“In the pipeline.”
“Well, when you do, it won’t have my prints on it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Cops know to wipe them off. Possession. It was in your fuckin’ pocket. Fly that one.”
Laudati tried to rein the situation in. Grant was impressed with how calm he could appear when inside he must have been as frustrated as his partner.
“What were you doing at the bank?”
An open question. Good. Nothing Grant could say yes or no to. It was a question that required an answer or a refusal to comment. Grant decided to loosen his grip on the interview.
“Looking for a friend.”
“What friend?”
Another open question. Good. Part of the four Ws: when, where, why, how. That last one only counted in the abstract, like the three Rs of reading, writing and arithmetic. Grant was impressed.
“Can’t say.”
Costillo put a spoke in the wheel of Laudati’s progress.
“This ain’t no PI gig, Fuckface. You can’t claim detective-client privilege.”
“I won’t say then.”
“Same thing applies.”
“Does it? I thought one of my rights was to remain silent.”
Laudati put on a strained smile. The smile was wearing thin. His voice remained affable, but there was steel in the words.
“Okay, Jim. I can understand you not wanting to say too much until you know what’s going on. Let me lay it out for you. After one more question.”
Costillo huffed in the corner. Grant folded his arms across his chest. Laudati leaned forward on the table. He spoke slowly so that each word could carry its full weight.
“What were you doing at the girl’s cabin yesterday?”
The room fell silent.
You could have heard a pin drop, even on the very expensive carpet. If there had been a clock on the wall, it would have been ticking quietly in the background. If the two detectives had attempted to bribe Grant with a Diet Pepsi, he would be taking a drink of it right now. He felt thirsty.
“Looking for a friend.”
“Same friend you were looking for at the bank?”
“Could be.”
“Same friend who has gone missing and whose cabin has been ransacked?”
Ransacked was putting it a bit strong, but Grant didn’t fall into the trap of disagreeing. Any admission of seeing the inside of the cabin would put him at the scene of the crime.
“Could be. Doesn’t mean she’s missing.”
“There’s blood on the carpet. When we get it analyzed and it comes back as Angelina Richards’ blood, you’re in deep shit.”
Grant couldn’t argue with that, so he fudged around it instead.
“Hope they’re as fast as CSI: New York then. ’Cause back in Yorkshire it used to take weeks.”
Laudati finally put a hard edge into his voice.
“You’re not in Yorkshire. You are in the U S of fucking A. And I’m trying to find a teenage girl who looks to be missing with extreme prejudice.”
Grant didn’t correct the mixed metaphor. He was beginning to get worried about Angelina Richards himself. His primary motive for not reporting the disappearance before was because he didn’t truly believe she’d been abducted from the cabin. He still wasn’t convinced. But the situation had developed beyond having to protect the reputation of a US senator and the chief of police. Maybe it was time to come clean.
There was a loud knock on the interview room door. Laudati got up and opened it a crack, then stood back, shocked. He waved Costillo to step out of the room with him and closed the door. Grant waited, concern furrowing his brow. This didn’t look good.
When the door opened again, it wasn’t Laudati and Costillo who came back in. A lone man in dress uniform entered and closed the door behind him. A powerful man in the Los Angeles Police Department. Grant leaned back in his chair and waited to hear what the police chief had to say.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sherman Gillespie was fifty-five years old and had been the LAPD chief of police for the last three of those years. Grant recognized him from the photos in Senator Richards’ home and from snippets he’d seen on the news. Grant’s research before coming down from Boston suggested the chief was neither the best nor the worst that the LAPD had endured. Endured was a term he always applied to bosses who had climbed so far up the ladder that they’d forgotten what police work was all about.
The best chiefs allowed street cops to get on with their jobs with minimal interference while deflecting the shit heaped on them from the politicians. Target figures. Changes in the law that benefited criminals over victims. Budget cuts and tighter reins. The worst chiefs were simply rubber stamps for whatever the politicians wanted to do while feathering their own nests and fermenting political ambitions. Chief Gillespie fit somewhere in between.
Until now.
“Senator Richards is a good friend of mine.”
Grant watched Gillespie cross the room and stand in front of the table.
“And I will not tolerate or condone any action that puts either him or his family in jeopardy.”
Grant watched Gillespie’s face for any hint of the chief’s true meaning. Men with political leanings always had two agendas: the one they declared and the one behind the scenes. Declaring an interest in protecting Angelina Richards was simply covering the fact that if Richards fell, so did the chief; therefore, his hidden agenda was self-preservation. That didn’t show on his face. He seemed genuinely concerned.
“My first priority is finding his daughter before harm befalls her.”
Gillespie sat in the chair opposite and tugged the razor-sharp creases of his uniform trousers so they hung neat and straight. He shot the cuffs of his tunic for the same reason. It was an affectation almost as blatant as Senator Richards’ casually draped leg and open-necked shirt.
“I need you to tell me what you know.”
Grant leaned back in his seat and rested one arm across the back of the chair next to him. He rested his other hand on the table.
“I know that if you’re such a good friend, then you know he hasn’t reported his daughter missing.”
Gillespie’s tone hardened. “But missing, she is. Isn’t she?”
“Could be. Richards seems to think she might be staying away to annoy him.”
“A broken window and blood on the carpet suggest otherwise.”
“Evidence of a disturbance only shows there’s been a disturbance. We need more than that to indicate a kidnapping.”
The chief played along.
“More than that, how?”
“Ransom demand. Threats for him to do something or not do something. Any kind of reason why she might have been abducted. There hasn’t been anything like that.”
Gillespie’s eyes never left Grant’s. They were searching and inquisitive. Good interview technique. Always watching for the smallest tick that would give away the lie. Grant was reminded again of how some people found it disconcerting having a conversation with a cop because the eye contact was so intense. The chief watched Grant’s eyes as he spoke.
“She is the daughter of a wealthy man; therefore, she is wealthy herself. You were caught using her bankcard. That could be reason enough.”
The room was getting warm. If it was air-conditioned, then the air-conditioning was turned off. Grant knew they sometimes did that to get suspects sweating. Make them feel uncomfortable and more likely to slip up.
“Aren’t you supposed to offer me a drink or something? Build up rapport?”
“I’m not interested in building rapport. You are a police officer.”
“Be a nice touch, though.”
Gillespie went to the door and asked for a cold drink, then sat back down. He went through the clothing pantomime again. Thirty seconds later, Laudati came in with a bott
le of chilled mineral water. Still, not sparkling. There must have been a vending machine outside the interview rooms, probably for just such an occasion. Laudati’s eyes betrayed their curiosity, but he couldn’t exactly ask how it was going. Since he wasn’t instructed to stay, he left and shut the door.
Grant unscrewed the lid and took a drink of cool, refreshing water, then put the bottle on the table. He toyed with the pale blue lid in the fingers of one hand.
“I remember a job once. Back in Bradford. Woman at a cash machine with her boyfriend. Outside Tesco on Canal Road. They were bundled into a car and driven down a back alley. Bad guys threatened to kill the boyfriend if she didn’t go and withdraw the maximum amount. Made her do it three times before the transactions flagged her account and the police were called.”
Grant took another drink.
“She got away from the guy shadowing her at the ATMs and stopped a patrol car. Full-scale kidnapping alert went out. The car circulated, helicopter deployed, everything. When I took her statement, it didn’t ring true. Checked the boyfriend’s record, and he came up a wrong ’un.”
Gillespie shifted in his seat. Grant continued.
“Long story short: she hadn’t been kidnapped at all. She was scamming the machines and going to claim coercion so the bank wouldn’t debit her account. Boyfriend was found in the boot of a stolen car for effect, but he didn’t have a mark on him. Both got locked up.”
The chief grew impatient. “Your point being?”
“My point is, they managed to get six hundred quid. Found it later hidden in her clothes. And they sparked a force-wide manhunt. It was the most ridiculous plan ever. Nobody gets kidnapped for a few hundred quid.”
“Senator Richards is worth more than a few hundred.”
“But you can only draw so much out of the machine at a time. Maximum daily limit. Only an idiot would risk doing Federal time for that amount.”
“They did it in Bradford.”
“That’s Bradford. Place is full of idiots.”
“Los Angeles has its fair share of idiots too.”
“Not idiots capable of taking a senator’s daughter.”
“Are you saying Angelina Richards is trying to scam the machines?”
“I’m saying the card has nothing to do with her being missing.”
“You would say that since you’re the one with the card.”
Grant screwed the lid on the bottle. “I’ve thought about that. Whoever wanted me out of the picture made sure I had the card.”
“And how did they do that?”
“When I went in the door, a guy bumped into me. Nudged me into a woman he followed out so I’d be concentrating on her. Must have slipped it in my pocket.”
“A bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Check the CCTV. It’ll show the contact.”
“We’ve checked the CCTV.”
Grant felt a cold shiver run up his spine. Neither Gillespie nor the detectives had mentioned the bank recording. They might have been holding it back until they got a confession from Grant or it could mean something else. Gillespie watched Grant’s face.
“The manager hadn’t set it right. There is no recording.”
Grant let out a sigh. The room closed in around him. To cover the awkward silence, he unscrewed the lid and took another drink. Gillespie never took his eyes off Grant’s face. Grant could keep a poker face with the best of them, but he was sure his concern was showing.
“Nothing from the cash machine?”
“Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
Grant lowered his voice. “Under the circumstances, I’d say it’s extremely inconvenient since the recording is what would prove I’m telling the truth.”
Gillespie leaned on the table, creasing his tunic. “Your mystery man is invisible now, isn’t he?”
Grant considered the alternatives. Other shops on the strip mall might have cameras. Lee’s China Express on the corner or the Spanish church across the road. Then he remembered the rundown neighborhood. Sneakers dangling from telephone wires. The low-rent shopping mall. No, the bank was the only building that could afford recording facilities.
In a situation like this, confronted by evidence of possession and interviewed by the chief of police, a lesser man might crumble. A member of the public facing such insurmountable odds might feel the walls closing in on him. Caught at the cash point with an ATM receipt and the missing girl’s bankcard, the evidence was stacking up. A civilian could buckle and either admit a lesser charge to get a better deal or demand to see a lawyer.
Grant wasn’t a member of the public. He wasn’t a civilian either. Hadn’t been a civilian for the last twenty years if you added military service to his police career. That was half of his life. Being in the services, the first thing they taught you was how to think on your feet. How to assess a situation and act accordingly. He weighed all the evidence. He contemplated the possibilities. Then he decided what line to take and took it.
“I think you should let me go now.”
Gillespie smirked back a laugh. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve got no evidence.”
“No evidence? What do you call the bankcard and receipt?”
“Proves I was there, that’s all. The cops who arrested me can confirm I was there. A good lawyer will be able to discount the receipt. The next in line is always screwing up the previous customer’s receipt. With no prints on the card and a TV crew watching from the parking lot, that’ll get tossed as well.”
Grant considered something else.
“Everybody keeps telling me that LA is the bank robbery capital of the world. That Hollywood is the movie capital of the world. Well, don’t forget this: America is the lawsuit capital of the world. And I’ll sue your ass off.”
Gillespie didn’t back down, and he didn’t bluster. He simply stated the facts as he saw them.
“You are in possession of property belonging to a missing girl.”
Grant shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
He took a drink of water, then screwed the lid back on. When he spoke again, he ticked each point off on his fingers.
“You have nobody reported missing.”
One finger.
“You have no report of a burglary.”
Two fingers.
“You have no money reported stolen from the ATM.”
Three fingers.
“And no report of the bankcard being stolen.”
Four fingers. He didn’t bother ticking anymore off on his hand.
“With no CCTV, you can’t put withdrawing the two hundred on me.”
He jerked a thumb at the door.
“And when they searched me, they didn’t find two hundred dollars.”
Grant leaned forward, moved the bottle of water to one side and rested both elbows on the table.
“You have got nothing except a steaming bag of shit. And if you don’t let me go, the smell is going to waft all over city hall.”
The threat didn’t fit with the remit he’d been given when taking this job. It was an empty threat anyway, but Gillespie didn’t know that. Protecting the chief of police from any fallout from the scandal with Senator Richards required Grant to be on the streets and free to act. Threatening the object of that protection was a small price to pay. Somebody out there knew more than they were saying. The worry was if that somebody was Rodrigo Dominguez. The drug cartel had its fingers in many pies. If Grant was wrong and it had a hand in this, then Angelina Richards could be in more danger than Grant had originally thought. At the moment there were more questions than answers. In order to find the answers, Grant needed to be released.
Gillespie still didn’t back down, and he still didn’t resort to bluster. Grant was impressed. Maybe Gillespie was a better chief of police than he’d given him credit fo
r. The chief leaned farther forward, ignoring the creases in his tunic and lowering his voice to an urgent whisper.
“I will have you locked up and throw away the key.”
“In the good old days, maybe. Before the riots. Not anymore.”
Gillespie didn’t waver but simply changed tack.
“You are an Englishman abroad. I can have you deported as an undesirable.”
“I work for the Boston Police Department.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“And you’ve got no crime to hang me with.”
“That doesn’t matter either. I’m the police chief. I can do anything.”
Grant looked the chief in the eye. Anger flared a hint of red in the depths of Gillespie’s corneas. Reflections from the interview room lights. The calm façade was beginning to crumble. Grant was sorry to see that. He had hoped that this chief of police was worth the effort of trying to save. Now he wasn’t so sure. But it was still his job.
“Chief. Before you do anything foolish, you need to know I’ve got friends in high places too. And they don’t want me deported.”
A flicker of concern crossed Gillespie’s eyes. The chief leaned back in his chair and straightened his tunic cuffs. The creases wouldn’t drop out. His face settled into a mask of calm with a mischievous twist to the mouth.
“You could be right. Deportation might be more than I can arrange.”
The smile vanished and the face became hard as stone.
“But I can still arrange a lot. Justice moves slowly. Especially when organizing your release. You’re going to spend time in my jail before that happens.”
Gillespie stood up and walked to the door. Grant waited for the parting shot, but there wasn’t one. The chief of police left the room and slammed the door behind him. Grant took another drink of water. He resigned himself to spending time in a holding cell while Gillespie slow-balled his release. He could manage that, no problem. What he didn’t expect was who he’d be sharing that cell with.
THIRTY-FIVE
The holding tank was huge and well appointed, befitting Hollenbeck’s status as the newest refurb in the LAPD. Rampart was an upgrade of an existing station, but Hollenbeck was a completely new build. As such, the architects had considered issues that refurbishing an old station couldn’t address, the main issue being the size of the custody suite. Rampart’s was just big enough to accommodate the local miscreants. Central Station on East Sixth had barely enough room for overnight detainees. But when they redesigned Hollenbeck, they included a custody area the size of a small prison. It was therefore the holding tank for anyone waiting for court or being held for enquiries from neighboring divisions.
Montecito Heights Page 19
