Free The Monkey's Raincoat by Robert Crais

address twice so Lou could write it down, and then about Garrett Rice and what Patricia Kyle had given me as background information. I told them what I knew about Mort from Kansas and his failing business and his heavy monthly note and his midlife crisis. It didn’t take long. Somewhere in there Simms went out and came back with three coffees. Mine was cold. When I finished, Lou said, “All right. You come up with any angles on Lang?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œEnemies?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow about connections?”
    â€œUnh-uh.”
    Simms liked that. “Sounds like you been busting your ass.”
    Lou drummed his fingers on the desk. It sounded like firecrackers going off. I’d once seen Lou Poitras dead-lift the front end of a ’69 Volkswagen Bug. “Simms said somebody went through their house last night.”
    â€œSimms knows what I know. The wife figures the husband did it. I don’t figure it that way, but it’s possible. I think somebody went in there looking for something.”
    Simms cracked a knuckle. “You think the wife’s holding out?”
    â€œNo.”
    Lou said, “What would somebody want?”
    â€œI got no idea.”
    A tall thin man in a dark gray three-piece suit walked in and gave me the checkout. He had a tight puckered face that made me think of Raid Ant & Roach Killer. He said, “This asshole works with Joe Pike?”
    I smiled at Poitras. “You two rehearse this?”
    Lou said, “Wait outside, Hound Dog.”
    Simms got up so the new guy could sit down, and Poitras shut the door behind me. It made me feel left out. The squad room was empty. Tail end of the lunch hour, all the dicks were still out scoring half-price meals. The big redhead came back with a sheaf of color copies and stopped when she saw the closed door. I was sitting behind one of the desks with my feet up, reading a
Daily Variety
. Half the desks on the floor sported show business trade papers. One of the desks even had
American Cinematographer
. These cops. She looked at me. I said, “Conference with Washington. Very hush-hush.” Then I wiggled my eyebrows. She stared at me a half a heartbeat longer and walked away.
    I got up and wandered into the locker room for more coffee. An older cop with a bad toup and lots of gold around his neck was watching
Wheel of Fortune
. The place smelled like a ripe jock but he didn’t seem to mind. I poured two cups and brought one out to the holding cell but it was empty.
    I was standing by myself in the middle of the squad room with a cup of coffee in each hand when Poitras’ door opened and Simms looked out. “I always take two,” I said. “One for me. One for my ego.”
    â€œInside. Bring a chair.”
    I put the coffees down, took a chair from beside one of the squad desks, and went in. Lou said, “Elvis, this is Lieutenant Baishe. He took over from Gianelli a couple months ago.”
    Baishe said, “He doesn’t need my pedigree.”
    I looked at him.
    Baishe was leaning into the corner behind Poitras’ desk, looking at me like he’d had to scrape me off the bottom of his shoe. Without waiting he went on, “I know about you. Big deal in the Army, security guard at a couple of studios, sucking around town with that bastard Joe Pike. They say you think you’re tough. They say you think you’re cute. They also say you’re pretty good. Okay. Here’s what we’ve got. The highway patrol up by Lancaster finds Morton Lang shot to death behind the wheel of his car, an ’82 Cadillac Seville. He’s got three in the chest and one in the temple, close range.” Baishe touched his forehead. Wasn’t much hair there to get in the way. “No shell casings in the car, but the people up there say it looks like a 9mm. There’s blood, but not a whole lot, and some peculiar lividity patterns so maybe he wasn’t popped there in his