The Renegades (15 page)

“I do know. Well, that’s another thing.”

“There’s five thousand for the work and five thousand when the work is done.”

“When?”

“Friday. I need him in L.A. by afternoon. I’ll have everything he needs. Tell him that someone will bring him back here later that night.”

Draper took the thick square of folded hundreds from the rear pocket of his jeans and gave it to Israel.

“I’ll get a man for you,” said Israel.

“To Amigos,” said Draper. “I’m starved.”

“I can introduce you to Miranda.”

“I’d like that.”

HE PULLED ONTO Laurel Laws’s horse property just before sunset. Standing on her porch he neatened his necktie, then knocked.

A moment later he heard movement behind the door and he looked at the spy hole.

“Coleman?”

“Yes. I’m sorry to just come over unannounced.”

The door opened and Laurel stood before him. Her face was puffy and her hair was a mess and her blouse was wrinkled. Draper bowed.

“Well…,” she said, and stepped back into the foyer.

Draper entered and pursed his lips solemnly and gave her a brief, formal hug. He handed her a sympathy bouquet.

“I’m so sorry, Laurel,” he said. “He’s all I can think about.”

“Me, too. It’s sinking in. Thank you for your calls.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She looked around the foyer and back into the living room as if searching for a chore or project. “Well, oh, no.”

“Anything at all, Laurel.”

“I’m fine, really. Come in.”

“I won’t stay long. I’m sorry I didn’t call. Right up until I knocked on your door I was telling myself I’d turn around and call later.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t doing much.”

They sat in the darkened living room, Laurel at one end of a leather nail-head sofa and Draper across the room in what he assumed was his partner’s favorite recliner. This usurpation pleased him in a way that had nothing to do with the reason for his visit. Draper told her a little about his grief, then he began praising Terry in a soft voice, telling Laurel some anecdotes from their years together. Draper had never become close to Laurel because he and Terry socialized less and less after he was married, but there was still a broad bond between them and Draper felt its natural weight and comfort as he talked. The flowers lay on a coffee table in front of her and the distant glimmer of a street lamp came through the window to land on the plastic wrapper and prompt the faint colors of the lilies.

“What about you, Laurel? Are you handling it?”

She was quiet for a moment. Draper was surprised that she was this thoughtful. And he was more surprised as he listened to her words.

“I always wanted nice things and I always thought I was happy. I wanted a man who was impressive and controllable. I told myself that what I got in life was because of my taste and personality. When I married Terry I thought I would finally have it all. Then, when he died, I realized I have almost nothing. Our life is gone. It’s very strange, but—and maybe this happens all the time—but I love him more now than when he was alive. I just miss him, so much. I never even got to tell him good-bye. When it’s so sudden…”

Draper said nothing, just let the darkness absorb her tears. His instinct was to go to her.

A while later he spoke again. He told her about losing his parents and brother and sister to fire, how this childhood event had replaced the boy he was with a new, strange one he didn’t know very well at first. He’d felt the same vast loss, he said, and for many years—even now, actually—the thing he wanted most was to be able to say good-bye to them.

There was another long silence.

“Have they told you anything about who did it?” he asked.

“Two detectives came out and I talked to them. Bentley was one of them. Then, later, another one—Hood or something. He was Terry’s partner that night. They asked questions, over and over. They were interested in Wayne, or Dwayne or…you know, the one with the dog.”

“I know the detectives. How many times have they come out to talk?”

“The two of them, twice. The other guy, just that once.”

“Hood is part of Internal Affairs. They police the police. Was he respectful?”

“I don’t know what he was. He didn’t say much. He looked a lot. At our things. I was out of it. I was weak and angry at Terry for leaving me. Nothing had sunk in yet.”

“Hood probably focused on Terry’s state of mind.”

“Yes. He asked if Terry was happy.”

“I know the answer to that.”

She said nothing. Draper sensed that she was looking at him.

“Laurel, I know Terry was happy. But I also felt that he was troubled by something that he’d done.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry to be vague. But he seemed different to me after that big bust we made, the one where we took down the biker.”

“He was different. Yes. I don’t know why. I thought it was our money situation, him wanting to make me happy with a horse property. But it worked out. We did a charitable remaindered trust, buying then donating this home to Build a Dream.”

“Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe I was wrong about him being haunted by something he’d done.”

“I honestly don’t think so. Terry was a Boy Scout. I mean that in a good way. He’d even found Jesus. That surprised me. It came out of nowhere but I don’t think it was because something was haunting him.”

“Did Hood ask if Terry might be worried about something he’d done?”

“No. He didn’t.”

“He didn’t suggest that Terry was hiding something from us?”

“No.”

“Because Internal Affairs can be prying and judgmental. And just plain wrong. That’s why I’m concerned.”

Draper felt relief begin to flow in him. After another respectful silence he stood and Laurel stood and he bowed to her again.

“If Hood comes back, it’s probably best if you don’t tell him I was here. He’s been questioning me about Terry’s behavior, looking for something that isn’t there. He may want another crack at you.”

“No,” she said. “I won’t tell him we talked.”

“If there’s anything I can do,” he said. “Anything. I want to honor him any way I can. Terry was my friend, and you are, too.”

HE WAS BACK in Laguna by dinnertime. Juliet greeted him with her studied nonchalance. Her hair was wet and combed back and she was wearing a green satin robe snugly tied. Draper stood there with the dozen red roses he’d purchased at the same time as the sympathy bouquet for Laurel. Then he kissed her lightly on the lips and took the flowers to the kitchen. He cut the stems and placed the flowers in a heavy crystal vase. He added water, then walked around the kitchen island and set the vase on the dining room table and adjusted the arrangement. Then he pulled out a chair and turned it around and sat down facing her.

“Come here,” he said.

She stood in front of him and Draper brought her closer and parted the robe without untying it. He kissed her and heard her breath catch. Salt and perfume, her ass cool in his hands, her fingers in his hair.

“I got us a very good Brunello,” she whispered. “And reservations at nine.”

When he looked up her eyes were closed and she was smiling.

17

Atascadero State Hospital
for the criminally insane sits in the coastal hills of California, midway between L.A. and San Francisco. It is one of the largest mental hospitals in the world.

The surrounding countryside is rolling hills and oak glens and pastures. Smooth tan and sudden green. Hood saw horses and cattle. The March day was cool but the sun came through the oaks and lit the grass in pools of soft light. He was driving his ’86 IROC Camaro. The car had a stiff ride but Hood loved it anyway. He had once heard the Camaro described as a workingman’s muscle car. That’s me, he thought.

He parked outside the administration building. The trees were bare and the buildings seemed industrial and secretive. The hospital looked like a prison trying to smile.

Hood found his way to Unit 8, where prisoners are treated when they’re judged incompetent to stand trial. They’re called PC 1370s. The goal of Atascadero is to protect, evaluate and treat the 1370s so they can return to the courts and understand what’s expected of them. If the patient shows no progress, he’ll be transferred to a smaller hospital, where protection and maintenance are the goals and recovery is not expected.

Dr. Able Rosen was an older man, dusty and gentle. He wore a sloping corduroy coat with shiny spots at the elbows and a Jerry Garcia necktie.

“We’ll do another evaluation in June,” he said. “And if Shay hasn’t shown measurable progress, we’ll have to transfer him. Our philosophy is recovery. We’re a hospital, not a correctional facility.”

“Can he talk?”

“In fact, we’ve seen some improvement in his short-term memory and his speech. His speech center was damaged by the swelling caused by the beating. Brain cells do not regenerate but the compensatory powers of the brain are prodigious. His ability to retrieve memories and form sentences to communicate information is, unfortunately, still limited.”

“Is he violent?”

“He had one violent incident here. We try our best to provide a norm of nonviolence. He will be restrained. We have a special facility for this kind of visit.”

Dr. Rosen tapped his fingers on the desk. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

“I want to hear about his arrest and his crimes.”

“Surely you’ve read the reports and court records.”

“He couldn’t say much back then and I don’t expect him to be talkative now. I just want to hear what he says and how he says it.”

“Why?”

“There are some facts about the arrest, and about Mr.

Eichrodt’s crimes, that don’t make sense to me. It’s very possible that some areas were overlooked.”

“Areas?”

“I believe that a large amount of money is unaccounted for. It’s possible that Shay hid it before his arrest.”

Dr. Rosen raised his eyebrows. “How large?”

“Three hundred grand. Give or take some.”

“Drug money?”

Hood nodded.

“Have you been in contact with Ariel Reed, of the L.A. District Attorney’s office?”

“We’ve talked.”

“She was knowledgeable and rational. I also thought she was very…humane. For a prosecutor. That came out wrong.”

“I understand.”

“I was impressed by her. She might help you.”

“Dr. Rosen, thank you for letting me visit. I’ll be happy to tell you what I learn, if I learn anything at all.”

He looked at Hood oddly, as if not understanding what he meant. “I hope you’re not disappointed, Deputy. Shay has been a challenge for us all.”

In the Unit 8 visitation center Hood was searched, and surrendered his wallet, badge, keys, change, digital recorder and penknife.

He was then led downstairs to a narrow hallway. The orderly unlocked a door and stood back so he could enter.

The room was small. It had a wooden chair and a stainless steel table. One wall was a thick plate of clear plastic, with a round speaker grille about mouth level. A small video camera was fastened to the ceiling behind Hood. On the other side of the plastic window was an identical room, as if a reflection of the one that he was in.

Eichrodt was ushered in by two big men in navy scrubs. He wore a pale blue jumpsuit and slip-on canvas shoes. His hands were cuffed behind him and secured by a waist restraint. He wore ankle irons. He was nearly a head taller than his handlers, and much heavier. His head and face were shaved and his skin was white and his eyes were brown, with a distant glitter. A tattooed serpent’s head stared out from the hollow beneath his larynx.

The orderlies backed out of the room and Hood heard the lock clank into place.

Eichrodt sat and stared at him.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Hood said.

He kept staring. Some time went by.

“The deputy who arrested you, the big one—he was murdered last week. A gangsta shot him down. I’m one of the investigators.”

Eichrodt’s lips parted. He inhaled. He tried to say something but no sound came forth. He exhaled, and tried again. “Strong.”

“Yes. Terry Laws was strong.”

Again, Eichrodt’s lips parted and he seemed to be concentrating on controlling his breathing. It looked like he was waiting for just the right moment to begin forming a sound.

“They used. Clubs.”

“You put up quite a fight.”

Eichrodt looked at Hood for a long time. Hood saw blankness. If there were wheels turning, they were turning slowly. Something on the wall caught Eichrodt’s attention and he fixed his gaze on it, but Hood saw nothing. So he looked at the thick plastic window between them, the scratches and dull sheen, and thought about the thin line between the sane and the mad, and the way that line can vanish so quickly.

Then Eichrodt shifted and turned and squinted at him and his breathing accelerated. Wheels turning, Hood could see it. Eichrodt opened his mouth and in the tension of his neck and jaw Hood saw the great effort it took for him to raise a memory and say something about it.

“No. Reason.”

“No reason for what?”

“For the thing I told you about. The word went away from me just now.”

“Clubs?”

“Yes. No reason for clubs.”

“You’re a big man, Shay. They were afraid of you. When you swept the deputy off his feet, they knew you had tricked them. So they used force.”

He lowered his gaze. His mouth fell open again and his lips moved but no sound came out. He shook his head very slowly—bewildered, stymied, disbelieving—it was hard for Hood to tell what he was feeling. Then he inhaled very deeply, as before, and looked up, eyes narrow, mouth open, lips moving.

“There was no…”

“No what, Shay?”

“No…
shit
, the word again. The words go away when I go to say them.”

“No fight?”

“No! There was no…”

Eichrodt jumped out of his seat, raised his face to the ceiling and roared. Hood stood. Eichrodt banged his forehead against the window. Up that close Hood could see that his teeth were man-made, large and very white.