by J. L. Abramo
Peter Quince was preparing to leave the high school, looking forward to the weekend. Before he rose from his desk, he remembered the CD. He opened the drawer and took the CD out. He had been thinking about Kevin Tully all day and about the files he’d copied from the laptop. Files authored by Edward Richards. He didn’t know what to do with the disc, who to turn it over to. However, he did know he was very curious about the contents of the files.
Quince placed the CD into his briefcase, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to look it over at home for few days while he decided where it should go from there.
Boyle and Stephens were back at Parker Center. The ballistics report confirmed the weapon used to kill Richards and Archer was the gun that killed Tully. They were waiting for Lenny’s dental records to arrive at the lab, where they would try to determine if the tooth from Tully’s shoe came from Archer’s mouth.
Nate and Annie Archer had driven across the Route 75 bridge from San Diego to Coronado and then traveled south on Silver Strand Boulevard toward the U.S. Naval Amphibious Base. They stopped along the east shore and moved to the water’s edge, the downtown skyline rising across the way. Nate opened the cardboard box and very gently spilled his brother’s ashes into the San Diego Bay; he placed the box on the ground at his feet, stood behind Annie and reached his arms around her waist.
“I can barely bring my fingertips together,” Nathan said.
“And whose fault is that?” Annie said.
“Annie?”
“Yes?”
“If it’s a boy?”
“Sure, but only if it’s a boy,” Annie said, turning to face him. “Will you stay down here with me tonight? We can think about girl’s names, just in case.”
When Randall turned onto Ninth, he immediately saw the two police cars. He drove up as close as he could, double-parked, threw the burrito onto the passenger seat and jumped out of the car. He rushed over to the green house, but was stopped at the door by two Santa Monica police officers.
“I’m sorry, we can’t let you in,” one of the officers said.
“My partner may be in there,” Randall pleaded.
“Wait here, I’ll get Detective Barnum.”
Randall waited, the second officer blocking his way.
Fifteen minutes passed, during which time an ambulance had arrived. And then twenty minutes more, spent answering questions for Barnum once the detective appeared. And then another forty minutes passed before Officer Randall learned anything about the scene inside.
An hour later, Ray Boyle finally got the call.
It took them less than twenty minutes to make it from Parker Center to Santa Monica. Siren screaming, dome light flashing, Stephens speeding as fast as the car would travel because Boyle was ticking like a time bomb ready to blow.
Boyle jumped out of the car before it stopped rolling and ran to the house. Stephens stomped on the brake pedal, threw the car into Park and chased after Boyle holding his detective shield high above his head yelling “LAPD” at the two SMPD uniforms stationed at the door, knowing Ray Boyle was not in a mind to deal with formalities; although the look in Ray’s eyes as he ran up the steps was enough to inspire the officers to make way.
Stephens stopped on the front porch to exchange a few words with the two uniforms before following Boyle into the house.
Stephens found Boyle, fists clenched, looking down at the dead body of John Billings. He quietly came up behind Ray and placed his hand on his partner’s shoulder.
“Goddamnit,” Boyle said. “Goddamn-this-fucking-goddamned job.”
THE JOB
“The fucking job,” Stephens said. “You are absolutely right, Ray, now loosen up before you burst a blood vessel.”
“Twenty-three years old, Sam.”
“I know, Ray, it’s bad news. But it is what it is, and now we need to figure out what the fuck it is.”
“Find out where his partner is, Sam,” Boyle said.
“Officer Randall is at West Valley station, trying to explain to his captain how this thing went so wrong,” said SMPD Detective Barnum, approaching Stephens and Boyle. “I talked with Randall for twenty minutes, but it didn’t tell me much. I was trying to understand what the two officers were doing here in Santa Monica in the first place.”
“They were following a lead,” said Stephens. “Putting one foot in front of the other.”
“So I heard, but it led here and we like to know when someone is shaking a tree in our neck of the woods.”
“It’s not a real good time for a lecture,” Boyle said. “True, we should have reached out to you. I apologize, get over it and help us now. What do you think happened here?”
“By the looks of it, they shot each other.”
“And how does that play?” asked Boyle. “They each take five paces, turn and draw.”
“Neighbors from three separate houses reported hearing two gunshots, coming out to the street, seeing no one leave this house and calling it in. I’m only telling you how it appears; two weapons found, two gunshots fired and two men down. It’ll take more time before we can determine if it’s any fancier than that.”
“Who’s the other DOA?” Boyle asked.
“Driver’s license says Carlos Miguel Valdez. And then we found this,” Barnum said, scooping up a plastic evidence bag from the sofa, “between the cushions.”
Boyle took the bag. It held a set of keys attached to a small purse inscribed with the name Angel. He passed the bag to Stephens and headed outside. Stephens looked at the purse and handed the plastic bag back to Barnum.
“Thanks,” Stephens said, hurrying after Boyle.
Barnum called after them, something about quid pro quo but no one was listening. Boyle was in the car, behind the wheel, engine running. Stephens jumped in.
“Call dispatch,” Boyle said. “Send two unmarked cars to South Central. We want one in front and one behind the Rivas house; two plainclothes in each car watching for the girl and the girl’s mother goes nowhere without a tail.”
Boyle shifted into Drive and punched the accelerator.
After speaking with Angel and stonewalling Detectives Boyle and Stephens, Maria Rivas rushed to the bank and she withdrew a thousand dollars in cash from a savings account. Returning home, Maria went through the clothing Angel had left behind. She packed undergarments and casual wear into a large suitcase. In a top drawer of Angel’s dresser, she found Angel’s passport; thankful for a change that her daughter’s habitual lack of sensible planning had resulted in her forgetting it in the first place. She put the passport, cash and a bank debit card into a small hand purse.
Maria’s car was parked in the drive, closer to the back of the house. She threw the suitcase into her trunk.
Now she sat nervously near the telephone, waiting for her daughter to call.
Before making it back over to Parker Center, Stephens and Boyle were called to an apartment complex in Westwood. Domestic disturbance, shots fired.
“Motherfucker,” Boyle said.
“What can you do, Ray,” Stephens said. “It’s like a shooting gallery out here.”
“Call Tanner, tell him we’re in the middle of something.”
“You know what the captain will say, Ray. We’ve got to be able to keep more than one ball in the air.”
“Fucking circus sideshow jugglers.”
“There you go.”
“Tanner and his clever fucking analogies.”
“He’s got a way with words.”
“And I’ve got his balls in the air swinging. Call him and make sure the two cars are planted outside the Rivas house,” Boyle said. “And tell Ringmaster Tanner no one better fuck up. Son of a bitch, what’s the fucking address in Westwood?”
Jimmy and Meg had dinner in a Vietnamese restaurant in Woodland Hills after the movie and then went to Meg’s Café for coffee and dessert.
When Jimmy left the café he drove out to Ed Richards’ house, wanting to look over the lay of the land while there was still daylight.
/>
The reporter’s home, a large bungalow southwest of the intersection of Appian Way and Vincente Terrace, was fairly secluded with only one residence close enough to cause any concern. The rear of the bungalow was concealed by foliage and trees, which ultimately ended at the beach. Jimmy felt confident they could get up to Richards’ place without attracting much attention if they parked their car on Ocean Avenue or Pico Boulevard and approached on foot.
After the short reconnaissance mission, Jimmy went to his office to check phone messages. He found thirteen and he hoped it wasn’t an omen. Four telemarketing junk calls, three callers who thought Lenny Archer was still alive and four others trying to contact any private investigator who was alive. The other two messages were from Nathan Archer and Vinnie Strings.
Vinnie had called to remind Jimmy he would be out of the hospital and back home the next day. Vinnie said he had been going through the library book and he’d discovered a few things Pigeon should find interesting. The call from Archer was a notice of postponement. Archer had decided to remain overnight in San Diego with his wife. He apologized and said he would call in the morning, hoping they could go into the Richards place on Saturday night. Nate also asked if Pigeon happened to see the article on the bottom of page three of the Friday LA Times. Jimmy had only looked at the Sports and Weekend sections. He would pick up a copy of the Times on his way home.
Pigeon made seven return phone calls. All seven calls were picked up by machine. He didn’t mind at all. He broke the news of Lenny’s passing to three machines and told four machines the business would be on hiatus until further notice. He decided to wait until morning to call Vinnie.
Jimmy left the office and walked down to his car, all dressed up with no place to go, and he stopped at a liquor store on Main Street for a six-pack of beer. He picked up an LA Times from the counter and opened it to page three.
Jimmy found the short piece on the bottom of the page. LASD Detective Bob Tully had been killed in Woodland Hills. The shooter, Ricardo Diaz, was subsequently shot and killed by Detective Frank Raft. Diaz, a drug dealer, was believed to have information concerning the murders of journalist Ed Richards and private investigator Lenny Archer earlier that week.
Jimmy closed the Times and returned it to the counter. He grabbed the six-pack and his change and went back out to his car. He sat a while, trying to evaluate what he’d just read. He decided it was not enough information and he would do better to put it temporarily out of mind.
He went home to his apartment, popped open a bottle of Heineken and tuned in to the Dodgers and Cubs at Wrigley.
Angel decided to wait until eight to call her mother. She turned down the volume of the baseball game on the TV in the motel room.
“Hello?” Maria Rivas answered.
“It’s me, Mama.”
“Angel, I’ve been worried to death.”
“I’m okay, Mama. Did you get money?”
“Yes, I have cash for you and a bank card,” her mother said. “And I found your passport.”
“Thank God, I have no identification at all. I left everything in my car.”
“I packed clothes for you. I can let you have my car, but what will you do for a driver’s license?”
“I’ll have to take my chances,” Angel said.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know yet. Listen, I’m at the Best Western in Santa Monica at Nineteenth and Broadway, Room 210. Meet me here as soon as possible.”
“I’ll come right now,” said Maria Rivas.
“And, Mama.”
“Si, novia?”
“Bring food. I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”
Maria took her keys, the cash, passport and bank card and slipped out back. From the porch, she spotted the car in the alley behind the house. Black Ford, two men aboard. She lifted a house plant off the porch rail and carried it inside for effect. From the window in the front room, she saw a second car across the street. She went to the phone and called directory assistance for Santa Monica.
Maria got the number for the motel and spoke with the front desk clerk. She put the charges for Angel’s room on her credit card, for that night and for Saturday, and then asked to be connected to her daughter’s room.
When the phone rang, Angel jumped. She picked up the receiver and squeaked out a hello.
“Angel, there are cars in front and back of the house. I’m sure they are police. I cannot come to you now. They will follow me. I paid for your room, today and tomorrow. The front desk clerk will return your cash.”
“Mama.”
“It’s all right, baby. I will figure it out somehow. Just stay there. Get something to eat. I promise I will call you and get you out of there as soon as I can.”
“Please hurry, Mama.”
“I will, baby. I love you.”
Maria put the receiver down, placed her hands together on her lap and prayed.
Boyle and Stephens were back at Parker Center after a three-hour ordeal, coaxing a handgun away from a woman who had put two bullets through her bathroom door; her husband locked in the bathroom screaming out the window for help.
“The job,” Stephens had said as they went up.
Two hours outside the apartment door pleading with the woman to let them in so they could work it out face-to-face. Forty minutes face-to-face, the .357 pointed at them now, telling the wife that no matter how much of a low down cheating son of a bitch he might be it wasn’t worth twenty-five years to life in prison to teach the no good bastard a lesson he would never forget.
Finally, the woman agreed to give up the weapon; after putting two more bullets through the door for emphasis.
Balls in the air.
Back at Parker, Boyle got word that Maria Rivas was at her house. She had stepped out once, apparently to take in a house plant. Boyle radioed both of the stakeout cars and told them to stay put until replacements arrived at eleven. He wanted the house covered through the night. He asked to be paged if the woman moved or someone else arrived.
At last, Boyle and Stephens left Parker. Stephens off to family and late dinner; Boyle headed to the local saloon for a few drinks and a bar seat for the Dodgers ballgame.
“Well, we’re still in first place,” said the bartender when Boyle called for another Scotch.
“The way things are going, it only increases the odds of a fucking players’ strike,” Boyle said.
Angel went down to the front desk to pick up her cash.
“You owe me eighty dollars,” she said to the check-in clerk. “My mother called and paid for the room. Rivas.”
“Do you have ID?”
“No, I don’t have ID,” Angel said. “I lost my wallet. I’m the woman who handed you eighty dollars this afternoon. Don’t you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re my ID. Didn’t my mother’s credit card cut the mustard?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, bro. Give it up,” Angel said.
The clerk took four twenties from the cash drawer and counted them twice before handing them to Angel.
“How much did a swell motor hotel like this set you back?” Angel asked, snatching the four bills.
“I don’t own the motel,” he said.
“You sure act like you do,” she said and walked out onto Broadway to look for food.
Angel was back in twenty minutes with Chinese takeout and a quart of Diet Coke.
“Remember me?” she teased the clerk.
“Yes,” he said.
He turned away and tried looking busy.
Angel grabbed a complimentary LA Times from the lobby and went back up to her room.
After devouring the beef with broccoli and pork fried rice she browsed through the Times and saw the piece about Ricky’s death.
Bullshit.
If there was one thing she was sure about after twenty-four hours on the run it was that Ricardo had nothing to do with the two killings in Santa Monica.
Angel
found a pen on the bedside table and circled the names Raft, Richards and Archer in the article. She looked in the local phone book, searching for Archer under Private Investigators. She located a listing for Archer and Pigeon Investigation. She circled the phone number and turned her attention to the baseball game.
And waited for her mother to rescue her.
Frank Raft had been watching the Rivas house from the corner of the street for three hours and the pair of LAPD plainclothes in the car out front. At eleven, another car pulled up and the first car drove off. Raft imagined the same scene was playing out in back. Fucking LAPD. He drove home, planning to return early Saturday morning.
Maria called the motel to inform Angel that a second set of police cars had arrived to replace the first.
“It looks like they’ll be here all night,” she said.
“What are we going to do, Mama?”
“I’ll work something out,” Maria promised again. “I’ll call you in the morning. Try to relax and get some rest.”
“I will, thank you, Mama,” Angel said.
Relax and get some rest. Fat chance, Angel thought.
The Dodgers beat the Cubs, 2-1. During the post-game wrap up, the two broadcast commentators expressed optimism that the salary dispute would be settled in time to thwart a players strike.
Fat chance, Pigeon thought.
Jimmy turned off the TV, grabbed another beer and opened the paperback copy of Les Misérables to the page marked with an Archer and Pigeon Investigation business card.
RUNNING WITH THE BULLS
At seven on Saturday morning, Maria Rivas watched from her kitchen as a second car replaced the one sitting in the alley behind the house. She ran to the living room in time to see the changing of the guard on the street out front.
Her initial impulse was to phone her daughter, to tell Angel she would have to wait. Maria decided to put off the bad news, hoping Angel was getting some sleep. If the police continued to survey the house much longer she would have to come up with an alternate plan.
