Jimmy reached the end of the dock, then started back, wondering if Jane had been wrong. There had to be a first time. Jane had called him this morning and said she had gotten Brimley's address. Jimmy hadn't even known she was looking, which was Jane's style-she'd argue with you, say that you were wasting your time, then go behind your back and help you out.
Holt had gotten a copy of the Police Guild newsletter from the month that Brimley retired and taken down the names of the people in the party photo with him. One of them, a woman working the switchboard at his station house, said that Brimley had bragged to her at the party that he was moving into a fishing boat, going to be living the good life in a marina just north of the city. It had taken fourteen phone calls before a secretary at the Blue Water Marina in Ventura had confirmed that Leonard Brimley was a live-in.
It had been three days since his conversation with Katz; her dismissal of his theory about the death of Garrett Walsh didn't surprise him, but Holt agreeing with her-that stung. Not that Jane would ever admit that she agreed with Katz-she was too diplomatic for that. But when Jimmy told her what had happened at the gangbanging crime scene, Holt had just looked at him and asked, "What did you expect?" There was more, of course; Holt explained basic police logic to him as they sat on her patio, half naked, half drunk, watching the sun set into the ocean. Holt said that when there were two equally logical explanations, a good cop always chose the interpretation that had a coroner's report to back it up. He told her it didn't sound like Pythagoras to him. Holt just sipped her drink, one bare leg perched on the balcony railing as she looked out over the waves.
Jimmy scampered back over the security fence and onto the public sidewalk, hot and tired, his shirt sticking to his back. He should have worn shorts. Not sure which direction to go in, he took a right. Behind him he could hear a faint, steady thumping-it sounded like someone beating on a drum. He glanced around, still walking, then spotted a soft drink machine and hurried over. He fumbled in his pocket for change as he scanned the options, his throat dry. No Coke, no Pepsi, no root beer or RC Cola. Instead there was iced tea, fake-sweetened and unsweetened, four different brands of mineral water, and two sports drinks that promised to replace his electrolytes. Jimmy put his quarters back into his pocket. If it didn't rot your teeth, he wasn't interested.
Jimmy turned toward the next dock when something hit him on the side of the head, slamming him into the pop machine. He clung to the machine, clung to it like they were dancing, when something hit him again, knocking his head into the glass front of the machine. Jimmy slid slowly down to the sidewalk. He could hear the thumping sound again, louder, getting closer. He got to his knees, bleary now, blinking at the sight of a tall, muscular white man in Lakers shorts and tank top a few feet away, the silky material billowing in the breeze. He looked familiar, but Jimmy couldn't focus. The man nimbly passed the basketball from hand to hand, round and round his body. Jimmy started to rise, when the man whipped the ball from around his back and threw it into his face. Jimmy's nose exploded with blood.
"Fouled in the act of shooting. Two free throws," said the man.
Or maybe Jimmy just imagined it. He could barely hear anything with the pain and the roaring in his skull. He had fallen down again, slumped against the pop machine. He pushed himself up, trying to stand. You stay down, it was too easy to get used to it.
The basketball player stood over him, holding the ball in two hands. Set shot. He bounced the ball, once twice, three times, and Jimmy heard the pounding of drums. The natives are restless… he smiled, and then the ball smashed against his right eye, snapped him back to where nothing was funny anymore. "One point," said the player. "The crowd goes wild."
Jimmy groaned. Monotonous game. Every time he tried to get up, he found himself on the pavement again. Breathing made red bubbles, which was not a good sign.
The player was doing the round-the-world move again, the ball a blur. He acknowledged the cheers of the crowd with a goofy smile, then let loose, just as Jimmy slid down the pop machine and the ball slammed into the metal, just inches from his head. The player looked disappointed. "Off the rim," he said, his eyes filled with hate.
Jimmy watched the player take the ball back a few yards, dribbling rapidly, the ball bouncing through his legs effortlessly, keeping up a steady tom-tom beat. Jimmy knew him from somewhere. He tried to push himself off the sidewalk, but he was shaking too hard and it was raining blood. Time to stay inside, stay right where he was until the storm blew over. Jimmy shook his head. No, he couldn't stay here.
The player dribbled closer, then backed away, moved in again, then back out, a regular matador. His baggy shorts and tank top were flapping in the wind. Or maybe it was the pennants on the yachts nearby-every one of those tubs had a dozen flags on it. The player dodged left, then right, trying to attract Jimmy's attention, the ball bouncing louder now, BAM BAM BAM.
Jimmy held one hand out.
The player smiled, the ball beating against the pavement. "That's good, Jimmy. You try and block my shot."
Jimmy squinted, but his eyes kept tearing over. Who is this asshole?
"Think fast, Jimmy," said the player, dribbling closer now. "Here it comes." BAM BAM BAM. "Here it comes." BAM BAM BAM.
Jimmy watched the player, helpless. It seemed to him that the player was uncertain now, taking too much time dribbling, hesitant to take that final shot.
"You ready?" said the player, louder now, trying to convince himself. BAM BAM BAM. "You ready for it? BAM BAM BAM. "I'm going to do-"
A beefy arm reached out from behind the player, grabbed his ball hand, and jerked it behind his back, bending him forward. The player howled as an older man planted a knee in his back and drove him into the sidewalk, then deftly pulled the other hand beside the other. The older man wasn't as tall as the player, but he was a lot broader, and he moved with confidence and certainty, his takedown so fluid that it was over before Jimmy or the player realized what was happening.
The basketball bounced free, rolled over against Jimmy's foot, and stopped.
The older man snapped a pair of handcuffs around the player's wrists and dragged him over to the security fence. He glanced over at Jimmy and smiled, and it was a good smile, then he grabbed the player at the waist and lifted him high, hooking his handcuffed wrists over the top of the fencepost. The player was left suspended, his toes just touching the ground. As long as he didn't struggle, he could keep from dislocating his shoulders with his own weight.
Jimmy stared at the player up there on the post, utterly amazed.
The player was equally stunned. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
The man walked over to Jimmy, a fleshy old bear with cropped reddish blond hair, built like a wine vat, wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a pink short-sleeved shirt with crossed nautical flags on the breast pocket. He peered down at Jimmy. "How are you, son?"
Jimmy licked his lips. It hurt.
The older man knelt down beside him. He had an easygoing round face with a peeling nose and lively blue eyes. A man who liked a good joke. "What did you do to that fella I hung up to dry, anyway? First time I ever saw a basketball used as a lethal weapon."