Body Copy - Michael Craven [63]
“I like you,” she said. “I get so sick of guys drooling all over me that I never get to do anything like this. I’m repulsed—sometimes scared—most of the time. When someone comes along that actually plays it cool, I don’t want to miss that opportunity. Because I really like doing stuff like this.”
Tremaine thought, one of the reasons she thinks I’m playing it cool is because I genuinely forgot to call her because of the case. Then he told himself what Heather had told him once: “So.”
Heather unclasped her bra, and Tremaine watched it fall 197
Michael Craven
to the floor. Heather’s big, white smile was gone, she was getting serious. She grabbed Tremaine’s hands and placed them on her breasts.
Tremaine thought for a moment that he’d died and gone to heaven. But that actually came a little later.
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The next morning, Tremaine woke up in the trailer. He’d left Heather’s in the night, a stupid smile plastered on his face for the entirety of the drive back to Malibu. He felt refreshed, the frustrations of the case eased a little. He knew what he had to do next, so he called Lopez and told him what he wanted, and where he wanted to meet, and how much he would buy him in order to get him there.
That evening, Tremaine pulled the Cutlass into the Chez Jay parking lot in Santa Monica. Tremaine looked around, didn’t see Lopez’s black Mustang, not here yet. He hopped out of his car and walked toward the entrance. Chez Jay, a spot both he and Lopez enjoyed. An old-school sailor bar right across from the beach. Lots of tradition, nice and dark.
The kind of place where most nights you’d see regulars, but Michael Craven
because of the atmosphere and the extra-cold beer and the juicy steaks, often you’d see a Michelle Pfeiffer or a Jeff Bridges tucked away in the corner.
Tremaine grabbed a table near the back, lucky, the place was packed. He ordered two bourbons and sat back and waited. Five minutes later, Lopez entered, a manila folder under his arm.
“Mr. Lopez!” Tremaine said as he stood up and handed John Lopez his bourbon.
“Tremaine, I’m getting lobster. I hope you know that.”
“I didn’t know that, but I figured it. That’s what I do in my line of work. I figure stuff. You rarely know stuff.”
Lopez tossed the manila envelope onto the table and sat down. “There you go,” he said. “There are police reports in there for all of the murders in the greater Los Angeles area, a week before and a week after the murder of Roger Gale.
There are some nice pictures in there, too.”
“Thank you.”
“Getting desperate, huh?”
“No comment.”
“That Donald Tremaine magic eluding you?”
“There’s not a whole lot of evidence in this one, John.”
“Sometimes the guys down at the old station house do their jobs. And sometimes there’s just not a lot of answers.
As you know, Tremaine, there are lots and lots and lots of unsolved cases out there.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, pal.”
Lopez put the brakes on giving Tremaine shit. He said,
“Just so you know, Peterson and those guys looked at the 200
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other murders in town around the time of the Roger Gale thing. Said none of ’em even gave them the slightest indication of anything.”
Tremaine thought about Peterson, the bribe he took, the dinner they had in Atlanta. But he didn’t mention it. He just said, “Like I said, there’s not a whole lot of evidence.”
Tremaine took Lopez through the case, where he was, the stuff he’d found out, omitting, of course, information he couldn’t part with—the Peterson stuff, posing as a cop in the Explorer . . . Lopez listened, sympathized. Some intriguing stuff, sure, but most of it was vague and left the mind still questioning, grasping for connections.
When the waitress came around, Lopez said, “How’s the lobster?”
The waitress responded, “Oh, it’s real good.”
Lopez said, “Actually, I don’t care how it tastes. Just as long as it’s expensive.”
“It is,” she said.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
The next day, up on top of the trailer, Tremaine examined some of the crime statistics and police