The Crime Writer

Though the four o'clock sun was strong, the lights shone at the window of Frankel's apartment, a reminder of the detectives' late-night visit. I drifted up the street past the hot-dog stand, past the fabric store with the creepy mannequins tilting in the window, and parked by the car-rental lot. Frankel's mechanic was across the way, locking up the garage. I caught him as he fastened the security screen.

"Hi, I'm Drew. I was referred to you by one of my neighbors. Mort?" I offered a hand, and he held his up in apology, grease etching the lines in the rough skin.

He had wonderfully elaborate tattoos, dragons and busty nymphs, sheathing either arm. The ink stopped in neat cuffs at his wrists. "Oh, yeah. Mortie. Sure."

"He said you do great work."

"Dings to wrecks."

"You must be good. Mortie doesn't exactly lavish praise, does he?"

"No, he don't."

"You banged out that dent for him."

"That's right."

"I got one myself. Came out to my car in the morning and there it was. Wheel well." I shook my head, galled by the imaginary scofflaw. "Just like Mort's. No note, no nothing."

"He figured some asshole smacked it with a bike."

"We park side by side. I think the guy hit mine at the same time. A week ago Wednesday."

The mechanic shook his head. "Not Mort's. His got hit just a couple nights ago. You know Mort he brought it to me the next morning."

"You sure?"

"Course I'm sure. He dropped the car first thing Tuesday, I had it back to him by the time he got off work."

The very night I'd gotten the vehicle ID from Junior, a ding had appeared in Mort's wheel well. And there was only one person other than Junior who could've known to put it there.

Acutely aware of the breeze across my suddenly hot face, I said, "You work fast."

"He's funny about that car. You'd do better to punch him in the nose than ding it. Though I wouldn't want to punch him in the nose."

"No," I said, "neither would I."

I sat in my car, elbows on the steering wheel, face tilted into my hands. My eyes ached, especially when I rubbed them.

I needed to proceed carefully and consider every possibility. Two reasonable options remained to explain Mort's wheel-well dent. Since the first was so incredible, I focused on the other. If Junior had embellished his story about the Volvo, that would have sent me scrambling off down the wrong clue trail, narrowing the field to felons and crooks and picking one of my liking. The ding in the right front wheel well a considerable coincidence in this scenario made this unlikely. But I had to be certain.

I called Hope House and explained to Caroline how I'd spent the time since I'd seen her last.

She said, "When the time is right, you'll have a nice lawsuit to press against LAPD."

"Right now I need you to make sure Junior is absolutely certain about everything he told me about the brown Volvo. Put him on the rack or whatever you shrinks use."

"Thumbscrews."

I thanked her, then stopped for a Coke and a refill at the gas station where I'd solidified Junior's love of smoking. The sky was starting to take on orange at the fringe, outlining the buildings and trees. My phone rang.

Caroline said, "Junior's positive about the Volvo. He said he's offended you're questioning his memory."

"Of course he is. Tell him I'll make it up to him at the Big Brother soiree next month." I climbed back into the Highlander, turned over the motor, and peeled out.

Fifteen minutes later I was across from the killer's house in North Hollywood.

Chapter 41

I parked in the shadows about a half block down, beneath the waterfall foliage of a pepper tree. Shadows scalloped the windshield, and dry leaves scraped the roof. From my vantage only the garage and edge of the house were visible.

The scene demanded a noirish cast dramatic lighting, gloomy sky, pessimistic clouds. But Los Angeles can be an uncooperative place. The evening had darkened a few degrees, sure, but there was a pleasing uniformity to the remaining sunshine, a suburban flatness. Leftover warmth lingered, trapped in the stifling stillness of the Valley air. It smelled of mulch and frying meat. Overhead a jet droned lazily toward Burbank.

The garage door was raised, the rear of the van laid open apparently he was midtask, though from my limited perspective I could spot no movement around the house. The van was now the vehicle of choice; he wouldn't risk taking the other car out, not again.