okay? Just be done with your harassment so I can go home.”
He spread his hands. “If you insist.” He knelt by the bag, fumbled with a zipper that hadn’t worked right since I left itout under the sprinkler the previous summer. When at last it opened he reached in and pulled out a T-shirt. Joe Walsh, olive green, early eighties. “Very nice,” he said, tossing it on the ground. Next came my denim cutoffs. A pair of white socks. Cheap canvas sneakers from Payless Shoe Source. And finally, with much dramatic widening of eyes, a roll of green plastic plant ties.
It was a different interrogation room than the one on Tuesday, but most of the details were the same. Only the gouges in the table were distinctive. Someone had raked their fingernails across it after Casillas whipped their face with a rubber hose.
He and Burns had the good-cop-bad-cop thing down to a science. First he’d browbeat me for a while. Then Burns would replace him at the table and soothe me with her dulcet tones.
It was Casillas’s turn. “Jeez,” he said. “Things keep turning up on you, don’t they?”
“Listen just once more, because I’m not telling you again. I left the bag in the back of the truck at the funeral. Anybody there could have planted the ties in it. Any of the cactus people. Even Brenda’s sister. Even
you”
“Accusing L.A.’s finest of planting evidence?”
“Look,” I said. “Given that you think I’m stupid enough to shove a plant down a woman’s throat and leave the stub lying around my yard, do you really think I’m so
monumentally
stupid as to do the same kind of thing again? Talk to anybody Ask them if they ever saw me use a thin plastic tie. Everyone knows I like the soft, wide kind.”
While that statement didn’t convince anybody of anything, it was dumb enough to shut them up. I jumped into the breach. “Do you have someone watching me?”
“Watching you?” Burns said. “As in, following you around?”
“Yeah.”
The two of them exchanged looks. “You tell him,” Burns said.
“What?” I said. “Tell me what?”
Casillas pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This isn’t the only case we have to work on, you know.”
What was he doing, going for the sympathy vote? Goon.
“We’ve got a gang-killing in Venice, another over by Mar Vista Gardens, and a body dump in Ballona Creek, We’re not just working your goddamned serial succulent killer.”
“And this means what to me?”
“Everybody else around here has the same kind of caseload. You think we’ve got the manpower to spend following you around?” He and Burns swapped glances again. She frowned and shrugged her shoulders. “Why don’t you go home,” Casillas said. “And do me a favor. Don’t go finding any more dead bodies.”
“I’ll try my best.” I got up and hurried toward the door, certain he was going to call me back any second. It was a cruel joke. He would throw me in the hole. Cockroaches would be my friends.
It didn’t happen. I emerged into the hall. Burns waited long enough to let me feel stupid and came out and escorted me up front. Gina sat waiting for me in the lobby, all worried-looking. She jumped up when she saw me, hugged me fiercely, led me out to her car, and took me home.
Sometimes things get so depressing or so weird that you need something to remind you of a better time and place. Ora simpler one. When people you knew didn’t end up with spines through their hands and the only plant you put in your mouth was marijuana. Certain record albums can be counted on as such a reminder. Neil Young’s
After the Gold Rush
. Jefferson Airplane and
Surrealistic Pillow
.
At nine thirty-five on this particular Thursday evening, it was
Beggars Banquet
, which, as far as I’m concerned, was the last really good Rolling Stones album. “Parachute Woman” blasted through the speakers in my living room, and Gina’s ears perked up. “Did he say what I thought he said?”
“You mean
He spread his hands. “If you insist.” He knelt by the bag, fumbled with a zipper that hadn’t worked right since I left itout under the sprinkler the previous summer. When at last it opened he reached in and pulled out a T-shirt. Joe Walsh, olive green, early eighties. “Very nice,” he said, tossing it on the ground. Next came my denim cutoffs. A pair of white socks. Cheap canvas sneakers from Payless Shoe Source. And finally, with much dramatic widening of eyes, a roll of green plastic plant ties.
It was a different interrogation room than the one on Tuesday, but most of the details were the same. Only the gouges in the table were distinctive. Someone had raked their fingernails across it after Casillas whipped their face with a rubber hose.
He and Burns had the good-cop-bad-cop thing down to a science. First he’d browbeat me for a while. Then Burns would replace him at the table and soothe me with her dulcet tones.
It was Casillas’s turn. “Jeez,” he said. “Things keep turning up on you, don’t they?”
“Listen just once more, because I’m not telling you again. I left the bag in the back of the truck at the funeral. Anybody there could have planted the ties in it. Any of the cactus people. Even Brenda’s sister. Even
you”
“Accusing L.A.’s finest of planting evidence?”
“Look,” I said. “Given that you think I’m stupid enough to shove a plant down a woman’s throat and leave the stub lying around my yard, do you really think I’m so
monumentally
stupid as to do the same kind of thing again? Talk to anybody Ask them if they ever saw me use a thin plastic tie. Everyone knows I like the soft, wide kind.”
While that statement didn’t convince anybody of anything, it was dumb enough to shut them up. I jumped into the breach. “Do you have someone watching me?”
“Watching you?” Burns said. “As in, following you around?”
“Yeah.”
The two of them exchanged looks. “You tell him,” Burns said.
“What?” I said. “Tell me what?”
Casillas pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This isn’t the only case we have to work on, you know.”
What was he doing, going for the sympathy vote? Goon.
“We’ve got a gang-killing in Venice, another over by Mar Vista Gardens, and a body dump in Ballona Creek, We’re not just working your goddamned serial succulent killer.”
“And this means what to me?”
“Everybody else around here has the same kind of caseload. You think we’ve got the manpower to spend following you around?” He and Burns swapped glances again. She frowned and shrugged her shoulders. “Why don’t you go home,” Casillas said. “And do me a favor. Don’t go finding any more dead bodies.”
“I’ll try my best.” I got up and hurried toward the door, certain he was going to call me back any second. It was a cruel joke. He would throw me in the hole. Cockroaches would be my friends.
It didn’t happen. I emerged into the hall. Burns waited long enough to let me feel stupid and came out and escorted me up front. Gina sat waiting for me in the lobby, all worried-looking. She jumped up when she saw me, hugged me fiercely, led me out to her car, and took me home.
Sometimes things get so depressing or so weird that you need something to remind you of a better time and place. Ora simpler one. When people you knew didn’t end up with spines through their hands and the only plant you put in your mouth was marijuana. Certain record albums can be counted on as such a reminder. Neil Young’s
After the Gold Rush
. Jefferson Airplane and
Surrealistic Pillow
.
At nine thirty-five on this particular Thursday evening, it was
Beggars Banquet
, which, as far as I’m concerned, was the last really good Rolling Stones album. “Parachute Woman” blasted through the speakers in my living room, and Gina’s ears perked up. “Did he say what I thought he said?”
“You mean
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