by Alex Gilly
Before that, though, what he needed to do was figure out who had beaten him up and stolen his Heckler & Koch. He needed to get it back. It was his service weapon, and it would be the nail in the coffin of his career if he had to go down to the station and report it stolen.
He also needed to sort out the Perez thing. He wondered how Diego had done with the fishing boat down in San Pedro. He pulled out his cell and called Diego, but it went straight to voice mail, which meant his phone was off.
That’s okay, he thought. He’d have a shower, change his clothes, then go down to the dock himself and ask around.
On the way, he’d look into Bonito’s first, see if anyone had seen anything out on the sidewalk the preceding night that might help find the bozos who had taken his gun.
Maybe he’d have a little pick-me-up while he was there. Just to help keep his head straight while he ironed out his problems.
CHAPTER NINE
San Pedro’s commercial fishing fleet docked along a quay about a mile down the road from Bonito’s, in a narrow bay off the deepwater channel that led to the main container terminals of the Port of Los Angeles. The bay itself had received cargo ships once, but now it was too small for the leviathans that carried the modern world’s trade, and so had been largely abandoned except by the fishing fleet, which itself was dwindling. The last local cannery had closed in the nineties, a year or two before Finn’s father had been caught smuggling narcotics aboard his fishing boat.
Finn turned onto the road that ran along the concrete quay. Trawlers and seiners lined the side. Nets lay in great piles on the concrete, tarpaulins pulled over some of them. Finn drove slowly, examining each boat. He had a buzz going from his pit stop at Bonito’s on the way in. Cutts hadn’t been able to help him work out who had mugged him the night before, but the pick-me-up Finn had enjoyed while there had worked. He was looking forward to finding the Pacific Belle. Before he could figure which one she was, he noticed a commotion at the end of the wharf: blue lights, police cars, a chopper bearing down. He drove down to take a look. A port-police officer flagged him to stop. Finn rolled down his window.
“This area’s off-limits. You’ll have to turn around, sir.”
The Office of Air and Marine and the port police often cooperated on port operations. Finn recognized the officer.
“Wilkins? It’s me, Finn.”
“Finn, Jesus. What happened to your face? I didn’t recognize you.”
“What’s going on?” said Finn. He was closer to the water’s edge now and saw a barge crane raising something heavy out of the water. The port police dive-team boat was alongside the crane barge, her blue lights on and her white-striped red flag out, indicating that she had divers down. The barge didn’t have its own means of locomotion, so there was a tug alongside it, smoke rising from her funnel. The chopper hovered over them all, her down-blast whipping the water.
“We’ve got a submerged vehicle.”
“What happened, somebody kill himself?” said Finn.
“More like homicide,” said the port-police officer. “Divers already pulled out the body, looks like he’s got bullets in him. Jesus, you really do look like crap, Finn. Is that alcohol on your breath?”
Finn leaned away from the window. He kept his eyes on the crane. Finally, the vehicle emerged. Finn gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
The crane lifted a black Silverado from the water. Finn immediately recognized the two decals of dog silhouettes that Diego had stuck on either side of the Chevy emblem on the tailgate.
* * *
Finn parked as close as the port police let him and hurried along the outside of the crime-scene tape to the very edge of the wharf. Diego’s Silverado was dangling from four chains fitted from the crane; water streamed from its undercarriage. The crane swiveled till the truck was over the quay.
It was the end of a beautiful afternoon. The sun conspired with the onshore breeze to stipple the water beyond the barge with a million flecks of gold. Finn leaned over the edge of the quay and threw up till his gut was hollow.
He wiped his face on the back of his sleeve, turned his back on the scene, and walked back toward his truck. Officer Wilkins was talking to a man in a suit standing on the other side of the tape, the two of them looking in Finn’s direction. The man ducked under the tape and approached Finn.
“Mike Benitez, LAPD,” he said. Finn knew that the port police didn’t have its own homicide squad, so they must’ve called in the LAPD.
Benitez’s trim, squared posture and buzzed hair marked him as ex-military. Despite the glare, he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, and Finn saw him look at him carefully through clear, steadfast eyes.
“Officer Wilkins says you knew the victim?”
“We work together. Customs and Border Protection, marine interdiction agents. He’s also my brother-in-law. And my friend,” said Finn.
Not yet ready for the past tense.
Benitez explained that they’d found Diego’s wallet, so they knew who he was.
Then he cleared his throat and said, “Did he live with anyone, have any family?”
“He lives alone, with two dogs. He has two ex-wives. No kids. His parents live in Glendale.”
“Okay. I’ll call Animal Control about the dogs,” said Benitez. He wrote something down on his notepad. Then he said, matter-of-factly, “You’re the guy I read about in the paper who shot that fellow off of Catalina couple of weeks back, right?”
Finn was surprised. “Yeah, that’s me. Except the paper said I shot the wrong guy.”
“They got that wrong, huh?”
“He was the right guy.”
Benitez nodded. “I never believe everything I read in the paper. Was Agent Jimenez with you when it happened?”
Finn nodded. “We work as a team.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last night. We met for a drink after work, place called Bonito’s, up by the bridge. He left at maybe ten thirty, eleven, around then.”
“He say where he was going?”
Finn nodded. “Home. He had an early start. We were supposed to meet here this morning. We wanted to talk to the captain of a fishing boat here called the Pacific Belle.”
“‘Supposed to’?”
“I didn’t show.”
Benitez made a note, then asked, “What were you investigating?”
“We found a body out in the channel Wednesday morning. Diego ID’d him from his sheet. His probation officer said he worked on the Pacific Belle.”
Benitez wrote some more, then asked, “What happened to him?”
“Shark got his legs, but we don’t know if he was dead already or not. We’re waiting for the medical examiner’s report.”
A blank look came over the cop’s face. “Jesus. I hate sharks,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Finn.
Benitez turned, looked out at the water. “There a lot of them out there?”
“It’s the ocean,” said Finn.
“Sorry. Dumb question,” said Benitez.
Finn let his shoulders drop. He realized he’d been abrupt, that most people knew little about the ocean.
“You get leopard sharks and great whites sometimes hunting seals in the kelp forests on the ocean side of Catalina. You don’t see them so much in the channel but of course they’re there.”
Benitez wrote something down. Finn couldn’t help but be impressed, the cop noting unusual details, however unrelated.
“Is that usual for you guys to investigate bodies?”
Finn shrugged. “It’s not a regular part of the job. We do it sometimes.”
“How long have you known Agent Jimenez?” Benitez said.
Finn thought about when he’d met Diego, at the National Marine Training Center in Saint Augustine, Florida. “Five years,” he said. “We joined Air and Marine at the same time. He introduced me to my wife.”
The cop nodded and stayed silent while he looked through his not
es. Then he looked over Finn’s face. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“Two guys mugged me.”
Benitez cocked an eyebrow. “You file a police report?”
Finn shook his head.
“Where did it happen?”
“Outside Bonito’s.”
“Last night?”
Finn nodded.
“So you stayed at the bar after Agent Jimenez went home? Were you with anyone?”
Finn scratched the side of his face. “Yeah, I stayed. No, I drank alone.”
“What did the two guys look like?”
Finn looked at the ground. “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “Worry about finding Diego’s killer.”
“That’s what I am worrying about, Agent Finn. I think we’d better send someone to take a look at this Pacific Belle,” he said. Then he asked, “You know much about fishing?”
“My father was a fisherman.”
“Where? Down here?” Benitez indicated the row of fishing boats tied up alongside the quay.
Finn nodded.
Benitez seemed to be waiting for more, but Finn didn’t give it to him. Finally the detective said, “Well, like I said, I’ll go see this fishing boat and ask around, but we’re investigating Agent Jimenez’s death, so we can’t do much about your floater unless we can connect them. What was his name, by the way?”
“Espendoza.”
Benitez noted the name, took Finn’s contact details, and handed him his card. Then he flipped his notepad shut and, in a different tone, said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Finn nodded, said nothing.
“I know what it is to lose one of your own,” Benitez continued. “You want to get out there and deal with it yourself. My advice? Stay out of it, Agent Finn. I don’t believe everything I read in the papers, but I still read them. Go home, look after your wife. Let us do our job.”
Benitez held out his hand and Finn took it.
“Don’t call Animal Control,” said Finn. “I’ll pick up the dogs, take them to his parents. They know me.”
Benitez nodded. “I’ll let the team at Jimenez’s house know you’re coming.”
Finn got back into his vehicle and watched Diego’s Silverado get lowered onto a flatbed truck. He got out his phone. For the first time in his life, he dreaded calling Mona.
CHAPTER TEN
Later that night, Finn pulled onto the Glendale street where Diego’s parents lived, a wide, tree-lined, gray-green strip of the California Dream within a short drive of a golf course, a mall, and a megachurch. He cruised past their single-story house, saw Mona’s RAV4 parked in front of its double-wide garage; the curtains were drawn, and there was no cop car out in front of the well-kept lawn, the hedges neatly trimmed. He kept going, shook his head at his own cowardice, and turned around and parked on the street, not in the driveway. From the storage compartment in the door he pulled the half pint of Jim Beam he’d picked up along the way. Just a small swig of navy courage, he’d figured.
By the time he’d managed to do that, the bottle was half empty. He popped some mints into his mouth and got out of the Tacoma.
Diego’s dogs knew the house, of course. They were Rhodesian ridgebacks, big rambunctious dogs named Ronald and Nancy. He opened the door and the dogs jumped out, no leashes, and ran across the lawn and up the front steps to the porch, barking. The front door opened before Finn got to it. Diego’s mother, Maria, small and stout, stood in the entranceway. His father, Carlos, only slightly taller, stood behind her. Finn stamped up the walkway, wishing he’d had more to drink.
Maria Jimenez wore beige slacks and a loose linen blouse. Her reddened eyes had a vacant look that seemed to him the saddest thing in the world, until he saw her husband, Carlos. The man had tears streaking down his cheeks, no shame about it, just letting them roll quietly, wiping them away with the back of his hand. The only thing that bothered Finn more than a woman crying was a man crying.
Inside, he found Mona sitting on the brown leather couch in the living room, rubbing the dogs’ heads. She looked ten years older. He stared at her, realized he was staring, and averted his gaze by awkwardly looking around the room at the clean beige carpet, the sideboard loaded with picture frames, the wood-and-glass coffee table.
Finn remembered what Diego had said on the boat, joking about whose death would upset Mona most. If you could see her now, he thought. If you could see all three of them …
Maria sat on the couch with Mona, Carlos across the table in a big, old armchair worn in the seat. No one told Finn where to sit, so he sat in the other armchair.
“Mona says you were the last person to see him,” Carlos said eventually.
Apart from his killer, thought Finn. He leaned forward, rested his arms on his knees. “Last night, we met in a bar after work.”
“What did you talk about?” said Maria.
Finn told them about the floater. He told them a little bit about Perez, too. “We went to see an informant,” he said. “But he didn’t tell us anything.”
There was an awkward silence.
Then Carlos said something in Spanish to his wife and Mona sharply rebuked him. Finn couldn’t speak the language, but he understood the tone. He knew they were talking about him.
“DMO Glenn called to offer his condolences,” Carlos said finally, his voice low, gruff. “I ask him about the funeral. I say to him, ‘You’re gonna give my boy a proper ceremony, right?’ But he doesn’t give me a straight answer. I ask him straight, ‘Is there a problem?’ and he says to me that Diego wasn’t in the line of duty when he was shot. And then he says something about an investigation, how maybe Diego perjured himself, trying to protect you.”
Finn’s gut knotted up.
“What does that mean?” said Carlos, looking at Finn for an answer.
Finn didn’t have an answer. Even the dogs seemed to be looking at him reproachfully.
“You’re the one who shot the guy on the boat, right?” said Carlos.
More sharp words in Spanish from Mona.
“No. I have a right to know,” said Carlos. “You shot the guy, Finn. You are the one who’s under investigation, not my son.” His eyes drifted over to the framed portraits on the sideboard. “He died for his country. They should honor him. They should give him a proper funeral, in the big cemetery by the sea.”
“There’ll be a proper funeral,” said Finn, real quiet.
* * *
Out on the porch, Finn offered Diego’s parents his condolences, then walked down the front steps. Mona walked with him. When they were out of hearing of the porch, they stopped and stood together on the brick pathway that bisected the Jimenezes’ lawn, the city’s innumerable lights producing in the sky a glow great enough to dim all the stars.
“How are you doing?” he said.
There was a moment of silence.
“There’s a big hole, you know?”
Finn looked toward his truck. He knew.
“Did Diego ever tell you about the time we found a million bucks?” he said.
Mona said no.
“This was before you and me met,” said Finn. “We find this go-fast way out in the channel. Just drifting out there, on its own. We board, there’s no one aboard, blood all over the Naugahyde, bullet holes in the glass, and a gym bag packed with wads of cash in the forward locker. I’m talking about bricks of money here, thick as books, hundreds of them. We figured it had to be at least a million. The boat is sinking, too. So we haven’t radioed it in yet, right, and the boat’s so sleek and low it’s hardly on the radar, and we know the drone’s way out east. The only people in the whole wide world who know about the million bucks are me and Diego and presumably whoever did the shooting, except they forgot to take it. So anyway, the whole way back to shore, Diego’s joking about what he’s going to spend it on. How he’s going to build himself his own playboy mansion, get himself a robe like Hugh Hefner, and build a special garden just for his dogs. We get back to the station, we hand in the b
ag, he says, ‘Hugh Hefner, man, what kind of man spends all day in his pajamas?’”
Mona laughed softly. It was a sound Finn relished.
They were quiet for a while.
Then she said, “I want to be part of it.”
“Part of what?” he said.
“Of what you said to my parents. Of looking for who killed my brother.”
“Mona…”
“Listen to me. He was my kid brother, and I need to find who killed him. Do you understand?”
“And I will find whoever—”
“No. I need to be part of it. I’m not asking, Nick.”
“We’re talking about a murderer here. Maybe more than one person. Killers.”
“Exactly.”
Finn ran his tongue along his teeth. “So we’re what, a team? Like Law & Order?” he said. Immediately, he regretted his sardonic tone.
Mona crossed her arms and shook her head. “I can smell it, you know. The mints do nothing. The mints are useless. We can all smell it.”
She looked at him with hate or hurt—he wasn’t sure in the dim light.
“You were drunk when he was killed, weren’t you?” said Mona.
Finn said nothing.
“You were supposed to be with him.”
He stayed quiet.
“You’re the one who’s ex-military. You’re supposed to be the tough guy. He looked up to you, you know? He was in awe of you, God knows why.”
She put her hand over her mouth and looked back up at her parents, who were still standing on the stoop, watching them.
“He didn’t know his way around guns like you. He was gentle. You were supposed to look after him. He was…” She started to sob. “He was my kid brother.”
He tried to put his arm around her, but she shrugged it off.
“Just meet me at the Self Help at nine A.M. so we can start working on leads. You can still be sober at nine in the morning, can’t you, Nick?”
She walked back up the path to her parents. They went inside and closed the door.
