She said, “So, what can I do for you, Eric?”
“Cue me in.”
“About?”
“Anything you think is important.”
Up close, Stahl’s skin was chalky. No inflection in the guy’s voice. Only a throbbing vein at his left temple hinted at ongoing body function.
“You can use that desk,” she said. “And that’s your locker.”
Stahl didn’t move. He hadn’t brought anything with him.
“How about,” said Petra, “we drive around, and I show you the neighborhood.”
Stahl waited for her to stand before he did. As they walked down the stairs, he lingered behind her. Creepy.
Schoelkopf had partnered her with a creepy robot.
They cruised down the dark boulevard. Hollywood at 4 A.M. was dotted meagerly with nightcrawlers and shadow-lurkers. Petra pointed out drug bars, illegal clubs, hangouts of known felons, taco joints where transvestite hookers congregated. If Stahl had an impression, he wasn’t letting on.
“Different from the Army,” she said.
No answer.
“How long were you in the military?”
“Seven years.”
“Where were you stationed?”
Stahl thumbed his chin and grew contemplative.
It wasn’t a trick question.
“All over,” he finally said.
“All over domestic, or all over foreign?”
“Both.”
“What,” said Petra, smiling, “were you some top-secret op? If you tell me you have to kill me?”
She glanced at Stahl as she continued to drive. Expecting at least minimal levity.
Nothing.
Stahl said, “Overseas was the Middle East.”
“Where in the Middle East?”
“Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Djibouti, Dubai.”
“The emirates,” said Petra.
Nod.
“Fun?” said Petra.
Five-second digital delay. “Not much. They hate Americans. You couldn’t bring a Bible in, or anything else that showed you were Christian.”
Aha. A born-again.
“You’re religious.”
“No.” Stahl turned away from her, stared out the window.
“Were you involved in the Cole bombing?” she said. “Stuff like that?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Nothing like that,” Petra echoed.
Stahl said, “I think that car over there is stolen.”
Indicating a white Mustang two lengths ahead of them. Petra saw nothing fishy about the plates or the way the driver was handling the vehicle.
“Do you?” said Petra.
Stahl picked up the radio and phoned a cruiser. Totally comfortable with the equipment and the LAPD codes. As if he’d been working the division for years.
Petra’s jaw hurt from conversational strain.
They rode around for another half hour in dead silence, and when Petra pulled into the parking lot, Eric Stahl said, “Anything I should do before tomorrow?”
“Show up,” she said, making no attempt to hide her irritation.
“I will,” said Stahl and he left the lot on foot, disappeared into darkness.
What, he took the bus? Or he doesn’t want me to see what kind of car he drives?
Later, before she locked up her desk, Petra called Auto Theft and found out the white Mustang had been stolen.
13
After leaving Robin’s house, I went home and got back on the computer, tried to track down China Maranga’s band mates.
The guitarist who called himself Squirt was nowhere to be found in cyberspace, but the drummer, self-titled Mr. Sludge and the bass player, Brancusi, were easy to locate.
A year ago, Sludge, née Christian Bangsley, had been condemned on the “page of shame” Web site of a music zine called misterlittle: Hot Flash: ex-Chinawhiteboy sells out, peddles junk-slop, ends up cap-pig cancerous bigtiiime!!!!
During the three years since China’s murder, Bangsley had made significant lifestyle changes: moving to Sacramento, investing a “small inheritance,” and ending up the co-owner of a small chain of “family-style” restaurants called Hearth and Home. The zine noted Bangsley’s plans to “fester and postulate this tumor of phony-fuck normanrockwellism into a malignant metastasizing !!!franchise!!!. Sludge dludes (sic) himself that he’s cleeeen, now, but he’s sludgier than ever.”
Along with the tirade, misterlittle ran before-and-after photos, and the contrast was so remarkable that I questioned the truth of the story.
During his band days, Sludge had been a scrawny, angry-eyed nightcrawler.
Christian Bangsley was well fed and Beatle-mopped, in a white shirt and tie. These eyes sparkled with contentment.
I found Brancusi on his personal Web site. His real name—shockingly—was Paul Brancusi. Local; he worked as an animator for Haynes-Bernardo, a Burbank studio, one of the major players in kids’ TV.