Flat Spin (36 page)

Savannah appeared in the doorway. She’d changed out of her swimsuit and into jeans and a madras blouse.

“I’m trying to make a point here, Marvis. Whoever you saw down the street, whoever you
think
you saw, it’s not the guy who killed Arlo.”

“Who’re you talking to?” Savannah demanded.

I tuned her out.

“You said you and Arlo was buddies, ain’t that what you told me?” Woodley said. “Arlo was military. I was military. You was military—I could see it on you, OK? Military don’t leave a buddy behind. Ever. You know that, man.”

“I know a detective. I’m happy to pass along your number to him.”

“I just told you! I ain’t talking to no fuckin’ LAPD—and I won’t tell him where the guy’s at, neither. Now, the way I see it, you got two ways to go. You can get your ass over here and back me up, or you can leave a buddy behind and live with that. There it is. What’ll it be, troop?”

Marvis Woodley’s logic was as ill-formed as his ambitions to collar Echevarria’s murderer independent of the police. This was no battlefield. We weren’t at war. Whatever bonds Echevarria and I once forged in combat were broken long ago. And yet, on some level that defied logic, Woodley’s sermon resonated. Much as I tried to deny it, part of me did feel like I was abandoning a former fellow go-to guy, however loathsome he may have turned out to be. I felt guilty for reasons I couldn’t explain. If you’re Buddhist, you know that there’s no place for guilt. There’s no place for even feeling guilty about feeling guilty. But that’s how I felt. Guilty as sin.

“I’ll get back to you,” I told Woodley and hung up.

“Who was that?” Savannah asked again.

“Arlo’s next door neighbor. Thinks whoever killed him moved in down the street.”

“Are you serious?”

I shrugged. “He won’t talk to the cops. Wants me to back him up so he can make the arrest himself .”

“Why would he want
you
to back him up?”

“Because he’s a fruitcake, Savannah.”

“I want to go over there.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What if it’s the guy, Logan?”

“It’s not the guy, Savannah.”

“But what if it is?”

There was no use arguing with her. There never was.

“Even if it’s not him, I want to see where Arlo died. I’ve never been there.”

“You can see where Arlo died after you drop me off at the bus station.”

I started gathering up my stuff. She looked at me disbelievingly.

“You’re going home?”

“I did what you wanted me to do, Savannah. I did what your father wanted. More than I probably should have. I’m done with this.”

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” She curled up on the bed, her back to me, sulking.

Part of me wanted to lay down beside her, to press myself into her and hold her like I once did. Another part wanted to scream at her for messing with my head. Love and hate. Yin and yang. I closed my eyes and practiced calming breaths, striving in vain for the tranquility and humility of the Zen master I aspired to be. Accompanying Savannah to see where Echevarria died and convincing Marvis Woodley to call the cops would take an hour at most, I told myself. No biggie. Then I’d be gone, back to Rancho Bonita to resolve my issues with the FAA and back in the air, back to my life. Maybe someday that life would have a place in it for Savannah Echevarria. Agreeing to do what she wanted me to do in this one instance, I realized, couldn’t hurt my chances of that happening. Brownie points, I believe the Buddha called them.

“If I agree to go over there with you, will you take me to the bus station?”

“I’ll take you all the way to Rancho Bonita if you want.”

“The bus’ll be fine.”

I called Marvis Woodley back and told him I was on my way over.

“Hooah. I knew you’d come around, motherfucker!”

“Hooah,” I said tepidly and hung up.

“Thank you for doing this,” Savannah said.

I wanted to put my fist through something but didn’t.

S
avannah stood on the sidewalk and quietly cried outside the place where Echevarria spent his last days. Why are people always drawn to places of violent death like murder scenes? Is it the quest for ultimate intimacy, the desire to share in that final awful moment when life ends, to perhaps glimpse whatever there may be waiting beyond? I don’t know what Savannah was hoping to find or what she saw as she gazed at the dumpy little tract house where Echevarria’s life came to an abrupt end. Whatever it was, she wasn’t saying.

I asked if she wanted to have a look inside. She shook her head no.

Marvis Woodley spotted us and came over from next door. I made introductions. He told Savannah he was sorry for her loss.

“Best neighbor I ever had,” he said.

“Logan says you have information on the man who shot him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Marvis lowered his voice and said he’d mapped out a plan to capture the suspect. Did we want to go inside to discuss it?

“That would not be my first choice,” I said.

Savannah shot me the stink eye and walked with Woodley to his house. I sighed and followed them.

The interior of Marvis Woodley’s home was as orderly as a barracks. Everything in its place. Everything at right angles. There were plastic covers on the lampshades, plastic runners on the mauvecolored carpet, macramé coasters on the dustless coffee table. Savannah and I sat on the plastic slipcovered couch while Woodley paced the living room like Patton, hands clasped behind his back. He used terms like
dynamic entry
and
superior firepower
as he laid out his plan for capturing the transient that he was convinced had murdered Arlo Echevarria, while his little white yapper dog ricocheted off the walls and jumped up on the couch, trying to kiss me on the lips. Woodley would yell, “Rambo, get down!” and the mutt would do so, but only for a second or two, before jumping back up on the couch to get at my lips—when he wasn’t trying to hump Savannah’s leg.

“What kind of dog is he?” Savannah said, fending him off.

A dog I wanted to punt.

“Coton de Tuléar,” Marvis said. “Bred for the kings of Madagascar, only this one thinks he
is
king. Thinks he don’t have to take orders from nobody.”

When Rambo tried to hump my leg, I scooped him up and locked him in the bathroom.

Woodley was too wrapped up in his pre-assault briefing to pay much attention. He’d already conducted two “surveillances” of the house that morning during walks with Rambo, he said, and confirmed the killer was inside. The man we were after drove a beat-to-shit El Camino, which he parked on the street. Woodley’s plan called for me to knock on the killer’s door and say that I’d accidentally sideswiped the El Camino. He would then emerge unsuspectingly from his redoubt to inspect the damage, at which point Woodley would jump him. Together we would subdue him with duct tape. Then Woodley would call the police to come cart the son of a bitch off to Folsom. Savannah would capture the citizen’s arrest on Woodley’s cell phone camera, then he would sell the footage to the major TV networks. He was hoping for his own reality series, or maybe a movie deal. We’d split millions.

“If this guy’s the killer, I’m a theoretical physicist,” I said. “I don’t care whether you trust the LAPD or not. This is their gig, Marvis, not yours.”

He glared, nostrils flaring, like he was about to lay hands on me—or try. “I already told you. Fuck the LAPD. Don’t you get it? This is my ticket to ride, man.”

Rambo was scratching at the bathroom door, whining and yapping like he was trapped in there with Freddy Krueger. Woodley yelled at him to shut up. Rambo whined only louder.

“My old lady’s dog,” he said apologetically. “Left him with me when she split for good.”

He opened the bathroom door and released him. Rambo padded over to the front door and lay down, panting in relief at having been sprung from solitary.

“OK, here’s the situation,” Marvis said. He was looking at me not in anger this time, but with resignation. “The truth is . . .” He licked his lips nervously.

“SEAL Team Six didn’t come along until after Vietnam,” I said, finishing his words for him. “The truth is, you were never a SEAL, were you?”

He steepled his fingers prayerfully, rubbing his palms together slowly, ashamed to meet my eyes, and shook his head no.

Only a wannabe ever brags to a stranger about being a member of the Navy’s premier counterterrorist unit. Those of us in Alpha, of course, knew who they were. The community wasn’t that big. We referred to SEALs as the “junior varsity.” Not that they were in any way deficient at what they did. They were quite good, actually. It’s just that we were better.

Savannah eyed Woodley with a puzzled expression, then me. “Somebody want to tell me what this has to do with Arlo?”

Woodley sank into a blue velvet La-Z-Boy recliner, his favorite chair, given the well-worn cushions. “Me and Arlo was battle buddies,” he said. “Maybe we never served together, but we was battle buddies just the same.”

Marvis Woodley may never have been a Navy commando, but he was a Vietnam War-era veteran, he said. He’d toiled for a year below decks in the post office of an aircraft carrier patrolling Yankee Station in the Gulf of Tonkin, sorting the mail, rarely seeing the sun, both relieved and disappointed at having avoided combat. The life that followed had devolved into an unfulfilling career as a letter carrier and a series of failed, childless marriages. Many nights after work, he would pound down a forty-ounce bottle of Olde English and fantasize about running a garden hose from the tailpipe of his Monte Carlo, sliding in his favorite Aaron Neville CD, and going to sleep forever. But he never had the stones for that. Then Echevarria moved in next door and everything changed, Marvis said. The two men started hanging out. Sometimes, they’d order in Chinese food and watch baseball on Echevarria’s big screen plasma. But mostly they just drank. The booze loosened Echevarria’s tongue and he would let slip stories—incredible stories about a group of elite shadow warriors that no one had ever heard about.

“I couldn’t sit there and bore the man about being some lameass clerk on some lame-ass ship, watching movies and eating ice cream and shit, not after all he done,” Marvis said, “so I start telling my own stories. Being a SEAL, zapping gooks, all that. Arlo, he was just a kid when Vietnam was going down. The hell he gonna do, call me a liar? I ain’t saying what I did was right, but . . .”

Savannah covered her mouth as she listened. Everything Marvis said confirmed what she’d long suspected but could never get Echevarria or me to admit. The lives we hid from her.

“Truth is,” Marvis said, drawing a deep breath and letting it go, “I ain’t never done anything my whole life. This is my one chance.”

“Take down the bad guy
mano a mano
,” I said, “be the hero you never were.”

Marvis shrugged like a little kid caught in a lie. I pitied him.

“You’re certain this guy’s the shooter?”

“No doubt in my military mind.”

“What’s the address?”

Marvis recited it by memory. The house was four doors down and across the street, south toward the Ventura Freeway. I got out my phone and called Czarnek.

“Who you calling?” Marvis said.

“LAPD.”

“You can’t do that!” He sprang to his feet. Rambo, startled, began running around and yapping like the place was on fire. “You can’t, man,” Marvis pleaded. “Let me do this. For Arlo. For all the lies I told him. Please.”

I glanced over at Savannah. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“If Arlo were here today,” I said, “I know what he’d say: ‘Never send a man where you can send a grenade.’ You’re a good man, Marvis, but you’re no grenade. You did your job. It’s time to let others do theirs.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, staring up at the ceiling, then disappeared into his kitchen. His dog padded after him. The house was quiet.

“Detective Czarnek.”

He apologized for not returning my earlier call. The turf war had escalated between the Paxton Street Locos and Pacoima Flats, he said, and was monopolizing his time.

I walked outside, far enough away from Savannah that she couldn’t overhear my conversation, and briefed Czarnek on what I’d learned on my trip to Phoenix regarding Robbie Emerson and the possible Russian connection to the death of Echevarria. I told him about the mysterious man who’d bought a Sawzall from the Home Depot where Emerson worked, using a stolen American Express card issued to one Richard Smith, no middle initial, address unknown.

“A Sawzall?” Czarnek sounded distracted.

“Reciprocating saw,” I reminded him, “like the kind that took off Bondarenko’s hands?”

“A Sawzall. I remember. Right.”

“If I was a big deal LAPD detective, I might stiff in a call to American Express, get the billing address, and go ring Richard Smith’s doorbell. You never know. He might have some ideas as to who made off with his card.”

“If you were a big deal LAPD detective,” Czarnek said, “you’d be too busy dealing with little shitheads in the projects killing each other. I’ll get to it when I can.”

I told him about Marvis Woodley’s claim that Echevarria’s murderer had moved in down the street.

“That would be a first,” Czarnek said. Then again, he conceded, he’d seen weirder occurrences in nearly thirty years protecting and serving the good citizens of Los Angeles. Way weirder.