He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, at least you have his DNA.”
She paused a moment to consider all the blood-born diseases that might be splattered on her face and clothes. She was visibly shaking. “Let’s go find the bat. It’s a long shot, but he might have left prints.“
“Whatever you say, partner.”
Davie retraced her steps, scanning the area as she walked. “We must have rattled some cages. I wonder if Velez’s mom called somebody after we left her place.”
“Why would she do that? Even if her daughter had information about Hernandez’s murder, the girl has kept her mouth shut for all this time. What would spook her now?”
“Not sure, but I’m going to find out.”
When they neared the clothesline, Davie pointed the flashlight beam toward the ground. The bat was gone. Her attacker didn’t take it with him or she’d have noticed. Somebody might have walked by and picked it up or maybe Alma Velez had taken it.
Assaulting a police officer was a serious offense. Davie wondered whose idea that had been. If Velez was still part of Felix Malo’s inner circle, Davie doubted he would approve. He’d be eligible for parole soon and wouldn’t be happy if anything jeopardized his release. Maybe Velez had decided to initiate the attack by herself. Davie didn’t know why, but she’d talk to Pacific Gang detectives when she got back to the station. They might provide insight.
“You want to door knock Velez’s mom again?” Vaughn said.
“Let’s come back after I talk to somebody in the Gang unit.”
All Davie wanted to do was go home and nurse her injuries. Instead, she headed back to the car to wait for the blue-suits to take her report. Once patrol officers arrived, Davie spent the better part of thirty minutes while they took photos of her injuries and recorded her statement for their report—Assault with a Deadly Weapon on a Police Officer, California Penal Code ADW/peace officer 245(b) P.C. When they were finished, Vaughn drove her back to the station. Her partner offered to take her to the ER, but she declined. He must have known arguing with her was a waste of time, because he signed out and went home.
Davie called local hospitals, but none of them had treated a man with a broken nose. She limped upstairs to the Gang unit’s office, but the door was locked. They were probably out in the field. She found a clean T-shirt in her locker and dropped the bloody blouse into an evidence bag. She brushed the dirt off her pants and jacket and washed the scratches on her forearms and hands with soap and water.
Davie’s head hurt like hell. She glanced at the mirror and saw a red lump on her forehead where the skin was abraded. She released her hair from its bun, brushed out the twigs and dirt with her fingers, and hoped the red of her hair camouflaged the similar shade of the broken skin.
Her whole body ached. Her only focus was on home, ice, and pain relievers. She had just hobbled into her Camaro when her cell phone rang. It was Jon Striker.
12
“Sorry we didn’t have more time to talk this afternoon,” Striker said.
Davie sat in the Camaro with the cell to her ear, hesitating a moment before responding. So much had happened since this afternoon that a chance run-in with Striker at the courthouse seemed long ago. “We’re both busy.”
“Right. Look, I’m near the station. Can you to meet me somewhere for a drink? We could talk over those cases of yours.”
She released a faint sigh, but if Striker noticed he didn’t say so. Under any other circumstances, she would have said yes to his offer, but it was late, she needed a shower, and her body felt like it had been through a woodchipper. She realized she’d hesitated too long when he said, “I know it’s late. Maybe another time.”
Davie reached to fasten the seatbelt, triggering a stab of pain in her shoulder. “How do you know I’m still at work? Maybe I’m at home watching old Law and Order reruns?”
“I know because you’re in the middle of an investigation and there are still hours left in the day.”
Davie thought of herself as independent and spontaneous and didn’t want him to think of her as predictable. It was true she often worked long hours, but only because the job required boots on the ground.
She fumbled to start the car. “What are you doing on the Westside?”
“Just wrapped up an interview with a witness. Thought I’d give you a call before heading to the Valley.”
Davie realized until that moment she had no idea he lived in the San Fernando Valley. She’d been born in Sherman Oaks and spent most of her early life as a Valley girl. She hesitated before accepting his invitation because any decision that didn’t involve pain relievers and ice was a bad idea, but the truth was she didn’t want to be alone right now.
“My dad owns a bar not far from the station—the Lucky Duck. How soon can you be there?”
“I know the place. Fifteen minutes.”
Davie arrived at her dad’s bar and scored the last space in the parking lot. The Lucky Duck was a dive bar. In the old days it was a cop bar and a favorite place for neighborhood drunks to sit on cracked leather stools nursing drinks until the place closed or the bartender cut them off. In the past few years the clientele had changed. Millennials and aging hipsters had discovered the place while searching for nostalgia and authenticity among the cheesy neon beer signs and the odor of ancient cigarette smoke that had leeched into the wood paneling.
Davie walk in the front door past the handcarved wooden sign that read Was a woman who led me down the road to drink. I never wrote to thank her. She heard the low hum of boozy conversation and the click of cue sticks against billiard balls. Her father stood behind the bar, a tall broad-shouldered former high school football player who’d lost the battle against a taut midsection not long after he retired from the LAPD. Bear could be gruff and somewhat paranoid—once a cop, always a cop—but he always spoke the truth and more often than not made her laugh. He nodded when he saw his daughter, but his smile turned into a frown when he noticed her limping.
He set his towel on the counter. “What gives, Ace? You’re walking like an old lady. And what happened to your head?”
Her hand touched the bump. “Some knucklehead in Mar Vista Gardens came at me with a baseball bat.”
Bear blinked a couple of times and then nodded. “Is he still above ground?”
“Yeah, but I broke his nose.”
He picked up the towel and started wiping a glass. “That’s my girl.”
Davie surveyed the place and saw mostly people she didn’t recognize. There were businessmen in suits, millennials in skinny jeans and expensive shoes, and a guy wearing a ballcap low on his forehead, sitting alone at a table near the restrooms bent over the Wall Street Journal and an amber-colored drink.
“So, what brings you here?” Bear said.
“I just wanted to see my old man.” She paused, ignoring Bear’s intense stare. “Okay, I’m meeting a friend.” Bear’s expression didn’t change. “What? You don’t think I have friends?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Davie felt a whoosh of cool air. She turned to see Jon Striker step into the room. His tie was loose but he was still wearing the suit he’d had on at court. He looked tired. Davie lifted her arm to wave but a stab of pain stopped her midway.
Bear squinted as he watched Striker approach the bar. “That your friend?”
“He’s the detective from Homicide Special I told you about. Remember? I worked a case with him last month.”
“He a good guy?”
Her father knew about the case and Striker’s investigative skills. She’d been juiced about arresting a suspect and might have poured on the praise a little too thick, but that’s how she felt at the time. She also knew Bear hadn’t forgotten the conversation about Striker being a good detective. What her father was asking was if Striker was a good man.
“As far as I can tell.”
&nbs
p; Bear mumbled under his breath, “Damn well better be.”
Her father’s protectiveness had embarrassed her more times than she could count, especially when he got a whiff she was interested in somebody. Striker joined them at the bar. He glanced at the abrasion on Davie’s forehead but didn’t comment. Davie made introductions.
Striker reached out to shake Bear’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir. Honored to finally meet you.”
Good start, she thought.
Bear accepted the handshake with a noncommittal nod. “You two drinking or just taking up space?”
“Just water for now,” he said.
Bear rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not one of those my-body-is-my-temple assholes.”
Striker laughed. In all of Davie’s interactions with him, he’d been pleasant but low-key. He flashed the occasional smile, but she couldn’t recall him responding that way.
“Okay,” he said. “In that case, give me a scotch to go with that water.”
Bear nodded in approval. “That’s more like it. What can I get for you, Ace?”
She thought of the possible negative interactions between alcohol and over-the-counter pain medications, but decided to risk it. “Margarita rocks.”
Striker waited at the bar while Bear mixed the drinks. Davie found a table near the front door. She lowered herself into the chair with no little effort and glanced at Striker’s stoic reaction as Bear leaned toward him. She cringed to think what her father might be saying. She hoped it wasn’t some sort of lecture. Bear was an imposing man but having worked with Striker, she knew he didn’t intimidate easily. A moment later, he picked up the drinks and joined her at the table.
“Seemed like a lot of sharing going on between you two,” Davie said. “What were you talking about?”
He set the drinks on the table. “None of your business.”
Davie had a sinking feeling. “Sorry. My dad can be difficult, but he means well. I just don’t want you to get the wrong impression about him.”
The right impression was important to her because she liked Striker and she wanted Bear to like him, too.
He poured water into the scotch. “We had a good conversation.”
She didn’t believe him. “Don’t worry. I’ll drag the truth out of him after you leave.”
He took off his tie and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Tell me about the case you’re working on.”
“Actually, there are two cases.”
She told him about the Hernandez gang homicide first, then moved on to Sara Montaine’s death, which she found more puzzling.
“The Montaine case is interesting,” he said when she’d finished. “Seems like everybody has something to hide.”
She leaned her forearms on the table. “What about the timeline? Is it even possible for somebody to enter the store, load a revolver from the case, shoot Sara Montaine, place the gun near her hand, and escape without being seen?”
“What do you know about Jack Blasdel? Could he have been involved?”
“I haven’t found him yet.”
He flashed a playful smirk. “I could help you with that.”
“You think he’s in your Homicide Special spy-versus-spy databases but not in mine?”
He leaned forward and clinked her glass. “There’s only one way to find out.”
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, dislodging a twig from Mar Vista Gardens. “I still have a few places to look. I’ll let you know.”
Striker filled her in on a high-profile case he was investigating—an L.A. County Superior Court judge who’d been gunned down in his driveway. The victim had made a lot of enemies in his career, so zeroing in on a suspect was daunting. The Homicide Special Section had the resources to investigate complicated cases. Davie was confident they’d make an arrest, but she understood the pressure Striker faced. HSS detectives were always under klieg lights. The murder of a judge elevated the stakes exponentially.
They’d been talking for about an hour when Striker looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. Where’s your car?”
“In the parking lot, but you go ahead. I’m going to say goodbye to Bear.”
He lingered at the table for a moment longer. “Are you going to tell me what happened to your head?”
“What did Bear say?”
“He didn’t have to say anything. I can see the knot on your forehead and the blood spatters on your neck that you missed when you washed up. None of them were there when I saw you this afternoon.”
RHD investigated assaults of on-duty police officers that occurred within the Los Angeles city limits. He’d soon be able to read the details if he wanted to. She hadn’t been seriously hurt, so she downplayed the attack because she didn’t want to discuss it right now. “I had a run-in with a kid in the projects. No big deal.”
Striker stared at her for a long time. Then he stood. “It was great seeing you again, Davie.”
“Yeah. Great.”
After Striker left, Davie walked to the bar where her father was washing glasses. “What did you think of him?”
“He seems decent but I won’t know for sure until your grandmother passes judgment. If he survives that, we’ll see.”
Davie smiled at the thought of her grandmother interrogating Jon Striker. “Who was the guy sitting at the back table with the newspaper?”
“The Talisker rocks? Don’t know. Why?”
“No reason. I’ve never seen him in here before.”
“That’s good. We need fresh blood. The old-timers are all in rehab.”
Davie hugged her father, got in her car, and drove to Bel Air, the wealthy fortress on Los Angeles’s Westside where she rented a furnished guesthouse on the grounds of a large estate. As she waited for the security gate to rumble open she noticed an unfamiliar car parked up the street. Not unusual except it was an older model SUV. Might be a pet sitter making evening rounds.
After she drove up the winding driveway and arrived at her cottage, she parked in the carport, grabbed the Montaine file, and made her way to the front door. Outside on the flagstone patio was a round metal table and three chairs where she sometimes had her morning coffee. She opened the wood and wrought iron front door that always reminded her of the entrance to a medieval castle.
The cottage was just 581 square feet. A loft on the upper floor had twin dormer windows that she accessed by a spiral staircase. There was one bathroom off the bedroom, but so far none of her friends had complained. The color scheme on the walls was a restful combination of amethyst, wisteria, and a soft pink that Alexander Camden called nymph.
Alex owned the property. He was an art dealer who scouted the world for paintings and antiques for the homes and offices of wealthy clients. She’d met him while investigating a theft from an antique shop when she was assigned to Southeast Burglary. When he found out she was looking for a place to live, he offered her the cottage at a reduced rent. She got an affordable place to live and he got a cop to look after the expensive art and antiques he kept on the property. It was the perfect tradeoff for both of them.
Davie walked into the living room and inhaled the fragrance of garlic from the sautéed shrimp takeout that was still in the trashcan from a few days ago. She parked the Montaine file on the kitchen counter and her badge and .45 inside a drawer in the bedside table. She opened a window to air out the place and then took the garbage to the outside bin. Instead of going for a swim, she opted for a long hot shower. A couple of over-the-counter painkillers later, she fell into bed with her damp hair cascading over the pillow in soggy red ringlets and began reading the Montaine interview notes.
In order to solve a homicide case she had to know as much about the victim as she did about the suspect, and there was still a lot to learn about Sara Montaine. Nobody seemed to know much about her before she’d married
Charles Montaine. Some people didn’t share their personal history because they were wounded by the past, but others withheld the information because they had something to hide. It was too early to tell into which category Montaine fell.
Davie stared at the rocking chair at the foot of the bed that had once belonged to her grandmother. She had a photo of Grammy rocking her in that chair as a newborn. Davie had named the chair Celeste because it was upholstered in French silk that dated back to the 1920s. The wooden arms were hand-carved in the shape of swans’ necks. One of the swans had been broken and glued back together without much care. She had just shifted her musings from Celeste to Striker when the pain pills kicked in and she fell into a fitful sleep with the Montaine file strewn across the covers of her bed.
13
Pussy scratches back.
He’d been at the projects, watching from behind the garbage bin as the punk attacked Detective Saffron. He’d briefly considered stepping in to help—Uncle Sam had taught him how to snap a man’s neck like a matchstick—but saving her life wasn’t his job. As it turned out, she didn’t need his help. She’d kicked the guy’s ass. The client had warned him not to underestimate her. Now he knew why. The woman knew how to take care of herself.
After the confrontation he expected her to go home. Instead, she’d gone to her old man’s bar. He had to hand it to her. Even he might have crashed for the night in his hidey-hole with a bottle of Talisker and some premium Malana Cream hashish. Maybe she just wanted to lick her wounds and cry on her old man’s shoulder.
He’d slipped into the bar without her noticing and sat at a table in the back corner, reading the newspaper like any Joe Customer. Going inside was a risky maneuver, but it was also exciting to know she didn’t have a clue how much danger she was in.
The last thing he expected was to see the stud walk in and make a beeline for her, invading her personal space just to let everybody know he was taking possession. There was a gat under the guy’s jacket. A glint from his badge reflected in the neon lights above the bar. Saffron’s boyfriend was a cop. The brothers and sisters of the LAPD were incestuous that way. He hoped the guy’s presence didn’t complicate matters.
The Second Goodbye Page 6
