The Monkey's Raincoat by Robert Crais

me.”
    â€œA guy doesn’t get it in the chest for no reason.”
    I sat forward. “Hey.”
    Poitras’ eyes shifted to me. There was a little bit of a smile there, but maybe not. “I’m just asking her to think back and think hard.”
    â€œI know what you’re asking her and I don’t like the way you were asking it.”
    Janet Simon snapped, “I don’t need you to defend me,” then went eye-to-eye with Poitras. “What is it you mean, Sergeant?”
    Poitras said, “It doesn’t have to be right now, but I’d just like you to see if you can remember anything Mrs. Lang or Mr. Lang might’ve said, that’s all. Okay?”
    Janet said, “Of course,” but she was a little stiff when she said it.
    The phone rang. Janet got up and went into the kitchen to answer it. Griggs grinned at me. “She’s a fine looking woman,” he said.
    â€œThere’s something between your teeth.”
    He tried to laugh it off but when he looked away I could tell he was sucking at his teeth.
    Janet came out a moment later and looked at Poitras. “It’s for you.”
    He went into the kitchen, stayed about a minute, then came out. Same frying-pan blank face. “They found her car,” he said to me. “You wanna come?”
    I nodded.
    Janet stood very still, then said, “I’d better pack for the girls. They can sleep at my place until she’s back.” She went out of the living room and down the hall without looking at us. Griggs stayed at the house while I rode over with Poitras.
    Ellen Lang’s light green Subaru wagon KLX774 was under a streetlamp at Ralph’s supermarket on Ventura in Encino, the third place on Janet Simon’s list. Ralph’s had closed at eight-thirty, so the lot was empty except for the Subaru, a radio car, and a sun-faded Galaxy 500 belonging to the night watchman, an old geez who stood out on the tarmac talking cop-shop with the uniforms. We pulled up to them and got out, Poitras flashing his shield, making sure the watchman saw it.
    Poitras said, “You got any idea how long it’s been here?”
    The old man jerked his head once, to the side. His white hair looked purple in the streetlight. So did my jacket and so did Poitras’ white Hathaway shirt. Twenty feet above us thelamp buzzed like an angry firefly. “It’s been here since before I come on,” he said.
    â€œOkay. You got the manager’s number?”
    The old guy jerked his head toward the store. “It’s inside.”
    â€œGet it. Call him and have him come out here. I wanna talk to his bag boys and stock clerks and anyone else who might’ve been out here.”
    The old guy looked scared he was getting cut out of the action. “What’s up, Sarge?”
    â€œGo call.”
    The old man frowned but nodded his head and gimped away. Walter Brennan. Out on Ventura, traffic had slowed to a crawl, drivers looking our way to see what was going on. I walked over to the car. Four bags of groceries were lined up on the back deck behind the rear seat. She’d done her shopping, then come back, and was probably approached while she loaded the bags. “Okay to try the door?”
    Poitras said yeah. One of the uniforms drifted over and stood behind me. Young guy, muscled arms, Tom Selleck moustache. I pulled on the rear door handle and it lifted. The tailgate swung out and me and the uniform stepped back.
    â€œBad milk,” Poitras said. He walked over, dug through the bags. Wilted lettuce. Wrinkled strawberries. A burst tomato. It gets hot in a sealed car on a sunny afternoon in Los Angeles. Hot enough to kill someone. Poitras finally came out with an opened pint of skim milk, like she’d had a little, just a sip while she was shopping, then sealed it up again to bring it home. I said, “Probably been here since early afternoon. Could’ve been here since I was with