Home from the funeral, Maurice ground some Ethiopian Fancy coffee and prepared it in his French press, enjoying the warmth of the glass on his hands. The phone rang. LAPD exchange showing on caller ID. “Detective Kim,” Maurice said. Kim was a big Korean American who had wrestled in high school. He had a round open face but when he was unhappy he looked as if he had smelled something bad. Maurice knew he made Detective Kim unhappy. “Mr. Pikar,” Kim said. “You wanted me to call?” Simon, in socks, padded into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of coffee. The big Israeli poured a cup and went back upstairs. Faintly, Maurice could hear The History Channel. Simon watched a lot of the History Channel. “I’m looking for some information on a case,” Maurice said gently. “Robert Brown. Killed September 21.” “Got him.” A pause. “Yeah, I guess I can send you stuff.” Kim had inherited Maurice. For years, Abe Tilley had been Maurice’s connection at LAPD, and the relationship had been different. The people Maurice was hunting had been younger. He and Abe had been younger. But years had passed and Abe was at a good Jewish nursing home. Now Maurice dealt with Detective Kim, whose corruption made him sad. Maurice said, “Did anyone find a gun at the scene? An old gun.” “A gun? No. Lot of shell casings. It’s in the file. I’ll send them to you, Mr. Pikar.” The clattering of a keyboard. “You know, there’s a guy I know, smart guy, he poked his head in on the case. He might have some stuff not in the file.” Something in Maurice sat up, the hunter. “Is this part of your…extracurricular activities, Kim?” “No! Nothing…no, Mr. Pikar. It’s a U.S. Marshall working with us on a gang-related taskforce. Anyway, he was interested in this thing, too. Let me call Don and get back to you if I turn anything up, okay? And ask if they found a gun and it, maybe, got lost or something.” Meaning, got set aside to be planted on someone. Although no jury in the world would believe a gang-banger packing an 1851 Navy Colt. Well, maybe Orange County. “Yes,” Maurice said. “That would be excellent. That would be above and beyond.” “Thank you, Mr. Pikar.” “You know, I just got a shipment of the Mark XIXs,” Maurice said. There was a pause. “The Desert Eagle?” “Black oxide finish and chrome. It’s lovely. You should come out and take a look. Or I could drop a catalogue in the mail.” Detective Kim was a gun collector on a cop’s salary. “I’d really love to see the matte chrome,” Kim said, his voice so quiet Maurice could barely hear him. “I’ll drop the catalogue in the mail,” Maurice said. He would send the gun to Kim’s home address, along with $1,000 for the file. “Thank you,” Kim said. “No,” Maurice said. “Thank you.”
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