chapter thirty-two

I spat the name Harvey Pink into the California Department of Justice voice-activated information network and got a hit. Pink’d been popped three times before 2030. Like many an addict in need of cash to fuel his habit, he’d strewn criminal breadcrumbs all over town, jacking money from an unlocked car here, perpetrating a little B&E there. On collar number three, Pink had spent some time behind bars.

That must have been where he found God. Pink was paroled September 1, 2041. Upon release, he’d suddenly demonstrated an obsession with pro-life activism, practically taking up residence outside Genesys. Pink already had a protest-related citation for rock throwing and a recent restraining order against him.

“The rock throwing fits with what Maclaren told me about somebody exercising his pitching arm on Lee’s windows,” I said.

“We’ll need to get hold of those Genesys security disks too,” Shin said. “We have to at least consider the option this Harvey Pink is behind it all, but I don’t buy it.”

“Agreed. He vibes too small time for a double-homicide perpetrator,” I said. “And a guy who gets caught on petty theft and B&E isn’t smart enough to engineer these two deaths.”

I linked to the county probation department and traded Pink’s name and DOJ number for his current address.

Shin nodded. “Plus, why would he target the Devonshire girl? If he did.”

I paused. “Let’s ask him.”

An hour later we found Pink’s address on a converted garage tucked away on a rundown street in Van Nuys. The street had peeling paint on all the houses and multiple cars spilling out of the driveways. Other vehicles sat on blocks on the parched lawns.

The bell on the house with Pink’s address didn’t work. Shin knocked, but Pink didn’t answer. He hadn’t bothered to put any curtains on the windows, so I walked around the place and peered in. A sagging couch with stains on the faded green fabric, and a folding card table with scratched legs, were the only furniture in the living room—except for a 2041 4D virtual reality wall-film television so new the sticker was still on the bottom corner. Some ultimate caged fight was playing—Apollo Silver versus some other steroidal wonder. This set up would put the viewer ringside—close enough to feel the streams of sweat and blood shooting off the fighters.

The goggle-eyed Oculus VR helmet that made a viewer look like a black lacquered praying mantis had fallen to the floor. Pink was slumped on the couch in front of the screen. His head had fallen back. His mouth was open, and there was drool all over his already none too clean T-shirt.

A smear of greenish white powder lay on a piece of cardboard next to the spoon and matches he’d used to cook the drug and the dirty syringe that must have injected it not long ago. Pink had the sickly greenish yellow pallor, loose skin, and rotting teeth that brand all long-time slaves to the Green Demon.

“Green Ice,” Shin said. “That explains the minimalist décor. The furniture probably went to pay for his habit.”

I nodded. “So, where’d he’d get the cash for the TV?”I activated my glove phone and shot a little footage of Pink at home, making sure he was clearly visible in the same frame as the drugs. Drug use was a major parole violation. That gave us probable cause to enter. I turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked, so I let us in.

“Hey, whaddya doing?” He raised his bleary-eyed head and struggled to get up, but the drug in his veins pinned him down. “Who the fuck are you?” Pink yelled in a slurred voice. Recognition slowly swam through the glaze in his eyes. “Oh shit.”

While Shin went through the rest of the house, I pulled Pink to his feet, shoved him up against the wall, spreading his legs with my foot, and patted him down. “Wake up, Harvey,” I said, spinning him round. “We’ve met before. Outside Genesys. Remember? I’ve got some questions for you.”

When I spun him around again and released him abruptly, Pink thumped back into his seat on the couch and oozed back down into his former semi-recumbent posture.

I loomed over him. “What were you doing in Clara Vista last Friday, Harvey?”

“Clara Vista?” Pink’s face showed a lot of rapid blinking and a mouth gaping open like a fish. “I doan know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I have security footage from the casino parking lot if that’ll help jog your memory,” I said. “So, let’s try again. What were you doing there?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.” He rubbed his eyes.

“My case, my business. And you violated parole here, Harvey.” I reached down for the piece of cardboard under Pink’s used syringe on the table, flipping it over. The cardboard serving as the base for Pink’s works had been torn from a box housing what looked like the TV remote. Only half a picture of something black with the words “titanium alloy” remained.

I picked up the remote. It was black plastic inside what looked like a titanium casing. “Nice TV,” I said. “Expensive, huh?”

“Hey, give that back.” Pink grabbed for the remote.

“You’ve got a real bug problem, Harvey. Cockroaches. Let me help you with that.” I let the remote drop to the floor and stomped on the black plastic. The image on the screen of the two fighters froze.

“Aww—fuck!” Pink groaned. With difficulty, he pulled himself up to an upright sit and shot me an angry glance.

No way this guy had taken out Lee on his own. Not to mention Frank. I ground the broken plastic with my heel. “Last Friday, Harvey. Clara Vista Casino. Your memory coming back yet?”

That’s when he rushed me. And somehow managed to smash his balls into my fist. Pink shrieked, sank to his knees, and groaned again.

“Everything okay, Eddie?” Shin’s voice called out from the back of the house.

“Fine, here.” I waited for Pink’s eyes to roll back into place and his breathing and color to resume.

“We’re talking homicide of a retired cop,” I said, “and murder one of a world-renowned scientist you’re on record for harassing. You’ll never see the light of day again, Pink.”

“What?!” he cried. “I didn’t kill anybody!”

The image on the casino security disks played back in my head—Pink kneeling down to put something under the chassis of Lee’s car—dissolving into the fireball that had been Frank’s Toyota.

“You tampered with that Lexus in Clara Vista,” I snapped. “You caused that crash. That’s murder, Pink.”

“That’s right.” Shin nodded from the doorway.

Pink was looking confused now. Anxiety was mounting on his face.

“We don’t want to charge you with murder, but we will.” I shoved him deeper into the cushions of the couch. “What did you put under the chassis?”

“I didn’t mean for anybody to die,” he whined, eyes richocheting back and forth between Shin and me. “I swear I didn’t.”

I stepped back and regarded him. Pink’s defiant posture collapsed like a balloon losing air all at once.

“You know what, Harvey? I believe you.”

“Me too,” Shin echoed. “You’re just the fall guy.”

“But unless you tell us what you put under that car,” I continued, “and the name of the person who hired you to put it there, you’re going down anyway.”

“Don’t make me go back,” he pleaded. Pink leaned down, arms over his head. He wiped the snot from his nose with the palm of his hand.

“It’s looking bad for you, Harvey. Help yourself here.”

“I didn’t even know whose car it was until I saw the news that night,” he whined, wringing his hands, tears streaming down his filthy face. “It was supposed to be a joke—you know. He said the owner of the Lexus was screwing around on his wife, and they wanted to catch him in the act, and put it on the net.”

“He?”

“The guy who paid me to stick a GPS tracker under the car.”

Pink pointed to the bagged remnant of cardboard box that had been under his works, the one that looked like a television remote. “There’s the box for the tracker. Part of it anyway.”

“Who’s the guy?” I said, eyeing the cardboard. The brand name had been torn off too. There was no identifier on it. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know his name,” Pink wailed. “Not his real name. His tag’s Apollo.”

“Right.” I glanced back up at the television wall screen with the frozen image of the caged fighters, one of whom was named Apollo Silver. Pink wasn’t even a good liar.

“How’d you meet this Apollo?”

“At an NA meeting,” Pink stammered. “I was clean. I swear. He’s the one got me started using again.”

“Describe him,” I said, “this guy you met at Narcotics Anonymous.”

“Young, Asian, not so tall as you. I think he’s prob-ly a med student cuz of the T-shirts,” Pink said, his head moving up and down like an antique bobble-head toy. “He always wears these T-shirts with equations and shit. And he’s got money. Rides a nice bike. A rice rocket.”

Shin and I exchanged a glance. Then I pulled up a sixpack of pictures on my glove phone, swapped one out for another shot, and held it out for Pink to see. “Any of these guys Apollo?”

He blinked a few times and peered, eyes narrowed. “Him. I think it’s him.” Pink pointed to the headshot on the bottom right.

“You think, or you know, Harvey?”

“It’s him. It wasn’t me. I swear.”

I looked down at the picture of the surly kid Pink had identified. I showed it to Shin. The picture was Raymond Lee.