glass
L.A. REQUIEM 177
when Watts interviewed them. You can see it a little bit in the transcript, but you could see it for sure in the room. That's why Krantz is so convinced.'
'I'm listening. What are they lying about?'
'I don't have a clue, but I'm sure Ward is scared. He knows something that he doesn't want to talk about. I'm not in a position to do anything about it, World's Greatest, but you could.'
I nodded. 'Yeah. Maybe I could.'
Dolan finished the drink, and put it down. It hadn't lasted long. 'I'd better go. Sorry to barge in.'
'Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for dinner?'
Dolan went to the door, then gazed back at Lucy.
'Thanks, anyway, but there probably wouldn't be enough for both of us.'
Lucy smiled the nice smile again. 'No. There isn't.'
When I got back to the kitchen, Lucy had the containers out of the oven and was opening them. ;
'She likes you.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You don't think she came here just to talk about Eugene Dersh, do you? She likes you.'
I didn't say anything.
'Bitch.'
'Are you jealous?'
Lucy turned the sweet smile on me.
'If I were jealous, she'd be getting stitches.'
There isn't much you can say to that.
When Lucy spoke again, her voice was soft. 'So, are you going to do it?'
'What?'
'Try to help Dersh.'
I thought about it, and then I nodded. 'I don't think he's the shooter, Lucille. And if he isn't, then he's just some guy out there all alone with the weight of a city on him.'
Lucy came close and put her arms around me.
'I guess that's you, lover boy. The last white knight.'
That's me.
19
Lake Hollywood was quiet the next morning, the air cool in the early hour. I went up just after sunrise, hoping to get the jump on newspeople and the morbidly curious, and I had. Walkers and joggers once more looped the four-mile circumference of the lake, but none of them gawked at the murder site, or even seemed aware of it.
Having opened the crime scene, the police had taken down their yellow tape and withdrawn the guards. I left my car by the chain-link gate, and followed the trail down through the brush to the place where Karen Garcia's body had been found. The ripped footprints where the coroner's people had carried her out were still there, cut into the soil. Blood marks the color of dead roses flagged her resting place.
I stared at that spot for a moment, then went north along the shore, counting paces. Twice the bank dropped away so quickly, and was so overgrown with brush, that I had to take off my shoes and step in the water, but most of the shoreline was flat and bare enough to make good time.
Fifty-two paces from the blood marks, I found a six-inch piece of orange tape tied to a tree where Dersh and Riley reached the water. The slope was steep; their long, skidding footprints still visible, winding down through a clutter of small trees. I backtracked their footprints up, and pretty soon I was pushing my way through a dense overgrowth before popping out onto the trail. Another piece of the orange tape was tied here, too, marking where Dersh had told the investigator they had left the trail.
I walked up the trail a hundred yards, then turned back past 178
L.A. REQUIEM 179
the tape for about the same distance. I could see the lake from farther up the trail, but not from the orange tape, and I wondered why they had picked this spot to find their way down. The brush was thick, the tree canopy dense, and the light poor. Any kid with a couple of years in the Scouts would know better, and so would just about anyone else. Of course, maybe neither Dersh nor Ward had been a Scout, or maybe they just had to take a leak. Maybe they just figured what the hell, here was as good a place as any, even though it wasn't.
I went back to my car, drove down the hill to the Jungle Juice, and used their phone book to look up Riley Ward & Associates. I copied the phone number and address, then drove to West Hollywood.
Ward had his offices hi a converted Craftsman house on what was once a residential street south of Sunset Boulevard. The Craftsman house had a lovely front porch, and elaborate woodwork that had been painted hi bright shades of peach and turquoise, neither of which went with the two television news vans that were parked out front.
I parked in a little lot belonging to a dentist's office, and waited. Two people went into Ward's building, one of them being an on-air reporter I recognized because he looked like a surfer dude. They were inside maybe three minutes, then came out and stood by then: van, disappointed. Ward was still refusing interviews. Or maybe he wasn't there.
A third van arrived. Two young guys got out, one Asian-American with black horned-rim glasses and the other blond with very short hair. The Asian-American guy had white streaks in his hair, going for that Euro-trash look. The new guys joined the surfer and his friend, the four of them laughing about something as a young woman got out of the other van and went over. She was wearing a bright yellow spring dress and thick-soled shoes that had to be damned near impossible to walk in, and cat's-eye glasses. Fashion slaves.
I went over, grinning like we were all just journalists together. 'You guys here to get Ward?'
The surfer shook his head. 'He's not having it. We'll wait him out, though.'
180 ROBERT CRAIS
'Maybe he's not in there.'
The young woman in the canary dress said, 'Oh, he's in there. I saw him go in this morning.'
'Ah.'
I headed across the street.
The girl said, 'Forget it, amigo. He won't talk to you.'
'We'll see.'
The little porch opened to what had once been the living room but was now a reception area. The smell of fresh coffee was strong in the little house, hanging over a sweeter smell, as if someone had brought Danish. A young woman in a black body suit and vest watched me suspiciously from behind a glass desk with a little name plate that read Holly Mira. 'May I help you?'
'Hi, Holly. Elvis Cole to see Mr. Ward.' I gave her the card, and then I lowered my voice. 'About Karen Garcia.'
She put the card down without looking at it. 'I'm sorry. Mr. Ward isn't giving interviews.'
'I'm not a reporter, Holly. I'm working for the dead girl's family. You can understand how they'd have questions.'
Her face softened, but she still didn't touch the card. 'You're working for the family.'
'The Garcia family. His attorney is a man named Abbot Montoya. You can call them if you like.' I took out the card
