Violent Spring (22 page)

“L
AW OFFICE,” THE efficient female voice said.

“I'm a friend of Bart Samuels, he recommended this law office, but I can't remember the name of the lawyer.”

Monk could hear the quiet buzz on the line, then, “Was he a client?” Some of the efficiency had worn off.

“Yes. He'd been arrested on assault charges.”

“Oh, hold on.”

He listened to the Muzak version of Tone Loc's “Funky Cold Medina,” then another female voice, older than the first, came on the line.

“This is Sheila Evans, can I help you?”

“Miss Evans, I … I got involved in a little something helping out my buddy Bart Samuels.” He let it hang in the air but no words were forthcoming from the other end. “Well, actually, it involved him and Stacy Grimes.”

That got a compact intake of air. Sheila Evans said, “Where did you get my number?”

“From Bart, I told you.”

“I don't know you.”

Monk picked up an edginess in her voice that was more than annoyance. “But you know Bart and Stacy.”

“Mr. Grimes is.…”

“Dead.”

“Who are you?”

“More importantly, Ms. Evans, how is it that you came to represent Grimes?”

She cradled the handset. Monk got up from his desk and stuck his head out into the rotunda. “Delilah, check with the bar association for a current business address for a lawyer named Sheila Evans.”

“Okay. I've got some work to finish for Ross, and I'll get on it after lunch.”

Monk closed the door and returned to his desk. Momentarily, his phone rang and he picked it up. “This is Monk.”

“Mr. Monk.”

“Mr. O'Day, I'm glad to hear from you.”

“I'd been out of town on SOMA business. I understand you've been making progress.”

“I have. As a matter of fact, I've just been talking with a lawyer named Sheila Evans. Do you know her?”

“Yes, yes I do. She's a lawyer at a firm whose senior partner is an old classmate of mine.”

“Did you recommend her to Stacy Grimes?”

“I may have. I understood he was in some trouble with the LAPD and I might have told him or Bart Samuels about them. A professional courtesy, you know. Does this have something to do with the case?”

“It may. When can we get together?”

“I've got a meeting with the mayor this morning. Why don't I call you this afternoon and if not today, then on Monday.”

“That's fine.”

“Mr. Monk.”

“Yes, Mr. O'Day.”

“How close are you to finding Crosshairs Sawyer?”

“I'm not sure. I'm not sure it matters.”

“I see.”

“I'll talk to you later.”

“Indeed we will.”

Monk made further notes on the case on a tablet of yellow paper. Later, he would flesh them out in his report when he wrote it up on the computer at the donut shop. He finished, arose and stretched, then headed out.

“I'll be back by one-thirty, D,” he said. “I'm expecting a call from O'Day this afternoon. If I miss him, ask him where I can find him. Oh, call Li at the Merchants Group and tell him I'll be dropping off my report to him over the weekend.”

Monk took the 10 freeway east and got off at Vermont. He went south until he came to a low-slung two-story building of first-floor storefronts with apartments on the second level. An empty lot was next to the building. It was boxed in with cyclone fencing, another piece of archaeology from the Spring of '92. Park's building still had scorch marks on it, and had unrented spaces in it, too. He parked and looked into the vacant spaces. Debris was strewn about the floor, and a portion of the wall that faced the lot was missing.

Monk entered the carniceria at the apex of the building. He walked up to a middle-aged, heavyset Latina behind the counter.

“Excuse me, ma'am, I'm interested in renting one of the storefronts in this building. Can you tell me how to get ahold of the landlord?”

“His name is Park,” she said. “I've got the number to his office around here somewhere.” She rummaged under the counter and produced a dogeared Rolodex. She flipped through it and came to the entry she was looking for and turned it for Monk to see. He wrote down the address, which was in Monterey Park, and the phone number in the 818 area code.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Sure.”

Monk then drove over to a pay phone and called Roy Park's office.

“Triple A Realty,” the woman on the other end of the line said when it connected.

“Is Mr. Park in?” Monk asked.

“Not at the moment. How can I help you?”

“I'd like to rent out one of his storefronts on Vermont near Jefferson.”

“If you leave your name and number, I'll have him get back to you.”

Monk gave her a false name and the phone number that was the fourth line into the office space he shared with Ross and Hendricks. He rang off. Delilah had been briefed, and she would answer it accordingly. He wasn't sure how Park might take hearing his real name—maybe he was a member of the Merchants Group and it didn't matter, or maybe it did.

He grabbed some bland lunch over at the food court in the shopping center across the street from the University of Southern California on Hoover and Jefferson. Then he called into the office.

“No, Mr. Park didn't call, or Mr. O'Day,” Delilah said. “But Ms. Scarn did.”

“Who? Oh. What did she say this time?”

“She said be in her office at ten in the morning on Monday, or your license will be suspended for thirty days for failure to appear.”

Monk exploded. “Give me that stiff-backed bureaucrat's number. I'll—”

“She faxed over a formal summons, Ivan.”

“Fuck. What's her basis for the summons?”

He could hear the rustle of papers as Delilah retrieved the document. “It is alleged that you fired your weapon without filing a discharge report.”

Frozen water collected along Monk's spine. Had Keys been able to follow him out to Bart Samuels' apartment? Had it been Keys that night on the stairs? The third person who slugged him. He shook himself. “All right, thanks Delilah. I'll be back in awhile.”

Monk left the shopping center and took the Galaxie over to Hi-Life Liquors. Pulling into the parking space behind the establishment, Monk recognized a grey Blazer, the color of dull gun metal with sport rims, parked there also. He got out and warily entered through the front.

One of the kids who had been in there the last time he was there was again playing a video game. Mrs. Chung was standing next to a rack of sugar-loaded snack cakes. Her nephew was behind the counter. He shifted his gaze from Monk to one of the others in the store, a medium-sized young black man in a cheaply made double-breasted suit and a brown bowler. He was standing next to Mrs. Chung at the rack. It was very quiet in the Hi-Life save for the kid racking up points on the video game.

“Good day, Mrs. Chung,” Monk began, scanning the remaining parts of the room for the other one. All he could see were the aisles containing such delicacies as Wonder Bread and canned Spam.

“What can I do for you today?” she said.

“I came back because I had some more questions I wanted to ask you.” He moved forward and the one next to Mrs. Chung turned his body slightly, his shoulder out to Monk but he was looking straight at him.

“Why don't you come back later, cuz?” he said, smiling. “I've got an order to fill here.”

It might be, Monk reasoned, that the other Scalp Hunter had a gun trained on him. That's why he wanted to be closer to the one he was talking to. “It can't wait that long.” He stepped forward.

“Too motherfuckin' bad, then.” The one next to Mrs. Chung brought his fist up and into Monk's stomach.

He gritted his teeth and, even as he clutched at his stomach, he let loose with his other hand. He caught the Scalp Hunter on the side of the jaw, sending him backwards into the rack. Ho Hos, Ding Dongs and Little Bettys sailed through the air. Mrs. Chung moved off, and Monk shouted at no one in particular, “Where's the other one?”

“In the backroom,” the nephew shouted back.

The one closest to him was regaining his balance, and Monk lashed out with his feet, catching him in the ribs. There was a burst of air from him like a busted soda bottle. Monk propelled his body forward over the fallen rack. The other Scalp Hunter, similarly dressed, appeared in the doorway leading to the back.

He was small but the gun in his hand made up for it. There was too much ground to cover if the gang member had a mind to pull the trigger. Monk hadn't worn his gun. Not that it mattered, he wouldn't have been able to draw it in time anyway.

“You just won the wet T-shirt contest, homeboy,” he said.

Monk could already feel the rounds penetrating his chest, cutting into his head. There was a loud retort behind the detective which caused the Scalp Hunter in front of him to momentarily look in that direction. Monk leaped and drove the other man back through the doorway. The two collided with some stacked boxes of beef jerky and a variety of canned nuts. They went over along with the boxed goods in the half-light of the stock room.

“Motherfucker,” the Scalp Hunter exclaimed. He was trying to free his gun hand which Monk had a serious lock on. He jabbed with his free hand into Monk's side but his small stature was no thatch for Monk's greater height and bulk. The private eye got to his feet, holding onto the other's wrist who was still on his back. He brought his foot down on the young man's torso for leverage and twisted and jerked the arm forcefully.

The other one hollered and let go of the gun. Monk grasped it and reached down for him on the floor.

“Hey.”

Monk turned at the sound. The Scalp Hunter he'd kicked was standing in the doorway with a gun in his outstretched hand. “Jesus, does everybody have a gun in Los Angeles?” Monk said under his breath. Keeping the small one between them, Monk hauled him to his feet. He kept the gun leveled at his back.

“Put the gat down,” the one at the doorway commanded.

“No,” Monk said flatly. He was hoping that Mrs. Chung and the nephew had run out of the store. That had to be why he wasn't holding one of them hostage. “How long do you think it'll be before the cops get here?”

The one in the door allowed his head to turn in the direction of the window looking out onto Pico Boulevard. He looked back at Monk. “Let him go or I'm gonna have to cap you.”

“Then he dies with me,” Monk said, trying not to show whether he meant it or not. “And what would your homies think of that?”

The one in the doorway began stepping backwards.

“What's up with that, man? You just gonna leave me hangin'?” the other one squawked.

The first one kept backing up. Monk and the remaining Scalp Hunter, the gun pressed into his spine, remained motionless.

The gang member who'd been in the doorway disappeared from Monk's sight. He could hear the jingle of the bells over the front door.

“So now what, man?”

Monk cracked the barrel of the gun, a nickle-plated 10 mm Delta Elite, across the base of his neck. He started for the floor, dazed. Monk was already turning and heading for the rear door. He opened it a slit and could see the front end of the Blazer. But he couldn't see the driver's door and would have to open the door further to do so. He crouched down and shoved it open.

Two bullets sent pieces of the doorjamb flying. Monk flattened out behind some crates. He heard the motor of the utility vehicle come to life, and by the time he looked back out again, the truck was moving north, fast, along the alley. Monk considered giving chase in his Galaxie. And almost laughed out loud at the absurd thought.

He could just see himself tearing after the Blazer, upturning trash cans, causing cars to plow into one another, people diving onto the sidewalk as he and the kid—well, not exactly a kid, they both looked to be in their mid-twenties—tore up city and private property. Losing his license would be the least of his problems. He'd be buried so far under lawsuits he wouldn't see daylight for eight hundred years. Monk closed the door and reentered the room.

“You okay?” the nephew asked Monk. He was breathing hard, standing in the store room.

“I'm fine. David, isn't it?”

He indicated yes.

Monk moved over to the Scalp Hunter on the floor. He bent down, rolled him over and felt his neck. The pulse was strong and regular. The eyelids fluttered. Monk rose. “You call the cops?”

“Yes, I did. I got my aunt in the store a couple of doors down,” he said, jabbing a finger in that direction.

The two moved into the front room. “Where's the kid who was playing the video game?”

“He ran off too. He's okay.”

“What the hell was that noise that distracted our friend?”

David walked to the counter and Monk followed him. Behind it on the floor was a tall gumball dispenser with the shattered remains of the plastic bubble which held the sticky treats. A multi-color assortment of gumballs littered the floor like psychedelic hail. “I backed up into it,” the young man said sheepishly.

“You saved my life, man.” Monk extended his hand and the young man pumped it “Look, David, for a lot of different reasons, I don't want to be here when the cops get here.”

Incredulously, he said. “What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them everything that happened, just the way it happened, except you don't know my name. And if you don't mind, be a little vague on my physical description.”

“Okay. I figure you saved us a lot of hassle, if not our lives.”

Sirens were now audible. “What did the Scalp Hunters want?”

“They said they wanted us to push some of their crack across the counter. Said it would make us all a lot of money. The short one said it would be like the old days with Suh and the Rolling Daltons.”