Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (12 page)

Del's round, bald head appeared, and he rolled his fingers to indicate that I should lower my window.

"Glad to see you blew off that dyke. She didn't try to kiss you, did she?"

"Oh, for crying out loud!
 
She's not a dyke, and
she
saved my butt from being thrown into the drunk-tank, no thanks to you."

"You're welcome. Took you long enough. I been out here waiting the whole time. What? You didn't think I was going to leave you there, did you? Just be glad I didn't have to use my CIA tactics and storm the place. That would've been messy. Okay, so, take 12th street and meet me at the AM/PM next to the on-ramp. We're late."

I was exhausted from the roller coaster of the last four hours and doubly annoyed with Del's nonsense. "I can't. You go see this guy. Anything comes of it, call me."

"I knew Deputy Do-right wasn't going to make that charge stick; you don't drink, am I right?"

"Who told you that?"

"Oh come on, Lalla. Everyone knows that you don't drink during the season. Insurance too high as it is. Right? Am I right? Come on, let's kiss and make up." At the expression on my face, he chortled happily. "Okay, okay. But you're going to want to meet this guy, you know."

"Why's that?"

"He asked especially for you."

"Your informant? This guy knows me?"

"Absolutely," he said, waiting for me to catch up.

"Oh—okay. My name's in the paper every day—got it. I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders here, Del. I'm dead on my feet, and all I want to do is go home."

His brows flattened, no longer amused. "That's all you got to say after all the trouble I went to? You can't make it? I'm disappointed in you, Lalla Bains. I heard you were made of tougher metal."

I looked out the window, then back at Del while I considered my options. Nice warm bed or the off chance I might get a real lead on Billy Wayne's killer? "Oh, alright. But this better be good."

I took my foot off the brake, gave the gas pedal a shove, and to the familiar and comforting sounds of honking horns, lurched into traffic. Only minutes before, I felt as if I'd been run over by a truck. Now I was energized again; an informant who might be able to give us a lead on Billy Wayne's killer. And, he hadn't asked for Rodney, had he? He asked for me, Lalla Bains, which oddly enough, made me very happy. I was going to crack this case and hand it to Rodney's chief on a platter.

In the parking lot of the AM/PM, I got out first, looking around for someone who might be waiting for us. I wasn't about to let Del get into my car. Who was to say I could get him out again?

I had to admire his choice of vehicles. The Cooper Mini is a speedy little demon with a short turning radius. I went over and knocked on the roof of the car. The size fit Del, but the top of the car barely came to my chest. He got out, silently went around to the passenger side, and stood back.

I shrugged, got in and sat down on his hand. I gasped. There was no mistaking his lascivious grin. Lifting my hip I leaned towards the door and said, "Remove the hand, Del, or you'll come out with a stump."

He pulled out his hand. "Aw, come on, where's your sense of humor?"

"What are you, twelve? Why do you pull this kind of silly stunt?"

He laughed. "Breaks the ice? Keeps the black moods away? Or maybe it's just a charming quirk of nature. Okay, sorry," he said, and holding up two fingers like a Cub Scout, he said, "I solemnly promise not to do another for the rest of the evening. How's zat?"

I mumbled something that might have been an oath of my own, then closed the door and pinched my nose at the smelly food wrappers littering his dashboard.

"Sorry. I usually clear it out at the end of the day," he said, scooping up the wrappers in both hands. "But I can see you're the fastidious type, so I'll do it
now
."

He hopped out of the car while I pulled the seat lever and my legs unfolded. Slightly more comfortable, I waited while Del scurried off to deposit the litter in a can. I was still curious enough to overlook his ridiculous behavior, at least long enough to meet his informant.

When he got back into the car, I tsked. "It may be the local Stop and Rob, Del, but I think you're safe with me."

"Very funny. Are you satisfied with the interior now? Are we good to go?"

"Go where? This isn't it?"

"No, we get to meet him somewhere else and it's best if we get there in one car."

"Jeez, you could've told me that sooner, you know. It might've saved me the hang-up at the police station."

He tilted his head down and looked at me over imaginary teacher's glasses. "I tried that, at Roxanne's, remember? Wouldn't have any of it, would you? See what happens when you don't listen to Uncle Del?"

"Okay, I'm listening now, and you promised to tell me about Miss Cook."

"I most certainly did not," he said, scanning the faces of the people going in and out of the AM/PM.

"What do you mean?" I sputtered, "You said—"

"I asked you if you were still interested in Merri Cook. I got a police scanner, heard all about it. Your Caddy in a mix with reported gunfire. Easy to look up the owner for the address, so
ipso facto
, you must be interested in her whereabouts. Am I right, or am I right?"

"She's Billy Wayne's aunt. She called me, left me a note to come see her. Now, I'm in more hot water because of it."

"Forget about Merri Cook. This is way better. Trust me, you're going to thank me for this," he said starting the car.

I muttered a curse and reached for the door. He put out a hand to stop me, and in a reflexive gesture I fisted him in the nose—hard.

He grabbed his face. "God damn, that hurt!"

I opened the door and got out.

"Wha'd you do that for? I dink you bwoke my dos." Blood was leaking between the fingers he held over his nose. "Lalla, would you pleath wait?"

I hesitated. How could one short, fat man make me so mad?
 
Probably because so far, it had been one hell of a long day and there was no promise that it might get any better hanging out with Del Potts. I took another deep breath and asked myself the redundant question:
What am I here for, if not to find Billy Wayne's killer?
I could do this—I could put a lid on my exasperation and see where this was going.

"Wipe your nose, and tell me why you think I should get in your car again, much less go anywhere with you."

"Okay, okay. Duth gib me a minute?"

I squatted down to look. "Take your hand away and let me see."

It may have hurt like the dickens but it didn't look broken. I knew broken, since I'd broke mine twice; once trying to catch a fielded ball in a softball game, and then last year during a crash landing when my face became intimate with the metal components of my plane's instrument panel.

He took the tissue and blotted the bleeding nose. "Do you really hate me so much?"

"What do you expect, Del? You're working on my last nerve."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm every woman's worst nightmare. Okay, so if you can, for just one minute, let go of your disgust?"

"You got ten seconds."

"Awright, okay, lemme explain. Word is that one of the bums saw Billy Wayne's killer. But since dodging cops comes second nature to these guys, being the wily bunch that they are, they've all gone to ground. But, our luck has changed tonight because one of them wants to talk."

"And?"

"I'm getting to that. Your picture has been in the papers, so it stands that he should want a look at Billy Wayne's love interest."

"Will you give it up about me and Billy Wayne? I spoke exactly two words to the guy, 'nice job,' or something to that effect. I don't know why he picked me. I just know he couldn't have possibly been in love with me, because he didn't know me."

Del nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I know that."

I took two deep breaths, hoping to bring down my blood pressure. "You do this to everyone you meet? Pester, annoy, aggravate, frustrate, and just plain piss them off until they finally snap? You did that to Billy Wayne's mom, the poor woman, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "She was bereaved already. Nothing I was going to say could change that, or her opinion that Billy Wayne was in love with you. As for my methods, I use what I got. It's not like I'm going to get what I need for an interview on my good looks."

"Answers, Del. I want answers now, or I'm not going anywhere, so tell me about this informant."

He dabbed at his nose with the tissue. "We get handwritten letters to the editors all the time. Sometimes incoherent raving nonsense, but we read 'em anyway because every once in a while something comes through that turns out to be a brilliant headline, or at the very least, a feature on the homeless situation. We got one this morning. It came to me 'cause I'm working this murder case. The note says he wants the press, not the cops, and to bring Miss Bains with me."

"What's his name?"

"They go by nicknames and this one signed the note, Skip-Jack. You know what a skip-jack is, don't you? It's a tuna that's not fit to eat so it gets tossed back."

"So, besides having a morose sense of humor, did he say what he has for information?"

"Said he can tell us who killed Billy Wayne. So, coffee to go?"

He waited, knowing he had me.

Chapter twelve:

I shouldn't be here. I should be home, tucked into bed with a nice cup of tea to soothe my frayed nerves, instead of sitting in Del Potts' Mini Morris parked next to Mr. Kim's darkened back alley. In spite of the warm summer night, the
 
cold lights from the halogen street lamps washed up against the buildings and disappeared into the black hole where I'd found Billy Wayne. At least Del had gotten coffee at the AM/PM. I blew on my paper cup and watched the street for the homeless man who had asked for a reporter and Lalla Bains.

"What time did he say he was coming?" I asked, feeling the weight of foreboding draining away my enthusiasm. This had all the feel of a set-up, maybe Rodney making another attempt to see me arrested.

"These guys don't usually wear a watch, and he said late and it's now late, so we wait."

"But he did say tonight, right?"

"Right."

Delmar, for the first time since I'd known him, was suspiciously quiet. He was slouched down in his seat, absorbed in his own melancholy thoughts.

I poked him.

He said, "I was thinking. Did you know that in suffocation there's always a thin red line inside the upper lip? I read that in Billy Wayne's autopsy report. The killer got behind him, clamped a hand over his mouth and then reached around and stabbed him. Oh, and he or she, was left-handed and probably five-foot eight or so. That kind of strength takes commando type training. I'm thinking it was a cop."

I remembered Mr. Kim using his left hand to pour my tea. "It's also military training. Grace Kim told me that her dad had been a freedom fighter in Vietnam. Billy Wayne was a former Marine, and hung out behind Mr. Kim's."

"Mr. Kim? Too short."

"Yeah, but why would Billy Wayne pick Mr. Kim's?" Which reminded me to ask, "Did you know Billy Wayne?"

"As a matter of fact I did. We lived in the same neighborhood in Stockton until I was sixteen. That's when my parents divorced and I moved with my dad. Billy Wayne was nice to me. He treated me like a little brother."

I snickered. "In other words, he told you to keep your distance, huh?"

"I wasn't always so hard to take. I got a complex from all that teasing about being so short. Nothing you'd understand since you're a regular blond Viking."

"Thanks for the compliment, Del, but I had my problems in school, too. My mother died when I was eleven, and what with kids thinking it might be contagious, I found myself on the wrong side of a no-crossing zone. By high school, I sported the Goth look, you know, pentagram dangling from a chain and you only wear black? I stayed away from sports, the French Club, anything that might hold me up to ridicule. If it hadn't been for Caleb Stone, who had also lost a parent, I would have been completely friendless."

"Gee, I guess we've got more in common than either of us thought."