Guardians of the Night (A Gideon and Sirius Novel) Page 18

  If you had to define the Vietnam War in one terrible picture, Nick Ut’s black and white Pulitzer Prize–winning photo would be it. The picture showed a naked nine-year-old Kim Phuc fleeing with other villagers down Highway 1 in South Vietnam near the Cambodian border. Napalm had already melted Kim’s clothes and left almost a third of her body covered with third-degree burns. No viewer of Ut’s photo could look away from the horror etched on a little girl’s face. That single picture helped end a war. When I see Kim’s open mouth, I can hear her screams, or maybe I just remember my own screams. Her picture was taken more than forty years ago; miraculously, she survived. It is a photo that once seen is never forgotten.

  For thousands of years fire and war have been synonymous. Nazi Germany thought it could bring England to its knees by using incendiaries and firebombs.

  Greek fire was developed some fifteen hundred years ago. The accelerant was delivered on ships through the use of catapults and tubes, and resisted even dousing with seawater. At the prow of warships were huge carved heads of ferocious beasts, and inside those fearsome heads were tubes designed to squirt out their terrible spray. It was said when the Greek fire was unleashed, the beasts looked as if they were vomiting flames. Who needed the help of dragons when you could make your own dragons?

  Drew Corde knew about my fire walk, and I was sure Neal Bass had told him about my visit and how I’d sweated him. I was betting Corde had decided to return that favor. Maybe he had intuited my fear of fire; he had to know that, at a minimum, I would have a healthy respect for it.

  I sniffed the air. Showering and lots of deodorant hadn’t masked the smell of smoke. It was on my clothes; it was on me. I looked at my face in the rearview mirror. Most people would assume the redness in my features was from too much sun. Dark circles dominated my face. Maybe they hid the fear I felt, and the fever. Corde seemed to know all my Achilles heels. He’d targeted the woman I loved by pulling back the curtain on our love life, and he had brought fire to my house. I wasn’t sure if he had hunted down angels, but I knew if that were the case, it was only because he hadn’t had the opportunity.

  That Corde would go after an officer of the law, especially in a city like Los Angeles, spoke to his assuredness. There are more than ten thousand police officers attached to the LAPD. If you have that many brothers and sisters, you can be assured no one is going to pick a fight with you, but Corde didn’t seem to be afraid of that army. Either he thought he was above the law, or he was counting on his own “big brother”—the US government. OZ had close ties with the CIA and other military and governmental organizations. His team was potentially bigger and badder than my team.

  “Yeah, but you’re on my team,” I told Sirius.

  I turned up the tune. David Byrne was warning me about nasty weather, which made me laugh. Sirius and I were on our way to see the Weatherman. That was the kind of thing Ellis Haines would say.

  Talking Heads said I needed to fight fire with fire. It sounded like good advice, but it might have been my fever talking to me.

  The Los Angeles County Central Jail has been in operation for more than fifty years. There is no shortage of people who think it should have been shuttered long ago in favor of a new facility, but the price tag of up to two billion dollars for a new jail is what has kept the old one operational.

  Ellis Haines was Central’s new celebrity inmate. He had been transported from San Quentin Prison and was being housed in Central so that he could appear as a witness in a trial being held in the nearby L.A. County Superior Court. Evidence suggested that one of the murders Haines had been convicted for might have been committed by a copycat. Haines had admitted his guilt as a whole but had never offered specifics on any of the homicides. Supposedly he was going to disavow this murder.

  Haines was being held in “Celebrity Row,” a special wing of the jail where celebrities or defendants in notorious cases were housed. The cells aren’t any better there, but from a control booth deputies can easily monitor the inmate, with video cameras able to track every move. Because the wing is off by itself, prisoners on Celebrity Row are isolated from the six thousand other inmates housed in the jail. According to media reports, despite the jail’s overcrowding Haines was currently the only inmate in what deputies called “the Penthouse.”

  The jail is centrally located in L.A.’s downtown in the triangle that is north of the 101, east of the 110, and west of Interstate 5. It isn’t far from Chinatown, a spot that invariably disappoints tourists, who find it small, dirty, and dingy, at least when compared to San Francisco’s Chinatown or New York’s. It might not be a great Chinatown, but it’s still been featured in many films, the best of which was Roman Polanski’s Chinatown. My proximity to it was some kind of conduit to the film, and images of the movie along with snippets of dialogue played in my head. I had this sense my brain was trying to make some connection that I couldn’t quite hold on to, but maybe it was only my fever doing the talking. I thought of Robert Towne’s larger than life characters of Jake Gittes, Evelyn Mulwray, and Noah Cross. It was Cross who said that at the right time and right place, people are capable of anything. I always wondered why he hadn’t said that at the wrong time and wrong place people are capable of anything.

  “Two Wongs don’t make a right,” I said aloud, and then added, “Forget it, Sirius. It’s Chinatown.”

  I could see my partner studying me with his big brown eyes. There was no doubt in his eyes. I didn’t want to look at my own bloodshot eyes to see what they were saying.

  J. Glo had cleared the way for Sirius to accompany me into the jail. My partner’s being an official LAPD K-9 made his entry easier, but Men’s Central Jail was also used to dogs being processed in and out. Drug dogs were frequently called on to do their sniffing of cells and inmates, and the jail had a Custody Canine Program where select inmates were taught to train and care for rescued dogs. Despite that, I wouldn’t have brought Sirius with me if not for Ellis Haines insisting on a “reunion” of the three fire survivors. It would serve him right if Sirius bit him. Haines had shot my partner and almost killed him.

  J. Gloria Keller was waiting for us in visitor processing. She was actually a petite woman but managed to look and come across as large. J. Glo had an expansive blond perm that added inches to her face and frame. She wore platform shoes and liked tropical colors. Her voice was feminine when she wanted it to be, intimidating when she didn’t. Today her outfit was tamer than usual, and I was guessing she had dressed in the jail-appropriate garb of a conservative pants suit as opposed to her usual short dress and form-fitting (in other words, tight) blouse. L.A. has a history of high-profile female defense lawyers, including Gloria Allred, Leslie Abramson, and Shawn Holley Chapman. J. Glo was now at the top of her class and knew it.

  I was running a little late, but I’d phoned earlier to tell Ms. Keller that I had been delayed by a fire. She had sounded skeptical at the time, and looked relieved at my approach.

  “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up,” she said, “and I know my client would have been most unhappy at that.”

  “I’m happy to be able to accommodate you,” I lied, “especially now that there are no more legal swords hanging over my head.”

  “Funny how things work out,” she said.

  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” I told Sirius. Bending down, I ran a hand along his nape. “Impersonating a human is a serious crime.”

  I should know. It was something I had been doing for years.

  It didn’t take long to get processed. I had to give up my gun; so did J. Glo. She had a Springfield XD three-inch sub-compact that fit very nicely in her purse.

  I don’t like jails or prisons. Sirius picked up on my vibe and pressed into my left leg. It was nice not to have to say anything and still be so understood.

  We were accompanied inside by a deputy who made no attempt to engage us in conversation. J. Glo told me we were going
to a special meeting room she called “O.J.’s Crib.”

  “O.J. spent thousands of dollars having the meeting room converted so that it could accommodate his legal dream team,” she said. “When O.J. would meet with his four lawyers, they wanted to be sure there was ample room for them to spread out their legal papers.”

  Luckily for us, O.J.’s Crib didn’t require much of a walk, and we avoided some of the more unsightly areas of the jail. Still, there was no scenic route, and ending up in O.J.’s Crib hardly made the journey worthwhile. Space is at a premium in jails, and this “special” meeting room wasn’t even the size of a small hotel conference room. The area was just big enough to fit an eight-foot-by-four-foot rectangular table.

  J. Glo and I took seats on opposite sides of the table. Its surface was some kind of laminate. Perspiration from lots of sweaty palms had somehow managed to soak into the plastic, resulting in a tired gray color. I looked around, hoping to see an “O.J. was here” carved into the table, but there was no sign of graffiti.

  Sirius took the opportunity to sniff his way around the room. When he paused too long at one spot, I said, “No peeing.” Unlike most of the jail, the room was thankfully devoid of the odor of urine.

  The sheriff’s deputy maintained his position just outside the door. I wasn’t used to such special treatment and wouldn’t have gotten it had I been there on a normal visit. Ellis Haines changed the regular equation.

  “My client speaks very fondly of you,” said J. Glo.

  I wasn’t very interested in talking to a defense lawyer who was said to be working hard on an appeal of Haines’s conviction, but common courtesy demanded some kind of answer, even if it wasn’t something she wanted to hear.

  “Your client is a murdering, narcissistic socio-psychopath who tried to kill me and my partner,” I said. “A week ago he sent me an email that referenced the burning of Los Angeles. It’s our misfortune that for some reason we continue to enter into his grandiose fantasies.”

  “You should know that he refers to you as his ‘friend.’ ”

  “Beware the Jabberwock.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a line from Lewis Carroll’s poem ‘Jabberwocky.’ When I was growing up, my father always told me to beware the Jabberwock. I think he meant I shouldn’t believe what I know isn’t true. That was the monstrosity of the Jabberwock and why it was to be feared, or so my father thought.”

  For a poem that is supposedly nonsensical, much in the way of symbolism and meaning has been found in “Jabberwocky.” I don’t believe my father ever knew that in Carroll’s personal life, he was suspected of being a pedophile. If he had, I am sure that would have colored my father’s impression of his writing, and he wouldn’t have enjoyed reading Carroll as much as he did.

  “You don’t think my client considers you his friend?”

  “As much a friend,” I said, “as the walrus and the carpenter thought of the oysters they befriended. And we know what happened to them.”

  Apparently we didn’t know. At her look of incomprehension I said, “More Lewis Carroll.”

  “You’re not like most cops, are you?”

  “For the sake of my profession, I hope not.”

  We stopped talking when we heard someone singing. It wasn’t as good a rendition as Sam Cooke’s, but Ellis Haines can carry a tune far better than most. As he came closer, the lyrics from “Chain Gang,” and the sounds of his chains, could be heard that much more clearly. The man known as the Santa Ana Strangler, and also known as the Weatherman, was making his entrance.

  He already had enough nicknames; I decided to not refer to him ever again as the Jabberwock. But that said, I still knew to beware of him.

  Three sheriff’s deputies accompanied him. If Haines was hoping for them to join in a doo-wop chorus, it wasn’t happening. The three men didn’t look amused by their charge’s singing. It’s possible they were jealous. Haines pulled off his a capella performance with the assurance of a seasoned professional. I am sure his millions of Facebook fans would have loved it, but when he finished, no one clapped.

  He had on handcuffs and leg manacles. The county provided his wardrobe: blue shirt and blue pants. The only thing differentiating him from other inmates was a red wristband, which I suppose identified his special status.

  We watched as the guards removed his handcuffs. When they came off, Haines asked, “What about the leg irons?”

  The sheriff’s deputy, who was apparently in charge, shook his head. J. Glo spoke up, “I am respectfully requesting you remove the leg manacles of my client.”

  The shackles weren’t mandatory, but were put on or taken off at the discretion of the guards. The head deputy thought about J. Glo’s request and then gave the barest nod. A few moments later the rest of his chains came off.

  “Thank you,” said Haines, entering the room. “Now I can practice my Electric Slide.”

  The deputies offered no comment other than to lock the door behind them. The same guard remained standing outside the door while the other three walked away.

  Haines did a little soft shoe on his way to shake hands with J. Glo, or maybe he really was doing the Electric Slide. It’s a dance I’m not acquainted with, but then I’m acquainted with very few. I remained seated, and when Haines turned my way, I didn’t offer a hand or a smile. That seemed to amuse him.

  “Didn’t I tell you I would get out of San Quentin at a time of my choosing?”

  “You call this getting out?” It was my turn to look amused. “You went from one shithole to another.”

  “I was getting a bit weary of the cold and fog in the Bay Area. This is my little vacation in sunny L.A.”

  “The weather’s here,” I said. “Wish you were fine.”

  He took a step closer to me, and Sirius growled. It was one of those guttural growls that come from deep down in the throat. A leveled gun wouldn’t have said, “Proceed at your own peril” as much as that growl did, and it stopped Haines in his tracks.

  “I mean him no harm, Sirius,” Haines said. “I merely wanted to get a better look at Detective Gideon’s coloring. And isn’t that smoke I smell on him?”

  “Detective Gideon had to deal with a fire,” said J. Glo. “Despite that, he made it here to see you.”

  Haines looked to me for an explanation. For a moment I wondered if he might have been the one behind the arson. His followers—his “extended family”—were deluded sorts who thought Haines had great insights into the impending Armageddon. Some were crazy enough to think he was some kind of messianic voice. Those kinds of followers would have thought nothing of torching my house. But his interest didn’t seem to be feigned.

  “I’m your Venus, I’m your fire,” he mused, quoting from the Shocking Blue song “Venus.”

  I hate it when Haines quotes from songs and movies, because I’m always doing the same. I don’t like it when I see anything of him in me.

  “It was Mars, not Venus,” I said. “I was in the war zone, or maybe it was more like the war drone.”

  Sirius continued his growling, but it was a syncopated threat. His throaty pauses made me think of a time bomb.

  “It’s all right,” I told Sirius. “Settle.”

  He growled a little more and I said, “Pfui.”

  Phooey is not much of a threat in English. It’s the kind of oath—“Oh, phooey”—you’d expect from Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Give it a Teutonic accent, though, and the warning sounds positively barbaric. If I were German, I wouldn’t use my native tongue to say “I love you,” for fear the object of my affections might mistake the tone of my voice to think I wanted to make schnitzel out of her. Advice to German romantics: do your professing of love in French or Italian. Advice to dog handlers: German is a great tongue to make your point in a forceful manner.

  Sirius stopped growling, but his hackles were still up. I’ve often wishe
d I had hackles.

  “I guess he remembers you,” I said.

  Haines smiled and then turned away from Sirius and me, to his lawyer. Nothing was said, but J. Glo rose at what must have been a prearranged signal.

  “I need to make a call,” she said. Before going off to make that call, she warned Haines, “Remember, whatever you say to the detective is not privileged.”

  She asked the guard to unlock the door, but he refused to comply until Haines seated himself in the chair that J. Glo had vacated, the seat right across from us. Sirius lifted his head so that it rested on the table, and the two of us stared at Haines.

  Speaking in a voice that the deputy couldn’t hear, Haines said, “Tell me about the fire.”

  “You didn’t arrange for me to be here to talk about a fire.”

  “And yet wouldn’t you say it is—ironic—that we who were brought together by fire now find it has reared its head again?”

  Both of our faces had keloid scarring from the fire, mine on the right and his on the left. We had been carrying Sirius, and during our walk experienced such intense heat, the sides of our faces closest to the fire began burning away. I touched my keloid involuntarily; his hand mirrored the motion and touched his.

  “The fire occurred at your house,” he said, “didn’t it?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Your clothes smell of smoke.”

  “My roof,” I admitted.

  “Someone was sending you a message, weren’t they?”

  “The fire is being investigated.”

  “But you already know who set the fire, don’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  “It is the rare individual who would be so audacious as to challenge one of L.A.’s finest.”

  I didn’t say anything, but that didn’t stop him from trying to read my features.

  “You mentioned something about a war zone and a drone.”