The Fallen
- Автор: Паркер Т. Джефферсон
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 978-0-06-056238-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Fallen». Краткое содержание книги:
“That’s interesting we’ve both got videos we won’t watch,” said Stella. “Videos of the most important things in our lives, and we don’t want to see them.”
“I think ignoring certain things is good,” I said. “I don’t think people need to know everything.”
Her telephone rang again, startlingly loud in the high-ceilinged old room. It was a relief from having to talk about the Las Palmas. I still felt Malic close to me. I could still smell his breath.
Stella went into the kitchen. I could see her in the faint light as she picked up the phone. I heard without listening.
Hello? Oh, John... I’m feeling okay tonight, considering. You? Yeah, yeah, I know. I loved your words today about Garrett, I wanted to tell you again... Oh... Oh, I didn’t know that. Sure, I’d like to have it... Okay... Okay... Okay... I will. Good night.
Stella set the phone in its cradle and came back to the couch.
“Sorry. That was Van Flyke,” she said. “I left my memorial pamphlet at the grave site. He’s been a big help, but sometimes I think he’s taken this worse than I have.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He calls almost every day to make sure I’m okay, but he’s a wreck himself. I think he’s developing a crush on me. Under all that bossy cool, John’s got a good heart. He thought the world of Garrett. He treated Garrett like a big brother, even though John’s a few years older. I thought all that came across in the eulogy today.”
“I did, too.”
“So many people have offered help, gone out of their way for me,” she said. “Mom and Dad have been here for me. Samuel’s willing to do what he can, though he’s hurting, too. Abel Sarvonola’s trying to expedite the pension. The chief wants to create a memorial in Garrett’s honor. Sutherland and even Chet Fellowes have offered to take care of any financial or even household things that might need seeing to.”
“It’s nice when people surprise you.”
“Some surprises aren’t so nice. I understand why Garrett disliked Erik Kaven. He didn’t say one word to me until today. No call. No letter of condolence. No flowers sent to the chapel. He said nothing to the media about Garrett’s murder. Today he spoke to me just before he left. He looked at me as if I’d killed him myself and he said, ‘We must all look within ourselves at times like this.’ That’s all. End of statement. Like, if I looked far enough inside myself I’d find the murderer.”
I wondered how Kaven had risen to the directorship of the Ethics Authority on such a meager spirit. I thought of his shameless stare and his disheveled appearance. I wondered if underneath it — as underneath the dismissive arrogance of John Van Flyke — there was actually a decent guy with no idea how to express himself. I was not convinced there was. In my twenty-nine years of experience, I have found that most often people are exactly what they appear to be.
In the near dark I watched her move across the room to the stereo again. The tape quickly rewound then whined to a stop. I stood and went to the door.
“You can keep the tape,” I said. “I made it for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll get this guy.”
“I know you will.”
I looked at the two dead bolt locks and the chain lock on Stella’s door, then closed it and took the stairs down. The east breeze had turned warm and I could feel spring advancing. I slung my jacket over my shoulder and walked through the Gaslamp to Salon Sultra and wondered when I would get it through my head that she didn’t work there anymore. I sat on a bus-stop bench opposite the salon and watched the occasional car roll by. I wondered when Vince Brancini would call.
I drove back to Normal Heights wondering if making Stella Asplundh a copy of that tape was the right thing to do. I put myself in her shoes and asked myself if I would want a tape of my last conversation with Gina. Yes, certainly. Then I asked myself if I would listen to it.
I wasn’t certain of that at all.
25
McKenzie and I stood in the shade of the Dream Wheels building late the next morning, while sketch artist Kathy Iles finished with Cass. Our St. Patrick’s Day temperature was supposed to hit eighty degrees by the afternoon.
Kathy is an exceptionally good sketch artist because she makes the subject look like a real person instead of a generality or type. I’m sure you’ve seen sketches, or Identikit drawings, that don’t quite look like real people. Kathy won’t settle for that. I think her secret is how calming she is, how “okay” she can make things seem, even though many of the people she interviews are victims of terrible crimes. She takes her time and gets details that other artists miss because the witnesses are so upset. Kathy’s a big, easygoing woman and she’s very sensitive to people’s mood changes. She became a police artist because her mother was killed in a botched convenience-store robbery by a man who was never identified and never caught.
“Sorry,” she said as we stood in Cass’s office and looked at the fresh sketch. “The hat, the sunglasses, the mustache. He looks more like a disguise than a man. This isn’t one of my best.”
“It’s what he looked like, though,” said Cass. “You got him, really, you did.”
“Well, thanks,” said Kathy.
Her rendition of Hummer Man showed a heavy-faced, blue-collar guy who, just as Cass had suggested, might be found on the back of his pickup truck at a Chargers tailgate party at Qualcomm Stadium. The sunglasses and thick mustache hid much of what might have been revealing. Kathy was right: This was not her best. Her Hummer Man was vague and generic.
Physically, the man in the sketch looked a little like Mincher, but Mincher was still too young. And Mincher had an affable, southern attitude about him that didn’t fit Cass’s “screw you” description of Hummer Man. Unless, of course, Mincher was a talented actor.
I learned that Hummer Man was right-handed, which was something I’d forgotten to ask Cass myself.
Kathy had also gotten Cass to remember that Hummer Man’s fingernails were neatly trimmed and clean, in possible contrast to his overall appearance as a workingman. His hands looked smooth. I thought of Hummer Man’s new Chargers cap, the clean fingernails and smooth hands, and his superior attitude.
Then I thought of the surveillance tape that I’d seen, and the flash of shoe leather. What kind of shiny shoes would a working fellow be wearing on a drizzly, soon-to-be-rainy day?
It seemed wrong. I wondered if we were looking for a real workingman or for a guy who had tried to seem like one.
“Maybe that’s exactly what we’re looking at — a disguise,” I said.
“I did think there was something phony about him,” said Cass. “Just... off. He looked like a regular person trying to look like a famous person trying not to be recognized. Or something like that.”
Back at my desk I found a message that Assistant Chief Dale Payne of the New Orleans PD had called. I called him back.
“I’ve got everybody who came through the annex to claim those guns,” he said. “That includes us, Sheriffs, feds, everybody. I got badge and phone numbers. Took some doin’. So here goes. Maybe this’ll help you find out who walked out of here with my Model 39.”
I typed out the name, rank, and organization of each person who was present at the annex weapons release. Just as I had thought, the NOPD had not let Lieutenant Darron Wight handle the weapons transfer alone — he’d been assisted by Officers Clay Strunk and Gloria Escobedo. I was partly expecting to hear Ron Mincher’s name but was glad I didn’t. None of the six names were familiar to me.
I left messages for three of them, but the other three I managed to get live. I explained in brief, concise terms that I was looking for someone who had lifted a murder weapon that day in New Orleans.