It was Rittenbaugh’s turn to drive. As Wondero waited for him to unlock the doors, he spotted a willowy figure standing on the corner a hundred feet away, wavering like a match flame. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, and he squinted in frustration. The figure was a tall, well dressed black male with a pearly white smile who appeared to be motioning to him.
“I’ll be right back,” Wondero said.
Rittenbaugh had seen the figure as well. “You want back up?”
“That’s not a bad idea. Follow me in the car.”
“Got it.”
Wondero headed down the sidewalk. It was in Watts that the term “a drive-by” had been coined, with drug dealers driving by their competition on street corners and blowing them away with automatic weapons. In an area this dangerous, it was better to be safe than sorry.
He came to the corner and halted. The figure was leaning against a gleaming BMW 750 parked illegally at the curb. Wondero didn’t know him, but he knew his kind. A ghetto drug-dealer, sporting a cream-colored Italian suit and shoes that looked like slippers, his white silk shirt open at half mast, his chest ablaze in glittering gold medallions and thick gold chains. The impulse to spare some ghetto kid the misery of becoming a crack addict was powerful enough to make Wondero’s right hand twitch.
“What do you want?” Wondero snarled.
“My name is Rasheed,” the drug dealer said.
“That’s nice.”
“Chill out, brother.”
“Get lost.”
“Listen,” Rasheed said, jabbing his finger in Wondero’s direction. “If people around here see me talking with you, know what happens?” He took the same finger, placed it against his temple. “I’m taking a big risk, okay?”
“So, what do you want?”
From behind his ear Rasheed produced a small square of paper. “This is for you.”
Wondero stared suspiciously at his outstretched hand. If someone snapped a photo with a cell phone, it would look like he was taking a bribe.
“What is it?”
“Information,” Rasheed said.
“About what?”
“There’s been a crazy man in the neighborhood, scaring the shit out of people. One of my runners saw him get into his car right as the apartment house was coming down. He was driving a blue Buick Skylark, real beat-up.”
Wondero took the paper and unfolded it. Scrawled on it was a California license tag. BCL -149H. His hands started to tremble. “Did your boy happen to see anything else?” Wondero asked.
“My what?” Rasheed said indignantly.
“Your runner, your track star, whatever the hell you call him, did he see anything else?”
“Come to mention it, he did.”
“Spit it out.”
“The crazy man was limping, must have fallen down when he was running away. His leg was bleeding, too.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I know.”
“Thanks for sharing. Now, get the hell out of here.”
“I helped you, man. Show a little respect.”
Wondero been chasing Death for four years. Until now, not a single person had stepped forward, and offered up a solid lead. He should have been thankful, only Rasheed was a pusher, and would probably end up killing just as many people in his life.
“Get the hell out of here before I arrest you.”
“What—?”
“You heard me. Beat it.”
Rasheed’s eyes simmered with hatred. Moments later the BWM pulled away with a rubbery squeal.
Rittenbaugh sat at the corner, the car idling. Wondero hopped in and punched the license into the computer on the dash. “What did he give you?” his partner asked.
“Hope,” Wondero said.
Ten minutes later, the detectives were on the Hollywood freeway driving south in the restricted right lane, doing over eighty. The license belonged to a 1998 blue Buick Skylark that was registered to Warren K. Kozlowski. His address, 2234 Cicera, Apt. 2-B, was in a seedy section of West Hollywood, a few blocks from Paramount studios.
On a hunch, Wondero had called a police dispatcher to see if the Skylark had been recently stolen, and not yet entered on the LAPD computer.
He’d been wrong. The car was clean. That had gotten his attention fast: Death had driven stolen cars around L.A. from the beginning, boldly ditching them in prominent, well-traveled spots, including the driveway of the ex-mayor. But he still had to drive his own car once in a while. In this city, there was no other way to be mobile.
Rittenbaugh took the Fountain Avenue exit west to Wilton, and drove south past historic Hollywood Cemetery and the Paramount lot until he found Cicera. He took a hard right and the two detectives started reading addresses. The street was lined with three and four-story apartment houses that had been neglected beyond repair. They came to a traffic light, and Rittenbaugh jammed on the brakes.
“The address is in the next block,” Rittenbaugh said. “Do you think we should call for backup?”
Wondero considered it. With any luck, the Skylark would be parked on the curb, and Osbourne would be home. If they called for backup, there was always the chance that Osbourne would slip away, and their chance to end his murderous spree would disappear.
“Let’s get him,” Wondero said.
The light changed and Rittenbaugh let the car drift down the street. Finding the address, he double-parked, and the two detectives hopped out.
Wondero’s first steps were quick and sure. Going up the path, he halted, hitting an invisible wall. #2234 Cicera was an old gutted house, its sagging three-story frame a blackened, picked-clean carcass on a grassless plot of land.
The detectives both cursed.
Back in the car, Wondero gave the dashboard an angry punch before issuing a city-wide alert on the Skylark.
Chapter 29
Eugene’s Room
L.A. had its share of prejudice, but if any group got abused and no one heard about it, it was the elderly, especially on the roads.
Myrtle Jones had found out the hard way, her last car totaled at an intersection by a teenager without insurance. She had received no restitution, no triumphant day in court; the boy had gotten a fine, then driven away from the courthouse, while she had been forced to take a bus.
So she stayed away from cars. Only on rare occasions did she drive Mr. Kozlowski’s old Skylark, and that was because he nagged her to take it out for a spin every once and a while. The car was still registered to Mr. Kozlowski’s old address, and she was fearful of getting in another accident, and being fined for driving without correct papers.
But Mr. Kozlowski had continued to nag her. WHY LET IT FALL APART? he’d written on his tiny computer.
“Do you really want your car driven?” she’d asked him.
YES!!! he’d replied.
“How about if I let our neighbor Eugene drive it?” she said. “He asked me about the car the other day.”
GOOD IDEA
So she’d given Eugene the keys to Mr. Kozlowski’s car. Let him drive it, she thought, and I’ll stick to the sidewalks and mass transportation. A great idea, until the car had appeared in her driveway caked in dirt and something that looked like blood on the upholstery, and Mr. Kozlowski had thrown a fit.
Myrtle Jones banged on the front door of Osbourne’s home, then noticed the curtains pulled down in each window.
“Eugene? It’s Myrtle — are you in there?”
From within she heard a mournful groan.
“Eugene? Are you hurt?”
The groans grew more pronounced. She tried the door, and finding it unlocked, hesitated, knowing she should call the police. But they were always so slow, and so careless with people’s emotions. Ignoring her caution, she hurried inside.