“What do you mean?”
“Besides having to go up against the brass to get permission to question a congressman, we’re overworked, and it’s no secret if you don’t clear a homicide in the first couple of days, it’s almost never solved. We’re going on two weeks with this one, so most of the guys would put it on the back burner, even if Striker and Nishikawa weren’t potentially involved.”
“And this Billy Wolfe won’t.” Maggie fidgeted in her chair.
“He’s not like the rest of us. It’s not that he’s smarter. He just looks at things differently. It’s one of the reasons he works alone. The other is he doesn’t keep regular hours. He might work forty-eight straight, then we might not see him for a week. Sometimes he works nights, sometimes days, sometimes he sleeps at his desk.
“If he takes a case, there’s a high probably it’ll get solved. He has the highest clearance rate in the state, the nation I’d bet.”
“What do you mean if? Doesn’t he get assigned cases like any other officer?”
“Nope, he only takes on the ones that interest him.”
“How’s he get away with that?”
“He doesn’t take the easy ones. He gets an open and shut and he passes it on. Makes him very popular among the guys. The brass don’t like him much, but they keep him around because he hands them the hard ones on a platter. The press keeps his name out of the papers because he delivers good stories, usually slanted to put pressure on whoever he’s investigating, but they’re good stories nonetheless. They know he’s using them, but they can’t help themselves.
“I’ll talk to him, tell him what I have. If I can get him interested, we got a shot at solving this. If not, well, once the shooter finds out the case is gathering dust, he might forget about you.” Norton got up from his chair.
“Maybe we should just forget about the whole thing.” Maggie got up too. “I mean nobody’s going to be mourning for Frankie Fujimori.”
Norton met her eyes with his pale greys. Was it her imagination or did his faraway look go suddenly sadder? “It’s your call.”
“You can do that, let a civilian decide?”
“I’m going to Catalina in the morning. If I don’t interest Billy in this, ain’t no one else gonna run with it. It’s the way it is.”
“Why are you doing this?” Maggie felt as if the walls were closing in.
“The shooter didn’t do you in the store when he could’ve, so chances are he’s already forgotten about you. Hell, he probably just had a hard on for Fujimori like you did. I’m sure you got nothing to worry about.”
“That’s good.”
“But if the shooter was Horace Nighthyde-”
“What’s your first name?” Maggie said.
“Abel.”
“Abel,” she held our her hand. “Maybe you better have that talk with Lt. Wolfe.”
“I think that’d be best.” He took her hand, shook it.” Meanwhile, you be careful.”
“I will.” She hadn’t fooled him at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie inhaled the night as she walked down Pacific Avenue to the Porsche. She faced into the wind, took another deep breath. Late moon, gentle breeze, a nice night for a ride in a convertible. She punched the remote and smiled as the top came down. She’d never get used to that.
A car rounded the corner from First Street, rap music blaring from speakers loud enough to fill the Hollywood Bowl with sound. The car, chromed and lowered the way only a teenager could do it, cruised by and Maggie waved. The kid riding shotgun waved back, then flashed Maggie the thumbs up sign. She gave it back. Four kids having fun. Maggie envied them.
She reached the Porsche as the kids turned onto Fourth Street, taking their music with them. Then the night was quiet again. She got in, started the car and sighed to the sound of its powerful engine.
Going east on Ocean, she saw a liquor store on the other side of the street. She needed milk for Jasmine’s Frosted Flakes and she didn’t want to go to the convenience stores in the Shore, because she might be recognized, despite the head job. She made a fast U turn at Atlantic. A quick glance in the rearview told her the car behind did the same. She parked in front of Beach Liquor. The car behind, a shiny black BMW, slid on by, panther-sleek as it slowed, then parked in front of her.
She stepped out of the Porsche, eyes on the Beemer. Was it following her? No. Just another person who needed something at the liquor store. She was being paranoid. She shook her head and went inside. Still, with everything that had been going on, maybe being paranoid was a good thing. She passed the checkout counter, went to the back, to the cooler section, where she got a half gallon of milk.
She started toward the check-out, stopped. There was no one in the store, except herself and a young black kid behind the counter reading a computer magazine. Whoever was in the black BMW hadn’t come in yet. Why not? Were they out there waiting for her? That’s absurd, she chided herself. But still, they’d been out there long enough. There were no other stores open on the block. Either they were here to buy something in the liquor store or they were following her. Nothing else made sense.
Then, as if in answer to her question, a big man wearing an expensive suit came in the front. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, hair cut close, like he was in the military, but he carried himself with all the confidence in the world. Maybe he was an officer, a general or something. The driver of the BMW. Had to be.
She met his eyes and shivered under the cold stare. He appraised her the way no woman likes to be looked at, a leer, almost evil. Instinctively, she took a step back. She turned toward the coolers, turned into the next aisle and picked up a bottle of California wine as if she were interested in buying it.
She put it back, picked up another, studied the label without seeing it. He was coming closer. She heard the soft steps of his hard soled shoes on the cement floor. All of a sudden he was behind her.
“BV Private Reserve, 2009. Good wine, but a little young.” He had a rich voice. A baritone, almost musical. It terrified her, sent a cold wind up her back. She didn’t know why. There was no explanation for it.
“I’m just looking.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“If you need some help, I’m sort of an expert on California Cabs.”
“No, I can manage.”
“Really, I don’t mind.” Now he sounded like a vampire from one of those old black and white horror films. She wished he’d just go away.
“My husband’s the wine drinker.” She hoped he’d take the husband hint and leave.
“Not you?”
“No, the milk’s for me.” She held it up. It was so stupid, but she didn’t want him to think she was buying the wine for herself, didn’t want him to think she had anything in common with him, didn’t want him to think there was any chance, any way, she was going to continue the conversation.
“Milk.” He said it as if it were a dirty word, stepped away from her and went to the check-out where he bought a pack of Kools.
Kools? What kind of man smoked menthol? Not the kind who knew anything about California Cabs. Menthol and Cabernet, no way did they go together. He paid, turned and met her eyes while he was waiting for his change.
She looked away, but not before she caught his wink. It curdled her stomach. What was happening to her? Normally she’d be in the guy’s face, but instead she was acting like a lamb being led to the slaughter and she couldn’t help herself. There was something about the man. Something menacing.
The bottle of wine seemed hot in her hand. She put it back. Stalled for another minute, head down, staring at the labels on the bottles, till she was sure the man had enough time to get back in his car and be gone.
She’d been taking short, rapid breaths. She felt numb, her fingers and toes cold. She took in a deep breath, held it, willing her heart to slow down. She felt wrung out, she was sweating like she’d just done a mile flat out on
