Scavenger hunt

Chapter 29

Helen Katz was already hammered by the time Holt walked into the Blue Grotto. She had staked out a prize booth in the corner farthest from the street and was slouched there by herself, smoking a cigarette under the no smoking sign. Her table was strewn with beer bottles and a near-empty bowl of salted peanuts. None of the other cops in the place came near her, clustering in twos and threes at the long bar, mostly men, but a few women too, the uniforms pounding on each other's shoulders as they watched the game on the overhead TV, or sitting in the other booths bitching about the day, the bosses, the gangbangers, the stupid civilians, the squad car with the busted springs. Katz was hammered, but she spotted Holt immediately. She wasn't the only one.

Holt surveyed the dingy saloon, then walked over to the bar and edged herself in beside a couple of boozy retired narcs. She said something to Rufus but had to repeat herself a couple of times before he nodded. There was something about the sight of Holt leaning against the bar in her designer suit, taking in the fishnet hanging across the fly-specked backbar mirror, a gold mermaid and carved wooden fishes caught in the net-it pissed Katz off. Holt didn't belong here. If she wanted to talk to Katz-and what other reason would she have for walking into a strip-mall Anaheim cop hangout?-she could have called, left a message, sent a fucking carrier pigeon. Heads turned, following Holt's progress across the crowded room, and that didn't improve Katz's mood either.

"I hope you don't mind a little company, Helen," said Holt, sliding into the booth.

"I don't like pretty women."

"I can understand that."

Katz felt her cheeks flush. "Jimmy sent you to ask a favor? He think I'll cut you more slack than I'll cut him?"

"Jimmy doesn't know I'm here." Holt turned as Rufus brought over two glasses and a bottle of blue agave tequila. "Thank you."

Katz waited until Rufus lurched away. "Is it my birthday?"

"I remembered that's what you were drinking at the wake for Mack Milner."

"I drank it because it was free and I can't usually afford the good stuff. That don't mean I like it," said Katz.

Holt poured herself a double and downed it in one smooth movement, her eyes on Katz the whole time. "Then drink your beer."

Katz smiled and filled the other shot glass. The tequila was as warm and smooth as she remembered, burning all the way down. She topped up her glass and did the same for Holt, noticing how small the other detective's hands were, smooth and white. Katz's thick-knuckled hands seemed like paws in comparison. So what? Let Holt try to take down a tweaked-out biker with those manicured hands of hers. She checked the bar and saw Wallis watching the two of them; he turned away, taking a sudden interest in the beer tap in front of him. Good idea. Wallis still had a hard-on at Katz for sending him packing at the Luis Cortez crime scene, but not enough to try staring her down.

"You have an admirer," said Holt.

"It's a lonely job, but somebody's got to do it." Usually Katz would have bit Holt's head off for a remark like that. The good booze must be making her mellow. "You think the grand jury is going to indict Strickland? Courts officer told me some of your witnesses were going south. I'd hate to see that bastard walk."

"So would I." Holt sipped her second drink, watching Katz. "I heard you were involved in an altercation at the coroner's office."

"I don't have altercations, lady."

Holt covered Katz's drinking hand with her own. "It's Jane. Or detective."

Katz stared at Holt's hand, but Holt didn't remove it. Katz liked that.

"There was an argument," said Holt, sitting back now, taking her hand with her.

"I get in lots of arguments. What's the big deal about this one?"

"Jimmy thinks Dr. Boone make a mistake on Walsh's autopsy. Actually he thinks a lot of things, but none of them follow unless the forensic report was wrong, and-"

"And when you heard about me getting in Boone's face, you thought maybe Jimmy was on to something?"

Holt nodded and finished off her drink. The woman could put it away. Katz liked that too.

"He's a hardhead," said Katz.

"He's a pain in the ass," said Holt.

They clinked glasses. Katz savored her drink, reveling in the slow sensuality of the agave. Holt looked tired. Close up there were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and dark circles under her eyes. "You worried about him?"

Holt stared right through her.

Katz lit another cigarette. "Jimmy told me about a love letter Walsh got in prison and a script he was writing." She exhaled a plume of smoke. "A real cock-and-bull story about an angry husband who had it in for Walsh, angry enough to frame him for murder, angry enough to drown him in a fishpond and make it look like an accident. Knowing Jimmy, I'm sure there's other things he didn't tell me." She blew a perfect smoke ring, a halo drifting over Holt's head. "I don't know if Jimmy is really on to something. I just figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt."

Holt raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why would you give Jimmy the benefit of the doubt?"

Katz shifted her weight. Her limp, wrinkled gray suit fit her like a hippopotamus's skin, and she knew it. "He did a good deed, a favor for a dead kid I knew. Didn't even bother telling me about it. Got me to thinking maybe I had been wrong about him."

"Maybe you have."

"Don't worry, it's not like I'm going to ask to wear his letter sweater."

Holt cracked up at that one, but she wasn't laughing at Katz. She just thought it was funny, and Katz laughed along with her.

"So what happened at the coroner's office? Did Boone blow the autopsy?"

Katz shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette on the side of the countertop. "All I know for certain is he doesn't like having his work questioned. He's going to dislike a lot more things before I'm done with him." She suddenly leaned across the table. "Just for curiosity's sake, who does Jimmy think the angry husband is?"

"Jimmy's not sure either."

"He's got an idea though," said Katz. "Guy like Jimmy, he would have to have an idea."

"Yes, Jimmy has never lacked for ideas." They bumped hands reaching for the bottle, and Katz deferred, let Holt pour. "Do you know who Mick Packard is?"

Katz squinted, her head throbbing from the tequila on top of the beer. "The actor? Mr. Macho? He's the angry husband?"

"Jimmy thinks so."

Katz watched her. "But you don't."

Holt shrugged. "Jimmy talked to Packard's wife, Samantha. The woman admitted that she and Walsh had an affair way back when, but said that she had never written Walsh a letter. She also said Walsh never even told her that he loved her."

"So what? I'd lie too if I thought it would get me off the hook. Mick Packard's supposed to have a bad temper and not be afraid to show it."

Holt circled her glass with a forefinger, around and around. "Jimmy said the same thing. Samantha thought he was writing an expose, and she was scared. She knew what her husband was capable of-that's why she lied."

"Makes sense to me."

Holt looked up from her drink. "Not to me. A woman lies about a lot of things. She lies about her age, her weight, even her sex life. But denying that a man ever said he loved her?" She shook her head. "A woman doesn't lie about that."

Katz stared at her and finally nodded. Holt knew what she was doing.

Holt checked the room, then inclined her head toward Katz. "Jimmy might be wrong about Mick Packard, but if he's right about Walsh being murdered"-her eyes were unwavering-"if he's right about that, then whoever killed Walsh isn't going to like Jimmy asking questions."

"You're worried about him?"

"Jimmy takes too many chances."

Katz stifled a belch. "I consider that one of his few good qualities."

Holt laughed, clicking glasses with Katz, and the two of them downed their shots.

Katz could barely hold her head up. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I don't know if Walsh was murdered. I doubt he was. I just don't like Boone coming on like an asshole when I ask him a few questions."