The Murder Book (40 page)

It took three hours to go through five years of microfilm, and I came up with several instances of felonious police officers. A pair of West Valley detectives had offered their services as contract killers. Both were serving life sentences in protective isolation at the state penitentiary at Pelican Bay. A Glendale traffic officer had been arrested for having sex with a thirteen-year-old baby-sitter. Ten years of jail, this prince was out by now, but an alliance with Schwinn and a child molester seemed unlikely. A female Pasadena gang officer had slept with several minor-age gang members, and two Van Nuys uniforms had been caught burglarizing pawnshops on their patrol route. Convictions and incarceration for all. In each instance a hookup with Schwinn seemed improbable. I copied down all the names, anyway, punched Lester Poulsenn’s name into the periodicals index and felt my pupils dilate as a single reference popped into view.

Twenty-year-old reference.

Poulsenn, L.L. Veteran LAPD detective
found murdered in Watts.

The
Sacramento Bee
. I located the spool, jammed it into the machine, twirled like mad until I came to the story. Associated Press wire service piece. The L.A. papers hadn’t picked it up.

The
Bee
had run it in a side column at the back of the main section titled
“Elsewhere in the State.”
Sandwiched between the account of a dead black rhinoceros at the San Diego Zoo and a Berkeley bank robbery.

The date was January 5. Fourteen days after Caroline Cossack had checked out of — or had been taken from — Achievement House.

I did an instant photocopy on the machine, then read the text.

(AP) Los Angeles police are investigating the shooting death of one of their own, in what appears to be a homicide and attempted cover-up by arson. The body of Lester Louis Poulsenn, formerly a detective with the department’s Internal Affairs Unit and recently appointed to the Metro Major Crimes Unit, was found inside a burning house in Watts. Poulsenn, 39, a thirteen-year LAPD veteran, was discovered by firefighters dispatched to put out a blaze at the private residence on West 156
^th
Street. A police spokesman said Poulsenn had been shot twice in the head in what appeared to be an execution-style killing.
“This is a rough neighborhood, with lots of gang activity,” said the source, who neither confirmed nor denied reports that Poul-senn had been in Watts on official business. The structure, a single-family dwelling that had been vacant for some time, was described as a total loss.

I kept spooling, in search of a follow-up. Nothing.

Which was crazy; nothing mobilizes a police department faster than a cop’s murder. Yet local press coverage of Poulsenn’s death had been suppressed, and no further official statements had been issued.

Recently transferred to Metro.
Translation: Poulsenn had taken over the Ingalls case?

Twenty years ago, a pair of IA men had interrogated Milo. One had merited success, the other was dead seven months later.

A white man shot to death in a black neighborhood, just like Boris Nemerov. Dispatched execution-style, just like Boris Nemerov.

Arson cover-up. Milo had wondered out loud about fire. Beleaguered or not, he had perfect pitch.

I called him, got no answer at any of his numbers, thought about what to do.

Nice mild morning. Time to wash the car.

Two hours later, the Seville was as shiny as a ‘79 Seville could be, and I was hurtling over the Glen to the Valley. Mere cleanliness hadn’t satisfied me. I’d waxed and hand-buffed the chesterfield green paint, added detail spray, scrubbed the tires, the hubcaps, the beige vinyl top and matching upholstery, wiped down those crafty little simulated wood insets, vacuumed and shampooed the rugs. I bought the car fifteen years ago from the proverbial little old lady (a heavy-footed retired schoolteacher from Burbank, not Pasadena) and had pampered it since. Still, 105,000 miles had taken its toll, and one day I’d be forced to decide between an engine rebuild or something new.

No decision at all. No more changes of heart.

Concourse Auto Restorers was one of the many car-oriented businesses lining Van Nuys Boulevard between Riverside and Oxnard. Modest setup — not much more than a double, tin-roofed garage behind an open lot filled with chrome and lacquer. A sign above the garage, done up in red Day-Glo Gothic lettering, advertised “C
USTOM
P
AINT
, P
LATING, AND
B
ODY
-O
FF
R
ESTORATION
” above a cartoonish rendering of an equally red, priapic Ferrari coupe. I parked on the street and made my way among muscle cars, hot rods, and one very white stretch Mercedes with its roof hacked off and a blue tarp spread across its interior. Years ago the state had passed laws restricting outdoor spray painting, but the air above Concourse Auto was chemically ripe.

Midway up the lot, two men in greasy T-shirts and baggy cutoffs were inspecting the doors of a seventies Stutz Blackhawk done up in the same copper finish as a gourmet frypan. Both were young and husky and Hispanic, with shaved heads and mustaches. Face masks hung around their necks. Their arms and the back of their necks were brocaded with tattoos. The inkwork was dusky blue, square-edged and crude — prison handiwork. They barely raised their eyes as I passed, but both were paying attention. My nod evoked squints.

“Vance Coury?” I said.

“In there,” said the heavier of the two, curling a thumb toward the garage. His voice was high-pitched, and a teardrop tattoo dripped under one eye. That’s supposed to mean you’ve murdered someone, but some people brag. This fellow had a hunched posture and flat eyes, and boasting didn’t seem his style.

I moved on.

As I got closer to the garage, I saw that my first impression of a small lot had been wrong. A driveway ran to the left of the building, and it led to a rear half acre of chain-linked dirt piled high with tires and fenders, bumpers and broken headlights and random garbage. Two spray booths were affixed to the rear outer wall of the garage, and a few intact cars were parked in the dirt, but most of the land was dumping ground.

I returned to the front of the structure. The garage door to the left was shut and bolted, a wall of corrugated iron. In the open right-hand bay sat a red, white, and blue Corvette Stingray. The ’Vette’s windows were tinted amethyst, its nose had been lengthened a foot, a rear spoiler arced over the trunk, and twenty-inch, chrome-reversed wheels extended several inches wider than the body. Primer spots blemished the passenger side, and another shaved-head Latino crouched at one of them, hand-sanding. Yet another tattoo-boy sat at a workbench to the rear of the bay, arc-welding. The decor was raw walls, cement floor, bare bulbs, gasoline reek. Tacked to the wall beams were auto-parts calendars and foldouts of naked women with an emphasis upon luxuriant pubic hair and angles that bespoke an interest in amateur gynecology. A scattering of hard-core shots was dispersed among the collection; someone had a thing for skinny, crouching, supplicant blondes with dope-eyes performing oral sex.

The sander ignored me as I edged behind the ’Vette, avoided the sparks from the welding gun, and stepped into the sealed section of the garage. Half a black Porsche roadster occupied this bay — a racer sliced neatly in half so that the number 8 on the door had been bisected and turned into a 3. At the rear of the room, behind the truncated torso, a broad-shouldered man sat at a metal desk, phone nestled under his chin, fingers busy at a calculator.

Fortyish, he had long, thick silver hair slicked straight back and tucked behind his ears, incongruous too-black eyebrows, and an equally inky goatee. The bulb hanging above the desk greened an already olive complexion. Dark, brooding eyes were bottomed by pouches, his neck was creased and soft, and his face had long surrendered to flab. Remnants of the good-looking high school kid were hard to find, and I didn’t want to stare. Because Vance Coury had his eyes on me, as he continued talking and calculating.

I walked over to the desk. Coury gave off a strong whiff of musky aftershave. His shirt was black silk crepe with blousy sleeves rolled to the elbows and a high, stiff collar that nearly reached his earlobes. A gold chain flashed around his neck. A gold Rolex the size of a pizza banded a thick, hirsute wrist.

He studied me without acknowledging my presence. Stayed on the phone, listening, talking, listening some more, adjusting the instrument in the crook of his neck. Never ceasing the tapping of the calculator keys. The desk top was littered with papers. A half-empty bottle of Corona served as a paperweight.

I left him and strolled over to the demi-Porsche. The car retained no internal organs, was just half a shell. The edges had been smoothed and painted. Finished product; no one was intending to put this one back together again.

All the king’s horses…

“Hey,” said a raspy voice behind me.

I turned. Coury said, “What do you want?” Alert, yet disinterested. One hand rested on the calculator. The other was cupped and aimed at me, as if ready to collect something.

“I’m thinking of some custom work.”

“What kind of car?”

“Seville. Seventy-nine. Are you Mr. Coury?”

He looked me over. “Who referred you?”

“Read your name in an auto magazine,” I said. “From what I could tell you seem to work on a lot of contest winners.”

“It happens,” he said. “Seventy-nine Seville? A box. They built ’em on Chevy Two Nova chassis.”

“I know.”

“What do you want done to it?”

“I’m not sure.”

He smirked. “Can’t think of any contest you’d enter that in — unless it’s one of those AIDS things.”

“AIDS things?”

“They’re trying shows, now. To raise money for AIDS. Some little fruit came in, wanted me to cherry up his ‘45 BMW.”

“Take the job?” I said.

The cupped hand waved off the question. “Seventy-nine Seville,” he said, as if offering a diagnosis. “It’s still gonna be a box unless we get radical. And then there’s the engine. It sucks.”

“It’s been good to me. No problems in fifteen years.”

“Any rust on the belly?”

“Nope. I take care of it.”

“Right,” he said.

I said, “It’s here, if you want to see it.”

He glanced down at the calculator. Punched numbers as I stood there. “Where’s here?”

“Out in front.”

He snickered. “In front.” He stood to six-three. His upper body was massive, with meaty shoulders and a swelling gut, outsized for the narrow hips and long, stalky legs that supported it. Tight, black, plain-front slacks slimmed the legs further and accentuated the effect. On his feet were black crocodile boots with silver straps banding the shins. He came around the desk jangling. Walked right past me and out of the garage.

Out at the curb, he laughed.

“Tell you what, we wreck it, give you four hundred bucks, call it a day.”

I laughed back. “Like I said, it’s been good to me.”

“Then leave it the hell alone — what the hell would you want to do with this?”

“I was thinking about turning it into a convertible.”

“Figures,” he said. “What, chain-saw the roof off?”

“Only car you can do that with is a Rolls Silver Cloud,” I said. “Not enough tensile strength in any other chassis. I was figuring take the roof off, strengthen the frame, install an automatic soft-cover with a mohair liner, rechrome, and do a custom-color. You guys still doing lacquer?”

“Illegal,” he said. “Listen, man, you want a convertible, go buy yourself one of those little Mazdas.”

“I want this car converted.”

He turned his back.

I said, “Too complicated for you?”

He stopped. Caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down. The pouches beneath his eyes rode up and obscured the bottom half of the irises. The two homeboys working on the Stutz looked our way.

Coury kept his lip between his teeth and rotated his jaw. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “Too complicated.”

He left me standing there and walked back toward the lot. But he only made his way halfway through, paused by the Stutz. As I drove away he was watching.

M
ilo stared into his coffee cup, pretended the soil-colored liquid was a bog and he was sinking.

If this was a normal case, he’d have gotten himself backup. As much as he hated meetings and personalities and all the other crap that went with teamwork, multiple suspects demanded it.

An army of suspects on Janie. Six, with Luke Chapman dead. And then there was after-burn: Walt Obey and Germ Bacilla and Diamond Jim.

And the glue that held it all together: J.G. Broussard.

And now, yet another unknown: Alex’s theory about a rogue cop.

Milo’d spent some time thinking about that, trying to come up with a possible name, but all he could conjure was an abstraction. Some asshole doing Pierce Schwinn’s postmortem bidding, playing games and yanking his strings. Someone with the gall to rip off Rick’s car and return it detailed, with a nice little gift.

Vance Coury was in the car biz and wasn’t that a coincidence? But Coury sure wouldn’t have delivered the real murder book.

So maybe the use of the car meant someone was pointing him
toward
Coury. Or was he really getting overly complicated, now?

The anger that had percolated within him since the first murder book had surfaced kept rising in his gorge.

Coury. The bastard shaped up as a sadist and a rapist and a control freak. Maybe the dominant one in the group. If he and his rich buds were cornered, they’d be likely to ambush the enemy, cut his throat, and burn his body.

One army deserved another, and all
he
had was Alex.

He laughed silently. Or maybe he’d let out sound because the old lady in the second booth over looked up, startled, and stared at him with that antsy expression that takes hold of people when they confront the weird.