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                                            PART FIVE

                                Monday, August 25, 1987

2:20 a.m.

Like the Matterhorn, a mountain of meth looked up from the floor of the desert, a moonscape pockmarked by craters. Reggie walked to the base of the meth mountain and looked up. He shoved a foot into the crumbly, white powder. When he withdrew it, his foot was gone. A clean cut. It scared him. The fear rose, launching the contents of his stomach. He heaved a turbo spray of lumpy blood that splashed over the face of the mountain. Somehow, he knew it wasn't over. He knew there was no way to avoid the inevitable climb. Reaching the top would not be an accomplishment. Clearly, it would be Destiny stabbing him in the back. But he lost his foot. How could he get to the top before it devoured him completely?

A shadow passed overhead. A blink of shade. It was gone. He shaded his eyes and squinted. Something shiny caught the painful glare of the sun and disappeared, then emerged, flying. An odd bird, it's awkward triangular wings folded back, a naked neck stretched comically from its silver, featherless body, pitched and plunged. Reggie realized it was diving for him. It took a moment before his legs moved–after all, he'd lost a foot--and he backed away. He forgot about the mountain. Falling into it, he felt the fluff, smelled the ether, as his body folded and melted into the meth.

"Reg," a voice whispered.

The white turned black. He opened his eyes. His mouth was dry. When he licked his upper lip, he tasted sweat. He was in his bed in the motorhome with the covers off. Even with the windows open for ventilation, the slight smell of ether wafted up his nose. I.Q. stood over him.

"Reg, something's up."

His brain was numb from sleep. "What?"

"They caught some guy sneaking around outside."

"Who?"

I.Q.'s eyes bugged in frustration. "How the hell would I know!"

Reggie whipped his feet to the floor, stretched his mouth and eyes, patted his face with his hands. "What time is it?"

"Two or three."

Dark circles ringed I.Q.'s bloodshot eyes. "Why're you still up?"

"Can't sleep–get up."

He was about to ask why. Then he remembered. He'd told I.Q. that he'd tell him what was going on, what everyone was keeping from him, in the morning, that it wasn't something that he wanted to talk about in the gloom of night. I.Q. had become solemn. He realized, it seemed, that whatever Reggie had to say was pretty disturbing. Standing under the stars together, they'd exchanged a silent agreement to wait until the sun was up. As if something 93 million miles away could warm cold news.

"What're you waiting for?" I.Q. asked, agitated. "They're going to kill him!"

Reggie peeked through the curtains. Joaquin and Pepsi smoked a joint by their bikes. Reggie pulled on pants and quickly went to the Quonset hut.

He stopped at the door. The picture was right out of some late-night B-movie: Bikers Bloody Bikers. There was Bear, wearing no shirt, dead drunk and angry as a dragon, hovering from the left end of the dining table. King gripped the right end, his hair matted, muscles glistening with sweat, snarling like a pit bull with a stick up his ass. Sitting at the table wearing a black t-shirt, black jeans and hiking boots, was a young man, maybe seventeen, with short, curly black hair, his face covered in acne. His hands were folded on the table. A scared defiance burned in his eyes.

Josh stood behind him, wheezing, breathing heavily. His pudgy fingers clutched a big old diamondback rattlesnake by the back of its head, forcing it to open its mouth and bare its deadly fangs. He taunted the boy by circling the snake's head in his face, letting the long thick serpent's body slither over the boy's shoulders, around his neck.

Josh tipped his head towards the kid. "Ever seen this little shit before?"

Reggie shook his head.

"Better say what you're doing out here," King said menacingly.

"I'm lost."

"Is the snake necessary?" Reggie asked.

Without taking his eyes off the kid, Adams said: "Caught him inside your car."

Reggie moved closer for a good look at him. "What's your name, kid?"

"Joseph."

"Joseph what?"

"Wambaugh."

"Now we're gettin' somewhere," King said, a stoned smile making his thick red mustache bloom.

I.Q. chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Josh asked.

"He's a writer."

"The kid?"

"No," Reggie said, holding back his incredulous amusement. "Joseph Wambaugh. An ex-cop."

Josh whacked the kid on the shoulder hard enough to knock him off his seat. The kid grabbed his shoulder in pain and got back in the chair.

"You better not be a fuckin' snitch, kid," King warned, planting a hand on the back of his chair, putting his face within an inch of the boy's.

"You're going to tell us the fuck you're doing out here," Josh said in his meanest, lowest voice, "or I'm going to put you in a cage with this son-of-a-bitch"–he waved the snake in his eyes –"and his brothers. Rattlesnake bites is a hell of a way to die, you little shit."

King grabbed the kid's hands, wrenched them apart, slammed one on the table and held it down. He drew his knife from the sheath on his belt, wiped the flat side over the boy's knuckles. "First I'll cut your fingers off. They like the smell of blood."

It seemed the boy groped for answers that would keep him alive. His eyes jumped from King's face to the knife to the snake's fangs, calculating their seriousness.

"I'm just lost."

It was obvious, though, that he didn't want to talk about who he was or what he was doing, but he hadn't quite come up with a story yet.

Adams softly said: "Hey, kid, look. Whatever you're up to, it can't be worth it, you know what I'm saying? Look at us. Do we look patient? Do we look like the kind of fellas who put up with snot-nosed brats who don't know how to keep their nose out of other people's business?"

The kid didn't answer. Josh smacked him up-side the head with his free hand. He cringed in pain, but he didn't make a sound.

"Cut it out," I.Q. piped up. "He's just a kid, you guys."

Reggie warned I.Q. with a quick glance.

"Don't look at me like that," he said. "I'll say what I want. You aren't my boss, you aren't my mother, you aren't nothin' but a–"

"Shut the fuck up!" Josh commanded.

"What’s your name, kid?" Adams moaned.

"Anyone bother to check his pockets?" I.Q. said. The kid's eyes closed. Light bulbs pinged on over Josh and Adam's heads. King just scratched his. Adams and Josh each grabbed an arm, yanked the kid away from the table. Adams found a wallet in his back pocket.

"Boffo."

Adams fingered the wallet's compartments, brought out a stack of pictures and cards. He shuffled through them. A grin broke his face as he held up a driver's license.

"What do we got here?" he said, holding it up to the light to read it. "Says he lives in Woodland Hills." He snorted, "Name's Tobias."

King chuckled and repeated the name in a high, sissy voice.

The boy's head dropped to his chest.

Reggie didn't hear what Adams said next. He was studying the boy, placing him, because Woodland Hills was a five-minute drive from the Weldon's place in Topanga. A thought sprung in his memory. Not a face, a name. Something Jackie said weeks ago. About a boy. A boy obsessed with her. Wouldn't leave her alone. Wrote her terrible love poems and left presents on her doorstep. And as he stood there thinking about this, hearing Jackie's voice in his mind, the boy slowly raised his head up. His eyes drifted in Reggie's direction.

It was him. He was the boy Jackie told him about.

"He goes by T.J.," Reggie said.

Adams looked again at the driver's license. "Tobias Jebadiah Kenny."

"Said you didn't know him," Josh blurted.

"I don't."

"Reg," I.Q. said under his breath. "That's the boy who–"

Reggie elbowed I.Q. in the ribs. I.Q. gulped back the rest of his sentence. "Put the damn snake away," Reggie ordered, "and wait here." He left the Quonset hut with I.Q. on his heels. He walked to the Oldsmobile and got in on the passenger's side. He opened the glove box, looked in, felt around, snapped it closed, flipped down the visors and found nothing there either.

"What're you looking for, Reg?"

"I don't know yet."

* * *

Joe followed the muzzle of the .38 revolver into the cops' room. It was filled with strong aroma. Borkim Riff. Smoke swirled around the lamp beside the bed. Pitts closed the door.

There was a squeak of vinyl. Sitting in a mauve armchair, leg looped over his knee, Detective Tom Lee spread his lips in a half grin, still biting down to his pipe in place.

"Sit down," Pitts ordered. Joe found the edge of the bed. What was Lee doing here? How'd he find Tooley?

Tooley rolled an empty tumbler between his hands, standing at the door to the bathroom, and said:

"Persistent, aren't you?"

Joe ignored him, waiting for Lee's explanation.

Lee accommodated him. "I asked you not to stick your nose into police business, Mr. Cox, and by-gum that's what you go and do. Now, I've tried to cooperate with you, kept you apprised of our progress, even broke the rules a bit to keep you...how should I put it?"

"Misled?"

"Not at all. Quite the contrary. Elements of this investigation have nothing to do with the Weldon murder, and these elements are none of your concern. I want to keep the Weldon investigation detached from these...important elements, but you continue to come up with ways to throw them back into the same pot."

"Maybe if you let me in on what's going on, I can stay out of your way. Looks like Tooley here is mixed up in both the Weldon murder and your...important elements."

Tooley said: "I told you already. I'm not involved with any murder–she was alive when I picked her up."

"John," Lee said firmly, "shut up, please."

"Look, sir, I don't like this–"

"John," Lee warned again, aiming the tip-end of his pipe at his patrolman. Tooley sulked back against the bathroom door.

"How'd you know I came to Vegas?" Joe threw out. He didn't think Leah would've been that stupid to tell him, but it was possible. Lee got there too fast. He knew about the same time Joe left the motel. Which meant only one thing: John Quinn had called him.

"I think you have your answer," Lee said smirking.

Joe clasped his hands together. "So what's up?"

"You tell us," Lee replied. "Where's Reggie Thomas?"

"Don't know. But for a reasonable fee, I'd be happy to find him for you."

"That ain't funny," Tooley said. "You know who that creep is? Huh? He's helping the Paleys pull off–"

"Damn it, John!"

"Well, shit, sir, what does he care? He's here to–"

"I know why he's here," Lee said, raising his voice to cut him off. He was angry, chewing on his pipe. He turned to Joe. "You were with him at the playhouse. If you know where he is, I suggest you avoid charges of harboring a fugitive–"

"Look, I don't know where he is–now. I ran into him at the playhouse. Pure luck." Lee glanced at the ceiling impatiently. "This's more than routine confidentiality, detective." Joe let that set in, hoping to get a reaction that might lead him to his next question. Lee didn't flinch. Joe said: "This have something to do with Paley's body being held for ransom?"

Pitts and Tooley laughed together.

"I missed the joke."

"Nobody," Pitts enunciated dramatically, "cares a crap about Paley's body."

"You're saying your department isn't trying to find the graverobber and get his body back for Lucilva Paley?"

"Cox, look," Lee said. "Trust me. We're the good guys."

"Well, I'm a good guy, too, so what do you say all of us good guys put our heads together and solve some crimes? Or maybe the Attorney General would like to hear about a little shit hole in the Mojave."

All three exchanged a round of glances. The silence said a lot. Joe had found the language they understood. Pitts put his revolver in its ankle holster. Tooley sat by the window, resting his head on his hand. Lee re-lit his pipe. The puff of smoke unrolled from his lips as he said:

"What I'm going to say is confidential."

Joe nodded.

"On Thursday, I wanted to speak with Reggie Thomas. Regarding evidence he left at the cemetery that led us to believe he had something to do with Paley's exhumation and the ransom letter left in Paley's mailbox that same morning. Tooley and Pitts found his motorhome at The Plunge. Thomas wasn't in it. The Weldon girl and a kid named Ivan Sonneborn were. They claimed they didn't know Thomas's whereabouts. We found some grass in the back of their vehicle and arrested Sonneborn. Tooley drove the motorhome to the station. Weldon was worried. In fact, she was freaking out. Meth heads get like that when they're coming down. So Tooley talked with her and found out she wasn't exactly happy with Thomas. Seems he'd forgotten she existed, wasn't thinking about her habit enough, brought her out to the boondocks and left her without any dope. She wouldn't say what Thomas was up to, but–"

"It wasn't a visit," Tooley put in.

"When he got her to the station, we told her we knew why Thomas was here and that she was in deep trouble. Still, she wouldn't cop out to any details. We'd been in the dark about some things happening in Paley. We knew Chris and Lucilva–maybe Josh–were organizing plans that ran against the interests of the community."

"What interests?" Joe asked.

"Our survival," Tooley said.

"I needed leverage," Lee said, then hesitated. "I had to get one of them to disclose their plan, just enough to intervene in whatever they were going to do, and to do that–"

"Hold it," Joe interrupted. "The Paleys' plan–and you didn't know their plan–was going to hurt the town, so you wanted to get dirt on one of them to get them to tell you. Last time I read the California Penal Code, that was called blackmail."

"You private dicks sure know how to colloquialize."

"We like to call it 'Getting to the Truth.'" Joe manufactured a sour grin. "Go on."

Lee cleaned his pipe as he spoke. "Lucilva was out of town when her father died. By the time anyone in our office knew about his death, he was embalmed, in his coffin and ready to meet the devil."

"No autopsy?"

"No. Paley's long-time friend Doc Rendquist signed the death certificate. Natural causes–stroke. Died in his study. Rendquist said Josh signed the necessary papers for the undertaking and Paley's other long-time friend, November Wallace, performed the embalmment, and Lucilva made the arrangements by phone."

"From where?" Lee shook his head. "But you thought it was suspicious."

"Not really. We were...very relieved he was gone, to be truthful. But when his body was dug up and Lucilva brought us the ransom note, it was clear that something was wrong with the whole tamale."

"What's this got to do with Jackie?"

"Nothing. We let her go before we knew about the ransom note." He looked at Tooley.

"But...."

"I sent John up to the Paley ranch."

"For what?"

"To talk to her–privately."

"Privately."

"We knew she was up at Lucilva's in that motorhome. John went up the back way through the landing strip. He spoke to her. On my behalf." At first, it didn't dawn on Joe what Lee was saying. Lee grinned knowingly. "That's right," he said. "The girl agreed to work for us."

Joe was astounded. "In what capacity?"

"That's privileged."

"What could she do for you? She was a kid." Joe looked at Tooley, who was watching Lee as if he were about to jump in and tell it all. "Something on your mind, John?" Tooley shook his head. "What about the handcuffs?" Joe asked, his irritability welling up in the face of getting only half the story. "Is he or is he not the one who picked Jackie up on Friday?"

Lee hesitated. "He is. But he didn't kill her."

Joe recognized an opportunity, but he had to do it while they were hot on the subject. He walked to the window, looked out over the scattered Las Vegas lights. "That's not what you said before, Tom. You were as convinced as I that Tooley killed her."

"Don't try to–" Lee began.

Joe turned and squared off in Tooley's face and said: "You rape her, too, Paul?"

"Rape her? I didn't...what is he trying to do, Tom? What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him anything. He's lying to get–"

"Where'd you take her, Paul?" Joe cut in angrily, playing it up.

Tooley's head ping-ponged between Joe and Tom, dreadfully trying to figure out what Lee was up to. "I didn't do nothin', Tom. You're...you're settin' me up. You're–"

"Nobody's setting you up–sit down and shut up."

"Where'd you take Jackie, Paul?" Joe repeated calmly.

Tooley didn't answer. Joe pictured Lee giving Tooley the eye.

He had to create enough doubt in Tooley to make him talk. Joe crossed to Tooley. Tooley swallowed nervously. "He's screwin' with you."

Pitts moved from one foot to the other, glaring at Lee.

"Detective," Joe said, turning. "I'll have your ass. You're protecting someone from something. I don't know what, but I'll find out, and if you had anything to do with Jackie's murder, I'll personally see that you and officer Tooley spend the rest of your lives servicing big black men with hard-ons." Lee didn't look worried. Maybe he was innocent of any wrong-doing; then again, these cops liked poker. This was Lee's poker face.

"We got a call that Jackie was at Doone's Café," Tooley said in a monotone, "and that she was leaving on the two o'clock bus to Barstow."

"Paul," Lee said, "that's enough."

"She already agreed to help us get Josh–"

"Damn it, Paul!" Lee said, jumping to his feet. "This's none of his business!"

"I got her killed, Lee! Somehow, I got her killed!"

Joe pressed him: "What happened, Paul?"

"When Tom heard she was leaving, he ordered me to pick her up and bring her up to the station, because she'd started something that had to be finished. And it would put Josh in a position to tell us everything. We'd have him by the balls."

Tooley paused. Joe waited. Lee put his head in his hands. Pitts folded his arms, as if some of this was news to him, too.

"Jackie told Thomas...that Josh raped her."

"Josh raped her?" Joe said, feeling a surge of reality.

Tooley shook his head. "No."

"You just said–"

"I told her to tell him," Lee confessed.

"You told a seventeen-year-old girl to say Josh Paley raped her when he didn't?" Joe said, stunned by Lee's admission.

"To stir things up," Tooley explained, "right, Tom? Make Reggie go nuts, turn on the Paleys and tell us their plan."

"I don't get this," Joe said, sitting on the corner of the bed.

"You don't get it," Lee said, pacing between the window and the armchair, "because you don't live here. Paley was bankrupting us. Selling out. And then he dies–suspiciously, so conveniently –and left the problems for them government vultures to scavenge." He stopped at the window, looked out momentarily, then turned to Joe. "All she had to do was make a formal charge against Josh. If it didn't fire up Thomas to do something...." He didn't complete his thought.

"You were going to arrest Josh for a rape that didn't happen," Joe finished, disgusted, "and use it against him if he didn't tell you what you wanted to know."

Lee lit his pipe.

Tooley's face soured. "Josh killed her."