his place, but I’ve got a phone number. We’d usually pick him up at the pier, he worked at the ShotShop photo place.’’
Glass looked down at the pier, a mile south. ‘‘Right here?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ They all turned to look down at the Santa Monica pier, a gray line of buildings thrusting into the water a mile to the south.
‘‘Has he been having trouble with anyone? Buying the crank or anything?’’ Wyatt asked.
‘‘He was pretty cheerful last night: he was riding with us because he heard about the raid, and set up our contact—he only rides with us once or twice a month, when we’ve got something complicated going on. He just seemed like . . . Jason. Nothing special.’’
‘‘And you don’t know about the crank. Who his supplier might have been.’’
‘‘No. I don’t,’’ Anna said.
‘‘You don’t know much about anything, do you?’’ Glass said.
‘‘Get off my case,’’ Anna snapped. ‘‘I got a goddamned friend dead on the beach and I don’t need any bullshit from cops.’’
Glass took a step toward her, Anna stood her ground, but Wyatt took a half-step himself, between them. ‘‘Pam, take it easy.’’ And to Anna: ‘‘You too.’’
Anna spent another ten minutes with them, picking up their weird body-dance again, and agreed to drive herself back to the station to make a statement. Wyatt walked part of the way back to her car with her.
‘‘Sorry about Pam,’’ he said. ‘‘She hasn’t been doing homicide all that long. She’s still kind of street. ’’
‘‘She like to fight?’’ Anna asked.
‘‘She’s not afraid of it,’’ Wyatt said, glancing back at the woman, who was peering down at the body.
‘‘Listen, last night,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Jason might have been high. I don’t know, I can’t always tell, because he was so hyper. But when we got up to the hotel, for the jumper, he was shaking like a leaf. He was okay when he was shooting, but when we were riding up, he was . . . shaking. Jerking, almost, like spasms in his arms.’’
‘‘All right, we’ll tell the doc. You’re gonna be around, right?’’
‘‘Yeah. Wait.’’ Anna dug in a pocket, took out a business card, borrowed a pen from Wyatt and said, ‘‘Turn around, let me use your back.’’ Using his back as a writing surface— he seemed to like it—she scribbled two phone numbers on her card, and handed it to him. ‘‘The first number is my home phone, it’s unlisted with an answering machine. The next one is the cell phone I carry around with me. And on the front is the phone in the truck. I’m always around one or two of them.’’
‘‘Thanks. Make the statement.’’ He looked back at his partner, sighed and started that way.
‘‘Makes your teeth hurt, doesn’t it?’’ Anna said after him.
He stopped and half-turned. ‘‘What does?’’
‘‘Wanting to sleep with her so bad.’’
Wyatt regarded her gloomily, then broke down in a selfconscious grin. ‘‘I don’t think a woman could ever know how bad it gets,’’ he said. He started walking back, then turned, and in a tone that said this is important , he added: ‘‘And it’s not just that I want to sleep with her, you know. That’s only . . . the start of it.’’
five
Anna made the statement, and headed south. Creek lived in a town house in Marina Del Rey with two Egyptian Mau cats, seven hundred sailing books and a billiards table he claimed had been stolen from the set of a James Cagney movie. He still wasn’t answering the phone, and Anna suspected that he’d be on his boat.
Lost Dog was a centerboard S-2/7.9 with a little Honda outboard hanging off the stern, and Creek had sailed it to Honolulu and back. On his return, Anna had presented him with a Certificate of Stupidity, which hung proudly in the main cabin, over the only berth big enough for Creek to sleep on.
Anna dumped her car in a parking lot, walked across the tarmac to the basin, down the long white
Glass looked down at the pier, a mile south. ‘‘Right here?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ They all turned to look down at the Santa Monica pier, a gray line of buildings thrusting into the water a mile to the south.
‘‘Has he been having trouble with anyone? Buying the crank or anything?’’ Wyatt asked.
‘‘He was pretty cheerful last night: he was riding with us because he heard about the raid, and set up our contact—he only rides with us once or twice a month, when we’ve got something complicated going on. He just seemed like . . . Jason. Nothing special.’’
‘‘And you don’t know about the crank. Who his supplier might have been.’’
‘‘No. I don’t,’’ Anna said.
‘‘You don’t know much about anything, do you?’’ Glass said.
‘‘Get off my case,’’ Anna snapped. ‘‘I got a goddamned friend dead on the beach and I don’t need any bullshit from cops.’’
Glass took a step toward her, Anna stood her ground, but Wyatt took a half-step himself, between them. ‘‘Pam, take it easy.’’ And to Anna: ‘‘You too.’’
Anna spent another ten minutes with them, picking up their weird body-dance again, and agreed to drive herself back to the station to make a statement. Wyatt walked part of the way back to her car with her.
‘‘Sorry about Pam,’’ he said. ‘‘She hasn’t been doing homicide all that long. She’s still kind of street. ’’
‘‘She like to fight?’’ Anna asked.
‘‘She’s not afraid of it,’’ Wyatt said, glancing back at the woman, who was peering down at the body.
‘‘Listen, last night,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Jason might have been high. I don’t know, I can’t always tell, because he was so hyper. But when we got up to the hotel, for the jumper, he was shaking like a leaf. He was okay when he was shooting, but when we were riding up, he was . . . shaking. Jerking, almost, like spasms in his arms.’’
‘‘All right, we’ll tell the doc. You’re gonna be around, right?’’
‘‘Yeah. Wait.’’ Anna dug in a pocket, took out a business card, borrowed a pen from Wyatt and said, ‘‘Turn around, let me use your back.’’ Using his back as a writing surface— he seemed to like it—she scribbled two phone numbers on her card, and handed it to him. ‘‘The first number is my home phone, it’s unlisted with an answering machine. The next one is the cell phone I carry around with me. And on the front is the phone in the truck. I’m always around one or two of them.’’
‘‘Thanks. Make the statement.’’ He looked back at his partner, sighed and started that way.
‘‘Makes your teeth hurt, doesn’t it?’’ Anna said after him.
He stopped and half-turned. ‘‘What does?’’
‘‘Wanting to sleep with her so bad.’’
Wyatt regarded her gloomily, then broke down in a selfconscious grin. ‘‘I don’t think a woman could ever know how bad it gets,’’ he said. He started walking back, then turned, and in a tone that said this is important , he added: ‘‘And it’s not just that I want to sleep with her, you know. That’s only . . . the start of it.’’
five
Anna made the statement, and headed south. Creek lived in a town house in Marina Del Rey with two Egyptian Mau cats, seven hundred sailing books and a billiards table he claimed had been stolen from the set of a James Cagney movie. He still wasn’t answering the phone, and Anna suspected that he’d be on his boat.
Lost Dog was a centerboard S-2/7.9 with a little Honda outboard hanging off the stern, and Creek had sailed it to Honolulu and back. On his return, Anna had presented him with a Certificate of Stupidity, which hung proudly in the main cabin, over the only berth big enough for Creek to sleep on.
Anna dumped her car in a parking lot, walked across the tarmac to the basin, down the long white
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