Guilt By Degrees

55

“So we pay a visit to Butch Adler, aka Glass Man,” I said, trying to picture the guy Luis had described. “I’m sure that means he replaces windows,” I added dryly. Glass was common slang for methamphetamine.

“Undoubtedly did some home-renovation projects for Luis,” Bailey agreed.

“You think he still works at the Pep Boys in Simi Valley?”

“With the economy the way it is, and jobs the way they are, I’d bet he’s still in pocket,” she said. “Want to hit him tomorrow?”

“Definitely.” It’d be a good starting point. We needed to get to the heart of PEN1, and that probably meant its head, to see if they had any connection to Lilah. But you don’t hit the target first-you hit the outer periphery and gather information as you work your way in and, hopefully, up. That way, by the time you’re talking to someone in power, you sound like you know what you’re talking about; and with a little luck, you’ve found something to threaten them with. So I didn’t mind the fact that Luis’s connection was at a lower rung of a different skinhead group.

It was eight o’clock by the time Bailey dropped me off at the hotel, which gave me plenty of time to get to the gym and work off those hush pups. I did some serious ab work, pushed myself for half an hour on the treadmill, and wrapped it all up with a combination of machines and free weights to work my upper body. By the time I dragged myself up to my room, I was drenched with sweat and virtuously tired.

One hot shower and a glass of Pinot Noir later, I was tucked in bed with a new, and hopefully better, murder mystery than the one I’d been slogging through. Five minutes later, I was asleep.

I hit the snooze button four times the next morning-one more than usual-which meant I had no time for breakfast. More important, no time for coffee, and on a day like this-cold, glittering, and with air so fresh it cut through me like a razor-I badly needed my hot caffeine fix. At least the wardrobe choices would be easy. I could go casual today, since I doubted the Glass Man, aka Butch Adler, or the Pep Boys where he worked enforced a dress code. Jeans, boots, and a forest-green pullover sweater would do the trick. And I decided to take along the manila envelope containing the photograph of the stabber’s wrist. Bailey and I could look it over again if we had any downtime waiting for our soon-to-be new buddy Butch. I stuffed my.38 Smith & Wesson into the pocket of my peacoat, threw on a black muffler, and headed out.

“There’s a Coffee Bean on the corner,” I said as I got into Bailey’s car.

She gave me a look but knew better than to argue. She pulled over. The line was long and slow. Ten annoying minutes later, I trotted back to the car.

“Here,” I said, handing Bailey a cup. “And I brought us provisions for the long trek ahead.” I held up a bag with bagels and cream cheese.

“It’s Simi Valley, not Idaho,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Simi was a very white enclave.

“Well, maybe a little bit,” Bailey said as she enjoyed a long sip from her cup.

“What do we have on Glass Man?” I asked, spreading cream cheese on a piece of bagel with the tiny plastic knife.

“Probation for drunk driving. He got one year suspended-”

“That’s not much,” I said, worried.

Most of these guys could do a year standing on their heads.

“We work with what we’ve got,” Bailey replied philosophically.

“I hate to waste the time if he’s just going to tell us to pound sand,” I said sourly.

“Got a better idea?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then suck it up and think positive,” Bailey said.

We made it to Simi Valley in relatively good time. It was a study in contrasts, as we had just left the funky, multiethnic mix that’s downtown L.A. Wide, flat streets with neatly trimmed trees lined the sidewalks, and everything was suburban clean. Even the bus-stop bench, adorned with a real estate ad that bore the grin of a cheesy-looking blonde who wanted to sell YOUR home, looked safe enough to sleep on. But unlike downtown, I’d bet no one ever did.

Bailey navigated us to the Pep Boys in the middle of a vanilla strip mall. Two muscular-looking young guys in crew cuts and long-sleeved waffle shirts under short-sleeved uniforms conferred beneath the hood of a red Ford pickup truck that was in a front parking space. As we passed them on our way into the store, I steeled myself for the usual macho review.

Except there wasn’t any. The guys just kept talking about the alternator, whatever that is. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or depressed.

Bailey asked the cashier, a remarkably wholesome-looking girl with a single blond braid that hung down her back, where we could find the manager.

She directed us to a man in a dress shirt and black polyester pants wearing a name tag that said TOMMY.

Tommy was on the phone, so while we waited, I looked around. All manner of gadgets designed to fix or shine up a motor vehicle were stacked neatly on shelves throughout a cavernous store. I was never into cars, but the array of products had me looking around for something to buy. I can shop anywhere. A young dark-haired man with a wispy mustache brought a car cover to the cashier. He took his time counting out his money, giving himself a chance to flirt with her. I heard him ask her whether she liked working around all that car stuff. She gave him a sweet smile, flicked back her braid winningly, and said, “Sure,” in a perky voice. Liar.

I’d just decided I had to have that attractive set of spark plugs on the shelf to my right when the manager finished his call and looked at us.

“What can I do for you ladies?” he asked.

I hate being called a lady. It makes me think of white gloves and fussy teacups. And women who simper. It’s a patronizing word that shrinks you, makes you inconsequential and easily dismissed. Or it could just be me.

Bailey stepped in closer and held her badge down at her waist where only he could see it. We didn’t want Glass Man to get a glimpse and take a powder. Tommy’s eyes got big, which I found satisfying. Still want to help the ladies, pal?

“What can I do for you…uh…”

“Detective Keller,” Bailey said. “And this is Deputy District Attorney Knight.”

He nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you.”

Respectful. Better. I supposed this was one of the upsides of Simi Valley. Quite a contrast to the ’tude we usually got downtown.

“We’re looking for Butch Adler,” I said.

“He’s here.” Tommy looked around the store. “Might be helping someone outside. Is he in trouble?”

“No,” Bailey said. “Not at all.”

Not yet anyway.

Tommy looked relieved. “Come with me.”

We followed Tommy to a service bay, where a bald man wearing a Pep Boys uniform shirt and heavy black motorcycle boots was rolling a tire. “Butch,” Tommy called out. “Can you come over here a sec? Got someone who wants to see you.”

Butch narrowed his eyes at Bailey and me. Unlike Tommy, our friend Butch knew how to spot a cop at twenty paces. “Let me just get this out,” he said, gesturing to the tire. He rolled it to an older man standing next to a green Honda Civic, said something to him, and walked over to us, rubbing his hands on a blue kerchief.

Tommy introduced us, but Glass Man didn’t offer to shake. Just kept rubbing the kerchief between his hands and sizing us up.

“Thanks, Tommy,” Bailey said. “We’ll take it from here.”

Tommy gratefully excused himself and went back inside.

“I didn’t test dirty and I haven’t been busted,” Butch said. “So you got nothing on me.”

“You sure about that?” Bailey said, bluffing.

Butch said nothing, showing his street smarts. When in doubt, clam up.

“I’d prefer not to bust you, tell you the truth,” Bailey continued. “Just want to have a little chat.”

Butch’s eyes got narrower. Now that I was up close and personal, I could see that he had a tattoo on his neck of a death’s-head wearing a Nazi helmet. Très chic. He folded his arms.

“I don’t talk to cops,” he said. “Guess you better bust me.”

Tough guy. I decided to try another tack.

“Aren’t you a little curious to know what we want to talk about?” I asked. “Maybe we want to ask about your golf handicap, or your pick for American Idol this season.”

Butch just looked at me, then turned to Bailey. “You got something, bust me. You don’t, let me get on with my day. I got work to do.”

Out of patience and pissed off at having lost all this time for nothing, I snapped, “We just want to know what you heard about PEN1 hitting that cop Zack Bayer in Glendale.”

Butch’s eyebrows shot up, making his whole scalp move back on his head. “You wanna talk about PEN1? Those pieces of cow shit.” He snorted. “Whyn’t ya say so?”