Striker

by Patricia Green

  We gave Galinas and Dayton a chance to confer for about half an hour, and then showed them both back to the interrogation room. Galinas looked smug and so did Dayton, but I knew it was a false front. Dayton was sure to be out of his element, and Galinas either was riding on bravado, or thought Dayton was going to get him some kind of misshapen justice. I gave Galinas the Miranda speech again, impatient to get started. With his attorney there, however, I didn’t dare slip up.

  “Let’s talk about your lies, Galinas. Detective Piccolino and I asked you about seeing Amy’s pimp, but you said you didn’t get a good look at him. We now have a witness who saw you exchanging money with the guy and having a conversation. Doesn’t seem to me you can do those things and not see his face. So tell me about the pimp.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Reduced charges, maybe. I’ll put in a good word with the DA, if any information you give us leads to the arrest of the guy.”

  Galinas looked at Dayton, and Dayton whispered something in his ear. I could smell the man’s fear from across the table, but he answered anyway. “His name is Mason. I see him once a week, on Saturdays. I call him when I have a customer who wants a girl, and he kicks back some of the payoff.”

  I took the driver’s license photo of Walter Mason out of my pocket and showed it to him. “This him?”

  It took a few seconds, but he nodded. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No. He’s got a nice car, a Lincoln MKT, I think, so he ain’t on the east side. That kinda car wouldn’t last five minutes parked on the street.”

  That was something, but not enough. “Where does he hang out?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe you’d better get sure.”

  A deep sigh and then, “I met him at a pub once, ‘bout a year ago. It was the Shamrock and Pint, on Las Feliz.”

  That was useful, so I pulled back a little. Angelica commented in the pause. “Does he go there often?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Did he seem familiar with the place?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so. The servers and the bartender all said hi, like they knew him.”

  I went on a different tack. “How many girls does he have?”

  “Maybe four.”

  “Do they seem to like him?”

  “I didn’t talk to them about him.”

  “Never?”

  “We didn’t share chit-chat, Striker. It was a business relationship.”

  “Even with Amy—the girl in the picture I showed you, the one with the little boy?”

  “We exchanged a few words about the weather and her kid. She was mostly strung out when I saw her. Nice girl, but messed up.”

  I nodded. For that, he was probably telling the truth. “Did the pimp also deal at your location?”

  This time, Dayton stuck out his hand and stopped Galinas from talking. We were getting into dangerous territory where he was concerned. Galinas clammed up.

  “I think that’s all my client has to say to you,” Dayton said. His tone was firm, no nonsense.

  I went for the Columbo. “Okay,” I said, standing up, and then turning back. “Oh, one more question. Would you say Mason was a volatile guy? Easy to anger?”

  Dayton nodded at Galinas. “Seemed pretty calm to me. He never complained, never griped. Kind of friendly, but in a quiet way. I never saw him smile or heard him laugh, though. Funny.”

  “Yeah, funny,” I agreed. There was actually nothing funny about it. A person that self-contained could explode and do terrible things. It was the human condition to have visible emotions. I looked toward Dayton, asking a silent question.

  “His wife’s going to bail him out, Detective. Are we free to go?”

  “You know the drill,” I said. Galinas would be back on the street in a matter of hours.

  * * *

  Back in my cube, as I printed out our newly minted arrest warrant thanks to Judge Barlow, Angelica and I shared a collective sigh. We’d squeaked by with Galinas, getting some useful information without making specific promises. Dayton had been an imbecile, and a small part of me hated his incompetence, but it was a vanishingly small thought in a sea of gratitude.

  “I have a plan,” I told her, getting my hat and coat.

  “As if I need to ask,” she replied with a smirk.

  “Well, no. We both know we’re going to the Shamrock and Pint, but the other part of my plan is to get some dinner there. Wanna do a busman’s holiday, my dear?”

  Angelica chuckled. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Chapter Nine

  It took us about ten minutes to get to the pub. It was very urban, in a stereotypical Irish pub kind of way. The materials were all new, but they’d been antiqued. Even the sign over the door looked beat up and aged. The interior was semi-dark, but the booths around the perimeter each had their own window, decorated with faux mullions and stained glass. There were tall partitions between each dark red vinyl booth, and a lot of wooden tables and tall black vinyl-seated pub chairs strewn about. The center of attention in the modest-sized establishment was the bar. It was a big, semi-circle with fifty or so taps and a full complement of liquors. The place was packed and noisy, and someone in the crowd was playing a fiddle. Whoever it was wasn’t bad.

  I asked for a manager right away, and although she looked a little harried when she showed up, she was smiling and friendly enough. I showed her my badge on the sly. I didn’t need to alert Mason if he was there. She took it in and nodded. “Alicia Taylor,” she said, offering her hand. “How can I help you, Detective?”

  I shook the well-manicured fingers, and she and Angelica shook hands as well while they exchanged names. “I’m looking for someone,” I said. “I’m told he’s a regular. I’d like to show you a picture, but I don’t want to be a spectacle.”

  “Oh. Sure,” she said. “We can go into my office. Follow me.”

  We followed along, and I have to admit, I liked the swing of her ass as she walked in her tight, black skirt and heels. It reminded me of another curvy ass, the one attached to my partner. Once this case was over…

  The office was small, cramped and full of extra bits and pieces of machinery and filing cabinets. There was one chair, on wheels, and a tiny desk. The three of us, standing there, took up all the air in the room; it was that crowded. And the pub manager was pretty in a corn-fed kind of way, but her perfume was some kind of strong floral concoction that didn’t add any oxygen to the place. I maneuvered my hand into my breast pocket and took out Mason’s picture, showing it to the manager. “Do you know this man?”

  She looked at it for about five seconds, barely a glance, and immediately nodded. “Sure. That’s Mason Walters. He comes in three, maybe four days a week. Usually has a beer and some dinner.”

  Mason Walters was a fairly obvious transposition of names, but it would work to deter the careless. “Is he here now?”

  “I don’t know. We’re kinda busy. I could ask around—”

  “No. We’ll look for him. We might hang out for a while and wait, if necessary.”

  She looked hesitant. “Okay. But don’t go slinging that badge around much, please. Bad for business.”

  “You get a lot of criminals here?”

  “God no. But no one goes to a bar to be under surveillance.”

  “No,” Angelica said, with a reassuring smile. “No one does. We’ll keep it quiet.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “What can you tell me about Mason Walters?” I asked.

  “Umm… Always pays with cash. Polite. Quiet; never rowdy. Doesn’t drink more than two pints.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, yeah, always eats the same thing: the bangers and mash.”

  Not particularly significant, but interesting. “Does he ever come in with anyone else?”

  “Not that I remember. He’s a loner. Doesn’t start up conversations with other patrons, even though he sit
s at the bar. He pretty much keeps to himself. Lenny might be able to tell you more.”

  “Lenny?” Angelica asked.

  “Yeah. Our night shift bartender. I’ve seen him chatting with Mason a few times, during quieter periods.”

  “Mind if we talk to him?”

  “Can it wait until his shift is over? We’re hammered.”

  “No, not really,” I said. “Maybe you can fill in for him for a few minutes.”

  Her frown was immediate. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll get him.”

  “No need,” I told her. “We’ll go sit at the bar and talk to him there. Just give him permission to talk to us for a few minutes, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She led us out to the main room and then to the bar. There was only one seat left there, between a woman in a blue serge business suit, and a man with a matching shirt and loosened tie combo. I motioned Angelica to take the seat, and crowded in half way behind her and to her left. The woman in the serge suit gave me a dirty look when I brushed her arm, but I gave her a wink and a smile and she immediately turned away. I have that effect on some women. “Use your charm,” my mother used to tell me. Too bad she never schooled me about what that was.

  Alicia went behind the bar and had a quick word with Lenny, then sent him over to us. He was a young man, not much into his twenties, with dark hair and startling blue eyes. He wore a three-day growth of dark beard and a tattoo of some Kanji characters on the side of his neck. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing more tattoos on strong forearms. No watch. No wedding ring. A working guy, probably looking for a way out of the grind.

  “What can I do for you two?” He asked with a smile. Apparently, Lenny was smart enough to know not to make a big deal of the cops asking him questions.

  I took the menu from him and pulled the photo out of my pocket. The photo was small in relation to the menu, but I put it inside the tri-fold and handed it back to Lenny. “We’re looking for this man. Do you know him?”

  Lenny gave me a nod and looked into the menu. He stared at the photo for a good twenty seconds, then folded the thing back up and handed it back to me. “Yeah, I know him. It’s Mason Walters, a regular here. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “Possibly,” I told him. “We want to question him on an important matter.”

  “He comes in a lot,” Lenny said. “Maybe three, four, times a week. I haven’t seen him in a while, though. Could be he came in during my off-days, though. I’m not here twenty-four-seven.”

  “Is he here now?” Angelica asked.

  Lenny looked around, as carefully and thoroughly as he’d looked at the photo. “Not right now. Want me to tell you if I see him tonight?”

  “Actually,” I said, offering him my business card. “We’d like you to tell us if you see him at any time at all. Today, tomorrow, whenever.”

  He took the card. “Okay. Anything else?”

  I looked at Angelica and she shook her head slightly. “How about a couple of burgers and some…”

  “Iced tea,” she suggested.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Burgers and tea.”

  He nodded and walked away to put the order into the POS system.

  “What do you think?”

  I was pretty sure he was telling the truth, and I told her so.

  “I’m starved,” she said, taking my hand where it lay on the bar, giving it a lingering squeeze and then pulling back. “Sorry,” she said. “I can’t help it. I…um…I…I don’t normally feel so affectionate about people. You really bring it out in me.”

  I rubbed her back briefly. “You do the same to me, honey.”

  “Have you thought anymore about our being partners as well as… I dunno… lovers?” Her gaze was on my face and she clearly was looking for my reaction.

  The fact was, I had thought about it. I’d thought about it while driving us to the pub. I still wasn’t sure what to do or say, but I knew I didn’t want her far away from me, in dangerous situations where I couldn’t protect her, and I sure as hell didn’t want to stop being intimate with her. I loved the way she touched me, the way we fit together, the animal attraction that exploded between us in bed. I needed that in my life. I needed her.

  Lenny was filling pints and joking with customers. He was working fast but efficiently, always looking at his patrons and gauging whether they were ready for another beer. Our food was delivered by a runner and I took a bite. It was juicy and flavorful beef, and I understood why the place was packed. It was a pub I wouldn’t have minded coming back to under better circumstances.

  I was just about to take a second bite when Lenny sauntered over to me and caught my eye. He gave me a subtle nod and pointed his chin toward the crowded aisle leading from the door to the bar. I turned part way and looked over my shoulder. It was Mason, coming in, casual as you please. I would have recognized his face with blinders on. Now I could put the rest of him together. He was about six feet tall, with light brown hair. His clothes were preppy, including a green sweater-vest, a cream colored dress shirt, and a green tweed sports coat. He was quite well groomed. Even his jeans were ironed. This was a careful man, a man who was detail-oriented. The kind of man who cut the thorns off his roses.

  I touched Angelica’s arm and rolled my eyes toward the suspect, and she turned her head slightly. He was closer now, heading for a spot at the bar that had recently been vacated.

  “Call for backup,” I said quietly. Angelica nodded and got out her phone.

  By the time the call had been placed, Mason had taken a seat on a bar stool and ordered something from Lenny. He seemed perfectly comfortable, unsuspecting. It galled me that someone who was probably a serial killer could get away with being among people, like a jackal among the lambs. I stood and Angelica did likewise. We made our way through the people, until she was standing on Mason’s right, and I was on his left.

  “Walter Mason?” Angelica asked him, though we knew who he was.

  He looked over his shoulder at her, a startled expression on his face. He was a good looking guy, with even features and intelligent blue eyes. “Who are you?”

  Angelica slipped a handcuff on his right wrist. “I’m Detective Angelica Piccolino, and you’re under arrest for suspicion of homicide.”

  Anger immediately transformed his face. He got red, his eyes bulged, his teeth showed in a snarl. “It was that little shit, Barry, wasn’t it? He put you on me! I should have wrung his neck. I was only doing him a favor,” he cried, spittle flying from his mouth as Angelica struggled to grab his other arm to snap the cuff on. He resisted her, though he was trapped between shocked bar flies and the staring patrons nearby. “His mother was poison. She dragged him through the garbage. I know! I saw it! I know what it’s like! No kid should have to live like that. The stupid little shit ought to thank me!”

  A bar patron half-tripped near me and pushed me aside. Before I could take up my position of offense again, Mason struck. He forced his elbow back with a rough movement, catching Angelica full on the solar plexus. The air rushed out of her lungs and she doubled over, then crumpled to the floor. Mason jumped over her and elbowed his way toward the back of the bar where the kitchens were located.

  Angelica was curled up in a fetal position, hugging her chest and gasping for air. I bent over her and put my hand on her face. “Angelica!”

  “I’m…okay,” she wheezed. “Go. Go get him. I’ll… call for reinforcements.” She fumbled to get her phone out of her pocket, and succeeded. She began punching in her passcode and then glared at me. “What are… you… doing? Go!”

  “Okay,” I said. What else could I say? I needed to get Mason before he got any farther away. And she was clearly capable of getting the help she needed.

  The crowd was gathered around and as I stood and turned to leave, several of them went to Angelica’s aid. I was grateful, of course, but now my entire focus was on taking Mason down.

  I raced through the upset people, and got to the kitchen archway, where there was a server on the
ground, a tray and a lot of broken crockery around him. He was holding his head but starting to stand up. The food was slippery under my feet, and broken dishes cracked like gravel. “You okay?” I asked him, pausing, but hating it.

  “Yeah,” he said. His voice was strong and he was on his feet. “He went into the kitchen.”

  “Thanks!” I ran onward, into the kitchen, where cooks and helpers were standing, shocked at the commotion. There was an open mesh bag of apples on one of the counters, and much of the contents had spilled to the floor, making it dangerous and difficult to navigate. I saw Mason on the floor in the midst of the fruit, but he soon regained his feet and started toward the exterior kitchen door.

  “Stop! Police!” I shouted. I knew it was useless. Since when does a criminal actually stop at a police person’s order? Nearly never. As much as I hoped he would obey, it was also an alert to the staff to be aware of the danger they were in. They responded by huddling together in little groups, behind counters, at sinks, and a couple half in a refrigerator case. They were much safer, and I felt like I’d done part of my job.

  Mason was passing a stove and I was nearly close enough to reach him. I didn’t dare pull my weapon, because I knew I couldn’t fire at him in the crowded kitchen. So I raced on behind him, hoping to be able to tackle him as we ran.

  He paused at the stove and grabbed a pot of something off a burner, whirling around with it and throwing it at me. Whatever was inside it was red, wet, and sticky. I threw my hands up toward my face defensively, and it was a good thing I did. The boiling mess went straight for my face. It caught me on my left hand and some spattered on my forehead. It burned, making me cry out. Fortunately, most of the goo ended up on my clothes, where it didn’t penetrate. I gritted my teeth and continued my pursuit. I wasn’t severely wounded, though it hurt like hell.

  Mason made it to the back door and opened it with the horizontal bar. He ran into the darkness outside, except it wasn’t really dark. There were police cars parked in a semi-circle in front of the door, their red and blue lights whirling.