Omerta

by Larry Darter

  Robert Bailey nodded. “As a result, things between Bailey and us have been a little strained since she left home,” he said. “She felt we weren’t supportive enough.”

  “How often did you talk to Bailey?” Ortega said.

  “Not too often,” Robert Henry said, his voice breaking.

  “Bailey only called once or twice a month,” Lisa Bailey said. “Sometimes, she would text me.”

  “Did you know she had changed apartments?” Ortega said.

  Lisa Henry nodded. “Yes, her roommate moved out, and Bailey had to find a cheaper place,” she said. “Later, she told me she had found a new roommate, another actress friend, and planned to move in with her in about a month.”

  “Did Bailey mention any close friends here?” Ortega said.

  “She mentioned the friend she was moving in with,” Lisa Henry said. “Edie. Other than Edie, I don’t recall here mentioning anyone else.”

  “So, as far as you know, Bailey had no romantic interest in her life?”

  Lisa Henry shook her head. “A few times she mentioned having had a date, but I don’t believe she was seeing anyone regularly.”

  “Bailey was always sociable and had lots of friends back home,” Robert Henry said. “We got the impression she was too busy out here with work and the acting to socialize much.”

  Ortega nodded. “We just wanted to eliminate the possibility there might be an ex-boyfriend or something that might have given Bailey problems.”

  Robert Henry fiddled with his wedding ring and then asked, “Do you have any suspects?”

  “We have some ideas,” Ortega said. “It’s still too early to say more than that.”

  “Were you able to establish how the person entered her apartment?” Robert Henry said.

  “There are things we call ‘keys’ which are details of a crime we have to hold off on making public,” Ortega said.

  “Bailey had her entire life ahead of her,” Lisa Bailey said. “We only want the person responsible caught. It won’t bring Bailey back, but we want justice for our daughter.”

  Ortega nodded. “That’s understandable,” he said. “Believe me, Ms. Henry, we want that too.”

  “When can we take Bailey home?” Robert Henry said.

  “I can’t be definite about when the medical examiner’s office will release her,” Ortega said. “But they have completed the autopsy, and I expect it will be soon.”

  “Did Bailey own any unique or particularly valuable jewelry?” Drew said. “The jewelry box in her bedroom was open, and we’re trying to determine whether anything is missing.”

  Drew handed Lisa Henry an inventory list of the items found in the jewelry box. Henry studied it for several moments.

  “Mostly Bailey only had costume jewelry pieces,” she said, still examining the list. “She had nothing really valuable.”

  Henry glanced up from the list at Drew. “Was Bailey wearing any jewelry?”

  Drew looked at another document in his hand. “Silver stud earrings and a sterling silver ring,” he said.

  “Bailey always loved dolphins,” Lisa Henry said. “While we were on vacation in San Antonio one year, I bought her a necklace. The necklace was a black leather cord with a gold pendant—two dolphins connected to form a tiny heart with an emerald set in the middle. It wasn’t that expensive, but Bailey loved it. She wore it all the time. It isn’t on the list.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Henry,” Drew said, taking back the list she held out to him. “That could turn out to be important.”

  * * *

  After the interview, the detectives drove the Henrys to Bailey’s bank to close out her account. Their daughter had listed them as beneficiaries on the account, and an assistant bank manager gave them a cashier’s check representing the balance. After leaving the bank, Ortega offered to drive the parents back to their hotel.

  On the freeway, Lisa Henry remarked from the back seat, “I didn’t realize Los Angeles was so beautiful.”

  “It was more beautiful before all the sprawl and smog,” Ortega replied.

  “Back home, I watched a lot of television shows about the LAPD,” Robert Henry said. He sighed. “I never imagined I’d meet LAPD detectives under these circumstances.”

  * * *

  After the detectives dropped the Henrys at their hotel, they returned to West Bureau, where they attempted to learn more about their Armenian suspect. Ortega, in particular, was eager to locate and interview Narek Hovnanian.

  While Drew ran Hovnanian through the box looking for a current address, Ortega called the department’s print unit. He told the technician he reached he wanted Narek Hovnanian’s prints compared with those the second team of latent print technicians had lifted at Henry’s apartment. Ortega had long grown accustomed to the LAPD’s bureaucratic inefficiency. Still, it stunned him when the technician told him he would have to wait several months for the comparison results.

  “What!” Ortega said. “We can’t wait three months. Put a rush on it.”

  “Every detective wants a rush for their case,” the technician said. “Only a request from a captain or above can speed it up.”

  Like every other LAPD department, the technician said, the print section was understaffed and overworked. Ortega knew that hundreds of murders occurred in the city every year, which explained why rush orders for print comparisons were usually only granted for high-profile homicides. Ortega hung up after pleading with the print specialist to do what he could to get him the results as soon as possible.

  “Can you believe it?” Ortega fumed aloud. “The guy at the print section said it would be months before he can get us the results from a prints comparison.”

  “I can believe it,” said Tommy Pope, the detective sitting at a desk next to Ortega’s. He slid back his chair and swiveled to look at Ortega. “I had a rape-murder case last year,” Pope said. “SID found hairs in the suspect’s car. I kept asking for a DNA test. Finally, we made the case without it, arrested the guy, and he got convicted. A few days later, when he was already in prison, I got the results.”

  Ortega shook his head sadly. “Guess I won’t hold my breath for the results from the hairs and fibers they collected from our victim’s apartment.”

  “Without a case with a court date, or a suspect in custody, forget about it,” Pope said. “That’s the priorities at SID. You’re shit out of luck, buddy.”

  “Shit!” Drew exclaimed in frustration. He pushed back from his desk, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his head. “The most current address I can find for Hovnanian is his mother’s old apartment at Crestwood.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Youngblood,” Ortega said. “Shitheads like Hovnanian are always attracting attention from the police. I’ll call the watch sergeant over at Hollywood and have him tell his people to be on the lookout for Hovnanian and to call us if anyone contacts him.”

  Ortega grabbed his phone and punched in a number. Drew listened as he told the Hollywood watch sergeant what he wanted.

  “You’re shitting me!” Ortega exclaimed. “Thanks, we’re on the way.”

  Ortega hung up, looked over at Drew, and grinned.

  “We caught a break,” he said. “Hollywood detectives just brought Hovnanian in on another burglary charge. The watch sergeant will have him in an interview room for us when we get there.”

  Both detectives jumped up, grabbed their jackets, and hurried out of the squad room.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Narek Hovnanian was waiting for Drew and Ortega in a Hollywood station interview room lined with graffiti-scarred perforated panels. He was in his late twenties, big and burly, with close-cropped black hair. He wore a black V-neck tee shirt over khaki pants. His left wrist was handcuffed to a steel ring attached to the table.

  After only a few preliminary questions, both detectives realized Hovnanian wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box. He had difficulty responding to the most basic questions and stared at them with a muted expression, o
pen mouth, and dull eyes.

  “Where do you work?” Ortega said

  Hovnanian stared at Ortega for several moments as if considering the question.

  “I don’t.”

  “How do you make a living?”

  “My cousin gives me money,” Hovnanian said. “I can’t read too good. I have a slow memory. Makes it hard to find work.”

  “Where does your mom live?” Ortega said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Hovnanian said. He knew that Ortega and Drew were homicide detectives. “Is this about that murder at the apartment where my mother used to live?”

  “How did you hear about that?” Ortega said.

  “A neighbor from the apartments told my mother about it.”

  “When was the last time you were at the Crestwood Apartments?” Ortega said.

  Hovnanian spent several minutes explaining where he had lived the past few months and when he last stopped by his mother’s apartment at Crestwood. The story was so convoluted, Ortega finally asked in exasperation, “Are you under a doctor’s care?”

  “I used to be,” Hovnanian said. “I used to take meds for a stress condition. Okay, now I remember. I figure it was around last Christmas when I stopped by the apartment at Crestwood.”

  “Your vague memory,” Ortega said, “is giving us a lot of reasons to think you may do bad things.”

  Hovnanian nervously massaged his left collarbone.

  “I’m not stupid enough to hurt somebody,” he said.

  “Did you know the woman who died at Crestwood?” Ortega said.

  “I know she lived in the building,” Hovnanian admitted. “She lived next door to my mother.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Not really.”

  Ortega asked Hovnanian a few more questions about where he had lived recently and the cousin he said gave him money. Hovnanian tugged at his hair in frustration.

  “Why do you want to know about my family?” he said. “My head is blowing up here. I’m getting frustrated with all these questions.”

  “Just calm down for a minute,” Ortega said. “We’re trying to determine where you’ve been living, and the last time you were at Crestwood Apartments.”

  “Well… I told you it was around Christmas last year,” Hovnanian said. “After Christmas, I went to Mexico for a while with my cousin.”

  “When did you get back from Mexico?” Ortega said.

  “I don’t remember for sure.”

  “Do you know when Easter is?” Drew said.

  “Is it in May?”

  “It’s May now,” Ortega said impatiently.

  “I don’t know when we got back,” Hovnanian said, closing his eyes and grimacing. “Maybe April.”

  Baily Henry had been murdered at the end of April. Ortega wanted to pin Hovnanian down on the exact date he had returned from Mexico.

  “Is it possible you visited your mother at the Crestwood Apartments after you got back from Mexico?”

  Hovnanian stared at the detectives suspiciously.

  “What for?”

  “Because you are a dutiful son who always visits his mother,” Drew said sarcastically.

  “It’s a simple question, numbnuts,” Ortega said impatiently.

  “No, I never visited my mother there after I got back,” Hovnanian said. “I was dodging my PO. I knew he would look for me there. That’s why I stayed with my cousin.”

  “Look, Narek,” Drew said. “We need to know the exact date you were at Crestwood Apartments last and when you came back from Mexico.”

  “I don’t know! Something is fucked up in my head. I got fucked up head problems.”

  Ortega sighed. He opened the file folder he had brought with him. He took out a photograph of Bailey Henry and slid it across the table.

  “Did you ever talk to this woman?” he said.

  Hovnanian nodded.

  “How often?” Ortega said.

  “A few times.”

  “Did you ever visit her in her apartment?”

  Hovnanian dropped his chin on his fist on the table. “No.”

  Ortega leaned across the table. “Did you do it?” he said sharply.

  Hovnanian recoiled in his chair. “No!”

  “Did you kill her?” Ortega said.

  “No!” Hovnanian said emphatically.”

  “You ever hear of DNA?” Drew said.

  Hovnanian nodded.

  “If you were ever in her apartment, tell us now,” Drew said. “In case we found some of your DNA in there.”

  “I was never in her apartment,” Hovnanian insisted. “Not once.”

  “You sure we won’t find your DNA was in there?” Ortega said. “If there is any reason we will, I want to know it now. This little burglary charge you have here is nothing. You’ll be facing a murder charge and will go to prison for a long time—if you don’t get the needle.”

  “I was never in her apartment,” Hovnanian said adamantly.

  “You willing to take a polygraph?” Drew said.

  Hovnanian nodded enthusiastically. “Bring it,” he said.

  * * *

  After the interview, both detectives had throbbing headaches. They walked out of the station and got back in Ortega’s city ride.

  “That guy is a friggin’ numbnuts,” Ortega said with disgust.

  “Yeah, a real whack job,” Drew agreed. “He couldn’t organize a beer bust in a brewery. I don’t think he did it.”

  “My concern is,” Ortega said, “he’s such a dumb fuck. Someone could have manipulated him into going along with the murder. Maybe he was there, but he didn’t kill her.”

  “That could explain the argument the lady at the apartments overhead,” Drew said. “Assuming it was Hovnanian and his cousin she overheard that night.”

  “True,” Ortega said.

  “Still, I think it’s significant he agreed to a polygraph so readily,” Drew said. “He doesn’t strike me as someone who would believe he’s smart enough to beat a polygraph examination.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Ortega said. “And he insisted he had never been in Henry’s apartment. A guilty man might have given us some story about how he was there once for some innocent reason, just in case we found his prints or DNA inside the apartment. Even a halfwit like Hovnanian might think of that.”

  “At least we know where he is now,” Drew said. “He’ll stay locked up for a while on the burglary charge.”

  “Yeah, we won’t know if he is the killer until we get the lab results from the murder scene and track down that Jamaican dude,” Ortega said. “Hopefully, he stays locked up until we do.”

  Chapter 26

  What was a fifteen-minute drive usually from West Bureau to Rancho Park turned into a brutal rush-hour stop-and-go slog. Drew arrived over forty-five minutes late, thanks to a multi-car crash on the I-10 that kept the freeway traffic at a standstill for a full twenty minutes. Drew’s late arrival was no bother to Lucy Tomlinson, who was still trying to pull dinner together in the kitchen. She instructed him to put some music on the stereo, then grab himself a beer from the refrigerator. She paused her culinary efforts only long enough to give him a quick peck on the lips.

  Drew chose a CD of Taylor Swift’s Fearless studio album. Swift was the closest Lucy had to country music, although Drew still maintained the artist was technically country-pop crossover at best. Once the music started, he headed to the kitchen for the beer.

  “I guess this is what marriage would be like,” Drew said. “You get home after a hard day at work, and your woman gives you chores to do and makes you get your own beer.”

  Lucy turned and stuck her tongue out at him. “Who said I was your woman?” she smirked.

  Drew walked over and kissed her on the back of the neck.

  “Don’t do that,” Lucy scolded. “Out of the kitchen. Take your beer into the living room until I finish dinner. I’m stressed enough as it is.”

  “Stressed? I offered to take
you out for dinner. You said you wanted to cook.”

  “That was before I couldn’t decide what I wanted to cook and had to make three trips to the supermarket.”

  Drew laughed and went into the living room. He casually walked around, looking at the things Lucy had displayed.

  The mantel above the fireplace was crowded with framed photographs he hadn’t had the chance to look at the first time he’d been to the apartment. Some were propped on stands and displayed more prominently than others. There were photographs of a man and woman Drew assumed were the parents and some other people he didn’t know.

  Not all the photos were of people. There were photographs of the places Lucy had visited during her European travels—the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris, the Colosseum in Rome, and many other places Drew recognized from books and the web. He smiled when he saw the Lucy selfie photo in front of the Eiffel Tower she’d mentioned taking.

  There were several other photos of her with what appeared to be her fellow backpackers in other locations Drew could not readily identify. As if hidden behind the other photos, in the last position on the mantel was a framed shot of a much younger Lucy Tomlinson. He lifted it out to take a closer look. Lucy wore what looked like a yellow party dress and was in pigtails. Drew wondered if it might be from a birthday party. She looked to be around twelve. Even back then, her blue eyes sparkled the same way when she smiled.

  Drew put the photo back and walked to the kitchen.

  “Smells good,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Chicken parmigiana is what you smell,” Lucy said. “Hope you like Italian.”

  “Love Italian,” Drew said. “Almost as much as Mexican.”

  “Excellent.”

  “How old were you in the photo with the yellow party dress?”

  Lucy looked up at him from her work at the stove. “Oh my God, you looked at that one?”

  “You were a cute little girl,” Drew said.

  “Thank you. My dad took that picture at my twelfth birthday party.”