“Not if she gets out of the way.”
I smiled at the image. “You sure talk tough for a guy with dimples.”
“I don’t have dimples.”
“Take a look in a rearview mirror.”
He laughed. “I love you,” he said.
“Sure,” I groused. “Sure.”
“Maggie…” His voice trailed off, followed by a short thinking silence. “Screw it. Give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you by the coffee place down in the civic center mall.”
The camera I held was heavy. Ten minutes didn’t give me time to put it away in my car. But I said, “I’ll be there waiting.”
“Hold on. Merritt wants to talk to you.”
Merritt came back on the line. “Maggie?”
“What’s the word?”
“I think I’ve got it.” He began to sing, “You are my sunshine…”
Chapter 2
Mike ran in an easy but determined lope. Past the line of speakers on the Parker Center lawn-“It’s time, Los Angeles, to demand justice, to demand accountability from those who abuse it”-down a gauntlet of picket signs and then through the cordon of riot-ready police, his marathoner legs pumping, silk tie flapping against his shoulder. People in his path, even the visibly angry ones, made way for him, stepped aside when they saw the big detective shield on his belt, the holstered automatic he held flat to his side. He wasn’t even breathing hard, but I was fairly gasping just watching him.
I cannot explain the effect Mike Flint has on me, I only know its power. Way back when my parents still thought they should try to influence my choice of men, they would have warned me off Mike. I wouldn’t have listened to them any more than I listen to my friends who warn I should be more cautious.
Mike was certainly nice to watch when he was in motion, a visual I wanted to keep. From my perch above the mall, next to the city’s official monstrosity, the Triforium, I taped his progress through the demonstrators.
Mike has a long, slender, runner’s body, a craggy Bogart face, and prematurely snow-white hair. I would describe his looks as striking rather than gorgeous, unless we’re talking about Mike naked, in which case the latter definitely applies. Among all the detectives working homicide with the Los Angeles Police Department, Mike has the highest rate of spontaneous criminal confessions. I think the reason the bad guys spill it is because Mike can look and talk like everyone’s favorite Uncle Ned. When he wants to.
Mike crossed First Street against the light and headed into the teeming human mass pouring into the underground mall, looking among them for me. I blew a modest ballpark earsplitter to get his attention, kept the camera on him until he came close enough to reach up and cover the lens with his hand.
“You’re late,” I said as he aimed a damp kiss at my face. “I’d just about given up on you.”
“Something came up. Let’s get out of this crowd.” He took my heavy camera under one arm and me under the other and, still in a hurry, impelled me upstairs against the downstream of foot traffic; the usual early lunch hour crush was made heavier by demonstrators seeking relief from the relentless, pounding heat.
Without breaking stride, we went straight into the relative quiet of the Children’s Museum, through the gift shop and into a side exhibit area, stopped finally in front of a tall tinted window that overlooked the street and Parker Center below. Next to us there was a six-foot robot made entirely of plastic Lego blocks. Its recorded voice repeated at twenty-second intervals, “I contain eighty thousand Legos. You can build me at home.”
I took Mike’s arm and watched him watch the demonstration. I recognized some of the speakers, the incumbent district attorney candidate and a ghetto preacher with political ambitions of his own among assorted movers and shakers.
“What’s it all about?” I asked.
“Bullshit variation on the usual. D.A.‘s pulled up an old case, wants to ride it into the hearts and minds of the voters. Let’s just hope he doesn’t start another riot.”
Two grubby-faced tots stepped on my toes so they could get up close to Mike.
“Is that a real gun, mister?” piped a little towhead about five years old with a big-eyed stare. “Are you going to rob us?”
“No.” Mike drew back in mock offense. “I’m a cop.”
“No you’re not, big fibber. Real cops wear a cop suit.”
“This is my cop suit. See the badge?”
I had to turn my head to cover my laughter. I didn’t want to embarrass the kid. His friend did the honors for me. He punched the towhead and whispered loud enough for the entire room to hear, “He’s a grandpa cop. That’s a grandpa cop suit. Ask him if he hits people.”
“Only when I have to,” Mike said, laughing.
An adult, properly chagrined, came and fetched her charges. “Sorry,” she said to Mike, and scooped the boys away, scolding them about speaking to strangers.
I leaned against Mike’s hard shoulder. “Grandpa cop suit? I need to buy you a new tie, cupcake.”
“Don’t bother. I have all the ties I need to get me through the next two years and five months.”
Outside, a line of black and white cars with lights flashing drove up onto the Parker Center lawn and scattered the crowd that surged toward the building’s glass entrance. People ran like ants under a garden hose. I could see they were yelling and screaming, but I couldn’t hear anything except the happy little voices inside the museum. I was glad we were in out of the noise this time, away from the forward, panic-driven rush.
“Tell me about this old case,” I said. “Seems to have struck a chord. You boys get caught beating someone again?”
“Not even close.” Mike gave me his narrow, tough-guy gaze. “Just doing our job, putting a bad guy in jail. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what we did or didn’t do. The people want bread and circuses, and the D.A. is delivering. It’s as simple as that.”
I said, “Uh huh.”
I must have sounded more skeptical than supportive, because Mike sighed from some deep and angry place. He turned away from me to check the growing fracas outside. Mike, always so assertive, so know-it-all, seemed uncharacteristically burdened.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “It’s not simple this time, is it?”
“No.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t make it stick. “Boss came to talk to me-that’s why I was so late getting out of the office. Looks like it might be my turn to take a shot.”
“What did you do?” The words came out okay, though my chest felt too tight to breathe. Mike had told me enough war stories about the good old days on the force that I had some idea what the range of possibilities for getting in trouble was, and knowing that didn’t make me feel any better. I gripped his hand, felt him grip back. “Mike?”
“I told you,” he said. “We were just doing our job: a clean collar, a good conviction. One more con off the street.”
“There’s more to it than that or the D.A. wouldn’t be making an issue of it. Tell me about the case.”
“I don’t remember all the details-first murder I worked when I made detective. Off-duty cop got shot during a routine robbery. We made a clean collar, got a good conviction. The D.A. can say anything he wants to about it, but he can’t change the facts.”
“When was this?”
“Michael was still in preschool.” He frowned while he calculated. “Fourteen, fifteen years ago.”
“Police usually turn it on to find a cop killer,” I said. “So, what happened? You go overboard?”
“It was nothing like that. Wyatt Johnson wasn’t killed because he was a cop. He was killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That makes a difference?”
“Big difference. It was a routine street crime, and that’s how we handled it.”
The question I didn’t ask was how they handled routine street crime fifteen years ago. I had heard plenty of stories about brawls and wild chases and had seen the old scars on Mike’s body. I knew fists and flashlight blows came under standard operating procedure in the days before the rhetoric of kinder and gentler was enforced. I could see Mike was worried. The big question I asked was, “What can happen to you?”