"Expecting a call, Mr. Hobbs? Oh, shot in the dark, a call from Sheriff Babitt?"
One casual wave of Oren's hand took in the surrounding paper storm. "Did you share all of this with the sheriff?"
Swahn set his own bottle on a table by a chair, but he remained standing. "I gave him everything that might help with the investigation."
"But not everything, right? You held out on him."
"Is that what Babitt told you? I suppose this means I'm on his shortlist."
"I'm sure you are." Oren glanced at the phone. How long did it take the sheriff to make a simple call? He chose his next words carefully, aiming to rattle and topple a cripple. He studied the man's face, hoping for giveaway tics and other tells when he said, "A cane makes a good weapon."
Swahn never blinked, nor did he miss a beat. "That it does." He leaned his walking stick against a small table and made an effort to stand up straight, though it caused him pain, and he could not quite achieve it. One shoulder was lower than the other because of one leg twisted inward. The hand that had held his cane was empty but still frozen in a curl. Beginning with the scarred face, all the damage ran down the left side of Swahn, a man broken by half. "You thought I might do a lot of hiking in the woods?"
"If my brother's grave is near a road-you'll make my shortlist."
The man retrieved his cane. "So Josh was buried… and Sheriff Babitt said more than you let on." The atmosphere of the room had changed; the air was charged. "He also passed along some old rumors, didn't he?" The tip of the cane rose in a warning. "Please don't deny it. I'm aware that he's been digging into my past. So now you think you know all about me." Swahn lightly touched his scar, the jagged A, a show-and-tell exhibit for AIDS. "And you've just got to know-in addition to my other crimes- rampantly fucking men and spreading disease-was I also in the habit of diddling young boys in the woods?"
"Were you?"
The telephone rang, and Swahn ignored it, though it sat on a small table only inches from his hand. "I believe it's for you."
On the third ring, Oren rose from the floor and approached the phone, skirting the man. He picked up the receiver and said, " Hobbs." After listening to the sheriff for less than a minute, he answered the only question. "No, that's not a case of cops being tidy."
Hanging up on Cable Babitt, he turned to his host. "About those old rumors. It surprised the hell out of your ex-partner when he found out you were gay. Jay Murray heard that rumor during his interrogation by Internal Affairs-after you were attacked. So tell me if I've got this right. You believe a whole precinct full of cops conspired against you for being a gay man with AIDS." Oren splayed his hands. "But your own partner never heard that rumor? How is that possible?"
"I can't discuss this with you."
"Of course not. You signed a nondisclosure agreement with the LAPD. Lots of money at stake if you talk." Oren sat down on the couch and stretched out his legs. "You and Jay Murray rode together for a year. All that time, and it never occurred to him that you were gay. He just took you for an overeducated geek, an awkward kid who had no shot with women. You don't believe that? You were a rookie. So your first partner would've been an older guy, a mentor. I bet Murray gave you more advice about women than police work. Am I right?"
He was right. He could see the first fault line in Swahn's composure. Gears were shifting behind the man's eyes as he considered this one true thing.
"You were set up that night." Oren raised his beer bottle and took a swig. "You were just wrong about everything else." He pointed at the scar on Swahn's face. "Cops had nothing to do with that."
Ah, this was heresy. Was the man gripping his cane a little tighter with that damaged hand? Yes. But Swahn said nothing. Continued silence was worth millions, and Oren was counting on that. He could bang away at his leisure and never have to dodge a counterpoint.
"Your ex-partner made some cash for calling in sick that night. I'll tell you how I know. According to Murray 's tax records, he left the force without a pension. He was terminated right after you were ambushed. That's what the sheriff called to tell me. So there was no time for a formal department hearing. That's how I know Jay Murray lost his pension in a plea bargain. He was looking at jail time for taking a bribe, and there had to be solid evidence. Detectives probably tossed his place and found the payoff money. You think Murray knew what was going to happen to you that night? Give me a break. Calling in sick was like painting a target on his own chest. So what's left? The dispatcher, who conveniently disappears before she can make a sworn statement-a civilian dispatcher. And that's how I know-when you called in for help that night-you got the same woman who sent you into that ambush."
Oren knew that he had guessed right when the man's eyes flickered with new interest.
"Swahn, you can't believe that cops passed the hat around the station house for the dispatcher's go-away money. Maybe you think they killed her?" Could he be more sarcastic? No. "Cops are not that stupid." He stared at the scar on Swahn's face. "And whoever did that to you is smarter than you are. That's one case that'll never be investigated."
He saw confusion in Swahn's eyes, fleeting-gone now.
"The dispatcher never relayed your call for help. Those cops you hate so much, they never knew you were in trouble. If they had, they would've turned out for you that night. And they would've turned LA upside down to find the guy who hurt you. But you closed the case yourself-the day you took the settlement, the hush money."
The older man's stance was weighted to one side, and it seemed that the breath of one more word might knock him down. But no.
Resurrection time.
"Old business," said William Swahn, too cavalierly dismissing a quarter-century of hatred for every cop ever born. His lips pressed together in a line of new resolve-fresh anger. Oren would not be allowed to get away with attacking this very personal mythology. That much was in the man's face.
Payback was coming.
"Let's return to the case at hand… your dead brother. Poor Joshua." Swahn settled into the nearby chair and stared at his cane, hefting its weight in one hand and paying special attention to the heavy silver handle. "You're right. This is a good weapon. And, since you favor the idea of death by bludgeoning, that tells me there were no bullet holes in Josh's remains. Too bad. You see… the seclusion factor always troubled me. Privacy for a murder can be had in any enclosed space. Why would the killer pick a meeting place in the deep woods? Obviously, he wasn't worried about the sound of gunfire. No gun. Maybe he didn't want anyone to hear the screams. Some murders, the crudest, the most perverted kind, require more privacy-more time. I was hoping it was a quick death. Apparently… it wasn't."
First blood from a master of retaliation.
Oren settled to the floor and sat there-very still. His own scream was an interior noise that only he could hear.
And Swahn was not done with him yet.
The man was leaning toward Oren and into that range for exchanging ugly little secrets, almost whispering when he asked, "Did your brother seem apprehensive that day? Josh asked you to come with him, didn't he?"
No. In fact, it had been Oren's idea to go along on that hike.
"So you started out together that morning," said Swahn. "And then you left your little brother. You left him there all alone in the deep woods. I always wondered why."
Oren closed his eyes. He was not remembering it; he was reliving it. From the moment they entered the woods, Josh only wanted to get away from his older brother.