The Crime Writer

A pickup truck rolled to the front of the complex. Morton Frankel tapped the driver a worker I recognized from the yard on the shoulder and climbed out. Junior noted my rigid posture but didn't say anything. Frankel walked up the unenclosed staircase, reappearing on the second floor. He swung open his door, threw his jacket and lunch pail inside, and headed back down. Reaching ground level, he started walking toward us.

Before my heart rate could get up a good head of steam, Frankel cut left up the street. Junior blew out his breath. I reminded myself that fourteen-year-olds, no matter how nefarious, also get scared. Stalking a rapist with my juvenile delinquent, I guessed, would knock me from contention for Big Brother of the Year.

Once Frankel was up the block, I pulled out after him.

"Where's his fucking car?"

"That's what I'm wondering. Maybe he's taking the bus."

"This L.A., homes. Nobody take the bus."

"Not everybody has a Huffy."

"Stay further back, homes. Don't you watch no T.J. Hooker?"

"I was watching T.J. Hooker before you boosted your first car."

"Boosted? The word, Grampa, is 'jacked.' "

And so on.

We followed Frankel another few blocks before he turned in to a body shop. I parked across the street by a rental-car lot plenty of vehicles for the Guiltmobile to blend into. Mort disappeared into the office, a prefab shack. He emerged a few seconds later, rolled a cigarette, and smoked it.

One of the garage doors slid up, and out coasted a brown Volvo wagon.

For an older car, it was in great condition. A few cracks in the paint, but perfectly clean. Clearly Frankel took a lot of pride in his 760. Or he was taking care to keep it free of evidence.

A mechanic with arm-sleeve tattoos hopped out, and Mort gave him a handshake and a shoulder bump. You keep an old car looking that good, you'd better be friends with your mechanic. The guy walked Mort to the right front wheel well and ran his hand over the perfect curve. Mort followed suit, then nodded, impressed with the work.

Why fix the dent? Because he loved his car? Because he wanted to eliminate a potential identifier? Because he'd dented it dragging Kasey Broach's corpse inside?

He pulled a checkbook from his back pocket, leaned over the hood, and signed.

With his left hand.

A hundred eighty-five pounds, left-handed, diabolical gleam in the eyes. Just like me, but with a better gleam.

I stared at his close-cropped brown hair.

I just need one strand. Like you took from me.

I drove back and reclaimed my old spot across the street from the complex. A few minutes later, Mort pulled in to his parking space, slid a Club security bar onto the steering wheel, cranked the window down a few turns, and disappeared into his apartment.

I slapped Junior's knee. "I gotta get you back."

"Thass it? Homes, you gots to get your evidence. You gots to break in to the car, see what you can find."

That was my plan, but I wasn't about to tell Junior. "If I find anything, the cops can claim I planted it to get my own ass off the hook."

"Thass why you need me. I'm a witness. Plus, you can't argue with no hair."

Hearing my own thinking spoken back to me by a fourteen-year-old was a powerful indication that I needed more sleep. "Why'd he leave the window down?"

"He don't keep nuthin' worth nuthin' in there, and he don't want no one to break a window to find that out. And it ain't worth cutting through a Club to steal no old-ass Volvo. Now, go check the headrest."

"Thanks, but no."

"No? You gots to have ethics, homes."

"Ethics? Breaking in to his car would show I have ethics?"

"Yeah. Like I won't tag no trees or Lutheran churches. Ethics. You got a stone-cold killer out there, and you the only one knows who, and you too bitch-ass to pluck a hair off the headrest?"

"What if the cops come?"

Junior checked his watch. "It's shift-change time at the Hollenbeck Station. Streets are clear of cops."

"How would you know that?" I waved him off. "Never mind. I'm an idiot." I stared nervously at the black teenagers still playing dice on the lawn a few feet from the parking lot. "Those guys just watched him pull up. They'll know I'm not the owner."

"What would you do in one-a your books?"

"Create a diversion."

He snickered. "Like light a fire?"

"No. Something clever."

"Hows about this?" Before I could stop him, Junior climbed out of the Highlander and onto the roof. I scrambled out, looked up to see him cupping his hands around his mouth. "Yo! Why's there so many niggers up in here?"

He leapt from the roof, seeming to bounce on the sidewalk, and took off up the street in a sprint. I leaned back against my car as the five young black men blew past me in angry pursuit.

Diversion. Clever. Right.