“How?” I demanded. “You can’t wire Josh.”
“We’ll wire the car Zane rents,” Cresly said, exhaling a snaky stream of smoke. “As soon as they get out of the car, we’ll be there.”
“See, Henry,” Josh said.
“Bullshit.”
Freeman said to Cresly, “Let’s go for a walk, Phil. Let them talk.”
Cresly smirked, but got up from the table. “Yeah, you guys talk,” he said, “but let me give you something else to think about, Rios. Something washed up on Venice Beach last night. It used to be Sandy Blenheim.”
He stalked out of the room.
“We’ll be back in a while,” Freeman said, following him out.
“You can’t do this, Josh,” I said. “Cresly’s using you. I don’t trust him.”
“How else are they going to catch Zane?”
“There are other ways,” I insisted.
“Like how?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.
“The warrant.”
He smiled, wanly. “Cresly says they might never find it.”
“Cresly could tell me the sun was going to set tonight and I’d still want a second opinion.”
“Why do you hate him?” Josh asked, flicking a bit of ash from the sleeve of his sweater. “‘Cause he’s a homophobe? The world’s full of them,” he continued, and added, “I was one. I called Jim Pears a faggot, just like the other guys at the restaurant.” He looked at me, his lips a tight line. “I owe him.”
“Not that much, Josh.”
“If they had asked you, you’d do it. Wouldn’t you?”
I didn’t have to say anything because we both knew the answer.
27
Two nights after New Year’s, I was sitting in an unmarked police car on Santa Monica Boulevard with Cresly, Freeman, and an officer named Daniels. The strip of the Boulevard between Highland and La Brea, usually packed with hustlers, was almost empty, the result of an earlier sweep by the L.A.P.D. The only hustlers left were actually cops with one exception… Josh. He stood at the same corner where Robert had stood, wearing tight jeans, a polo shirt and the black vinyl jacket that Robert had left behind. He ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
A flat male voice described Zane’s progress from Hollywood Boulevard, where he had just rented a Chevette rigged for sound. We and three other cars in the area would be able to monitor what went on in the car within a four block radius. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
‘He looks real good out there,” Cresly said, referring to
Josh.
The radio crackled. “Subject is approaching on Sycamore. You should have him in sight momentarily.”
Daniels said, “There.”
I looked to where he was pointing. The Chevette turned right and started, slowly, toward La Brea. Cresly fiddled with the monitoring device and the next thing we heard was a rock song.
“What’s that?” Freeman asked.
I listened. “Talking Heads.”
Freeman looked at me blankly. Zane made three passes on the boulevard between Highland and La Brea, coming in and out of the range of the radio. Each time he seemed to slow a little when he passed Josh. The fourth time he signaled a turn onto the side street where Josh stood, turned, and pulled up at the curb. I watched Josh walk over to the car, just as Robert had, and stick his head into the window.
Josh said, “Hi. How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain,” Zane replied, his voice watery from drinking. “You waiting for someone?”
There was silence.
Zane spoke again. “You wanna go for a ride? I’ve got some grass here.”
“Sure,” Josh said. My stomach clenched. I looked up and watched as he climbed into Zane’s car. We heard the engine start up and then the Chevette drifted lazily down the street.
A match was struck. We heard someone sucking in air and then, in a tight voice, Zane said, “Take it.”
More sucking noises. Cresly said to Daniels, “Follow them.”
We pulled a turn across four lanes of traffic and drove down the street where the Chevette had gone. The only noises we heard were of the joint being smoked. A moment later, we got the Chevette in sight. It pulled over to the curb. We passed it. I resisted the temptation to glance over at Josh.
“So,” we heard Zane say, “what’s your name?”
Josh said, “Josh. What’s yours?”
“Charlie,” Zane said. “What are you into, Josh?”
We turned up the first street and headed back to Santa Monica, then turned back, making a circle, toward the Chevette. Cresly instructed Daniels to park just before we got to the street where the Chevette was parked.
Josh was saying, “Whatever, you know. Anything you want.”
Cresly glanced at me without expression.
There was a movement in the Chevette. Josh laughed. “That tickles,” he said.
Zane said, “Does this tickle?”
There was squeaking, rapid breathing, silence, then a slow breath and a sigh.
Daniels asked, “What’s going on in there?”
“They’re making out,” I said. Daniels stared at me.
“Gross,” he muttered.
Zane said, “That was nice. How come I haven’t seen you around before?”
“I just got into town,” Josh replied.
“I know someplace around here we can go,” Zane said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you let me — “ A sudden wave of static drowned out the rest of his sentence.
“Okay,” Josh said.
We heard the engine start up. Cresly told Daniels, “Go around again.”
We edged up to the intersection of the street where the Chevette was parked. Just as we turned, and the Chevette started moving, a black-and-white appeared from still another street.
“What the fuck,” Cresly said, and yanked the transmitter from the radio, trying to signal the black-and-white It passed beneath a streetlight as it slowly approached the Chevette. It wasn’t L.A.P.D. but the county sheriffs who had, apparently, drifted across the county line into the city. A flashlight flared from within the black-and-white as it pulled up beside the Chevette.
Zane said, “Shit.” He gunned the motor and made a run for Highland. The black-and-white’s red lights flashed and we heard it order Zane to pull over.
We pulled out behind the sheriffs. Cresly was screaming into the radio trying to stop them from giving chase.
“Clear out!” Cresly was yelling. Abruptly, the black-and- white stopped. Over the radio, someone was asking for clarification. The Chevette, however, was gone.
We came up beside the sheriffs. Cresly rolled the window down and continued screaming at the driver. A couple of minutes later he slumped into the seat, breathing hard. He picked up the transmitter and canvassed the other L.A.P.D. cars in the area. Finally, he turned to me and said, “We lost them.”
“What!”
“I said we lost them, goddammit. Put out an APB,” he snapped at Daniels.
I listened as Daniels gave an urgent description of the Chevette and its passengers.
Cresly looked at me again. “Where would he go, Rios? Home?”
“Not likely if his wife is there,” I replied, trying to keep my panic in check. ‘Maybe he’ll just drop Josh off and call it a night. You might have someone watching the car rental place.”
“That’s covered,” he said. “Anywhere else you can think of?”
“He has a place in Malibu,” I said, finally.
“What’s the address?”
“I don’t know. His wife, she would know. I think I could get us in the neighborhood, though.”
Cresly’s mouth twitched. “All right,” he said. “You tell us how to get there. I’ll send a car to his wife and get the address to alert the sheriffs in Malibu. Can you think of anywhere else he might go?”
I shook my head.
Cresly ordered a car to go to Zane’s house and get the Malibu address from Irene Gentry. Freeman, who had been stone silent, said, “I’m sorry, Henry.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
“Where do we go?” Cresly asked.
“Out Sunset to the Coast Highway,” I said, “then go north into Malibu.”
“You heard the man,” Cresly snapped at Daniels. He reached to the floor and came up with a siren which he stuck to the top of the car. We shot into the darkness, the siren whining and utter silence between us.