The Face (15 page)

“Me neither,” Hazard said dryly.

Reynerd glanced at the windows, where the sodden gray twilight slowly expired beyond the glass.

He shifted his attention to the television. Gable and Colbert remained frozen in flirtatious argument.

At last Reynerd rose from the sofa, but then hesitated, looking down at the bags of potato chips.

Watching this peculiar performance, Hazard wondered if the actor was approaching that amped-out condition in which a meth freak can slide precipitously from a peak of hyperacute awareness down into a haze of disorientation, into crushing exhaustion.

When the bell rang again, Reynerd finally crossed the living room. “These geeks are always coming around selling Jesus,” he said irritably, wearily, and opened the door.

From the armchair, Hazard couldn’t see who fired the shots. The hard
boom, boom, boom
of three rapid reports, however, told him that the killer was packing a high-caliber piece, maybe a .357, or bigger.

Unless Seventh Day Adventists had adopted hard-sell techniques, Reynerd had been mistaken about the purpose of the caller.

Hazard came up from the armchair on the second
boom,
reached for his holstered pistol on the third.

As mortal now as even Gable and Bogart had proved to be, Reynerd jolted backward, went down, casting a Technicolor splatter across the black-and-white apartment in which he had been so wide, so deep, so
alive
.

Moving toward the actor, Hazard heard running footsteps in the public hall.

Reynerd had taken three rounds point-blank in his broad chest, including one that must have punched significant scraps of his heart muscle through an exit wound in his back. He’d been mortuary material even as he fell.

The death-blinded blue of the actor’s shock-widened eyes seemed less cold than they had been in life. He looked as if he needed some Jesus now.

Hazard stepped over the body, out of the apartment. He saw the shooter reach the end of the hallway. The guy leaped down the stairs two at a time. Hazard went after him.

CHAPTER 21

A
BOVE THE CITY, AS THE RETREATING DAY SHED its grizzled beard in wet ravelings of mist and drab drizzles, the hard face of night had not quite yet appeared.

On a west-side street of art galleries, of high-end shops, of restaurants in which elitist attitude was served more efficiently than the food, Ethan tucked the Expedition tight up against a red curb, two wheels in a flooded gutter, confident that the parking patrol issued tickets far less enthusiastically in foul weather than in fair.

The businesses in this neighborhood, seeking a sophisticated and exclusive clientele, stood behind shop fronts without flash, relying on subdued signage. Mere money shouts; wealth whispers.

The retail shops were not yet closed, and most restaurants were an hour away from opening their doors. Early lamplight gilded the dripping leaves of curbside trees and transformed the wet sidewalk into a path paved with pirates’ treasure.

Without umbrella, Ethan moved in the shelter of shop awnings, all of which were tan or forest-green, silver or black, except for that in front of Forever Roses, which was a deep coral-pink.

The florist’s shop might as aptly have been named Only Roses, for beyond the glass doors of the coolers that lined the big front room, no flowers other than roses could be seen, along with supplies of cut ferns and other greenery that were used to soften bright bouquets and arrangements.

Because of Hannah’s gardening interests, now even five years after she had been laid to rest under mounded roses, Ethan could identify many of the varieties in the coolers.

Here was a rose so dark red that it almost appeared to be black, with petals that looked like velvet, earning its name: Black Magic.

And here, the John F. Kennedy rose: white petals so thick and glossy that they resembled sculpted wax.

The Charlotte Armstrong: large, fragrant, deep pink blooms. The Jardins de Bagatelle, the Rio Samba, the Paul McCartney rose, the Auguste Renoir, the Barbara Bush, the Voodoo, and the Bride’s Dream.

Behind the customer counter stood an exceptional rose who looked as Hannah might have looked had she lived to be sixty. Thick salt-and-pepper hair cut short and shaggy. Large dark eyes brimming with life and delight. Time had not faded this woman’s beauty, but had enriched it with a patina of experience.

Reading the name tag on the clerk’s blouse, Ethan said, “Rowena, most of what I see in these coolers are hybrid tea varieties. Do you also like climbing roses?”

“Oh, yes, all kinds of roses,” Rowena said, her voice musical and warm. “But we seldom use climbing roses. Varieties with longer stems work better in arrangements.”

He introduced himself and, as was his habit in such situations, explained that he’d once been a homicide detective but recently had gone to work as an assistant to a high-profile celebrity.

Los Angeles and environs were acrawl with poseurs and frauds who claimed association with the rich and famous. Yet even those who had been made cynical by this city of deception nevertheless believed what Ethan told them, or pretended that they did.

Hannah had said that people trusted him easily because combined in him were the quiet steely strength of Dirty Harry Callahan and the earnest innocence of Huck Finn.
That,
he had replied, was a movie he
never
wanted to see.

Rowena, whether responding to the Harry-Huck of him or to other qualities, seemed to accept Ethan for who and what he claimed to be.

“If I guess your favorite variety of climbing rose,” he said, “will you answer a few questions about a customer you served earlier this afternoon?”

“Is this police or celebrity business?”

“Both.”

“Oh, delicious. I love running a rose shop, but there’s more fragrance than excitement in it. Make your guess.”

Because in Rowena he saw Hannah as she might have been at sixty, he spoke the name of the climbing rose that his lost wife had loved best: “Saint Joseph’s Coat.”

Rowena seemed genuinely surprised and pleased. “That’s exactly right! You put Sherlock to shame.”

“Now your half of the bargain,” Ethan said, leaning with both arms on the counter. “This afternoon a man came in here and bought a bouquet of Broadway roses.”

The dazzling golden-red blooms on Hannah’s grave had been wrapped in a cone of stiff cellophane. Instead of Scotch tape or staples, a series of six peel-and-press stickers had been applied to seal cellophane to cellophane and thus ensure that the cone kept its shape. Each fancy foil sticker bore the name and address of Forever Roses.

“We had just two dozen,” Rowena said, “and he took them all.”

“You remember him then?”

“Oh, yes. He was…quite memorable.”

“Would you describe him for me?”

“Tall, athletic but a bit on the thin side, wearing an exquisite gray suit.”

Duncan Whistler owned uncounted fine suits, all custom-tailored at great cost.

“He was a handsome man,” Rowena continued, “but terribly pale, as though he hadn’t seen the sun in months.”

Comatose for twelve weeks, Dunny had developed a hospital pallor subsequently seasoned by at least an hour of morgue time.

“He had the most magnetic gray eyes,” Rowena said, “with flecks of green. Beautiful.”

She had given a perfect description of Dunny’s eyes.

“He said that he wanted the roses for a special woman.”

At her funeral, Dunny had seen the Broadway roses.

Rowena smiled. “He said an old friend would be around before long, asking what kind of roses he’d bought. I gather you’re in competition for the same girl.”

Neither the winter day outside nor the cool air here in the flower shop was responsible for the chill that might have rattled Ethan’s teeth if he hadn’t clenched them.

He suddenly realized that Rowena’s smile had a curious tilt, as though tempered by uncertainty or uneasiness.

When she recognized how deeply her revelation troubled him, her tentative smile faltered, vanished.

“He was a strange man,” she said.

“Did he say anything else?”

Rowena broke eye contact and looked toward the windows at the front of the shop, as though expecting to see someone familiar—and unwelcome—at the door.

Ethan gave her an opportunity to consider her words, and at last she spoke: “He said you think he’s dead.”

Images swelled to the foreground of memory: the empty gurney and the tangled shroud in the hospital morgue; the elusive phantom in the steam-blurred bathroom mirror; the lizard on the driveway, struggling to ascend in spite of its broken back, confronted by a cruel degree of incline and by sluicing water as cold and insistent as the flow of time….

“He said you think he’s dead,” Rowena repeated, shifting her gaze from the shop door to Ethan once more. “And he said I should tell you that you’re right.”

CHAPTER 22

H
AZARD IN THE HALLWAY, HAZARD ON THE stairs, acutely aware of what an easy target a big man made in a narrow space, threw himself nonetheless into the hot pursuit. When you took the job, you knew it wasn’t part of the deal that you could pick and choose the places where you would put your life on the line.

Besides, like most cops, he operated on the superstitious conviction that the greatest risk came with hesitation, came in the moment when nerve was briefly lost. Survival depended on boldness seasoned with just enough fear to discourage outright recklessness.

Or so it was easy to believe until a bit of boldness got you killed.

In the movies, cops were always yelling “Halt! Police!” when they knew that the dirtbags running away from them weren’t going to obey, but also when a shout would reveal their presence before absolutely necessary and even before every bad guy on the game board realized that badges were in play.

Hazard Yancy, who had recently escaped being shot at while in an armchair, didn’t bellow either a command or a threat at the gunman who had killed Rolf Reynerd. He just plunged down the stairs after the guy.

By the time Hazard reached the midfloor landing, the shooter had thundered to the bottom of the lower flight, losing his balance as he flew off the last step into the public foyer. He slipped on the Mexican-tile floor, wind-milled his arms, but avoided a fall.

Running, the perp never looked back, suggesting that he was oblivious of being pursued.

As he gave chase, Hazard was in the guy’s head. Expecting Reynerd to be home alone, the rent-a-killer gink comes in to do a quick pop, he drops the sucker with a heart-buster, manages to avoid getting lit up in the process, breaks hard for the street, and now he’s already thinking about smoking some good bo with some long-legged fresh who’s waiting for him in his crib.

The shooter hit the front door, and at the same moment, Hazard landed in the foyer, but the shooter was making too much noise to hear doom closing from behind, and Hazard didn’t slip as his quarry had done, so he was gaining.

When Hazard reached the door, the shooter was already out in the night, down the exterior steps, maybe thinking about spending some of his hit money on fancy chrome laces for the wheels on his bucket, some on 24-carat flash to drape his lady.

Not much wind, cold rain, Hazard on the steps, shooter on the walk: The gap between them closed as inevitably as that between a speeding truck and a brick wall.

Then the car horn blared. One long bleat, two short.

A signal. Prearranged.

In the street, not at the curb, stood a dark Mercedes-Benz, headlights on, engine running, exhaust pluming from the tailpipe. The front passenger door stood open to welcome the shooter. This was a getaway bucket with style, maybe a G-ride, a gangster ride, stolen out of a driveway in Beverly Hills, and behind the wheel sat the shooter’s ace kool, his backup homey, ready to shave the tires bald in a pedal-jammed escape.

The one long bleat followed by two short must have signaled the rabbit that he had a wolf on his ass, because he made a sudden break to the left, off the sidewalk. He torqued himself around so hard that he should have stumbled, should have fallen, but didn’t, and instead brought up the piece with which he’d popped Reynerd.

Having lost the advantage of surprise, Hazard finally shouted “Police! Drop it!” just like in the movies, but of course the shooter had already earned life without possibility of parole, maybe even the death penalty, by chilling Reynerd, and he had nothing to lose. He would be no more likely to drop his weapon than he would be likely to drop his pants and bend over.

The piece looked big, not a trey-eight or a .357, but a four-five. Loaded with wicked ammo, a four-five would reliably bust bone and tenderize meat for the undertaker, but it required stability and calculation to compensate for the kick.

In a bad stance, from panic rather than poise, the perp squeezed off a shot. His pull was actually more jerk than squeeze, and the round went so wild that Hazard stood at less risk of being drilled by this bullet than of being pulverized by an asteroid.

The instant he saw the muzzle spit fire into the rain and heard the slug shatter a window in the apartment house behind him, however, Hazard was only partly driven by training, partly by duty, and mostly by blood. The shooter wouldn’t be sloppy twice. All the sensitivity instruction, all the earnest lectures in social policy and political consequences, all the police-commission directives to meet violence with patience, understanding, and measured response were impediments to survival when, in the quick, you had to kill or be killed.

The sound of bullet-battered glass was still ringing through the rain when Hazard got a two-hand grip on his gun, assumed the stance, and answered fire with fire. He placed two rounds with little concern for the stern judgment of the
Los Angeles Times
in matters of police deportment, but with every concern for the safety of Mother Yancy’s favorite baby boy.

The first shot took the killer down, and the second rapped him hammer-hard even as his knees were still buckling.

Reflexively, the perp fired the .45 not at Hazard, but into the grass in front of his own feet. The recoil broke his weakened grip, and the gun flew from his hand.

He met the ground with one knee, in the briefest genuflection, then with two knees, then with his face.

Hazard kicked the dropped .45 away from the killer, into shrubs and shadows, and he ran toward the street, toward the Mercedes.

The driver gunned the engine an instant before he let up on the brakes. Shrieking tires spun off clouds of vaporized rain, and smoke that stank of burnt rubber.

Maybe Hazard was at risk of being shot by the driver, who could get a line on him through the open front passenger’s door, but that was a risk worth taking. An acekool wheelman specialized in flight, not fight, and although the guy would be packing heat for use in a cornered-rat situation, he wouldn’t likely draw down on anyone when he had an open street, gas in the tank, and ignition.

Splashing along the puddled pavement, Hazard reached his sedan. Before he could get around that parked vehicle, into the street, the spinning tires of the getaway car bit blacktop and bolted forward with a bark. Momentum slammed shut the passenger’s door.

He hadn’t gotten a look at the driver.

The figure behind the wheel had been little more than a shadow. Hunched, distorted, somehow…
wrong
.

To Hazard’s surprise, the ragged fingernails of superstition scratched at the inner hollows of his bones, where usually it lay buried, quiet, forgotten. But he didn’t know what had stirred his fear or why a sense of the uncanny suddenly possessed him.

As the Mercedes roared away, Hazard didn’t squeeze off a few shots at it, as a movie cop would have done. This was a peaceful residential neighborhood in which people watching reruns of
Seinfeld
and other people cleaning vegetables for dinner had every right not to expect to be shot dead over their TV remotes and their cutting boards by the stray rounds of a reckless detective.

He ran after the car, however, because he couldn’t get a clear take on the license number. Exhaust vapors, street spray, falling rain, and the gloom of day’s end conspired to shroud the rear plate.

He persisted, anyway, glad that he regularly used a treadmill. Although the Mercedes soon pulled away from him, a couple streetlamps and a clearing crosswind revealed the plate number in pieces.

Most likely the car had been stolen. The driver would dump it. Nevertheless, having the number was better than not having it.

Giving up the chase, Hazard headed back to the front lawn at the apartment house. He hoped that he’d shot the shooter dead instead of merely wounding him.

Minutes from now, an Officer Involved Shooting team would be on the scene. Depending on the personal philosophies of team members, they would either vigorously build a defense of Hazard’s actions and strive to exonerate him without any genuine search for the truth, which was fine by him, or they would seek the tiniest of meaningless inconsistencies and screw him to a cross of bogus evidence, haul him into the court of public opinion, and encourage the media to build a fire at his feet and give him the Saint Joan treatment.

The third possibility was that the OIS team might arrive without preconceptions, might examine the facts analytically, and might come to a dispassionate conclusion based on logic and reason, which would be jake with Hazard because he’d done nothing wrong.

Of course, he’d never heard of such a thing actually occurring, and he considered it far less likely than being eyewitness to eight flying reindeer and an elf-piloted sleigh three nights hence.

If the shooter was alive, he might assert that Hazard had killed Reynerd and then tried to frame him for it. Or that he’d been in the neighborhood, collecting donations to Toys for Tots, when he’d been caught in a cross fire, giving the
real
shooter a chance to escape.

Whatever he claimed, cop haters and aggressively brainless citizens would believe him.

More important, the shooter would find an attorney to file suit against the city, eager to feed at the public trough. A settlement would be reached, regardless of the merits of the case, and Hazard would probably be sacrificed as part of the package. Politicians were no more protective of good law-enforcement officers than they were of the young interns whom they regularly abused and sometimes killed.

The shooter posed far less of a problem dead than alive.

Hazard could have
moseyed
back to the scene, giving the perp a chance to bleed out another critical pint, but he ran.

The killer lay where he’d fallen, face planted in the wet grass. A snail had ascended the back of his neck.

People were at windows, looking down, expressions blank, like dead sentinels at the gates of Hell. Hazard expected to see Reynerd at one of the panes, black-and-white, too glamorous for his time.

He turned the shooter faceup. Somebody’s son, somebody’s homey, in his early twenties, with a shaved head, wearing a tiny coke spoon for an earring.

Hazard was glad to see the mouth stretched in a death rictus and the eyes full of eternity, but at the same time he was sickened by the sense of relief that flooded through him.

Standing in the storm, swallowing a hard-to-repress sludge of half-digested mamoul that burned in his throat, he used his cell phone to call the division and report the situation.

After making the call, he could have gone inside to watch from the foyer, but he waited in the downpour.

City lights reflected in every storm-glazed surface, yet when night swallowed twilight, darkness swelled in threatening coils, like a well-fed snake.

The rat-feet tap of palm-pelting rain suggested that legions of tree rodents scurried through the masses of arching fronds overhead.

Hazard saw two snails on the dead man’s face. He wanted to flick them off, but he hesitated to do so.

Some onlookers at the windows would suspect him of tampering with evidence. Their sinister assumptions might charm the OIS team.

That scratching in his bones again. That sense of
wrongness
.

One dead upstairs, one dead here, sirens in the distance.

What the hell is going on? What the hell?