by J. L. Abramo
“Yes?”
“For the time being,” Nate said as he left, “I would prefer it if not too many people know I’m around.”
Soon after the crime scene investigators had finished their work inside and left the scene, Officer Billings went to the back of the building to help his partner collect the information Boyle had requested on every parked vehicle.
When Billings and Randall were done, they locked and taped the back door of the condo and walked around to do the same in front.
After one last look around, the two officers climbed into their cruiser and drove off.
A few minutes later, a car that had been parked at the end of the street rolled up to the building and back to the parking area.
The car slipped into an open parking space and Frank Raft stepped out of the vehicle.
Raft quietly moved from car to car. Before long he came across a red Camaro with two large suitcases in the rear seat and a woman’s handbag on the passenger seat.
A blinking red light on the dashboard told him he couldn’t get to the bag without waking the neighborhood; he would have to settle for the registration.
Raft pulled out his notepad and copied the license plate number.
SIX-TEN-NINETY-FOUR
Peter Quince was at Sherman Oaks High School early on Friday morning, grading the Thursday afternoon tests from one of his Computer Sciences classes. He opened his desk drawer to look for a red pencil and spotted the disc, the files he copied from Kevin Tully’s laptop and forgot about after Kevin came to pick up the computer. He placed the CD on the desktop as a reminder to get it to Kevin, found the pencil and went back to the test papers. Fifteen minutes later, one of his colleagues walked into the computer lab holding the LA Times.
“Good morning, Kathleen,” Quince said.
“Peter, have you seen this?” she asked. She came over and placed the newspaper on the desk in front of him.
“What is it?” Quince asked.
“Here,” she said, pointing out a short article on the bottom of page three. “Kevin Tully’s father was killed.”
“My God,” said Quince. “That’s horrible. Do you mind if I read this?”
“I’ll leave it, I have to run to class,” she said. “I feel so terrible. Kevin is such a great kid. And the state championship game is tomorrow. I’ll talk with you later.”
When she was gone, Peter read the article.
Bob Tully had been fatally shot by Ricardo Diaz at a Woodland Hills condominium. Diaz, a twice-convicted felon, was subsequently shot and killed by Tully’s partner. Diaz was thought to have information about the deaths of Edward Richards, a freelance news reporter, and Leonard Archer, a Santa Monica private investigator.
Quince turned from the Times to the compact disc on his desk. The previous day, he had written the names Tully and Richards on the face of the CD. Peter Quince added the name Archer and returned the disc to the desk drawer.
Raft pulled up to the front of a small house in South Central LA. After a torturous hour with his commander the night before, trying to explain the fiasco out in Woodland Hills, Raft had run the plates of the Camaro. Angel Rivas. Twenty-four years old. Five-six. One hundred twenty-nine pounds. Bingo. Before leaving his car, Raft examined his face in the rear view mirror. Knit cap, dark thick-framed glasses, bushy stage mustache. It would do.
It was just before eight in the morning when Raft rang the doorbell. He flashed his detective shield to the woman who answered and then and he quickly put it away.
“Detective Johnson, LAPD,” he said. “I’m looking for Angel Rivas.”
“I’m her mother. Is there something wrong?”
“Is she here?”
“No. What is this about, Detective?”
“Can you tell me where she is?”
“Not if you can’t tell me what it’s about.”
“A man named Ricardo Diaz was killed last night. We have reason to believe your daughter may have known Diaz. We need to speak with her.”
“Dios mio, Angel was supposed to be with Ricardo last night. They were taking a trip. She was all packed to go.”
“We found her car behind Ricardo’s condo, there was no sign of your daughter,” Raft said. “Would you have any idea where she may be?”
“No.”
“Please think, señora. Someone she may have gone to if she was frightened or in trouble?”
“Ricardo has a close friend, Carlos, the three were often together. Angel liked Carlos very much.”
“What’s his last name? Where does he live?”
“Santa Monica, I think. I don’t know his last name.”
“Please, señora. Your daughter may be in danger.”
“My God. How was Ricardo killed?”
“I can’t talk about the investigation, señora. We will do all we can to see that Angel is safe.”
“I will call Angel’s friends; maybe one of the girls has heard from her or knows how to find Carlos. Is there a phone number where I can reach you, Detective...?”
“Johnson. It would be best if I call you. I’ll check back with you this afternoon, sooner if we learn anything.” Raft thanked the woman and he returned to his car. He pulled off the cap and eyeglasses, peeled the mustache from his upper lip, and dropped them all on the passenger seat.
Carlos from Santa Monica. Great fucking help.
Raft looked at his wristwatch. Eight-fifteen. He had to meet with Commander Jefferson and two investigators from IAD at nine. Go over the same fucking thing again for the third fucking time fucking Boyle fucking Jefferson fucking Internal Affairs. And then he would have to think of what the fuck he was going to say to Jackson Masters.
Carlos had made up the sofa for Angel and finally she had settled down enough to get to sleep. At eight-fifteen Friday morning, Angel was pacing the kitchen like a caged animal as Carlos prepared breakfast.
“What am I going to do?” she said.
“You need to call your mother,” said Carlos. “If she hears about Ricardo, she’ll be worried sick.”
Ray Boyle had told everyone he would be back at Parker Center by eight in the morning; had urged them to send over everything they had, first thing. At eight-thirty he was having breakfast at a favorite greasy spoon. Boyle had decided to get in at nine, with faint hopes that at least a few of the reports would show up only an hour late. It was well after ten before an LAPD mailroom clerk arrived with a large brown envelope sent over from the LA County Sheriff’s Department. The envelope held copies of LASD reports, all of the information they had collected regarding the Archer homicide before turning it over to SMPD.
Lenny Archer was still alive at midnight Sunday. An attorney working late in an adjoining office saw Archer come in. The lawyer left his office a few minutes later, exiting through the rear of the building. The building super discovered Archer’s body at seven Monday morning and phoned 9-1-1.
Detectives Raft and Tully were available and closest to the scene. They responded to the all-points radio call. The Santa Monica medical examiner, Solomon Meyers, arrived around ten. Meyers had determined from examination at the scene that Archer had been dead no fewer than eight hours. He estimated the time of death fell between midnight and two; an estimate later supported by lab tests and the attorney’s eyewitness account.
Lenny Archer had been shot twice and had fired his own weapon. He had also been brutally beaten around the mouth, probably kicked. There had been extensive bleeding from an abdominal wound and a bullet wound to the left temple. By all indications the head wound was suffered after the wound to the stomach, but not immediately. Archer bled profusely and had been physically punished before the fatal bullet to the head.
Boyle had been trying his best to avoid involvement in the Archer case from the moment Jimmy Pigeon had brought it to him. Now, after seeing the details of the homicide, Ray found himself hoping the Diaz investigation might lead to the identification of the sick fuck that had ended Lenny Archer’s life so coldheartedly.
&nbs
p; Also among the papers in the brown manila envelope was an LASD ballistics report, indicating that Archer and Richards were killed with the same weapon, making the connection between the homicides official. Boyle had a strong feeling the weapon in question was the .38 that had killed Bob Tully, but Ray wasn’t sure about how pleased the revelation would make him. Too fucking perfect.
Boyle moved on to the next report, listing all of the evidence collected at Archer’s office by the investigators. An entry on the list caught Boyle’s eye. Two loose teeth.
Boyle was reaching for the phone to make a call when it rang loudly.
“Boyle, Robbery Homicide,” he answered.
“Detective Boyle, this is Officer Billings.”
“I don’t see your report on my desk, John.”
“We were hoping to locate Jason Reed before we sent it over,” Billings said.
“And who would that be?”
“We ran the license plates on the blue Mustang. The vehicle Randall and I both saw at the condo last night. The car is registered to Jason Reed, a twenty-two-year old kid from Woodland Hills.”
Boyle couldn’t help liking John Billings. A twenty-three-year old kid who referred to a twenty-two-year old kid as a kid.
“We went to the kid’s house,” Billings continued. “He wasn’t in. His roommate said we would find Reed at his job around noon, he works at the movie theater in the Woodland Hills Mall.”
“Probably dropped over to visit someone, didn’t find the person’s vehicle in the lot and drove on,” said Boyle. “Check it out anyway. While you’re waiting, head back to the scene and see how Cole and Williamson are doing. You and Randall can help them follow the girl’s tracks.”
Boyle ended the call and was waiting for a dial tone when Sam Stephens walked in. Boyle cradled the receiver.
“So?” Boyle said.
“So, I’ve been out all morning looking into Ricardo’s love life,” Stephens said. “Seems Diaz was running around with a girl from South Central. Angel.”
“Angel what?”
“Angel something, that’s all I got. This just came in from SMPD,” Stephens said, holding up a thick folder. “It’s the case file on the Richards homicide.”
“I’ve got the Archer file here. We can take a look at them together and do what we do best.”
“Wild guessing?”
“Precisely, have a seat,” Boyle said, “and let’s see what you’ve got there.”
According to the SMPD Coroner’s Office, Ed Richards died sometime between two and four on Monday morning; an estimate based on testing at the scene and then later in the laboratory.
A neighbor testified she heard loud voices coming from the Richards home at around two-thirty. She thought it was a TV at top volume and she tried ignoring it. Not long afterward she heard what sounded like a gunshot followed by a loud crashing sound. She dialed 9-1-1 at two-forty-nine.
“So Richards was killed after Archer,” Stephens said.
“Looks that way, for what it’s worth.”
“And are we fairly certain these two homicides were connected?”
“According to LASD ballistics, the same weapon. How long does it take to get from Archer’s office to Richards’ place?”
“At that hour, on a Sunday night, ten minutes, fifteen tops.”
“And what does that tell us?” asked Boyle.
“Not a hell of a lot.”
The telephone on Boyle’s desk rang.
“Boyle.”
“Billings.”
“Where are you, Billings?”
“We caught up with Detectives Williamson and Cole in Woodland Hills. They moved out from the rear of the Diaz condominium, in the same direction the girl was seen heading out. There’s a road just off the parking lot that cuts through two subdivisions. A young woman fitting the description was seen running on that road at approximately eight-thirty yesterday evening and seen by another witness a mile further down.”
“Get to the point, John.”
“That road comes out directly in front of the Woodland Hills Mall,” Billings said.
“And the movie theater.”
“Yes.”
“Go over there and find that kid, Jason Reed. Didn’t you tell me the kid had a female passenger with him in the Mustang?”
“Yes.”
“Get there, Billings. Wait for him if he hasn’t shown up yet. Phone me as soon as you know what the kid was doing at the condo last night and who he was with.”
Boyle hung up the phone.
“We may have caught a break,” Boyle said to Stephens. “Our jogger may have been in the blue Mustang that did the drive-by last night and we’ve found the driver. He might be able to ID the girl.”
“Makes me wonder,” said Stephens.
“What?”
“If she was in such a hurry to get out of there, why would she want a ride back?”
“Good question.”
Before they could come up with a good answer, they got word that the ME wanted them down at the Coroner’s Office.
SURVIVORS
Jimmy Pigeon had a hard time getting to sleep Thursday night and consequently slept in late Friday morning.
Jimmy had not been entirely truthful with Nate Archer. He wasn’t sure why. There had been an incident, about a year earlier, when Lenny Archer had hit the bottle hard. Jimmy got a call from Murphy at the saloon. Lenny had been drinking for hours and was out of control. Jimmy ran down and somehow managed to get Lenny away from the bar and back to his apartment. Pigeon sat with his partner for two days before he felt it was safe to leave Lenny alone.
In 1968, Archer was assigned to a cargo boat in South Vietnam. Running up river to Dong Ha, the small craft was fiercely shelled by enemy mortar fire. All but three crew members were killed. The survivors, Lenny Archer, Bernie Silver and Ted Anders, made it to shore and, after a fierce firefight, retreated into the jungle. It took thirty-six hours for a Marine patrol from Dong Ha to get close enough to pull them out. The three survivors remained very tight through the years following what Lenny could only describe to Jimmy as a horrible, dehumanizing, living nightmare.
In 1990, Ted Anders and Lenny Archer received notice that Bernie Silver had passed away. Lung cancer. The two men met in Los Angeles and embarked on a marathon drinking binge. Afterwards, Archer continued drinking heavily over the next four days.
After hearing about Lenny and Annie from Nate Archer, Jimmy realized the events that had torn the brothers apart coincided with Bernie Silver’s death back in 1990.
The night Pigeon dragged Lenny out of Murphy’s Saloon three years later, Lenny was clutching a telegram; holding the news that Ted Anders had taken his own life.
What Jimmy couldn’t decide was whether that knowledge would benefit Nate Archer in any way. The inner debate had kept him up half the night and remained unresolved Friday morning.
Finally up and ready to face the day at eleven-thirty, Jimmy made his way over to Meg’s Café.
Ninety minutes in with Internal Affairs investigators had Frank Raft about to go postal.
After the IAD scumbags finally got off his back, Raft told Commander Jefferson he was calling it quits for the rest of the day. His impulse was to go back to Woodland Hills and ask around, try to find out who the fuck Carlos was. Raft decided it wasn’t a great idea. Had risked enough by going out to visit Angel’s mother, false identity or not.
With no excuse to put it off any longer, Raft headed out for Sherman Oaks to offer condolences to Tully’s wife and son; knowing it would prove to be much more difficult than bumping heads with fucking IAD.
When Boyle and Stephens reached the Coroner’s Office they found Harriman in with Dr. Jackson.
“Harriman. Just the man I wanted to see,” Boyle said.
“I’m short on time, Ray,” Jackson said. “Let me give you what I have, so I can get out of here.”
“Go on.”
“Tully was definitely down when he took the bullet to the head. Make
s me wonder what Frank Raft was doing while Diaz was taking the time to move in for the kill.”
“He says Tully went in first and was shot immediately. Raft pulled his weapon before following and heard a second shot,” said Boyle. “He rushed in and fired at Diaz twice.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” said Jackson. “There isn’t much more I can tell you and I really have to run.”
With that Jackson was gone and Boyle shifted attention to Harriman from SID, Scientific Investigations Division.
“The tooth wedged in Tully’s sole was an adult molar,” Harriman said. “I still believe the blue gravel is exactly what I thought it was last night.”
“Fish tank bedding.”
“Yes. And we’re sure the tooth was picked up first.”
“If you looked at two other teeth, could you tell if they came from the same mouth?” Boyle asked.
“DNA, dental records, but it would be much faster if I had the mouth.”
“I know we can get the teeth. There were two of them collected at the scene and according to the medical report Archer lost three neighboring teeth that night. The third tooth was never found. The ME checked Archer’s stomach and determined Archer hadn’t swallowed it.”
“Tully was at the scene investigating the homicide,” said Stephens. “Tully may have picked it up on his shoe before the evidence guys arrived.”
“Sure, but I want to know if that’s the errant molar; missing evidence bugs me. Try locating the body if it’s still around. Otherwise, have the two other teeth sent over from whoever the fuck has them; see what you can come up with. Did we get the .38 slugs we asked for?”
“They’re down in ballistics with the gun and the bullets that killed Tully. We should have word in a few hours.”
“Keep me informed,” said Boyle.
