Flipping Out (23 page)

'Funny,
he didn't mention the million bucks yesterday when we talked to him,' Terry
said. 'I think we should go back to Cedars and have another little chat with
Detective Knoll.'

'Drop
me off at the office first,' Muller said.

'Take
the laptop back with you,' I said. 'Spend a few hours seeing what else you can
find.'

'Or
maybe I can just conjure up Nora and save time,' Muller said laughing.

'Kiss
my ass,' Terry said.

'Deal
with it, Biggs. Today I'm the dog, and you're the hydrant.'

'OK,
you conned me, but for my twenty bucks, are you at least gonna tell me how you
came up with the password?'

'When
Nora was working on a new murder mystery, did she ever ask for help?' Muller
said.

'Constantly.
She'd call or e-mail or even come to the station and bombard me with questions
about guns, interrogation techniques, homicide procedure, you name it. Mike and
I were always helping to make sure she got her facts straight.'

'Yeah,
Nora asked a lot of people for help,' Muller said. An impish grin spread across
his face. 'Who do you think installed all the software on her laptop?'

We
weren't ready to tell Kilcullen about Martin's voice mail from the grave or
Charlie's million-dollar windfall. So we dropped Muller off at the station,
told him to dig deeper into Nora's computer files, but to keep it under the
radar. Then we drove toward Cedars-Sinai.

A
few blocks shy of the hospital Terry pulled into Tully's, a Starbucks clone. We
not only needed the caffeine, we needed to regroup before we met with Charlie.

The
morning rush was over. Half a dozen loners were reading the paper or working on
laptops. We ordered coffee and sat down in the back.

'What
do you think?' I said.

'I
think it was really nice of Martin to give us a lead after the case was solved,
but he was totally dicking us around. Charlie didn't have a solid alibi for
Julia's murder. Martin was making sure we knew Charlie also had a motive.'

'There's
only one small flaw in his logic,' I said. 'Why call and leave a message
pointing the finger at Charlie, if he was planning to shoot Marisol the next
morning while Charlie was still in the hospital?'

'Because
he was drunk? Because he was a wannabe mystery writer who thought he was
smarter than real cops? Because he was hoping to earn a special place in our
Really Dumb Fucking Criminals file? Stop me when you hear something you like.'

'OK,
I expect a mass murderer to lie to us,' I said. 'But why did Charlie lie?
Remember what he said? If it was his case he'd follow the money, and he told us
to start out by talking to Martin. What about the million dollars he's
inheriting from his wife?

'Technically,
he didn't lie about it,' Terry said.

'No.
He just left out a shitload of truth.'

'This
is getting messy,' Terry said. 'Charlie is a poker buddy, a fellow cop, someone
we trusted. And now we find out that he was boning some chick, probably at the
very same time his wife gets murdered. On top of that, Julia is a starving poet
who suddenly comes into a million dollars right before she gets whacked, and
Charlie collects that. And as soon as her funeral is over, he's going to get on
a boat and sail to the other end of the world.'

'What's
your point?'

'Do
you really want all that incriminating shit in a report that Mel Berger is
going to use to kiss some political ass?'

'If
it's not relevant to the case,' I said, 'we can leave it out.'

'Of
course it's not relevant. Charlie's innocent. He didn't kill anybody.'

'Not
Marisol, but are you convinced he didn't kill any of the others?'

'I'd
bet a dollar on it, dude.'

'Would
you bet your reputation on it?' I said.

Terry
sat back in his seat and mulled over the question. 'I don't have a reputation,'
he finally answered. 'We do. And if you're not sure, then I'm not sure.'

'Thanks,'
I said. 'You may be right that technically Charlie didn't lie to us, but we're
investigating a multiple homicide, and he held back two major pieces of
information. Let's try to find out why.'

Terry
bought a cappuccino to go. 'For Charlie,' he said, it feels less adversarial if
you have coffee with a guy before you interrogate him. It's a little technique
I learnt from the mafia.'

The
cappuccino was still hot when we got to Charlie's hospital room. Unfortunately,
his bed was cold.

'He
checked out a few hours ago,' the nurse said.

'I
thought he was having an angiogram this morning,' I said.

'He
did,' she said. 'They took him at six. They didn't find anything wrong, so he
left. Is there anything I can do for you?'

Terry
handed her the cappuccino. 'Here,' he said. 'Hold this till a cop comes.'

We
walked back to the car, and I dialled Charlie's cell phone.

'I'm
out on Reggie's boat,' he said.

'Can
we get together and talk?'

'Can
you swim?'

'Come
on, Charlie.'

'Look,
Mike, my wife's murder is solved. I'm free to roam. So I'm out here where I can
clear my head. What's so important you need talk about?'

'The
million bucks.'

He
took a few seconds before he answered. 'What about it?'

'You
never mentioned it.'

'It
was a gift from Nora to Julia on her fortieth birthday. There was no reason to
mention it. How'd you hear about it anyway?'

'Martin
Sorensen.'

'I
thought he was dead.'

'His
anal-retentive legacy lives on,' I said. 'Living or dead, he's very efficient.
Apparently you're going to inherit the million Nora gave your wife.'

'I
only inherit half a mill. One half is already mine. It's jointly held -
invested in the market. You think I killed my wife for money we already had?
You're way off base, Lomax.'

'I
didn't say that.'

'I'm
waiting for Julia and Nora to be released from the morgue, so I'm spending the
day with Reggie because I've got funerals to plan, and he's got a lot of
experience.'

'Look,
Charlie, I just want to—'

'I'm
losing the signal, Detective Lomax. If you want to arrest me, I'll be back
tonight. You can meet me at the dock.'

He
hung up.

'From
what I could hear,' Terry said, 'that didn't go well, did it?'

I
shook my head and closed my eyes. I remembered how I felt almost two years ago
when my wife was newly dead. Angry. Non-communicative. Not willing to reach out
for help, even when it was offered. If anyone could appreciate what Charlie was
going through, it was me. I'd talk to him some other time.

But
damned if I'd bring him cappuccino.

Chapter
Forty-Six

We
drove to the morgue. Eli Hand, our favourite pathologist, was assigned to do
the autopsies on Marisol and Martin.

As
a young man Eli trained as a rabbi, but he quickly realised he was missing one
of the key qualities of an effective spiritual leader. He couldn't stand
people.

At
least, not the live ones. So he went to med school and has spent the last
forty-plus years working with the dead.

'I
don't understand why more doctors don't work with dead patients,' he tells
every new detective who steps up to his autopsy table. 'They don't call you at
home in the middle of the night. They don't have a shit fit if you show up late
to cut out their vital organs. And they never ask for a second opinion.' Then
he gives one of those borscht- belt comic shrugs. 'Sure, they smell bad, but
it's a small price to pay.'

He's
a total curmudgeon, but a very funny one. The public would be horrified to hear
how much laughter comes out of his autopsy room. He's known around the morgue
as the Jewish Cutup.

'It's
going to take most of the day to do both of them,' Eli said. 'You guys need to
stay for the whole thing?'

Normally,
Terry and I are in the room for the entire autopsy, in case we have to testify
in court. But there would be no trial for Martin Sorensen, at least not here on
Earth.

'We've
got a lot to do,' I said. 'Why don't we stay long enough to get a top line. We
can read the rest of the gory details in your report.'

'Fine
by me,' Eli said, walking us to the steel table where Marisol was waiting to be
dissected.

For
all his crustiness, Eli still has the compassion of a rabbi.

'Such
a beautiful young woman,' he said after he confirmed that Marisol was shot in
the head with a low- velocity hollow-point .22. 'Same basic wound that killed
the others. Such a tragedy. It's a
shonda.'

Then
his lips moved silently. It was a Hebrew prayer for the dead. He never says it
out loud. I once asked him why.

'You
know what happens if someone who works for the county gets caught drinking on the
job?' he said. 'They send you to rehab. But if you get caught praying, they
fire you on the spot, because they know there's no cure.'

His
initial findings on Martin Sorensen confirmed Tony's story. 'Talk about
overkill,' Eli said. 'Any one of these bullets would have done the trick. But,
in this guy's case, I'm glad Detective Dominguez made triple sure.'

To
his credit, Eli also mouthed a prayer for Martin. His philosophy: let God sort
them out.

We
got back to the office at 4:00 p.m.

'The
lieutenant told me to remind you about the paperwork,' Wendy said.

'Where
is he?'

'He's
out at an antiterrorist meeting, but he'll be back. He's been getting pressure
from city hall to close up this case.'

'City
hall?' Terry said. 'That's where all the real terrorists hang out.'

We
checked in with Muller.

'Just
the cops I wanted to see,' he said.

'You've
got "interesting news" written all over your face,' I said.

'Maybe.
You know Gaffney McDonough, right?'

McDonough
is a baby-faced detective who retired from LAPD and took the path of least
resistance. He became a PI. Now he spends most of his time peeping through
windows watching middle-aged rich guys get their knobs polished by girls with a
chest full of silicone and a head full of dreams. LA is full of opportunities.
You just have to find your own special niche.

'The
Gaffer?' I said. 'He's a good guy. Terry and I have been known to reach out to
him every now and then. Especially when we need to dig up some sensitive
information, and the judge won't cooperate unless we can show cause. A private
cop has a lot more latitude.'

'Right,'
Terry said. 'McDonough bends the law, they call it free enterprise. We do it,
and it's a felony.'

'Tell
me about it,' Muller said. 'Hacking into the Pentagon's mainframe is cake.
Getting a warrant is the bitch. Anyway, Gaffney McDonough's name pops up a
bunch of times on Nora Bannister's Quicken file. She was paying him a literary
consulting fee.'

'Paying?'
Terry said. 'Nora picked our brains for free, but I guess Gaffney does nothing
for nothing. How much was he charging?'

'Most
of the payments are small,' Muller said. 'He got six consults in the past year.
Five hundred, seven-fifty, four and a quarter, ten thousand...'

'Run
that last one by us again,' I said.

'That's
what I thought,' Muller said. 'The last cheque was for ten Gs. Nora cut it two
weeks before Jo Drabyak was murdered. Unless Nora's next book stars Gaffney
McDonough, Private Investigator, I'm wondering what kind of literary consulting
he was doing for ten thousand bucks.'

'We
should definitely give him a ring,' I said.

Muller
handed me a piece of paper. 'I just happen to have his number handy.'

I
called.

'We
can do it in a couple of hours,' McDonough said. 'I'll call you back with a
time and place.'

There
was no sense driving back to the Valley, so we decided to hang out and work on
our report.

Kilcullen
came back at seven.

'You
guys got the paperwork wrapped up?' he said.

'Almost.
We're waiting for one last autopsy report,' I lied. 'Plus there are a few loose
ends.'

'This
case is locked up tighter than a witch's butt crack,' Kilcullen said. 'What do
you mean by loose ends?'

'Martin
Sorensen left me a middle-of-the-night voice mail. I picked it up this morning.
Julia's murder is going to leave Charlie a much richer man. A million dollars
richer.'

'His
wife dies, he gets her money,' Kilcullen said. 'Who gives a shit? Sorensen was
yanking your dick. The case is done, finished, kaput. We've got a killer. We've
got a hero cop who put him out of business. Are you jealous because Tony is
front page, and you're staying late to crank out the paperwork? Get over it.'