by Robert Ellis
Matt noticed the sound of the rain beating against the windows again. He listened to it for a while. When he finally looked up from the blank screen, he caught Grace staring at him. His supervisor had been studying his reaction to the video. He had been measuring Matt while he watched his best friend being gunned down with heat.
“You’re all I’ve got, Jones. Robbery-Homicide doesn’t want this one. I checked. Their plate’s already full. It’s the same story here in Hollywood. Budget cutbacks, early retirement—days are only twenty-four hours long and my guys have all the meat they can eat right now. The autopsy’s set for seven. Your partner thinks you’re in a jam. You’re in the middle of a personal crisis. Your best buddy got himself murdered last night. Your pal. Your bro. I get it, Jones. Believe me, I get it. Your new partner thinks that you can’t handle the load. But before I put you out on the street, I need to know that he’s wrong. I need some sign that he’s wrong. Some sign that you can eat fire and not get burned. I need to get the shithead who did this off the fucking street, and I need to do it in a hurry. He’s killing people now.”
Some sign that you can eat fire and not get burned.
Matt played back the words in his mind, with just the sound of the storm outside filling the room. After several moments he met his supervisor’s eyes and held the gaze as he climbed out of the chair and leaned over the desk.
“Here’s the sign, Lieutenant. Here’s the signal. You ready?”
Grace nodded without saying anything.
“It’s my case.”
CHAPTER 8
Matt figured that the waitress knew something was up the moment she got a look at their faces and grabbed a couple of menus. Now, as she set down their plates and topped off their coffees, her eyes went straight to Cabrera and stayed there.
The anger still showing on his face was plain enough.
They were sitting in a booth at the Denny’s restaurant on the corner of Sunset and Gower. They hadn’t spoken to each other since the meeting in Grace’s office went south except to come to an understanding. The autopsy was due to begin in just over an hour. Matt didn’t want to watch a medical examiner cut open his best friend’s dead body and catalog the parts. Cabrera agreed that it was over the top and said that Matt should wait upstairs. Then he suggested that they get something to eat before heading downtown, because neither one of them would be hungry after leaving the coroner’s office, no matter where they had been in the building. Since becoming a homicide detective last July, Cabrera had attended two autopsies. Death permeated every inch of the place, he had told Matt. Both times it followed him out to his car.
The pact they’d reached had been accomplished with less than six sentences. At no point during the exchange did Cabrera meet Matt’s eyes or even look in his direction. Not a word had been spoken since.
Matt took a sip of coffee and watched Cabrera dig into his bacon and eggs French-toast special. Cabrera was still doing his best to ignore him, and it looked like it was costing him. When the food hit his mouth, he would turn and gaze out the window at the strip mall on the other side of the parking lot. After he swallowed, he’d grunt or mutter something undecipherable, launching his eyes on a low path back to his plate.
Matt finally looked away. It was a partnership with some rough edges, but he couldn’t worry about it right now. He’d already pushed aside Cabrera’s betrayal and all of the anger that came with it, because he knew that he had to.
The security video he’d seen of the holdup and murder was almost useless. He had watched it a second time when Grace left the room to talk to Cabrera. The lens was too far away—almost an entire block away—the camera recording nothing more than a ghostlike figure holding something shiny that flashed, before running off and disappearing into the night. While digital enhancement had come a long way, Matt didn’t need a tech from SID to tell him that giving detail to glowing shapes and shiny objects in images this degraded only happens in the world of make-believe or a shitty TV show.
He heard Cabrera drop his fork on his plate and saw the waitress walking over with their checks. Cabrera had made it a point to order separately. As she reached their booth, her eyes flicked back and forth between them.
“You guys really need to keep it down over here,” she said. “You’re disturbing our other customers.”
It looked like Cabrera didn’t think it was funny. His brown cheeks turned a purplish red and he grabbed his check and stormed off. The waitress turned to Matt and shrugged. Matt didn’t react either. Instead, he left a tip and ordered a cup of coffee with one sugar to go. It was 6:00 a.m. It had been a long night.
CHAPTER 9
The rain had stopped, the sun burning bright in a vibrant-blue mid-October sky. In spite of the cool air, steam was rising up from the freeways, casting the Library Tower and most of downtown in a milky glow. Matt sat on the steps outside the administration building at the coroner’s office, trying to keep his mind off what was going on in the basement of the building next door.
It wasn’t easy. It had been two hours, and Cabrera was still there.
On the drive over, Matt had decided against even entering the lobby. Instead, he bought a copy of the Times from the box on the corner and used the break to work on gaining some degree of emotional distance. The story about the three-piece bandit’s first murder was sketchy, didn’t include the identity of the victim or any photographs, and remained in the Metro Section of the paper. But the journalist had managed to get to Grace before his deadline and the article included confirmation that a security camera had recorded the holdup and murder, and that the victim was an off-duty police officer.
Matt heard a door open and turned. When he saw Cabrera exiting the building next door, he got up and started walking toward the metallic green Crown Victoria on this end of the lot. He hit the clicker and heard the alarm chirp. As he opened the driver’s-side door, Cabrera stopped and leaned on the roof from the other side, gazing back at him. Something was different. The anger he had been showing on his face had waned. His eyes were glassy, and he appeared quiet and dazed.
“How’d it go?” Matt said.
Cabrera thought it over, fighting off a yawn. “All through-and-throughs except for one slug.”
“What kind of shape is it in?”
“Okay, but not great. It’s the one that got him in the arm. It passed through, nicked a rib, and ended up in his chest.”
It was a lucky break, and Matt knew it. Because of the velocity and power of the bullets, he hadn’t expected them to find any slugs in the body, much less one intact. Last night, as the SUV was loaded onto a car carrier bound for the crime lab’s garage, Matt had been warned by a criminalist that the likelihood of finding an undamaged slug anywhere in the vehicle was nil. Now Martin Orth, the SID supervisor shepherding their case through the system, would have something to examine and possibly work with.
Matt’s phone started vibrating, and he fished it out of his pocket. It was Hughes’s partner, Frankie Lane. As he took the call, Cabrera turned away to check out the view.
“How you holding up?” Lane said in a raspy voice.
“The autopsy’s over. It’s done.”
“You watched them cut up Hughes?”
“No. My partner did.”
“You see today’s paper?”
Matt glanced at Cabrera, still gazing at the city with his back turned. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“The three-piece bandit, or whatever the fuck they’re calling the piece of shit. You got video, Matt?”
“Nothing that would ID the guy. Just what he did.”
Lane coughed. When he spoke, his voice had an urgency to it. An edge.
“I’ll bet,” he said. “Listen, Matt, we need to talk. This morning, man. Not this afternoon.”
“Where are you?”
“At my desk, or outside catching a smoke.”
“You started again?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Last night. See ya soon.”
Matt heard the l
ine click and switched off his phone. Cabrera turned and gave him a look without saying anything. When a light breeze swept by, Matt picked up on the harsh odor from the autopsy room that had saturated Cabrera’s clothing and followed him to the car. But only for a split second or two. He was really thinking about Frankie Lane, the things he’d said and the way he’d said them. Lane didn’t sound like he was grieving. He sounded nervous.
“What is it, Jones? Who called?”
“Hughes’s partner,” he said. “Frankie Lane. He says we need to talk.”
CHAPTER 10
It took almost an hour to make the short drive out to the North Hollywood station, the 170 Freeway inching along at under thirty-five miles an hour, due largely to the growing number of potholes. When they finally arrived, Lane was waiting for them by the entrance. He was smoking a cigarette and talking to his supervisor, Lieutenant Howard McKensie. Both men appeared exhausted and unshaven, and Matt guessed that neither one of them had gone home last night. Matt had met McKensie many times over the past couple of years, knew how much he thought of Hughes, and was surprised when the lieutenant vanished into the building with nothing more than a halfhearted wave.
It left a bad taste in his mouth, like downing a shot of vinegar. McKensie knew better than most that he and Hughes served together and had been close friends.
Matt tried to let it go as he watched Lane get rid of his cigarette and approach the car with a small backpack slung over his shoulder. When Lane bent down to shake hands, his eyes flicked over to Cabrera, then bounced back.
“Who’s he?” Lane said.
Matt shrugged. “Denny Cabrera. Frankie Lane.”
Lane pulled his hand away. “Why didn’t you come alone?”
“Was I supposed to?”
Lane couldn’t seem to find the words and nodded finally.
“What’s wrong, Frankie? What is it? And what’s wrong with McKensie?”
Lane stepped back and appeared to be overwhelmed by the barrage of questions. The situation. His hands were trembling, his fingers stained from nicotine. After a long moment he came to some sort of decision.
“Okay, Matt, okay,” he said. “As long as I don’t have to worry about the guy, you can bring him along. What’s your name? Cabrera? Denny Cabrera? Do I need to worry about you, Cabrera?”
Matt glanced over at his partner, then turned back to Lane. Something was going on. Something heavy. On a good day Lane appeared emaciated, his ultra-pale skin set against his frizzy black hair, giving his thin face the look of someone who had spent forty-five years living in darkness. But this wasn’t a good day, and as Matt watched him still measuring Cabrera, he thought he could see the Grim Reaper moving in behind his back.
“Do I need to worry about you?” Lane repeated.
Cabrera shook his head back and forth in a wide arc, his eyes locked on Lane’s. Matt recognized the look on his partner’s face from both his time in Afghanistan and as a patrol officer on the streets in Los Angeles. It was the look you gave someone as you eased your hand toward your sidearm, popped the strap, and switched off the safety.
“No need to worry about me,” Cabrera said. “We’re all friends here.”
Lane nodded and turned back to Matt. “Bring him along then.”
“Bring him along where, Frankie?”
“We’re taking a short drive. I want to show you something. It’s just down the street.”
Matt and Cabrera traded quick looks as Lane climbed into the backseat.
“Make a right out of the lot,” Lane said. “When you hit Tujunga, make another right. After a couple blocks you’ll see North Hollywood Park. I’ll tell you when to pull over, Matt. I’ll tell you when. I can trust you, right, Cabrera? No need to worry about you. Everything’s cool. Everybody’s safe. No need to worry about either one of you guys. My partner’s dead, but that was last night, and today everything’s cool.”
Matt was staring into the rearview mirror as he pulled out onto Burbank Boulevard. He could see Lane fidgeting in the backseat, checking the windows both left and right, turning around and peering out the rear window to see if they were being followed. His movements were short and jerky and frantic, his eyes wild like the eyes of a man trapped inside a straitjacket.
CHAPTER 11
Matt gave Lane a hard look as the man blazed across the lawn. Had he not known better, Matt would have said that Lane had spent the night snorting blow, peaked and hit bottom, and was now struggling to shed the paranoia and climb back out of his high.
Had he not known better.
Still, as he and Cabrera followed Lane’s frenetic path through the trees to the far side of the park, he had no confidence in the man. He could see it on Cabrera’s face as well. It felt like they were placating Frankie, and unfortunately they didn’t have that kind of time.
Matt fought off the urge to check his watch and looked around to get his bearings. They were south of the library and blocks away from the recreational center. There was nothing here, just acres of trees and grass as the park widened, then began to narrow, following the course of the Hollywood Freeway on its western border. Although paths cut through the lawns, Matt didn’t see a single bench or picnic table. Even with the sound of the freeway in full bloom, he was struck by how remote and secluded it felt here. How far away it seemed despite the park’s footprint and the strong smell of diesel exhaust and spent gasoline permeating the air.
Matt turned back, crossing another path onto the lawn. As they hiked beneath a series of large oak trees, he looked ahead and began to understand where Lane might be leading them. He could see the flowers and battery-powered candles and notes and photographs set on the grass before the tree on the very end. It was a memorial, sacred ground—someone had died here.
Lane slowed to a stop as they reached the tree, and Matt followed his gaze to a photograph stapled to the bark.
It was a young woman, a brunette with bangs and gray eyes smiling directly at the camera. She had a certain way about her, a certain look that vaguely reminded him of a friend’s younger sister back in Jersey. Maybe it was her bangs or just the clean feel of her smile.
“You know her?” Lane asked.
The memory faded, and Matt nodded. He had seen photographs and images of the murder victim on the late-night news. Her name was Faith Novakoff, and until two weeks ago she had been a freshman in college living in a dormitory in Exposition Park. The LAPD had held a short press conference, releasing only the most basic information about her murder: Novakoff, who had just turned eighteen, was last seen walking out of the Tap Room, a popular bar on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. She had gone missing for a week before her body was found.
That’s all Matt remembered—a single press conference, a single night on the news. He turned to check on Cabrera, caught him staring at Lane as if the North Hollywood detective needed to do a psycho stint with the department shrinks in Chinatown, then turned back.
“Where’s this going, Frankie?” Matt said in an edgy voice.
Lane lit another smoke without answering the question, then knelt down and unzipped his backpack. After a quick peek through the trees, he reached into the pack and dug out two three-ring binders. Two murder books.
“You guys remember Millie Brown?” he said. “It was a big case. Lots of media attention. She was raped and murdered eighteen months ago. Your supervisor, Bob Grace, was the lead investigator before his promotion.”
Cabrera stepped forward, losing his patience. “Who doesn’t remember? They got the guy. Ron Harris. He was the girl’s teacher. They had him solid. Rock solid. Enough of the guy’s DNA to repopulate the planet. Harris couldn’t face the music and did himself in after opening statements. What’s this gotta do with the price of coffee? Nothing, because it’s bullshit. I’m sorry you lost your partner, man. But we’ve got work to do. Not sit here and waste time doing group therapy.”
Matt watched Cabrera step away and attempt to pull himself together. Then he turned back to Lane and found hi
m still kneeling on the ground, still fidgeting and checking his back. He knew that people experienced grief in different ways. Because Lane had been Hughes’s partner, because Matt knew Lane himself, he felt like he owed him something. He owed him, but not right now. Not today with Cabrera around and their murder case circling the drain.
“Denny’s right, Frankie. We’re looking for the bandit. We don’t have time for this. We need to get out of here.”
Lane shrugged and took a hit on his smoke, as if he hadn’t heard what either one of them just said. He stood up and started leafing through one of the murder books. Matt could see Millie Brown’s name printed on the spine.
“Brown was murdered eighteen months ago,” Lane said. “It took a year to bring Ron Harris to trial. Your partner’s right. Harris couldn’t take it and killed himself after the first day. In all that time the department never released a single detail about how Millie Brown was murdered or the condition her body was in when they found her. Because Harris hung himself, nothing was made public in court. These are photographs from the girl’s crime scene. Take a look.”
Lane found the page he was looking for and passed the binder over to Matt.
“How’d you get this, Frankie?”
“Grace gave it to me and Hughes ten days ago. Now take a look.”
“Why would Grace give you guys his murder book?”
Lane’s eyes shifted. “Take a look.”
Matt finally gave in, lifting the murder book closer. There were four photographs set in a plastic sleeve. Four photographs of a nude Millie Brown stretched out on her stomach on the ground. Matt couldn’t be certain from just four photos, but the wounds appeared to be confined to the girl’s face. Harris had posed her body to maximize the shock for whoever found her. Her arms and legs were spread open. Her wrists and ankles had been tied to stakes driven into the ground. Although it was difficult to see with all the blood, it looked like what was left of the girl’s face was resting on a pane of mirrored glass about the size of a sheet of copy paper.
