Here’s the way he told it: we were waiting in the office for a potential client when we heard the shots and went out to find the Benz and the dead body. That was when we called the police. Had this potential client given a name? No, Peralta said. It was a man and he didn’t give his name. Peralta didn’t think to ask for it. We were here and he told him to come on by. Were the detectives thinking this was the man?
They didn’t say. They did ask if we knew a subject named Derek Zimmerman.
“Is that the D.B.?” Peralta gave them his best command stare and they responded.
“Maybe, Sheriff.”
“Never heard of him. Have you, Mapstone?”
No. I hated him. Why was he lying? I felt all this, forgetting that I had wanted to muck with the investigation by reading the recent calls on our late client’s cell phone.
“How about Felix Smith? James Henry Patterson?”
“Who are they?” Peralta asked.
“We’re only starting our investigation,” one detective offered. “But you might be glad you didn’t get this case. The guy was carrying multiple driver’s licenses.”
I thought about the Desert Eagle on his passenger seat.
They left their cards. If we remembered anything else, please call us at this number…I had done the routine a hundred times myself, when I was on the other side of the badge. Then they left.
“Why did you do that?” I whispered it, as if the detectives were listening at the door.
“I want a trip to San Diego.”
“Our client is dead.”
“Exactly.”
Afterward, I drove east a few blocks on Encanto Boulevard and was enveloped in the trees and grass of the park and the historic districts. The temperature dropped ten degrees. This was a good thing considering that the air conditioning in Lindsey’s old Honda Prelude had seen better days. On the north edge of Palmcroft, I sat through the long wait at the Seventh Avenue light, brooding over what had happened. Then I crossed into Willo, past the old fire station, and headed home. A right on Fifth Avenue and a left on Cypress. The street was quiet and most of the houses were dark. Normal people had gone to bed. My house was dark and not inviting. I vowed again to get some lights on timers and drove on.
At the Sonic on McDowell, I ate a foot-long Coney dog and drank a medium Diet Cherry Coke. The bright lights and blaring bubblegum music gave a false sense of protection. The condition of the car gave me no choice but to turn off the engine and open the windows. The climate could thank me later.
An AK-47 was a crappy assassination weapon, so Peralta told me after the cops left. In all but the most expert of hands, it had a tendency to ride up and have bad accuracy. On the other hand, who could miss at that range? Smith/Zimmerman/Patterson had pulled onto Grand and another car came alongside. Did he recognize the car and stop to talk to its occupants? Did the encounter have something to do with the phone call I had seen him making?