City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(2)

Donny, a football guy in high school. Alfie, baseball. Wiry but all sinew. For years he’d been scoring free drinks in bars doing arm wrestling.

Now he hurt all the time.



* * *



—

When they got to Anaheim, they both were exhausted, had a couple burgers, conked out at eight, slept lousy, and were up at two forty-five with coffee and bearclaws from a twenty-four-hour Dee-Lite Donuts across from the motel, you could smell the sugar and fat.

When Alfie finished, he said, “Let’s go, now.”

Donny said, “Now?”

“This early, maybe we can cruise on the freeway. Better we wait there than sit in crap.”

“Lemme pee,” said Donny.

“Then we go?”

“Sure.”

Good strategy, rumbling along in the dark, the freeway really feeling free.

Alfie said, “Guy was an asshole, no?”

“Who?”

“Dr. Virus. The song.”

“Huh?”

“Dire Straits? ‘Money for Nothing’?”

Donny said, “That’s a good song.”

“A great song,” said Alfie, “that’s not the point. He played it for us. Set it up for when we came in. Then he winked, dude.”

Donny thought about that. “So?”

“Use your noggin. What’s the song about?”

“Never listened to the words.”

“Oh man,” said Alfie. “Okay, here’s the deal: It’s about guys like us moving stuff into a rich guy’s place while they’re talking smack about him. Not a virus doctor, a rock star. The guys who’re supposed to be like us—did you ever see the video?”

“Nope.”

“They’re cartoon…like cavemen. Like monkeys, got monkey faces.”

Alfie made a stupid face even though Donny was driving and not looking at him. “They’re basically ape-men talking trash about a rock star with big talent. Probably the guy who wrote the song and plays the guitar…Mark…whatever. We’re talking hugely talented.”

“The guitar’s awesome,” said Donny.

“Exactly, dude’s a genius, he deserves all his stuff. But the moving guys are stupid caveman monkeys too stupid to get that. That’s what Virus-boy was communicating to us: I deserve all this but you don’t think I do ’cause you’re stupid. Assuming on us. Except we do get it, we’re not stupid. He didn’t give us credit for being human beings who get stuff.”

Donny didn’t answer.

“You still don’t get it?” said Alfie, hearing his GPS beep—“turn right the next block…yeah, here…man, it’s narrow. And dark. Good thing no one’s out except maybe a squirrel, you squish a squirrel no one’s going to care, they’re like rats with better tails…you really don’t get it?”

“Get what?”

“The song. What the asshole was communicating.”

“You say so,” said Donny.

Then he hit something.





CHAPTER


    2


This year’s low crime rate got Detective Moses Reed up early.

One of those inexplicable drops in bloodshed and mayhem had loosened the vacation schedule at West L.A. station. When Moe was jolted from his bed at five forty-five a.m., the night guys were prepping to leave and the sergeant said, “They could theoretically take it but they’ll end up punting to you anyway. And right now, they’re basically begging you. At some point, you can cash in on a favor.”

Moe said, “No problem.” At least traffic would be nil.

Both of the D’s he worked with, when he worked with anyone, were out. Alicia Bogomil was vacationing with Al Freeman, a Kobe Bryant look-alike and her new boyfriend. Al was an Inglewood auto-theft guy and a total motorhead. The two of them taking a ride up the coast to Carmel in Freeman’s ’76 Rolls-Royce that he’d tuned up himself.

Moe’s other colleague was Sean Binchy, now using every opportunity to be with his wife and kids since he’d almost been thrown off a tall building a couple of years ago. The Binchys were at a Bible camp in Simi Valley.

Leaving Moe, who was batching it anyway, because his girlfriend was a forensic anthropologist spending a few days at a seminar in Chicago.

The L.T. was also in town but no way Moe was calling the boss on what sounded like a vehicular accident. He mixed and drank two glasses of the protein shake, showered, shaved, got dressed, and drove to Westwood.

Thirteen minutes from his apartment in Sherman Oaks. Had to be a record.



* * *



—

The incident had taken place on one of those hilly streets east of the U.’s sprawling campus. Nice houses, nice trees, nice cars.

Not the kind of place you had four a.m. pedestrian-versus-vehicle confrontations.

Three squad cars on the scene. Yellow tape blocked off entry and exit to the street, encasing a hundred-foot stretch where the moving van sat.

One of the uniforms summed up, then pointed. “Those are them.”

Indicating two men standing with another officer. One big and heavy, the other midsized and lean.

Moe said, “Where were they headed at that hour?”