some yuppie asshole fuck with a piece,” he said. “I think he was gunned down by the same freak who did Faith Novakoff right here under this tree . . . and I think I’m fucking next.”
It hung there, over their heads and caught in the canopy of the oak tree. Matt filled his lungs with air and exhaled slowly, his mind going. He didn’t want the wave of doubt and absurdity that he was feeling in his gut to resonate in his voice.
“Do you have anything to back up what you’re saying, Frankie? Anything at all that connects anything to anything else?”
Lane seemed to be drowning in a pool of self-doubt, his eyes wagging back and forth across the ground. “Maybe we stumbled onto something. Maybe we hit it blind.” He glanced at Matt and shook his head, then turned back to the memorial and stared at the picture of Faith Novakoff stapled to the tree. “Maybe we hit a nerve. Something crazy we never saw coming. All I know is that there’s no way that asshole in the papers shot Hughes during a holdup. Hughes was too smart for that. He would’ve seen the prick coming. I can feel it, man. It has to be connected to Novakoff’s murder. Something I can’t see that’s fucking everything up. My partner’s gone, for Christ’s sake. Nothing’s gonna bring him back.”
Lane turned away to hide his face. Matt could tell that he was weeping. As he reached out for Lane’s shoulder, he was thinking about the way Hughes’s wife had taken it, and feeling like he’d just been cut in half again.
CHAPTER 12
The sight of Lane turning his face, the sound of the detective weeping on the very spot where Faith Novakoff had been found raped and murdered and staked to the ground—
Lane had forced him to take both murder books, hoping that he would read them and see things the way he did. Even as Matt sat in the passenger seat for the ride back to Hollywood, paging through the crime-scene photos and listening to Cabrera’s nonstop criticism of everything that had happened over the past hour—berating Lane and discounting his skills as a detective, accusing the man of being mentally unstable and emotionally wasted, a fool and a moron, an imbecile and a coward—he couldn’t shake the sights and sounds of Lane’s paranoia and obvious breakdown.
He found it unnerving and even now kept quiet and ignored Cabrera as best he could for the rest of the drive. What troubled him most was that Lane’s fall seemed so out of character. It didn’t fit with the person he’d known as Hughes’s partner—the beers, the talks, the trips to Dodger Stadium, the meals the three of them had shared. It didn’t fit with any of the things Hughes had told him about Lane on his own. Hughes had liked Lane and admired him and said that he had learned more from Lane than from anyone he’d ever worked with. That once you got used to his idiosyncrasies, he was a great guy and an even better detective. The kind of guy you’d want close by if the ground opened up and your world fell in.
Cabrera pulled into the lot behind the station and found a spot close to the building. Matt grabbed the murder books and followed his partner through the rear entrance, passing the holding cells and entering the detective bureau. When Cabrera headed for his cubicle—what they used to call the homicide table when they had real desks—Matt glanced at his own but kept moving. There were two detectives standing beside the coffeemaker just this side of Grace’s office.
“Is he in?” Matt said.
They gave him a measured look. One of them said, “I don’t think so,” before they walked off.
The door was open. Matt didn’t see Grace inside, but his laptop was in plain view. Even better, the portable drive was still sitting right beside it. He walked in and pulled a chair up to the desk. The computer was already awake. After plugging in the portable drive, he waited a beat for the computer to recognize the device, then opened a window and found the video file. Before
It hung there, over their heads and caught in the canopy of the oak tree. Matt filled his lungs with air and exhaled slowly, his mind going. He didn’t want the wave of doubt and absurdity that he was feeling in his gut to resonate in his voice.
“Do you have anything to back up what you’re saying, Frankie? Anything at all that connects anything to anything else?”
Lane seemed to be drowning in a pool of self-doubt, his eyes wagging back and forth across the ground. “Maybe we stumbled onto something. Maybe we hit it blind.” He glanced at Matt and shook his head, then turned back to the memorial and stared at the picture of Faith Novakoff stapled to the tree. “Maybe we hit a nerve. Something crazy we never saw coming. All I know is that there’s no way that asshole in the papers shot Hughes during a holdup. Hughes was too smart for that. He would’ve seen the prick coming. I can feel it, man. It has to be connected to Novakoff’s murder. Something I can’t see that’s fucking everything up. My partner’s gone, for Christ’s sake. Nothing’s gonna bring him back.”
Lane turned away to hide his face. Matt could tell that he was weeping. As he reached out for Lane’s shoulder, he was thinking about the way Hughes’s wife had taken it, and feeling like he’d just been cut in half again.
CHAPTER 12
The sight of Lane turning his face, the sound of the detective weeping on the very spot where Faith Novakoff had been found raped and murdered and staked to the ground—
Lane had forced him to take both murder books, hoping that he would read them and see things the way he did. Even as Matt sat in the passenger seat for the ride back to Hollywood, paging through the crime-scene photos and listening to Cabrera’s nonstop criticism of everything that had happened over the past hour—berating Lane and discounting his skills as a detective, accusing the man of being mentally unstable and emotionally wasted, a fool and a moron, an imbecile and a coward—he couldn’t shake the sights and sounds of Lane’s paranoia and obvious breakdown.
He found it unnerving and even now kept quiet and ignored Cabrera as best he could for the rest of the drive. What troubled him most was that Lane’s fall seemed so out of character. It didn’t fit with the person he’d known as Hughes’s partner—the beers, the talks, the trips to Dodger Stadium, the meals the three of them had shared. It didn’t fit with any of the things Hughes had told him about Lane on his own. Hughes had liked Lane and admired him and said that he had learned more from Lane than from anyone he’d ever worked with. That once you got used to his idiosyncrasies, he was a great guy and an even better detective. The kind of guy you’d want close by if the ground opened up and your world fell in.
Cabrera pulled into the lot behind the station and found a spot close to the building. Matt grabbed the murder books and followed his partner through the rear entrance, passing the holding cells and entering the detective bureau. When Cabrera headed for his cubicle—what they used to call the homicide table when they had real desks—Matt glanced at his own but kept moving. There were two detectives standing beside the coffeemaker just this side of Grace’s office.
“Is he in?” Matt said.
They gave him a measured look. One of them said, “I don’t think so,” before they walked off.
The door was open. Matt didn’t see Grace inside, but his laptop was in plain view. Even better, the portable drive was still sitting right beside it. He walked in and pulled a chair up to the desk. The computer was already awake. After plugging in the portable drive, he waited a beat for the computer to recognize the device, then opened a window and found the video file. Before
Similar Books
