In the Night of the Heat (28 page)

“We told you there's a bullet hole in the wall in the room where T.D. died. Maybe Carlyle came inside that night. They went to his study—T.D. sitting at his desk, and Carlyle in the easy chair. Carlyle got to T.D.'s gun. He kept one in his desk. They struggled. A bullet went wild. The next one didn't. Carlyle's secret is safe.” The longer I thought about it, the better it sounded. Maybe Randolph Dwyer hadn't led me anywhere except back to Carlyle.

“Then you came along,” Judge Jackson said. He was following the scenario just fine. “He heard you were asking questions…”

“I spooked him. He panicked. I'm not a cop, so he came straight at me.”

Judge Jackson stared toward the fireplace's gray ashes. The room was slightly chilly, but he hadn't started a fire. I saw artificial logs neatly stacked in the bin, so I squatted beside the fireplace door and chose a meaty one to burn. The whole house was too cold.

At least I could grant one of his wife's requests, I thought. I could give him a way out.

“You could get all the way down to the sticky bottom of it, Judge Jackson. Maybe you could learn all the ugly details,” I said, easing him down as gently as I could. I laid the last words down like a baby at his feet: “Or, you could leave it alone. They're all gone.”

“So what's the point?” he agreed, nearly whispering. “There's no point.”

The log was smoking, and a bed of sparks billowed into flame. I love to watch fires born. I hoped we were both through the worst of the night.

“There's one other possibility,” I said. “It's remote. And it doesn't change my belief about what happened to Chantelle. But it may mean something else happened to T.D.”

“Maybe Carlyle didn't kill him?”

“It's possible. Maybe today only had to do with Chantelle, and he was afraid I knew.”

Judge Jackson nodded. “We'd all rather think it wasn't Carlyle. That cuts from a different direction. I'd never have believed it could feel worse…but there's a line from Shakespeare, in
Titus Andronicus
, when Aaron the Moor boasts of his evil deeds: ‘Oft I have digg'd up dead men from their graves, / And set them upright at their dear friends' doors, / Even when their sorrows were almost forgot…'” His voice trailed off, and he drained his mug. With everything else failing him, he was trying to find solace in his mind.

“Judge Jackson, what do you know about Wallace Rubens? Isn't he down in Florida now?”

His lips fell apart. He stared at me without blinking so long, I wondered if he was having what is euphemistically referred to as “a senior moment.” “What about Rubens?” he said finally.

“He's your old teammate. Heat.” Judge Jackson nodded vaguely, but offered nothing. His silence was stark and impenetrable, so I went on. “He may have done some work for Donald Hankins. Intimidation. Maybe more. You probably heard rumors.”

“Where is this going?” he said.

“If that's true…it's not impossible to believe Rubens might have done another favor for Hankins.”

The judge broke eye contact.
That hit home.

“They had a lot of history,” I continued. “What was their relationship like back in 1967?”

Judge Jackson sat up so abruptly that his mug fell and cracked on the Moroccan rug. Judge Jackson's fingers trembled while I helped him pick up the larger pieces. Several others were too small to collect; he would have to walk carefully until it was cleaned up.

Judge Jackson had barely flinched when I told him I thought his son was a murderer—but when I asked him about the Sunshine Bowl, I'd shaken him up. The name Wallace Rubens carried weight and power; everyone I met who'd known him was afraid to talk about him.

“It was long ago,” he said curtly. “Another time.”

“I've noticed that no one likes to talk about that time—especially the Sunshine Bowl. I was in Ojai to see Randolph Dwyer today, but he's not the type to live in the past either.”

Judge Jackson's gaze looked eager to ask me what I'd discussed with Randolph Dwyer. Instead, he propped himself up on one knee and groaned to stand. He threw the pieces of the broken mug he held in his trash. He paused as if he was tired, then he wiped away shards of glass from his palms.

Judge Jackson sat at a small desk and pulled open a drawer. Inside, he found two thick manila envelopes. Heavy. He tossed them to the floor, atop the slivers from the broken mug.

“I promised fifty thousand for a name and a lead. You've given me more than I asked for, but I'm afraid I can only pay what we agreed. The balance is all there.”

The scent of money made it easier not to care about the rest of the story. If the secret was as old as the 1960s, they had kept quiet a long time. I hadn't even been born. It was none of my business.

“If it was Rubens,” I said anyway, “he might pose a public haz
ard. It may not be his first time. So there's a good chance it won't be his last.”

Judge Jackson nodded. “Thank you again. I couldn't be happier with your service, Mr. Hardwick. Please forward the repair bill for your car.”

Unfortunately, there are some things money can't fix. I lingered just inside the judge's bedroom door, my voice more hushed because I was closer to the hall and the sleeping children.

“This has nothing to do with you, but I'm telling you for the sake of candor. Carlyle's stunt today brought me under Lieutenant Rodrick Nelson's nose. He wants to talk to me tomorrow, so I'll be inside RHD. He has no grounds for anything against me—that I know of.” It was an all-important clarification. If the judge was planning any unhappy surprises for Rubens in retaliation, he'd be smarter to think twice.

Judge Jackson only blinked. “I would hope that's a problem Captain Hardwick could help you solve.” Meaning:
Don't even THINK about mentioning me.

“Of course,” I said, wondering what Dad had told Nelson at the hospital. The thought of Nelson perched over my father's bed like a vulture infuriated me.

Judge Jackson closed his desk drawer. “You were hired with certain preconditions.”

“I remember.”

“I'm sure you know how to conduct yourself.”

“Yessir, I do.”

But he was no longer listening, his glassy eyes vacant.

Judge Emory Jackson had already forgotten my name.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28

I felt eyes following me as a wide-hipped female detective nearly as tall as me led me through division headquarters to Lieutenant Nelson's office. It reminded me of that last day on the set of
Homeland,
except that these stares were from people wearing guns with bullets, not blanks.

It's not a good way to start the day.

I almost nodded when I saw Hal Dolinski at an espresso machine, staring at me alongside a black woman I didn't know. Dolinski looked like he'd gained ten pounds since my last run-in with RHD. He'd worked with my father, and he'd helped me with inside information after I got snagged in Serena's murder, but Dolinksi's face showed nothing but blank curiosity. He was keeping far away from this one. Casually, he refilled his coffee mug before I was even out of sight.

I bet Dolinski's the one who copied that murder book.
The nagging thought came back.

Nelson's office was larger than I expected, with a halfway-decent view of the business end of the city of Los Angeles, away from the tourist spots. His office was empty, so I made a quick assessment: It had a lived-in quality my father had never cared about: certificates, plaques and photos. I saw a photo of Nelson with an attractive woman who looked Japanese, alongside two girls and a boy so beautiful that they could have launched a modeling agency. During an argument years before, my father had told me I didn't have an ounce of what Lieutenant Nelson had. The photo of Nelson's family reminded me of how true that was.

Nelson arrived within thirty seconds of me, closing his door behind us.

“Are you a problem for me?” Nelson asked, taking off a jacket he was careful not to wrinkle as he hung it on the coatrack behind his door. His badge gleamed silver from his belt.

“I'm sure as hell not trying to be.”

“What happened in Ojai, Tennyson?” So far, he sounded civil.

“A drunk asshole nearly ran me off the road.” Carlyle's blood toxicology might not show drugs or alcohol in his blood, but I figured the odds were good.

“A drunk asshole who just happened to be T.D. Jackson's best friend. The week after T.D.'s death.”

“A suicide, from what I hear.”

Nelson walked close enough to loom over me in my chair. His eyes wrestled with his impulses to do me bodily harm. “Are you fucking with my case?”

“What case, Lieutenant?” I said. “You said it's open-and-shut. Didn't I see you on TV?”

I'd lectured myself for twenty minutes on what to say and what
not to say, but something about Nelson always made me ad-lib. Nelson's lips pursed. He studied my eyes long enough to figure out that I knew something.

When Nelson sighed down on me, I smelled coffee on his breath. The uninitiated might think the brother would be grateful I'd helped him solve Serena's murder, but that's not how it works at LAPD. With territorial bickering between squads, divisions, and agencies, cops have zero tolerance for outsiders. Besides the threat of making real cops look bad, a do-gooding citizen or private dick can blow a case and get real cops killed.

Except that we both knew Nelson was already blowing the case fine without me.

“I need to pick up my father, who's in the hospital up in Ojai. You might have heard.”

“I did hear. He's there because his dumb-ass wannabe son put him there.” The anger in his voice was genuine; he felt protective of my father. Nelson's punches landed, too.

“Well, Dad's a forthright guy, so I guess he told you everything you need to know.”

Touché, asshole.
Dad and I hadn't been able to talk long before I left to meet Nelson—and the telephone was always frustrating for both of us—but Dad confirmed that he hadn't said anything to link me to Carlyle.
Stick to your story
, he said.

Dad had lied to his own man. With Nelson's instincts, he probably knew it. Had to hurt.

Nelson summoned his patience, and his chest deflated, concealing his anger. Good-cop mode. “Tell me what you had on Carlyle, Ten. Did he go after you? Why?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I forgot to signal before I changed lanes.”

“Did he kill Jackson?” Nelson's voice was low, a hush.

“You and your forensics experts searched the room. I'm sure you would have found evidence if someone was with T.D. when he died.”

In a flash, Nelson put his finger in my face, almost touching my nose. I hate that, but I didn't dare push him away. Nelson wanted to provoke me as much as Carlyle had. If I made a mistake with Nelson, my father would die long before I stopped showering with tattooed felons.

Nelson might have been reading my mind. “If I find out you've breached my investigation, your pretty face is gonna be popular at Lancaster. You can take up your old trade—dick for cigarettes. Blow jobs for Baby Ruth bars. Just don't expect those guys to pay for your services.”

Pure provocation: He knew I'd never resorted to that. Women only. I moved my head to the side, but his finger came in close again. That time, my hand twitched as I almost batted at it. “Man, that's not cool,” I said.

The finger didn't move. “What did you get on Carlyle?”

“Tread marks,” I said. “Stop wasting my time.”

Nelson jabbed his finger toward my eye, and that time I grabbed his finger and crushed down. “Keep it out of my face,” I said quietly, and then released it.

“
What's
this, you stupid shit?” Nelson said. His free hand flew toward the butt of his gun. Cops don't like to be touched. To put it mildly.

Hand still poised over his gun, Nelson stepped back and cocked his head, staring down at me with a startled gleam in his eye, wondering if he would have to shoot me. When my expression didn't change, he made an odd hissing sound.

“You just made my week,” he said.

“Nelson…” I couldn't make myself apologize, but I knew I had to say something. “You think I'm a lowlife piece of shit. Preach deserved better. Fine. But I'm not your problem.”

“You've got five seconds to tell me who is.”

“I heard a rumor he might have helped T.D. that night in the garage.”

“A rumor from who?”

“Just a rumor,” I said. Our eyes locked, and then disengaged.

“And your interest in this is exactly what?”

“I'm working on a script,” I said. “Just research.”

“Research.” We both knew I was lying, but he wanted to know where I was going. We were behind a closed door, and without a witness, we could still pretend I hadn't touched him.

“Since I know you searched the room where T.D. died
thoroughly
…” I said again, speaking slowly, “Behind the certificates…under the chairs. Everything. And you probably already talked to the USC kid across the street who heard
two
gunshots that night…” Nelson's eyebrows jumped. “…there's nothing else you need from me.”

I didn't mention the bullet hole specifically. I still might need plausible deniability. But Nelson understood. He planted his hands on his hips, away from his gun. I felt every muscle relax; only then did I realize I'd been sitting like a stone.

“Did you contaminate my scene?” Nelson said.

“If I had, you'd never get a conviction, would you?”

“Carlyle Simms is dead.”

“Road rage is a terrible thing.”

Nelson's eyes were pure loathing, but not all of it was aimed at me. He hated knowing I'd found something he'd missed.

“Get out of my office,” he said. “And stay away from my case.”

I stood up and kept a healthy distance from him, hands in plain sight. As I backed toward Nelson's door, I felt like I was inching out of a cage. “Thanks, Nelson.”

“Fuck you,” he said. “This one's for Preach. You've put him through enough shit.”

From the way his voice wavered when he used Dad's nickname, I guessed that Lieutenant Nelson hadn't liked what he'd seen at the hospital.
Welcome to the club,
I thought.

But I let Nelson have the last word. Hell, I agreed with him.

I practically held my breath until I was back on the sidewalk outside.

 

My meeting with Nelson killed the last of my curiosity, so I was glad to leave the T.D. Jackson case behind me. T.D.'s life was so noisy that it had overpowered mine, even in death.

I called Marcela and told her I would pick Dad up from the hospital in Ojai alone. She bristled when I insisted, but I wanted to have time with him. The way things looked between Dad and Marcela, I wasn't going to have him to myself very often.

Call me selfish, but this drive was ours. The last one had been interrupted.

Dad's doctor had already signed off on him, so Dad was dressed and waiting in the lobby. I got him away from that building as quickly as we could. With no maniac trying to crash into us, Casitas Vista Road was as lovely a drive as it could have been the day before. We both noticed the broken barrier where Carlyle had died, with skid marks left to mark the spot.

“I'm sorry you had to lie to Nelson,” I said.

“I told him…I was asleep. He didn't…believe me. Of course.”

I told Dad about my interview with Nelson, and about my conversation with Judge Jackson the night before. He was especially intrigued by Jackson's reaction to Wallace Rubens. We had been onto something, then our case had literally driven off of the road.

Dad hadn't said much else, but I hoped his anger had melted. He seemed to be in a good mood, enjoying the sunlight and the view. Any day he left a hospital was a day to celebrate.

My mood was improving, too, maybe because of the cash in the trunk of my car.

“You take…the money?” Dad said.

“Of course,” I said, smiling. “You'll get your cut, partner.”

Dad shook his head, lips pursed. “I don't want…that money.” His eyes were resolute. The judgment in his tone hit a nerve.

“So I shouldn't have taken his money for doing what he paid me to do?”

“What was…the point…of the job?”

“He wanted a theory, a name. I gave him that.”

“A…fantasy. A story.”

“The man's dead, Dad. We both saw him drive himself off a cliff. End of the line. And these old-school Heat players are wrapped up tight, so all we get is a story. A theory. What did you expect to find?”

“Couldn't say,” Dad said. “But…I was looking for the truth.”

Vintage Dad—the self-righteous voice of my childhood always demanding the unreasonable. First he'd warned me to stay away from Nelson's case, and now he was trying to push me back in. Did he expect me to track down the widow in Toronto who thought Wallace
Rubens killed her husband? Fly to Florida to interview Rubens myself? That was LAPD's job.

“Hey, let your boy solve it,” I said. “I pointed him in the right direction.”

“Don't play…games…with Nelson.”

“He's the one playing games, Dad. If he can't stand up to pressure from the chief to let Jackson's murder slide, that's his problem. I'm done with it.”

Dad looked back at his alluring window view. “Hankins…always wins.”

“True. He'll be Governor Hankins before long.”

Dad exhaled with a disgusted snort, his face sour. “I thought…I lied for a reason, Ten.”

“I'm grateful, Dad, but I didn't ask you to lie. And I had nothing to do with letting Don Hankins skate past his brake-tampering problem, so it's not up to me to wrap it up.”

My own words surprised me. Maybe I suspected that Dad had a role in the Hankins incident in '99, even if it was just squashing speculation. Nelson and I both had believed Dad was uncompromising, and now we both knew better. If I spent my life trying to mend everyone's tragedies, present
and
past, I would never have peace.

“You're right, Ten,” Dad said. “I made…a mistake. Mistakes…come back.”

“This I know, sir.”

The car was silent for a long time, but we didn't turn on the radio to compete with the landscape. It was a clear day, and the sun was high in the noontime sky. Without T.D. Jackson to bind us, Dad and I might not talk much for a while. But now we both knew we could.

Every time T.D. Jackson's name came into my mind, I forced myself to stare at the mountains—and his memory was gone. The same trick worked when my thoughts tried to detour to Lieutenant Nelson
or Melanie. Even April. I was free! The feeling hit me all at once, and my spirits flew, making me grin as I raced toward home. My life was mine again, Dad had survived his latest brush with a hospital, and I had a mountain of cash. The week had started as a catastrophe, but it was taking a radical turn.

“…money on your taxes,” Dad said, but my ear missed the first part.

For once, I didn't mind.

 

I surprised Chela at the curb after school, and we ended up at the Beverly Center Mall in Beverly Hills. I didn't know anything about shopping for high school formalwear, but the familiar couture shops on Rodeo Drive would have been overkill for a high school dance, no matter how much money I'd been handed by the judge. I spoiled that girl, but I had limits.

“Screw shopping for a dress, Ten,” Chela said as we walked toward Bloomingdale's. The mall is funky, overlooking Hollywood. “Let's go buy a
car.
”

“Tomorrow. The dance is in three days, so that's the priority. It's not just a dress—it's a whole package. Shoes, hair, accessories. It's a production.” I had escorted women to more awards shows than I could count, and I knew the drill.

“You have no idea how incredibly gay you sound.”

“Whatever it takes,” I said, laughing. “We're gonna do this right.”

I loved my new life. Chela and I were hanging out at the mall, mingling with carefree shoppers. My phone was off.
Freedom.
That was my mantra that day.