Indigo Slam

CHAPTER 18

The Saturn was still in its place. The Hewitts' house was dark, one of only two sleeping houses on their street.

I cruised the house once, parked around the corner, then walked back. The night air was cool, and traffic sounds from Melrose blended with the voices and laughter of children playing and adults taking an evening stroll.

I waited until two young women walking a dog were beyond me, then sauntered up the drive and let myself in using Teri's key. The lights were off, and I did not turn them on. I wanted to search the house again, but not at the risk of alerting either Clark or a passing car filled with Russians. I took off my jacket and holster, put the Dan Wesson near at hand, and settled in on the couch. After a while I slept, but I woke often at sounds made by the strange house, rising when I did to make sure that those sounds weren't Clark or Russian thugs. They never were, and little by little the dark brightened to dawn. Clark Hewitt did not return.

Fourteen minutes after six the next morning, it was light enough to work. I did a more detailed search now than I had with Teri, stripping Clark 's bed and checking the mattress seams and the box spring liner, taking out every drawer in the dresser and chest to see if anything was taped behind or beneath them. I didn't know what I was looking for, or even think that I would find something, but you never know. When the phone company offices opened at nine I planned on checking the calls that Clark had made while he was home, but until then it was either search or stay on the couch and watch Regis and Kathie Lee. At least this way I could pretend to be a detective.

I went through Clark 's closet, checking the pockets in his shirts and pants and coats, and I looked in his shoes. He didn't have many, so it didn't take long. I went through the bathroom, then once more went through the kitchen, and then the kids' rooms and the living room. At sixteen minutes after eight I was finished, and still hadn't found anything.

I went back into the kitchen, located a jar of Taster's Choice instant, and made a cup with hot water from the tap. At least I found the coffee.

I was sipping the coffee and thinking about phoning Tracy Mannos when I noticed a ceiling hatch in the hall. I hadn't noticed it before because the cord that's supposed to be there so you can pull down the door had been clipped, and also because most houses in Southern California are built without attics because of the heat. If you have anything, you might have a crawl space. I went into the hall and looked up at the door. It had been painted over a few hundred times, but the door seemed free and usable, and, with finger smudges around the edges, looked as if it had been used. Maybe I could detect more than instant coffee after all.

I used one of the dining room chairs, pulled down the door, unfolded the ladder, and climbed far enough to stick my head into the crawl space. Twelve minutes after eight in the morning and it was already a hundred degrees up there.

I went back to the kitchen for a flashlight, took off my shirt, and went up into the crawl space. Maybe ten feet back along one of the rafter wells was a dark, lumpy shape. I boosted myself up, then duckwalked along the prewar two-by-eights to a military surplus duffel bag, as clean and dust-free as if it had just been put there. I opened it enough to look inside and saw banded packs of hundred-dollar bills. I said, 'Aha.'

You hang around an empty house by yourself long enough, you'll say damn near anything.

I dropped the duffel out of the crawl space, opened it on the living room floor, and counted out a little more than twenty-three thousand dollars in worn C-notes that were perfect mates to the bills Special Agent Marsha Fields had confiscated. Markov money. Money that the Hewitts had been living on for the past three years, money good enough to get by with as long as you didn't flash it at a bank or in front of a Secret Service agent. Then I said 'Aha' again.

Mixed with the money were half a dozen printer's catalogs, all of which bore a mailing label addressed to one Wilson Brownell in Seattle, Washington. Clark was definitely printing again, and probably with Brownell's help. Maybe they were partners.

It was two minutes after nine when I put the money back into the duffel, and the duffel back into the attic. I kept the catalogs. I had a pretty good idea who Clark had phoned, and after I stowed the duffel I called my friend at the phone company and had her run a line check on the Hewitts' number covering the past three days just to be sure. It didn't take long. She told me that three calls had been made to two numbers, one of which lasted twenty-six minutes and showed a Seattle area code. Brownell. The other two numbers were both in the Los Angeles calling area, and belonged to Tre Michaels. Charles had called it right on that one.

If I hung around the house long enough, Clark would return. The money was here, and, as far as Clark knew, so were his kids, but considering Clark 's track record I might have to wait for days. Since Clark had phoned Tre Michaels, I was sure he was looking to connect, and that meant either he had been or would be visiting Culver City. Junkies may never go home, but they always go back to their connection. Ergo, Tre Michaels might know something. Maybe they were shooting up together right now.

I washed up, locked the house, and drove south to Culver City and the Bestco. I asked a Pakistani sales-clerk named Rahsheed for Tre, but Rahsheed told me that Tre had the day off. Great. I went along Overland to his apartment, figuring it was a long shot, but as I turned onto his street Michaels passed me going in the opposite direction in a dark blue Acura. Lucky is better than good every time.

I swung around in a fast K-turn, thinking my luck might hold and he might bring me to Clark. He didn't. He turned into the Culver City park and parked next to a rusted-out Dodge van where a couple of younger guys with long, sun-bleached hair were jumping skateboards. The younger guys were well muscled and shirtless, with dark tans and baggy shorts and high-top felony flyers, and they stopped the jumping and opened the van's side door when Tre got out of the Acura. Michaels opened the Acura's trunk, and everybody carried brand-new Sony laser-disc players to the van. Still in their boxes and almost certainly ripped off from Bestco. Tre closed his trunk, and everybody climbed into the van. The van didn't start and didn't move, and its windows were curtained over. Your friendly neighborhood dopemobile.

I parked at the far end of the lot, then crept back to the van and listened. Nothing. Out in the park, two women were jogging with babies in three-wheel strollers and a couple of guys had their shirts off to catch the sun and a half-dozen Latin guys were playing soccer and here in the parking lot Tre Michaels was scoring dope. Life in the big city.

I took out the Dan Wesson, waited for the women with the strollers to pass, then threw open the sliding door, and yelled, 'Police!'

Tre Michaels and the two young guys were sitting cross-legged on the bare metal deck, dividing up money and nickel bags of white powder amid the laser-disc players, all three of them frozen in mid-count, staring at the Dan Wesson with bulging wet eyes. The money was a short stack of worn hundreds, and I wondered if Tre had gotten them from Clark. One of the kids said, 'Oh, shit.'

Tre Michaels said, 'It's you.'

I lowered the gun. 'Good job, Officer Michaels. Couldn't've done it without you.'

The two kids looked at Tre.

Tre Michaels opened his mouth, then closed it and looked at the kids. 'I'm not a cop.'

The bigger kid's eyes narrowed. 'You prick.'

Michaels said, 'Hey. This is bullshit.'

I pulled Michaels out of the van. 'I think we can cut these kids a deal, don't you?' I jerked him harder, then slammed the side door and walked him away. The van's engine roared to life and its tires smoked. Michaels said, 'Are you nuts? Do you know what you did to me?'

'They're kids, Tre. You're not scared of a couple of kids, are you?'

His eyes were wide and bright, and his face was sheened with sweat. 'Jesus, you gotta be nuts.'

I walked him to the car. 'Tell me something. You think Bestco would press charges if they knew you were ripping off goods to turn over for dope?'

Michaels chewed at his lip and didn't say anything, staring after the departing van like it was the last bus to salvation and he had missed it. Across the park, the driver gave us the finger and yelled something I couldn't understand. Charles in five years.

I said, 'Clark Haines.' Tre wouldn't know 'Hewitt.'

Michaels stared at the van.

I jerked his arm. 'Wake up, Tre.'

He looked at me. 'That was my whole score. They got my money. They got the goods. Now what am I going to do?'

I jerked him again. Harder. 'Me or Bestco.'

Tre Michaels wet his lips, still staring after the van. 'Jesus, didn't we go through this before? I dunno where Clark is.'

Another jerk. 'He called you, Tre. Twice.'

He finally looked at me and his eyes were confused. I've never known an addict who wasn't. 'Well, yeah. He came by last night and scored a couple bags.'

Another jerk. 'C'mon, Tre. He's up to something and a crummy two bags wouldn't cut it.'

'He bought eight bags, okay? That was all I had.' He scrunched up his face like he was regretting something. 'I gave him a really good price.'

Eight bags was a lot. Maybe enough to travel on. Maybe he was going back to Seattle. 'Did he say why he needed so much?'

'He said he'd be gone for a few days.'

'He say where he was going?' I was thinking Seattle. I was thinking Wilson Brownell, again.

' Long Beach.'

I looked at him. 'He said he was going to Long Beach?'

Michaels made the scrunched face again. 'Well, he didn't say he was going to Long Beach, but he asked me for a connection down there, so what would you think?' Long Beach.

'Did you give him a name?'

Michaels frowned. 'Hell, I don't know anyone in Long Beach.' He started to shake. 'You really screwed me with those guys.' He waved his hands. 'Now what am I gonna do, you tell me that? Now what?'

He was crying when I walked away.

I drove to my office. I still wanted to call Tracy Mannos, but first I needed to call Brownell and ask him about Long Beach. I would also call Teri and ask her. Maybe saying the words would ring a bell.

At fourteen minutes after eleven, I left my car in the parking garage, walked up the four flights to my office, and found the place filled with cops.

Reed Jasper was sitting at my desk, while three other guys that I'd never seen before were going through my files. Papers were scattered around on the floor and the place had been turned upside down. Jasper smiled when he saw me, and said, 'Well, well, well. Just the guy we wanted to see.'

I looked from Jasper to the other guys, then back to Jasper. They were heavy men in dark rumpled suits with anonymous faces. Feds. I said, 'What the hell are you doing, Jasper?'

'Trying to get a line on Clark Hewitt, my man.' He took a folded sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket and dropped it on my desk. 'Federal order to search and seize, duly signed and hereby presented.' He leaned back in my chair and crossed his arms.

The other three guys were staring at me, and I felt myself run cold. 'Why?'

'Wilson Brownell was found tortured to death yesterday afternoon. I think Clark Hewitt might've been involved.'