“So I’ve heard, but—”
“Everyone wants to talk about ’em, the teenage killers, slaying and dope and runaways and all that fun stuff.”
“Right. But you don’t see it that way.”
“The world didn’t stop in 1984.”
“For Charles Elkaim it kind of did,” I said.
“Yeah well.” The funeral crowd was dispersing. Grunes turned to face me, then changed his mind and started walking away again, and I followed him in silence to an unwashed gray Prius. He clicked the fob to unlock his car and turned one last time to look me over. He wasn’t pissed exactly, but he didn’t know what to do with me, and I couldn’t be sure what he saw. Maybe an opportunist, maybe a sycophant. I zipped my lip and stood for inspection. He considered the long hill of graves and something human in him turned over.
“Listen, man,” he said, getting into his ride, “I stay away from the past, you know what I mean? Took me years. Now, I work with the actually needy. You know, as in—reality?”
He started up his engine and rolled down his window.
“And as far as Emil goes—” He shrugged at the wheel, drank deep from his own scorn. “Sure, I miss him. I miss all of it. But it ain’t coming back.”
I leaned on the open car window so that he couldn’t drive away without knocking me over.
“Jeff,” I said, speaking low and serious, “I’m the guy who found your frenemy.”
“Yeah?”
“It was the worst thing you could ever imagine.” Our eyes met. “Who do you think did this?”
A long pause and then, “I don’t know.”
“But you have guesses.”
He scanned the fields. “Where’s Mickey? Why isn’t he here?”
“But…Mickey’s in prison.”
“Bullshit. He’s been out since last August.”
“He has?” I let go of the car window and stood.
“Last I heard he was living in Tent Town over on Ohio, under the 405. When he got out, first thing he did was hit me up for cash, as usual. Wanted to talk old times, as usual. Stuck in the past, as usual. Now back off, dude. I got kids to take care of—and they’re stuck in the present.”
Grunes began to roll his window up and I stepped back, watched him drive away over the dotted green hill.
Outside the Forest Lawn Flower Shop, I called Fry and asked him to meet me at Newton Station.
“Addy, I told you to stay away from the Hawley scene. Dude, I’m trying to keep you from getting indicted.”
“I know that,” I said, “but this is too hot to ignore. This Sandoz character has a serious criminal record, and he’s been out and about for months. Don’t the police need to know about that?”
“Not really, and definitely not from us. Besides…”
“What?”
He hesitated. “The department’s already got a sus—”
“They do?”
“They do. They made an arrest late yesterday. And frankly, their guy’s a little closer to the action.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t have a name. Hispanic male, early twenties—living in his car four blocks from Hawley’s studio. They found the crowbar and Hawley’s wallet in the trunk, okay?”
“No way.”
“Adam, he sounds like a keeper.”
“Come on—”
“Apparently that stretch of Soto’s notorious for break-ins.”
“So you’re telling me some random guy pulls a robbery and just happens to commit murder along the way? I don’t buy it.”
“Why not? It plays. Hawley was a big guy, thief panics, it happens.”
“And then he keeps the weapon? After not stealing anything but a wallet?”
“Look, maybe they can hang it on this guy, maybe they can’t. I’ll be watching it closely. But I’m betting the cops wouldn’t even look into…this Sandoz character—and you’d just make yourself sound like a crazy person taking it to them.”
“Really?”
