Pacific Beat, page 15
“So,” said Kearns. “I hope you’ve gotten what you wanted from me. Now I’ll give something that might help. Consider it a gift to Annie.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve got days off, right, so I’ve spent a little time on my own down on the Back Bay. Dennison encouraged anybody who wants to work some ‘overtime’ for Ray. No pay involved, by the way—just volunteer. Yesterday I spent the afternoon going back to the houses with a view of Galaxy, past Morning Star, where this guy might have parked. Of course, we’d talked to everybody before—or thought we had—but I kicked up this old lady whose husband didn’t want her to talk. He was the king, you know, she couldn’t say anything he wouldn’t contradict. So I sent him out of the room for a ticket he’d gotten—some story about a parking pass that wasn’t expired—so I could talk to his wife. It turns out she heard a car pull up and park about midnight. It woke her; she had to use the head, so she took a leak and on the way back looked outside. What she sees is a white four-door parked along the curb. She doesn’t know the make or model but she does notice two things. Whoever is driving it doesn’t get out—he just sits there behind the wheel. And two, the car’s got a big dark patch of something on the driver’s side door. Sounded like primer to me, maybe some body work that didn’t get finished. Definitely not a cop car, she said.”
Weir pondered this. To someone who saw it moving, the primer patch could have looked like the city of Newport emblem.
“Now get this, early this morning, patrol found a car registered to Emmett Goins parked down at the end of the peninsula, by the Wedge. It’s a white ’eighty-seven Chevy with a big patch of primer showing on the driver’s door. It’s got a chrome luggage rack on top. His son, Horton, had taken it. Horton’s a serious nut case from Ohio, a big fat prior like what happened to Ann—just arrived here in sunny Southern Cal.”
“No Goins in the car?”
“No Goins. Innelman and Deak were working it, as of three A.M.”
“Can you tell me what they got out of Goins’s apartment?”
Kearns smiled wryly and sat back. “Nobody could figure out how Brian got on to Goins in the first place. Was it you?”
Jim nodded.
“Well, whatever he got from the apartment, he’s sitting on it, so it must be hot. Hot enough for this, anyway.” Kearns tossed Weir the morning Times from the couch. Front page Orange County section ran the headline:
MESA SEX OFFENDER SOUGHT IN
BACK BAY KILLING—
COMMITTED 9 YEARS AGO
FOR SIMILAR CRIME
Horton Goins, a 24-year old convicted sex offender who moved to Costa Mesa just four months ago, is being sought for questioning in the brutal stabbing death of Ann Cruz at the Back Bay last Tuesday.…
Jim sped through the article, wondering why Dennison hadn’t tipped him. Had Brian tossed the cop theory, or was he blowing smoke to cover it? A snapshot of Horton and Edith ran beside the article, a good-looking, solitary young man standing with his soft, bloodshot-eyed mother.
“Nice work on the car.”
“It’s a start. We’ll hand out fliers of that snapshot this afternoon, down by the Wedge. Chances are, if he ditched the car there, he’s nowhere nearby. But it’s worth a try.”
Jim stood up and looked again at the dozing Crystal. There was something sublime about a sleeping woman.
“So,” said Kearns, “You’ve got a drunk who saw a cop car and a sleepy old lady who saw primer. Who do you pick?”
“I don’t pick,” said Weir. “Not yet.”
“I’m going with the lady.”
“Maybe Mackie Ruff’s recall will be better, now that his brain’s dried out.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“You guys still have him?”
Kearns smiled and nodded. “Rumors of press interest in a ‘secret witness,’ so Brian’s trying to keep Ruff out of circulation for a while. Paris was going nuts. Goins will change all that, I’d guess.”
“I’d guess.” Jim rose to leave, shook Kearns’s hand, and looked once more around the little apartment. “Thanks.”
“Give my best to Ray. He ought to get back to work, try to have a schedule, something like normal.”
“I think you’re right.”
On his way past the sun deck, Weir glanced at Crystal. Her freckled nose was clearly visible, just beneath the line of shadow cast by the rooftop. “See ya, handsome,” she said.
“Hope so, beautiful.” He saw in her—now that Kearns had pointed it out—a definite capacity to go through with things. He wondered what she saw in him. Where did Kearns find these women, anyway?
He walked across the bridge and toward his truck. Carol Clark sat in a sporty red convertible, smoking a cigarette and signaling him over with a slender finger. She started the engine as he approached. “Kneel down here so I don’t have to yell,” she said.
He knelt beside the car, bracing his hands against the body. He could see himself, reflected and disproportional, in her dark glasses.
“You’ve heard the Dispatch tape?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s no pause button on the tape recorder, but I can use the other dispatch station when I want to. The recorder’s only set up on the active one, right? Tuesday morning, I called Phil four times between twelve-thirty and twelve-fifty, on the dead station.” She blew a plume of smoke over Jim’s shoulder.
“I guess I wonder why.”
“You should. Slow night, no action. I buzzed Phil for a little chitchat. Everybody’s in on our … situation, but it’s not the kind of thing you want recorded. Follow?”
“So far.”
“Well, Prince Philip didn’t answer. He wasn’t in the car for twenty minutes. That doesn’t exactly match what he told you in there. Small apartment, thin walls.”
“Hazard a guess where he was?”
“You hazard it. We’re talking about murder, and men I know.”
“You think Kearns is … uh, capable of going through with something like that?”
“He’s capable of getting women to do things they never even dreamed they’d do. I’m not a bimbo, contrary to what you might conclude from that embarrassing little situation in there. I’m not sure how he reacts when he doesn’t get his way. Never seen him not get it.” She put the car in gear and inched forward. “Forget all this. I don’t exist.”
“Got ya.”
She looked at him from behind the dark lenses. “You know what the reason is, what the thing behind this is? Boredom. Boredom and narcissism.”
“I guess you’ve found the antidote.”
“You think of a better one, you can call me.”
Capacity to go through with things, thought Weir: Mix it with boredom and narcissism and you get two women and one man in a glass house on the water in Newport Beach. Maybe the sun here just burns people dumb after a while. Maybe a six-month summer does something to the groin. Maybe people are just bored and in love with themselves and they’re going to spend every drop of what they’ve got right here and now because they can’t spend it in the grave. Doesn’t anyone worry anymore?
CHAPTER 14
JIM AND RAYMOND SPRUNG MACKIE RUFF FROM THE HOLDing tank at nine that morning, with instructions from Dennison to take him out the back door. While Raymond signed the paperwork, Jim leaned against the wall and waited. A fat plainclothes that Jim vaguely remembered from his sheriff days—Tillis, he thought—walked by and looked wordlessly at him, then a glum young officer in a uniform who smiled and said, “Eat shit and die” quietly enough for only Jim to hear. His nameplate said Hoch. Two cadets glowered at him on their way past: One turned back to fix him with a look of adamant disgust.
Mackie was a short, wiry man in his mid-sixties, with a violently red face and the palest of blue, booze-bleached eyes. He wanted to wait until noon for lunch, but they promised him something better. He smelled sharply of old sweat.
“I could use a drink,” said Ruff as they walked down the steps of the station. His pants were too long, even though the cuffs were rolled up at least four times, and the stiff, filthy material scuffed as he walked.
“Maybe after breakfast,” said Ray.
“I’m hungry, boys. How about the Balboa Bay Club?”
“You need a tie,” said Jim.
“Only wore a tie twice in my life—when I got married and when I buried her. How’s your dad?”
“He died back in ’eighty-one.”
“I’m sorry. Nobody told me.”
Raymond glanced over at Jim. Ruff had snored in the back of the chapel during Poon’s memorial service a decade ago.
“Jake?”
“For chrissakes, Mackie, he died in the war. You cried like a baby at the funeral.”
“Shit,” he said. “I guess I’m getting old.”
“You’ve been drunk for forty years,” said Raymond.
“Never hurt my career,” he said.
“You never had one,” said Ray.
“I worked for Poon Weir ten years,” he said hotly.
It was true, thought Jim: Mackie had swept the sidewalk and crushed empty boxes for the dumpster in return for breakfast and winter nights inside. He could still remember the sight of Ruff, spindly and unbalanced, trying to stomp the stiff cardboard boxes flat while he swayed and pitched like a deckhand in a storm.
“Nice of you boys to come get me,” he said. They had stopped at Jim’s truck.
“We’ve got some questions,” said Ray. “And you’re going to give us some answers to go with breakfast. Fair?”
They ate at the Porthole, one of the few peninsula bars left that was too bleak for tourists and college kids. The Porthole opened at ten for people who liked to get an early start. There were blowfish lanterns hung from knotted ropes, a sparsely populated aquarium behind the bar, and an anthology of small sea creatures lacquered into the countertop. Mackie fitted himself to a bar stool with the ease of a lid going onto a jar, then rubbed an orange starfish with his thumb. “That’s my lucky star,” he said. “If I rub it, somebody always buys me a drink.”
Jim and Raymond sat on either side of him. Mackie exchanged pleasantries with the bartender, Jangle, a thin, sun-darkened man with skin like jerky. Against all odds, he wore a bow tie. Jangle set up Mackie with a shot of Wild Turkey and a Bud. Jim and Ray got coffee. Eggs and bacon were on their way.
“Tell us about Monday night again,” said Raymond. “Don’t make anything up. Don’t leave anything out.” He produced a pen and a small notebook from his coat pocket.
Mackie looked appraisingly at Jim, then at Ray. “Monday night,” he said, “was a night like many others.”
Stretching out the drink ticket, thought Jim: This might be a long breakfast. But Raymond always had a way with drunks.
Ray leaned into Ruff’s face with an earnest expression. “Hey, Mackie? Cut the shit. You don’t talk sense, you don’t drink. Got it?”
“And, in some ways it was quite different.”
“Ante up, Ruff. You either saw a cop car or you didn’t.”
Ruff glugged down some beer, then lifted the shot glass to his mouth with a trembling hand. Down went the booze. “It was hard to see because of the fog. I was sleeping and I heard the girl scream. Who was this girl, anyway? What’s the big deal?”
Jim explained that the woman was his sister, Ray’s wife, Poon’s daughter.
Mackie seemed first bewildered, then fixed. “The one that used to read a book while she roller-skated?”
Jim nodded.
“I’m sorry. How’s Poon taking it?”
“He’s handling it in his own quiet way.”
“What did you say he was doing these days?”
Jim sighed. “He’s in real estate. Has been for ten years.”
Ruff nodded, then reissued the same story he’d told Innelman.
“How’d you know he was a cop?” asked Ray.
“Because he got into a cop car and drove away. You guys don’t rent those things out, do you?”
“No, we don’t, Mackie,” said Ray. “That’s a stupid question for you to ask. Now, you followed him to the car?”
“Not exactly. I listened after he ran by and heard the engine start up. So I walked up toward the road and saw the car.”
“What did it look like?”
“You ought to know, you drive ’em.”
“Describe the car, Mackie.”
“White with a big dark sticker on the side, and a bunch of lights on top. You guys got to admit, a cop car is a cop car.”
“Could you see the … sticker?”
“I just told you I did.”
“What did it say?”
“Beats me. It was foggy.” Mackie drank deeply and shook his head. “That little Ann was a cutie.” For a moment, a look of deep loss etched itself into Ruff’s face. He shook his head again and looked down, as if contemplating a huge regret.
And with that movement, Jim guessed that Ruff knew something he wasn’t telling. Raymond caught it, too, looking over Mackie’s shoulder to behold Jim with a wide, open expression.
“Mackie,” said Jim. “If you couldn’t read it, how’d you know it said Newport Beach?”
Ruff’s faced reddened and his eyes went narrow. “I never said what it said. You guys said I said what it said. It was a cop car. It coulda been a Detroit cop car, for all I know. I’ve seen Sheriff cars down there, I’ve seen PacifiCo security cars down there, I’ve seen Highway Patrol cars down there. Take your pick.”
“Was it a black and white or just white?”
“Just white.”
Raymond pushed Ruff’s beer closer to him. “Mackie, when you saw the guy run, what color was the uniform? This can really help us.”
Ruff looked at Weir with an expression of complete annoyance. He sighed into his beer, drained it, and ordered another. He pushed the empty shot glass up behind the beer bottle as an afterthought. “What is it with you guys? Don’t you listen? I didn’t talk about any uniform because I didn’t see any uniform. The guy was wearing regular clothes, some jacket that flew up while he ran and a pair of plain old pants. Hope they fit better than these damned things,” he said, looking down at his filthy trousers.
How had Innelman missed this? Jim thought. He caught Raymond’s glance behind Ruff’s shoulder again, then put the photograph of Horton Goins on the bar. Mackie picked it up, shook his head, and put it down. “I couldn’t see that good. Pants and a coat. Coulda been a chick, for all I know.”
“Is that what you told Innelman?”
“I didn’t tell him nothin’. Didn’t like his attitude.”
Raymond smiled at Ruff and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing great, Mackie. I’m proud of you.”
Mackie turned to Weir, and for a moment another look of great sadness came to his face. “Annie,” he said. “Little Annie Weir.”
Jangle brought the breakfast. Ruff finished his in two minutes, then ordered a bag of peanuts, two pickled eggs, a candy bar, three packs of smokes, and another beer.
“Feel like I’m on a game show,” he said.
“You think this is a game,” said Ray, “I’m going to kick your stinking ass all the way back to jail.”
Mackie looked at Jim with an expression of appeal. Jim shrugged. “The woman who died down there, Ray loved her a lot. He’s got a short fuse these days.”
Ruff’s mouth hung open as he turned to Raymond. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be helpful.”
Mackie was nodding. He wiped his face rather formally with the napkin, tossed it onto his plate, then unscrewed himself from the stool and stood. “If you guys could give me a ride home, I think I got something to help.”
“I think you do, too,” said Ray.
Ruff’s “home” was a precarious collection of cardboard and scrap wood that was tucked into the far recess beneath the Coast Highway Bridge. Cars thundered by, a few feet overhead. The earth was damp and oily and packed, and the “walls” slouched at perilous angles, held in place by old tires, rocks, a five-gallon canister full of dirt, and the remains of a shopping cart. A collection of fishing rods leaned against the cement pylon of the bridge, no doubt scavenged by Mackie from forgetful fishermen on the bay. Ditto a red fuel tank, a diver’s mask and snorkel, a pair of good thermoses, and assorted bathing and wet suits.
Jim squatted on his haunches in front of Ruff. Raymond leaned against a pylon. Each passing car on Coast Highway sent a taut vibration into the ground, up the heels of Jim’s boots, straight into his ears. From this shaded lair, the bay looked glaringly bright. The bridge cast a thick angular shadow against the embankment, which seemed to divide Ruff’s dark world from the one just beyond it in the light. Weir watched Mackie lower himself into a reclaimed beach chair whose bottom was ready to tear out.
Ruff pursed his lips. “I got a legal question for you. Suppose a man knew something he didn’t tell the cops at first? How long in jail?”
“That depends on what it is, and how long he waits, and why.”
“I didn’t say it was me. I said ‘suppose.’ ”
“I didn’t say it was you, either,” said Weir. “But, just say for instance it was you, nobody would get too alarmed. You’re the kind of guy who’s been around the Bay a long time. You know everybody. You’re a solid citizen. When a guy like you offers something, everybody’s happy.”
Two Newport uniforms appeared above them, gazing over the bridge railing. They climbed over and slid down the embankment, straight into Mackie’s living room. It was only then that they recognized Raymond. “Checking out a complaint,” said the older one, Oswitz.
“We’re on it,” said Raymond.
“Who’s he?” Oswitz asked, indicating Jim.
“George Bush. What the fuck do you care?”
The younger cop, Hoch—Weir recognized him as the “Eat shit and die” guy from the station—never stopped staring at him.
“We’ve got this wrapped,” said Ray.
The two officers nodded with strange mixtures of arrogance and duty, then headed back up to the highway.
Mackie, smiling dreamily, reached inside a filthy tire and removed from its recessed curve a bottle of Thunderbird. There was actually some left. He unscrewed the top and tilted back the bottle. He offered it to Jim, then to Raymond, with the smug optimism of a drunk who knows he won’t have to share. “See, too many cops in this town. That one on the left took me in once for minding my own business. We stopped at the big sliding door where they have to call in through that speaker box, and he told me it was my last chance to eat and I’d better order up some food real quick. ‘Talk right into the speaker box,’ he says, He ordered a burger to fool me. ’Cept some other Newport cop already pulled that one on me and got a big laugh from his partner, so I told him if the food was so good, he could have it himself. I said, ‘Well, sir, I’ll have a martini up with a twist.’ Now that detective I talked to, in and out …?”
