NYPD Red

Chapter 36



I GOT TO GERRI’S DINER a few minutes after 5:00. Business was brisk, but they weren’t so busy that I couldn’t eyeball every booth, every table, and every counter stool. Cheryl wasn’t in, at, or on any of them.

“You want some breakfast, Zach?”

It was Gerri Gomperts herself. Gerri is a Force of Nature—tiny enough to fit into a twenty-gallon soup pot and tough enough to single-handedly take on a junkie who was so strung out that he tried to rob a diner around the corner from a police precinct. Turned out Gerri didn’t need a cop. She whacked him across the forehead with a hot spatula. The poor guy needed forty stitches before they could even book him.

“No thanks, Gerri,” I said. “Just a large coffee to go.”

“We’re all out of coffee to go,” she said. “We only have coffee you can drink here.”

I looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, Zach. I’m meddling. It’s what I do. Now go sit in that corner booth over there till that gawjus lady shrink comes out of the restroom. She just ordered breakfast.”

I sat at the booth and two minutes later the restroom door opened and the shrink stepped out. I had to agree with Gerri. Cheryl was gawjus.

“You again,” she said, sitting across from me. “I saw the mayor’s press conference last night, so I’m not surprised you didn’t get much sleep.”

“It wasn’t the mayor who woke me up at four in the morning,” I said.

“Don’t tell me your new partner is still keeping you awake.”

“No,” I said, “this time it’s her husband.”

I told her Spence’s middle-of-the-night theory, sparing no detail. “And when I finally said to him that the actual city of Los freakin’ Angeles can’t be the criminal mastermind behind these murders, and I asked him if he’s got a lead on a human suspect, guess what he says?”

She smiled. “I’m going to go with…‘That’s your job, Detective Jordan.’”

I pounded my hand on the tabletop and the silverware jumped. “That’s exactly what he said. Damn, you’re good.”

“Thanks, but that was too easy. The way you set it up, there was only one answer.”

“So what do you call that—you know, what Spence is doing?” I asked. “Is it passive-aggressive behavior?”

“I don’t think so. He sounds pretty genuine. I think he really wants to help.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, “but there are four million people in LA. Why doesn’t he call me once he’s narrowed it down?”

“The mayor made the usual promises last night about working around the clock, blah, blah, blah, and bringing about a swift conclusion to this tragedy,” she said. “Where are we really?”

“Somewhere between desperate and deep shit. We don’t even have enough on this guy to ask you to do a profile.”

“I’m sure you’ve already figured out that he’s someone on the periphery of show business who hates the business and everyone in the inner circle,” she said. “Which narrows it down to every actor, writer, and waiter in the Tri-State Area.”

“Unless Spence is right,” I said, “and he’s on loan from the LA Chamber of Commerce.”

“Can I change the subject for a minute?” she said.

“Sure.”

“How do you feel about opera?”

“Sounds like one of those trick shrink questions,” I said. “If Zach is a cop, and he likes opera, then he’s got as much chance of cracking this case as he has of finding a vegetarian pit bull.”

You keep working at it, you get the million-dollar smile. I got it.

“A friend of mine had to go out of town and she gave me two tickets to see La Traviata,” she said.

“And let me guess—you love opera, but none of your friends do.”

“Actually, I hate opera…I take that back. I only went once, twelve years ago, and I walked out after three hours, and I think they still had another seventeen and a half hours to go. But I’ve got these tickets, and I’m trying to broaden my cultural horizons. Kind of a post-Fred renaissance.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I have to be honest with you. I’ve never been. I know all the clichés like ‘it ain’t over till the fat lady sings,’ but I’m a virgin.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly ask someone who loves it. I’d be stuck there. But if you go, we can make a deal. If one of us hates it, we’ll stay—at least for a while. If both of us hate it, we bail out, and go bowling, or find a tractor pull somewhere.”

“In my case, a tractor pull would actually broaden my cultural horizons. When?”

“Saturday night.”

“If I’m not still chasing maniacs, it’s a date.”

We sat and talked for another half hour. By the time I had to leave, I was sure of one thing—Cheryl Robinson was ready for her post-Fred renaissance. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to be part of it.