Fry raised a hand. “My client does not have to disclose that information at this time. Mr. Zantz was on a personal errand; let’s just leave it at that.”
“Yes,” Lanterman said, “but this is a violent crime. Mr. Zantz’s friend may be in danger.”
I said, “It’s just that—”
“Zip it, Addy,” Fry said. “My client chooses not to disclose that information at this time.”
Unlike me, Fry knew how to intimidate back—he was like Bugs Bunny in a yarmulke—and Lanterman was starting to boil over.
“Fine. So you arrived at the studio and—”
“Well, nobody answered at first. I knocked but there was no answer. So I went around back.”
“You…let yourself into the shop?”
“Well, my elderly friend has been very concerned. You see—”
“Addy.” Fry raised an eyebrow, pulled the imaginary zipper across his lips.
“Okay, okay,” Lanterman said, sitting upright, clasping his hands before him. They were big neck-snapper hands, and he wanted us to see them up close. He directed himself at Double Fry. “Let’s forget about this…friend for a moment. What I’m trying to establish is—why your client just happened to drive to Mr. Hawley’s studio today of all days. And why he chose to let himself into a building he had never been to before.”
“My client just told you. He tried the front door. When no one answered, he let himself in the back.”
“Yup,” I said lamely. A trickle of sweat was itching at the back of my neck. “And it’s a lucky thing I did. For Hawley, I mean.”
Lanterman took this in. Matter-of-factly, he said, “Mr. Zantz, this is a violent assault, California Penal Code 240 PC, and although we are grateful for your call, you are officially a person of interest. So you’ll want to be as candid as possible.”
I turned to Fry: “Does that mean I’m a suspect?”
He paused. “Not yet.”
“Look, when I got to the back—” I was about to explain that the studio door had actually been half-opened, but I didn’t finish the sentence. All three of our heads turned to watch two men in uniform gently escort a jittery older white man to a nearby desk—I recognized him, the man who lived kitty-corner to Marjorie Persky. He was a wreck now, thin and sallow in a hastily buttoned maroon cardigan, designer dungarees, and pajama shirt—the cops had obviously roused him from sleep. He eyeballed the four tables with suspicion and shot a special flash of disgust Fry’s way. Fry had that effect on people.
“Now what is going on here?” the man said tersely. “I’m too old to be kept up all night, for Chrissake.”
A uniformed Hispanic cop got behind the desk to face him, empathic but very firm.
“Mr. Hawley, I’m so sorry. Your son was taken to the hospital tonight.”
“I already heard that. How long has he been in intensive care?”
“Just two hours, Mr. Hawley. Please have a seat.”
Hawley the senior did as they asked, but he was fidgeting like a man waiting on terrible news. “Now what the hell happened exactly.”
“Your son was brutally attacked.”
The skinny old man transformed—his face elongated like someone who just swallowed a fast-acting poison. But he shook his head, shook it off. “By who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“I…I…I haven’t seen or spoken to Devon in many years. We…aren’t close. Anymore.”
The admission was so awkward, the policeman pinched his lips.
The old man said, “Was it…some kind of thief?”
This returned decorum, the cop exhaled. “We’re still trying to determine that. But it appears that someone hit him over the head with a metal object, likely a pipe.”
The old man’s face crinkled into a sharp frown. “Where did this happen?”
“At his shop in the City of Commerce.”
Now the old man let out a fragile groan, buckled like an animal that had stepped into a hidden trap. Then he looked up, stared back at the police, frightened.
“Well, what the hell am I doing here? Tell me what hospital he’s in.”
“We will take you to County General just as soon as we’re done. Mr. Hawley, you say you haven’t been in close contact with your son. Have you spoken on the phone lately?”
“No. A little. Last year. Will somebody tell me what the hell I’m doing here?”
“As I explained, the assailant is still at large, and we’re trying to get a handle on who your son’s active associates were. Is it possible that he had dealings with criminals or—”
“Of course not.”
“Did he express any fear or…apprehension to you recently?”
“I told you, I haven’t seen the boy in ten years. I talked to him on the phone last Christmas. He was…it was…”
