By then, the police had rigged safety lines across the swollen stream, allowing investigators to cross toward the ruins. The peripheral glare from their flashlights revealed their stark wet faces, their annoyance about their useless rain gear changing to bewilderment and then astonishment as Coltrane explained what had happened. A part of him warned that he ought to wait until he had the advice of an attorney, but he told himself that he didn’t have anything to hide. Requesting an attorney would only make it seem that he did have something to hide. If Coltrane’s original plan had worked and he had managed to ambush Ilkovic, that would have been another matter, he knew. But McCoy’s presence had changed everything. Coltrane couldn’t imagine any law-enforcement officer or district attorney wanting to arrest and prosecute someone who had risked his life defending a wounded FBI agent. So, their amazement growing, Coltrane walked them through it, showing them his disabled car and the tires that Ilkovic had shot out. He showed them where he had hidden McCoy among the charred timbers. He took them back to and across the stream, to where McCoy had been shot and where Ilkovic had later set off an incendiary device in McCoy’s car. All the while, the investigators were trying to preserve the crime scene, keeping a distance from the already-existing foot marks in the mud. As cameras flashed repeatedly, Coltrane couldn’t help thinking that everything was twisted around – he should be taking the photographs; he shouldn’t be the reason the photographs were being taken.
“Who was he?” A state police lieutenant pointed toward the body.
“Dragan Ilkovic.” Coltrane explained about Bosnia, about Daniel, Greg, and Coltrane’s grandparents.
“This guy killed an LAPD detective?”
“I hope his fingerprints are on record somewhere,” one of the medical examiner’s team said in the background. “It’s going to be hard as hell to identify him without a…”
Then the photographers were finished, and somebody set down planks so the investigators could get closer to Ilkovic’s body without making new tracks in the mud. Coltrane wasn’t sure when Nolan and Jennifer had arrived. As he turned from answering more questions, he suddenly saw them making their way through the glare of headlights and flashlights. He prepared to start reexplaining, but the first thing Nolan did was introduce himself to the officer in charge, and the first thing Jennifer did was peer from Coltrane toward Ilkovic’s corpse and take a shocked step backward.
At once, Nolan was gripping Coltrane’s arm, tugging him away. Nolan’s burly shoulders were rigid with anger. “Looks like you got a little lost, forgot where the house was. Where you were supposed to meet us. Just what the hell are you doing here?”
“There was a slight change of plan,” Coltrane said.
“You led Ilkovic out here to try to kill him.”
“Did I?”
“You think a grand jury’s going to believe you didn’t set this up?”
Coltrane shrugged wearily. “You’re right. I did come out here to kill him.”
“You admit it?”
“But then McCoy showed up, and we talked about it, and he convinced me I was wrong. But I never got the chance to leave – because that’s when Ilkovic shot McCoy. After that, it was self-defense.”
Nolan stared at him for the longest while. “That’s your story.”
“That’s my story.”
“You better hope McCoy pulls through to verify what you just told me.”
“I hope he pulls through, no matter what.”
“Just the right tone of sincerity. It might work. I think you might actually get away with this.”
“I’m not getting away with anything,” Coltrane said. “That son of a bitch shot McCoy. If not for me, McCoy would have died out here.”
“If not for you, my friend, McCoy wouldn’t have been here at all.”
Coltrane didn’t have an answer for that.
The state police lieutenant interrupted. “We’re going to have to take you back to headquarters and get your statement.”
Coltrane nodded. “Can I have a minute to talk to…” He pointed toward Jennifer, who was glancing around in dismay, totally disoriented.
The lieutenant didn’t look happy. “I don’t want you talking to anybody who isn’t associated with this investigation – not until we’re finished. If she’s involved in this, you’re not the only one who wants to talk to her.”
The next thing, Coltrane was getting into one cruiser and a policeman was escorting Jennifer to another. The vehicles, followed by Nolan’s, struggled up the muddy slope, tires slipping, drizzle glistening in the gleam of headlights.
3
AT 2:00 A.M., after five hours of questions, the state police finally told Coltrane that he could go home. “But keep us informed about anyplace you might be, and don’t leave the Los Angeles area.”
They had replaced Coltrane’s soaked, filthy, blood-covered clothes with a pair of coveralls.
“I’ll get these back to you,” he said.
“You’ll have plenty of opportunity. You’ll be seeing us often enough.”
Outside the interrogation room, Coltrane found Jennifer on a wooden bench in the hallway. Her short blond hair, still wet from the rain, was pressed against her head. Her discouraged gaze was directed toward the gray-tiled floor. She glanced up and barely nodded as he came out.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Yeah, they told me it would be okay.” Dejected, Jennifer stood. “Sergeant Nolan’s around here somewhere. He said he’d give us a ride back to Los Angeles… Mitch…”
“What?”
“Why in God’s name did you…”
Nolan came down the hallway.
Most of the hour drive back was in silence.
“You’re lucky. They told me they’re probably going to buy what you’re selling,” Nolan finally said.
“I’m not selling anything.”
“As long as McCoy backs you up, which you’re lucky about also, because the word from the hospital is that he’s going to pull through.”
Thank heaven, Coltrane thought.
“Of course, you’ll still have to convince the grand jury,” Nolan said. “But for the time being, you’ve got a break from the state police. Not you and I, though. We’re not finished. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d take you over to the Threat Management office right now. Tomorrow, you’re going to come over and explain to me why you think you’re so damned much better than me that you can jerk me around.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Save it for tomorrow.”
“There’s something I have to do first. After that, I’m all yours.”
“Something you have to do? Put it off. Believe me, there’s nothing more important than-”
“Yes, there is. Daniel’s funeral.”
The car became silent again.
“Yeah, go to the funeral,” Nolan said. “I’ll see you there. Greg’s is the day after. I’ll see you there, too. Not that there’s anything left of Greg to bury.”
“My grandparents’ funeral will probably be the day after that.”
“Maybe we ought to give you a medal for shooting the son of a bitch.”
They drove another mile in silence.
“Where do I drop you? Your place or Packard’s?” Nolan asked.
“The airport.”
Nolan visibly tensed. “You’re not supposed to leave the area.”
“The America West parking garage. I left my car there Saturday night.”
In the middle of the night, the access to the airport was almost deserted. Nolan stopped outside the parking garage.
Coltrane opened his door. “I’ll meet you at your office at four.”
“I know you will.”
Coltrane waited for Jennifer to get out with him.
She didn’t.
“Something the matter?” Coltrane asked.
“Sergeant, since we’re in the neighborhood, would you take me to my apartment in Marina del Rey?”
Nolan frowned toward her and then at Coltrane.