Free The Monkey's Raincoat by Robert Crais Page B

little picture on top of the copies. She looked at me. “What, no cracks?”
    â€œThey broke my spirit.”
    She smiled nicely. “Penny Brotman. Studio City.” And swayed away. Simms said, “Sonofabitch.”
    I took the little picture and put it in my pocket. I sneered at Simms, then gave Lou a flat look. “If we’re finished, I want to get out of here.”
    He looked at his hands. “I didn’t know he was gonna pull that, Hound Dog. I’m sorry.”
    â€œYeah.”
    I went back along the short hall, down the flight of stairs and out through the reinforced door. Nothing had changed. The Chicano guys still stood by the front desk, the white kid still murmured into the phone. People came in and went out. A fat woman bought a Coke; it wasn’t a diet drink. A black cop with heavy arms led a man past the desk and through swinging doors. The man’s fragile wrists were cuffed. There were knots in my trapezius muscles and in my latissimus dorsi and my head throbbed. I went up behind the kid on the phone and stood very close. He looked at me. Then he murmured something into the phone, hung up, and sat on one of the wooden benches with his head in his hands. I dialed Janet Simon and let it ring. On the thirty-second buzz she answered, breathless. I said, “Does Ellen Lang have any close relatives nearby? Sister or mother or something like that?”
    â€œNo. No, Ellen doesn’t have any relatives that I know of. She’s an only child. I think there could be an aunt back in Kansas, but her parents are dead. Why?”
    â€œCan you meet me at her house in twenty minutes?”
    There was a long pause. “What is it?”
    I told her. I had to stop once because she was crying. When I was through I said, “I’m on my way,” then I hung up. I stood with my hand on the phone for several seconds, breathingdeeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth, making my body relax. After a while, I went over to the kid on the bench, said I was sorry, and put a quarter on the bench beside him. It was shaping up as a helluva day.

10

    At twenty minutes before three I pulled into Ellen Lang’s drive and parked behind Janet Simon’s Mustang. Ellen’s Subaru wasn’t there. I went to the front door and knocked. Out on the street, cars driven by moms went past, each carrying kids home from school or off to soccer practice. It was that time of the day. Pretty soon Ellen Lang would turn in with her two girls. She’d see the Corvette and the Mustang and her eyes would get nervous.
    I knocked again, and Janet Simon opened the door. Her hair was pulled back and large purple sunglasses sat on top of her head. Every woman in Encino wears large purple sunglasses. It’s
de rigueur
. She held a tall glass filled with amber liquid and ice. More ice than liquid. She said, “Well, well. The private dick.” It wasn’t her first drink.
    Ellen Lang had made the house spotless for Mort’s return. Everything was back in its place, everything was clean. The effort had been enormous. Janet Simon brought her drink to the couch and sat. The ashtray beside her had four butts in it. I said, “You know when she’ll get home?”
    Janet Simon fished in her pack for a fresh cigarette, lit it, and blew out a heavy volume of smoke. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. Maybe I’d spoken Russian without realizing it and had confused her.
    â€œIn a while. Does it matter?” She took some of the drink.
    â€œHow many of those have you had?”
    â€œDon’t get snippy. This is only my second. Do you want one?”
    â€œI’ll stay straight. Ellen might appreciate coherence from the person telling her that her husband is dead.”
    She looked at me over the top of the glass, then took some of the cigarette. She said, “I’m upset. This is very hard for me.”
    â€œYeah. Because you loved Mort so much.”
    â€œYou