Grave Endings Read Free

relationship warmed up to tepid several months ago when I proved helpful in an investigation that he and Enrico Hernandez were running. I would have preferred talking to Hernandez, who has more class and less attitude, but he was on vacation. And tepid is better than frigid, which is how I’d characterize my relationship with Wayne Berman, who handled Aggie’s murder and has since retired and who never returned any of my calls even before he did.
    â€œBut why didn’t Creeley
sell
the locket?” I’d been brooding about the locket and Creeley all weekend. “Or pawn it? He could have used the cash to feed his drug habit.”
    Porter kneaded his forehead in exaggerated concentration. “Connors says the locket’s inscribed to your friend, right? I’m going out on a limb here, but could it be that he didn’t want to get nailed for the murder?”
    I ignored his sarcasm. “Then why didn’t he dump it? Why would he be interested in a locket with an image of Rachel’s Tomb?”
    â€œYou must have been a joy in school with all those
whys.
” Porter’s expression was dour. “Maybe he thought it was his lucky charm. You’re the one who said the red thread’s supposed to protect people.”
    â€œThat’s a mystical
Jewish
belief,” I reminded him. “Was Creeley Jewish?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen it wouldn’t mean anything to him.”
    Porter’s answer was a shrug.
    â€œBy the way, where did they find Creeley?” I asked. “Connors didn’t say.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference?”
    â€œJust curious.” I wasn’t about to tell Porter about the alternating images that had been running in my head since Connors’s visit. Creeley lying in the gutter of a narrow, litter-strewn alley, jerking in the final throes of a drug-induced death. Creeley writhing in his roach-infested apartment. I wasn’t sure which one I liked better.
    â€œHe was on his bedroom floor,” Porter said. “Does that do it for you? Can I go back to playing detective and earn my salary?”
    Obviously, any points I’d earned months ago with Porter had expired. “What was Creeley like?”
    â€œDead.” Not a hint of a smile.
    â€œConnors told me he was a career criminal.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œCan I see his jacket?”
    â€œConnors’s?”
    I had to admit Porter did deadpan well. I dug my nails into my palms. “Creeley’s.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWhy do you want to see it, anyway?”
    We’d graduated from monosyllables to sentences. I supposed that was progress, but Porter’s crankiness was beginning to grate. “I’d like to know something about the man who killed Aggie. Is that so hard to understand?”
    Porter sighed. “No, it isn’t. You wait all these years for us to find the guy who killed your best friend, and then he shows up dead. I’m sorry. I really am.”
    His unexpected compassion made my eyes well. I decided I preferred his sarcasm. “I want to know why he did it. Why Aggie.”
    â€œSometimes there is no big answer. Creeley was a bad guy when he was alive, now he’s a
dead
bad guy. That won’t bring your friend back, but at least the streets of L.A. are safer. Who knows how many other people he’s killed, or would have killed?”
    I’d been focused on Aggie and hadn’t considered that possibility. “He’s a suspect in other murders?”
    â€œNot what I said.”
    I leaned forward. “C’mon, Detective Porter. Why can’t I see his jacket? He’s dead.”
    â€œFor one thing, my showing it to you would be a misdemeanor. And like I said, there’s nothing in it that will give you the answers you’re looking for.”
    â€œMaybe it’ll give me some closure.”
    â€œClosure isn’t all that it’s cracked up to