L.A. Boneyard

by P. A. Brown

  He still didn’t sleep worth a damn.

  The next morning he called Des even before he left for work. Des’s drowsy, sleep-filled voice came on the line. He snapped awake the minute he realized who he was talking to.

  “David, where are you? We’ve been frantic—”

  David felt a lightness push the weight off his chest at the thought that maybe Chris had realized how rash his decision to kick David out had been. Then Des kept talking.

  “Chris is beside himself. I’ve never seen him so mad. You have to tell him you are so sorry you scared him like that. It’s unbelievable that anyone would think you would have an affair.

  Chris knows better, he’s just not thinking straight, pardon my French.”

  L.A. BONEYARD 173

  “It’s true, Des,” David said quietly. “Well, not exactly, but he’s right, I thought about it. I know it was a mistake, but I can’t lie—”

  “Oh, you and your pigheaded honor. Of course you lie. You have to tell Chris it never happened and this Jairo guy is nothing to you. He isn’t, is he?” Dark suspicion clouded Des’s normally bouncy voice.

  “No, Des, he’s not. He doesn’t mean anything. He never did. I tried telling Chris that, but he’s in such a state he won’t listen. I figured I’d give him a few days then talk to him again.”

  “I’m scared for him. You know Chris. He might do something stupid and we’ll all regret it.”

  “I’ll try Des. Maybe if you talk to him—”

  “Honey, I’ve been talking until I’m blue in the face. He’s just not listening.”

  David sighed. “Well, keep trying.”

  “I will hon. You take care and I’ll give Chrissy a big hug for you.”

  “You do that, Des.”

  When he hung up David forced himself into the bathroom, where he scraped two days of thick, grizzled hair off his face.

  Still smarting from the application of aftershave, he took his Smith & Wesson out from under the bed and strode out to his Chevy.

  The diner next door had just dumped fresh garbage into the open dumpster out back and the gulls were squabbling over tidbits. Their raucous cries followed him down the street toward Northeast. The stench of rotting food drove away any thoughts he might have entertained about breakfast.

  Back at his desk, again before Jairo traipsed in right at eight, he fired up his PC and let it grind through login, and pulled Mikalenko’s rap sheet, hoping to spot something he missed the first dozen times through. Nothing popped.

  174 P.A. Brown

  When Jairo came in, he barely nodded a greeting at the younger man. He scooped up his phone and called Konstatinov.

  “You ready to roll? If we find Mickey, I’ll need you along in case he plays dumb.”

  “I am on my way.”

  David couldn’t help but smile at Konstatinov’s enthusiasm.

  He was loving this. Most boots never got the chance to work detective detail until they’d been on patrol forever. And even then, they had to take the exams, and orals, and do well on them to hope for a promotion. It was the ultimate gig.

  Everyone and his cousin’s dog wanted a posting to detective. If this kept on David would have to give a good word to Konstatinov’s lieutenant. He’d make a good D.

  David signed a Crown Vic out of the motor pool, and he, and Konstatinov, rolled west toward Hollywood. He’d already apprised Hollywood Station that they were looking at one of their own illustrious residents. Their attitude seemed to be

  “He’s all yours.”

  The house on Cherokee Avenue was a little more upscale than a lot of the surrounding buildings. A rough gem among zirconium. New wave gentrification that was ongoing in this tiny, kitschy enclave.

  David knocked on the bungalow door, with a pair of monstrous rubber trees flanking either side, and several beds of less than perfect roses. The door opened to reveal a statuesque blonde who would have been called zaftig in another era. She had what used to be called an hour glass figure, the kind that women today spent a small fortune trying to get rid of in their quest for the eternal anorexic Hollywood figure.

  David could tell Konstatinov was smitten by the beautiful woman. When she greeted them with a softly accented voice, Konstatinov spoke to her in Ukrainian.

  Her face lit up in a smile that made her seem like she was about sixteen.

  “Ask her if Mikalenko is here?”

  L.A. BONEYARD 175

  She frowned when the question was put to her. She answered in the same tongue.

  “She says no, he went away a couple of days ago and has not been around since.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Ask her if there’s anyone else in the house. Impress on her that lying to us is not a good thing.”

  More heated back and forth. Finally the woman nodded unhappily. “Yes,” Konstatinov said. “There are two other girls here. They are in the back room. Mikalenko said they must not be seen by strangers. He will be very angry with her for telling us this.”

  “Tell her we may have just saved her life.”

  The woman’s eyes went wide and she barked out several words in rapid fire succession.

  “She does not believe you. Mickey is always good to them.

  He would not hurt anyone.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Irinka Komichuk.”

  “Find out if he drove away and if so, what’s he driving.”

  “She says he did drive. He always drives. He loves his big car more than he loves her. That seemed to upset her. Guess Mikalenko is quite the stud.” Konstatinov smiled. “She calls him her little bear.”

  “What kind of car is he driving? The Caddie still? I can put a BOLO out on it.”

  “She does not know the type of car it is. Only that it is big and brown and very soft inside. I think she means luxurious.”

  “Like a Caddie. Ask her if we can come in. We won’t touch anything, we just want to look around.”

  After several minutes of back and forth, the zaftig woman stepped aside, and let the two past her. The neatly furnished 176 P.A. Brown

  living room smelled of lemon and something sharp.

  Konstatinov inhaled.

  “Borscht. My mother used to make it. Hers was the best.”

  Having never had the pleasure, David wouldn’t know. He let his gaze roam over the snug house, taking in the spotless kitchen, the avocado green fridge and stove, which spoke of the appliances’ age. Most interesting was the ikon corner on the eastern wall of the house. It looked similar enough to the one they had found in Halyna’s house that David didn’t have to ask Konstatinov what it was. In a shallow alcove beside the ikon display was a small wooden table with three place settings and chairs that had recently been pushed back.

  “And how long has Ms. Komichuk been in the country?”

  Now she looked really scared. Probably thought they were INS.

  “Tell her were not from immigration. We don’t care about her status. It’s Mikalenko we need to talk to. If she helps us I’ll see she isn’t deported.”

  Konstatinov looked at him shrewdly. “You can’t make that kind of promise.”

  “No, but she doesn’t know that.”

  Shaking his head, Konstatinov spoke again, more slowly and gently. Still Irinka looked dubious and David thought for sure she was going to refuse to talk. Finally she tucked her chin turtle-like into her chest and sighed. Then she started talking and Konstatinov translated.

  “He used to be a sweet old man, until a week or so ago when he got very angry and silent. He ignored their attempts to make him happy again. He was mad all the time and he even hit Katrina last week, knocking her down and cutting her lip. She doesn’t know what he’s mad about, just that it started two weeks ago.”

  “When Halyna was killed. Ask her if she’s ever heard of Stakchinko, Konjenko or Lapchuk.”

  After a lengthy discussion Konstatinov nodded. “She does not know the names, but she
does remember seeing two blond L.A. BONEYARD 177

  women with Mickey. She admits she was jealous of them, and was glad when they didn’t come around again.”

  “When was this? As close as she can remember.”

  “She thinks about...a month ago? Maybe longer. Seven-eight weeks. Mickey doesn’t have any calendars in the place and they have no way to mark time. But it was during a soccer game—

  she called it football—between Russia and Sweden. Of course they all rooted for Russia.”

  “Who won?” The score and the teams might give them a time frame. Things were looking up.

  “She says the Swedes won. They were all very unhappy.

  Especially Mikalenko, she thinks he might have bet on the game. He tried to get them to bet too, but they have no money so they didn’t.”

  “Bookmaking too, or is that too much to hope for?”

  “She doesn’t know. I’m not sure she knows what bookmaking is.”

  “Very sheltered, huh? Does she say what her and her friends do for Mickey? Were they sent out with men they didn’t know?

  What were they expected to give the men?”

  “You want me to ask that?” Konstatinov was aghast. “I can’t ask them that.”

  “We’re helping to establish probable cause for another search warrant on this place. We can’t do that without somebody here talking. Tell her we’re not going to use what she says against her or her friends.”

  “She won’t believe me. In her country the police are not so nice, and they are not bound by the same conduct code as we are.”

  “Try to get through to her. I’d hate to have to take her downtown, but we might have to if she won’t cooperate.”

  Konstatinov nodded and went back to talking in earnest.

  After what seemed like half an hour, but was probably only minutes, Komichuk started talking. She went on as though a dam had burst and David let Konstatinov listen without 178 P.A. Brown

  interference. He’d get the gist of it later. Let the woman run out of steam first.

  Finally she fell into an uneasy silence. Konstatinov patted her arm and turned to David.

  “She is afraid. She knows that what Mikalenko does is not right. He makes them all feel bad with his lies and what he makes them do. They are supposed to pretend they are not married, though Irinka has a husband back in Kiev, even has a daughter. Mikalenko brings men around. There is talk of marriage and the worst is he forces them to ‘do things.’ I’m sorry, but she won’t say what things, she is too shocked by it all.

  And afraid. I don’t blame her, considering what we think has happened so far.”

  “We may need to try to find a female interpreter to talk to her. Maybe she’d find a woman easier to talk to. Will she show us where the other women are? We need to hear their stories too. Tell her we will protect them. We can’t do that if she won’t talk to us.”

  “I already did. I’m not sure she believes me. Of course in her country the police protect no one but themselves. They are more likely to work for someone like Mikalenko. Mafia soldiers.”

  “What about the other women?”

  “Without a search warrant we can’t search for them, can we?”

  “Not unless we know there’s imminent threat to them, and I’m not sure we can make the case for that just now. Tell her we’ll be back, but she is to say nothing to Mikalenko if he comes around. Can she use the phone or is that off limits?”

  Konstatinov talked, then Komichuk. He turned to David.

  “She says it would be very hard to use the phone. Always he is suspicious of them. He only lets them talk to people when he is there and he stands by them so he always knows what they are saying. He tells them he will know if they call while he is away.

  He told her there was a... hrobak?” He looked puzzled, then amused. “I think she means bug. She thought the phone was bugged. At any rate, she could not make a secret phone call.”

  L.A. BONEYARD 179

  David wasn’t surprised. What better way to control your property than by keeping a tight leash on it. They couldn’t do anything else here. He gestured toward the door.

  “Tell her thank you, and we will be back. Reiterate that she is not to tell Mikalenko about our visit.”

  “She knows she would be in trouble if she told, so she will keep quiet, for her own safety.”

  They let themselves out. Back at the Crown Vic they paused and scanned the quiet residential street with neatly manicured lawns and trimmed hedges. A sharp contrast from Drew Street only a few miles away. It was eerily quiet, as though nothing evil happened here. Both of them slid into their seats and David started the car when a brown Caddie turned onto the street, saw it out of the rear view. He touched Konstatinov’s arms and pointed to the car gliding down the sun dappled street.

  “Mickey?”

  “Let’s go find out,” David said.

  They waited for the Caddie to coast to a stop. Two spots in front of them a pale blue Ford Fairlane van half blocked their view of it. David climbed out as the man they assumed was Mikalenko got out. The guy had a really bad hair weave. His natural hair was almost entirely gray and it so didn’t match his blond add-on. He was also heavy set and even from the passenger’s side door David could see the thick hair that covered nearly every inch of exposed skin. The Bear. The guy wore as much gold bling as a rapper at a midnight rave. He looked like a mange-ridden cat with a gold fixation.

  David and Konstatinov approached the unaware man cautiously. David was glad to see Konstatinov had his rover out, and was ready to call for backup, if Mikalenko rabbited.

  The Ukrainian finally noticed them. He tensed, then tried to look nonchalant as he turned away from them. Then before David could react, he bolted across the street. Konstatinov was right on his heels. David raced after them. Mikalenko darted down an alley between two apartment buildings. He darted left, and came up against a wooden barrier surrounding two half-filled dumpsters. He threw himself at the wall, and would have 180 P.A. Brown

  made it over, if Konstatinov hadn’t been right behind him. He grabbed Mikalenko’s ankles and hauled the heavy man back, onto the ground, snapping his cuffs on him with a single practiced move.

  Mikalenko screamed like they were beating him with batons.

  David hauled him to his feet and shoved him back toward their unmarked.

  “Why are you chasing me?”

  “Why are you running away?” David countered.

  “Police brutality,” Mikalenko yelled. “I want my lawyer. You cannot touch me, I have done nothink. I am innocent.”

  “We’re just going down to the station for a little chat. You can call your lawyer there,” David said. They loaded Mikalenko into the back seat of the Crown Vic, still cursing in English and Ukrainian. They listened to twenty minutes of that while they returned to Northeast where they booked Mikalenko on suspicion of soliciting with intent to sell. They didn’t bother laying the murder charges on him yet. David knew there wasn’t enough proof to take that charge to the DA.

  Mikalenko was good as his word. He lawyered up the minute they Mirandized him and took him down to the booking station, where he was fingerprinted and photographed. Now they had an up-to-date picture for their files.

  They didn’t have a lot more, and David knew if they didn’t find something soon, Mikalenko was going to walk. No doubt bound for the first plane back to Ukraine.

  They were on a tight leash now.

  “Come on,” he said to Konstatinov. “Let’s go back and talk to those girls. Maybe they’ll believe us now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Monday, 3:55 PM, Cherokee Avenue, Hollywood They found Irinka packing for a trip she flatly denied planning. She stonewalled any attempts by Konstatinov to get her to talk until David shrugged and pulled out his cuffs. Then she did an abrupt about face and starting talking so fast even Konstatinov had trouble keeping up with her.

  The two other women were still in the house, hiding in the closet of the
smallest bedroom in the back of the bungalow.

  They crept out like whipped dogs when David popped the closet door open. Konstatinov kept up a constant stream of soothing conversation, and after several minutes, all three women calmed down enough to talk.

  David put a call in to the station to try and round up a female officer who at least had some understanding of Ukrainian. As luck would have it they found one in Chatsworth and she would be dispatched to Northeast that same day. Now, all they had to do was talk the three women into going to the station with the two men, without resorting to arresting them.

  Fortunately Konstatinov seemed to have a golden tongue, and a way with the ladies, so it wasn’t long before they were laughing and teasing the handsome blond officer, who blushed furiously every time one of the good-looking women looked at him. He seemed especially enamored of the soft zaftig Irinka.

  He spent the ride back to Northeast leaning on his elbow over the back of his seat, chatting up Irinka and getting her chattering like a magpie.

  Back at the station, David threw the car into park. “If you’re going to marry the girl, you can set the date later. We need to get them into interview rooms and wait for our translator.”

  182 P.A. Brown

  Konstatinov blushed but he still took the time to guide Irinka into the station, leaving the others to be escorted by David, who brought up the rear.

  Activity in the station halted as all three women tottered in on high heels, their blond hair swinging free, and their flushed faces taking in the sight of a half a dozen men, most wearing uniforms, stopping whatever they were doing to watch the Ukrainian beauties walk by.

  Some wag noticed David and couldn’t help from saying,

  “Now there’s a waste. How do I volunteer for a duty like that?”

  David ignored him.

  Konstatinov led Irinka into an interview room. David took his charges in to two others, separating them so they couldn’t cook up stories between them, or corroborate their activities. If he was right, the three women were victims here, but he had to establish that before he could release them. He also had to know they weren’t going to skip once they were released. His case against Mikalenko might just hinge on them.