Moist (13 page)

D
ON RETURNED TO
Parker Center. He was beat. He had a headache. The drive back from Hollywood hadn't helped. He felt frayed, like everything he'd been working for was starting to unravel because some loser broke up with his girlfriend. He realized he should've stopped at a Starbucks and gotten a latte or something.

Flores was at his desk reading the paper when Don sat down next to him.

“Didn't you already read that?”

Flores looked up.

“Yeah.”

“So why're you reading it again?”

“I'm bored.”

Don rifled through his messages.

“The evidence ever show up anywhere?”

“The arm?”

“Yeah, the arm.”

“Nope.”

Don slammed some paper into his trash can in frustration.

“Where the fuck is it?”

“Wait a day, you'll be able to smell it.”

Don wrinkled his nose. He did not like the smell of dead things. That was one of the reasons he'd moved from Homicide to Criminal Intelligence. Much better to sit in a van pulling surveillance for twenty-four mind-numbing hours than to pop the trunk on a Ford Taurus at LAX that's got a month-old corpse. Even though the delay was driving him crazy, Don was glad that they'd sent the arm to the lab for treatment.

“They treated it. It won't smell.”

Flores put down his paper.

“Yeah, right.”

“Well, it's not supposed to smell as bad.”

“Dead things smell.”

Flores went back to reading his paper. Don headed for the coffeemaker. He needed some caffeine. It might help him focus. He knew that when he got frustrated his brain had a tendency to become fragmented, to drift off down meaningless tributaries, winding around until it finally came to a complete and utter dead end. Don needed to get back to basics. Back to the who, what, why, when, where, and how of criminal investigation.

He poured a cup of the thick institutional brew, stirred in a packet of chemical sweetener and a blop of Irish crème-flavored nondairy additive, and headed back to his desk. Don had always considered himself a good judge of character. His instincts were sharp. First things first. Find Bob. Don sipped his coffee and thought about it. If he were Bob and he'd just broken up with his girlfriend, what would he do? Don knew instantly what he'd do. He'd go crawling back to Maura. He turned to Flores.

“I'm going to be putting in some overtime tonight.”

Flores didn't even bother to look up from the paper. He was asleep.

. . .

Esteban was amazed. Despite the fact that one of the arms was gray and getting a little shriveled, they were almost identical.

“You, my friend, are a true artist.”

The biker smiled.

“Give it some time to set and it'll look even better.”

Esteban grunted.

“It's good enough right now.”

The biker stood up and wiped the ink off his fingers.

“I know I shouldn't ask, but I have to admit I'm curious what you're going to do with these two arms.”

Esteban smiled. This was the part he liked, the gossip that would circulate around the criminal underworld of Los Angeles for the next few weeks. No one would know exactly what he was up to, they would just know that he was carrying around a severed arm. This would enhance his reputation. Make people wonder. Instill a little fear. It was good for business.

“It's a practical joke.”

“A joke?”

“On the police.”

The biker grinned.

“Those are the best kind.”

. . .

Norberto was shaken. He'd been so stoned that he'd forgotten to turn off Esteban's psycho antitheft device. He was
just lowering himself into the driver's seat when Esteban shouted at him. Another second and he'd have gotten fifteen inches of cold metal fleshette rammed up his ass. But Esteban shouted, causing him to launch himself out of the car in the nick of time. He sprawled on the street, his heart pounding so fast he thought it might come popping right out of his chest.

It had been a
milagro.
Some saint was looking down on him and decided to spare him. Maybe this was a lesson. Maybe an omen. Norberto didn't know for sure, but he knew it was something. Someone was trying to send him a message.

Even as his mind filled with the Holy Spirit and his adrenal glands pulsated furiously, Norberto felt so relaxed, and so high, that all he could do was lie on the street laughing uncontrollably. He was sure he'd shit himself. And that only made him laugh harder.

Amado extended his hand.

“Come on,
pendejo,
get up.”

Norberto couldn't. He was paralyzed with laughter. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I shit myself,
cabrón.
”

“You still have to get up,
vato.
”

Norberto saw Esteban out of the corner of his eye. Esteban's face was screwed up and cold. Killer cold. It scared Norberto straight enough to take Amado's hand and stand up.

“Sorry. Sorry, Esteban.”

Esteban took the keys from Norberto.

“Vamos.”

Norberto wiped the tears from his eyes and went around to the passenger side. His face flushed with embarrassment,
just like when he went to school and the teachers made fun of him for doing something stupid. Norberto hated that feeling. He got in the car and buckled his seat belt.

Bob was sitting in back with Martin. The fat guy was crushed between the two gringos, his head flopped over onto Bob's shoulder, a thin line of spittle running the length of his torso. Bob pushed the fat guy over toward Martin. Martin pushed him back.

“What the fuck're you doin', man?”

“My tattoo's getting jammed against the door.”

“Well, you should've thought of that.”

“I thought we were going to put him back in the trunk.”

Norberto loved to hear the gringos bicker. That whiny nasal edge coming into their voices. There was never any threat of violence. No one would throw a punch or pull a knife. Gringos were too polite. They'd just argue like old women for the rest of the ride home.

Norberto wiggled his butt against the seat, trying to feel if he had actually shit himself. He didn't detect anything sticky or slimy so . . .
no problema,
man. He could sit back, relax, let Esteban drive, and see if he could locate the buzz he'd had before.

Then Esteban turned to him, and said, “We need a chain saw.”

And that killed what was left of his buzz.

. . .

Maura watched as her last client of the day, a thin wisp of a man with a giant penis, slowly reached orgasm. What a strange day she'd had.

Even though her thoughts were elsewhere she spoke soothingly to the man in the chair as he stroked his cock furiously.

“Relax. Breathe into the sensation. Let it ascend slowly up your spine until it reaches your cerebral cortex.”

A surprisingly small drop of spunk leaped out of him and landed on his arm. Maura handed him a box of tissues.

“Let the energy of the orgasm flow through your entire body, refreshing, replenishing, and reenergizing you.”

It suddenly flashed in her mind that maybe that's what Bob's problem was. He'd repressed his wild side for so long that now he was on some kind of rampage. Bob was in trouble. He would probably lose his job. The police were looking for him. He was moving out. He'd probably end up homeless. Maura hoped that didn't happen. Bob on a rampage was still Bob.

. . .

Bob sat in the back of the car pinned under the unconscious fat guy. His tattoo was being rubbed raw against the door. Bob pushed the fat guy over toward Martin, but Martin must've had some kind of leverage because Bob pushed as hard as he could and the only thing that changed was the fat guy's breathing.

When the car made a turn to the left, Bob's arm stung under the weight of the fat guy combined with the centrifugal force of the car. Bob was worried that his tattoo might smear or become damaged. He put his foot on the door, deciding to wait until the car made a hard right and then use his leg to muscle the fat guy over on Martin.

While this reverse tug-of-war was going on, Martin sat there reading him the riot act. Telling him that he didn't know the first fucking thing about La Eme. As if Martin were Don Corleone and Bob some chump who'd just fallen off the turnip truck. The more Martin talked, the more annoyed Bob became. He realized that there is nothing worse than a know-it-all stoner telling you what your problem is.

In the front seat Bob saw that Amado and Norberto were chuckling. Laughing at the two white boys in the back. Talking about them softly in Spanish. Bob felt a pressure beginning to build in his chest. He tried to control it, but Martin was still going on and on.

Bob snapped. He shifted in his seat for a better angle and then drove his right fist into the side of Martin's head.

“Shut up.”

Sucker punched, Martin's head snapped hard to one side and banged against the window frame. Then he slumped against the door. Lights out.

Bob shoved the fat guy over on top of Martin.

Then he had a thought. Dread washed over Bob. He wondered if he'd crossed the line and now they were going to kill him. But that didn't happen. Esteban turned to Bob and looked him right in the eye.

“Gracias, Roberto.”

Bob nodded that knowing head bob that means “It's cool” or “No problem.”

Amado and Norberto giggled in the front seat like schoolgirls.

“Qué bárbaro.”

Amado turned to Esteban, and said, “Maybe we should
change his name from Roberto to Lucho because he likes to fight.”

Bob smiled. Maybe smacking Martin upside the head was a good thing. It improved his standing with the guys and, surprisingly, relaxed him. He flexed his hand, the knuckles red from impact. Bob felt good. He rolled down his window and took a breath of fresh air. He checked his tattoo to see if it was all right. It was still as beautiful as ever.

. . .

Don sat in his car across the street from Maura's apartment building just off Sunset Boulevard in the Silver Lake neighborhood of LA. Don had told the captain that he needed to put in some overtime to try to track down some missing evidence, but that was only part of it. Don couldn't help himself. There was something about Maura that he found so interesting and so compelling that here he was, sitting in his car, waiting for her to come home.

He saw her drive past in an old Galaxy 500. The car looked to be in pretty good shape; she must've had it restored. A cool car for a cool woman. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her. Don watched her get out of her car and enter the building. He admired the way she walked. She had a purpose, a sense of herself. And those tits. The way they heaved slightly as she moved. Don tried not to think about women in the overtly sexual way he heard in the precinct locker room. In his mind, he was looking for someone with more than a nice rack. Still, when a man's confronted with a pair of breasts, well, he can't help but
think in those terms. He watched her ass as she walked into her building. Nice rack, tight ass. She was a great-looking package.

Don knew from experience to give her a few minutes to use the bathroom, check her messages, and relax a little. Otherwise she'd be unsettled and try to get rid of him. Give her some time and she might even welcome him in, pour him a glass of wine. Don smiled at the thought of that. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes.

. . .

The more Maura thought about it, the angrier she got. Who the fuck did Bob think he was? She had been the one who was changing her life, putting the wheels in motion, building up a head of steam. She was the one who was going to venture forth into the big and exciting world. But no. Bob had beaten her to the punch. He'd stolen her thunder. Cut her off from her momentum. Let the air out of her tires. Now she was stuck looking at all their crappy furniture in this funky old apartment. Her life with Bob hung from her neck like a giant inflatable mascot in a used-car lot. A forty-foot plastic albatross. God, it pissed her off.

She saw his laptop sitting on the desk and impulsively slid it into the trash can with a satisfying thunk. She looked at if for a moment, realized the immaturity of her act, and then reached in and put it back on the desk. It pissed her off that she was so pissed off. Who was Bob that he could push her buttons like that? He was just a fucking guy. A young dude. Oh, he had some special qualities, she had to admit,
but nothing earth-shattering. No, Bob was not one in a million, he was one of a million. Maura realized she was grinding her teeth.

The knock on the door came as a relief.

“I hope I'm not bothering you.”

Maura recognized the detective.

“No. Please.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a seat.”

She closed the door behind him and pointed to the couch. She saw the detective take in the room with a couple of quick sweeping glances.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.”

“I could make coffee. Or I've got some wine.”

“Wine sounds great.”

The detective sat on the couch as Maura hurried into the kitchen. She returned with two glasses and a bottle of pinot noir from somewhere in Oregon.

“Sorry, this is all I've got.”

The detective smiled at her.

“That's a good bottle.”

She was surprised.

“You like wine?”

“It's sort of a passion of mine.”

Maura shrugged.

“I thought cops drank beer.”

“We usually do.”

She expertly uncorked the bottle and poured him a glass.

“Thanks.”

She watched as he spun the wine around to aerate it and then took a small slurpy sip, allowing the wine to dance on his tongue.