The Mercedes Coffin (40 page)

“By friendship you mean almost killing me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have. Besides, you always hurt the one you love.”

“By any chance, do you have a direct connection with this fine law-abiding establishment?”

“Me? Never. Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been known to help the ladies.”

“I’m a generous guy. I help everyone.”

“I assume that a certain lady told you all this. I’d like to talk to her.”

“Can’t help you there, but I won’t do you bodily harm if you go down to the establishment and talk to people. Just be polite.”

“Donatti, it’s a murder case. I
need
to talk to her.”

“Who knows if she even exists? And if she does, who knows if she’s telling the truth. People say all sorts of things to get on my good side.”

“You’ve got a good side?”

“I do. I just don’t use it too often. My bad side’s so much more fun.”

THE UNCERTAINTY FACTOR.

What if Donatti got it wrong?

What if Donatti was deliberately misleading him?

What if Rudy Banks didn’t show up?

What if he showed up and something went wrong?

What if he showed up, everything went according to plan, but he wasn’t involved in Ben Little’s death?

What if, despite Decker’s best efforts, the case was never solved?

For the moment, the “what if” was pushed aside to deal with the “what needed to be done.” Talking to the owner of the Sand Dune motel was a chore. It took a lot of cajoling before Mr. Craddle was thoroughly convinced that the detectives involved were from Homicide and not from Vice. At last the proprietor figured out that to help the police would benefit him in the long run.

Hollywood placed rotating decoys at the front desk of the Sand Dune. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes a woman. Since security cameras had already been set up, Decker, Diaz, and Garrett reviewed the most recent tapes, trying to see if they could recognize Banks from the hundreds of grainy shots of furtive men. Since the quality wasn’t sharp, it was hard to make out features, and even when they did, they noticed that a lot of men purposely hid their faces or turned their backs toward the camera aimed at the desk. Several additional security cameras were installed, courtesy of the police, so that it was easier to capture faces from different angles. Old cameras were upgraded. Everything was in place.

So they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

PATIENCE WAS NOT
only a virtue, it was a necessity. As months passed and there was no sign of Rudy Banks, the Hollywood brass became disenchanted with Decker’s tip. They pulled back the decoys at the Sand Dune and allocated them to other operations. Every week, Diaz or Garrett or Decker or Marge or Oliver or some other Hollywood Homicide detective went in to check the tapes and replace them with clean cartridges. No one was surprised when the contents revealed nothing significant — just sneaky johns and call girls. But that was detective work: hours of mind-numbing tedium followed by that compensatory, glory-hallelujah, once-in-a-blue-moon, shot-in-the-veins adrenaline rush.

Marge was in her living room drinking coffee, flipping channels via remote control when she received a call from newly minted Detective Cindy Decker Kutiel.

“Do you know where Dad is?”

“Have no idea.” Marge pressed the mute button. “You can’t reach him on his cell?”

“It’s turned off.”

“Maybe he and Rina are watching a movie.”

“He usually has it on vibrate.”

“Maybe the battery is low. What’s up, Cindy?”

“I’m here at Hollywood doing Sand Dune tape duty. I’ve put in a call to Rip and Tito, but I figured that maybe someone from your neck of the woods might want to come over as well.”

Marge sat up abruptly, almost spilling coffee onto her lap. “You
found
him?”

“I
think
so. Actually, I didn’t find him. I was reviewing the tape when Petra Conner came in to help me. Do you know Petra?”

“I met her at your wedding. She’s from Homicide. You two are in a bowling league together.”

“Exactly. Petra’s also an artist. Her eye is particularly well trained to notice nuances in faces. I don’t know why we didn’t think of her before.”

“I’m calling Oliver and we’ll be right over.”

“Good… I’m getting a call. I think it’s Dad. I’ll see you later.”

ONCE THEY DETERMINED
that it was most likely Rudy’s face, they discovered that he’d frequented the place before, one time with a bald head — probably a head cap — and another time with a blond wig. The most recent visit — three weeks ago — showed him wearing a baseball cap with a bomber jacket.

“This one…” The clerk hit the photograph with the tips of his fingers. “He likes them with meat.” The clerk was Cecil Dobbins: fifty-eight, five six, two forty with a raging potbelly, white hair, and milky blue eyes.

It had been a slow night and Dobbins was in a talkative mood. He had been under Mr. Craddle’s employ for the last year and a half. The work was okay, a little boring. The hardest part was keeping a clean establishment, making sure that whatever went on was legal and lawful and between two consenting adults. “Mr. Craddle don’t want any problems. That’s why he’s cooperating with you.”

“We appreciate it,” Marge told him.

“Just keep your eye out for this guy,” Garrett said. “If you see him, don’t try to apprehend him yourself. He’s dangerous.”

Decker added, “Just don’t let on that you know who he is.”

“You need a flat face to do my work.” Dobbins spoke as he filled in a number in a Sudoku puzzle. “Nonjudgmental like, know what I mean? Lot of nervous men here. The more bored you look, the calmer they are. Besides, I play cards in Gardena every weekend. I got a good poker face.”

“You ever win?” Oliver asked.

“I win just enough for me to keep coming back. I could probably save a little more if I stopped, but what’s life without a little risk?” Dobbins went back to the numbers grid. “You don’t have to worry about me letting on. I’m one smooth guy.”

Garrett said, “You see this man, give a call.”

Diaz said, “Immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dobbins said.

Marge said, “Any time and any day. Call one of the numbers we gave you.”

Decker said, “And if you don’t have the numbers in front of you, just call 911 and ask them to patch you through to one of us.”

Dobbins said, “We ain’t talking brain surgery. I know how to deal with the customers.” He finished the puzzle. “Stop worrying.”

Diaz said, “Just don’t try to take him down—”

“I got it, I got it.”

With nothing more to add, they left Cecil Dobbins to his dreary job. He picked up the paper and began to fill in letters in the daily crossword.

MONDAY: NINE
P.M
.

Garrett to Decker. “We got him!”

Decker was at home in front of the TV. He couldn’t believe what the voice on the other end of his cell was telling him. “You got Rudy Banks?”

“He’s in our sights. Came into the Sand Dune about ten minutes ago. I’m about twenty minutes away: Tito’s bogged down in traffic and is about thirty minutes away.”

Decker gathered his keys and his wallet, then went over to his gun safe, spinning the combination dial, trying to steady his hands enough to align the correct numbers with the wheel notch. “Who’s watching the place?”

“I’ve called up Santa Monica and asked them to send some unmarked units. They’re starting to block off the perimeter area with cruisers, but I emphasized to make sure that nothing was visible. I don’t know how many people are in the motel, but it’s not empty.”

“The last thing we need is a hostage situation,” Decker said.

“Agreed. Last time I checked, there were two plainclothes units in the vicinity.”

“That’s good. Where should we meet?”

Garrett gave him an address. “He ain’t gonna slip away this time.”

The safe door popped open, and Decker slipped his Beretta into his shoulder harness. “I’ll be there in a half hour to forty minutes.”

“Let’s hope it’s all over by then.”

AS HE PULLED
out of the driveway, he called Marge and brought her up to date. “I’m on my way. Call Oliver and tell him what’s going on.”

The traffic gods weren’t with him. It took over an hour just to get off the freeway, and as soon as he exited, Decker knew there was trouble. All lanes were at a standstill. He punched in a news channel and when he heard the headlines, he hit the dashboard. “SHIT!”

Click, click, click, click…

“No one knows how many people are in the Sand Dune or how many, if any, have been taken hostage. There have been several unsubstantiated reports of at least one gunman—”

Decker turned off the radio and tried Garrett’s cell phone. When no one answered, he tried Diaz’s cell phone. Still no answer.

He turned on the news station a second time.

“…reports of the gunman keeping at least three women hostage.”

His cell rang. It was Garrett. “How far away are you?”

“Five minutes.”

“You heard?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“So we’re meeting in front of the Sand Dune. See you in a few.”

Decker took out the top dome light and ran the siren. Even with the bells and whistles, it took another fifteen minutes to weave through snarled lanes and pissed-off drivers. When he finally reached the destination, he flashed his badge to Santa Monica Police and was allowed to proceed.

Ocean Avenue had become a stagnant pool of chrome: SMPD patrol units in white and light blue, LAPD’s cruisers in black and white, unmarked cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and acres of news vans. Decker parked wherever he could and slowly inched his way closer to the hot spot, walking behind the protection of steel that the cars afforded. He darted his way over to Tito Diaz and Rip Garrett. Garrett had dressed in a suit and tie, but Diaz was still in jeans.

Decker said, “What the hell happened?”

Garrett was seething. “I asked for unmarkeds to the scene. When I got here, I saw cruisers. I thought at first that SMPD fucked up, but then I found out that they were responding to a 911 call from someone inside who was shot—”

“Holy moly—”

“Tito and I have just spent the last twenty minutes bringing SMPD up to date. They’re not happy with us right now.”

“We conferred with them every step of the way,” Decker said.

“Yeah, but I don’t think they believed that we were on to anything. That’s why they gave us permission to operate in their vicinity.”

“Who made the 911 call?” Decker asked.

“I haven’t heard the voice, but it was a man.”

Diaz added that he had heard it was Cecil Dobbins.

“How bad is it?”

Tito shrugged. Decker looked at the dilapidated building in front of them. It was probably a beautiful private home in the 1920s — a three-storied, white-wood-sided Greene and Greene bungalow style with a wraparound porch. Decker could imagine a family lolling about on a summer’s eve like tonight, enjoying the cool sea breezes.

That hadn’t happened for a very long time.

The place hadn’t seen a paintbrush in decades. Even with the minimal outside lighting, he could make out peeling paint flaking off like snow. Historically, it was great that the building retained many of its original leaded windowpanes. For their purposes, the cut glass hindered sharpshooters’ visibility.

Garrett said, “SMPD has sent out for a hostage negotiator.”

“What about a back door?” Decker asked. “He can’t guard two portals at once.”

Garrett said, “SMPD managed to get a few people out through the rear, but then he started shooting.”

“Didn’t hit anyone,” Diaz said.

“And it’s definitely Rudy Banks?”

Garrett said, “One of the women that SMPD rescued identified him from a picture. She also told us about the hostages.”

“We think he has three women locked up,” Diaz said. “Maybe even Dobbins.”

Garrett added, “We know the cell number of one of the ladies.”

Diaz said, “I think SMPD is just waiting for the negotiator before a call is placed.”

Decker felt his pocket buzz and answered his phone. The voice over the line had a strong Irish brogue. “I’m flipping the bloody channels and a picture of Rudy in a blond wig flashed across my screen—”

“Fuck!” Decker turned to Garrett and Diaz. “TV’s flashing a picture of Rudy Banks over the airwaves.”

“Oh shit!” Garrett mumbled. “He’s probably watching our moves right now.”

Irish said, “What the fuck is going on? Is Mudd involved?”

“I don’t know, Liam, I have to go.” He hung up, but his cell sprang to life a few moments later. It was Cindy. “Daddy, I was listening to the news, and apparently Rudy Banks is holed up at the Sand Dune with some hostages.”

“I’m already down here.”

“I’m coming down—”

“Don’t…” Too late. She’d hung up. Ah, fuck it! It would probably be over by the time she made it through traffic. Ten minutes later, Marge and Oliver arrived after having slogged through almost two hours of traffic. She was wearing sweats, but somehow Scott had found the time to put on a glen plaid sport jacket and a pair of brown slacks. It took Decker just a few minutes to bring them current.

Diaz said, “We’ve been asked to stand by. Right now, we’re just accessories.”

Garrett said, “Turf war.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Oliver said. “We included them in every step of the operation.”

“True, but if there’s a homicide, it’s gonna fuck up their statistics, not ours.”

The media started coming their way: just in time for a live report on the eleven o’clock news. There was a woman from ABC, a man from CBS, a man and a woman from NBC. There were people from the local networks, people from Fox, people from CNN and MSNBC. The print media — Internet as well as newspapers — was equally eager for answers. Big headlines sell. If Rudy Banks had expectations of regaining his bad boy spotlight, dormant for the last decade, now was his chance.

The detectives were barraged with questions.