famous Los Angeles police officer since Joe Wambaugh. An article about her in the Times had focused on her case clearance rate, which was the highest ever by a woman, and the third highest in department history. I remembered being impressed. But then it dawned on me that I hadn't heard of her since.

Samantha Dolan's frown turned into a scowl. 'You liked that TV series they made about me?'

I gave her the friendly smile. 'Yeah.'

'It sucked.'

I can always tell when they like me.

Krantz checked his watch. 'We'll brief you in the conference room so this doesn't waste anybody else's time. Think about that, Cole. Right now the murderer could be getting away because one of our detectives is thinking about you