Ray first brought the newcomers up to speed with the basic facts of our case and those on the peripheral, as well as the situation with my stalker. Then he paused a beat and looked over at me. “Sorry you’re hearing some of this just now, partner, but with everything going on with you yesterday, I haven’t had time to fill you in on this new information.”
I nodded and waited with great expectation of the news to follow.
“Late Saturday night I received a call from a woman who identified herself as the adoptive mother of Lisa Williams. She gave us a history of her daughter’s life up until the time she dropped out of school at seventeen and ran away from home. There isn’t much information after that. The mother told us Lisa was a troubled girl who was blessed—or maybe cursed—with fabulous looks. Lisa apparently used those good looks to get whatever she wanted in life. The mother—her adoptive one—said the first time she heard from Williams after she had run away was when Lisa called saying she was in jail and needed help. It had been two years since they had heard from her. She had been arrested for prostitution but told her mother it was a false charge. The mother said she knew immediately that it wasn’t, and said that she wasn’t surprised at the news of her arrest. She and her husband told Williams she was on her own and asked her to never contact them again. She had been a real problem child.
“The takeaway here for us is that she was adopted. I started thinking about that and wondered if it could mean anything, and I called the mother back and asked if she knew anything about Williams’s biological family. She said she didn’t know much, just that she was one of three children removed from the biological mother at young ages and adopted out. This morning I obtained a warrant to unseal the adoption records and I’m waiting for the word that I can go view those records.
“Now, we’re going to leave that there for a moment and cover some other cases that might all tie together. A couple days after our murder, a young girl was killed in San Fernando. They asked for our assistance as they had had an officer-involved shooting and their detectives were buried in work. Rich Farris and Elizabeth Marchesano handled the case. There wasn’t much to work on, and no reason to think it might be related to ours, as this girl was strangled in her home, which of course is a completely different M.O. than our case.
“Fast forward. Dickie starts noticing someone suspicious in and around his neighborhood. He feels he’s being watched. He never gets a good look at the watcher, but he knows it was an adult male, possibly Caucasian. There have been a couple different cars used, and on one occasion, Dickie was able to get a license plate. However, the plate came back no record on file. Now, in our case—the Santa Clarita murder—we saw two men in suits approach Phil Chaney’s home. We obtained the license number of their car and it came back with no record. We assumed they were feds. Dickie started thinking maybe he was being watched by the feds. He was recently served with a subpoena for a federal civil rights case against him for his shooting last year of that gangster in East L.A. However, a couple days ago, Chuck Lewis, a retired deputy who owns the house where Dickie lives, saw a suspicious man out front and had a minor confrontation with the guy. The car is described as the same one Dickie had seen. The driver, however, was no fed. Chuck said the guy was a convict. Not tatted up or dressed down, just a white boy with slicked back blond hair. But Chuck said he looked the man in his eyes and knew immediately he had done significant time in the joint. I don’t doubt Chuck Lewis on something like that.
“Now, during all of this, a Russian couple is killed in Hollywood. LAPD has the handle, and the case has drawn the attention of a task force made up of LAPD and FBI who are investigating the Russian mob. These two had their throats cut; the male was almost decapitated. Interestingly, these two Russians specialized in selling untraceable, cold-plated cars. We originally didn’t think much of this, but as Dickie pointed out, cutting someone’s head off and nearly doing so are in the same playing field as far as M.O. The cold-plated cars just add to the intrigue of these cases being related.
“Bear with me here. Not far from the car lot where the Russians were killed, a young man was murdered sometime Saturday night or Sunday morning at the top of a parking structure. He was decapitated, and his hands were cut off. Those body parts have not been found—nor have the body parts of our Santa Clarita victim, Lisa Williams. But this young, headless man on the structure was found seated in a sedan that matches the description of the sedan Dickie saw at his place, and the one that Chuck had encountered.”
I looked around and saw that half of those present were taking notes. I knew most of this, but some of it was news. I didn’t have a notebook and would have to have Ray recap later. Which was okay; we were partners.
Floyd said, “Ray, were there plates on that car, the one in the parking structure?”
“No, the license plates had been removed. But here’s where things get really interesting. The car driven by the man you shot at yesterday, the guy who pointed a gun at you and Dickie, was described by both of you as a smaller, two-door black sedan with tan interior. LAPD is currently working on a case of a missing twenty-four-year-old male who was driving a black Lexus two-door coupe.”
Floyd went to work on his phone, feverishly.
Ray went on, “We are waiting for DNA results on the body and donor samples provided by his—”
“That’s it!” Floyd exclaimed. “That’s the car, Dickie.” He stood from his seat and walked through the crowded conference room holding his phone up for me to see.
I squinted at it as he approached, and then took it from him. It was an image of a Lexus two-door coupe from some type of internet search he had done. I looked at Ray and nodded. “That does look like the right type of car.”
“So, if that’s the case, it all ties together. Now, for those who haven’t yet heard, we also have scent evidence tying some of this together. Dickie collected non-filtered cigarette butts from the street on two separate occasions when he believed he was being watched. Rich Farris and Lizzy ran a scent dog from their crime scene based on scent from a lighter. That lead them to a non-filtered cigarette on the street. The dogs say the scent on those items is a match to those from Dickie’s caper.”
“We need to run those dogs on the car,” I said.
Ray nodded at me with his brows scrunched down over his eyes, seemingly looking for clarification.
“The car on the structure. If that’s our boy—the one who tried killing us, and the one who killed the Asian girl—the dog should be able to identify his scent from that car. If LAPD will let us do that as soon as they’re done with their examination, that would be good. If they find DNA from hairs or whatever in that car, we can compare that to our cigarette butts too. Doc, are there any results yet on the DNA?”
She shook her head. “Not as of an hour ago when I drove down. I’ll check when I get back to the lab, and I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as anything comes in. I’m personally monitoring it.”
“Is everyone with me so far?” Ray asked the group.
“If this is one guy on a killing spree, I have several questions,” Rich Farris said. “First, how does your Santa Clarita murder tie into any of these others, other than the decap and the two suits in the cold-plated car? That seems a stretch. Any physical evidence that could be compared to the others?”
“No, that’s all we have so far on that.”
“Okay, and what about the Hollywood deal, same thing?”
“The car lot is the same so far, just the cold-plated cars and a near decapitation that have us looking at it. So far, there’s no physical evidence to tie it to anything.”
“And the proximity to the decap in the parking structure,” Floyd added.
“Yeah. Actually, on the parking structure, technically. It was found on the very top, open level, just to be clear.”
“Got it.”
“Anything else?”
“How did the mother of Lisa Williams know to contact you?” Floyd asked.
“Once
we had the DNA checked again to confirm her identity, the ID was released. It’s been all over the news, partner.”
Everyone looked around waiting for someone to speak. Nobody did. Ray said, “Captain?”
Stover stood up from his chair and made eye contact with me. “Dwight’s team is covering you until further notice. They’re going to split up in order to provide 24/7 coverage.” He motioned with his hand toward the three undercover detectives. “This is your starting crew. Three others will take their place at three am. When we break from this meeting, you will all get a list of their vehicles and photographs of the undercovers.
“Farris is going to liaison with LAPD on the Hollywood murders—the Russians and the kid on the parking structure—and he can also take care of the request for dogs and coordinate anything that needs to be done with that.” He nodded at Floyd. “I want you and your partner to be on speed-dial with the lab. Dr. Provost, if you would please make sure you have both of their numbers and notify them first and immediately with any information on the DNA. The second we get that news,” Stover said, staring at Floyd, “You’re to call me on my cell. No matter the time of day or night.
“Lastly, nothing to the media on this. Any of it. Clear?” He scanned the room. Most were nodding, nobody opposed him. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll play it by ear from here forward. I don’t want to schedule another briefing on this case at this time. We’ll call another when something breaks. Let me know if we need any other investigators or other resources.”
With that, he pushed his chair in and began wading through the bodies toward the door. It occurred to me that he was different than he used to be. Maybe it was me. I know he had been turned down for another bump, a promotion to Commander. That may have made a difference. He was now likely watching the calendar. I heard he only had two years to go. As he passed by, I said, “Thanks, Captain.” He lightly patted my shoulder and walked out.
Dwight passed by and he also patted my shoulder. He said, “Where’s your desk now, man? We’ll get with you and go over the plan and details.”
I pointed toward the wall where Teams Five and Six occupied two columns of desks on the other side. “I’m on Five now, with Ray. You know where he sits?”
“Yeah, generally.”
“I’m next to him. I’ll be back there in a few. I need to talk to Ray and Floyd and grab another cup. It’s going to be a long day.”
“Okay, man, I’ll see you back there in a few.”
“Thanks, D.”
Ray waited for the room to empty. Floyd waited too. Mongo stood his ground as well. Once it was just the four of us, Floyd said, “Fuck.”
“Uh-huh.”
Ray said, “Let’s go see about those court records. There’s nothing else we can do right now, and that will get our minds off everything else while we’re waiting.”
“Okay,” I said. “I just need to check in with Dwight first. I think they have to follow us everywhere we go, doing counter-surveillance for us.”
“For you.”
Floyd smiled and said, “I’m going to hit up Doc Provost and give her my number. All of them. Cell phone, office, home, pager . . . I might even give her Cindy’s cell as a backup, tell Cindy if a sexy black woman who says she’s a doctor calls looking for me, direct her to the jacuzzi at once. And bring cold beer.”
I shook my head. “You amaze me.”
He grinned.
“Has anyone seen or heard from Lopes?”
Ray answered me. “Someone said the corrections officer is pulling through. He’s probably at the hospital.”
“Damn, that’s good news,” I said. “That’s a whole other cluster we have going.”
“You bet, partner. But thankfully, that case has nothing to do with all the others.”
“As far as we know.”
Mongo nodded and the two of them walked out. As they disappeared around the corner, I heard Floyd say, “I have to go say hello to that new secretary. I’ll see you in a few.”
At 7 p.m. the old man who ran the uniform shop in Burbank locked the glass door and began to pull the accordion-like wrought iron security gate across the front of the building. Leonard walked up behind him, smiling with anticipation. The old boxer might have gotten the best of him last time, but he wouldn’t stand a chance this time. He wouldn’t even see it coming. Leonard dropped his cigarette to the pavement in his final steps, his eyes opened wide with anticipation and rage. The boxer turned and appeared startled to see Leonard there. Before the man understood what was happening, Leonard stepped into him, his knife leading the way. The man instinctively raised his hands in defense, but it was too late. The blade flashed and sank deep into the old man’s neck. Leonard pulled the knife across the man’s throat and watched it open up. Blood sprayed, then streamed from both sides of his neck, spraying a fine mist of red across Leonard’s face as he tried to pull his knife out. It was as if the knife had become a part of the man, and as Leonard held onto it, he fell to the ground with the dying store owner. Once on the ground, Leonard had better leverage and was able to pull the knife out of the man’s neck. He stood over him and watched as the old man’s stare became dull and his body limp.
Satisfied, Leonard straightened and took a look around. Nobody seemed to have noticed. He took the keys from the man’s clenched fist and quickly found the one that opened the glass front door. It had a red plastic tab on it. Once the door was opened, Leonard stepped over and grabbed the store owner by the collar of his blood-soaked shirt and dragged him inside. Then he went to work. He pulled a duffle from one of the shelves. It had POLICE printed boldly on both sides. Leonard went shopping and filled the bag with four handguns, ten boxes of ammunition, four knives—Leonard loved his knives—and a nylon jacket that also had POLICE printed on the back in large letters and again on the front in smaller letters over a silkscreened badge. He also grabbed a hoodie from a shelf.
Leonard found the restroom. He removed his shirt and washed his face, head, and torso with warm water, and dried off with a hand towel that hung on a peg. Then he slipped on his new hoodie sweatshirt. Dark blue, it was emblazoned with a pig’s head wearing a cop’s hat with a badge on the front.
Leonard paused at the door and sorted through the keys until he found the Ford key that he presumed was for the van at the far side of the parking lot. Only the van and Leonard’s recently acquired Lexus remained in the parking lot. He looked back at the blob of boxer now lying on the ground and said, “Adios, motherfucker,” and walked out.
39
DWIGHT FOUND A place to edge in right across from Yee Me Loo’s on Spring Street in Chinatown. He said on the radio: “The fuck’s he doing here?”
“I hope you’re on simplex, sarge,” replied one of his investigators. On simplex their radio traffic would be car-to-car, not through a repeater and heard everywhere. It was Kelly. Steve Kelly, the longhaired white boy Dwight considered his right-hand man. They had been in the shit together, and Dwight considered him one of the best he’d ever worked with. It didn’t matter if it was fists or bullets, the man was at the top of his game, and he never sweated anything.
He chuckled. “Yeah, no worries, Kell, I am. But seriously, I didn’t even know cops drank here anymore. This guy’s a fucking dinosaur.”
Brandi chimed in. “You two are dinosaurs too, so you might want to check yourselves.”
“You, Detective Gil, are a rookie. We’ll let you know when we want to hear from you.”
“Whatever, Kell.”
Dwight said, “Where y’all at?”
“I’m a hundred yards north of you, D, same side of the street. I can see the front doors but that’s about it. Parking sucks around here.”
He waited but the rookie female didn’t answer. “Brandi, where’re ya at, sister?”
“Oh, so you do want to hear from me?”
The airwaves were silent on simplex for a moment. “Yes, Detective Gil, please bless us with your sultry little voice.”
“I’m aroun
d the corner. I can’t see either of you, and I can’t see the front of the restaurant.”
“What can you see?” Dwight asked.
“Well, if someone tried to sneak in the back door and walk up to his table and shoot him over his plate of noodles, I’d see the entrance and the exit of our suspect. I might even be able to take him out and wrap this all up for y’all.”
Dwight smiled at his radio. “This ain’t The Godfather, honey.”
“Never know.”
“Wait,” Dwight said, and then there was radio silence. After a moment he said, “I think Dr. James from Psych Services just walked in there. You suppose Dickie has an appointment, or ya think this is her watering hole too?”
Steve Kelly replied: “She went into Yee Me Loo’s?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think someone’s getting a little extra couch therapy.”
Katherine scanned the addresses—the ones that could still be read, anyway, on the buildings that had them at all—trying to find the place she was supposed to meet Richard. She had misgivings about meeting with him, to put it mildly. Where was the damned place anyway? She decided that if she couldn’t find it in the next sixty seconds, and park in the sixty seconds after that, she would simply drive away. That was what she should do, she told herself. The Universe was trying to tell her to call this off, not to make what would surely turn out to be a bad decision. She didn’t need any problems professionally, not after finally getting to the point that she felt fit to practice, and she most certainly didn’t need to court problems of the heart. Those always seemed to find her.
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 61
