Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(43)

“Is this blood?”

“Eddie?”

“Hang on.”

He blew his nose.

“Locke. Yeah, bright kid. Richter’s chief of staff. Started in communications for ol’ Liz Meretta, the one had the stroke. Constituent services for Able Dean, economic development for that nutcase Willamena Lemley, thank God that bitch cancered out, then Richter. Been around, well liked.”

Maybe Eddie did know everything about everyone.

“How about Chow Wan Li?”

Eddie thought about it.

“How ya spell it, c-h-o-w or c-h-o-u?”

I tried to remember how the translator spelled it.

“I don’t know. C-h-o-w.”

Eddie said, “Mm. Anyway, no. Who is he?”

“Owns the Crystal Emperor Hotel.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Downtown. The new place.”

“Runs a firm in Shanghai called the Crystal Future Hospitality Group. It’s on the list.”

“I see it.”

“See LWL Development Inc.?”

“Yeah. Them, I’ve heard of.”

“Crystal Future partnered up with LWL to build the Crystal Emperor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s possible—and this is what I need to know—at least some of the people and companies on the list are into something.”

“Something rotten?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re developers and politicians. Everything they do is rotten.”

“Criminally rotten.”

“Believe it or not, I understood you.”

“Whatever it is, Crystal Future is scared. They’re hiding something and they’re trying hard to contain it.”

“A hint might help.”

“Grady Locke and Crystal Future. Probably LWL.”

“In other words, you don’t know and you’re hoping I’ll save you.”

“Something like that, yes.”

The door in the outer office banged open. A homicide dick I’d seen around named Leifertz and a second dick in a green plaid sport coat slammed in hard. They were holding guns. Two uniforms entered behind them, but hung back. The senior officer was a tall, bony guy with parched skin, a thirty-year pin on his collar, and angry eyes. He barely looked at me. He was glaring at Leifertz.

I knew better than to stand. I kept the phone to my ear and my hands in plain view.

“What the hell?”

Eddie said, “What was that, a gunshot?”

Leifertz and his partner beaded up and separated as they entered my office. Leifertz shouted.

“Elvis Cole!”

I did not move. I held perfectly still and spoke softly to Eddie.

“Call Charlie Bauman. Tell him I’ll be at Hollywood Station. I’m being arrested.”

Bauman was my lawyer.

Eddie said, “Didn’t Charlie get disbarred?”

“Call Lou Poitras. Call him now.”

Leifertz came around my desk and twisted the phone from my hand.

“Get off that silly phone and stand up.”

Leifertz pulled me up, spun me around, and shoved me against the desk. His partner twisted my hands behind my back and snapped on the cuffs.

I didn’t resist. I watched the uniforms. The tall cop met my eyes and grimaced. He seemed embarrassed. He looked like a good man who was caught in something wrong and wanted no part of it.





29





The dick who cuffed me was Bud Leifertz. His partner was a dud named Vince Osch. They walked me into the Hollywood Police Station through the back door, led me up to the second floor, and cuffed me to a little table in a small yellow interview room. Then they walked out, closed the door, and left me alone.

The yellow walls were originally a pleasant pastel, but years of sweat and spit and splashed coffee nobody bothered to clean had changed the once pretty yellow into the color of pus. I’d been in this very room twice before. It came equipped with a gray plastic table and two gray plastic chairs. There were no windows or two-way mirrors, but a camera mount without a camera hung from a corner of the ceiling like a dead spider on a frayed web. By cuffing me they had technically arrested me. They had frisked me and taken my wallet, my phone, my keys, and my watch, but they had not booked me nor told me why they had arrested me nor read the Miranda warning. I wondered why. I was still wondering about it forty minutes later when Leifertz and Osch returned.

I said, “Did you guys know the camera was missing?”

Leifertz took the chair across from me. Osch leaned against the door with his arms crossed. Leifertz leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table.

“Lemme start by saying we can get this cleared up here and now. You’re in control, man. How this plays out is up to you.”

Every bullshit interrogation began the same way. Word for word.

I gestured at his arms.

“The booger.”

Leifertz hesitated, not understanding.

“What did you say?”

“Your sleeve.”

I gestured toward his arms again.

“On the table. Somebody left a big booger. You’re on it.”

Leifertz flushed, but moved his arms. He looked into my eyes and spoke softly.

“Vince? Did you hear Mr. Funny?”