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“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?”

  No answer, which was answer enough. Now was the time to hit him with a theory I’d worked out with Zebker.

  “With the hat pulled down, you could pass for Carl. If you moved fast and didn’t talk to anybody. My guess is you went to see Carl and somehow got his Visa and lucky hat. Maybe you offered to go to BevMo for him. Maybe he was already buzzed, but you went out for the stuff at BevMo, borrowing his car. You came back, got him good and liquored up, which wouldn’t have been hard. I didn’t know until now that with a little prep an empty plastic liter bottle makes a good sound suppressor. Was Carl passed out when you shot him? Maybe leaning back with his mouth open? But no soot in the mouth, right? You blasted him, then used the plastic bag to transfer gunshot residue. How’m I doing?”

  Eric issued a long breath, never taking his eyes off me. “You’re my lawyer. Whatever I say you can’t repeat, and I can’t be tried again, because of double jeopardy, right?”

  “You watch a lot of TV, don’t you?”

  “Am I right?”

  “You’re right. You can’t be tried again for Carl’s murder, and whatever you say to me about it is privileged. That doesn’t mean I have to like it, or you, or suppress my desire to turn your face into a Picasso.”

  “Look, Ty, listen, please.” Eric rubbed his hands together, as if he’d dipped them in holy water and was rinsing away his sins. “It’s this way. Carl wanted to die, okay? I hope you can at least understand that. He was unhappy and hated his life. But he didn’t have the guts to kill himself. I did it for him.”

  “That’s what he told you he wanted, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You lie,” I said. “You wanted Carl dead because he was going to blow the whistle on the subcontractor scam running up to Jamie MacArthur’s office.”

  Eric looked at me a moment, wheels turning somewhere in his lying head, then shrugged.

  “The call girl,” I said. “Is she even a call girl? She was so good, a good little liar. Is she an actress or something?”

  “I think real. I mean, I never met her. Bacon set it up.”

  “Set it up?” A couple of thoughts bumped in my mind. “Bacon did all this to get you off.”

  No response.

  “Bacon was the heavy hitter for MacArthur, or Nielsen, or whoever on the contract scam. And you, you were in on it. A bagman maybe. And Carl was going to talk. You took his computer, didn’t you? Why? Did he have it all on there?”

  Eric said nothing.

  “Did Bacon pay you to get rid of Carl? And then promise to get you off if you blew the suicide thing and managed to get yourself caught?”

  “Ty, please.”

  “And your lovely wife,” I said. “She was in on this too, wasn’t she? That’s why you’re not out on your ear. Was she with you the night you shot Carl? Waiting out back to drive you away?”

  “Now Ty, you got to understand,” Eric said. “Carl’s better off. He was going to do himself sooner or later, I guarantee you. And yeah, Turk Bacon is not a man you want to mess with, Ty. I’m telling you for your own good.”

  “You threatening me?”

  Eric didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I don’t want to, but Ty, come on.”

  “And I sat there like a rube and got you acquitted.”

  “It’s the system. You’re not at fault for that.”

  “Sure, I did my job in that system, didn’t I? I get to pretend I was only upholding the Constitution, that the system worked. But this time it didn’t, and I can’t stand to look at your ugly, lying face another minute.”

  “Now, look—”

  “You don’t deserve a mother like Kate.”

  “You’re not gonna tell her anything, are you?”

  “It would destroy her,” I said. “But she will find out. Someday you, or the De Medici you’re married to, will say something or give out a vibe. And when that happens, I’ll come to see you again.”

  “And do what?”

  “Lay a little retribution on you.”

  Eric snorted. “You can’t do anything to me.”

  “It might be better if you moved out of town.”

  “What?”

  “Make some excuse. Go get a job in Texas. Write to your mother on a regular basis. But I want you out of here.”

  Eric shook his head. “You should go now. Thanks for the help. I really mean it.”

  I stepped up to his face. “I’m serious.”

  “Back off,” he said. “Or I’ll make sure you don’t try any more cases—know what I mean?”

  “Oh, and as your lawyer I should warn you to be careful about what you say, because conspiracy is a crime. Did you know that, Eric?”

  He blinked a couple of times.

  “You and Turk Bacon and the lovely Mrs. Richess. You’ve said some incriminating things here.”

  “And you can’t say a word.”

  “Not as it relates to Carl’s murder, maybe. But you should know there’s a clause in the canons of ethics, that a lawyer may disclose client information if he believes it’s necessary to prevent death or serious bodily harm. And pal, I believe you just threatened me with serious bodily harm.”

  “Yeah, I did,” he said. “But it’s your word against mine, brother.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Look over at the park.”

  He frowned, then took a step to the open door. I turned with him. Zebker was on the sidewalk across the street, and next to him was Fayette, cuffed and being held by a uniformed officer.

  I said, “What if I told you that cop down there has heard every word we’ve said here?”

  Eric’s eyes filled with flame. He grabbed my throat with his left hand. It was huge. His fingers were like sections of steel pipe. I couldn’t breathe.

  With his right hand he ripped my shirt. Looking for a wire. Which I didn’t have.

  I shot the base of my right hand up under his chin.

  His head snapped back, good and hard. His grip loosened and I knocked his arms away.

  Now fire was in me and the room seemed to go dark. All I saw was this filth in front of me, a ton of it. I wanted it destroyed.

  Eric threw a left. It caught the right side of my head and felt like a looter’s brick.

  I gave him a foot to the knee. Heard something crack. He cried out and bent forward. He charged and hit me like a tackling dummy.

  We both went down.

  Eric wrapped his arms around me and gave me the old-fashioned bear hug. I got my right forearm against his chin and pre
ssed.

  That’s how we stayed for about ten seconds. Then his grip started to weaken.

  I wanted to go all the way. I wanted to take his head off. Do a Butkus on him.

  So when his hands finally let go I slammed my fist into his right ear. He howled. I grabbed the hair on the back of his head and gave his face a quick slam to the floor.

  I was going to play New York jackhammer with his nose when I heard the door crash open, and felt somebody pulling me off Eric Richess.

  170

  AN LAPD BLUE took Eric into custody.

  I sat in the Richess living room, catching my breath, with Zebker standing in front of me. My body felt like a card table, folded.

  “Just take your time,” Zebker said.

  “Did you get it?” I said.

  Zebker held up B-2’s iHear, the earbuds dangling. “Didn’t work,” he said.

  “What?”

  “All I got was somebody watching Entertainment Tonight. Did you know George Clooney likes women?”

  I sat up. “That’s just great, Detective.”

  “But I got something better. I told his wife I could hear him confessing, and implicating her. She started screaming that he was the one, and she’d spill if we’d make her a deal.”

  “Find out if he threatened her,” I said. “It’s pretty sure he did. But you’ll need that to get around the spousal privilege. Then she can talk.”

  He nodded.

  “You can use me, too,” I said. “I will testify against this dirt bag on the assault.”

  “It’s fun being on our side for a change, isn’t it?”

  “A barrel of laughs,” I said.

  “You need to be looked at,” Zebker said. “Let me take you—”

  “No,” I said. “I have something I have to do.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  171

  KATE KNEW THERE was something wrong the moment she opened the door. For one thing it was late. For another I looked like a half-deflated basketball.

  She took me in and sat me down. “What on earth happened?”

  How could I even begin to tell her? How could I hope to spare her any more grief? I couldn’t. It was not a matter of being the wire that held her up. I’d have to be the net that caught her when she fell.

  “Kate,” I said, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Her name is Fran. She lost her daughter, the woman I was going to marry. In fact, she lives not too far away.”

  “I’d like that, Ty. Does she need to talk to someone?”

  “I think maybe you both do,” I said.

  “It’s true. I don’t think you ever really get over losing a child. You have a scar and you learn to live with it. There’s a verse in the Bible about how God comforts us in our sorrows, so we can comfort others. So yes, Ty, I’d like to meet her.”

  She had no idea what was coming next, but she must have seen something in my eyes. Because her face changed. “What is it, Ty? Is it about Eric?”

  I searched for the right words.

  “What’s happened?” she said. “Where is he?”

  “Kate, Eric and Fayette are in custody.”

  “But why? Did they have a fight? Did he hit her? Did she hit him?”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “Let me say this quickly…” I still couldn’t get started. I could not become the hammer that smashed her last hopes. But I knew I would be before the night was over.

  She studied my face and a look of resignation came to her own. “Oh no,” she said. “He did it, didn’t he? He really did kill Carl.”

  I said nothing, but nodded slowly.

  She stood and put her hand on her chest.

  “Kate, I’m so sorry. I wish—”

  “No. I think I knew it could be true, deep down. I just didn’t want to admit it. I just…”

  I got up, went to her, held her. For a long time. Then we sat and talked until she said she’d like to go to bed. I offered to sleep on the couch, in case she needed me around. She said she’d be all right.

  I kissed her cheek and said good night. I went out and got in my car and drove. Just drove. Around the city. Wondering where Sister Mary was and if I’d ever see her again. Wondering if I should go spit on somebody’s grave, somebody who died preaching that the law is a fine and noble thing, and lawyers purveyors of justice and all things good. I drove the streets past hustlers and gangbangers and kids who were in between. Past old men and drunk men and about ten different ethnicities, people sitting on bus benches or walking fast, before their fears or doubts or somebody with a knife caught up to them.

  I just drove, my own fears and doubts sitting in the backseat, playing tag team. Playing for keeps.

  172

  I CAME TO in a parking lot in Hermosa Beach.

  I’d pulled in late the night before and fell asleep in my car. I was stiff all over, sore underneath, and my mouth tasted like old salami. I uprighted my seat and looked at myself in the rearview. Scary.

  Which didn’t concern me. I didn’t have anyplace I needed to be, or wanted to be, or cared about being. Who cared what I looked like? Who cared if I went down to the beach and walked up and down, people avoiding looking at me for fear I’d ask them for spare change. Or some kid could point and say, “What’s wrong with that man, Mama?”

  And I’d bend over to the little tyke and say, “People in this life use you, sonny. And they leave without saying good-bye and don’t tell you where they’re going. So don’t invest in anybody, junior. Make a lot of money and hoard it and tell the world what it can do with itself. How’s that? Oh yeah, and you got any spare change?”

  I fired up the car and found a Denny’s on the way back to the freeway. I went to their bathroom and freshened up, as they say, and came out feeling like three bucks. I ordered up a French Toast Slam and downed four cups of coffee, and started to feel like five bucks.

  And then I got mad.

  I headed up the 405 then took the 10 west. I got off at Lincoln and drove to the Blumberg Building. I got there at 8:57.

  The security guard recognized me, though he did a triple take. And was tentative in announcing me. But then he got the word and buzzed me in.

  I took the elevator to the top floor, and B-2 was waiting for me as the doors opened. His eyebrows went up.

  “You don’t look too good,” he said.

  “Really?” I said. “I feel like five bucks.”

  He put his arm around me and started walking me toward his office. “So what’s the trouble?”

  We sat and I told him everything that happened. Including laying the hurt on Knuckles and Sonny Moon, and coming up empty on the rifle. Including getting a guilty man off. Including the failure of the iHear.

  That did not please B-2. He opened his phone, hit a key, said, “My office,” and clicked off.

  Thirty seconds later, Sid the computer whiz came through the door. When he saw me he said, “Hey, man!”

  “Hey nothing,” B-2 said. “The iHear has a problem.”

  “We already know that,” Sid said.

  “What are we doing to fix it?”

  “All will be well, sir,” Sid said. “I have it on schedule for today.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You are still the man.”

  “You found that gamer yet?”

  “It’s in the hands of the LAPD,” I said. “Do you make any devices that inflict slow, painful death?”

  “That’s on the agenda,” Sid said.

  “Get back to work,” B-2 said.

  173

  I STAYED IN the office for another forty-five minutes. B-2 told me some stories about his early failures, as if that might prop me up. I appreciated the effort, but I was still hovering at the five-buck level when I got up to go. It was just after 10 a.m.

  As I was heading for the elevator, Sid ran up to me with a look of excitement. He was holding his Palm device, which is more advanced than anything on the open market.

  “Dude,
your boy just sent another e-mail to the nun,” he said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I don’t kid about my work, I just create magic.” He held up his PDA and showed me a map. “He’s at the branch library at Exposition Park, even as we speak. Station 15. If he takes the full hour they usually give, you might even be able to catch him.”

  The elevator doors opened. Sid hit a key and handed me his PDA. “It’s got the GPS now. Just listen to the voice. Go get him.”

  The voice gave me a straight shot east on the 10, south on Western. The branch was located right there at Martin Luther King, Jr. Park.

  I still had that Indiana Jones hat in my trunk. I put it on, and some shades, so I would look like any other eccentric trying to hide his identity.

  Nobody noticed me.

  I snatched a book off the new release shelf, a Robert Crais as it turned out, and kept looking at it as I walked by the computer stations.

  It was 10:37. And there was a skinny guy sitting at number 15, intent on the screen.

  He could have been eighteen or thirty. He was one of those types with fair skin and baby features. Hair long and ignored. Earbuds plugging both ears.

  I circled behind him.

  He was playing a game.

  Could it be him?

  I found a chair by the CDs where I could keep an eye on him. I opened the Crais book and made with the fake reading.

  At 10:52 the guy stood up from the station. He flipped some hair out of his eyes and started getting funky with whatever was coming out of his earbuds. It was not pretty. It was a bad case of white man’s overbite, the bane of every inept nerd who thinks two wires running up to his head plug into cool.

  I nearly laughed. At myself. This couldn’t be the guy. Not this Bizarro world hipster.

  And yet, what better profile to hide behind if you wanted to send anonymous e-mails threatening a nun?

  He bopped right out the door.

  174

  I CAUGHT UP to him as he was about to get in his car. An old, dirty Chevy Malibu. I wasn’t thinking more than one move ahead. My move now was to bluff him into a facial tell.

  I took off my hat and sunglasses and tapped him on the shoulder.