The Patrolman - 25

 

 

25.

 

 

 

Jake Lacey crouched in the bushes and waited. The woods got dark long before sunset. The oak trees overhead swallowed most of the moonlight before it hit the ground. Chances were it'd do the same with the sun. He didn't bring his flashlight. He wanted to maintain the element of surprise.

He’d laid out his plan on the drive over. June Hartsfield sat in the back, wearing bracelets, and listened. She thought it was dumb. It was dumb. But the conditions were right. Better than the morning of Figueroa-Villa's murder, anyway.

They drove east and headed north on Alvarado Street. Carruthers skirted around Echo Park. They took the boulevards - Glendale, Beverly, and Sunset. He threaded through the residential streets up the hill and let Lacey out. Both of them told him to be careful and he set off into the woods.

Now, squinting at his watch, he saw it was a quarter to twelve. Almost two hours since they left him.

He sat in the bushes across from Clara Bow's house, watching the light in the bedroom window. The bathroom light came on and went out. A few minutes later, the bedroom went dark. He took that as his cue to head deeper into the woods. It was slow going and hard work. His hands were soon sticky with tree sap. The ground leveled out and the light improved. The trees here were taller and thinner. Pine needles crunched underfoot. Then he couldn't hear them. There was a crackling noise instead.

Lacey followed it. The noise pulled him northeast of his starting position on Canyon Drive. He tried to keep track of his path. If he got turned around, he sure as hell wasn't getting back. He made his way up a hillside and it started to level off again when he heard a metallic click. He knew what it was. The hammer on a gun getting pulled back. To be exact, a revolver. And chances were, it was being pointed right at him.

'Whoever you are, reach for the sky. Follow my voice.'

Hands up, Lacey stepped over the ridge. A fire burned in a small clearing. A tent beside it. The man sat on a log, a Smith & Wesson steady out in front of him. He looked like he knew how to use it. 'It's a little late for a walk,' he said. 'Either you got real lost or you're lookin' for something. Or someone. Which one is it?'

'I was hoping to find you as it happens.'

'You found me, have a seat.'

Lacey sat cross-legged on the ground across from him. The fire warmed him. Still, the hobo kept the revolver trained on him. His good eye didn’t waver. Lacey took in his face – well, half of it, anyway. Clara Bow had been right. He had lost his eye, upper jaw, and most of the cheekbone on the left side. These weren't burn injuries. No, this looked like bomb damage.

'You here to kill me?' he said.

'No, sir. I was fixing to ask you a few questions.'

'About what?'

'The girl you found.'

He waved the gun, dismissing it. 'Your leg,' he said. 'How'd that happen?'

'Overseas,' Lacey said. 'Yours too, I take it?'

The hobo nodded. The revolver dipped a little. 'Belgium, 1917. Rank?'

'Corporal.'

'Sergeant,' he said. 'Tell me about that leg.'

'Africa. I made a mistake.'

'Did you make any more?'

'No, sir. They shipped me home. Didn't see any more action.'

The hobo gave half a smile. The half he had left. 'You’re better off. Being a hero gets you nowhere.'

'Were you?'

'What?'

'A hero?'

'For my sins,' he said. 'But that was long ago.’ He looked into the fire. ‘I came to Los Angeles looking for sun, sea, and honest work. Guess I got those things, more or less. And a morphine habit.'

'Sorry to hear that, sir.'

'No bother.' He set the revolver down on the log next to him. 'I'll be moving on soon. Alaska. The last frontier. Ever been?'

'No, sir. But if I were you, I'd pack warm.'

'You got that right,' he said. He took a half-pint bottle of rye out of his pocket and held it out.

'Thank you, no. I don't drink.'

'That's one for the history books. A soldier that doesn't drink.'

'Compared to you, I'm hardly a soldier.'

The hobo studied him. 'You served your country. That makes you all right in my book, kid.' He took a slug of rye and pocketed the bottle. 'I'm not saying I don't appreciate the company, but why were you looking for me?'

Lacey warmed his hands over the fire. 'I'm a cop.'

'Bastard institution.'

'I'm looking into the girl you found, Juanita.'

'Pretty girl,' he said. 'No girl deserves what she got.'

'What happened?'

'You don't need me to tell you, you know what happened.'

'He brought her down there in a car. Garrotted her.'

'That's about right.'

'Did you get a look at him?'

'No, no I didn't.'

'Fine, is there anything you can tell me about him?'

He looked back at the fire. 'He was an animal,' he said. 'Leaving her out like that. I tried to cover her up. Used my best coat.'

That tracked. The coat had been his. 'How did he leave?'

'The way he came. Drove back down Canyon Drive.'

'Make and model?'

The hobo shook his head. 'They all look the same to me.'

Lacey knew it was a lost cause, but he had tried. That's all he could do with the state of things. 'Appreciate your time, sir. Good luck with your travels north.' Lacey found his feet and reached out a hand.

The hobo didn’t take it.

'You didn't ask me about the color.'

'Excuse me?'

The hobo’s good eye gleamed.

'The car,’ he said. ‘You never asked me what color it was.'