City of Saviors, page 17
I pulled coffee beans from the cupboard. “Enjoy. I was done the moment they arrived.”
“You need to gain a couple of pounds.” He slipped the last three rolls onto a paper towel.
“Not a weight thing—Victor Starr sent them.”
Greg placed his breakfast in the microwave oven, then licked his sticky fingers. “Nothing says ‘forgive me’ like fancy sweet rolls.”
“Or a Porsche.” I dumped coffee beans into the grinder.
He said, “Ha,” then stared at me with glassy wide eyes.
“Stop worrying,” I said.
“I’m not worrying.”
I squinted at him. “I know that look, Gregory, and you’re looking that look at me right now.”
He pulled the now-heated rolls from the microwave, and the warm scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the kitchen. “If it’s the drugs, Lou—”
“Greg, I hardly take any drugs.”
My phone played the Star Wars theme. Sam had texted. Good morning. You didn’t call back. You around?
I grabbed my phone from the counter and messaged him back. Sorry. Was in the middle of an intervention last night— and it’s still happening right now.
“I can tell,” Greg was saying, “but are you getting a restful—?”
I hit the coffee grinder’s ON button, and the loud whir drowned out his voice. Once the beans couldn’t be grounded any finer, I released the button.
He said, “But are you getting—?”
I hit the ON button again.
He smiled.
Off.
He said, “Restful—?”
On.
I smiled at him.
He held up his hands.
My nerves jabbed my skin like millions of tiny needles. “Just because I let you stay,” I said, “doesn’t mean we’re ‘us’ again. Your mother was always nice to me, and I know her situation is worrying you, but—”
“Let me say this and I’ll shut up.”
“Sure.” I dumped the ground coffee into a paper liner.
“Get another shrink,” Greg said. “Maybe you do need to take something to keep you from nightmaring. I mean, how can you do your job if you don’t get enough rest? You work hard, Lou. And I’ll say this while I still have the floor: you’re not failing if you take some more time off.”
With a shaky hand, I filled the coffee pot with cold water, then poured it into the coffee maker. “Where was all this caring before?”
“I’ve always cared for you,” he said, “and you always pushed me away.”
I smirked. “There were so many chicks’ asses in my face, I couldn’t help but push you away. Oh, right. The multiple side pieces—they’re my fault. I’m the cart and the horse. The chicken and the egg.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he said with a quaver in his voice.
“Oh. I misunderstood. My fault. Again.”
Greg leaned against the counter and scratched his thumb against his lips as the coffee machine burped and gurgled. “You can confide in me, Lou,” he whispered. “You can tell me how you really feel. You can tell me what’s scaring you, why you’re having nightmares. I’ve never told anyone your secrets, and that still goes, even now. You can trust me.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Greg, that’s very sweet of you but . . . no.” Twitching with repressed rage, I held out my arms and said, “You helped to create who I am today.” I gave him a thumbs-up, then grabbed two coffee mugs from the cabinet.
“I love you.” He crossed his arms and nodded. There, I said it. He flushed, and the vein in the middle of his forehead pulsed.
I wanted to say, “I love you, too.” And then kiss and kiss and live happily ever after.
But I didn’t want to do any of this with Greg.
26
I WANTED TO SAY “I LOVE YOU” TO SAM. EVEN THOUGH WE’D SPENT NO ROMANTIC time together since March, Sam—or the thought and promise of Sam—made me swoon and daydream of cabins and books, quiet and rib roast, a little girl with pretty eyes and the Cirque du Soleil Big Tent every fall. It made no sense to me—I didn’t know if Sam could give me that or even if he wanted to give me that. Still, I loved the possibility of us both sharing this fantasy of Normal together.
And now, as I drove to work with a sea of cars all going ten miles per hour, I didn’t care about traffic or getting to my destination. I’d watched the clock roll from eight thirteen to eight twenty without getting any closer to the traffic light. Didn’t care—and my lack of caring was so profound that a Honda, a city bus, and a dump truck all merged in front of me as I talked to Sam on the phone. And as I glimpsed my reflection in the rearview mirror, I saw bright eyes, an easy smile, and no cords standing in my neck.
I told him about Syeeda’s and Greg’s attempts to save my life.
“Greg . . . stayed the night?” Concern etched Sam’s voice.
My phone vibrated with a text from Colin. Headed over to the house.
“Don’t worry,” I told Sam. “It was not sexy. It was an intervention mingled with the news of his mother going in for a biopsy.”
“Hunh.”
“Jealous?”
“Very.”
“I should be, too. You and the Italian hottie.”
He chortled. “It is not a thing. She knows that I’m distracted.”
“By?”
He sighed. “My fantasies of you are better than real-life her. I must admit, though, waiting for you is becoming a challenge in some ways.”
“Hair where there was no hair before?”
“Something like that. Yeah. That. But enough about my struggle with onanism—”
“Big word for?”
“Self-pleasure.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Indeed. And how are you?”
I punched the button for the air conditioner—the outside thermometer had ticked up to ninety-three. “Well, Eli Moss’s attorney sent me a lovely e-mail this morning. It included out-of-context pictures of me holding a wine bottle.”
“You send it to Ibarra?”
“Yep.”
“Then, don’t worry about it anymore. How are you physically?”
“Been better,” I said. “I keep scratching the wound in my head. Keep dealing with some other things that kinda suck.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d rather do it in person and then you can see with your own eyes.”
“Sounds bad.”
My throat clutched some, and I choked out, “It is.”
“Next week this time, you can show and tell me as much as you want without fear of Crase running free. I miss you, Elouise.”
“I miss you, too, Samuel.” My stomach jitterbugged just saying that. “That means you’re on schedule to being released?”
“First thing Monday morning. Lucille’s taking the case.”
“Wonderful.”
“Until then,” he said, “stay away from Greg.”
My face ached from smiling so hard. “And you stay away from Isabella.”
“Deal. Next week, then?”
“Yes. I want the works. Roses, dinners, movies, Broadway shows, that gondola thing in Long Beach and . . . naked. Lots of naked.”
“You got it. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
That’s what I wanted to hear. And now, the idea of vacation really didn’t seem offensive. Sam naked combined with a night at the Pantages Theatre? Why the hell would I deny myself that kind of gift?
I’d only reached the third mile of my eight-mile trip when my phone rang again. After making the slowest left turn in the history of left turns, I answered.
Lena’s face brightened the phone’s screen. “Bonjour, ma chérie!”
“Good morning in American,” Syeeda shouted, forcing her way into the shot.
Heading into the sun, I slipped on my aviators, then flipped down the visor. “So I just realized that neither of you checked up on me last night or this morning. It’s like you knew Greg would be there.”
Neither friend responded. In the background, an espresso machine hissed.
“Hello?” I said.
“Did anything . . . happen?” Syeeda asked.
“We played FIFA soccer, ate Kyochon chicken, then gave each other head.”
Together, Lena and Syeeda shouted, “What?”
“That was a joke,” I snapped. “He slept on the couch. I slept in my room, which he didn’t enter until he had to wake me up from my nightly nightmares.” And now, I let no car ease its way into my lane. Happy Lou had skipped away to her secret garden.
“We just . . . you could . . .” Syeeda sighed. “It’s just that . . .”
“That I may OD or shoot myself?” I asked.
Silence from my friends.
“Hello?” I said again.
“We’d rather make sure you’re safe,” Syeeda said, “than wonder if you’re safe.”
“I’m not taking drugs,” I said. “My pee is clean.”
Silence again.
“Hello?”
“We know that,” Lena said. “Still . . .”
“We did all this because we care,” Syeeda explained. “Don’t be mad at us. We love you. We don’t want you to be alone if you don’t have to be.”
Lena sang, “That’s what friends are for.”
Then, Syeeda joined in with, “I’ll be on your side forever more.”
And they sang that 1980s friendship anthem until an irritated smile found my lips. And as I finally reached Leimert Park and turned onto Victoria Avenue, smiles today would be rarer than tanzanite.
Pulling up to Eugene Washington’s house was now almost routine. The three women stood in their regular positions along the sidewalk with their hands out, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. The Dumpster was now half full with trash bags. The cats still perched everywhere. This morning, though, Ike Underwood and his crew watched police cadets search through the junk piles. A cadaver dog with his nose to the ground and wearing protective argyle socks pulled his lady trainer around the front yard. In the driveway, a man in a FORENSICS Windbreaker leaned against a Bobcat and waited to push junk out of the way.
Colin, eating a granola bar, stood beneath the magnolia tree. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head as I approached. “Traffic again?” he asked.
“Yep. The tech boys conspired against me getting here on time. The dog alert yet?”
He nodded, then slipped the aviators back over his eyes. “I’ll show you where.”
I followed him to the backyard.
Dirty workers wearing khaki flap hats were now clearing the last bits of junk from a six-by-twelve piece of land at the rear fence.
I sighed. “This is gonna take forever.”
My partner popped the last third of his granola bar into his mouth. “They’re gonna find a bunch of cat and raccoon skeletons all over this property.”
“You don’t think we should be doing this?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
He shrugged. “They’re gonna find a bunch of—”
“Well, that’s expected. We have disembodied hands and a dead man with a gut full of human meat—”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.” His face had reddened.
“Why are you second-guessing every decision I make?” I snapped.
“Whoa,” he said, hands out. “That escalated quickly.” He pushed up his sunglasses again. “I meant nothing by my comment, Lou. Damn. Chill out.”
The dog’s bark pulled us out of our asses. He had alerted in Washington’s garage and now lay beside a stack of Del Monte boxes in various stages of rot. Paige, the dog’s handler, praised her pup as a forensic tech placed a yellow tent at the spot.
Forensic anthropologist Douglas Goldberg found Colin and me back beneath the magnolia tree. His hat hadn’t protected his face from burning, but sunburn didn’t hamper his eagerness. “Three spots so far,” he reported. “Once we clear the way, we’ll bring out the GPR buggy.”
While ground penetrative radar would not provide traditional pictures of those things buried, it would still alert us to differences below the surface.
“When do you think you’ll start with GPR?” I asked the scientist.
“Oh . . .” He pushed back the hat and scratched his damp head. “Probably by tomorrow. I’ll alert the medical examiner when we’re ready to dig, just so they’ll have somebody ready to come in the event we find human remains.”
I thanked the doctor, then watched him hustle into the garage.
Colin glanced at his wristwatch. “Please tell me we’re not staying here all day.”
“We’re not staying here all day.” I opened my leather binder. “We have a lot on our to-do list, so let’s get started.”
“Where to now?” Colin asked as we walked to our cars.
My phone rang again—this time, Zucca was calling.
“Where you at?” he asked.
“The Washington house,” I said, “watching them grid out the junkyard for GPR. You get the cupcakes?”
“Yes, thank you. Already inhaled two. Can I meet you back at the station?”
“Will it take long?” I asked. “We got a lot to do before the sun sets today.”
“Well . . . Those hands the workers found?” he said. “We got a hit in AFIS on the fingerprints. And the guy the prints belong to? He’s still alive.”
27
MILLIONS OF FANS STATIONED AROUND THE SQUAD ROOM TWISTED BACK AND forth. But the man-made breezes failed to cool anyone wearing a tired suit or filthy Dickies—and the place still stank of burned coffee and dying deodorant. Summer at Southwest Division.
“Are you ready for your miracle?” Seated in my guest chair, Zucca sounded as though his equipment budget had increased a hundredfold over the next decade.
I smirked. “I’m ready for it, but my partner ain’t.”
Over at his desk, Colin held the phone to his ear. He smiled like a goof, then glanced in my direction.
I motioned for him to end his call.
He nodded, said, “Talk to you later, Charity,” then rolled over in his chair.
“Did you just say what I think you said?” I asked.
Colin nodded. “She was just callin’ to let me know that the bishop was coming back tonight.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “She stopping by today and leaving her prints as requested?”
“Didn’t ask,” Colin said, “but I can go over later with a print kit.”
I squinted at him, then turned to Zucca. “So, what’s the miracle?”
Zucca pulled from his accordion file pictures of the hands as well as pictures of fingerprints tagged with dots. “Fortunately, the left hand still had fingerprint ridges on the index and pinky fingers.”
“Is that normal?” Colin asked. “Them sticking around a long time after you’re dead?”
“Depends,” Zucca said. “That cigar humidor preserved them really well. So, I was able to cast the fingers in latex to get better ridge detail. That was miracle number one.”
I made notes in my pad, then said, “That means there’s a miracle number two.”
Zucca beamed. “Uh huh. We ran the prints in AFIS.”
My stomach tightened. “And?”
“And we got a hit.” Zucca pulled another sheet of paper from that accordion file and placed it on my desk. “Lady and gentleman, meet Oswald Little.”
Colin and I gaped at each other. “He’s the guy who’s supposed to get Eugene Washington’s house and car,” I said.
“We’ve been trying to reach him,” Colin said.
The black man’s receded salt-and-pepper hairline matched his beard and mustache. Born January 7, 1940, in Belmopan, Belize, he now resided at 7170 Corning Avenue in Ladera Heights. He had the easy smile of a self-made, self-satisfied man.
“According to public records,” Zucca said, “Mr. Little is still alive. So, he’ll be happy to hear he’s a beneficiary.”
I shivered and ice formed between my eyes—an ice-cream headache without the ice cream. “Let’s pay him a visit today. Maybe I had the wrong number—or maybe it’s under someone else’s name.” Back in my married days, Greg paid the phone bill, but it had been under my name.
“How the hell is that even possible?” Colin asked. “Him being alive? He has no hands.”
“You can live without hands,” I said. “You’d wear prosthetics. Like that double-amputee guy a few years ago on Dancing with the Stars.”
“Or like Jaime Lannister on Game of Thrones,” Zucca added.
“The dancing guy had those blade things for legs,” Colin said to me. To Zucca, he said, “And Jaime Lannister isn’t real.”
I held up the picture of Oswald Little. “Maybe he lost ’em in a hand of poker. Came up short-handed.”
“Got his ass and hands handed to him,” Zucca said, smiling.
Colin groaned. “You two gonna appear in the Starlight Lounge after dinner?”
“Anything else, Z.?” I asked.
He nodded. “The cobbler contained coconut—the flour was a mixture of regular wheat flour with coconut flour folded in. There was also something—possibly coconut extract—in the filling.”
“Any flaked or shredded coconut?” I asked. “Big enough to catch in your teeth?”
“Nope. Just looking and feeling, you wouldn’t know that you were texturally eating coconut. By the time he realized it, he’d already eaten more than half the dish. I’m sure Brooks will tell you that he was probably dead within the hour.”
“Because his throat was swollen and his lungs . . .” I grimaced. “That’s a jacked-up way to go.”
“We also tested the contents on a few of those tubs we found in the freezer.” Zucca slipped another report on my desk. “No coconut, but it was more roast beef than human, but still . . . The other stuff was . . . you know. People.”
“People,” Colin said.
“People who eat people,” I said.
“Are the luckiest people, in the world,” Zucca sang.
“Any DNA hits?” Colin asked.
Zucca shook his head as he packed up his things. “The meat in the tubs doesn’t match the DNA from Little’s hands.”
I offered a weak grin. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
