"Okay, so it's nothing, then," he reasoned. "It got planted out because it was ugly."
"Yeah," I said. "Probably."
But as I was turning to go, I started thinking that holly was a strange choice for that job. There were better and cheaper ground covers. Then I remembered that holly was often used by people who lived in areas where city-use ordinances prohibited high fences. If home owners wanted to secure their property, but couldn't because the city limited fence height to four feet, they often planted holly bushes, which reached ten or twelve feet high. Holly also has plentiful inch-long spike-like thorns. It was an effective barrier and a deterrent to prowlers.
I started to wonder if it was just a coincidence that the well house had been planted out with holly, or had someone, like Stender Sheedy and Thayer Dunbar, not wanted this structure messed with like they didn't want anyone messing with the house?
"Let's open this thing up," I said.
"Why?
"Let's just do it."
I looked at the door clasp. It was held shut by a heavy chain with no lock. The chain had been welded to itself.
"Hang on," I said. "I'll be right back."
I ran to our D-ride parked down the street in the bushes, opened the trunk, and pulled out the jack handle. Then I ran back up the hill. By the time I got there Hitch had pulled the welded chain out as far as it would go.
"Okay, stand back."
I slipped the jack handle through the small loop he had created with the chain and tried to use its two-foot-long leverage to apply enough force to snap a link. It didn't yield.
"Grab on to this," I said. "Give me a hand."
We both hung on to the jack handle and put all our weight into it. After about two minutes of bouncing, one of the links finally broke and Hitch and I landed in the thornbush we'd just cut down from the front of the metal door.
"This better be worth it," Hitch growled, picking a painful-looking thorn from his palm.
We got up and pulled off the chain. Then we both yanked on the metal door. The hinges were rusted and the door was heavy, making it extremely tough to move. We managed to force it open wide enough to slip through. Musty air poured out of the crack and greeted us as we turned on our flashlights, both took a deep breath, and slipped inside.
The first thing 1 saw in the gloom was a large, boxy shape. I shined my light on it. It was a massive square object of some kind with a rotting tarp slung over it. The thing was sitting in the center of the rectangular space.
Hitch and I pulled off the canvas. Once it was removed, it revealed a thirty-year-old box-back armored truck. The faded red letters on the side read:
BRINKS MONEY amp; VALUABLES,
SAFETY amp; DISPATCH
"Damn. Look at this," Hitch said softly.
We moved around the truck. The tires were all flat from years of sitting here. Hitch climbed up on the running board and shined his light inside the cab.
"Auugh!" he screamed, and jumped back, almost falling down.
I moved up and shined my light where he had just been looking.
Staring back at me were two empty eye sockets and a bone white skull. A full skeleton was slumped over the wheel, its missing eyes turned to look out the window. All of the flesh had rotted away. A Brinks uniform hung on the bones like a scarecrow s clothing. In the passenger seat was another skeleton. This one was slumped against the passenger door, its uniform also in shreds. Bugs and bacteria had managed to get inside and do their work. Over the years, both guards had been eaten to the bone.
Hitch and I stumbled from the concrete structure and stood outside trying to deal with what we'd just discovered.
For almost two minutes, neither of us spoke. Once Hitch regained his composure, he looked over at me, pale but intense in the moonlight. His exact expression was hard to assess. There was excitement there, even avarice, but mostly he just seemed very happy.
"I told you once we got it worked out, the first act would be killer. In case you missed it, this is the rest of the big dark secret that was lying under Act One. It just exploded to the surface, changing everything."
"Huh?" I said, sounding like a Dunbar party guest. "This is what we've been praying for, dummy. It's our major complication in Act Two."
Chapter 35.
Ten minutes later Hitch and I were sitting in the front seat of our slick-back, arguing about what to do next.
"We gotta take this to Jeb," I said.
"Forgetting the Permission to Search we got from Brooks, which I'm not even sure is completely valid, 'cause he was stoned; if our bosses find out we came up here to work on a whole second homicide without telling anyone what we were doing, we're capital-F fucked. The department will give us the grand tour, with that all-important career-ending last stop at Internal Affairs."
"But how can we sit on this?" I asked. "We got dead bodies stacking up like cordwood. These two have probably been in that truck since Thomas Vulcunas death in eighty-one. They're probably part of the motive for his murder."
"I know. I know. Shit. Cool as this is movie-wise, if we divulge it to our bosses, were gonna get sacrificed. We should ve never come up here. Let's just think this out for a minute. Maybe there's another way to go."
"Look, Hitch. Even if we wanted to, we couldn't button up and walk away. Besides, since we've cut down that berry bush, somebody's gonna find that garage and truck tomorrow anyway. We gotta deal with this."
"I know."
"If you don't want to go to Jeb, then I say we start with Alexa."
"No."
"She's a good street cop. She thinks like a cop, not a suit. She'll understand why we went after this. Especially once Dahlia told us to take the 7.65 slug off our evidence sheet."
"Are you nuts? She's the head of the Detective Bureau."
"She's also my wife and a primary responder on the Sladky murder. We're gonna eventually have to tell Jeb too, so let's just get it over with and call them both. I don't see any way around it."
"A lot of people don't believe this, but I really love this job," he said. "I don't want to end my career on the LAPD with a blindfold and a cigarette."
"We'll get through it. Stick with me, here. I've been in tighter spots."
I took out my cell and dialed Alexa. It was after three A. M. but she was still in her office at the PAB.
"Why aren't you in bed?" she asked.
"I'm up at the house 011 Skyline Drive with Hitch. You need to collect Jeb and get up here now."
"What's up?"
"Plenty. Just get up here. I'd rather show you than tell you."
We spent a tough hour waiting for Alexa and Jeb, while we worked out our plan of attack and a few of our arguments. Captain Calloway arrived first.
"This better be either great or really, really good," Jeb said as he pulled in. He'd thrown on an old LAPD sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops.
"I'll let you assign the degree of greatness," I told him.
Alexa drove up a couple of minutes later and Hitch and I led them up the hill to the concrete well house. We had left the door ajar.
"Get ready for a shock," I advised as we accompanied them inside. Hitch and I turned on our flashlights, illuminating the Brinks truck for them.
"Drivers are still inside. Dead," I said. "Take a deep breath, cause it ain't pretty."
Both of them looked through the truck's windows at the skeletons. Alexa said nothing, but as Jeb looked, I could see he was breathing through his mouth and swallowing air. I cut him some slack though because he was born in Haiti where they still practice voodoo. When they finished, everyone backed out and we all stood outside.