Try Fear - By James Scott Bell Page 0,21

what happened.”

“You’ll find out when we tell you.”

“Why don’t we just cooperate?”

Zebker looked down the hallway, where a few people were milling around. “I don’t want you plodding through my crime scene.”

“Detective,” I said. “I don’t plod. I used to plod. I gave it up.”

He didn’t smile.

“And as you know,” I said, “you cannot prevent me from questioning anybody I want to question, unless you’re holding them as a material witness.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“It’s the law.”

“Listen to me carefully. You try to question anybody before I do, I’m going to arrest you. That clear?”

“Detective Zebker—”

“That’s it. Now please go talk to the mother and take her home. I’ll be in touch about the autopsy.”

“How about I take a look inside?”

For a moment I thought Zebker was going to yellow-tape my mouth.

I left before he could.

29

I HAD TO tell Kate. I was glad Eric was there, to hold her up.

“There’s no other way to say this,” I said. “It looks like Carl killed himself.”

A shudder ran down her body. Like electric ripples. Then she convulsed into tears.

“Take her home,” I told Eric. “If you have a sedative, give it to her. I’ll come by later and tell you what I can find out.”

“Why why why?” Kate said, through sobs.

Good question. She deserved an answer.

30

AFTER ERIC TOOK Kate home, I hung around outside the apartment building.

Zebker did not want me sniffing for witnesses. But what if I just sidled up to one? Any law against sidling?

What would a judge say?

The First Amendment certainly preserves the right of people to peaceably sidle.

I watched the small crowd on the sidewalk. The people were a typical L.A. knot. Different kinds, shades, and attitudes. A short woman with black hair, wearing a blouse with jungle foliage print, was talking to a guy who looked Filipino. He wore glasses with black frames.

“Was the meat a little gamey last night?” the woman said.

The guy shrugged. “You do what you got to do.”

“But it should have been fine.”

“Did you cook it slow?” I said.

They both looked at me.

“Sorry, couldn’t help overhearing,” I said. “Slow cooking, that’s best for… what was it?”

“Duck,” the woman said.

“Now I love a good duck,” I said.

“You live around here?”

“No. I’m friends with the family of the guy who died.”

“Then it’s true?” the man in glasses said. “Was it the big guy?”

“You knew him?”

“Well yeah, to look at. Say hi to. That’s all.”

“Nice guy, was he?”

“I guess,” he said. “What happened?”

“Maybe suicide.”

“Oh man.” He shook his head.

The woman looked stunned. “Bummer,” she said. “I was afraid something like this might happen.”

“Oh yeah?” I said.

She nodded. “There’s a whole Stephen King vibe going on around here. You can feel it.”

“You can,” Glasses said.

“Stephen King?” I said.

“Like in that movie with John Cusack,” the woman said.

“1408,” said Glasses. “The haunted-room one.”

“No, it wasn’t haunted,” the woman said. “It was evil. The room itself was evil. I almost felt like telling him—was his name Carl?—not to go back in the room.”

I looked at her. “When did you feel like telling him that?”

“Tonight, in the garage. He was going in. I was going out.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know, maybe seven or so.”

“Think about it,” I said.

She looked up at the sky and blinked a couple of times. “I got to Pearl’s a little before seven. I remember that because she always watches Jeopardy and it wasn’t on yet.”

“He doesn’t know who Pearl is,” Glasses said.

“Oh yeah,” the woman said. “She’s a friend, lives about fifteen minutes away. So I probably saw him about six-thirty or so. That help?”

I said, “Did he look upset to you, anything like that?”

“No. He was coming back from the store, I guess.”

“How could you tell?”

“He had a bag with him. I think it was BevMo. Everybody knows he’s a boozer.”

“How do they know that?” I said.

“More than a few nights, out by the pool, he stumbled around and made a lot of noise.”

“Thanks,” I said. It looked like the typical, sad scenario. There are a million variations but it’s all the same theme. A descent into loneliness, as his brother Eric had suggested. A slide greased by liquor or drugs or both. You look at your life and it’s not what you ever thought it would be. You look at the future and you only see fog or darkness, but not another person to share it with.

Enough of that and you figure, why stick around?

I knew the feeling. It had poured over me after Jacqueline died. No man is an island, the