Chasing Charlie Chan - Special Edition: Includes Catching Water in a Net

by J. L. Abramo

  “He said we were going to talk to a guy, that the guy was harmless. I asked if we needed backup and Tully said no. We go to the place, the guy invites us in and then he starts blasting. By the time I pulled my piece, Tully was down. How many ways do you need to fucking hear it?”

  “Calm down, Frank. I’m just trying to understand it. Why would the guy start shooting?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Know who?”

  “The man you shot, Frank.”

  “What do you mean did I fucking know him?”

  “Take it easy, Frank, I’m just asking a question. Did Tully say who it was you were going to see? Did he mention the guy’s name?”

  “Tully said that we were going to talk to a harmless snitch, I don’t remember if he mentioned a name.”

  “Do you know who you shot, Frank,” asked Boyle. “I mean after you shot him, did you know who he was?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he looked familiar,” said Raft. “I may have seen him around Malibu a few times.”

  “Does the name Ricardo Diaz ring a bell, Frank?”

  “That’s Diaz in there?”

  “Yes, Frank,” said Boyle. “The same Ricardo Diaz who was out on bail, awaiting trial for cocaine possession with intent to sell and looking at some very hard prison time. Don’t you get mug shots out in Agoura?”

  “Get off my back, Boyle.”

  “So you have heard of Ricky Diaz and you think the face inside looked a little familiar. So what is it, Frank? Do all Hispanic drug dealers look alike to you?”

  “Fuck you, Boyle; you’re way out of line. I’m through talking with you. I’m going back inside.”

  “No.”

  “What do you fucking mean, no?”

  “The crime scene is closed, Raft. Strictly LAPD from here on. Something is very wrong here, Frank. You walked in on a twice-convicted drug felon with your hands in your pockets. You say you didn’t know it was going to be Diaz, fine. But what about Bob Tully? It was his lead, he must have known. What was he thinking when he walked into that room? It looks like an ambush to me, Raft. I’m trying to work out why Diaz would want you and your partner dead.”

  “Tully said it had to do with those homicides over in Santa Monica late Sunday night, Monday morning,” Raft said. “Maybe Diaz was mixed up in it somehow and panicked when we landed on his doorstep.”

  “Diaz was mixed up in it? That’s your theory, Frank? Mixed up is putting it mildly. The way those two homicides have been handled is a running joke at Parker Center. And now here it comes stumbling into my neighborhood and there you are, Raft, not much help at all.”

  “That’s all I fucking know.”

  “Well then, if that’s all you know, I guess I’ll go do my job. You can leave, I’ll catch you later.”

  The two men locked stares for a moment, Raft broke eye contact first. An ambulance turned onto the street.

  “I’ll be in touch, Raft. I’m sorry about Tully. Good luck with IAD.”

  Raft had nothing to add.

  Boyle turned away and walked back into the building.

  Back in the condo, Boyle found Victor Jackson kneeling over Tully’s body. Ray knelt beside the Medical Examiner.

  “Find anything worthy of rash speculation, Jax?”

  “Who did you piss off to deserve this one, Ray?”

  “It had to be God,” Boyle said.

  “All I can find are these two gunshot wounds,” Jackson said, pointing to Tully’s chest and forehead. “I’m thinking he took the one between the eyes when he was already down.”

  “Plane geometry?”

  “Something like that,” said Jackson, “but don’t quote me. I may know more when we get to the lab, maybe not.”

  “What about the weapon?”

  “I’m guessing it was the silenced .38 found near the shooter’s body. It’s been bagged and tagged.”

  “How about the shooter?”

  “What are we calling him, John Doe or John Doer?”

  “Ricardo Diaz.”

  “Your Ricardo Diaz, the mope you busted toting three kilos of cocaine?”

  “The very one.”

  “What was he doing out on the street?”

  “Something called bail, Jax. Don’t ask me to commend its virtues.”

  “Diaz took two in the chest,” Jackson said, “and that weapon should be with Detective Raft. Unless you took his gun away from him. As evidence.”

  “It never crossed my mind, Jax.” said Boyle. “I just spent thirty minutes with Raft, trying to make him believe he doesn’t scare the shit out of me. What’s that?”

  “What do you see?” asked Jackson.

  “Take a look at this, stuck in the sole of Tully’s shoe,” said Boyle. “Is that a fucking tooth?”

  “It sure is,” said Jackson.

  “What’s that blue stuff?” asked Boyle.

  “Harriman, let me see your magnifying glass,” Jackson called to one of the two evidence technicians who had been quietly working the room.

  Harriman came over and handed Jackson the glass.

  “I don’t know,” said Jackson. “Little blue pebbles?”

  “Let me have a look,” said Harriman. “Looks like the small gravel you’d find on the floor of a fish tank.”

  “Harriman, bag the shoe before we lose any of it,” said Boyle.

  “The ambulance guys are itching to get in,” said Sam Stephens at the condo door.

  “I thought your son had a soccer game,” said Boyle.

  “It’s nighttime, Ray. The game was over more than two hours ago. Tanner finally called me. We thought you might like company, but I don’t have to stay.”

  “You can stay.”

  “Thank you, Ray,” Stephens said. “It’s nice to feel welcomed. How are you doing, Doc?”

  “Just dandy, Sam, thanks for asking.”

  “So, Ray.”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “This is quite a mess.”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  “I’m certainly willing to try,” Stephens offered. “How about you start by telling me what the fuck you think happened here.”

  ANGEL

  Angel Rivas had dressed for comfort, anticipating the long drive down to Mexico. White tennis shoes, a two-piece designer sweat suit and a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. To the casual observer, she was a very fashionable jogger. Angel had run madly through two residential subdivisions, too frightened to look back even briefly to see if she was being followed. She didn’t stop racing until she reached a shopping center more than three miles from Ricardo’s condo and dashed into the interior mall. A huge wall clock told her it was close to nine. The mall was quiet, almost empty, store clerks preparing to close shop. She spotted a movie theater at the far end of the mall and quickly headed that way. She opened the change purse attached to her key chain, praying she would find some cash. All of her things were back in the Camaro. Clothing, credit cards, money, ID. Angel pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill from the purse and nearly cried out for joy. She ran up to the ticket booth.

  “Which movie?” asked the cashier.

  “I don’t care, the longest one, the most crowded one, any one,” Angel said, gasping for breath. “Just hurry.”

  She grabbed the ticket and she ran into the theater.

  “Motherfucker,” Frank Raft yelled.

  He was flying up Ventura Boulevard after being told to leave Tully and Diaz in the hands of the Los Angeles Police Department. Exiled. Fucking LAPD. Fucking Boyle. Mother fucking high and mighty Joseph Wambaugh paperback thumping wannabe movie hero motherfucker. He stomped on the brakes as the traffic light went red at Topanga Canyon Boulevard.

  “Motherfucker,” he shouted.

  He turned to the sound of two teenage girls in a green BMW convertible stopped at the light beside him. They were staring at Raft, visibly amused by his outburst.

  “What the fuck is so fucking funny?” he screame
d.

  The girls went silent and turned away, faces forward. When the light changed, the BMW didn’t budge. Raft made a right turn and headed over to Burbank Boulevard. The last place he wanted to be was at the Malibu Sheriff’s Station, sitting in Commander Jefferson’s office, going through the whole fucking thing again. What he needed to be doing was hunting for the girl who had run from the condo. But Raft knew if he didn’t report in, Jefferson would send the troops out looking for him.

  Raft merged onto Route 101, floored the gas pedal and drove north to Agoura.

  After Jimmy left Angelo’s Ristorante, he dropped in to see Meg at the café.

  “I ran into Al Hall at Richards’ funeral, he’s a staff writer for the Santa Monica Outlook,” Meg told Jimmy. “Hall spoke with Richards at the newspaper about two weeks ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Richards was banging keys on his laptop computer and Hall asked him what he was working on. Richards said it was research for a new book, a Hollywood biography, but wasn’t more specific.”

  “Richards’ editor said more or less the same thing.”

  “But how about this?” asked Meg. “Richards tells Hall his research had led him to a story guaranteed to make national news.”

  “But he didn’t tell Hall what it was.”

  “No,” said Meg, “but I’d bet it’s in that laptop.”

  Jimmy was tempted to offer Meg an evening on the town; instead he thanked her for her help and said goodnight.

  He was not in the best frame of mind and didn’t think he would succeed at being good company.

  What Jimmy was in the mood for was a drink or two.

  He walked from Meg’s over to Murphy’s Saloon, where he had knocked down quite a few.

  Ray Boyle was leaning against his car again, this time with his partner.

  They had sent the ambulance team inside to collect the bodies and had sent the second unit away. Officer Billings remained posted at the building entrance; Billings’ partner remained out back. The two West Valley detectives were out ringing doorbells. The crowd on the street had thinned, as neighbors lost interest and returned to their homes; opting for Thursday’s Must See TV.

  Sam Stephens waited for Boyle to begin. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and was just about to light one before having second thoughts; unable to decide whether he should offer Boyle a smoke or if he should put the Marlboros back into his pocket.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Sam?”

  “Trying to be sensitive. I know you’ve been trying to quit.”

  “You are a considerate man, and a good partner. Light the fucking thing already. I’ve had so much smoke blown in my face since I got here, a little more won’t hurt.”

  “Raft?” asked Sam, flicking his Zippo.

  “Try this on for size,” Boyle said. “Tully gets a tip. Raft has no idea who they’re off to see, only that it might have something to do with the two homicides in Santa Monica Jimmy Pigeon has been busting my balls about. I know Frank Raft. He’s a crazy bastard but he’s not stupid. So here he is, going in blind, twiddling his thumbs like he’s dropping in to visit his Aunt Tillie, and all hell breaks loose. And then, when I ask Raft why he thinks Ricky Diaz greeted them so inhospitably he says something like: Golly, Ray, I really don’t know, maybe Diaz thought we had him made for the Santa Monica murders and he lost his head. How does that sound to you, Sam?”

  “Perfect, except maybe for Tully. Raft takes down a cop killer; probably gets a commendation which would make the grieving process easier. It will clear the homicides in Santa Monica, which should make SMPD happy. These two tonight would only be a matter of paperwork, which will make Captain Tanner happy. Not to mention the State of California saves the expense of putting Ricky on trial for the cocaine bust, which will make the taxpayers happy. Everybody is happy, Ray. So why aren’t you happy?”

  “Because it’s too fucking perfect, Sam.”

  “There is that,” Stephens agreed.

  “Let me have one of those fucking cigarettes,” Ray Boyle said.

  Angel had walked into a dark, crowded auditorium; the movie had just begun. She took a seat in the back row, not wanting to create a distraction or attract attention. She tried watching the screen. Her eyes burned. They had been tearing since she ran out of Ricky’s condo. She closed her eyes instead, hoping to erase visions of what she had seen; trying to come up with the slightest idea about what to do.

  When Angel opened her eyes again, the end credits were rolling across the screen and the crowd was quickly leaving the auditorium. She didn’t move. She was gripping the key chain in her hand; she needed to get to the Camaro.

  After a few minutes the house lights came up, leaving Angel exposed and alone. A young man in a red jacket, the Assistant Theater Manager, was telling Angel she would have to go. When he noticed she had been crying he asked her if there was anything he could do.

  “I could use a ride to my car,” Angel said, holding up her keys. “It’s only a few miles from here. I came with a boyfriend, we had an argument and he left. I thought maybe he would come back for me. Guess not.”

  “It’ll be another twenty or thirty minutes before I can get out of here.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” she said, with a Gracias a Dios under her breath. “My name is Angel.”

  “Jason,” he said.

  “Can I sit here while I wait, Jason?”

  “Sure. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Ray Boyle lit another cigarette. He and Stephens had watched as the bodies were loaded into the ambulance. The ambulance drove off and the coroner joined them at Boyle’s car.

  “The evidence team will be in there for a while,” said Jackson. “I’m following the bodies, I’ll do them tonight.”

  “Call me as soon as you know if Tully was down when he took the second bullet,” Boyle said. “If you can tell.”

  “Sure,” said Jackson, moving to his car.

  The two West Valley detectives walked up to Boyle and Stephens.

  “Get anything?” Boyle asked.

  “A few neighbors heard shots,” said Detective Cole. “No one counted more than two.”

  “A guy next door says he saw a woman running across the parking lot out back, just after the gunshots,” said Williamson.

  “Description?”

  “Not much of one. Young, mid to late twenties, ball cap, sweat suit. Maybe Hispanic.”

  “Probably a jogger,” said Stephens.

  “Did he say how soon after the shots?” asked Boyle.

  “Immediately, he looked out his back window the moment he heard the shooting.”

  “And she was running?”

  “Full throttle the guy said.”

  “Away from the building?”

  “Yes,” said Williamson, checking his notes.

  “Go back, ask this guy if he can remember seeing head-phones,” said Boyle, “and try to get a better description.”

  The two detectives walked off.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Stephens.

  “I’m just wondering why she didn’t hear the gunshots, react, stop or slow down,” said Boyle. “I need coffee.”

  “There’s a donut shop just up the street. Let’s go.”

  Shortly after Boyle and Stephens left the scene, a blue Mustang convertible turned onto the street.

  “It’s up here, on the right,” Angel said.

  Jason slowed the car as they approached the building. From the passenger seat, Angel quickly spotted the police officer standing at the entrance.

  “Keep driving,” she said. “Turn right into the alley and go to the rear parking area.”

  Jason followed her instructions and they came into the parking lot. Angel was directing him to the Camaro when she saw a second officer standing at the gate to Ricky’s patio.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said with urgency.

  “What’s wrong?” Jason asked, as he passed through the lot and headed back out to the street.
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  “This is his place, the guy who left me at the movie theater,” Angel said. “I saw him up in his window and I don’t want to deal with him right now.”

  Officer Billings had noticed the Mustang when it had passed and turned into the alley. Now, moments later, the car exited and passed again. Billings instinctively took down the license plate number.

  “Where to now?” Jason asked.

  “Can you drive me over to Santa Monica?”

  “What about your car?”

  “I have a friend in Santa Monica I can stay with tonight. She can bring me back for my car in the morning.”

  Jason headed out to Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Angel asked him to drop her in front of a large white house. She had been fighting to control her emotions since they left Woodland Hills.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Angel said, as she opened the passenger door.

  “I’d like to see you again sometime.”

  “I’m kind of unsettled right now, why don’t you give me your telephone number and I can call when I get things straightened out.”

  Jason gave her the number, without much optimism.

  She stood watching as he drove off. Then she crossed the street to a small green house and pounded on the front door. As she waited, she lost her composure. When Carlos Valdez finally opened the door he found Angel sobbing and trembling.

  “Angel, my God, what it is?”

  Angel brushed past him into the house and dropped onto the sofa. Carlos closed the door and went to her. She was shaking violently.

  “Tell me what happened? Where is Ricardo?”

  “I think he’s dead.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t breathe,” she said.

  Carlos went quickly to the kitchen and filled a tall glass with water. He came back, handed it to her and sat beside her on the sofa. He waited. He watched her as she emptied the glass and took a few deep breaths. When Angel appeared able to speak, Carlos asked again.

  “What happened?”

  “There were two of them. One was on the floor, on his back, hurt bad, Ricardo and the other man were looking down at him. Ricky leaned over and he shot the man in the head. And then the other man shot Ricky, twice. I ran.”