by J. L. Abramo
Harriman left just as a uniformed officer came to the door of the Coroner’s Office.
“Telephone call for you, Detective Boyle,” he said. “You can take it at Dr. Jackson’s desk.”
“Thanks,” Boyle said. He picked up the receiver and hit the blinking hold button. “This is Boyle.”
“This is Billings.”
“What?”
“We found the kid. He met a girl at the movie theater last night, called herself Angel.”
“Son of a bitch. Did he get a last name?”
“No. She asked to be driven to the condo, to pick up her car.”
“What kind of car?”
“He doesn’t know. When they got back to the parking lot she told him to keep driving and leave,” Billings said. “Maybe seeing Randall there scared her off. In any event, she told him to drive her out to Santa Monica. He claims he dropped her there and then he went home.”
“Have him take you over to where he dropped her, take Randall. Go back to the condo first. Tell Williamson and Cole we need to locate her car, need to look for cars that shouldn’t be there, don’t belong to any of the tenants.”
“Okay.”
“Tell them to look in the windows of all of the vehicles. If Diaz was ready to leave town, maybe she was there to give him a ride. Have them look for baggage, whatever, and have them call me if they find something. And you call me as soon as you and the kid get to Santa Monica. I’m going back to my desk at Parker Center. I don’t want you to go in anywhere before you call me. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good work, John.”
“Thank you,” said Billings before signing off.
“Well?” asked Stephens.
“We’ll see,” said Boyle.
“What’s the thing that most peaks your interest, Ray, I mean beside who did what to who?”
“Peaks my interest?”
“Stimulates your imagination.”
“I guess it would be blue fish tank gravel, Sam.”
Jimmy grabbed an LA Times from the counter at Meg’s. He ordered a late breakfast from Pam Walker and carried the newspaper and coffee to a booth to wait for his food.
Pigeon put the front section aside and went to Sports. The Dodgers had miraculously held onto first place since overtaking the Giants four weeks earlier. After a 5-4 loss to the Marlins on Wednesday and a travel day Thursday, they were set for a weekend series against the Cubs at Wrigley.
Pigeon wondered how much this would all really matter if the players decided to go out on strike. He moved on to the Weekend section to check out the new movie releases.
A few minutes later Meg came over to the booth with his bacon, eggs and toast.
“Hey,” Jimmy said. “Can you get off this afternoon?”
“Probably, what’s up?” she asked, taking a seat.
“There’s a new movie opening today that I’d like to see, I thought we might catch a matinee.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Too many teenagers on Friday night,” Jimmy said. “And I was planning to watch the Dodger game.”
“What time this afternoon?”
“There’s a showing at two-thirty, over at the Woodland Hills Mall. We could grab a quick bite after the show.”
“You’re on. What’s the film?”
“Speed.”
“What’s it about, amphetamines?”
“It’s an action, suspense movie.”
“What’s the attraction?”
“According to this review here, it’s a heart-thumping, non-stop roller coaster ride,” said Jimmy. “And more than that, I make it my business to never miss a Dennis Hopper flick.”
“Well, Jimmy, I can’t argue with you there,” Meg said. “And by the way?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on with plans for Lenny’s funeral?”
“Seems his brother turned up and collected his body. I guess he’s making his own plans.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Jimmy said, hoping Meg wouldn’t ask him if he’d run into Nathan Archer. She didn’t.
“Okay, I need to get back to work,” Meg said, hopping to her feet. “I’ll be ready at two.”
Nate Archer had decided what he would like to do just before calling his wife the night before. Nate would have more than enough time to go down there and be back to meet Jimmy Pigeon by nine. When Nate told Annie what he had in mind, she quickly agreed.
Friday afternoon at one, Nathan was on the road down to San Diego. Lenny’s ashes were resting on the passenger seat in a plain brown cardboard box.
Boyle was back at his desk at Parker with Stephens when the telephone rang.
“Boyle.”
“It’s Billings.”
“Where are you?”
“In front of the house where the kid dropped the girl last night. Santa Monica, Ninth Street off Washington.”
“Okay, John. Listen carefully. The kid stays in the car. Send Randall to the back of the house, you go to the front. Ring a bell, knock on a door, find out if the girl is there. Call me the minute you get anything.”
“Got it,” said Billings.
“Stay alert, John,” Boyle said before hanging up.
“What’s up?” asked Stephens.
“Waiting,” said Boyle.
Five minutes later the phone rang, Boyle lunged at it.
“Billings?”
“It’s Detective Williamson.”
“Go ahead.”
“We found a car, a red Camaro, suitcases in the back seat,” Williamson said. “We ran the plates. Angel Rivas, South Central address.”
“Let me have it.”
“Want the phone number also?”
“Sure,” said Boyle. He jotted down the information. “Call for an evidence team and stay with the vehicle.”
Angel Rivas spotted the squad car from a window in the front room. She watched two uniformed officers move toward the white house across Ninth and then she recognized Jason in the back seat of the cruiser.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
“What is it?” asked Carlos.
“Cops. Across the street. The kid from last night brought them.”
“Get away from the window, Angel. I don’t think they’ll be checking every house. If they do show up here, I’ll play dumb. Stay cool. Did you phone your mother?”
“No.”
“Call her,” Carlos said.
Maria Rivas hurried to answer the telephone.
“Angel?”
“This is Detective Johnson, señora,” said Frank Raft. “I spoke with you earlier. I’m calling to find out if you heard anything from or about your daughter.”
“I spoke to one of her girlfriends,” Mrs. Rivas said. “Ricardo’s friend, the boy I mentioned, his name is Valdez. Carlos Valdez. And he does live in Santa Monica. That’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s a great help, we should be able to locate an address and send someone right over there. Your daughter is going to be all right.”
“And you’ll call me if you find Angel?”
“Without fail, señora,” Raft said.
He put the telephone down and began his search for an address on Carlos Valdez in Santa Monica.
Boyle and Stephens were almost out of the office when the phone rang.
“Boyle.”
“This is Billings. The woman in the house never heard of the girl and didn’t notice anyone getting dropped off in front last night.”
“We found an address on her, in South Central. We’re heading over there,” Boyle said. “Her name is Angel Rivas. Check some of the neighboring houses.”
“Should we check both sides of the street?” Billings asked.
“Use your own judgment,” Boyle said. “Call dispatch if you get anything, they’ll find us.”
He put down the phone and turned to Stephens.
“Let’s roll to South Central,” Boyle said.
FATALITIES
&nb
sp; Raft checked the Santa Monica White Pages. He found three possibles. CJ Valdez, Carlos Valdez, Carlos Miguel Valdez. He moved to Tully’s desk and found Tully’s login password taped to the bottom of the keyboard. Raft logged on and punched up DMV data for all three names.
Carlos Miguel Valdez fit the bill. Close to the same age as Diaz, Valdez looked vaguely familiar. Raft thought he may have seen Carlos once or twice, running around with Ricardo. Then again, to Raft they all looked alike.
Valdez lived on Ninth Street. Raft pulled up a Santa Monica city map to find the cross streets; the address was between Washington and Idaho Avenues.
Raft took one last look at the driver’s license photo. He decided he had seen Carlos before. It was time to see Carlos again.
Billings and Randall separated to canvass residences on both sides of the home they had visited, deciding they would check three houses in each direction. In less than ten minutes both officers were back at the squad car with nothing.
“Well?” asked Randall.
The kid in the back seat was complaining loudly that he had to get back to work.
“Let’s try the two houses directly across the street,” Billings said. “Then we can take him back to the Mall and check in with Detective Boyle. I’ll take the green one on the left.”
The two officers crossed Ninth Street.
Angel tried to phone her mother but the line had been busy. Now she was back at the window watching as a police officer crossed Ninth and came toward the house.
“Carlos, one of the cops is out here,” Angel called. “Carlos, he’s walking up the front steps.”
“Calm down,” Carlos said, coming out from the kitchen. “Go stand at the back door. I’ll take care of it.”
Angel moved quickly through the kitchen and hid out of sight at the rear exit of the house. A moment later, there was a rapping on the front door.
Carlos put on his poker face.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Billings said when Carlos opened the door.
“No bother, Officer. Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for a young woman who was dropped off here last night, just across the street. I was wondering if you saw or heard anything.”
“We get a lot of traffic here at night. It can get annoying, I try to ignore it.”
“This would have been around midnight.”
“Sorry, nothing,” Carlos said.
“Do you know a woman named Angel Rivas?”
Valdez paused for a moment, trying to quickly decide if the officer already knew the answer to the question.
“No,” Carlos finally said, calling the bluff.
“You don’t?” Billings said. He waited for a moment, Carlos stood mute. “Well, again, sorry for intruding.”
Carlos watched Billings walk down the front steps and he closed the door.
“He left. I told you there was nothing to sweat about,” he called, walking to the kitchen. “Angel? Did you hear me? The cop split.”
His wallet was on the kitchen table, emptied.
The back door was wide open.
Angel was gone.
“Anything?” Billings asked, back at the patrol car.
“Nothing,” Randall said. “Let’s go before this kid has a nervous breakdown and then maybe we can get lunch before I pass out.”
The officers climbed into the cruiser and drove away.
He had turned onto Ninth from Wilshire heading north and saw the LAPD cruiser before reaching the intersection at Washington. He parked close to the corner and watched. He spotted two officers returning to the patrol car and a few moments later they climbed in and drove away toward Idaho Avenue. He threw on the eyeglasses and knit cap.
He couldn’t find the mustache.
“Fuck it,” Frank Raft said.
He got out of the car, crossed Washington, and walked up Ninth toward the Valdez address.
“Hold on,” Billings said after they turned the corner onto Idaho. “Pull over.”
“What?” asked Randall, stopping the car.
“I want to stick around. Something at the last house bothered me, drop the kid at the Mall and come back. Call Boyle and tell him I’m still here.”
“I shouldn’t let you stay here alone. Detective Boyle won’t like it.”
“It’s okay. I’m just going to watch the house. Bring back some food.”
Billings got out of the cruiser and walked back toward Ninth Street.
Angel had moved quickly up the alley between Ninth and Tenth to Wilshire, over to Twelfth and down to Broadway.
She found a pay phone at Broadway and Sixteenth. She had taken four twenty-dollar bills from Carlos’ wallet and had grabbed some change from a bowl on his kitchen counter. She called her mother.
“Hola.”
“Mama.”
“Angel. Dios mio, novia, where are you?”
“Mama, please listen. Don’t talk. I need money and a car. And clothing. I’ll call you later and tell you where to meet me.”
“Angel, the police are searching for you, a detective came. He told me Ricardo is dead and you could be in danger.”
“I know about Ricardo, Mama. Don’t talk to anyone.”
“Angel, whatever it is, the police can help you.”
“No, Mama. No police. I don’t know who we can trust. If they come again don’t say a word. You haven’t spoken to me. Promise me, Mama, no police.”
“Yes. I promise.”
“I’ll call you later, Mama. I love you.”
Angel hung up and glanced up and down Broadway. She saw a motel sign three blocks east on Nineteenth.
Angel quickly headed that way, hoping the motel accepted cash.
A few moments after Mrs. Rivas had spoken to Angel on the telephone, Detectives Boyle and Stephens were knocking on her front door.
Raft had his shield out when Carlos opened the door.
“SMPD,” Raft said. “Are you Carlos Miguel Valdez?”
“Yes, is there a problem?”
“We’re looking for Angel Rivas and we have reason to believe she may have come here.”
“I don’t know an Angel Rivas,” Carlos said.
“It’s a bad mistake to lie to a police detective,” said Raft. “I spoke with Angel’s mother.”
“All right, I do know Angel. She was here, but she’s gone,” Carlos said, hoping to cut his losses.
“Then you won’t mind if I come inside and take a look around.”
“Yes, I would mind.”
“Well that’s too fucking bad because I insist.”
Raft stiff-armed Carlos and sent Valdez halfway into the front room on his back. The detective stepped inside, shut the door and pulled out his throwaway weapon.
“Jesus, I know you, you’re Raft,” Carlos said, looking up from the floor.
“And you’re fucked,” Raft said. “Now, where is she?”
When Billings turned onto Ninth, he saw a man stepping through the door of the green house. He considered calling for backup. He didn’t call.
Instead, he walked back down to the house, climbed the front steps and rapped on the door.
Raft had Carlos up on his feet and was holding the gun to his head.
He shoved Carlos to the front door.
“See who’s out there,” Raft said.
Carlos glanced through the window.
“It’s a cop, he was here before,” Carlos said. “That’s why Angel ran. I swear she’s gone and I have no idea where she went.”
Billings rapped on the door again.
“Shut the fuck up and open the door,” said Raft. “And if you say a single word, I will kill you both.”
“Well, do you think she was holding out on us?” asked Stephens. They were heading back to the car after talking with Angel’s mother.
“I don’t know, my Spanish is rusty,” Boyle said. “We told her six different ways that her kid was in danger and the goon with the ski cap and mustache was no fucking LAPD detective. If that didn’t pe
rsuade the woman to open up to us, maybe she’s honestly in the dark.”
“So, what now?” Stephens asked.
“We pick up a pizza and head back over to Parker. We hope for a break. Maybe we find out something about teeth or .38 slugs or blue fucking gravel or Billings calls to tell us he bumped into an Angel on the Boulevard.”
“What if this is exactly what it looks like? Ricky Diaz shoots Archer and Richards to stop their snooping, Tully and Raft stumble on it, Ricky shoots Tully, Raft shoots Ricky and Angel is running scared.”
“Then who the fuck came to visit Angel’s mother saying he was LAPD? Who else is looking for the girl and why? We can only hope her mother doesn’t know where she is; if she gave the mustache more than she gave to us we could all be fucked.”
“Maybe Ricky wasn’t alone when he went after Richards and Archer,” said Stephens. “What if there’s an accomplice out there and Angel knows something about it? It could be why she’s running and why she’s avoiding the police. She’s afraid she might be implicated.”
“Or afraid she might be eliminated,” said Boyle as they got into the car. “What do you want on the pizza?”
It was two-thirty Friday afternoon.
Raft had exited the green house through the back door, walked the alley to Washington and crossed over to his car on Ninth. He slipped behind the wheel and drove off.
Randall dropped Jason at Woodland Hills Mall. He was reluctant to tell Boyle he’d left Billings behind, so he never called Boyle. Instead, he picked up two take-out burritos and headed straight back to Santa Monica.
Jimmy Pigeon and Meg Kelly were sitting in one of the movie theater auditoriums at Woodland Hills Mall patiently waiting for the Dennis Hopper flick to begin.
Angel had checked into the motel on Broadway, having sweet-talked the check-in clerk into taking sixty dollars to cover the cost of the room and a twenty-dollar deposit for phone calls. In the motel room, she threw herself on the bed and lay there crying.
