A Twisted Path

by Steve Winshel

  He looked at the man standing in front of him. One of those tough guys who didn’t want to sit on the exam table or take a seat. But this one wasn’t putting on a show. He’d probably been pretty ugly before, but now the entire right side of his face was swollen and disfigured. If this man was a police officer, the doctor was gong to drive the speed limit and walk the straight and narrow for the rest of his life. Young women excluded. He could tell from the way the man held his right arm that there was a broken wrist, too.

  “Uh, hi, I’m Doctor…well, here, let me see your face.” No need for introductions. He reached with ungloved hands and Cordoza flinched even before being touched, but didn’t pull back. The doctor gently probed the cheek and eye socket. He could practically hear the bone grinding. Without a word, he took the man’s forearm and turned it just as gently. No compound fracture, but broken in several places and probably lots of shards.

  “You’ll need a series of x-rays, and probably surgery on the wrist and the cheek. These are serious injuries. I think you should be in the hospital until it’s done.”

  Cordoza hadn’t said a word yet. “Fix it up good enough for now.” A real tough guy.

  “But, your face…let’s talk after the x-rays.”

  Cordoza leaned into the doctor. “I said just fix it up, doc. Now.” Not that the doctor had any real balls, but he knew his business.

  “If I don’t get x-rays, I can’t do anything but guess. That could make it worse, permanently disabling. Maybe worse, with the eye socket fractured. It will only take a short time.” He almost pleaded. He wanted to do whatever he could, make Margolin happy. “I’ll put you in right now, there’s a woman getting a spine series and she’ll be done in five minutes. Please.”

  Cordoza didn’t quite snarl, but his glare had the same effect. The pain was getting worse and he didn’t think he could stay conscious much longer. “Something for the pain, but nothing that would put me to sleep.”

  The doctor wrote a script for Vicodin, ironically the same high dosage that dulled Furyk’s pain almost daily. Thirty minutes later, record time for any doctor’s office much less one that took x-rays, had a radiologist read them, and got the results to the treating doctor who then sat with the patient, Cordoza was out the door. His wrist was tightly bound and in a cast. It would hold until surgery. He’d violently eschewed the plastic mask that would have covered his right cheek and eye socket, making him look like an NBA player who’d had his nose broken one time too many and was nervous about losing his good looks. The doctor had warned him that one hard jolt could do permanent damage. Cordoza didn’t plan on getting jolted.

  With three Vicodin running through his system, his head had cleared and he’d worked out a plan. Furyk had weak spots and Cordoza was going to press, hard. He’d find him and the woman. She’d die first, but Furyk would pay for a while.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  It took Furyk twenty minutes in relatively light traffic to get to Studio City. The street he drove down slowly was not the most expensive in an area that housed both Hollywood moguls and wannabe stars who still waited tables while waiting on their big break. The small street was tree-lined but served as a cut-through for morning and evening traffic trying to avoid the tie-ups where the major canyon roads intersected Ventura Blvd. The houses ranged from untended woodsy affairs to post-modern chic. The cement driveway he pulled into ended with a quiet exclamation point at a house that was remarkable for its flawless upkeep. Modest in size and boxy in its plain stucco walls, the paint was meticulous from the window trimmings to the numbers on the mailbox. Pots of plants along the windows made up for sparse but clean landscaping. The trees were equally infrequent and in the summer it got hot inside. In the early fall of Southern California, it could go from 90 degrees to below 50 in a day. The house would struggle to keep its occupants comfortable.

  Furyk cut the engine. They had not spoken since sitting in front of the nail spa. Merrill had been deep in thought, her changing expression and unconscious gnawing on her knuckle telegraphing the shifting perspectives and conclusions she wrestled with. He waited until she looked over at him.

  “I know you loved Carl. But he wasn’t a particularly good man.” She said nothing, but that included not objecting. “You didn’t kill him, and you’re not a fool for trusting Margolin.” Blaming herself was necessarily part of her thought process, he knew. Now he had to drop the bombshell.

  “The man who shot Felicia – who killed her in your kitchen and watched her bleed to death – he was shooting at you first. He was there because Margolin either sent him or told someone else who sent him. They wanted her dead, and if you weren’t going to take the fall for your husband’s death, then they want you dead too.” He waited a moment, letting it sink in. She didn’t look away and he connected the dots for her. “Margolin wants you dead.” She appeared on the verge of tears, but held them back. Anger had made her stronger.

  “Why, why exactly? Because he and Carl were being…being….pimps or something?” The word sounded childish coming out of her mouth, out of place like a slang term she’d heard on television late at night and was trying out. “As horrible as that is, why would it mean…I mean, why would he want to kill me?” Her voice was rising and bewilderment was replacing the anger. Furyk wanted the anger to dominate.

  “Whatever he and Carl were into, it wasn’t that simple. Whoever sent Cordoza to your place had pull. And they must have a lot to lose if they’re willing to take that risk.” Furyk didn’t mention the attack at his own house the night before. “That means you’re in danger. You’re going to stay here a few days. I’ll call or come over as much as I can, but I need to find out what’s going on. I’ll need you to tell me things, too. I’ll have some hard questions.” Somehow that sounded more ominous than talk about death and murder. Merrill nodded.

  Furyk unlocked the car doors with the power switch on his side and got out. He went around and opened the door for Merrill. She stood resolutely, though not entirely convincingly, and walked with him up the swept and weeded walkway stones. From inside, they could hear the sound of music, Middle Eastern music. The smell she had thought was from some blossom she couldn’t identify in the yard resolved into a powerful fragrance of spice and cooking meat. Her mouth watered and she realized she hadn’t eaten since early the previous day. Before they could knock on the door, it burst open and Hamid stood beaming. He’d raced home from the gas station across from Furyk’s sandwich shop, leaving his idiot nephew in charge for an hour and hoping it wouldn’t lead to an explosion or shoplifting spree. At least four children under the age of 7, one woman in her middle 30s, and three ancient dowagers whose true age was indeterminable, peered from different angles around Hamid. Furyk could barely get out a greeting when the women reached around and pulled at Merrill. Speaking a mix of English and Farsi, they launched into a detailed description of what was cooking on the stove while they ushered her in.

  Chapter Ninety

  The dead girl was Felicia Garth. Prole ran through the backup of Wick’s records in her office and found her in less than a minute. Recidivist runaway, some street prostitution that was more likely rape than business, and she’d been given the choice of counseling with Wick or juvenile hall. If Furyk was right, then Wick had recruited her for something a little classier but no less disgusting than standing on a back street and giving blow jobs with her head banging against a steering wheel. She must’ve decided screwing the new clientele was a step down and gutting her therapist was the better in a series of obviously stupid choices she’d made over her entire sixteen years of life.

  No proof, though, other than the second-hand account of a guy she couldn’t find and the prime suspect who was equally unavailable. Prole’s boss wouldn’t listen to theoretical bullshit. He’d want evidence and until then Merrill Wick was just a murderer on the run. Maybe a two-time offender now, with the girl dead. Prole needed something solid. She looked at the computer screen with Felicia’s face and basic information. Finding Merr
ill wasn’t going to solve this. She tapped her teeth with short, well-kept fingernails. She stared into the girl’s eyes. No answer there, just the echo of a life that ended for one of a thousand reasons that made Prole sick to her stomach. Wick was a scumbag, his customers worse. But setting Merrill up to take the fall had to come from someone else. Prole spun her chair around and looked out the window at the far end of the squad room. She couldn’t think of anything else that fit the facts, so she’d go with Furyk’s stupid paranoid theory. Cordoza was there, Cordoza shot the girl, and someone with pull in the department had orchestrated it – not to mention Furyk getting shot at. Either someone in the department was corrupt and running this or it was someone outside the department who had something on someone. A lot of somethings and someones in one theory. She absently pulled at a bra strap under her blouse that was rubbing against her shoulder. A younger detective sitting at his desk between her and the window was on the phone, tapping a pencil against the surface. He watched her and smiled, unrelated to the conversation he was having with some clown who was reporting a bum going through his trash. Prole thought about what threads to yank on to get some rhythm on the case. She pictured Merrill on the night of Wick’s murder. The furious daughter, the mother with the doe-eyed demeanor of a prescription drug fan, and the caricatured slick attorney.

  Bingo. She let go of the strap beneath her shirt and it made a soft snapping sound. Her gaze lowered from the window and she caught the detective looking at her chest from across the room. “Tell your wife they’re real, douchebag,” and spun back to her desk. She fumbled around the pages of her notebook, flipping back to the night of the murder. The addresses were there, home and office. Time to have a little chat with that asshole Margolin.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Furyk had the same thought, only it was somewhat more violent. Margolin was the connection. That’s where he’d start.

  Driving back to the Brentwood neighborhood where he’d just witnessed a murder, cold-cocked a cop, and stolen the primary suspect in a high-profile homicide was probably dumb. But it also might be so dumb no one would be looking for him there. He drove to Sunset and cut down to San Vicente, parking half a mile away from Margolin’s house in the lot of the Whole Foods market. He’d called the office first and been told the lawyer was out sick that day. Furyk drummed his fingers on the dashboard as he waited for traffic to pass. Margolin had no idea how sick he was going to be feeling today.

  If Cordoza had stuck around when he woke up, there’d be an all points bulletin out for Furyk. But that seemed unlikely. Things hadn’t gone as planned and Cordoza would need some time to pull together his story. He’d also want to track down Furyk on his own. There wouldn’t be a serious manhunt going on yet. Prole, though, was all over his ass. She’d called three times and he wasn’t ready to talk to her yet. Margolin first.

  He got out and walked in one door of the supermarket and out the other side so the rent-a-guard patrolling the lot and carrying a pad for writing tickets didn’t bust him for parking without shopping. Cutting up Barrington, he worked his way past the streets filled with businesses and apartment buildings and across the quiet road that was the demarcation line separating the mixed-use neighborhood from the purely high-end residential area. In less than ten minutes he was standing across the street and five houses down from where Margolin’s 500S sedan was parked in the driveway. It was the only car. Furyk crossed the street and headed straight for the door. He was already pissed off and didn’t plan on losing any steam in the next little while.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Brant sat at his desk, debating putting out a call for every patrol to be searching for Furyk. That’d be faster, but if some candy-ass officer who wasn’t on Brant’s team collared him before Cordoza got there, Brant would be screwed. He put himself in Furyk’s place. Furyk had been a good investigator when he’d been on the force, smart and dogged. A goddamned troublemaker, and that had gotten him run out after refusing to get along and pissing off some of his brethren who didn’t think it was such a big deal to make a few extra bucks so they could take the kids on a decent vacation once in a while or buy the wife a nice something for Christmas. But good at the by-the-rules part of his job. A trained investigator would look for connections. And there was one obvious connection that Furyk would be able to make.

  Brant didn’t bother to use a clean cell phone this time. He called Cordoza directly from his office line. It picked up before the first ring was over. “Kill Margolin. Do it now. Before Furyk gets to him.” The Sheriff had been talking in a low, dangerous voice, but a sudden burst of fury overtook him. “And don’t let the little pissant walk away like you fucked up this morning or I’ll jam your nuts down your throat!” He slammed the phone down hard and had to catch his breath. Goddamned heart attack, that’s what he was going to have. He wanted to take the shotgun out of his cruiser and just start blowing people away. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. Just get it cleaned up, back to square one, and it’d be fine.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Perry Margolin sat in his den, dressed for work in an immaculately cleaned and creased suit, $500 purple tie offsetting the dark blue of the jacket and light cream of the shirt. His shoes were spotless, the tassels individually polished and buffed by the girl who did the same to each piece of silver in the Margolin household. Cheyenne was at school and his wife was out shopping, or spending money somewhere, somehow. Though it was still just late morning, he had a beer in his hand as he slumped back in the soft leather that mocked the nightmare he found himself in. Despite the enormity of the murders, the danger to his livelihood, the real possibility that he could go to jail for any one of half a dozen crimes not the least of which were pandering and human trafficking, he had no idea of the shitstorm that was converging on him in that moment.

  The pounding on the door reverberated through the empty house and pierced Margolin’s sanctuary. Delivery man, newspaper boy, girl scouts, proselytizers, or Brant – he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Worst would be if it was the Councilman, who’d left a message that sounded desperate. Harte feared any whiff of scandal, even in L.A., would affect his jump from City Council to the Mayor’s office. He was probably right. Harte liked to have the girls dress up in weird costumes, then spank him until he almost bled. Sick assholes, at every level of society. Margolin knew, and in fact had a list that would have amazed Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. He put down the beer and hoisted himself up. The banging wasn’t going to stop.

  Perry straightened his tie as he approached the door. The layout was similar to Wick’s house – they’d used the same architect and matched each other upgrade for upgrade. Peering through the peephole, all he saw was black. Must be one of those flyers from the Mexicans who sidled through the neighborhood leaving scraps of paper announcing the opening of a new Chinese restaurant, or gardener trying to pick up new business by putting his card on the door. He didn’t bother to go to one of the side windows and see who it was; that would just announce he was home and what was he going to do – not open the door for Brant or the Councilman?

  He pulled open the door and it took him a moment to place the man standing in front of him. “Oh, shit.”

  “Hi, Counselor. Anyone else home?” Furyk had taken his thumb off the peephole as the door started to pull inward and stepped up so he’d be toe-to-toe with Margolin. His left hand shot out and gave a light jab to the bridge of the attorney’s nose. It didn’t feel light to Margolin, who staggered back but didn’t fall, dazed and in pain but cogent. Furyk was surgeon-like in his precision. He stepped through the door and grabbed an unresisting Margolin by the tie. No other cars in the driveway, it was a school day, and if there were any maids or butlers or whatever the hell people in Brentwood hired to help them get through the day – they weren’t visible. Furyk wrapped the tie around his fist once and walked past Margolin, dragging him back toward the den he could see across the living room. It looked quiet and the door was heavy. It would mute any unp
leasant sounds.

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Prole parked in front of the valet stand at the Century Towers and waved off the maitre d’ of cars. If he didn’t recognize the designation on the plates he didn’t deserve the high position. She pushed through the glass doors and wove upstream through the office bees heading out for an early lunch. The silent ride in the elevator gave her time to decide on how much of a hard-ass she was going to be with the lawyer. If Furyk was right (and she was getting tired of the caveat) then Margolin was part of whatever Wick had been involved in. She’d have to scare him, which wouldn’t take much once she pushed past the façade of lawyerly bullshit he’d throw up at first. The front desk receptionist on the 23rd floor was easy to blow past, but the prude guarding Margolin’s door looked more formidable.

  “Let your boss know the cops are here and he should get his sorry ass out here to say hello.” The assistant didn’t waste any bravado on Prole who drummed the desk impatiently, having enough sense to know she couldn’t just bust in on Margolin without a warrant or cause.

  Still sitting, hair pulled back tighter than her skin, the woman pursed her lips. It did nothing to improve her countenance or reduce the number of deep wrinkles around her mouth.

  “Do you have an appointment, officer?” Other than the tightened lips, no other part of her face moved. She could have been a display at Madame Tussaud’s.