Violent Spring by Gary Phillips

Author:Gary Phillips
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

IN THE MORNING Monk received a message from one of the attorneys in Maxfield O’Day’s office. O’Day would be in touch with him on Thursday when he got back to town. No, they hadn’t as yet been able to pierce the paper veil as to who were the true owners of Jiang Holdings.

He called Luis Santillion, but he was out again. Yes, they’d told him he’d called the other day, and yes, they’d tell him he’d called again.

Down at the library, Monk spent some time poring over phone books covering the cities that made up the greater Los Angeles area. He found a Bart Samuels in Redondo Beach, one in Santa Monica and one out in Diamond Bar. Monk wanted to find out from him if he really did tell the cops he hadn’t seen Grimes bring the gate down on his car. There was no listing of a residence for Stacy Grimes.

Monk drove out to the address in Santa Monica. It was on a street south of Pico and east of Lincoln, the more working class section of the trendy city by the sea. The apartment was a rambling two-story complex fenced in by a water-damaged wooden fence. Monk read the mail boxes and, in blue-and-white Dynamo lettering, found the listing for Samuels.

He walked to the apartment and knocked. No response. If it was the right Samuels, he’d be sitting in Cerberus’ belly this fine sunny day, working on his tan.

Would he come straight home after work? Stop for a drink? Go by the gym and pump some iron? Maybe swing by the old lady’s pad and spend the evening with her? Too many variables. Maybe any one or two of those things in combination. And it meant one thing. The number-one pain-in-the-ass part of detective work Monk abided. Stake the fucking place out.

Problem number one was the apartments had a carport off the alley in the rear. But the alley was too conspicuous a spot for Monk to park his Galaxie. Which meant parking in front. Problem number two was Samuels knew his car. Which meant parking far enough away to not be spotted and yet be able to keep an eye on the complex.

Monk left and bought two sandwiches at a stand and returned. He repositioned the car down the block and waited. Early on when he was bounty hunting, he’d ignored advice from Grant and used to bring a large thermos of coffee on stakeouts. So, of course, after downing half of the contents of the container, he’d have to relieve himself.

It was on one such occasion, watching for a bail jumper at his mother’s house, that Monk had to leave his car and find a secluded spot to pee. When he got back to his car, he knew the jumper had been and gone because the mother’s car was then absent from the driveway.

Monk eased down into the Galaxie’s seat. He emptied his mind, concentrating on being at one with his environment. Zen and the art of surveillance.

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