by Robert Ellis
“You want a drink? A cup of coffee?”
She shook her head and wiped her cheeks, her soft voice breaking up. “Tell me what happened to Kevin. Tell me what happened.”
Matt spotted a box of tissues on the counter by the sink. As he reached for it, he noticed a pregnancy test kit on the windowsill and thought he might lose it.
“I don’t know, Laura,” he said. “We think he was shot during a holdup.”
She cocked her head, as if she didn’t understand. “For money?”
Her voice was so faint. Matt nodded and sat down beside her, watching her struggle to put it together.
“But Kevin never carried a lot of cash,” she said.
“Is there anyone I can call? Anyone who could come over and be with you?”
“He never carried a lot of cash,” she repeated quietly.
Her dirty blond hair was tangled from sleep, her deep blue eyes wet as rain. She was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of cotton pajama bottoms with images of flowers and rainbows and pots of gold. Matt thought about that test kit on the windowsill and wondered if she was pregnant. He wished he hadn’t seen it.
“Do you know who did it?” she managed.
“We think so,” he said in a gentle voice. “But he’s never shot anyone before.”
“Someone saw him?”
Matt shook his head. “It’s early. We’re still working on it.”
Laura closed her eyes and started weeping again. After several moments she began to speak as if she were alone in the room.
“I was so worried about him . . . so worried . . . while he was away . . . I waited and worried . . . I watched the news every night and had nightmares that he wasn’t gonna come home . . . that I’d never see him again . . . when I woke up, I felt guilty for having them, but I couldn’t make them stop.” She opened her eyes, still looking inward. “And then he comes home . . . Kevin comes back to me, and it happens here . . . it happens here . . . for his money . . . his cash . . .”
Her voice died off. Matt didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t get past the image of his friend buried in the dark hole of that body bag. He couldn’t turn off the memory or wrestle it to the ground. The blood. The shattered glass. A bag of human flesh with no form.
He felt his cell phone in his pocket. He wasn’t sure how long it had been vibrating. After a while he pulled it out, glanced at the name on the display without really seeing it, but took the call.
“What is it?” he said quietly.
“What’s wrong with your voice, Jones?”
It was his supervisor, Lieutenant Bob Grace. Matt sat up and tried to pull himself together, but together still seemed a long way off tonight.
“I’m in the middle of something,” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.”
Grace hesitated for a moment. “Where are you?”
“At the house with his wife.”
“Why is it taking so long?”
Matt walked over to the sink and gazed out the window at the gardens and pool. “What is it? Why did you call me?”
“You need to wrap it up, Matt. You need to come back in as soon as you can.”
He turned to check on Laura. She was still inside herself and didn’t appear to notice that he was even on the phone. Her lips were quivering. She was talking to herself again, only this time in utter silence. He thought she might need a doctor.
Matt turned back to the window and lowered his voice. “Did something happen, Lieutenant?”
“We’ll talk about it when you get here. I’m waiting with Cabrera in my office. Do your best for her, but get back here as soon as you can.”
Matt started to say something, then stopped when he heard the phone click and realized that Grace had hung up.
CHAPTER 5
He’d left her in ruin . . . but with the promise that he would come back as soon as he could. He had been straight with her—in all likelihood he wouldn’t return for a while. He could remember her giving him the nod, like she’d heard him. She had found his eyes and met them like she understood. Still, he had felt uneasy about leaving her alone because he wasn’t sure. In the end he’d called her neighbor, a woman Laura told him she liked and was becoming a friend.
Matt made the turn onto Pacific Avenue, gunning it down the hill toward the 134 Freeway. He spotted a cop hiding in the lot at the Jack in the Box, so he slowed down until he passed the next traffic light, then clicked through the six-speed manual transmission and rocketed up the ramp. The transition to the Golden State Freeway was just ahead. At 4:00 a.m. traffic would be light and he could circle Griffith Park and reach the Hollywood station in less than fifteen minutes. He was driving a metallic gray Honda coupe. The car was fast but light, and at ninety miles an hour he could feel the wind beating against the windshield and trying to crash through.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, settling into the seat and wondering why Cabrera and Grace were waiting for him. Over the five hours that Matt had remained at the crime scene, no one had come forward. Not even the parking attendant could shed any light on what had happened. It was a cold night, the old man had told them. He went inside the restaurant for a cup of coffee and was away from his booth for ten to fifteen minutes.
But maybe something had turned up when the patrol units canvassed the neighborhood. The Las Palmas Hotel cut into the north end of the parking lot. Across the street on the next block stood a new apartment building, and Matt had counted twenty-five units with windows and balconies.
Before Matt left to give Laura the news, he and Cabrera had received word that a man fitting the description of the three-piece bandit had botched a holdup five blocks away about an hour before Hughes was killed. It didn’t feel like much of a long shot that the robber had become frustrated and moved to the lot behind Musso & Frank. When he spotted Hughes in the SUV, he tried again.
Matt glided off the freeway and blew through the first red light on Los Feliz Boulevard. As he raced up the hill, rain began pelting the windshield, and he could feel his tires slipping on the asphalt. He glanced at the speedometer—a cool fifty—then looked back at the road. Water was already beginning to stream along the curb. He tightened his grip on the wheel and eased into the left lane instead of slowing down.
Matt had transferred from the Pacific Division but was well aware of the string of holdups that had been occurring in Hollywood and along the Strip. The flyer that patrol units were passing out tonight had been posted at every station in Los Angeles County for the last six months. With each new holdup, victims were interviewed and reinterviewed, the flyer updated, and the composite sketch refined.
A white male in his midtwenties, average in height and build, wearing shades and a hooded sweatshirt was too common to make an impression on anyone in LA. But the shirt and tie underneath, the gray flannel slacks, and the gun he was holding did. Even more, one of his first victims happened to be a gun enthusiast and was able to identify the pistol as a Glock 20. In spite of the heavy firepower, the young man’s demeanor hadn’t appeared overly threatening. According to most witnesses, he was soft-spoken and polite, the holdups conducted quickly, oftentimes while victims were distracted and just getting out of their cars. Months earlier, when the LAPD began passing out flyers in concert with the Sheriff’s Department in West Hollywood, a reporter from the Los Angeles Times read the description of what sounded like a young urban professional and gave the robber a nickname that stuck: the three-piece bandit.
Matt didn’t like the nickname because he thought it softened the blow. No one who conducted their business at gunpoint could be considered soft-spoken or polite.
The rain picked up in a hard wave and sounded like stones hammering the roof of the car. Matt slowed some as he hit the light at Franklin, then floored it down Western. Once he made the right onto Sunset, he thought about the gun. The Glock 20. It had been mentioned in the flyer and on TV, along with advice to the public on how to act if they were ever confronted by the man.
>
If you must reach for something or move in any way, tell the robber what to expect so that he won’t be startled. A suspicious move may trigger a violent reaction, endangering your life and others. Follow the robber’s commands, but do not volunteer to help. The longer the robbery takes, the more nervous the robber may become, escalating the chances of a violent outcome.
Matt wondered how Hughes had handled himself. His gut told him that Hughes knew the drill and would have complied. That there was no reason to fire the gun. No reason for the man in the suit to become a killer. Any response from Hughes would have occurred after the holdup, when the robber backed off and tried to get away.
Matt drove down Wilcox and pulled into the lot behind the station. As he ran through the cold rain, all he could think about was Cabrera. He hoped his new partner had lucked out. He hoped Cabrera had snagged them a witness, or even better, a lead.
CHAPTER 6
He found them in Grace’s office and, from the sullen looks on their faces, knew that something had happened and that it probably wasn’t good.
Grace closed the door and moved over to his desk. Cabrera stood against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. Matt picked up on those dark eyes again. They were burning with worry the same way they had burned earlier in the night when Matt came to and saw him standing with the EMT by the ambulance.
He crossed the room, rolling a chair out of the way, and leaned against a filing cabinet. The two men seemed anxious yet subdued. As he thought it through, he guessed that the Robbery-Homicide Division had stepped in and taken the case away from them. Though they wouldn’t have needed to explain, RHD’s reasoning would have been plain enough. Hughes had been a cop, and the story was about to move from the Metro Section of the Times to the front page.
“Take a seat,” Grace said in an easy voice.
Matt refused with a shake of his head, staring back at the man and bracing himself for the disappointment. The overhead lights were out, the office lit by only a desk lamp and what filtered in from the squad room through the glass wall. He could hear the rain beating against the windows, the wind gusting outside. Hughes had been his friend and he owed him. He didn’t just want this case. It was more than that. Hughes’s murder cut to the bone.
“What is it?” Matt said. “What’s happened?”
Grace glanced at Cabrera, then back at Matt. He was a tall, lanky man in his midfifties with gray hair and a gaunt face, but still in good shape. His eyes matched the color of his hair, his gaze clear and sharp. Matt had liked him the moment they met and shook hands.
“Tell me,” Matt said.
Grace pushed a laptop aside and sat down on the edge of his desk. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.
“Cabrera told me what happened at the crime scene, Jones. He thinks it’s too personal. He thinks you can’t handle the job.”
Everything slowed down, the words digging through Matt’s gut until they reached the core and started feeding on it. He was no longer looking at Grace. His eyes were pinned on Cabrera now. He could feel the rage exploding through his body, the tightness in his chest.
“It’s my case,” he said.
Grace cleared his throat. “What’s that, Jones? I didn’t hear you.”
Matt kept his eyes pinned on Cabrera. “It’s my fucking case.”
“I’ll decide whose case it is,” Grace said. “I’m in charge here. Now take a seat and cool down.”
Matt didn’t move. “Fuck you.”
Grace turned sharply. “What did you say to me, Detective?”
“Nothing. I was talking to my new partner.”
Grace looked him over. “The way you’re acting, Jones, I think Cabrera might be right. You and Hughes go way back. You’ve got a history, too much history—and after tonight, there’s too much at stake.”
Matt wasn’t listening, still focused on Cabrera, still unable to dial back his anger. His voice was deep and dark and barely audible.
“You know what it means to partner up, right, Cabrera? It’s about trust and watching the other guy’s back. It’s about knowing when to take and when to give back. It’s about an understanding. Two becoming one.”
Grace reached out for Matt’s shoulder. Matt shook him off.
“I want to hear him say it,” Matt said. “Go ahead and say it, Cabrera. I’m not up to the job.”
Cabrera looked him over for a while, then took a step closer, shaking his head as if he wanted this to end quickly. “I’ll say it, Jones. Look at you. You’re a mess. You can’t handle this case. You’re too close. Too deep in. You’re not ready to—”
It happened before anyone had time to even blink. Matt charged forward, seizing Cabrera by the neck and face and slamming the back of his head against the wall. Cabrera let out a groan and tried to break Matt’s grip. When he couldn’t, Matt knocked him back again, holding him still and watching panic well up in his eyes. He could hear Grace shouting. He could feel his supervisor struggling to pull him away. Matt tightened his grip on Cabrera’s forehead, staring at him eyeball to eyeball, seething.
“It’s my case,” he said. “It’s my case.”
“Let go of him, Jones. Jesus Christ. Knock it off and let go.”
“My case,” Matt said through clenched teeth.
He gave Cabrera a final shove before releasing his hold on him. Once Cabrera regained his composure, he took a step toward Matt, but Grace pushed him out of the office and managed to get the door closed.
CHAPTER 7
“Take a seat, Jones. And that’s a goddamn order.”
Matt watched Grace move in behind his desk and sit down. Through the glass wall he could see Cabrera in the squad room, pacing and muttering and rubbing the back of his head. After several moments, Matt rolled a chair over to Grace’s desk and finally joined him.
“What the fuck is your problem, Jones? Your supervisor on the Westside told me you were smart. I need this like I need—it’s not even your first fucking day.”
“It’s my case,” he said quietly.
“It’s your case,” Grace repeated. “You keep saying that, and I keep telling you that we’ll talk about it later.”
He shook his head at Matt, then reached for his laptop and opened the lid. Once the computer woke up, he plugged in a portable drive and clicked open a short list of files.
“They finished canvassing the neighborhood about a half hour before I called you. No one saw anything, Jones.”
“What about the hotel?”
“The windows on that side of the building face the parking lot. On the other side you can almost see the Hollywood sign. Not many people want a room with a view of the parking lot. And even if they get stuck with one, most people keep the blinds closed. Besides, the place is famous. They shot the movie Pretty Woman there. Everybody wants the room Julia Roberts stayed in, and that’s in the front. Cabrera said that the guys who made the sweep spoke with everyone who was checked in. No one saw anything until after the last shot was fired.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing, Jones. All they saw was a parking lot and a handful of cops who showed up too late.”
Matt thought about the apartments across the street. The twenty-five windows and balconies he’d counted before he left to notify Laura.
“What about that new apartment building?” he said.
“It just opened. They’ve only rented a couple of units. No one saw anything.”
Grace’s eyes kept dancing back to that list of files on his laptop. There was something odd about it. Matt settled deeper into the chair, watching his supervisor and wondering if he had missed something. Why did Grace, a seasoned pro, still seem so anxious? Matt didn’t know him very well but trusted his read.
“You’re leaving something out,” he said. “Something important. What is it?”
Grace appeared surprised by the question but seemed to come to some sort of decision. After a quick glance at Cabrera, still pacing in the squad room, he opened a f
ile on his computer and motioned Matt closer. Almost instantly Matt understood why both men had doubts about his ability to work the case. It was video from a security camera. Matt guessed from the angle that the lens was positioned over the entrance of the apartment building across the street. In spite of the distance, in spite of the darkness, he could see them in the background. The hooded sweatshirt. The outstretched hand grasping something shiny that had to be the pistol. Hughes sitting behind the wheel in the black SUV.
Matt dug into his pocket for a piece of nicotine gum, gave it a few hurried bites to release the drug, then parked it against his cheek. Leaning over the desk, he moved closer to the screen. After several minutes Grace pointed at the time code burned into the image and running along the bottom edge of the frame. His supervisor didn’t need to say anything. Matt knew that the robbery was taking too much time. There was too much talking. Too much back and forth. Hughes wasn’t complying.
And then it happened. A single flash from the end of the gun. A single shot just past the four-minute mark and Hughes wasn’t moving anymore.
Matt stared at the screen. He could feel the sweat percolating on his forehead. The shallow and uneven rhythm of his breathing.
The robbery itself took no more than twenty seconds, with everything stolen tossed into what looked like a small backpack or grocery bag. Matt watched the killer slam the door shut and back away. Then the muzzle flashed for another fifteen seconds before going dark. After that the killer fled toward the northwest corner of the lot and vanished. Thirty seconds later, Hank Andrews and Travis Green entered the lot with their guns drawn. A group of five more cops from the community station stepped in behind them. But in the end it didn’t matter. They were entering the lot from the other side and moving forward the way they were trained to approach an active crime scene—smart and cautious buys everybody another day. By the time they reached the SUV and saw Hughes’s body, the three-piece bandit, the cop killer in the hooded sweatshirt, was long gone.
