Whispers (33 page)

“Only he doesn't use the name Valdez,” Tucker said.

“Juan Mazquezza?”

“Not that either. I think he calls himself Ortiz.”

“Do you know where we can find him?”

Tucker stood up. “Let me call the information center at Self-Pride. They might have an address on him.”

“Terrific,” Frank said.

Tucker started toward the kitchen to use the phone in there, stopped, looked back at them. “This might take a few minutes. If you'd like to pass the time looking at my designs, you can go into the study.” He pointed to a set of double doors that opened off the living room.

“Sure,” Tony said. “I'd like to see them.”

He and Frank went into the study and found that it was even more sparsely furnished than the living room. There was a large expensive drawing table with its own lamp. A high stool with a padded seat and a spring back stood in front of the table, and beside the stool there was an artist's supply cabinet on wheels. Near one of the windows, a department store mannequin posed with head tilted coyly and shiny-smooth arms spread wide; bolts of bright cloth lay at its plastic feet. There were no shelves or storage cabinets; stacks of sketches and drawing tablets and draftsman's tools were lined up on the floor along one wall. Obviously, Eugene Tucker was confident that eventually he would be able to furnish the entire townhouse with pieces as exquisite as those in the living room, and in the meantime, regardless of the inconvenience, he did not intend to waste money on cheap temporary furniture.

Quintessential California optimism, Tony thought.

Pencil sketches and a few full-color renditions of Tucker's work were thumbtacked to one wall. His dresses and two-piece suits and blouses were tailored yet flowing, feminine yet not frilly. He had an excellent sense of color and a flair for the kind of detail that made a piece of clothing special. Every one of the designs was clearly the work of a superior talent.

Tony still found it somewhat difficult to believe that the big hard-bitten black man designed women's clothes for a living. But then he realized that his own dichotomous nature was not so different from Tucker's. During the day, he was a homicide detective, desensitized and hardened by all of the violence he saw, but at night, he was an artist, hunched over a canvas in his apartment-studio, painting, painting, painting. In a curious way, he and Eugene were brothers under the skin.

Just as Tony and Frank were looking at the last of the sketches, Tucker returned from the kitchen. “Well, what do you think?”

“Wonderful,” Tony said. “You've got a terrific feeling for color and line.”

“You're really good,” Frank said.

“I know,” Tucker said, and he laughed.

“Does Self-Pride have a file on Valdez?” Tony asked.

“Yes. But he calls himself Ortiz, like I thought. Jimmy Ortiz. From what we've been able to gather, he deals strictly in PCP. I know I'm not on solid ground when I start pointing the finger at other people . . . but so far as I'm concerned, a PCP dealer is the lowest kind of bastard in the drug trade. I mean, PCP is
poison
. It rots the brain cells faster than anything else. We don't have enough information in our file to turn it over to the police, but we're working on it.”

“Address?” Tony asked.

Tucker handed him a slip of paper on which the address had been noted in neat handwriting. “It's a fancy apartment complex one block south of Sunset, just a couple of blocks from La Cienega.”

“We'll find it,” Tony said.

“Judging from what you've told me about him,” Tucker said, “and from what we've learned about him at Self-Pride, I'd say this guy isn't the kind who's ever going to knuckle down and rehabilitate himself. You'd better put this one away for a long, long time.”

“We're sure going to try,” Frank said.

Tucker accompanied them to the front door, then outside, where the patio deck in front of the townhouse offered a wide view of Los Angeles in the basin below. “Isn't it gorgeous?” Tucker asked. “Isn't it something?”

“Quite a view,” Tony said.

“Such a big, big, beautiful city,” Tucker said with pride and affection, as if he had created the megalopolis himself. “You know, I just heard that the bureaucrats back in Washington made a study of mass transit possibilities for L.A. They were determined to ram some system or other down our throats, but they were stunned to find out it would cost at least one hundred billion dollars to build a rapid transit railway network that would handle only ten or twelve percent of the daily commuter crush. They still don't understand how vast the West is.” He was rhapsodizing now, his broad face alight with pleasure, his strong hands tossing off one gesture after another. “They don't realize that the meaning of L.A. is space—space and mobility and freedom. This is a city with elbow room. Physical and emotional elbow room. Psychological elbow room. In L. A., you have a chance to be almost anything you want to be. Here, you can take your future out of the hands of other people and shape it yourself. It's fantastic. I love it. God, I love it!”

Tony was so impressed with the depth of Tucker's feeling for the city that he revealed his own secret dream. “I've always wanted to be an artist, to make a living with my art. I paint.”

“Then why are you a cop?” Tucker asked.

“It's a steady paycheck.”

“Screw steady paychecks.”

“I'm a good cop. I like the work well enough.”

“Are you a good artist?”

“Pretty good, I think.”

“Then take the leap,” Tucker said. “Man, you are living on the edge of the Western world, on the edge of possibility. Jump. Jump off. It's one hell of a thrill, and it's so damned far to the bottom that you'll never crash into anything hard or sharp. In fact, you'll probably find exactly the same thing I found. It's not like falling down at all. You'll feel like you're falling
up!
”

Tony and Frank followed the brick wall to the driveway, past a jade-plant hedge that had thick juicy leaves. The unmarked sedan was parked in the shade of a large date palm.

As Tony opened the door on the passenger's side, Tucker called to him from the patio deck, “Jump! Just jump off and fly!”

“He's some character,” Frank said as he drove away from the townhouse.

“Yeah,” Tony said, wondering what it felt like to fly.

As they headed for the address that Tucker had given them, Frank talked a little about the black man and then a lot about Janet Yamada. Still mulling over Eugene Tucker's advice, Tony gave his partner only half his attention. Frank didn't notice that Tony was distracted. When he was talking about Janet Yamada, he really didn't attempt to carry on a conversation; he delivered a soliloquy.

Fifteen minutes later, they found the apartment complex where Jimmy Ortiz lived. The parking garage was underground, guarded by an iron gate that opened only to an electronic signal, so they couldn't see if there was a black Jaguar on the premises.

The apartments were on two levels, in randomly set wings, with open staircases and walkways. The complex was structured around an enormous swimming pool and a lot of lush greenery. There was also a whirlpool spa. Two girls in bikinis and a hairy young man were sitting in the swirling water, drinking a martini lunch and laughing at one another's banter as tendrils of steam writhed up from the turbulent pool around them.

Frank stopped at the edge of the Jacuzzi and asked them where Jimmy Ortiz lived.

One of the girls said, “Is he that cute little guy with the mustache?”

“Baby face,” Tony said.

“That's him,” she said.

“Does he have a mustache now?”

“If it's the same guy,” she said. “This one drives a terrific Jag.”

“That's him,” Frank said.

“I think he lives over there,” she said, “in Building Four, on the second floor, all the way at the end.”

“Is he home?” Frank asked.

No one knew.

At Building Four, Tony and Frank climbed the stairs to the second floor. An open-air balcony ran the length of the building and served the four apartments that faced onto the courtyard. Along the railing, opposite the first three doors, pots of ivy and other climbing plants had been set out to give the second level a pleasant green look like that enjoyed by ground-floor residents; but there were no plants in front of the end apartment.

The door was ajar.

Tony's eyes met Frank's. A worried look passed between them.

Why was the door ajar?

Did Bobby know they were coming?

They flanked the entrance. Waited. Listened.

The only sound came from the happy trio in the courtyard whirlpool.

Frank raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Tony pointed to the doorbell.

After a brief hesitation, Frank pressed it.

Inside, the chimes rang softly.
Bong-bing-bong
.

They waited for a response, eyes on the door.

Suddenly the air seemed perfectly still and oppressively heavy. Humid. Thick. Syrupy. Tony had trouble breathing it; he felt as if he were drawing a fluid into his lungs.

No one answered the bell.

Frank rang it again.

When there was still no response, Tony reached under his jacket and slipped his revolver from its shoulder holster. He felt weak. His stomach was bubbling acidly.

Frank took out his revolver, listened closely for sounds of movement inside, then finally pushed the door all the way open.

The foyer was deserted.

Tony leaned sideways to get a better look inside. The living room, of which he could see only a small part, was shadowy and still. The drapes were shut, and there were no lights burning.

Tony shouted, “Police!”

His voice echoed under the balcony roof.

A bird chirruped in an olive tree.

“Come out with your hands raised, Bobby!”

On the street, a car horn sounded.

In another apartment a phone rang, muffled but audible.

“Bobby!” Frank shouted. “You hear what he said? We're the police. It's all over now. So just come out of there. Come on!
Right now!
”

Down in the courtyard, the whirlpool bathers had grown very quiet.

Tony had the crazy notion that he could hear people in a dozen apartments as they crept stealthily to their windows.

Frank raised his voice even further: “We don't want to hurt you, Bobby!”

“Listen to him!” Tony shouted into the apartment. “Don't force us to hurt you. Come on out peacefully.”

Bobby didn't respond.

“If he was in there,” Frank said, “he'd at least tell us to go fuck ourselves.”

“So what now?” Tony asked.

“I guess we go in.”

“Jesus, I hate shit like this. Maybe we should call a backup team.”

“He's probably not armed,” Frank said.

“You're kidding.”

“He doesn't have any prior arrests for carrying a gun. Except when he's after a woman, he's a sniveling little creep.”

“He's a killer.”

“Women. He's only dangerous to women.”

Tony shouted again: “Bobby, this is your last chance! Now, dammit, come out of there nice and slow!”

Silence.

Tony's heart was hammering furiously.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Let's get this over with.”

“If memory serves me right, you went in first the last time we had to do something like this.”

“Yeah. The Wilkie-Pomeroy case.”

“Then I guess it's my turn,” Tony said.

“I know you've been looking forward to this.”

“Oh, yes.”

“With all your heart.”

“Which is now in my throat.”

“Go get him, tiger.”

“Cover me.”

“The foyer's too narrow for me to give you good cover. I won't be able to see past you once you go in.”

“I'll stay as low as possible,” Tony said.

“Make like a duck. I'll try to look over you.”

“Just do the best you can.”

Tony's stomach was cramping up on him. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm down. That trick had no effect other than to make his heart pound harder and faster than it had been doing. At last, he crouched and launched himself through the open door, the revolver held out in front of him. He scuttled across the slippery tile floor of the foyer and stopped at the brink of the living room, searching the shadows for movement, expecting to take a bullet right between the eyes.

The living room was dimly illuminated by thin strips of sunlight that found their way around the edges of the heavy drapes. As far as Tony could tell, all of the lumpy shapes were couches and chairs and tables. The place appeared to be full of big, expensive, and utterly tasteless Americanized Mediterranean furniture. A narrow shaft of sunlight fell across a red velvet sofa that had a large and thoroughly grotesque wrought-iron fleur-de-lis bolted to its imitation oak side.

“Bobby?”

No response.

A clock ticking somewhere.

“We don't want to hurt you, Bobby.”

Only silence.

Tony held his breath.

He could hear Frank breathing.

Nothing else.

Slowly, cautiously, he stood.

No one shot at him.

He felt along the wall until he located a light switch. A lamp with a garish bullfight scene on its shade came on in one corner, and he could see that both the living room and the open dining area beyond it were deserted.