The Fallen

12

Ed Placer lived with his mother in Logan Heights, south of downtown. It was a decent neighborhood. The house looked pugnacious compared to those around it, with wrought iron over the windows and a private security sign stabbed into a lawn of tan crabgrass.

“Cozy,” said McKenzie as I pulled up and parked. It was Monday morning.

Ed Placer answered the door and immediately recognized us for what we were. I badged him, said we were working Burglary, and watched his hands. McKenzie introduced herself while his dark eyes roamed her, then locked on to mine. He was surprisingly tall. Jeans, cowboy boots, and a faded short-sleeved shirt worn untucked, which always makes me uneasy. His hair was short now, and he had a mustache and a smirk.

“We’ve got some questions about the loot from the annex,” I said.

“I told everything in court.”

“We can keep this friendly and short,” I said.

“Short’s good.”

“Then pretend you’re a gentleman and invite us in,” said McKenzie.

We had decided on the drive over that even though this was just a knock and talk, we’d do it inside the house. Because Ed had been violent with law enforcement. Because he was large. Because, if he’d used Carl Herbert’s stolen Model 39 to murder Garrett Asplundh, he could try something similar on us. And because we wanted to see the rare reptiles.

“Invite you in?” his eyes roamed McKenzie again. “You, sure. But maybe Junior here can stay outside, play in the street or something.”

When I’m challenged in the way that Ed Placer had just challenged me, I feel a quick jolt of fury crack through my body. It’s like lightning. If I wait just a second or two, it almost always fades.

So I took a deep breath and stared at him.

“Raise your hands, Ed,” I said. “I’m going to pat you for weapons.”

“Oh, hell, let’s go inside.”

“Good boy,” said McKenzie, and we were in.

I patted the sides and front of his waistband, spun him around and checked his back. I cuffed him, then turned him back to face me.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “I was feeling a strong desire to kick your ass.”

“Lost your big op,” I said. I felt that flicker of anger again, but that was one of the reasons you cuff creeps.

“My partner only looks like a nice guy,” said McKenzie. “That’s all I’m going to say. Where are the rare lizards anyway?”

“I’ve got all sorts of specimens. Want to see them?”

“Sure.”

“Where’s your mother?” I asked.

He smiled. “Sleeping. Want to see her, too?”

“Critters first,” I said.

“Ever held a cobra in your bare hands?” asked McKenzie.

Ed smiled. “It can thrill you. I’ve got a more-or-less tame one back here if you’d like to try.”

“Maybe,” she said, with an odd glance at me.

We were in the living room. It was dark and close, with slouching bookshelves and defeated furniture and yellowed curtains and dust balls on the dulled hardwood floor and a television playing a soap opera in colors not found in nature.

“What’s that smell?” I asked.

“Mouse piss,” said Ed. “I have to raise my own mice. They stink. Snakes hardly stink at all.”

“Ever held a rattlesnake?” asked McKenzie.

“Routinely. They have to be held behind the head or they bite you. Come back here. I’ll show you.”

The room was good-size. All four walls were covered by shelves, which ran six high, from floor to ceiling. Above each shelf was a bank of lights. The lights shone down into glass terrariums in which small, brightly colored snakes writhed and climbed and slithered and fell in hypnotic tangles.

In some containers there were lizards piled up in the corners, jumping and scampering over each other, their claws faintly audible against the glass.

Other cages housed hundreds and hundreds of wriggling white mice. Every now and then, one would bounce up like a piece of popcorn.

Ed moved between McKenzie and me.

“These are mostly juveniles, which remain active this time of year,” he said. “The breeding pairs are out in the garage, where I can keep the temperature quite cool. If the adults don’t overwinter properly, they don’t reproduce. It’s hormonal.”

“Which handguns did you sell back in New Orleans?” I asked. “Out of the eleven that you and Cisnos took.”

He turned away from McKenzie to look at me. “A Sig .38 and a Ruger .22.”

“You’re sure?”

“Don’t I sound sure?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You do.”

“I have a good mind for snakes, lizards, and guns. That’s about it, unfortunately.”

I thought about that. “I’m interested in a Smith Model 39.”

“The nine-millimeter autoloader,” said Ed. “We got two of those from the warehouse. Great handguns. I could have made one phone call and moved them within an hour, but I got distracted.”

“By the dope.”

“Yep.”

He turned his back on me to speak to McKenzie. “Hey, Cortez, you want to hold a cobra?”

“Not really.”

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have one anyway. It’s illegal in this state. Then how about a baby king snake? They’re not even venomous.”

“I get nervous around babies.”

He glanced back at me and shrugged.

“So you never saw the Model 39s again?”

“Not after they dragged me out of that apartment. We had the guns spread out on the couch. Guns are fun to look at. Manny had already traded off the Sig and the Ruger for some speed to cut the smack. Otherwise we’d have just slept the whole time.”

McKenzie had stepped up to look closer at the snakes.

“You want one, Cortez? I’ll sell you one cheap. They’re easy to take care of.”

“How much?”

“I’ve got some nice Arizona mountain king snakes. Six weeks old and eating real good. Beautiful markings, really red reds. I can go a hundred for a male. Females are more. They all come with certificates of captive breeding, which keeps Fish and Game from busting you. Buy two, mate ’em and make yourself some money. My regular prices are triple that.”

“So why do I get a discount?”

“Because you’re so sexy.”

“Yeah, I really am, aren’t I?”

“We should go out.”

McKenzie has almost-black eyes. When her disgust and her acne scars get together, she looks volatile.

“Never mind,” said Ed Placer.

“So, Ed,” I said, “what do you do around here at night?”

“Sleep, like most people.”

“I’m thinking of last Tuesday.”

He turned around. “You’re not Burg. You’re Homicide.”

“I confess.”

He eyed me without noticeable emotion. “The Ethics dude. He got it with a Smith 39?”

“It looks that way.”

“Bet it messed him up pretty good. Newspaper said shot in the head.”

I stared at him. Some men can look a cop right in the eye after killing someone and convincingly deny it. Not many, but some. Ed Placer held my stare, then disengaged without hurry.

“I was home.”

“With your mom.”

“Right.”

“Did you go out for dinner?”

“I cooked frozen pizza. I cook every night. Mom does the dishes. She’s schizophrenic, heavy meds, but she does the dishes up real clean.”

“Did you go out after dinner?”

“I drove down to the store for a half gallon of vodka and some orange soda. That’s what we drink around here. Mom and me.”

“Which store and what time?”

“Right Spot Liquor. Eight, maybe. Take the clerk a picture of me. I go in a lot.”

“Then where?”

“Right back here. Watched TV. Lights out by midnight.”

I kept waiting for colored shapes to appear because few criminals can converse this long without lying. Ed struck me as manipulative, evasive, and dangerous, but I saw no signs of deception when he spoke.

“You have a girlfriend, Ed?” I asked.

“Used to. She got too serious.”

Beyond Ed Placer I could see McKenzie shaking her head.

“Easy to see why,” said McKenzie. “She saw all your snakes and lizards and bouncing mice and wanted you for the rest of her life.”

“She actually liked them,” said Ed. “I gave her a pair of Chiricahua kings and a bearded dragon, to show her there were no hard feelings.”

“That was sweet.”

“Did you know Garrett Asplundh?” I asked.

He gave me a surly look. “No. Ethics Authority. What the hell is that for? In a place that’s got no ethics?”

“They keep the city free from corruption,” I said.

“That’ll be the day,” said Ed. “My neighbor shot his neighbor’s dog for trying to kill his cat. The guy that did the shooting was a San Diego police officer. No charges filed. Not even shooting a gun inside the city limits. Maybe the Ethics Authority should look into that.”

“Great idea, Ed,” I said. “Now let’s meet Mom.”

“She sleeps until noon.”

“It won’t take long.”

“Take these cuffs off.”

“Get Mom,” I said.

McKenzie and I waited in the dusty, sun-starved living room. Ed went into one of the bedrooms and shut the door. I heard his voice. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but it sounded low and soothing. I popped my holster snap, swung my sport coat back behind it, and rested my hand on the Glock. McKenzie moved to the other side of the room and did the same.

“Depressing,” she said, looking around the house.

“I had a schizophrenic aunt,” I said. “Her house was sloppy, too.”

“Maybe when you have voices in your head, the dirt just doesn’t matter.”

“She died young.”

“You just get swept away in the delusions,” said McKenzie.

“Uncle Jerry was good to her.”

The disconnected chatter was the nervous tic of cops with their hands on their guns.

Ed’s mother came down the hallway. She was short and gray-haired and dressed in a blue robe. Behind her walked Ed, his hands behind his back and an embarrassed expression on his face.

“Why, hello, I’m Virginia Placer. How do you do?”

I smiled and introduced myself and McKenzie. Virginia reminded me of my aunt. Very pleasant and seemingly in the moment, but also gone. Not a thousand miles gone, just gone a little sideways, living in a world similar to ours but not the same.

“What brings you to San Diego today?” she asked.

I explained that we were just following up some leads on a case we were working. We wanted to talk to her son because of some of the trouble he’d had back in Louisiana. And we wanted to talk to her, just to make sure that she and Ed had been home last Tuesday night.

“Oh, my,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s impossible to say. I believe we were home, because that’s what we usually do. But I have no specific memory of that night.”

“Mom? Hawaiian-style pizza, with the pineapple and ham? And later I ran to the Spot for some booze and orange soda? Remember, the big orange bottle, I dropped it, and we were both surprised it didn’t break?”

She looked at him with an openness and innocence that made me sad. You could almost see the fingers of her memory reaching back in time, feeling for something to hold on to. I know how medications can make you lose your memory. After my fall my head hurt so bad they gave me pain pills that made me unaware and forgetful. The pain was better than the haze.

“Yes. I recall those things very exactly now. Yes, yes, Officers, Ed is right. We were amazed that the bottle didn’t break, because orange-soda plastic is very, very thin.”

Her words were totally convincing. And the red squares of deception never spilled out. But I wondered if delusional people could fool me, so long as they were fooling themselves. Then I wondered if my primitive lie detector was as good as I thought it was. I found it almost incredible that Ed Placer and his schizophrenic mother had answered questions for over half an hour but never tried to fool us.

“Ed is right,” said Ed. “Maybe you can leave now. Mom, you can go back to bed if you want.”

“Good-bye,” she said. “What a pleasure it was to meet you.”

McKenzie and I said likewise as Ed came toward me and turned around. I keyed open the cuffs, stepped back, and slipped them into the case on my belt. I stashed the cuffs without taking my eyes off of Ed. You never want to lose visual contact with a guy like him.

“So, Brownlaw, how do you think one of those Model 39s got from New Orleans to San Diego?” Ed asked. He offered me a disgusted smile.

“I give up.”

“Pretty obvious,” he said. “New Orleans cops grabbed a few choice pieces for themselves. Maybe for a throw-down. Maybe for their bed-stands. Maybe as a present for a buddy or to make some money. Retail new is what, seven, eight hundred? But some bad guy ended up with it. Stole it, maybe.”

He stood there rubbing his wrists. “Or — and this is where the possibilities get fun — maybe your Ethics killer is a cop. Wouldn’t that be a kick?”

“Yes, it would be.”

He held open the door. “Detective Cortez, call me if you ever want to handle my cobra.”

“And you stay right by that phone,” said McKenzie.