The Pain Scale (22 page)

“I figured I’d go through all the statement cards on the canvass from Seal Beach. And I imagine somebody’s going to need to be Googling an assload of military tats before too long.”

We got takeout from Domenico’s on Second Street and ate in my front room while we worked. Jen had minestrone and a salad, and I knocked off most of a medium ground-pepperoni pizza. The restaurant is seriously old school and has been around forever. It is the only place that I have ever found a pizza with ground pepperoni. You could get it sliced, too, if you wanted to be lame.

The cards and notes from the canvass didn’t take me as long as I’d thought they would, so we were both on our laptops and searching through image after image looking for a match of the tattoo that had been inked on the SUV driver’s right shoulder. It was a pair of green footprints that reminded me of all those fake bigfoot tracks I’d seen when I was a kid.

“Why do you suppose the coroner thought this was military?” I said.

“I don’t know. Think he’s right?” she asked.

“He usually is.”

“Maybe we should find someone military to talk to about it.”

“Let’s try something real quick.” I typed “green footprints tattoo” into the search box on Google. “Well, shit.”

“What?”

“Might be easier than we thought,” I said. “There’s a website here. Looks like the tat goes with the Pararescue division of the air force.”

“What’s that?”

“Some kind of special ops unit.”

“The air force has special ops?”

“Yep. And if we can believe pararescue dot com, the PJs are pretty badass, too.”

“PJs?”

“Pararescue jumpers,” I said, reading off the computer screen.

“I guess they must be badass if they call themselves PJs,” she said.

We poked around the Internet for another half hour or so, looking for more on the green footprints and the special air force unit.

When we felt like we had found enough, Jen closed her MacBook, went into the living room, and leaned back on the couch. “Not as late as I thought we’d be,” she said. I had to look at the cable TV box to see the time: 8:38.

She noticed the case leaning up against the arm of the sofa. “What’s that?”

“Harlan Gibbs gave me a banjo.”

“What?” she said.

“Yeah. I told him my physical therapist said I should start playing the guitar, and the next thing I knew, he was handing me a banjo.”

“When did your therapist tell you that?”

“She’s been telling me for the last few appointments.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

“Because I didn’t want to actually get one. I figured if you knew about it, you’d make me do it.”

“Since when have I ever been able to
make
you do anything?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I went with, “You know what I mean.”

She obviously didn’t, but she didn’t push the point. “Why are you telling me now?”

“Because I’m worried about Harlan.”

“You find out any more about his cancer?”

“No.”

“Why does the banjo make you worry?”

“He gave it to me like it was no big deal, like he just had it lying around.”

“You don’t think he did?”

“Hang on,” I said. I undid the clasps on the case, took the instrument out, and handed it to her.

“I didn’t know banjos were this heavy,” she said.

“Neither did I.” I let her handle it, make the strings twang. “You know anything about music?”

“Not really,” she said. “Piano lessons when I was twelve. That’s about it.”

“That seems like a good one, doesn’t it?”

She rubbed her finger over the wood and metal, turned it over in her hands. “It does.” She examined the frets and the neck. “Looks like it’s been played a lot,” she said. “But well cared for.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

“This seems like the kind of thing that would mean a lot to somebody,” she said.

“And I think it might be worth a lot of money, too.”

“Is he giving up?” she asked. I hadn’t expected her to be so direct, but I was glad she was. The conversation made me think I had pegged Harlan’s behavior correctly.

“I think he might be, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

“How can I help?”

“What did you do for me when I gave up?” I asked.

Her expression warmed. “I just ignored it and pretended like you didn’t. You came around. He will, too.”

After Jen left, I sat on the couch and strummed the banjo softly, which was not as easy to do as it sounds. I tried to get a slow, even rhythm going, but found myself speeding up without meaning to. Each time I caught myself, I slowed down again. Then I’d find myself thinking about Harlan or Sara and the kids and the tempo would pick up. After a while, though, I started getting better at maintaining the cadence. It took more focus than I would have thought.

I put the banjo away and went back into the dining room to go over my notes one more time. After I opened my computer and set iTunes on shuffle, the first song that came up was Springsteen’s “Atlantic City.” Not the ’82 original, but the version from
Live in Dublin
with the Sessions Band. And fuck me if the intro wasn’t a solo banjo that sounded like the coolest thing since The Big Man’s saxophone.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
we were talking to Marty and Dave about the green footprints.

“I’ve heard of Pararescue,” Dave said. “Supposed to be pretty tough. Go behind enemy lines and get people out. Pilots, mostly, I suppose.”

“So they’re tough, huh?” I asked.

“Well, it’s the air force, so they’re probably not like SEALs or Green Berets. But they’ve got a reputation.”

“You know any of them?” Jen asked.

“Me? Hell, no. I was in the merchant marines. I don’t know much about that stuff.”

“I know a retired air force guy,” Marty said. “Let me give him a call. See what I can find out.”

I mentioned what I’d noticed about the news coverage to the lieutenant.

“Danny’s right. The press doesn’t seem to have connected Shevchuk or the SUV killing to the Benton murders,” Ruiz told the rest of the squad.

“That’s good,” Marty said. “How do we keep it that way?”

“Patrick’s already the lead on Shevchuk, and I want you to take point on the driver,” Ruiz told him. “We’ll keep them as
separate as we can on paper. Maybe we’ll be able to keep a lid on it for a while.”

Marty Locklin had been on the Homicide Detail for almost twenty years, and he’d been a cop for more than thirty. He was long past the point of worrying about how a big case might help his career or even his ego. His preference was for what actually comprised most of our daily work—the routine. This case had a lot more flash than he cared for. But he was a pro, so he stepped up, and he didn’t complain. He just looked at Jen and me to make sure we didn’t feel like he’d be taking anything away from us, and when we both gave small nods of approval, he said, “Sure thing, Boss.”

Jen had lunch plans, so I used the time for something else. I’d been driving past a place on Seventh Street called World of Strings for as long as I could remember. There was an empty spot a few doors down. I parked, got Harlan’s banjo out of the trunk, and took it inside. The name of the store was appropriate. I’d never seen so many stringed instruments in one place. There were guitars, violins, basses, mandolins, and just about everything in between. They even had a few harps against the far wall. The place smelled like dust and furniture polish.

The guy at the counter was youngish—mid-twenties—and had a flannel shirt and a long and shaggy hairstyle that looked like 1993. I wondered if he was old enough to remember Kurt Cobain. He smiled distractedly and asked if he could help me.

I put the banjo case in front of him and said, “I hope so.” I undid the clasps and held the banjo out to him. “A friend of mine gave this to me, and I’m wondering how much it’s worth.”

His expression fell and I could sense his disapproval. “There’s a lot more to an instrument than how much you can get for it.”

“It’s not like that,” I said. “My friend is sick, and I’m worried he’s being more generous than he should. I have a feeling that it might be worth a lot.”

He considered me and must have decided I was on the level. “Banjos aren’t really my thing, but let me take a look.” He sat down on a tall stool and rested it on his leg. He strummed and picked a bit, then held it up and examined it from top to bottom. “It’s a good instrument. Deerings usually are, I think. Well made, and it’s got a real sweet tone. If you look here, though, I’m not sure about this.” He held out the base and pointed at a ring around the drum head. “See this? It looks like its discolored and maybe even corroded a little bit. I’m not sure about that.”

“Can you give me any idea at all? At least a few hundred dollars, right?”

“Oh, way more than that, I’m sure. More than a thousand, minimum. See the woodwork here? This is good stuff.”

“Any idea how I could find out more about it?”

“You could bring it back when Greg is here later. Or you could leave it and I’ll ask him to take a look for you.”

“Okay,” I said as he handed it back to me. “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

When I was halfway to the door, he stopped me. “Hey,” he said. “You know what? Why don’t you just call Deering?”

“That’s a good idea. Thanks.” I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that myself. Sometimes I wish I were like a detective or something.