From the car, I called the Bonaventure and asked for Uncle Max. He was out. So were Rod and Lucas. After a few minutes of quiet swearing, I took out the card Detective Bronkowski had handed me at the courthouse.
I placed a call to Parker Center.
“Robbery-Homicide, Arce speaking.”
“Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for Detective Bronkowski. Can you page him for me?”
“He’s out on a call.”
“How about Mike Flint?”
“He’s off his beeper. Maybe I can help you.”
I thought about it. I didn’t want to start at the beginning, try to explain everything to Detective Arce. Actually, that isn’t true. I needed help, and this detective would certainly know what to do. The sticking point was Flint. I had been surprised at how disappointed I felt when Arce said Flint wasn’t available, another little pinch to the already bruised conscience.
So things between Flint and I had gotten out of hand the night before. I hadn’t made a graceful exit. Bronkowski had let me know that Flint wasn’t feeling so good himself. I wanted to patch things up with Flint. I needed to find Caesar. Seemed they could dovetail.
“Listen,” I said to Arce, in a pitiful little voice. “I really need to find Mike Flint. Bronk told me to call him if Mike hadn’t shown up by now.”
“Shown up where?”
“My house. I hate to bother you, but we had this big fight last night, and I think he’s afraid to come home. I really want to find him.”
“You’re the squeeze, huh?” he said.
“I guess.”
“It’s Saturday night before Christmas. You try the lounge at the academy?”
“Not yet.”
“Give them a call. Bartender’s name is Verna. She’ll know if he’s there. If you don’t find Mike, I’ll be through here around midnight. Give me a call.”
“Thanks,” I said. I hung up and shifted into drive. The L.A. Police Academy was only a few minutes away.
I had been to the academy some years ago to watch a boxing demonstration given by women police officers. We had celebrated the victory of an amazon brunette named Officer Bambi by getting blind drunk in the academy’s lounge. I don’t remember how I got home from there, but I knew I could easily find the academy again; it sits at the far edge of the Dodger Stadium parking lot, in the hills of Elysian Park.
The sky opened up. I turned on the windshield wipers, put my foot on the accelerator, and headed straight north out of downtown, just following the signs to Dodger Stadium.
The Police Academy looks more like a rustic lodge than an urban-combat training facility. Built of natural river rock and heavy timbers, it is nestled into a canyon filled with lacy eucalyptus. The view of downtown, when the sky is clear, is magnificent.
The parking lot that curved up the hill past the rifle range was full. So I went back down front and found a space between two black-and-white units in the lot below the gift shop. The stone walkways were uneven and slick with rain. I managed to make it up the stairs to the lounge without permanent injury.
Inside the door, there was a coat rack. I decided it would be prudent not only to keep my coat on, but also to keep it buttoned.
I was working my way toward the bar when I was intercepted by an officer in motorcycle boots, jodhpurs, and a plain black sweatshirt. His boots creaked as he walked.
“Looking for a friend?” he asked, parking a foot on the rung of a stool and striking a John Wayne pose.
“I’m looking for Mike Flint,” I said. “Have you seen him?”
He leaned into me. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s a detective from Major Crimes Section.”
He shook his head. “What does he look like?”
“A squint. Gray suit, gray hair.”
“Lot of suits here. What does he have that I can’t offer you?”
I extended my index finger stiffly in front of his nose. “Can you make a woman scream for mercy six times in a row without ever…” I let my index finger droop, slowly.
He laughed and put his foot down. “Mike’s inside. I think you deserve each other.”
“Thanks.” I walked on in and searched through the crowd.
The near end of the lounge is a big horseshoe-shaped standing bar; the far end is clusters of small tables, a dinky dance floor, and big doors that lead out to the rock garden. A lot of love blooms in the rock garden at night, I remembered Officer Bambi telling me. Tonight it was wet outside, and the doors were closed.
This was a noisy group. Not exactly the same mob I had seen earlier at the Century Plaza. Working people at the end of their work day. No one was in full uniform, there were no badges showing, but the body language separated police from civilian guests-a certain swagger, men and women both, an air of authority, a watchfulness, a bulge at the waist about the size of a 9mm automatic. Scattered among them, like flower garnishes in a field of navy blue and medium gray, were young women with heavy makeup, short skirts, lots of moussed hair.
I spotted Mike Flint at a table near the rock garden doors. The sweet young thing with him was sipping something pink with paper umbrellas stuck on the rim of the glass. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to get lucky or babysitting.
He didn’t seem overly happy to see me, but I walked over and put my hand on his shoulder, anyway.
“Hi, Mike,” I said, drawing it out. “How’ve you been?”
“Where’s my tape?” he said.
“That’s all you have to say to me after last night?”
The girl with him sucked the pink stuff through her straw as if she was on a timer.
“Will you excuse us?” I said to her.
She looked at Flint for a cue.
“Be right back, sweetie,” he said. “This won’t take long.” Flint picked up the beer he’d been nursing and led me to a corner table. He pointedly sat down on the far side. Nothing really had happened between us after drinks at the Bonaventure, nothing serious. Just fooling around. Once when my hand was on his chest, I felt the tape he had taken from Emily’s answering machine in his pocket. Somehow, the tape had ended up in my own pocket. It was a tacky thing to do. I wasn’t altogether sober, and I was desperate to hear the tape again, carefully. Cheesy excuse, but the best I had.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Sorry? That’s it? You get me all fired up just so you can pick my pocket. You steal evidence, you get me in trouble, then you come sniffing around here looking like Garbo in heat. Where did you get that dress?”
“Garbo?” I said. “How old are you, anyway?”
“You know what I mean. Jeez, look at that dress.”
The coat was buttoned up under my neck, but there was a lot of sparkle and leg left over below it. “You weren’t such a prude last night,” I said.
He leaned forward and put his face near mine. “If you have any class, you won’t bring up last night.”
“Mike, I had to listen to the tape. Anyway, it just sort of fell into my hand. I’m sorry you’re upset,” I said. “You can have the tape back. It’s out in the car.”
“Damn right, I can have it back. A lot of good that does now. It’s tainted. How do I know you didn’t alter it? No court will accept that tape now.”
“I said I’m sorry. I’m sorry your feelings are hurt. If I could kiss it and make it better, I would. Except that’s how we got here, isn’t it? So, maybe I have something for you that’s better than the tape. A peace offering.” I handed him the note from Emily. “What do you think?”
He read the note. “Where’d this come from?”
“A bum, a man named Caesar, gave it to me last night.”
“And you’re just getting around to showing it to me?”
“I just read it. I didn’t pay any attention to it last night.”
“Okay, so?” He wasn’t going to let me off easy.
“I traced the bum to Skid Row, but I need some help locating him.”