by P. A. Brown
“So’s the home they made here.”
Jairo grabbed a coffee on the way out, and nursed it in the car while David drove the car he’d signed for.
“I hear they got ties to the Mexican Mafia. The Sureños want to rule the world.”
“You heard right. We still got our gang injunctions in place against them.”
“That really work?”
“It gives us a bit more leg to stand on.” David stared into the distance. “It’s still hard.”
It was too much to hope Jairo would keep his mouth shut about last night. But if nothing else, David had learned Jairo could be as stubborn as he was.
“We need to talk,” Jairo said as they turned onto San Fernando Road, yielding to a produce truck.
“No, we don’t.”
“I’m being real with you,” Jairo persisted. “You’re the one pretending this doesn’t exist.”
“I’m not pretending anything. We are going to be professional about this.”
“You lost that claim when you kissed me back.” He flashed a satisfied smile. “And when you shoved your dick down my throat. Tell me that was a mistake. If that woman hadn’t come by right then, you’d have had your cock up my—”
David’s hands closed around the steering wheel, so hard his knuckled were white. “I made a mistake. I admit that. It was my fault—”
“Not anybody’s fault. It happened, we need to deal with it.”
“We need to forget it.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Yes,” David said. “It is.”
L.A. BONEYARD 119
South on industrial San Fernando Road and through the gray, rundown streets to Drew. A line of parked cars in various states of decrepitude sat in front of row after row of long, tall apartment buildings. As they approached, David could see the streets clear, doors slam shut and shadowy figures vanish down narrow alleyways. Business was shut down for the day.
Sometimes, Drew was little more than an open air drug market.
David pulled up behind a radio car with its bar lights still flashing. Barrier tape had been strung up around the vacant lot.
In the center of the cordoned off space, a sheet covered lump.
A scarred and tag covered Sycamore tree threw ragged shadows over the cracked sidewalk. Women with hostile eyes sat or stood on front lawns, children on their ample hips, watching the all too familiar sight of police cars that crowded their street. It was a claustrophobic neighborhood, something the local gangs used to their benefit. Violence visited this area of Glassell Park almost daily. Near the closest radio car a crude shrine to Jesus Malverde, the Mexican folk hero, and unofficial drug smuggler’s saint, had been defaced with rival gang tags. He could make out HLP written over AVE and LA, which in turn had been tagged with an MS-13. Highland Park and Las Avenidos. Rivals in the war for Drew Street’s soul.
One apparent difference between Glassell and Hollywood: no reporters crowded against the yellow tape barrier, vying for information or to catch a juicy picture. Even the gang interventionists refused to visit. This corpse would be lucky to make a squib in the back page of the Times, if it was mentioned at all. Just another dead Latino banger.
David introduced himself to the first responding officer. He left Jairo, as the senior officer, to get the particulars and sign over the crime scene to the detectives. He went over to meet the SID crime scene technician, who had just pulled up in his van. Chihn Huyhn , a slender, bald Asian man, emerged and slid open the side door, pulling out a massive 3D Leica camera almost as big as he was, and a laptop case. They’d gotten lucky this time around. The Leica was in high demand and wasn’t always available. He unloaded the laptop and set it on the 120 P.A. Brown
scarred ground. The Leica was set up to straddle the laptop, connected by cables.
Jairo came up behind him. He glanced back at the younger man who said, “First respondent says they recovered an automatic weapon, possibly the murder weapon, of unknown origin.”
David grimaced. They’d have to run down what kind of weapon it was and where it came from.
David studied the covered body on the ground, trying to imagine what was underneath it. The criminologist flipped the sheet off and knelt down to examine the young man more closely. He was Latino, with no visible gang tats David could see. Huyhn carefully examined the numerous pockets, feeling around his ankles and groin for ID or concealed property.
“What do you think?” David asked. “Turf war? Drug buy gone south? We dealing with Avenues, La Mirada Locos or MS13? Please tell me he isn’t an MS-13 banger.”
Huyhn shrugged. “No drugs, no money, no ID. Doesn’t mean your killer didn’t take the booty with him. He just left the guns.”
Plural, David noted. “Guns?”
“This was found under the body.” The criminalist held up a
.45 caliber Firestar, a small, lightweight, but deadly, pistol beloved by gang bangers. “Good old pocket rocket. Small but efficient.” David and Huyhn studied the line of bloodied bullet holes that strafed the victim from crotch to shoulder. Overkill.
The look of surprise on the man’s face said it all. Was he more used to dishing out death, never expecting to be on the receiving end?
“This did that?” He indicated the Firestar and the dead banger.
“No, that was the assault rifle. Much more efficient,” he said laconically.
David prowled the perimeter of the crime scene, trying to stay out of Huyhn’s way. A second tech joined him, using a digital camera to capture still images. The Leica would allow L.A. BONEYARD 121
them to take 3D images of the crime scene, and the body for later scene analysis. Jairo seemed fascinated by the unit. He followed Huyhn around, asking questions that often went right over David’s head. It sounded like Jairo was a camera buff.
The second tech had traded in his digital camera for a metal detector, which he swept in a tight circle around the body. Each time the machine pinpointed something in the scraggly grass he would stoop and put an evidence flag beside it; only when all pictures and sketches had been completed, would the evidence be removed, bagged, and tagged.
At twelve-thirty David suggested they break for lunch. Jairo headed back to the station. David drove out to the Bob Hope airport to pick up Chris. He beat a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel, hoping Chris wouldn’t notice how uneasy he was, knowing he was a lousy liar. But when Chris finally got through the baggage check, and stepped out into the concourse, all David could see was his exhaustion. He immediately took Chris’s bag and took hold of his arm.
“You okay, hon?”
Chris smiled tiredly. “Guess I took on too much. I should have waited to do this...”
“Come on, let’s get you home.” David didn’t drop Chris’s arm as they wended their way through the busy airport to David’s car, in the short term lot. He secured Chris in the front seat and popped the trunk for his luggage. Then he hurried around to the driver’s side. Before he could start the car, Chris pulled him over.
“Hey, I may be tired, but I’m not too tired for a welcome home kiss.”
David would have protested, but Chris didn’t give him a chance. He pressed his mouth over David’s and demanded tongue. David opened his mouth and a rush of desire filled him.
They were both breathing hard by the time Chris leaned back, resting his head against the car seat.
“Well, I was wrong,” he said, with a smile.
“About what?”
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“You didn’t forget.”
“Forget how to kiss you?” David forced a smile. “Not a chance.” He cranked the Chevy on. “Now let’s get you home. I expect you to rest this afternoon. No catching up on work. I’ll lock your laptop up.”
“Yes, Sergeant Laine. Speaking of Sergeant, how’s the dog?”
“Pining away.” David smiled. “The breeder came by last night. I think she’s considering letting us keep him. She just wants to meet you.”
“Well, then it’s a sure thing, isn’t it? How can she not be charmed by my inestimable appeal?” His hand went between David’s legs. But he belied the gesture by leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “How ‘bout you? You charmed?”
“Always,” David said, in a strangled voice, and looked away.
Thankfully Chris was too weary to notice much of anything.
He greeted Sergeant enthusiastically, but that seemed to take the last of his strength. He kissed David and trudged up the stairs. David let himself out.
Back at the station, Jairo was already at his desk, his laptop open and a new blue murder book open beside him. David caught a glimpse of a name: Carlos del Gato, AKA The Cat Burglar, AKA T-Bone, AKA Lil G.
“Was he?” David asked, flipping the book around to look at the booking photo Jairo had pulled out of the files.
“Was he what?”
“A cat burglar?”
“Crack dealer and small time burglar.”
“Where’d the rifle come in? He steal it?”
“No idea. But I’ve IDed it as an Mk 46 Mod 0, specialty of the Marines and SOCOM. Special Ops,” he said off David’s querying look. “With a TAC16 suppressor. That’s some heavy military grade hardware. High end shit, even for a rent collector.”
David felt cold. “Suppressors?”
L.A. BONEYARD 123
“Right. If they’re planning a war, they don’t want the neighbors to hear.”
“Any reports of stolen weapons stashes in the area? Military bases? That kind of thing?”
“None that I can find,” Jairo said. “I’ll widen my search zone.” He shrugged. “So, our cat burglar just came off a nickel at Centinela. Guess he didn’t learn anything there.”
“Or he learned too much. He an Avenues at Quentin?”
“No, get this, he was Cypress Park.”
“In Avenues territory? Any witnesses?”
Jairo shook his head. “You gotta be kidding. I could light you up on the front porch in front of a crowd of carnales and no one would see anything. I just hope they’re not getting piped for another set-tripping. Last thing we need is a gang war.”
All too true. David sighed.
“How’s Chris?” Jairo asked.
David looked up sharply. Jairo looked artless, but David didn’t trust him for a minute. “He’s fine. Tired from the trip.”
“So he won’t be up to running tonight, will he?”
Chris was never up to running any night. He always said all that pain and no gain made it a useless venture. But to forestall Jairo from doing anything stupid he said, “But I won’t be going out tonight anyway.”
“Liar,” Jairo said softly.
“You know, most men would take exception to being called a liar by someone whose whole life is a lie.”
“And name calling doesn’t become you, sir.” Jairo’s voice dropped. “And most men have the guts to admit when they want something. They don’t hide behind a rich boyfriend who protects them from the real world, when you can’t protect you from yourself.”
David knew in that moment if they hadn’t been in a crowded squad room he would have hit Jairo. Would have hit him until he threw his hands up and begged for mercy.
Fingernails dug unfelt into his palms, until something warm and 124 P.A. Brown
wet ran down his clenched fingers, and he realized he had cut himself. He wanted to wipe the smug look off Jairo’s face when he saw the blood and knew what David had done. Instead David grabbed several Kleenexes and wrapped his throbbing hand in them.
“You’re mad because you know I’m right,” Jairo whispered.
Abruptly he stood up. “Go on, go home to your sugar daddy.
I’m going to see a man about a baby.”
David blinked, and took several deep breaths, knowing he had to get his rage under control before he destroyed everything. He stood up too. Jairo watched him in alarm. It was good to see he could still inspire respect from the man.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“While you were out mooning over your keeper, I found a doctor who may have been our victim’s OB/Gyn. Dr. Jozef Sevchuk saw Halyna Stakchinko four weeks ago. At the time she was eight and a half weeks pregnant, which, since she was killed four weeks later, jibes with what Fenton said. You want to know how I found him?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“Your translator found an appointment book among her effects. According to it—and the doctor—he saw the woman when she first suspected she was pregnant, then followed that appointment up with a second one. That was about four weeks before she was thrown off the overpass. She had a third appointment four weeks from tomorrow. Sevchuk seemed to think the patient was eager to have this baby. He described her as being almost manically happy.”
“What does manically happy mean?”
“She was thrilled, but she was scared too. The doctor didn’t know why. He suspected some kind of abuse, but when he tried to talk to her, Halyna just shut him out. But he says he never had enough to take to the police, and he knew that would only drive Halyna away for good. He seemed genuinely upset, but he couldn’t open his records without a subpoena.”
L.A. BONEYARD 125
“So we’ll get him one. Fenton said the victim had been cut—slashed with a razor or scalpel.” David mused. “Bet the doctor never saw that.”
“But that really doesn’t make sense.” Jairo seemed truly puzzled. “If these girls were prostitutes, then their looks would have been a big factor in their demand. Who would damage their property that severely?”
“Someone pissed beyond reason,” David said. “Logic doesn’t always have much to do with it. You attending the banger’s autopsy?”
Jairo nodded. “This afternoon. You want to come?”
“No, you can do this one yourself.” David thought for sure Jairo was going to say something else, but he pressed his lips together, and went back to his laptop. David sighed and went to grab another coffee. It was going to be a long day.
He was still writing reports when Jairo returned from the coroner’s and started his own Death Report from his notes.
David ignored him. At five Jairo shut down his PC and left without a word. David continued to laboriously enter data into his Investigative Report, aware of the quiet settling over the squad room as the day shift left, and the smaller night shift took over. He sat hunched over his desk, ignoring the growing crick in his neck and the dull thud in his head. Finally he printed out two reports, which he put in Lieutenant McKee’s inbox. He poured a cup of tepid, hours old coffee and forced himself to drink it. He hadn’t eaten anything since a sandwich from the vending machine just after noon. But he wasn’t hungry, and all the thought of food did was generate a faint nausea. He popped a couple of antacid tablets in a vain attempt to quell his heartburn.
His desk phone rang at five to eight, and he stared at it, sure it was Chris wondering where he was. He picked it up and murmured, “Detective Laine, Northeast Homicide.”
“Officer Stefan Konstatinov here, Detective. I was not sure if you would still be at work.”
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“I’m here,” David said, his relief that it wasn’t Chris settling in his gut like a mass of fermenting lead. “Did you find something?”
“I discovered the notebook you recovered from the house was a diary, written by the missing woman, Zuzanna Konjenko.
She did not write every day, and she was not always consistent in dating her entries, but I think I have put together a time line on their activities for the last couple of months.”
David sat up. “Where are you right now?”
“In the locker room. If you were not at your desk I was going to go home and call you again tomorrow...”
“Can you get up here?”
“Yes, of course. Right now?”
“Yes, right now. I’ll sign off on the overtime.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fr
iday, 8:25 PM, Northeast Community Police Station, San Fernando Road, Los Angeles
Konstatinov straddled the chair Jairo had vacated earlier. He was still in uniform, his equipment belt laden with the usual trappings a patrol officer carried at all times. He held a sheaf of notes, which he rifled through, and a bag of donuts which he dropped on the desk between them. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“Thanks.” David helped himself to a cinnamon raisin. He didn’t have to ask to know that Konstatinov had aspirations of becoming a detective someday. Most newly sworn officers did.
“What have you got?” David asked, setting aside the dregs of his cold coffee. If he had the energy, he’d make a fresh pot. He didn’t. He ate the donut and brushed sticky crumbs off his fingers.
“Zuzanna Konjenko wrote much about her and the roommate, Halyna. She uses euphemisms and is clearly upset over what they are being forced to do.”
“Prostitution?”
“Yes. Their ‘man’ is someone called Mickey and he visits about once a week.”
“Did he bring Donald?” At Konstatinov’s look he shook his head. “Never mind.”
“They do not like his visits. He is not nice to them. He wants them to do things...”
“Does she say what things?”
“Not in any detail. Just... terrible things. Her words, not mine.” He fanned out some papers. Some were photocopies of the original diary entries, and David could make out the Cyrillic script. The others were apparently hand-written translations.
128 P.A. Brown
David’s sense was that Konstatinov was a detail man. He would be as precise in his translation as in any other aspect of police work. An officer who could go far on merit. Like Jairo, his treacherous mind added. Jairo was smart, too, and personable to boot. Too damn personable, as far as David was concerned. He knew Lieutenant McKee expected his preliminary report on his newest detective and David flat out didn’t know what he was going to say. The kid was a good cop, but he didn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants? That would go over well. McKee was a fair man, a shrewd one, and a fine lieutenant, but he didn’t understand the new LAPD. He didn’t comprehend a world that accepted the likes of David into their ranks, and rewarded them through promotion, and medals of valor, no matter who they slept with. He would never understand someone like Jairo; would never get why such a fine young man would risk his family, or his reputation, for a little cock on the side. A lot of cops were pussy hounds, which was not surprising, since women threw themselves at the guns and the glamour, that had little to do with the reality, but the same latitude wasn’t allowed for deviants.
