expecting to find the screenplay. It was a lousy thing to wish that a man had gotten drunk and drowned in a glorified lily pond, but that was what Jimmy had been hoping for: an accident.
B.K. was wiping his tongue when Jimmy walked out of the trailer. He had thrown up all over his corduroy pants. Rollo stood in front of the koi pond, staring down at Walsh, right where Jimmy had left him. He looked up as Jimmy approached.
“Give me the phone number for the Monelli twins,” said Jimmy.
“They didn’t tell anybody about Mr. Walsh. He said to tell Napitano that we got the Oscar from an anonymous collector, and that’s what we did.”
“You should give it to me anyway.”
Rollo turned back to the body. “Mr. Walsh—I think he might have gotten a kick out of us finding him like this. You know, like
Sunset
Boulevard.
”
Tires crunched on the gravel road, and Jimmy turned, his heart pounding way too loudly. It was a police car, Anaheim PD, and another, unmarked unit. The full treatment.
Rollo gobbled down the last of the joint.
B.K. waved feebly to the cops. He would have called 911 sometime after seeing the body and before throwing up. Guys like B.K. always called the cops when bad things happened. That’s what you were supposed to do.
Jimmy had other ideas. He had no respect for rules or authority, no regard for holographic ID badges, formal invitations, or signing in at the front desk. He cheated on his taxes, trespassed when he felt like it, and broke the speed limit every time he got behind the wheel. But he never stiffed a waitress and never told a woman he loved her if he didn’t—his internal compass
always
pointed to true north. If you had to think about a moral choice, wondering what you should do, then it was best to roll over and play dead, leave it to the cops or just let the bad guys inherit the earth.
The breeze kicked up and sent Walsh’s body bumping gently against one of the large rounded rocks in the koi pond, one hand waving sluggishly, draped in skin like a lace glove. Walsh had been right—he hadn’t killed Heather Grimm. Maybe if he had gone about his business like a good ex-con, grateful to be out, and keeping a low profile—maybe if he had shut up about working on the Most Dangerous Script in the World—maybe if Jimmy had believed him, he would be alive today.
A glossy black crow landed on the back of Walsh’s head, claws brushing the scalp, then quickly flew away, trailing hair. Walsh’s head bobbed in agreement.
Jimmy heard footsteps approaching.
Chapter 6
Jimmy was watching the crow fly away, trailing a strand of Walsh’s hair in its claw, when he became aware of Rollo edging away and knew things were going to get ugly. He slowly turned around. Oh,
shit.
He forced a smile. “Good afternoon, detective.”
Detective Helen Katz glowered at him, a big rawboned cop with short dirty-blond hair and a face like a plowhorse. She elbowed Jimmy aside and stood there with one foot on the stone border of the koi pond, wrinkling her flat nose at Walsh’s bloated body. “Jesus, this bastard is
way
past his pull date.”
Katz was one of those female cops who habitually wore crepe-sole brogans, shapeless suit pants, and a white shirt and tie, thinking that she had to dress like Sergeant Joe Friday to be respected. That’s what she had told Jane Holt anyway, criticizing Holt’s designer suits and pearls, her iridescent running shoes, as “too girly”—fine for the politically correct Laguna PD, but Anaheim was an inland PD whose officers had to face down warring gangbangers, not chase rowdy boogie boarders off the beach. In actuality, no one on the Anaheim PD would have dared treat Katz in less than a professional manner regardless of what she wore. A former army MP who regularly took top honors in the annual Southern California Peace Officers hand-to-hand combat competitions, Katz was a hard-ass who considered interpersonal skills a sign of weakness. She scared the shit out of
B.K. was wiping his tongue when Jimmy walked out of the trailer. He had thrown up all over his corduroy pants. Rollo stood in front of the koi pond, staring down at Walsh, right where Jimmy had left him. He looked up as Jimmy approached.
“Give me the phone number for the Monelli twins,” said Jimmy.
“They didn’t tell anybody about Mr. Walsh. He said to tell Napitano that we got the Oscar from an anonymous collector, and that’s what we did.”
“You should give it to me anyway.”
Rollo turned back to the body. “Mr. Walsh—I think he might have gotten a kick out of us finding him like this. You know, like
Sunset
Boulevard.
”
Tires crunched on the gravel road, and Jimmy turned, his heart pounding way too loudly. It was a police car, Anaheim PD, and another, unmarked unit. The full treatment.
Rollo gobbled down the last of the joint.
B.K. waved feebly to the cops. He would have called 911 sometime after seeing the body and before throwing up. Guys like B.K. always called the cops when bad things happened. That’s what you were supposed to do.
Jimmy had other ideas. He had no respect for rules or authority, no regard for holographic ID badges, formal invitations, or signing in at the front desk. He cheated on his taxes, trespassed when he felt like it, and broke the speed limit every time he got behind the wheel. But he never stiffed a waitress and never told a woman he loved her if he didn’t—his internal compass
always
pointed to true north. If you had to think about a moral choice, wondering what you should do, then it was best to roll over and play dead, leave it to the cops or just let the bad guys inherit the earth.
The breeze kicked up and sent Walsh’s body bumping gently against one of the large rounded rocks in the koi pond, one hand waving sluggishly, draped in skin like a lace glove. Walsh had been right—he hadn’t killed Heather Grimm. Maybe if he had gone about his business like a good ex-con, grateful to be out, and keeping a low profile—maybe if he had shut up about working on the Most Dangerous Script in the World—maybe if Jimmy had believed him, he would be alive today.
A glossy black crow landed on the back of Walsh’s head, claws brushing the scalp, then quickly flew away, trailing hair. Walsh’s head bobbed in agreement.
Jimmy heard footsteps approaching.
Chapter 6
Jimmy was watching the crow fly away, trailing a strand of Walsh’s hair in its claw, when he became aware of Rollo edging away and knew things were going to get ugly. He slowly turned around. Oh,
shit.
He forced a smile. “Good afternoon, detective.”
Detective Helen Katz glowered at him, a big rawboned cop with short dirty-blond hair and a face like a plowhorse. She elbowed Jimmy aside and stood there with one foot on the stone border of the koi pond, wrinkling her flat nose at Walsh’s bloated body. “Jesus, this bastard is
way
past his pull date.”
Katz was one of those female cops who habitually wore crepe-sole brogans, shapeless suit pants, and a white shirt and tie, thinking that she had to dress like Sergeant Joe Friday to be respected. That’s what she had told Jane Holt anyway, criticizing Holt’s designer suits and pearls, her iridescent running shoes, as “too girly”—fine for the politically correct Laguna PD, but Anaheim was an inland PD whose officers had to face down warring gangbangers, not chase rowdy boogie boarders off the beach. In actuality, no one on the Anaheim PD would have dared treat Katz in less than a professional manner regardless of what she wore. A former army MP who regularly took top honors in the annual Southern California Peace Officers hand-to-hand combat competitions, Katz was a hard-ass who considered interpersonal skills a sign of weakness. She scared the shit out of
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