The Night Crew

‘‘Mr. Harnett, this is James T. Peterson with the cleaning company. Mr. Harnett, there’s been a big break-in at your office, we called the police, but I think you better get up here.’’ Harnett arrived in a year-old Buick, the back end of the car making a t-shirt frowny face at them as it bounced over the curb into the parking lot. Norden said, ‘‘Here we go.’’
    A cop was standing by a squad car, talking on a radio. When Harnett got out of his car, the cop held a hand up to slow him down.
    Anna, Harper and Norden were sitting on a concrete picnic table at the Foster’s Freeze down the street, licking chocolate-dipped soft vanilla cones. Harnett caught Anna halfway through a lick and she almost choked: ‘‘I know him, I’ve seen him,’’ she said, excited. Harnett’s white hair stood up in a mane, as though he’d been running his hands through it; he was a heavy-set man with a rounded chin that once might have been square, wearing rumpled khaki chinos and a nylon windbreaker. ‘‘That club on Sunset, the topless Polynesian one where they had the harp player who was shot by her girlfriend . . .’’
    ‘‘Yeah, the LoBall,’’ Norden said. ‘‘It’s closed.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, but we were there to look at the shooting. He did an interview with somebody else, and I grabbed him and we did a couple of minutes. He was pretty good. He wouldn’t give us his name, that’s why it didn’t ring a bell, I remember him saying he’d rather not give his name. I thought he might have done TV . . .’’
    ‘‘White hair,’’ said Harper.
    ‘‘Yeah, but he’s kind of fat. That guy in the parking lot— he was soft, but he wasn’t fat, exactly . . .’’
    The cop slammed his car door and led Harnett into the building and out of sight.
    ‘‘How long ago?’’
    Anna looked at Norden: ‘‘Must’ve been, what, a year? Since the shooting?’’
    Norden nodded: ‘‘About that. The guys who ran the place were always in trouble with the cops, and the shooting was the last straw. I think they were open for a couple more months, and then they were out. There’s another place there now.’’
    Anna said: ‘‘Well. When he comes out, I’m gonna let him see me. See how he reacts.’’
    Harper frowned: ‘‘If he’s the guy, he’s nuts.’’
    ‘‘But there’re cops all over the place. What’s he gonna do?’’ The phone rang in her pocket, and she fumbled it out. ‘‘And if he’s the guy, it’ll freak him out. He’ll show us something.’’
    She pushed the button on the phone and a woman’s voice squeaked, ‘‘Anna Batory?’’
    ‘‘Yes?’’
    ‘‘I’m dying.’’
    ‘‘What?’’ She looked at the phone. ‘‘Who is this?’’
    ‘‘China Lake.’’ The voice seemed distant, weak. ‘‘I’m dying.’’
    ‘‘What . . .’’ She was sputtering, and Harper and Norden were looking at her curiously.
    Then a man’s voice, rougher, familiar: ‘‘She’s dying, Anna. And it’s your fault.’’
    Anna closed her eyes and squeezed the phone. ‘‘No—no.’’
    Harper, alarmed, said, ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘It’s him . . .’’

twenty-one

    ‘‘Listen to her.’’ The man’s voice was like a snake’s, a hiss of pleasure.
    Jake had bolted from the car, was running down the street toward the cop car at Harnett’s building.
    Then the woman in Anna’s ear: ‘‘Anna, he stabbed me,’’ and, less certainly, ‘‘It doesn’t hurt much, but I can’t move . . .’’
    ‘‘Where are you?’’
    ‘‘She’s around, that’s where,’’ the man said. ‘‘I saw you tonight. What are you doing—are you looking for me? If you’re looking for me, I’ll tell you what, that’s not a good idea. I’ll cut the top of your goddamn head off and eat your brains.’’
    The voice was right: the voice was the man in the parking lot, the man who’d shot Creek. Anna listened so hard it hurt, listened for anything in the background that might help her, other voices. Nothing but the hiss of the phone.
    ‘‘Anna, are you there?’’
    ‘‘I’m here,’’ she said.
    ‘‘You’re not very talkative.’’
    ‘‘I am looking for you, you asshole; and this better be a rotten joke . . .’’
    ‘‘Or what?’’ He laughed. ‘‘What’re you going to do?’’
    ‘‘I’ll kill you,’’ Anna said.
    ‘‘Oh, you’ll kill me? You hear that, China? She’s going to kill me. Here, you wanna talk?’’
    China’s voice was a whisper. ‘‘I can’t