“They’ve been given immunity.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said they’ve been given immunity.”

“Seth, how the fuck did they get immunity?!”

“I’m not sure.  I’m trying to look into it.”

“Yeah, well, what is Hope supposed to do with the scumbags that murdered her son and raped her walking the streets like free men?”

“Listen Jay, I really don’t know.  Like I said, I’m looking into it.”

“That’s just not good enough.”

“Jay…don’t do anything…stupid.”

“Don’t count on it,” I replied, this time being completely honest, and hung up the phone.

The Santa Ana winds were rustling my curtains. They say they make people crazy.  All year the breeze comes in off the ocean, soothing and moist and cleansing, and sprinkled with tiny particulates of salt and sand.  But once a year, in September, the winds shift and blow hot and dry air from the desert over SoCal. And down here, once you get away from the coast, it turns to desert fast.  It was 9:30 am.  I had intended to get up early to surf, but couldn’t get to sleep and had had one too many beers, doing my best Phillip Marlowe impersonation, and I’d been woken up by Seth’s call. I didn’t have anything to do in the new case I was working on except maybe a couple of phone calls, though, so I put on a pot of coffee and tried to think.  Who could have given these degenerates immunity?  And why?  They had committed murder, among other disgusting things, many of them, and many times, and now they were free.  This has to be big, I thought. Real big. My first clue as to how big came in the envelope from Sacramento sitting on the table with the rest of yesterday’s mail.  Sipping my second cup, black with two sugars, because I still didn’t have any milk, I reached over and opened it, expecting to see my new PI’s license.  Instead, what I saw was a letter requesting all my credentials be refiled, as my file was somehow unable to be located.  I cursed. It wouldn’t be the first time some bureaucratic agency had misplaced paperwork, but it seemed a bit too convenient, and the letter went on to say that, as far as the state was concerned, until this matter was resolved, I didn’t have a license.  I took one more swallow of my coffee, then got on the phone with Bill, a former D.A. I knew from when I was on the force, who now had a private practice.

We chatted for a minute, which I did my best to feign interest in, then got down to business.

“Shouldn’t be a problem Jay.  I’m sure I can get you a temp ‘til this sorts out.”

“Sounds good, Bill.  That’s great,” I replied, with a nagging sense of doubt that he might be wrong.   “Nice talking to you.”

“Likewise,” he answered, and added, maybe sensing the doubt in my voice, “No need to worry.”

I thanked him, and we said goodbye one more time and hung up.  I finished my coffee and grabbed my board and headed for the beach, but the surf was flat, so I came straight back home.  I didn’t see any of the goons on my walk, but it was still early. The day was going slow. I decided to distract myself by trying to figure out how to assist my new client. It was a particularly nasty stalking case.   She was a graduate student at State who bartended here in O.B. The guy was connected, rich, and was sending in his goony friends to disrupt business during her shift to try to pressure her to restart their relationship.

I had his work number from her and the information that he wasn’t the brightest, not even for the frat-boy set he ran with. I got him on the phone and told him he’d won a night of limo-chauffeured partying from a new strip club that was opening in town, and that I needed the names of five of his friends, so I could make the arrangements.  He bit and gave me the names, and I told him he’d be hearing from me again within a week, which was true, the second part, anyway.  I called my new client –her name was Susan - and got her voice mail. I told her to go ahead and ask for ID’s next time they came in and write the names down, and the times they were there.  And if they asked, to tell them the place had been getting pressure from the cops, that it’s a new policy.  That done, I called Hope.   They told me at the shop that she had called in sick, and I called her home.  There was no answer, so I decided to head over.  I started to strap on my revolver, but with my expired P.I. license, thought better of it, and headed out the door, wondering where this was going, and pretty sure it wasn’t somewhere good.

I felt the Santa Anas on the back of my neck, and there was a slight tinge of smoke to the air from a fire that was burning somewhere out East.  As I was hoofing it over, an unmarked circled past me twice.  That seemed a little too coincidental, but I decided not to think about it until I had something more concrete to hang on to.  I got to Hope’s door, knocked, then rang the bell, then knocked one more time with no answer.  I stepped off the walk and around the cactus to her living room window and saw her sitting on the carpet with candles lit and her dagger in her right hand poised over her left hand and broke the door in.

“What the?!!” I heard her scream as she stood up holding the dagger and I saw her drop the candle she’d been apparently carving in her left hand.

“Why didn’t you answer?” I asked, already realizing I’d made a mistake.

“I was busy,” she gritted through her teeth.  “What do you want?”

“It looked like…It looked like you were going to cut yourself.”

“It looks like I did,” she answered, looking down at a trickle of blood on her left thumb.  She was wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans shorts, and as she put her thumb momentarily to her lips, in spite of the moment, I looked her up and down.

She motioned to the splintered door jamb, angrily, disturbing my reverie.  “Are you going to fix that?”

“Sure,” I answered, defeated, my eyes coming back to her eyes, and tears, if I had let them, coming to mine. “I’ll go to the hardware store right now.   And sorry, Hope.  I saw you with the knife…”

“Jay, I’m OK.  I’m not OK, but I am.” She paused, breathing.  “You’re not helping.”

“Right. Sorry,” I replied, but maybe not for the best reasons, and cursing silently to myself. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Make it two,” she replied, tensely.  “I’ll be done by then.”

Halfway down the block, the unmarked pulled up beside me.  The passenger window rolled down and a woman in a dark blue blazer leaned over from the driver’s seat.

“That was clever.”

“Thanks”, I answered, continuing to walk as the black car crept along beside me.  “Who the fuck are you?”

She reached inside her blazer and pulled out a badge.  “FBI.  Get in.”

Chapter 19 coming 4/1 (or so…)!!!