The Crime Writer

"Morton Frankel just got his car back from the shop today," I said. "He was getting a ding on the right front wheel well repaired. He caught me following him around, and we almost got into a fist-fight, but I gave him the slip. Then I figured out Kasey Broach didn't take Xanax, and I found a kid who gave me an additional sighting of a brown Volvo, putting it at Broach's apartment the night of the murder. He lives in the westernmost house backing on the parking lot. Tell his father I say hello. Oh and I also have a gun the same kid found in his trash can the day after Broach was killed. I had it thoroughly and professionally processed. There are no adult prints, no nothing except for a hidden greeting where the serial number used to be. 'Nice try,' it says. So I'm hoping all this is sufficient to move Mort up on your lengthy list of priorities. Go interview him. Pluck a hair out of his misshapen skull and run it against the unidentified sample you took off Broach's body. Whatever. But keep him from coming here. If he's our guy, I'm guessing he saved the MapQuest directions from last time he drove over to carve up my foot. If he shows up again, I'm gonna shoot him. And I have a gun with a serial number scraped off, so you'll never trace it to me."

The beep cut me off.

There. It was out now. If Delveckio turned out to be involved in some way admittedly a long shot my keeping his partner informed might bring the heat. My instincts told me Kaden didn't have anything to do with some frame-up. And my instincts were right at least 30 percent of the time.

A coyote trotted down the slope ahead of me, an escapee from a noir novel. He lunged up a neighbor's hillside, his white-gray coat blending into the fog.

Not surprisingly, Kaden called back in a minute and a half. "What?" he said.

I pulled into my driveway, parked, and filled him in on the day's adventures.

When I finished, there was a speechless pause. "How'd you get the pistol processed?"

"I know a guy."

"Okay, this has been nice and diverting so far, but now I've hit the wall. If you tangle in this investigation any further "

"You will arrest me for obstruction of justice."

A pause. "That's right. Ed and I are gonna come see you tomorrow, and we're gonna take the pistol and back you out of this case or "

"Throw my ass in jail."

"It would be a mistake to take this as a bluff, Danner."

"Why don't you come get the gun tonight?"

Kaden covered the mouthpiece for a murmured consult, then said, "We're outside Morton Frankel's apartment."

I felt a surge of excitement at having managed to get the proper authorities, or at least authorities, on what I hoped was the proper trail. If Delveckio and Frankel knew each other already, would Kaden pick up on it? What would he do even if he did?

"Is he there?" I asked.

"He is. We're gonna take him in for interrogation."

"Break him."

"We will. We're gonna sit on his pad for a few hours first."

"Why wait?"

"See if he gets up to anything. Plus, they're softened up when you wake them."

I recalled SWAT crashing my house at 4:00 a.m., dragging my discombobulated ass from bed.

"I doubt Mort softens significantly."

"Either way he'll know we're keeping an eye now."

"I'll sleep soundly."

"Try not to murder anyone while you're doing it."

Now that I knew Frankel was taken care of for a few hours, I called Caroline, apologized for running late, and asked if she would like to come over. She agreed hesitantly, which I took as progress. I would've liked to have cooked, but my excursion to the crime lab had left me short on time, so I cruised down the hill to Simon's Cafe. The eponymous owner, dapper, gray-haired, and with a black mustache, is everything you want a chef to be. A septualingual Moroccan export by way of Haifa, he makes a borek of three blended cheeses that, with its pickled lemon garnish, will make you speak in tongues. I ate at Simon's last with Genevieve, a late-night dinner that left us stumbling, food drunk, into the warm Valley air afterward.

Diners are used to people-watching in L.A., and I took note of the heads rotating to observe my entrance. I approached the counter, mindful of the whispers, and paid for my order.

The familiar restaurant effaced the ten months since I'd seen Genevieve to what felt like hours. Our split, though not nasty, had been sharp with unspoken resentments, and we'd barely spoken afterward. It occurred to me that Genevieve had likely changed in my absence, the accelerated transformation people make after a breakup. The Genevieve I knew may not have been the one who died. A talk-show shrink I watched once ventured that people either get healthier or sicker emotionally as they grow older. They never stay the same. Under the conditions of this psychological parlor game, which route had Genevieve gone?

As I left with my to-go bags swinging about my knees, a woman met me at the door. Her face, wrinkled severely, looked more anguished than angry. "You shouldn't be on the streets."