Try Fear (35 page)

I didn’t get any call back.

Five minutes later my phone vibrated. It was a text message. I brought it up.

Congratulations. I must take you to dinner. K.P.

You must, I thought. You must.

A
T
S
T
. M
ONICA’S,
I collared Father Bob, an appropriate thing to do with a priest. “What’s up with Sister Mary? She got out of the hospital—where
is she?”

“Come into my humble abode,” Father Bob said. We were outside his trailer, the orange hotplate of the sun dropping behind
the hills.

“Let’s talk right here,” I said. “I’m not sitting down for a while.”

“All right,” he said. “Maybe it is better this way. Sister Mary has left St. Monica’s.”

It sounded like the report of a death. “Meaning?”

“She is going to reassess her calling, in a time of prayer, away from…” His voice trailed.

“Me?”

“From everything,” he said.

“Where is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Ty, it’s best that you just leave this alone for now. Let things simmer down.”

“She leaves? Just like that? Says nothing to me?”

“She asked me to tell you. It’s best this way.”

“I want to know where she is,” I said.

“It’s best that you don’t know,” Father Bob said. “And please don’t call her.”

“Padre, do not treat me like some pimple-faced teenager, okay? Do not.”

“Just give her this time.”

I said nothing.

“And please remember,” Father Bob said, “that you always have our love and support and friendship.”

“Fantastic.” I looked at the basketball court. They could tear it up now. Put in outhouses if they wanted to. Or a statue
of Saint Hildegarde. In fact I was ready to start tearing it up myself.

A
ND
I
WAS
still feeling that way when I got to Kate’s house. Father Bob was there before me. Kate had a spread laid out, cold cuts
and bread and soft drinks on ice. And a big cheesecake. With a piece missing.

“Eric was here,” Kate said, “but had to go.” She tried to smile, but it was an effort. She added, “His wife. He needs to work
things out with her.”

“She didn’t come with him?” I said.

“Fayette is, well, high-strung sometimes,” Kate said. “But that doesn’t mean we all can’t celebrate. My son is home. Like
in the Bible story, right, Father?”

Father Bob nodded. “The Prodigal Son. He was lost and is now found.”

We sat around and ate sandwiches, but this felt more like a funeral than a celebration. Kate was hurting but tried not to
show it.

I was steaming. Eric should have had his ungrateful heinie right here. But for Kate’s sake, I made conversation. That seemed
to help her a little. And the cheesecake was, in fact, delicious.

Around nine o’clock Kate asked what her legal obligations were concerning Carl’s debts and papers and effects. She was getting
his mail forwarded to her and had a stack of bills. I told her to give them to me and I’d arrange for all the notification.
I told her I’d handle the estate. Carl had died intestate, so she would be entitled to the assets under the laws of succession.
But creditors could take a bite out of the assets.

She was glad to hand it all over to me. She said she wanted to pay for the work. I told her to make me two cheesecakes. One
for me, and one I’d take to Father Bob.

Deal, she said.

I made conversation for an hour or so longer. Then I said I should get going. Father Bob stayed. I took off for the townhouse
in Warner Center. I had a few things I wanted to say to my client.

H
E WASN’T HOME.
Neither was his wife.

At least they didn’t answer the buzzer.

I sat in my car across from the townhouse. No lights on in the window. I decided to wait.

While I did, I went through some of Carl’s mail, separated the bills from the junk. He had bills and dunning letters from
the cable company, the DWP, the gas company, and three notices from Capital One Visa. I opened the Visa bills and looked at
the last one with any charges, from mid-January to mid-February.

The last purchase Carl made was on the night he was killed. He bought something at BevMo, the big wine and liquor store. I
remembered one of the tenants mentioning she saw Carl walking into the apartment building with a BevMo bag. No doubt with
the tequila that he had in him when he died.

I stayed out there another hour and a half without anybody coming home. I gave up and went back to St. Monica’s.

That night I dreamed I was in Dodger Stadium, alone, at night. The lights were out and I was wandering the seats, looking
for someone to shine a light and get me to the exit. Nobody came.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
early, I called Zebker from my trailer.

“You want me to congratulate you or something?” he said.

“I don’t want you to start the day on a sour note,” I said. “So skip it. But you do have a killer to catch.”

“We had the killer.”

“I have a credit card bill here that says Carl bought something at BevMo a few hours before he died. Somebody saw Carl going
into his building with a BevMo bag. I didn’t see that listed on your inventory. What happened to the bag?”

Pause. “Maybe he dumped it before he went into his apartment.”

“How likely is that? You bring your shopping bags in, you unpack, you toss the bag in the trash. And what else was in that
bag?”

“What does it matter?”

“I thought you’d be curious, that’s all. You know me. Willing to help, right? I’m not ready to pack this case in.”

“Good luck,” he said.

“If you find something out, I’d appreciate a call.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Detective, I know all about your culture of silence, not sharing case information with the common shlub. But I am not a common
shlub. I am, in fact, a remarkable shlub. I sacrificed my left butt cheek to catch a potential killer. And I’ve been very
open with you. Now you can, in your discretion, give me any information you choose to. I’m asking you to so choose.”

“What does the judge say? I’ll take it under advisement.” Then he disconnected.

I looked out at the empty basketball court for a while, then got ready for the day. I had someone to see.

B
OTH
E
RIC AND
Fayette looked hungover. They were in bathrobes, but Eric let me in and offered me coffee.

“Sorry about last night,” Eric said. “I needed to spend some time with my wife, you understand.”

I tried to. I sat with them around a kitchen table. Fayette looked like she didn’t want me anywhere near the place.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Eric said. “What you did in there was amazing.”

“We caught a break,” I said.

“Some break,” Fayette said.

Eric looked at her, then back at me. “It all worked out for the best.”

I took a sip of coffee, trying to figure out how I felt about Eric Richess. Finally, I said, “I’m very fond of your mother,
and I don’t want to see her hurt. I think she needed you last night more than you two needed each other.”

“That’s really none of your business,” Fayette said.

Eric patted her arm, to mollify her. She jerked away. Now I felt totally out of place.

Eric said, “I hear you, Ty. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I am worried about it, Eric. I’m worried about it a lot. And I tend to get very cranky when I get worried.”

“That sounds like some sort of threat,” Fayette said.

Lady, you haven’t heard me come within twenty yards of a threat, but just tempt me. Go ahead.

Eric said, “Ty, you are above and beyond. I’ll do the right thing by my mom.”

Which reminded me, I had a right thing to do, too.

I got out of the Richess love nest and drove down to the Motel 6 and gathered up Daryl. He wanted to stay and watch more TV,
but I told him he was ready to re-enter society as a productive citizen.

He didn’t know if he wanted to.

I did not give him a choice, even though he still had some facial healing to do. “But you don’t scrub pots with your face,”
I told him.

“Say what?”

“Say, get in the car.”

I drove him to St. Monica’s homeless shelter and went to the front desk, where Sister Barbara ran things. They had one room
available. I said Daryl would do especially well in the kitchen, starting with the pots and pans.

“Oh, man!” Daryl said.

“And you are grateful to the Sisters, aren’t you, Daryl?”

He opened his mouth but I glared it shut for him. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. Happy to do it.”

I nodded my approval.

Outside, my old pal Only, the medical marijuana maven, was waiting for me at my car.

“Dude!” he said.

“Dawg,” I said.

“Guess what? I’m starting my own business!”

“Whoa. Does Wall Street know about this?”

“They will, man.”

“What’s this new venture called?”

“Psy Chic,” he said. Pronouncing it
sheek.
“Get it? It’s psychic services for the upscale crowd.”

“My congratulations,” I said. “I think you have found the perfect niche market right here in L.A.”

“Maybe you could help me incorporate,” he said.

“Definitely. You’re going to need the protection of the corporate veil.”

“Thanks, man. And I want you to be the first.”

“That’s okay—”

He grabbed my left wrist and closed his eyes. “Quiet, please. Just make your mind a blank.” Only put his left hand up in the
air, like an antenna. “You are going to do something very, very important.”

I waited.

“And soon,” Only said.

He opened his eyes and let go of my wrist, and smiled.

“You’ll make a bundle,” I said.

I
DROVE TO
the Sip and found, as usual, Pick McNitt in a snit.

“When did saving money become an idiot thing to do?” he said. “Putting money in the bank, every paycheck, that’s what my dad
did, how he raised his family. So what dipstick decided this was stupid, and convinced us to gamble, to become a nation of
consumers instead of savers? To drown ourselves in debt to let the good times roll? Who was it? Who?”

I declined to guess and went to the back to read the paper. I hadn’t gotten too far in when my cell buzzed.

It was Zebker. “Courtesy call,” he said.

“Am I going to be happy about it?” I said.

“Remains to be seen. I just talked to Detective Stein. He gave
me
a courtesy call. Are you sitting down?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said.

“Then here it is. The rifle you found in that guy’s house is not the one used to shoot the nun.”

I waited for a punch line. And waited.

“You still there?” Zebker said.

“I’m picking my jaw up off the floor, I’ll just be a second.”

“Yeah. The guy, his name’s Gruber, is an ex-felon. You were right about that. But the other guy’s clean. He’s back on the
street.”

“Oh, that is good news. Anything else?”

Zebker said, “And I thought you’d like to know we traced the receipt at BevMo. Carl used his card to buy two bottles of Jose
Cuervo Black Medallion, a liter of Pepsi, and a bag of pretzels. We found the tequila bottles, one empty and one half full,
and pretzels in the apartment. We didn’t find a liter bottle or the bag.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Look, there’s things I don’t like about this file. But we can’t arrest your guy again, and if he didn’t do it, somebody else
did, and maybe you can help me find out who.”

“How?”

“Just think about it, will you?” he said.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“You did your job. Fine. No hard feelings.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe I’ll bump into you at a Dodger game sometime. We can talk about it over a Dodger Dog.”

“Yeah, right, and—” I stopped myself.

“You there?” Zebker said.

“The inventory list. You have it there in front of you?”

“Just a second.” Pause. “Yeah, right here.”

“Is there a Dodger hat on it?”

Another pause. Then, “No. Why?”

For a few seconds I couldn’t speak. Then I said plenty.

A
T SEVEN O’CLOCK
that evening, I went to see my client once more.

Fayette was not happy to see me.

I walked right in and said, “I need to talk to Eric. Alone.”

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Tell him I’m here,” I said. I went to their balcony door, opened it, and went outside to look at Warner Center Park.

“Now listen,” Fayette said, “we have plans—”

“What’s going on?” Eric said, coming into the living room. He saw me at the balcony door. “What’s up, Ty?”

Fayette said, “He wants to talk to you alone.”

“Fine,” Eric said.

“What’s this about?” Fayette asked.

“Eric can tell you later,” I said. “If he wants to.”

“What does that mean?” she said.

“It means I want to talk to Eric alone.”

Husband and wife looked at each other for a moment. Eric said, “Honey, why don’t you run out and do an errand or something?”

She seemed to pick up a message from him, because she didn’t say a word. She grabbed her purse from a table with a whiff of
annoyance, and went out the door.

I was still standing between balcony and room. I could hear a TV going next door. Some show about the entertainment biz, I
think it was.

Eric turned to me. “Sorry, Ty, she’s a little uptight. We’re still working on things.”

“I bet you are.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Confess,” I said.

He smiled and said, “What?”

“Confess. Or do I have to beat it out of you?”

For a long moment Eric looked at me, trying no doubt to find out if I was serious. I let dead serious spill out of my eyeballs.

Finally he said, “What do you think you know?”

“Where’s Carl’s Dodger hat?” I said. “The one you wore to BevMo when you bought the Cuervo and Pepsi?”