OUR OFFICE was a good place to be that morning. There was only the
tocking of the Pinocchio clock, the scratch of my pen, and the hiss of
the air conditioner fighting a terrible heat. Fire season had arrived,
when fires erupted across the Southland like pimples on adolescent
skin.
Joe Pike was waiting for me to finish the paperwork. He stood at
the French doors that open onto my balcony, staring across the city
toward the ocean. He had not spoken nor moved in more than twenty
minutes, which was nothing for Pike. He often went soundless for days.
We were going to work out at Ray Depente’s gym in South-Central Los
Angeles when I finished the grind.
The first call came at nine forty-two.
A male voice said, “Are you Elvis Cole?”
“That’s right. How can I help you?”
“You’re a dead man.”
I killed the call and went back to work. When you do what I do, you
get calls from schizophrenics, escapees from Area 51, and people
claiming to know who killed the Black Dahlia and Princess Diana.
Pike said, “Who was it?”
“Some guy told me I was a dead man.”
Pike said, “Smoke.”
I glanced up from the work.
“Where?”
“Malibu, looks like. Maybe Topanga.”
Then Pike turned toward the door, and everything that had been
normal about that ordinary morning changed.
“Listen—”
A stocky man with a short haircut and wilted tan sport coat shoved
through the door like he lived in Fallujah. He flashed a badge as if he
expected me to dive under my desk.
“Welcome to hell, shitbird.”
A woman in a blue business suit with a shoulder bag slung on her
arm came in behind him. The heat had played hell with her hair, but
that didn’t stop her from showing a silver-and-gold detective shield.
“Connie Bastilla, LAPD. This is Charlie Crimmens. Are you Elvis
Cole?”
I studied Pike.
“Did he really call me a shitbird?”
Crimmens tipped his badge toward me, then Pike, but talked to the
woman.
“This one’s Cole. This one’s gotta be his bun boy, Pike.”
Pike faced Charlie. Pike was six-one, a bit over two, and was suited
up in a sleeveless grey sweatshirt and government-issue sunglasses.
When he crossed his arms, the bright red arrows inked into his deltoids
rippled.
I spoke slowly.
“Did you make an appointment?”
Crimmens said, “Answer her, shitbird.”
I am a professional investigator. I am licensed by the state of
California and run a professional business. Police officers did not barge
into my office. They also did not call me a shitbird. I stood, and gave
Crimmens my best professional smile.
“Say it again I’ll shove that badge up your ass.”
Bastilla took a seat in one of the two director’s chairs facing my
desk.
“Take it easy. We have some questions about a case you once
worked.”
I stared at Crimmens.
“You want to arrest me, get to it. You want to talk to me, knock on
my door and ask for permission. You think I’m kidding about the badge,
try it out.”
Pike said, “Go ahead, Crimmens. Give it a try.”
Crimmens smirked as he draped himself over the file cabinet. He
studied Pike for a moment, then smirked some more.
Bastilla said, “Do you recall a man named Lionel Byrd?”
“I didn’t offer you a seat.”
“C’mon, you know Lionel Byrd or not?”
Charlie said, “He knows him. Jesus.”
Something about Crimmens was familiar, though I couldn’t place
him. Most of the Hollywood Bureau detectives were friends of mine, but
these two were blanks.
“You aren’t out of Hollywood.”
Bastilla put her card on my desk.
“Homicide Special. Charlie’s attached out of Rampart. We’re part of
a task force investigating a series of homicides. Now, c’mon. Lionel
Byrd.”
I had to think.
“We’re talking about a criminal case?”
“Three years ago, Byrd was bound over for the murder of a twenty-
eight-year-old prostitute named Yvonne Bennett, a crime he confessed
to. You produced a witness and a security tape that supposedly cleared
him of the crime. His attorney was J. Alan Levy, of Barshop, Barshop &
Alter. We getting warmer here?”
The facts of the case returned as slowly as surfacing fish. Lionel
Byrd had been an unemployed mechanic with alcohol problems and a
love/hate relationship with prostitutes. He wasn’t a guy you would
want to know socially, but he wasn’t a murderer.
“Yeah, I remember. Not all the details, but some. It was a bogus
confession. He recanted.”
Crimmens shifted.
“Wasn’t bogus.”
I took my seat and hooked a foot on the edge of the desk.
“Whatever. The video showed he was here in Hollywood when
Bennett was murdered. She was killed in Silver Lake.”
Behind them, Pike touched his watch. We were going to be late.
I lowered my foot and leaned forward.
“You guys should have called. My partner and I have an
appointment.”
Bastilla took out a notepad to show me they weren’t going to leave.
“Have you seen much of Mr. Byrd since you got him off?”
“I never met the man.”
Crimmens said, “Bullshit. He was your client. You don’t meet your
clients?”
“Levy was my client. Barshop, Barshop paid the tab. That’s what
lawyers do.”
Bastilla said, “So it was Levy who hired you?”
“Yes. Most of my clients are lawyers.”
Attorneys can’t and don’t rely on the word of their clients. Often,
their clients don’t know the whole and impartial truth, and sometimes
their clients lie. Since lawyers are busy lawyering, they employ
investigators to uncover the facts.
Bastilla twisted around to see Pike.
“What about you? Did you work on Byrd’s behalf?”
“Not my kind of job.”
She twisted farther to get a better look.
“How about you take off the shades while we talk?”
“No.”
Crimmens said, “You hiding something back there, Pike? How ’bout
we look?”
Pike’s head swiveled toward Crimmens. Nothing else moved; just his
head.
“If I showed you, I’d have to kill you.”
I stepped in before it got out of hand.
“Joe didn’t help on this one. This thing was Detective Work 101. I
must pull thirty cases like this a year.”
Crimmens said, “That’s sweet. You must take pride in that, helping
shitbirds get away with murder.”
Crimmens was pissing me off again.
“What are we talking about this for, Bastilla? This thing was settled
three years ago.”
Bastilla opened her pad and studied the page.
“So you are telling us you have never met Lionel Byrd?”
“I have never met him.”
“Are you acquainted with a man named Lonnie Jones?”
“No. Is he your new suspect?”
“During your investigation into the matter of Yvonne Bennett, did
you discover evidence linking Mr. Byrd to any other crimes or criminal
activities?”
“What kind of question is that? Have you re-arrested him?”
Bastilla scribbled a note. When she looked up, her eyes were ringed
with purple cutting down to her mouth. She looked as tired as a person
can look without being dead.
“No, Mr. Cole, we can’t arrest him. Eight days ago, he was found
during the evacuation up in Laurel Canyon. Head shot up through the
bottom of his chin. He had been dead about five days.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
Crimmens laughed.
“Wouldn’t that be funny, Con? Wouldn’t that be too perfect? Man, I
would love that.”
Bastilla smiled, but not because she thought it was funny.
“He committed suicide. He was living under the name Lonnie Jones.
Know why he was using an alias?”
“No idea. Maybe because he didn’t like being accused of murders he
didn’t commit.”
Bastilla leaned toward me and crossed her arms on a knee.
“The man’s dead now, Cole. Reason we’re here, we’d like to
examine the reports and work product you have from the Bennett case.
Your notes. The people you questioned. Everything in your file.”
She waited without blinking, studying me as if she knew what I
would say, but was hoping I might not say it. I shook my head.
“I was working on behalf of defense counsel. That material belongs
to Alan Levy.”
“Levy is being contacted.”
Crimmens said, “The fucker’s dead, Cole. You got him off. What’s it
matter now?”
“If Levy says fine, then fine, but I worked for him, Crimmens, not
you. There’s that little thing about ‘expectation of confidentiality.’”
I looked back at Bastilla.
“If the man’s dead and you don’t think I killed him, why do you care
what’s in my files about Yvonne Bennett?”
Bastilla sighed, then straightened.
“Because this isn’t only about Bennett. Lionel Byrd murdered seven
women. We believe he murdered one woman every year for the past
seven years. Yvonne Bennett was his fifth victim.”
She said it as matter-of-factly as a bank teller cashing a check, but
with a softness in her voice that spread seeds of ice in my belly.
“He didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett. I proved it.”
Bastilla put away her pad. She got up, then hooked her bag on her
shoulder, finally ready to go.
“Material linking him to the murder was found in his home. He
murdered a sixth woman the summer after his release. His most recent
victim was murdered thirty-six days ago, and now he’s murdered
himself.”
Crimmens licked his lips as if he wanted to eat me alive.
“How do you feel now, Mr. Thirty-a-Year?”
I shook my head at Bastilla.
“What does that mean, you found material?”
“Something in your files might help us figure out how he got away
with it, Cole. Talk to Levy. If we have to subpoena, we will, but it’ll be
faster if you guys come across.”
I stood with her.
“Waitaminute—what does that mean, you found something? What
did you find?”
“A press conference is scheduled for this evening. In the meantime,
talk to Levy. The sooner the better.”
Bastilla left without waiting, but Crimmens made no move to
follow. He stayed on the file cabinet, watching me.
I said, “What?”
“Escondido and Repko.”
“Why are you still here, Crimmens?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Think about it. You must’ve read my reports.”
Then I realized why he was familiar.
“You were the arresting officer.”
Crimmens finally pushed off the cabinet.
“That’s right. I’m the guy who arrested Byrd. I’m the guy who tried
to stop a killer. You’re the shitbird who set him free.”
Crimmens glanced at Pike, then went to the door.
“Lupe Escondido and Debra Repko are the women he killed after
you got him off. You should send the families a card.”
Crimmens closed the door when he left.