by Marcia Clark
I’d just decided I had to have that attractive set of spark plugs on the shelf to my right when the manager finished his call and looked at us.
“What can I do for you ladies?” he asked.
I hate being called a lady. It makes me think of white gloves and fussy teacups. And women who simper. It’s a patronizing word that shrinks you, makes you inconsequential and easily dismissed. Or it could just be me.
Bailey stepped in closer and held her badge down at her waist where only he could see it. We didn’t want Glass Man to get a glimpse and take a powder. Tommy’s eyes got big, which I found satisfying. Still want to help the ladies, pal?
“What can I do for you…uh…”
“Detective Keller,” Bailey said. “And this is Deputy District Attorney Knight.”
He nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you.”
Respectful. Better. I supposed this was one of the upsides of Simi Valley. Quite a contrast to the ’tude we usually got downtown.
“We’re looking for Butch Adler,” I said.
“He’s here.” Tommy looked around the store. “Might be helping someone outside. Is he in trouble?”
“No,” Bailey said. “Not at all.”
Not yet anyway.
Tommy looked relieved. “Come with me.”
We followed Tommy to a service bay, where a bald man wearing a Pep Boys uniform shirt and heavy black motorcycle boots was rolling a tire. “Butch,” Tommy called out. “Can you come over here a sec? Got someone who wants to see you.”
Butch narrowed his eyes at Bailey and me. Unlike Tommy, our friend Butch knew how to spot a cop at twenty paces. “Let me just get this out,” he said, gesturing to the tire. He rolled it to an older man standing next to a green Honda Civic, said something to him, and walked over to us, rubbing his hands on a blue kerchief.
Tommy introduced us, but Glass Man didn’t offer to shake. Just kept rubbing the kerchief between his hands and sizing us up.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Bailey said. “We’ll take it from here.”
Tommy gratefully excused himself and went back inside.
“I didn’t test dirty and I haven’t been busted,” Butch said. “So you got nothing on me.”
“You sure about that?” Bailey said, bluffing.
Butch said nothing, showing his street smarts. When in doubt, clam up.
“I’d prefer not to bust you, tell you the truth,” Bailey continued. “Just want to have a little chat.”
Butch’s eyes got narrower. Now that I was up close and personal, I could see that he had a tattoo on his neck of a death’s-head wearing a Nazi helmet. Très chic. He folded his arms.
“I don’t talk to cops,” he said. “Guess you better bust me.”
Tough guy. I decided to try another tack.
“Aren’t you a little curious to know what we want to talk about?” I asked. “Maybe we want to ask about your golf handicap, or your pick for American Idol this season.”
Butch just looked at me, then turned to Bailey. “You got something, bust me. You don’t, let me get on with my day. I got work to do.”
Out of patience and pissed off at having lost all this time for nothing, I snapped, “We just want to know what you heard about PEN1 hitting that cop Zack Bayer in Glendale.”
Butch’s eyebrows shot up, making his whole scalp move back on his head. “You wanna talk about PEN1? Those pieces of cow shit.” He snorted. “Whyn’t ya say so?”
56
Butch was more than willing to talk but not out in the open. He led us into the manager’s office at the end of the store.
“Those PEN1 punks all try to act like they’re hard cases, but they’re just a bunch of little punk-ass bitches,” Butch said in a voice that sounded like a rusty muffler being dragged over a bumpy driveway. Too many cigarettes smoked during meth-fueled all-nighters will do that for you.
“So you don’t believe they did Zack?” I asked.
Butch made a face as though he wanted to spit. “They don’t got the stones.”
“You ever hear of anyone working for the wife, Lilah?” I asked.
“That the hot chick they got for it?”
“The one they tried to get,” I corrected. “She walked.”
“Yeah,” Butch said, nodding to himself. “You askin’ if someone from PEN1 did it for her?”
I nodded.
“No fucking way,” Butch said emphatically. “Like I said, they don’t got—”
“—the stones, I know,” I said. “You ever hear about anyone doing bodyguard work for her? I mean, now—not back then.”
Butch frowned, then folded his meaty arms across his chest. “Why’d she want to hire one o’ them?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious.
“Same reason anyone hires a bodyguard,” I said.
“She’d be stupid.”
My expression told him the wisdom of hiring those fools was of no interest to me.
He added, “No. I never heard that.”
It was looking like we’d hit the bottom of this particular well. I wanted to walk away with something more than Butch’s antipathy for all things PEN1.
“I have to talk to them,” I said. “We need names.”
“You’re not going to put out any paper, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No reports. This conversation never happened.”
Butch reeled off a list for us.
“Who’s the highest up of this bunch?” I asked.
“Dominic—no one’s farther up the chain than him,” Butch replied, a note of respect creeping into his voice.
“Who’s just below him?” I asked.
Butch thought a minute. “Lonnie,” he finally said.
“He in the PEN1 death squad?” I asked.
“Last I knew.”
“This Lonnie have a last name?”
Butch shook his head slowly. “I never knew it. But he used to hang down in San Berdoo.”
“San Bernardino’s a big county, Butch. I’m guessing there’s more than one Lonnie out there,” I said. “How about a description? Any tatts?”
“Yeah,” Butch replied. He paused and squinted. “Had a snake on one arm. Something else on his left…a dagger? Yeah, I think that’s it. A dagger on his left.”
We tried a little longer, but we’d exhausted his repertoire of PEN1 lore.
We headed out of the office. “Hey, Butch,” I said, “how long were you in PEN1?”
Butch stopped and acknowledged my deduction with the faintest of smiles. “’Bout five years.”
“Right up until they busted you for selling to Hispanics.” I made it the statement of fact I was sure it had to be.
Butch nodded, his expression showing he was impressed. “Nice catch, Counselor,” he said. “Pretty smart, lady.”
This time lady didn’t bother me.
We headed back to Bailey’s car.
“You got enough on Lonnie to locate him somewhere in the Inland Empire?” I asked.
“I’m going to call it in and see,” she replied. “In the meantime, you ready for lunch?”
“May as well,” I said. “Just make it someplace where I can get a salad. Please.”
Bailey gave me a superior smirk, but she found us a Marie Callender’s.
Once we got seated, Bailey called in the description of Lonnie, and I took out the photograph of the stabber’s wrist. The watch looked thin and light, the way the most expensive ones often do, though the chronographs gave it a sporty appearance. The glint of metal barely protruding between the fingers of his left hand told me which hand he favored—or at least that he was ambidextrous. That might help narrow it down—that is, if we ever found any suspects. Bailey interrupted my already dead-ended musings with a sharp snap of her cell phone.
“I found a Lonnie Wilson in Costa Mesa who fits the description,” she said.
“Costa Mesa has its share of skinheads,” I remarked. “Sounds good so far. Got anything on him?”
Bailey grinned. “If
he’s our boy, we’ve hit the jackpot. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Probation violation.”
“Means no bail.” I smiled.
“And he’s looking at a ten-year fall.”
“So how do we find him?” I asked.
“Finally an easy one. They already picked him up—Men’s Central Jail, Bauchet Street.”
We bumped fists. Then it dawned on me: that meant I was going back to that dump. Again.
57
The bloated concrete mushroom squatting in the middle of Bauchet Street soaked up the brilliant sunshine like a black hole. Somehow, no matter how bright the day, the Men’s Central Jail in downtown Los Angeles always felt like it sat in the darkest bowels of the earth. Smelled that way too. We got out and walked toward the entrance. I was glad Lonnie Wilson was within reach, but I wasn’t glad to be in this hellhole—again.
“I deliberately avoided defense work so I wouldn’t have to come here,” I grumped. “Now it feels like I’m here more than my own office.”
Bailey tried to suppress a chuckle…and failed.
We checked our guns and passed through the metal detector, then waited in the claustrophobia-inducing attorney room for Lonnie Wilson.
The filthy windows of our glass bubble filtered the already dim light, adding to the sense of being in a dungeon. Which, I guess, it was. Five minutes later, I saw our quarry approach. He was tall, somewhere between six feet one and six feet three, and solid like a linebacker—probably 250 pounds at least, and most of it muscle. The chains at his waist, wrists, and legs dangled off his body like jewelry; his hair was slicked back with not one piece out of place. But as he approached, I saw that his features were surprisingly delicate: a small nose, a rosebud of a mouth, and china-blue eyes. It was an eerie combination.
The guards brought him in and sat him down, then locked both hands and legs to the metal chair, which was bolted into the concrete floor. One of the guards left; the other stayed just outside the door. A nice, cozy gathering.
Bailey introduced us. Lonnie looked from her to me.
“What do you want?” he asked. His tone was calculating and faintly superior.
“Information,” I said. “And maybe an introduction, if you’re lucky.”
“Lucky?” he replied, jerking his head to point out where we were.
An unexpected surprise: a skinhead who knew the meaning of irony. But I was in no mood to play with this jerk.
“Things could get worse.” I paused and looked at him steadily. “Or they could get better.”
Lonnie exhaled through his nose. “I’m listening.”
“A good word from a cop and a DA,” Bailey replied. “The judge might find that interesting, since you got violated for resisting arrest.”
Lonnie drew a breath, about to argue his side of the case, then thought better of it. “I asked around about you two. They say you’re straight.” He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see. Ask me.”
I brought up Zack’s murder.
Lonnie nodded. “I remember that.”
“Yeah, I figured you were the type to keep up with current events,” I said.
Lonnie snickered.
“I heard PEN1 did it,” I said.
He smiled slowly, his china-blue eyes as cold as ice. “Can’t say we did, can’t say we didn’t.”
“Actually, you could,” I said, unimpressed with his obnoxious swagger. “You could say, ‘Oh, we had nothing to do with that.’ Or, ‘Yes, we did do that.’ See how easy it is?” I tried to rein in the sarcasm—and my growing desire to grab something heavy and smack him upside his head. Lonnie glared at me but somehow managed to keep his fear at bay.
“What do you know about Lilah Bayer?” I asked.
“She the piece they hooked up for it?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Less than you do,” he said, his voice diffident.
I had to tread carefully. This cretin had reason to lie and pretend to have information to feather his own nest. The more I let him know I wanted something, the more likely I was to get a bullshit answer. His posturing about Zack’s murder meant nothing either way—someone from PEN1 could’ve done it…or not. But his attitude about Lilah told me he really didn’t have a line on her.
“I want a meeting with Dominic,” I said.
Lonnie chuckled coldly.
“It’s good to see you have a sense of humor. It’ll come in handy while you’re serving your ten-year sentence.” Which is probably what he’d get no matter how good a word we put in for him.
Lonnie favored me with a flinty gaze. I returned it, and we continued the stare contest until he finally gave up and shrugged.
“I can’t promise anything,” he said.
“Try,” Bailey said as she pulled out her cell.
Lonnie looked hard at Bailey as he recited the number. She punched it in.
“I’d like to speak to Dominic,” she said.
Bailey and Lonnie had a stare-down while we waited to see who, if anyone, would come to the phone. After a few more moments, Bailey spoke.
“Dominic? I’ve got someone who wants to speak to you.” She got up, walked behind Lonnie, and held the phone to his ear.
It was fun to watch Lonnie kiss some ass. He was surprisingly good at it.
“I know you don’t like this, Dom, and I want you to know I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need you to talk to some cops. I guess you know I’m looking at ten—,” Lonnie began, then stopped and listened. “No,” he replied. He listened some more. “Just some old case.” Lonnie nodded. “I will. I owe ya, and you know I’ll find a way to—” He stopped and listened. “Will do. And really, thanks, man, I—”
Lonnie stopped abruptly. “We’re done,” he said to Bailey.
She snapped the cell shut.
And Lonnie gave us directions.
58
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Even Bailey had to make an effort to keep up as I trotted out to the car, taking deep breaths of cold air to get the stench of the jail out of my nose. When we got to the car, I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, but after a couple of minutes I got too cold and quickly rolled it back up. Bailey headed for Vignes Street.
“What a waste of flesh,” I said.
“A real gem,” Bailey agreed. She glanced at her watch. The clock in her department-issue car had never worked. “It’s just about seven o’clock. We should hit Dominic tomorrow.”
“That’ll work.”
“I might hang out at the bar with Drew for a while,” she said. “Want to come?”
That didn’t sound bad. A nice dry martini, some laughs with Bailey and Drew. The perfect combination to wipe out the foul smell of the Hellmouth and the stench of that white-supremacist pig. She parked on the street in the ten-minute drop-off zone and ignored the thunderous looks from Rafi, the valet.
“I’m going up to the room to bleach myself and burn my clothes, but then I’ll be down.”
Bailey laughed. I didn’t.
She headed for the bar, and I hit the up button for the elevator. It’d been a full day and I was glad to have the elevator to myself, as there were no annoying stops along the way. I walked down the hallway toward my room, plotting the questions I’d ask skinhead kingpin Dominic when we saw him tomorrow.
As I passed the narrow corridor that led to the fire escape, I felt a rush of cold air. I stopped to see if someone had left the door open when something slammed against me with the force of a steel wrecking ball. I flew a few feet until I hit the far wall and fell to the floor. Before I could push myself up or get my bearings, a heavy boot landed a vicious kick to my kidney. I reflexively curled up to protect my head, but a gloved hand grabbed me by the hair and banged my head on the ground with so much force the impact reverberated through my brain. The color red filled my eyes. Then everything went dark.
I didn’t even know I’d been unconscious until I came to. When I cracked open my eyes, I saw that I was still lyi
ng on the floor. My head was throbbing so badly I couldn’t lift it, and my stomach was seesawing, making me afraid to stand up. I felt around for my purse but couldn’t find it. I tried to open my eyes further, but the light stung. I decided to lie there a little while longer since I didn’t seem to be able to do anything else.
I must’ve blacked out again, because the next thing I knew, paramedics were strapping me onto a gurney and Bailey was hovering nearby, looking worried. As they began to roll me down the hall, I spoke to her.
“It’s okay,” I said. But she didn’t respond. Maybe I hadn’t said it out loud? I opened my mouth to try and speak louder, but the blackness closed over me again.
When I woke for the third time, I was in a hospital bed, and Bailey and Toni were on either side of me—bent in weird positions on uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chairs.
I slowly pulled myself up into a sitting position—a victory. Then the world began to swim, and I vomited. Victory may have been an overstatement. My head felt like someone was using a hammer to drive sharp metal rods through it, and I involuntarily groaned. Bailey and Toni were at my side in an instant.
“I’m fine, really,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Sounds were going to be difficult for me, I could tell. “Just a headache.”
“Sure,” Toni said. “Just lie back and take it easy. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Does anyone else know about this yet?” I asked.
“No,” Toni replied. “But they’re going to—”
I reached out to grab Toni’s arm, but it was too much movement, too fast. I fell back against the pillows.
“No, Tone,” I said weakly. “Not yet.”
I knew my condition wasn’t helping my cause any, so I tried to put a little more force in my voice.
“They might take me off the case,” I said. “Give us a couple of days to figure out what this is. What if it’s just some random purse snatch?”
