Death Walks Skid Row Page 11

  As Knight led Ramona through the station to the office of the sketch artist, she asked, “So what have you learned about the homeless guy who was killed on the street?”

  “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “I’ll take that as ‘nothing’. You haven’t learned a thing.”

  “Pretty sure of that, are you?”

  “Pretty, because if you had learned something about him, like his identity, you’d enjoy not telling me what you know. You’d say something cornball like ‘That’s for us to know and you to find out.’ Instead you’re deflecting the question altogether.”

  “Have you ever thought of joining the force?” Knight asked.

  “Never. Why?”

  “Because I have sergeants who couldn’t have figured that out.”

  “I like what I do,” Ramona said, but she couldn’t help smiling.

  “We have no ID, no motive, no suspects, nothing except your friend Speakman, who is a person of interest.”

  When they went into the small workspace of the artist, whose name was Marilyn Yee, she recognized Ramona. “We’re doing this again?” she asked.

  “We’re doing it again,” Knight said, “only this time with accuracy.”

  “You’ve never criticized my work before.”

  “And I’m not now, Marilyn. We were both misled. Get to work, Ms. Rios.”

  This time Ramona gave a perfect description right down to the shade of Speakman’s blue eyes, which were rendered in the drawing as medium gray.

  “This is a bit different,” Marilyn said.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Ramona muttered. “Make the eyebrows a little thicker and darker. They really made his eyes stand out.”

  When the drawing was finished, Detective Knight walked Ramona back to his desk. “If it comes out that you’ve played us again, Ms. Rios, you’re mine.”

  “I haven’t, I swear.”

  “Then you can go. If the local officers are still at your place, give them my best regards.”

  “And if they prove I was telling you the truth, I’ll be sure to call.”

  “Do that.”

  Ramona strode out of the station and back to her car, only to be stopped by another man. She started to yell, and the fellow looked at her with a puzzled expression. He was tall, dressed in a dark suit, and wore his black hair in a buzz-cut.

  “Ms. Rios?” he said, his voice whispery.

  “Yes, do I know you?”

  The man flashed a badge.

  He was FBI.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you just now,” he said.

  “I’m a little jumpy tonight. What can I do for you, Agent …”

  “Fleer. Michael Fleer. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “I’m on my way home,” she said. “I was shot at tonight.”

  Turning an intense gaze on her, he finally said, “That’s not good.”

  “Tell me! It was in the parking garage of my apartment.”

  “And you’re going back?”

  “There are police there, looking around.”

  “Perhaps I should come with you,” the agent said.

  “What is this about?” she asked. “How did you know me?”

  “We know of you, Ms. Rios. I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in a very dangerous business with some very dangerous people. I’d feel safer if I could follow you home.”

  “Like a stray dog, huh?”

  The man didn’t laugh. Ramona studied his handsome face and saw nothing to distrust. She couldn’t help thinking she had seen him somewhere before, but having generic looks was probably an asset for a Fed.

  “All right, go ahead and follow. Though I presume you already know where I live, being a G-man.”

  She slid into the passenger seat of her Ford Escort as he jogged to a black Audi parked a half-block away, and got in.

  A few times on the way to her building, Ramona thought she had lost him, only to see the Audi reappear in her rearview mirror a few moments later.

  As they neared her apartment building, Ramona saw that two police vehicles were pulled up outside, their lights flashing. A group of inquisitive neighborhood people had gathered to watch from the sidewalk. Glancing in the mirror, she saw Agent Fleer motioning her to keep going, even as he parallel parked on the street. Ramona pulled around to the driveway and saw that the garage door was fixed in an open position, and a group of officers were inside, along with the building manager.

  “Go talk to them,” Fleer said, opening the car door. “I’ll stay back. Local police don’t always appreciate Bureau agents showing up unannounced.”

  Ramona drove in slowly and pulled into her spot. One of the officers went up to her car.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to pull out again,” he told her.

  “But I’m Ramona Rios,” she said, getting out of the car. “I’m the one who called this in.”

  “The call we got, ma’am, was from Detective Knight at Central Division,” replied the policeman, whose nametag ID’d him as ‘Treacher’. He was very young and very white.

  “I was with Detective Knight when he called. I was seeing him on another matter. I live here, and I’m the one who was fired upon.”

  “Then you deal with this, because I’m tired of this crap,” the manager shouted. “I don’t need the police hanging around for no reason.”

  “It wasn’t for no reason, Mr. Scranton.”

  “Actually, ma’am,” Officer Treacher said, “we’ve been over the garage and we can’t find any evidence that a shooting took place. No bullets, no shell casings, nobody else heard anything.”

  “What about the broken car window?”

  “That could have been shattered by anything – a club, a crowbar, a screwdriver even.”

  “So I’m lying?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we just can’t find any evidence to support a shooter. If you want to file a report anyway, we can do that.”

  “Why bother?” Ramona said, pivoting on her heel and marching toward the open door.

  “Ma’am, your car?” Treacher called after her.

  “How do you know my car’s really there?” she said angrily. “Maybe it’s just a figment of my imagination, like the shooting!”

  Outside, Michael Fleer was waiting for her.

  “I could have used some help in there, you know,” she fumed.

  “It was best I stayed back,” he replied. “In my experience, local police don’t always appreciate Bureau personnel showing up unannounced.”

  “They didn’t believe me.”

  “Because of the acoustics in the garage I could hear what that officer was saying. You know, Mrs. Rios, maybe you should at least consider the possibility that it really was a kid with a pellet gun.”

  “Hey, you were the one who said I’d opened up some box of trouble.”

  “All right. Let’s go up to your apartment and talk there,” Fleer said, and Ramona looked at him somewhat skeptically.

  “You still don’t trust me?” he went on. “I suppose that’s good, in a way.” Then the agent took his gun from the shoulder holster under his coat and handed it to her. “Now you’re the one in power.”

  She hesitated for a few moments, then took the gun from him. “You might have another one,” she said.

  “I might, but I don’t.”

  Sliding the gun into her purse, she lead Michael Fleer inside the building and to the elevator, watching through the glass as the police officers got into their cruisers, turned off the lights and pulled away. The crowd of lookiloos outside began to disperse.

  After riding up in silence, Ramona went to her apartment and unlocked the door, letting him in. Ramona tossed her purse on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, something she did habitually, not even thinking about the gun tucked inside it.

  “Can I offer you something?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Fleer replied, looking around.

  “Mind if I get something for me?�
�

  “It’s your place.”

  She went to the fridge and pulled out a diet Dr. Pepper, then motioned for Fleer to take a seat on the sofa while she sat in a chair across from him.

  Then it hit her.

  “Now I know why you look familiar,” she said.

  “You think I look familiar?”

  “Yeah. You ever watch a TV show called Angel?”

  “No.”

  “The lead actor looks like you. I interviewed him once. David somebody. Your hair’s shorter, and your eyes a little darker, but other than that you’re a good match.”

  “Hmm. If the Bureau ever tires of me, I guess I could seek a job as his stand-in,” Fleer said.

  “All right, Mr. Federal Man, why don’t you tell me what is going on. What sort of trouble have I tripped over? I’ll bet it has something to do with the Phoenix Terrace development, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  Agent Fleer leaned forward. “Ms. Rios—”

  “Call me Ramona.”

  “Very well, Ramona. The corridors of power in Los Angeles are a dark and dangerous maze. It’s not easy to find your way through them. You mentioned Phoenix Terrace, but that is only the tip of the iceberg. What do you know about …”

  Her phone rang then, drowning out his soft, sanded voice.

  “Oh, god,” Ramona said, “that’s probably Detective Knight calling to give me hell because the cops found nothing in the garage. Hold on.”

  She grabbed the phone and greeted the caller, then said, “What? Are you kidding? Really? Oh, hell. I’ll be right down, okay?” After hanging up, Ramona turned to Fleer. “This is so bizarre. I had a fight with my ex-boyfriend tonight. It was the fight we never had when we split up. I kinda got on his case about not sending me flowers because he pretended to be a flower delivery guy to get inside the building. So now the jerk sent me real flowers, and the guy’s downstairs. I’ll be back in a second.”

  “Ramona, wait,” Fleer called, but she was already out the door and into the hallway. A neighbor was getting out of the elevator, which she managed to catch before the doors closed. She could hear Michael Fleer calling her name but ignored him, punching the button for the first floor.

  In the lobby she could see someone outside the door holding a huge floral bouquet.

  “You’re an ass DeMarco,” she muttered to herself, “but I accept your apology.”

  Ramona opened the door.

  “Are you Ramona Rios?” the delivery man asked.

  “Yes. And these are from Lonnie DeMarco, right?” she said.

  “Wrong,” the man responded, brandishing an automatic with a silencer.

  CHAPTER 13

  The soft thump of the pocket Bible falling off of Charlie Grosvenor’s lap awakened him. It made Pooch stir as well.

  Pooch’s head was still on his leg, which was probably what had made him fall asleep in the first place. There was something about holding onto a sleeping creature that was contagious, or at least as best Charlie could remember from his limited contact with the baby that Yvonne had told him was his – the child he hadn’t seen in more than thirty years.

  The dog’s tail started to wag when Charlie moved. “You probably need to go out, don’t you?” he asked, receiving more wags in response. Getting up and going into the kitchen, Charlie got a plastic baggie from a drawer and then took Pooch out back. He wasn’t worried about the dog being unleashed. Having found home, Pooch wasn’t going to go anywhere else.

  After sniffing around the tiny back yard, and spending a good amount of time on the trash cans, Pooch found himself a spot on the grass and took care of business. When he was done Charlie picked up the substantial pile with the baggie, and muttered, “Damn, dog, what’d you eat?” Knotting the baggie closed, he dropped it in one of the cans and then the two returned to his apartment. He made a mental note to price out one of those dog doors with the flap, so Pooch could come and go as needed.

  Going to his hallway closet, Charlie pulled out two clean towels and carried them into the living room, where he carefully set them down on the floor. “Okay, boy, those are yours,” he said. “That’s your bed, at least until we can find a better one.” Pooch examined the towels, then stood on them and circled five or six times, after which he dropped down and curled up, and then let out a long, satisfied dog sigh.

  Back in the living room, Charlie picked the book up off the floor, and admitted to himself that it wasn’t simply the warm comfort of the dog which had lulled him to sleep. He had never much of a Bible reader, in large part because wading through the language was a real ordeal for him. This being a pocket-sized edition, with tiny print in two columns on each page, made it even harder to read.

  On top of that, he had no idea what, if anything, he was looking for.

  He started the examination all over again, first inspecting the covers, which were scuffed from use and greasy to the touch. Then he opened it and, for the first time, noticed that the first two pages were stuck together. Carefully peeling them apart, Charlie read, The Holy Bible, New International Version.

  At the bottom of the page he saw something handwritten in pencil. The letters were very faint, but holding it directly under the light he was able to make out the words: ‘Prop. of Jas. Thos. MacLendon.’

  Which had to be short for James Thomas MacLendon. Jimmy Doe.

  Charlie’s pulse quickened as he carefully turned the page. The next one was filled with printed copyright information. Wonder what kind of royalty checks God gets, he thought. He could find no additional writing.

  The page following that was the table of contents listing all the books of the New and Old Testaments in order of appearance.

  On that page, at the bottom, was another written notation: ‘Prv 2813’.

  The number 2813 couldn’t be a year, unless Jimmy MacLendon was a time traveler. And what did ‘Prv’ signify?

  Charlie’s mind suddenly got a flash from the past, back to when he was a boy dutifully attending Sunday School with his mama and sister, and being generally bored with the entire proposition, but knowing he daren’t protest. God might not have boxed his ears, but Mama surely would’ve had he complained. ‘John 3:16’ was what he remembered. He didn’t remember the entire passage, though the ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son’ part had been drummed into him. It was the ‘3:16’ part that seemed significant now. Chapter and verse.

  Looking at the handwritten note, he imagined a colon between the 28 and the 13. But that still left ‘Prv’. What did that signify?

  Maybe Charlie should have paid more attention in Sunday School.

  Then he saw it. The answer was right there on the page in front of him: ‘Proverbs.’

  Charlie flipped through the Bible until he came upon the Book of Proverbs, then thumbed his way to chapter twenty-eight, and traced the words down with his finger until he saw ‘13’ printed in bold numbers.

  ‘Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper,’ he read, ‘but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.’

  That seemed like a fairly generic kind of Biblical passage – confess your sins and you’ll be forgiven – but it must have meant something more to Jimmy.

  Then Charlie noticed the faint marks on the page.

  Certain passages had been underlined in pencil. Working back and forth from verse 13, he saw that the underlines went all through chapter 28, but did not extend to the next one. Neither were any visible in Chapter 27. At first glance the words appeared to be selected at random, but he suspected that was not the case. Rushing to the small desk that was tucked into the corner of his dining area, Charlie found a pencil of his own and a pad of paper, and went to work.

  ****

  Ramona Rios was on the floor covered in flowers.

  She didn’t even remember throwing herself to the side just as the muzzled shot was fired at her. She remembered with dreamlike imagery the sight of M
ichael Fleer appearing out of nowhere and chopping the hand of the shooter with his own, causing him to drop the gun. She also remembered Fleer grabbing the shooter in a headlock and spinning him around, which is why all the flowers were scattered on top of her. Ramona did not so much remember as hear the vicious punch to Michael’s stomach which caused him to stagger, but she saw him recover enough to smash his fist upwards into the shooter’s chin, which nearly caused the man to topple over backwards. He remained upright, barely, though turned toward the door to catch himself. Then he simultaneously rose up and spun back around, both of his fists welded together to make a flesh-and-bone hammer, which he slammed into the side of Michael’s head causing him to go down.

  Ramona screamed his name as the would-be shooter lunged for his gun and pointed it once more at Ramona.

  She had never seen this man before … why did he want to kill her!

  Michael Fleer was moaning on the floor. Knowing these were her last seconds on earth, and that there was no escape, Ramona shut her eyes and waited for the end.

  But then she heard the drunken voice of Ralph Scranton hollering, “Now what the hell’s going on?”

  She opened her eyes again, and saw the shooter look back and forth between her, the manager, and the FBI agent who had pulled himself to his knees. Instead of firing at everyone, the assailant turned, burst through the lobby door, and fled.

  “You again!” Scranton cried upon seeing Ramona. “Jesus, lady—”

  “Someone just tried to kill me!” Ramona shouted back. “He could have killed you, too!”

  “What the hell are all these flowers doing on the floor?” the manager asked.

  Michael Fleer, meanwhile, was on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

  “Michael, are you all right?” she asked. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No … I think I’m okay … but he knocked out my contacts … I can’t see … without them.”

  Ramona crouched down and helped him look, finding one soft lens on the floor. It looked like it had a spot of dirt on it. By the time she handed it to him, Fleer had found the other. He rose, staggered to a bench in the lobby, and from his pocket withdrew a lens holder. Taking a bottle of solution from another pocket, he squirted some into the holder and then dropped his lenses in, closing and shaking it. Procedure complete, he replaced them in his eyes.