Only the Wicked (8 page)

“What's all that about, Kennesaw?” Monk continued piloting the car south along Broadway.

“Testament and sacrifice.”

“Whose sacrifice? Yours or Patton's?”

“The people who cared.”

“What people?” Dellums chimed in.

Riles rubbed a hand over his whiskered jaw and began to sing softly. “
The levy done gone bone dry, the fields lie fallow like a virgin's heart, them cries are in the woods, I can hear my name on the steel
.” Kennesaw's voice was steeped in the sound of the Delta and its jukes.

“What is that, Kennesaw?” Monk asked. “That a song by Patton, that the ‘Killin' Blues'?” Monk was booming his voice in an effort to cut through the man's melancholy and whiskey stupor.

The PI reached El Segundo, then turned east, heading toward the address his cousin had given him earlier. They were now in Willowbrook, an area of the city lying between Watts and the city of Compton. It was straight out of Compton where Iva Tagorl, better known as one of the Tokyo Roses during WWII, went to high school; and, more recently, the city was infamous for gangsta rap. Riles was moaning and at first it seemed as if he might be crying. But he was singing again, slurring and whispering the refrain. Minutes went by as Monk drove.

“What's he goin' on about?” Dellums barked from the rear seat.

“The ‘Killin' Blues'; you ever hear of that, by Charlie Patton?” Monk reached San Pedro and made a right.

“No. You?”

“That's why I asked … no,” Monk said exasperated, “I haven't, either. But I'm more of a jazz man than a blues collector, so I'm no expert.”

He looked over at Riles. His cousin's mouth was agape and his eyes shut. “Kennesaw,” he hollered, “why are the ‘Killin' Blues' after you? Because of Marshall Spears?”

There was no answer as Monk continued driving. He got to 138th and made a left. He slowed and found the modest house his cousin said once belonged to an old girlfriend. The abode was one of a variety of California Craftsmen that were ubiquitous in older neighborhoods. This one had a peaked roof reminiscent of a Swiss chalet with a touch of Japanese influence exemplified in the ornate upswept eaves. There were white security bars on the windows and a matching heavy mesh screen door over the entrance. Water stains had oxidized to rusty brown on the metal door, making it look like a pelt left too long in the sun.

“This is it, right, Kennesaw?” Monk peered at the house.

“I think he's asleep,” Dellums said.

Monk looked over. Riles was slumped against the door, his head pressed against the glass. He shook the older man's arm. Nothing. “Kennesaw.”

The moan gurgled up from the other man like a desolate wind seeping through the reeds along the Mississippi's banks. Riles grabbed at his head, crushing his Sonny Boy in his workman-like hands. He pulled the hat down across his face, sobbing as he did so. “I got to rest.”

“You going to be all right?” Monk asked, concerned. He looked hard at Dellums.

“I can stay with him tonight,” the other man said, reading the intent in Monk's face. “As long as he's got a TV in there and I can catch an old shoot-'em-up on it.”

“I'd appreciate that, Mr. Dellums. I can come back for you in the morning.”

“Good. Help me get him inside.”

“I will make sure I pay my debt,” Riles said as Monk supported his cousin to the door.

“Your riddles are startin' to bug me, cuz.”

Kennesaw Riles settled bleary eyes on him. “You and your mama close, Ivan?”

“Yes,” he confirmed proudly.

Awkwardly, the two ascended the steps, Dellums behind them.

Riles leaned against the door, digging his walking stick into the toe of his left shoe.

“Why don't we get inside,” Dellums said to no one in particular. He came forward and placed a hand on Riles' shoulder. “Give me the keys, huh?”

Riles had his head down, watching the tip of his cane scuff the finish off his shoe. He had his cap in his other hand, kneading it in his fist. He dropped the cap and rummaged in his pocket. A crooked smile on his face made it appear lopsided. It took several moments to get his set of keys free.

The two got the drunk man inside and onto the couch.

He stretched out, holding onto his cane with both hands as if it were a talisman he needed to lead him out of the depths of the pit. Monk put his cousin's cap on an end table. Riles' eyelids were lowered, and he talked quietly to himself.

Dellums walked into the kitchen, and put the tray of food Little had given them in the refrigerator. He returned to the front room. There was a portable TV on a circular table in the corner of the small and cluttered living room. There were too many chairs, as if they'd been hoarded against a time when such items would no longer be manufactured. Dellums sat in a rocker with paisley padding near the TV. He turned it on.

“I'm going to leave my home number on this paper, Mr. Dellums,” Monk said. “I'll be there the rest of the evening.”

“Okay.” The older man was clicking through the various channels, settling on a war picture on KCAL 9. He was quickly becoming lost in its progress.

“If you need me for anything, call at any time.” Monk placed the paper underneath the hat on the end table. He crossed to the door. Nearby on the wall was a small frame, dingy glass partially obscuring the photo inside. He peered closer and could discern Kennesaw Riles, Central Avenue hip in a bulky sport coat and broad-brimmed hat in hand. He was wearing the same coat now. Riles had his foot on the front bumper of a '53 dark-colored Kaiser, four-door. Behind him Monk could make out part of a neon sign, off, on a building. It was the Nile. Worry and burden were far from the unlined smiling face in the picture. The club's façade had an Egyptian-moderne panache. A light-skinned woman showing big teeth stood next to him. There was a lot he had to catch up on with his cousin. He wouldn't make the same mistake he'd made with Spears.

“I'll see you tomorrow, about ten, Mr. Dellums.”

The old man waved listlessly as a blazing Thompson raked a Quonset hut.

Chapter 5

“That's workin' real good, chief.”

“Certainly,” Monk said, effort in his voice. “This stuff you got is all that.” He stopped rubbing, studying the refurbished sheen of the leather he'd been buffing. A lustrous area had been revealed among the dull pallor of the booth's padded back. The patch was like an eye gazing out on the early morning environs of Continental Donuts.

Elrod, the six-foot-eight, 325-pound ex-burglar and current manager of the facility, picked up the pale green plastic bottle of leather cleaner. He poured an amount on his rag and went to work on the bench seat opposite. “Not that the regulars will notice.” His powerful strokes cleared a swath across the booth's leather like a scraper across an icy windshield.

“You know our customers expect the best, even if they don't say it all the time.” Monk smiled, soaked his rag, and continued rubbing. “How's that night class of yours going?”

“Cool. Being adept with tools gives me a confidence in working with refrigeration and compressor units,” he replied laconically. The bench seat he was working on was nearly clean.

Monk remembered when he'd first hired Elrod. He'd been warned against it by his mother and Dexter Grant, the ex-cop and former PI he'd gotten his license under. They told him it was good of him to want to help a man like Elrod, but Elrod's size and usual unreadable demeanor didn't instill serenity in the wary.

Monk never did decide why he'd been willing to take a chance on the big man, since he did share his mom's and Dexter's misgivings. But he'd already been through three managers, including one who turned out to believe that maple bars contained secret messages from the netherworld. What the hell was there to lose? And a brother from the 'hood, who wanted to turn his life around, seemed a good fit for a part-time capitalist with a small business on the edge of the Crenshaw District.

“See you been hitting more than just the text books,” Monk commented.

“Been readin' Ralph Ellison's
Shadow and Act
like you suggested.” Elrod poured some more solution on his rag and started on the next booth.

The bell over the door jingled and a square-shouldered black man in a dark blue three-piece pin-striped suit with an open-collared shirt walked through the door. He had a Strike Anywhere Diamond kitchen match dangling from one corner of his mouth, a hint of a smile on his lips.

It took Monk a moment to recognize Roberts. He was a plain-clothes homicide detective he'd met a few years ago on a case involving a buried body at Florence and Normandie.

Monk kept working but said, “What brings Hollywood Division over to see me, Sergeant?”

Roberts sat with his back to the counter, swiveling back and forth on a stool. “I'm over at Southwest now, Mr. Monk.” He worked the wooden match from side to side. His knees would point left, the match would go right.

Monk raised an eyebrow but kept silent. The cop would get to it.

Roberts aimed a thumb at the just-brewed pot of coffee. “Mind if I pour myself some?”

Elrod started to speak, then looked at Monk, who inclined his head. “Knock yourself out,” the manager said ruefully.

Roberts did so, tossing his chewed match in the wastebasket after he poured some coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He stood at the window, looking out at the haze lifting off the morning. “When was the last time you saw your cousin, Kennesaw Riles?” He turned, blowing at the steam rising from his cup.

So that was it. “Are you telling me he's been murdered?” Monk finally stopped cleaning.

“'Fraid so, Monk. He was found by a Mr. Dellums yesterday morning in his bathroom.”

“Shit,” Monk threw the rag on the booth's table. Somewhere a mooring had broken loose. He sat down heavily. “Burglary?” He sensed Elrod flinching.

“Yes and no,” Roberts said, moving forward a few steps. “It looked like natural causes, an old man collapses in his robe and pajamas, draped over the bathtub.” Roberts made a semi-circular motion with the cup.

“The ME would be obliged to do an autopsy.” A clinical detachment colored Monk's voice.

“It looked like a heart attack,” Roberts said. “And that's what she confirmed after her first examination.”

“So where did you come in?”

“The old man, Dellums, insisted there was one of those fire-safe boxes under Riles' bed was missing.”

“But that could still have been a burglary and unintentional manslaughter,” Monk countered. “Say some cat surprised Kennesaw, he keels over, and the dude takes off with the goods.” Monk paused, then went on thinking aloud. “And what the hell could have been in the box? Probably personal items some stupid neighborhood thief thought would be hundred dollar bills.” The waste of both lives made him shake his head.

“Uh-huh, that ain't a bad scenario. I knocked it around myself in my head a few times.” Roberts put his cup on the table in the booth where Monk sat.

Elrod went to work on another booth.

“Fact, I probably would have gone with that notion, except of course no forced entry, which could still mean somebody he knew.”

“Or answering a knock,” Elrod put in.

Roberts' lizard-lidded eyes briefly flashed wide. Normally, he usually seemed half-awake, as if missing or not comprehending events around him. But Monk knew from the past Roberts assessed and weighed every word and action, and their nuances. “But then there is the old man.”

“Dellums,” Monk supplied.

“He's wearin' my ear out about how Riles had been going on about his sins catching up to him. I guess y'all had been at a funeral last Saturday?”

“That's right,” Monk said. “I dropped them off at Kennesaw's place afterward in Willowbrook. Mr. Dellums was kind enough to stay with him.” Recalling his own fuzzy awakening Sunday, he added, “We'd all been sampling the joy juice at the wake.”

“And you never saw your cousin after that?” Roberts had more coffee.

“I came by and got Mr. Dellums the next morning. Kennesaw was on the couch, but not in too good a shape. He said he wanted to talk with me about Mississippi, but later when he wasn't hungover. He went back to sleep, and Mr. Dellums and I left.”

“This is Friday,” Roberts said unnecessarily.

“I had to go out of town on Tuesday to finish up a chicken-stealing matter in Flagstaff,” Monk offered without further explanation. “I got back yesterday, and intended to call Kennesaw today or this weekend.”

“His phone records indicate he called your office on Tuesday, and he talked for about three minutes.” Roberts' hooded eyes disappeared in a ribbon of vapor as he held the cup to his lips.

“Yeah,” Monk answered, fingering the cloth. “He talked with Delilah, who told him I would be in today. I have my hotel receipt, Mr. Roberts.”

“I'm sure you do. But you ain't my suspect anyway.”

Elrod kept buffing.

Roberts returned to the counter.

A customer entered and Monk filled his order for a bear claw and a large hot chocolate. He started to sit down, but the three pairs of baleful eyes drove him out the door. The PI sat next to the cop at the counter, placing his elbows on its just-polished surface. Behind them, Elrod moved silently and efficiently in his task of restoring the sheen to the leather.

“I had the medical examiner do a chemical analysis on your cousin, after talking with Mr. Dellums some more.” Roberts had his notepad on the counter, open. His handwriting was compact, controlled, suggesting a linear personality. “There was an over-abundance of a substance called Digoxin in his system. It's a prescription medication for a heart condition. Too much at any one time speeds up the heart, which could cause it to give out.”

Monk realized where he was going and said, “Old folks get confused about their doses all the time.”