why I'm illegally parking. I think we're going to be in and out of here."
The chime of a doorbell announced our arrival to the geriatric clerk, who perused us with a bored expression. "What can I do for you officers?" The man shuffled over, jingling change in the pocket of his Dickie pants.
"Gee, are we that obvious?" Darius asked, flashing his department ID at the guy.
"Just an educated guess."
"You get a lot of cops in here, huh?" Darius asked.
The man nodded. "Shady folks like to rent post office boxes."
I saw my lead-in. I glanced at the nametag pinned to his brown polo shirt. "So, Cliff, how about NTL Productions? Would you call them shady?"
Giving me the once-over, the clerk pursed his lips. I leaned toward the counter and displayed my police ID as well. I dipped my head and gave the old geezer a flirtatious look.
I saw his eyes dart to the neckline of my shirt, no doubt to see if he could catch a peek.
"So how 'bout it? What do you know about NTL?"
The man shrugged. "They pay their rent like clockwork every month."
I tilted my head in a coquettish manner and smiled. "How about the name of the person who rented the box?"
"Well, I'm not supposed to give out any information without a subpoena."
I dropped my voice to a seductive whisper. "It'll be our secret."
"Well, I really shouldn't."
"Just the name of the person who rented the box," I said. I could tell he was wavering.
"It will help us find a missing woman. You could provide the big break we need."
"Hmmmf, I'm not surprised one of those girls is missing. I'm no fool. I know what kind of business they're running."
"Lend us a hand then. Give us the name."
Wordlessly, Cliff started tapping at the register keys. He looked to Darius. "Got your notebook and pen?"
Darius reached to his inside jacket pocket and grabbed a pen and paper. "Go."
"John Smith."
My partner said nothing, but gave the clerk a look of incredulity.
"Um, Cliff, I think we might need an address to go along with the name," I said.
My new buddy looked extremely uncomfortable. "I don't think I can do that."
I kept up my sweet demeanor. "Do you really want to be responsible if a girl dies?"
To my surprise, Cliff shrugged. "No sweat off my nose. Those girls showin' off their privates, acting like whores. Your missing girl is probably better off."
Darius spoke up. "Look Cliff, we can get a subpoena, but that's going to take us time. Time we don't have. We're going to get the information anyway, so why not be a good citizen and give us the address for the John Smith."
Cliff stood taller at Darius's implication he wasn't being a good citizen. "I'll have you know, young man, that I'm a Vietnam Vet. I laid my life on the line for this country and I'm a better citizen than most of the riff-raff gangbangers we've got running around the streets these days." Grabbing the monitor attached to his computer, he swiveled it to face us, displaying the address of John Smith. Without a word, Cliff turned his back on us and walked to a back room with the dignity of a general off to battle.
Darius copied the information and turned the screen back to its proper position. Looking at his notes, he said, "This one isn't going to be easy. It's another P.O. Box in Chatsworth. I don't think your flirting will work on a federal employee."
I gave my partner an evil smile. "I'm not worried about it. I handled Cliff. This time we'll find a woman clerk and it's your sex appeal that's going to get us the info."
Twenty minutes later we stood to the side of the service windows at the post office on Devonshire Street in Chatsworth waiting for one of the clerks to finish with their customer so we could step up as soon as the space was vacated. The dozen or so people standing in line eyed us with suspicion, some of them already mentally rehearsing how they would tell us off for cutting in line. Allowing for human nature, my guess was all the wasted aggression would probably be displayed elsewhere later in the day.
Finally, a bent and shrunken lady clerk with bottle-thick glasses peered at us with her overly magnified eyes. Darius stepped up to the window, while I gave our audience a quick flash of my badge. The indignant energy that had built in the line deflated like a balloon suffering a pinhole.
"I'm Detective Cutter, and this is Detective Divine of the LAPD," Darius said, giving the clerk a look at his badge. "We're looking for the geographical address for this P.O. Box," he said, laying his small spiral notebook on the counter and turning it so the woman could see the notes Darius had made at our previous stop.
The clerk shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't give out any information without the approval of my supervisor."
"So get him," I directed with a shrug. I was getting cranky. This whole process was taking too long and I suspected we weren't going to get an address anyway.
"I'll see if Miss Malatesta is available to you," she replied glaring through her thick glasses at me. She moved away from her window bringing a chorus of sighs from the line behind us.
"Good move, Divine. Piss off the postal people before we have a chance at getting the address of NTL Productions."
"Well, why not? You're never going to charm that old biddy and no one is going to tell us anything without a warrant."
The clerk returned to her window, followed by her apparent supervisor, a knockout Filipino woman with big hair and huge molasses-colored eyes.
Darius stood straighter and straightened his tie as the petite woman approached and motioned us to an empty window to the right. I smiled to myself. My partner was getting into his role of charming detective. My role was to keep my mouth shut and let Darius's good looks and smooth tongue get us the information we needed.
After introducing himself and showing Miss Malatesta his I.D. card, he explained what we needed. A frown appeared between the big brown eyes.
"Detective Cutter, it's not that I don't want to help, but I'm not permitted to give out that kind of information without a warrant."
Darius leaned in while giving the pretty girl his killer smile. Almost word-for-word Darius repeated the spiel I'd given the clerk at the postal store. We could get a warrant, but a young girl's life hinged on our getting the information quickly, blah, blah, blah.
Knowing that the clerk might be nervous having me as a witness, I moved away into a display area of various postal products of boxes, cards, and bubble wrap. Out of earshot of Darius and the postal employee, I studied the people waiting in line.
What an assortment of life. The impatient ones tapped their fingers on boxes to be mailed while frequently glancing at the watches on their wrists. The bored either talked or played with their cell phones. Those with patience stood quietly watching the line slowly progress. I was thinking to myself that the line at the post office was an excellent cross-section of society when I heard a giggle from the postal supervisor. Darius was nodding and smiling as well. Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe we would get the info we needed.
My phone vibrated at my waist. Looking at the text message, I saw it was from Larry-the-Wife-Beater. We've got a body. Likely it's McCall.
SECTION SIX (Chapters 51 – 60)
PRESTON – 51
Preston had decided to bite the bullet and let the Hispanic former gang-member Zepeda Sorriano fly down in his private jet to L.A. Pilar was right. It would be looked upon as a gesture of good will, and he was worried he was going to need all the positive vibes he could get once the media found out about Tiffany's disappearance.
Preston knew staff members were briefing Sorriano to get him up to speed on how the presentation would be handled, while Bain did final edits of the speech where Preston would announce Tiffany's disappearance. In the meantime, Preston worried. He tried to get through some of the more mundane tasks, but what he really wanted was to go out and look for his daughter. How long could she go without another blood transfusion? Was she sick somewhere and not able to summon help?
It had been two days and he was nearly out of his mind.
Standing in the Spring Street forecourt at City Hall, Preston surveyed the scene. Media cameras were aimed at the stage like a waiting firing squad. At the podium, a technician tinkered with an explosion of microphones.
Twenty minutes later, he was on the steps of Los Angeles City Hall being introduced by Pilar. A chorus of echoing 'good mornings' came back at him from the dozens of journalists assembled.
The press conference was moving at a break-neck speed due to scorching temperatures that edged close to the one hundred degree mark—even downtown.
Preston noticed that somehow Pilar, in a periwinkle dress, managed to look as cool and crisp as an iceberg salad. Meanwhile, he was hoping he wasn't sweating through his suit jacket. He'd have taken his jacket off earlier, but the shirt he was wearing was quite wrinkled, and somehow Bain had forgotten to put a couple of extra dress shirts in the limo for him to change into. Preston didn't know what was wrong with Bain. This was one of a number of recent screw-ups by Bain and Preston was getting tired of it.
After stepping to the podium, Preston gave a brief speech about the benefits of reaching out to hardened gang members and transforming them into invested members of the community. He pontificated about the virtues of having an EGA center in Los Angeles where, on a daily basis, innocent lives were being lost to gang violence.
The small audience applauded wildly, most likely more to get him to hurry so they could get out of the horrendous heat. Finally it was time
A Deadly Blessing Page 24
