The Whole Truth Page 9

  “You do have a search condition,” Steve said. “They can work with the local departments and search you or drug test you without probable cause.”

  “This is worse than North Korea!”

  “What is the local situation here? You have run-ins with the sheriff or anything?”

  Johnny and Neal exchanged looks. “Mott? He’s been around forever. He doesn’t hassle us. No need. We keep to ourselves.”

  “As long as you’re not doing anything wrong — ”

  “Who says we’re doing anything wrong?”

  “Nobody — ”

  “Then don’t put it that way.”

  Silence. A little wind blew through the pines. Johnny put on an easy smile.

  “Do what you can to get me legitimized,” he said. “I’m going to have a ministry and we’re going to need a good lawyer. There’s guys in the flock who still have some legal troubles. Maybe you can help them too. And as an organization, I’ll need somebody I can trust, really trust. That’s why I’ve come to you, Steve. God has given you to me.”

  Ezekiel barked. Loud. Startling Steve. Someone was coming out the back door.

  NINETEEN

  He was someone out of the biker outlaw hall of fame.

  He had a hacksaw face and arms forged, no doubt, in a prison yard. If he wanted to advertise his ex-felon status, Steve thought he couldn’t have done it any better. A lot of exes, who could no longer vote and knew they’d never get very far in society, let it be known they didn’t give a rip. This guy was one of them, from his sleeveless T-shirt to the jeans and boots.

  Johnny didn’t seem all that happy to see him.

  “This your brother?” the guy said.

  “What are you doing here, Rennie?” Johnny said.

  “I gotta have a reason to come over?”

  Rennie met Steve’s eyes with a cold steel gaze. It could have been Cody Messina, all grown up and worse than ever. For a long moment he looked Steve up and down. If he was a member in good standing of Johnny’s “church,” Steve was going to have to say something about the social customs being taught.

  “Hey, OK, Rennie,” Johnny said, “this is my brother Steve.”

  Rennie didn’t offer his hand.

  “Hi,” Steve said.

  A simple nod from Rennie, who then looked at Neal with an expression Steve couldn’t quite read, but didn’t fall on the friendly side of the ledger. There were tense crosscurrents all over the place. Ezekiel watched, ready to spring any second, like he expected fresh meat.

  Rennie said nothing more, then turned and walked over to the dog. The dog started jumping around. Rennie knelt and put the dog’s head in his hands. The dog started licking Rennie’s face.

  “Friendly sort,” Steve said, quietly so Rennie wouldn’t hear.

  “Rennie’s a work in progress,” Johnny said.

  Rennie got up and walked back into the house, the dog barking.

  “Zeke!” Johnny shouted. “Shut up!”

  The chastened dog did as he was told. Johnny, who seemed to have unchallenged authority over people, apparently had the same over the animal world.

  Johnny said, “God. He’s just amazing. You’re here. We’re together. This is just awesome. Now I got a question for you, little bro.”

  Steve waited.

  “What happened to you after I got kidnapped? I mean, what was your life like?”

  “Not a real smooth ride,” Steve said.

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “I don’t know. Our dad killed himself. Did you know about that?”

  Johnny nodded slowly. “You remember much about him?”

  Steve shook his head. “Mom didn’t talk about him much. Once she said something about his being no good and I was better off. But I don’t think she ever got over losing you. She died when I was ten. Bad cancer. Did you know about that?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Must have been tough on you. What happened to you after that?”

  “Went into the foster-care system. Woo-hoo.”

  “No relatives?”

  “Back east, Mom had a sister.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Aunt Kate was her name. Not one of the good people. She didn’t want me. I went through a couple of foster homes, ended up with a couple named Rust. They were good to me, but by that time I was . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Nah,” I said.

  “Drugs?”

  Steve shrugged. “I got through school. I was pretty good at it, despite all the other stuff.”

  “You got through law school,” Johnny said. “That’s something.”

  “It wasn’t the best school. Not your Ivy League. But yeah, I got through and passed the bar and everything, and did okay. Worked for the DA’s office for a couple of years before I had my problem.”

  “The coke thing?”

  Steve nodded.

  “Never got married?” Johnny asked.

  “Oh, that’s another great mark on my record. My divorce is almost final.”

  “Yeah? Who was she?”

  “A lawyer. Like me. Met her in law school, as a matter of fact.” Steve paused to catch a glimpse of the memories flashing around in his head.

  “Whose idea was it? The divorce, I mean.”

  “I drove her to it, no doubt about that.”

  “Kids?”

  “No. Probably a good thing.”

  Johnny put his hand on Steve’s arm. “Then this is a new start, Steve. Your new family. You and me. It’s God’s plan.”

  Steve didn’t know whose plan it was, but it did feel like Johnny was extending the thinnest of reeds. If Steve grabbed it, it could keep him from being carried downriver, toward the falls.

  Steve grabbed. “I want to get to know you again,” he said.

  “Same here, Bro. And now we have all the time in the world.”

  TWENTY

  “Good news,” Steve said on the phone as he drove through Verner.

  “I’ve got a client for sure.”

  “Mr. LaSalle?”

  “The same. And here is something that will interest you. He wants to form a church.”

  Pause. “What kind of church?”

  “A Christian church of some kind. That’s why I’m calling you. I figure you can help me figure out all that religious stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Yeah. My brother wants to be a minister. He’s a convicted felon. I don’t know anything about people going into the ministry, if there’s a license requirement and all that. You seem to be an expert on these matters.”

  “Hardly.”

  “So when can we start?”

  “I have classes today.”

  “Tomorrow then. Noon. My office. We’ll do lunch.”

  “Do lunch? Are you a lawyer or a movie producer?”

  Steve didn’t care at this point. All he knew was he wanted to see her again.

  That she was religious didn’t seem to be an obstacle. The same way it wasn’t an obstacle between him and Johnny. People were people, right? They all had the same junk inside; some dealt with it one way, some another.

  Some did drugs, then got off drugs, then thought about doing drugs again.

  Some used religion as a drug. The opiate of the masses.

  Big deal. Of all the places to be born into, the world was about the worst, and everybody was on the same boat. You had to snag whoever came by who seemed like a halfway decent person and see if you could keep each other warm.

  Once, Ashley had kept him warm, and he liked her warmth. But it was gone now and that was that. Sienna Ciccone was here now, and that was also that.

  Steve drove leisurely, taking in the environment. Verner had an actual downtown, with rows of shops. Boutiques, hardware, shoes, antiques, books. The place hadn’t been Wal-Marted yet, though it did have the obligatory Starbucks. He stopped in and treated himself to a Mocha Frap. It was a long drive back to LA.

  He walked around a little. Verner had a nice-lo
oking Mexican grill and a Carl’s Jr. A bowling alley and a two-screen theater. Brad Pitt’s latest, along with some teen horror flick, the kind that inevitably featured the latest TV hotties making their big-screen debuts in an entirely forgettable waste of celluloid. The posters always featured the ample bosom of the latest eye candy, who would soon enough occupy the same dustbin of cultural irrelevancy as Paris Hilton.

  All in all, it seemed like a perfect place for his brother to start his re-entry into society. Not a big city with concentrated temptations. But not so small that you couldn’t find some things to do. Steve thought he might even take up bowling and roll a few with Johnny.

  What if he even moved out here sometime? Could be the right kind of place for him to start over again too. Him and Johnny, same place again.

  Still, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of his brother and the company he kept. Steve had defended a lot of cons, and the odds of their staying out of trouble after they got sprung were pretty low. Johnny seemed determined. He wasn’t so sure about that guy Rennie.

  Rennie no doubt had trouble tattooed on his chest.

  Steve got back to the Ark and drove toward the highway. At the edge of town he saw a brown brick building and a six-point star sign that said Sheriff. He paused, then turned left into the outdoor parking lot. He’d come all this way. Why not bunch up on the tasks?

  Inside, it had a revamped look. Fresh coat of beige paint on the walls, clean brown carpeting, a Western painting on the wall — a couple of cowpunchers beneath an orange sunset. Behind the reception desk, a woman of about fifty worked a keyboard. She got up when she saw Steve standing there.

  He took out one of his attorney cards and handed it to her. “Stephen Conroy. I talked to a Lieutenant Oderkirk.”

  She looked up from the card, her face ashen. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Terrible. An accident. Four days ago.”

  Steve couldn’t find a word.

  “He was driving,” the woman said. “At night. We don’t know exactly. He went off the road.” She looked down.

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  “He died,” she said.

  A jolt ripped through Steve. “I’m sorry.”

  “We are too. He was a good man. Had a wife and two daughters.”

  “He was helping me.”

  She said nothing.

  “Is the sheriff in?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t expect him back today. I think he’s at the mortuary, in fact. The funeral’s on Saturday.”

  “Which mortuary would that be?”

  “There’s only one. Bruck. It’s over on Hazleton.”

  Bruck sounded familiar. Then he remembered it was the mortuary where Robert’s autopsy was performed.

  “How do I get there?” he asked.

  TWENTY-ONE

  An older man, maybe seventy-five, greeted Steve in the softly lit reception area of the Bruck Mortuary. Scarlet velvet curtains with gold brocade hung over an inner doorway. A large chandelier issued muted light. The room had an abundance of ferns that may or may not have been real. It wouldn’t matter to the stiffs, Steve mused.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the gentleman said. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, red tie. His white hair was wispy, like a bird’s nest. The nameplate on his desk said Edward Hendrickson.

  “I was sent over here from the sheriff’s station. I was told the sheriff was here.”

  “He’s in with Mr. Bruck,” Hendrickson said. “Would you like to wait?”

  “It’s about Lieutenant Oderkirk,” Steve said.

  “Oh. Yes. I see.” It didn’t seem like he saw, but he picked up the phone and pressed a button. Into the receiver he said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bruck, but a gentleman is here regarding Lieutenant Oderkirk. No, I didn’t get his name.” He looked at Steve.

  “Conroy.”

  “Conroy,” Hendrickson repeated. Then, “Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “Mr. Bruck will be right with you.”

  “Thanks,” Steve said. “Would that be the original Mr. Bruck?”

  “Oh no. It’s third generation. William. This was all started by his grandfather.”

  “And the sheriff. What’s his name again?”

  “Mott, sir. Owen Mott.”

  “How long’s he been sheriff?”

  “Long time. Fifteen years at least.”

  The velvet curtains flapped and a guy about Steve’s age stepped in. He wore an open-collared shirt and a black coat and slacks. New breed of mortician, Steve thought. More hip. Make the bereaved think their dear departed has all the latest, whatever that might be in this business.

  “Hi, I’m Bill Bruck.” He offered his hand. He was a head shorter than Steve, with thick black hair gelled flat. “Mr. Hendrickson says you’re here about Larry Oderkirk.”

  “In a way.” Steve handed him one of his cards.

  “Lawyer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you representing Larry for something?”

  “No.”

  “Friend of the family?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He frowned. “How can I help you?”

  “I was actually hoping to talk to the sheriff.”

  “Oh.” Bruck made little squeezing motions with his fingers, like he was holding a little rubber ball. “Well, we’re going over some details right now. I wonder if you can arrange an appointment.”

  “Thing is, I’m heading back to LA. I had some business with Lieutenant Oderkirk and I thought I could ask the sheriff about it.”

  A uniform stepped through the curtains. “What sort of business was that?”

  He was tall and thin, with a salt-and-pepper moustache and tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a sheriff’s star on his chest. The pants of his uniform were stuffed inside black cowboy boots.

  “Sheriff Mott?” Steve said.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name’s Steve Conroy. I spoke to Lieutenant Oderkirk recently.”

  Bruck handed Steve’s card to the sheriff, who gave it a quick once-over. “Uh-huh. What about?”

  “He was helping me locate an autopsy record.”

  Mott looked at Bruck, who kept working the phantom super ball.

  “And I guess that autopsy was done right here, back in 1983,” Steve said.

  “Before I was elected,” Sheriff Mott said.

  “My dad was running the business then,” Bruck said.

  No one offered anything else, so Steve said, “Maybe you could help me, Sheriff. If I want to locate the full record of the case, can I get that at your office?”

  “We’re in a transition period at the moment,” Mott said. “A lot of the old records are in San Bernardino being transferred to microfiche. So I’m afraid now is about the worst time to ask.”

  “You must have some sort of index, a centralized record.”

  “What is the nature of your interest, Mr. Conroy?”

  “The victim was my brother.”

  Mott nodded. “I see. Let me suggest this. Call our office on Monday and have Sandra fax you an official request form. Fill that out and fax it back to us. We’ll see what we can do.”

  Steve glanced at Hendrickson, the man behind the desk. He was looking down at what appeared to be nothing.

  To Bruck Steve said, “Do you keep records of autopsies?”

  Mott answered. “I’d rather you go through the proper channels, Mr. Conroy. That way we can make sure it’s all done right. Is that the only reason you drove out here from” — he looked at the card again — “Canoga Park?”

  “I had some other business.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “Legal matter.”

  Mott waited for Steve to add something. He didn’t.

  “If that’s all,” Mott said, “then I’ll be sure — ”

  “One more thing,” Steve said. “What were the circumstances of Lieutenant Oderkirk’s death?”

  “And your reason for that info
rmation is what?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Curious just isn’t enough, Mr. Conroy. As a lawyer, I’m sure you understand.”

  Steve heard something that sounded like a ticking clock. It was the old guy at the front desk. He was tapping a pencil on the edge. When he saw Steve looking at him, he stopped. An embarrassed silence descended from the dark crimson ceiling.

  “Well,” Mott said, “I think we all have things to do. Nice meeting you, Mr. Conroy.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  A haze had drifted up against the mountains as Steve pulled out of the parking lot. Made things fuzzy. He thought about Oderkirk’s death. A thin layer of uncertainty shrouded that too.

  Maybe it was all coincidence. Or maybe Johnny’s God had planned it out.

  Some planner. If he was so all-powerful, why’d he make everything such a mess? You don’t do it that way if you’re God.

  Time for a little clearing of the air. Steve had the autopsy report in his briefcase in the car. It was four fifteen. He’d come this far and spent this much time. Maybe one more stop.

  Traynor Memorial Hospital.

  Steve got directions at an ARCO station. The hospital was tucked up against the foothills. A three-story, sage-green structure with tinted windows. Just inside the front doors, two elderly women sat at a reception desk. They were dressed in blue smocks with yellow tags identifying them as volunteers. One of them had sleet-colored hair done up in curls. The other had dyed hers a shade of red that did not exist in nature.

  They looked surprised and delighted when Steve came in, as if he were the Pony Express riding into the fort.

  They fought for the first word. Curls said, “May I help — ” at the same time Red said, “Who are you here to — ”

  They stopped and looked at each other, half-annoyed, half-amused, then back at Steve.

  And spoke over each other again.

  “Let me help you out,” Steve said. “I’m looking for a doctor, a certain — ”

  “Are you hurt?” Curls said.

  “Our emergency entrance is around to the side,” Red said.

  “No, I — ”

  “Oh, but we just had a shooting,” Curls said.

  “A colored man,” Red added.