by Larry Darter
Larry Darter
Omerta
A Howard Drew Novel
First published by Fedora Press 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Larry Darter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Larry Darter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
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First edition
ISBN: 978-1-7349698-5-6
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For the dedicated men and women of the Los Angeles Police Department, past and present, with sincere gratitude and respect. I salute you, my brothers and sisters in blue. Thank you for your service.
Nemo Me Impune Lacessit
“As practiced by the Mafia, omertà refers to a code of silence about criminal activity and a refusal to give evidence to authorities.”
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
It was Christmas Eve. Los Angeles Police Department’s West Bureau homicide detectives Rudy Ortega and Howard Drew snaked through the light Sunday traffic in a blue Ford Crown Victoria. Ortega, the driver, exited the San Diego Freeway on Sunset Boulevard. They cruised east through Bel Air, past the estates of Beverly Hills, and then headed up Benedict Canyon Drive, climbing the twisting road past clouds of pink and white oleanders and blood-red bougainvilleas cascading over fences. They passed steep olive-drab hillsides, sheathed in scrub, and studded here and there with live oaks.
The homes in the neighborhood bordered canyon roads, and the backyards skirted towering bluffs, shaded by cypress, sycamores, and an occasional redwood. Benedict Canyon offered the best in Los Angeles living, making it a popular area among successful film actors, directors, and musicians. The commute down to the city was short, and the canyons provided rural-like oases for the residents. The smell of sage wafted through bedroom windows, the houses hovered above the smog, and coyotes roamed the foothills and howled at night.
When Ortega pulled off the road and parked the car at the address on Benedict Canyon Drive, the detectives found a rustic wood-shingle bungalow that seemed out of place in the fashionable district on the edge of Beverly Hills. It appeared the builders had shoehorned the modest cottage into an inadequate space between the busy road and an overgrown hillside.
Ortega and Drew headed up a concrete walkway toward the front door that traversed a weed-choked lawn, bracketed by dried out hydrangeas and emaciated Japanese boxwood.
Rudy Ortega, who would turn fifty-five in the spring, was the second oldest detective in the West Bureau homicide unit and planned to retire before the end of the new year. He had spent twenty-five years as a detective, the last seventeen as a homicide investigator. Ortega, a stylish dresser with coiffed silver hair, wore a tailored gray Giorgio Armani sharkskin suit, a white starched shirt, and a blue Stefano Ricci silk tie with printed checks. Ortega was mentoring Drew in the craft of murder investigations.
Howard Drew, a thirty-three-year-old eight-year veteran of LAPD and a recently promoted Detective II, had transferred to West Bureau homicide after three years as a burglary/theft detective at Hollenbeck. Drew wore a more modest Brooks Brothers navy pinstripe suit with a store brand white shirt. He had purchased the suit on sale off the rack at a Nordstrom outlet. He wore his brown hair in the high and tight military variant of the crew cut, with the back and sides of his head shaved to the skin and the top blended or faded into slightly longer hair. Drew had become accustomed to the style during his four years in the U.S. Army while serving in the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division. Howard wasn’t a tall man. He stood two inches short of six feet and was on the lean side because he was a dedicated runner. His brown eyes were serious and seldom revealed any emotion.
“This isn’t what I expected,” Ortega said. “This place is only a mile from the Cielo Drive mansion where the Manson family murdered Sharon Tate and her friends.”
“Yeah, it’s a dump,” Drew said, “especially by Beverly Hills standards.”
Sergeant Martin Maxwell and two uniformed West L.A. patrol officers met the detectives outside the front door.
“What’ve we got, Max?” Ortega said.
“Barnett and Tomlinson responded to a radio call of an open door,” Maxwell said. “They found the front door closed but unlocked. When they entered the residence, they discovered the body of a deceased female on the floor in a bedroom with a pool of blood under her head. They backed out and called for an RA and a supervisor. SID and the coroner’s investigator are already inside.”
“Got a name?” Ortega said.
Maxwell nodded. “Fiona Silverman, age forty-eight,” he said as he pulled a California license out from behind the buckle of his Sam Browne and handed it to Ortega. “Found her purse on the counter in the kitchen.”
“We know who called in the open door?” Ortega said.
“Neighbor across the street,” Maxwell said. “He saw one of her dogs wandering down the street. The guy tried calling her, but there was no answer. He walked over and found the back door standing wide open. No response when he called out to Silverman. He became concerned and called it in.”
“Your guys find any signs of forcible entry?” Howard said.
“None,” Maxwell said. “They found all the windows secured with screens in place. The interior doesn’t appear as if anyone ransacked it. The victim’s purse has her credit cards and some cash in it. Robbery doesn’t look like the motive.”
“Okay, Max, thanks,” Ortega said.
Maxwell nodded. “You got it, Rudy,” he said and then nodded to Drew. “Enjoy.”
A female patrol officer that Drew didn’t recognize was on the door. Her silver nameplate said, Tomlinson. Tomlinson held out a metal clipboard with the scene log on it. Ortega signed the register and then passed the clipboard to Drew. After he had signed it, Drew returned the clipboard to
Tomlinson.
“Guess it sucks for you guys to catch a homicide on Christmas Eve,” she said.
Tomlinson was late-twenties, or early thirties, with short light brown hair and the kind of blue eyes that turned electric when the owner smiled. Tomlinson was smiling now. She looked like the outdoorsy type, skin evenly tanned. A surfer, maybe. Drew found her attractive.
“It is what it is,” Ortega said.
Tomlinson turned to Drew. “I’m Lucy Tomlinson, by the way.” Her smile grew wider, and her blue eyes sparkled.
“Howard Drew.”
“I know. You were at Hollenbeck, right?”
“Yes, I transferred over to West Bureau two weeks ago. Guess we’re both new to the west side. I don’t recall seeing you at Hollenbeck.”
“I know,” Tomlinson smirked. “I’m not that memorable.”
Drew felt embarrassed.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” he stuttered. “I just don’t think I ever saw you there.”
“I only saw you a few times in the parking lot. But I asked someone who you were.”
“So, you’re saying I’m memorable?” Drew said. “No one has ever mentioned that before.”
They both laughed at the remark. Tomlinson continued smiling and doing the sparkly eye thing. Drew wondered if she was flirting with him. He didn’t always read women well.
“Youngblood, when you can tear yourself away, we’ll get started,” Ortega said.
Drew felt embarrassed again.
“Oops, sorry for holding you guys up,” Tomlinson said.
“No, it’s okay,” Drew said. “Glad to meet you, Tomlinson.”
“Likewise,” she said. “You can call me Lucy. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
Drew nodded. “Maybe so.” He smiled at Tomlinson before turning to follow Ortega.
The two detectives slipped on blue disposable nitrile gloves and went inside the house.
“An attractive woman,” Ortega said. “She seems to like you.”
Drew ignored the comment, wondering if Ortega had based it on his reaction to Tomlinson. He hoped it hadn’t been that obvious.
They found the living room a jumble of unopened Christmas presents with books and magazines stacked high atop a worn, dated coffee table in front of a brown couch. There were Christmas cards taped to a wall. In the center of the room, there was a computer and printer atop a chipped white table. A plastic ashtray with a few crumpled cigarette butts was beside the keyboard.
Silverman had hung pictures of a man and woman throughout the room that the detectives assumed were her parents. Newspaper photos of the same two people at what appeared posh parties covered another wall. There was a World War II-era army photograph of the man. Another wall featured framed pictures of what they assumed were photos of the victim during her childhood and teen years. There was a plastic card table with two mismatched folding chairs in a kitchen corner—apparently where the victim ate her meals.
The detectives found the coroner’s investigator, Don Harrison, in the master bedroom on his haunches next to the body. The victim, barefoot and dressed in a white T-shirt and purple sweatpants, lay on the floor near the doorway. There was a halo of reddish-brown dried blood beneath her head. Harrison had what looked like a plastic fishing tackle box on the floor beside him. He took a scalpel from the box and made a small incision in the upper right abdomen, just above the hip of the body. The criminalist then removed a thermometer and attached it to the end of a curved probe. He passed the probe through the incision, driving it up into the liver.
One SID technician was photographing the scene with a digital camera while two others were dusting various points for prints.
The bedroom was shabby and cluttered, the room of a woman down on her luck. It reeked of the odor of dog urine and mold. Faint winter light shining through the window illuminated a few brownish-red streaks of blood and a single bloody paw print that gleamed with a lacquer-like sheen on the worn hardwood floor. Drew crouched to study the chipped door jamb where flakes of paint dappled the floor.
“Looks like there was a struggle here by the door,” Drew said to Ortega. “Maybe the suspect threw her against it, or she grabbed it while struggling to get away from her attacker.”
Harrison went to work on the dead woman’s legs. He grabbed each foot and manipulated the ankles. Moving his hands up to the thighs, Harrison lifted each leg and watched as it bent at the knee. After pressing his hands down on the abdomen, he reached up and tried to turn the dead woman’s head. It rotated easily.
“The neck is unlocked,” Harrison said without looking up from his work. “Stomach has relaxed, and the extremities have good movement.”
Harrison took a pencil from his box. He pushed the eraser end against the skin on the side of the torso. There was purplish blotching on the half of the body closest to the floor. It was postmortem lividity or livor mortis. When Harrison pushed the pencil eraser against the darkened skin, it did not blanch white. That was a sign the blood had fully clotted.
“Lividity is steady,” Harrison said. “Given the reversal of the rigor and liver temperature, I put the time of death at anywhere from twenty-four to forty-eight hours ago. Someone probably killed this woman between Thursday evening and sometime Saturday. That will have to do for a time of death estimate until we make the cut.”
“Cause of death?” Ortega said.
“Single gunshot wound to the back of the head,” Harrison said.
“How can that be?” Drew said. “It defies the laws of physics.”
“Yeah,” Ortega said. “The killer shot her in the back of the head. She should have crumpled forward.”
“My best guess is whoever shot her flipped her over for some reason,” Harrison said. “This is how the body was when I arrived, supine with the arms down by her sides. The lividity is on the bottom half of the body next to the floor. Someone rolled her over soon after the killer shot her.”
“Maybe that’s a clue,” Ortega said. “Maybe the killer is someone who cared about her at some point. Wanted to leave her in what they thought was a more comfortable position.”
“SID collected one brass spent bullet casing from beneath the body when we rolled it on its side to check for wounds,” Harrison said. “It was a nine-millimeter, which is consistent with the size of the entry wound. No exit.”
“Find the gun?” Ortega said to no one in particular.
“No,” two of the SID technicians said in unison.
Harrison wrote some notes on his clipboard, then retrieved an ink pad and a print card from the plastic box beside him. He quickly and expertly inked the fingers of each hand and pressed the fingertips to the card. Once he finished, he waved the card back and forth a few times to dry the ink and then handed it to Ortega.
“I’ll bag the hands as a precaution,” Harrison said, “until they do the GSR test at the morgue. But given the location of the wound and that no weapon is present, I think it’s safe to say this wasn’t suicide.”
Two body movers arrived a few minutes after Harrison had finished up. They unfolded and opened a black, heavy plastic bag with a zipper running up the center. They lifted Silverman and placed her inside. One of them zipped the body bag, then they hefted it onto a gurney, strapped it down, and trundled the body out of the bedroom towards the front door.
Ortega’s mobile phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and answered the call. After listening for a few moments, he spoke into the phone then hung up.
“Maxwell wants us back out front,” Ortega said to Drew. “Says he has information on our victim we might be interested to know.”
Chapter 2
Ortega and Drew went back outside through the front door. Drew glanced at Tomlinson on his way out. She caught him looking and smiled again. The detectives walked out to the street to Maxwell’s black and white Ford Explorer. They stripped off the nitrile gloves as they walked and dropped them on the ground.
Maxwell was sitting inside his SUV, reading from the screen of
his mobile computer terminal.
“What’s up, Max?” Ortega said, resting his forearms on the windowsill.
“Rudy, your victim, is Fiona Silverman, the writer, the so-called mafia princess,” Maxwell said.
“Mafia princess?” Drew said.
“Yes, her father was a big-time mob guy, John ‘Sonny’ Silverman,” Maxwell said. “He was a Gambino crime family underboss. He rubbed shoulders with the likes of John Gotti, Salvatore ‘Sammy the Bull’ Gravano, and Angelo Ruggiero. After her father died, she wrote a best-selling memoir called Mafia Princess: Growing Up in a Mob Family.”
“How did you find that out, Max?” Ortega said.
“I enjoy reading about the history of the Italian organized crime families,” Maxwell said. “Hobby of sorts. Anyway, I thought her name sounded familiar. I Googled the name when I got back to my shop. Then I remembered I’d read her book.”
“Think it was a professional hit?” Drew said. “A mob connection with the one to the back of the head.”
“Assume nothing, Youngblood,” Ortega said. “SID found a casing, remember? Mafia hitters usually use revolvers. Even if the shooter had used a semi-auto, it’s unlikely a pro would have left a casing behind.”
“Exactly,” Maxwell said. “I only called you out here to give you the heads-up on her background. You can bet the media will be on this as soon as the victim’s name goes public. The woman was semi-famous.”
“Hard to believe after looking at where she lived,” Drew said. “Rookie cops own more stuff than she did.”
“She must have hit a rough patch,” Maxwell said.
“Looks that way,” Ortega said. “Thanks, Max.”
“No problem,” Maxwell said. “See you guys later.” The sergeant dropped the Explorer in gear and drove away.
The detectives returned to the house. Tomlinson locked eyes with Drew again on his way past her. They both smiled. While Ortega checked in with the SID technicians, Drew started going through a cardboard box of personal correspondence files they had found inside the guest bedroom. There was also an address book and a stack of envelopes from the Christmas cards taped to the living room wall. Silverman had bound them together with a rubber band. While Drew looked through the documents, Ortega coordinated with the SID technicians. He told them to collect the ancient desktop computer from the table in the living room after they finished processing the scene.
