Dating Dead Men (23 page)

“Suicide? Guy was shot in the back.”

“Just what I told the priest, and you know what he said?” I leaned in further. “Assisted suicide. Very trendy these days.”

Carmine burped.

“But,” I continued, “if I could tell the priest what really happened, under the seal of the confessional, then Stevie will get a proper burial. And here's the beauty part: the priest can't tell the cops. It's against Church law, he'd be disrobed. Uh, defrocked.”

Carmine picked up his fork and frowned at the tines. He was wavering, I could see it. Probably an old altar boy. “I know you know what happened, Carmine,” I said softly. “You just admitted he was shot in the back, and that's not common knowledge.”

He tossed his fork onto the table and resettled his bulk into the corner of the vinyl booth. “It was no suicide. The guy was shot, but not by me. The Svenskis did it.”

Svenskis
. “Olof and Tor?” I asked. “What were they doing there?”

“I called them. I was following your boyfriend that morning, all the way up to Pleasant Valley, then I lost him on the hospital grounds. The Svenskis said to sit tight, they'd drive up and help me look.”

“Those two hired you to do surveillance on my—boyfriend?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not them. My cousin. Called me from the joint last week, tells me to follow your guy for a couple days. Next thing I know, the Svenski boys show up on my boat and tell me my cousin—the Weasel, that's what people call him—they say the Weasel's a dead man and if I plan to outlive him, I should keep them posted on everything he asks me to do. Tell you the truth, I didn't see the harm. Ronnie—that's my cousin, the Weasel—he didn't say
why
I was following your boyfriend, he just says watch where the guy goes, who he meets. It was the Svenskis filled me in on this merchandise Ronnie's ripped off from the boss. They told me more than I told them, so it's not like I ratted anyone out.”

“So, the, uh, Swedish guys? They drove up to Rio Pescado and—”

“Yeah, it's hours later, I've spent the whole goddamn morning in that loony bin, scared to get outta the car practically, what with half the loonies having the run of the place—you'd think they'd keep them on a tighter leash. So anyway, the Svens call me on the cell phone to say they're there, what's our guy look like? Then a long time later they call back, say they got him, only he doesn't have the goods. I meet them down the road, come to find out that when they said ‘they got him' what they meant was, they
whacked
him. Only it's the wrong guy. Right sweatshirt, wrong guy.”

“MIT,” I whispered, closing my eyes. The sweatshirt was Doc's. Stevie must have found it when Doc changed out of his clothes into the scrub suit. “Oh, God,” I said. “Dead over a sweatshirt.”

“No, dead because when the Svens found him wandering around and told him to stop and hand over the goods, he got in their face and yelled, ‘I'm not giving it to you and you can't make me!' or some goddamn thing and then took off running, like a goddamn lunatic. Can't blame the Svenskis,” Carmine said, shrugging. “What was he acting so crazy for?”

“For God's sake,” I hissed. “It's a
mental
hospital.”

“Well, what do you want, they're foreigners. Speaking of which—” He picked up his cell phone from beside his plate, punched in numbers. I began to shiver, struck by the knowledge, it was to have been Doc, dead on that dirt road.

“It's me,” he said. “She's here, we're doing the deal.” There was a pause while Carmine rolled his eyes, then did the universal “jerking off” motion with his free hand. “What'd you do, tap into his cell phone? All right, but you're barking up the wrong tree. Call me later.”

“The ‘Svenskis'?” I asked.

He chuckled. “You'll never guess where they're headed. Goddamn graveyard. Seems your boyfriend and some other bozo are about to dig something up.”

chapter twenty-nine

I
n the movies, when people dash out of restaurants they either ignore the check or toss some loose bills on the table without a glance at the denomination. In the movies nobody stops these people.

Fortunately, this wasn't a movie. I was halfway out the front door when the waitress grabbed Carmine, hard on my heels. “Dude! Going somewhere?”

That slowed him, but it wouldn't be for long, I knew. I pushed past a group of incoming cross-dressers and out onto the sidewalk. Then I stopped.

There was little chance that Joey would be there. From Phig's car I'd called both her home and her cell phone begging her to meet me, but Joey could go days without checking messages. Now what? How to get to that cemetery before the Nordic Mafiosi? And how to lose Carmine? I could hear him behind me, yelling at someone to get out of his way.

The deli had pay phones inside. I'd run around the back, call a cab—

A white Porsche pulled up, brakes squealing. A red-jacketed valet parker jumped out and held open the door. “Angel” was embroidered on his lapel. A sign if I ever saw one. I hurried around the car and started to get in.

A female voice yelled, “HEY! What the hell—”

“Okay, okay.” I jumped out. “Sorry, looks just like mine.”

“Looks just like grand theft auto. Bitch.” A caftaned woman barreled over and shoved me aside, throwing me off balance. I tottered and saw Carmine, on the sidewalk.

“What's the deal?” he yelled. “Is that your friend? She got the goods?”

“No! Yes!” I regained balance on my three-inch Miu Mius, and stumbled over to meet him. “The deal is, my friend's not here, I expect she's fallen asleep, she has occasional narcoleptic episodes—oh!”

Carmine had his beefy hands on me, squeezing the life out of my upper arms. He shook me in little bursts that punctuated his words. “
Look!
I've had
enough
of this shit. You fork it over this
minute,
or I'll ram your fucking
head
into—”

“DUDE. Your credit card.” The waitress appeared alongside him, flanked by a burly busboy. “Sign the receipt. I wrapped your pastrami.”

With a burst of profanity, Carmine relaxed his grip. I pulled away, to hobble somewhere, anywhere, when another car pulled up in front of me, brakes squealing.

It was an old silver Saab, with Joey inside.

I opened the passenger door and was pushed aside by Carmine. He proceeded to ransack the car. A takeout cup flew out onto the sidewalk, followed by a book and newpapers. A metal cage the size of a large mailbox came next, one I knew intimately. It bounced off the sidewalk and into the street, right in the path of traffic.

Inside, something moved. Something white. Furry.

Margaret.

Part of me stopped to wonder how Joey came to be baby-sitting the ferret, but the rest of me jumped into the street, hand raised like a traffic cop, and grabbed the cage as a honking car swerved to avoid it. Adrenaline pumping, I ran back to the curb and, without thinking twice, kicked Carmine in the back of the knee with my Miu Miu, as hard as I could. “You jerk!” I yelled.

Carmine turned. One look at his face, and I knew I'd acted rashly. I backed up fast. “Angel,” I cried, and then in Spanish,
“An-hel,”
and then in English, “Assault! Help! Grand theft auto!”

Red-jacketed valet guys materialized. Carmine swore and turned back to the Saab, but now Joey was standing outside the driver's door, a gun in both hands, pointing at him over the hood.

“Stop right there,” she said.

         

W
E RACED WEST
on Santa Monica Boulevard. Cell phone stuck to my ear I stroked Margaret, who lounged in my lap like Cleopatra, unfazed by her brush with death. “Ventura County Sheriff's Department, please hold,” a voice said.

I glanced at Joey. Her pale skin was actually white with concentration, as she ruthlessly passed cars. “You were so professional, just like an episode of
Gun Girl
. Yes, hello,” I said to the phone. “Officer Dambronski, please.”

“Dambronski's gone for the night,” the voice said. “You want Officer Skeel?”

“No, I have to talk to Dambronski; it's about the Rio Pescado shooting.”

“Oh, for that you want Sergeant Hakie, try back tomorrow morn—”

“Dambronski!” I yelled. “I want Dambronski. Listen to me. His informant's about to be murdered by his suspect unless I reach Dambronski in the next five minutes.”

The voice wouldn't give me a home phone, but agreed to take Joey's cellular number, and suggested I call 911 if this was a real emergency. I hung up and clutched Margaret.

Joey reached over and rubbed the back of my neck. “We'll be there in ten minutes. If Dambronski doesn't get back to us in five, we'll call 911.”

“We can't. Cops will rush in and arrest P.B. for grave robbing, or trespassing, and he'll end up in jail, and that's if he's lucky, if he doesn't freak out and put up a fight. I know what can happen; I won't send in any cop I can't talk to first.”

“All right, calm down,” Joey said, and sped up. “Maybe we'll be the first ones at this rendezvous and we can intercept our guys.”

Six minutes later we reached the graveyard.

         

I
LEFT
J
OEY
at the corner of Wilshire and Glendon, in the shadows of a huge office building, armed with her cell phone and her gun, and continued into the alley until I came to a sign. It was gray marble, like a headstone, with an arrow pointing the way to:

P
IERCE
B
ROTHERS
W
ESTWOOD
V
ILLAGE
M
EMORIAL
P
ARK &
M
ORTUARY

I followed the arrow. The lights of Wilshire faded with each click of my heels on the brick walkway, and my heart filled with dread, but I told myself this shouldn't be any scarier than the night at Rio Pescado. This was civilized Westwood, and with luck, all the dead bodies would be underground.

My tight dress dictated a short stride and slow pace. I moved past a guard station, dark and apparently empty, to the cemetery itself, a little jewel of a park protected by a heavy iron fence.

Now what? I wondered, and shivered as I stared through the gate. The thought of going into that near darkness appalled me, and seemed insane besides, even in a day filled with insane acts. I squinted. Nothing stirred but trees. Surely this was a wild-goose chase. Surely it made more sense to return to Joey in the alley, or to Margaret in the car, and wait for—something. It was so silent here. Silent as the grave, Ruta would say.

But then, how much noise did digging up ashes make?

If there was even a chance my brother was in there, I had to go in too. And fast. If the mob was in pursuit, every moment counted.

The wrought iron fence looked unassailable for anyone but a pole-vaulter. Vertical bars, eight feet high, were pointed at the top and joined by a horizontal bar well above my head. On the other hand, I'd done gymnastics. It had been in the eighth grade, it's true, but that had to count for something.

I slipped my high heels through the fence. Then I hiked my skirt up my thighs to give me freedom of movement. I jumped. I wrapped my hands around cold steel high up, above the horizontal bar. I didn't have the upper-body strength to just hoist, nor could I get any kind of real swing going to raise my legs by sheer momentum. In one attempt, my left foot kicked the concrete wall adjoining the fence, making contact with an electrical outlet box. I yelped in pain, then realized I'd found a foothold.

I got to within inches from the top of the fence, but getting to the other side required nerve I didn't seem to possess. I clung to the bars and considered the alternative: staying frozen in place until the sun came up and exposed me there, hanging like a monkey with my skirt bunched up around my waist.

I unclenched my right fist and reached for a spike.

A thin trickle of blood appeared on my forearm, but I felt no pain and kept going, another hand, a foot, another foot and with one hoist I was suspended over the fence like a Flying Wallenda, looking straight down. Then I was over. One hand lost its grip but the other held on to the spike until momentum and the weight of my body took over and then I was sliding down the rough wrought iron.

For a long moment I lay on the gravel inside the fence and stared at the sky, considerably shaken. An inventory of body parts showed a need for Band-Aids, but no broken bones, so I picked myself up, collected my shoes, and looked around.

As cemeteries go, this one was tiny. A gravel road circled a grassy section the approximate size of Saul and Elaine's tennis court. Beyond that was a mortuary. The lighting was subliminal, just enough to give a sense of the layout of the place and verify there was nobody on the lawn who didn't have a headstone on top of them. Still, I did not go bounding across the grass. Westwood Village Memorial could call itself a park all night long, but in fact it was a working burial ground, and I was raised not to step on graves. Besides, it was too exposed. I decided to search the perimeter.

I headed right, to the western edge, but I'd taken just two steps when I heard the crunch of gravel and the sound of a match being struck.

I froze.

Twenty feet ahead a cigarette was lit, illuminating a widow's peak, rapidly becoming a staple in my nightmares. He spoke, the words indistinct, but the cadence Swedish. The other voice uttered a single, harsh syllable, and there was silence.

I backed up, then headed the opposite way, no thought in my head but to get as far away as possible from Tor/Olof. Stones and twigs attacked my bare feet, and at the northern edge of the park, I stumbled into an alcove and crouched.

There was no sound but my own labored breathing. They weren't following me.

Where was I? Around me stretched an expanse of marble, more alcoves housing hundreds of engraved nameplates on metal rectangles: the cremated, spending eternity in safe-deposit boxes. I was about to move on when I heard a rustling ahead.

I held my breath and scanned the darkness. It couldn't be Olof and Tor, they were behind me. Carmine? He could hardly have reached the cemetery before me, let alone scaled that medieval fence. Security guard? P.B.? Squirrels?

Indecision tortured me. I rose slowly, and bumped into a profusion of flowers surrounding a particular metal rectangle. Someone newly shelved? I wondered, and glanced at the nameplate: Marilyn Monroe. Not much there in the way of inspiration. Bruce Lee, now, or Errol Flynn—
that
might give me the courage to—

Another sound, this time from behind, decided for me. I ran.

I raced past the vaults toward the southern edge of the park at a full sprint. I didn't even bother to stay low, just kept on the grass and tried not to hit any trees.

WHUMP.

I went down hard. Something heavy landed on top of me. A hand clamped itself over my mouth and most of my nose. I struggled and tried to scream.

“Wollie, stop it. It's me,” a voice whispered in my ear. Doc.

My whole body sagged in relief. “Hey,” I whispered back. “Where's P.B.?”

“Over there. He's okay.”

Doc showed no signs of getting off me, which suited me fine. I lay under him, catching my breath, then said, “Olof and Tor are here, they—”

“Where?” Doc rose abruptly and pulled me into a sitting position.

“Over by the entrance gate a minute ago, but I think they're following me.”

Doc looked toward the vaults. “Come on,” he said, and led me deeper into the darkness. There was P.B., hunched over black earth.

I threw my arms around him. “Thank God,” I breathed. “Let's get out of here.”

My brother did not respond. I saw aluminum foil covering his ears, but this wasn't a hearing issue. He was going to be difficult.

“P.B.,” Doc said, “there are men coming and if they see what you've got, they'll take it from you.”

P.B. rose. He clutched something under his arm, football-style, and stood like a quarterback awaiting the hike. Doc pointed west, toward the mortuary. P.B. nodded and took off at a run. The two of us followed.

Halfway there, a cell phone rang.

Doc swore, stopped, and moved to the shelter of a tree. P.B. and I stopped and joined him. “Behind the Avco Cinema,” Doc said. “Bring backup. You can arrest these guys, they just robbed a grave.”

“Dambronski?” I asked, when he'd hung up. “Heck of a time to—”

A whirring sounded in my ear. Something snapped against the tree trunk to my left, splintering the wood. I stared at it and wondered what sort of natural phenomenon could account for that, when Doc pulled me so hard I thought a shoulder was being dislocated. “Run, dammit, it's a goddamn bullet.” He shoved me in the direction P.B. was already heading.

Who'd shoot a tree?
I wondered, but no sooner had the question formed than the answer occurred. I stumbled. Doc caught me around the rib cage and half dragged me past the mortuary.
Run, don't think; run, don't think,
I said to myself over and over, but a thought broke through anyway. How were we going to get over the fence?

We didn't reach the fence. The western edge of the cemetery turned out to be a wall, a small wall, cinder block, four feet tall, a wall a great-grandmother could negotiate. The three of us tumbled over, onto the rough surface of a Westwood parking lot.