The Trials of Nikki Hill

by Christopher Darden; Dick Lochte

  With a curse, he dialed Dennis’s number. Naturally, there was no answer. Second on the list was Nikki. Another frustrating miss. Finally, he phoned Morales’s home and got his partner’s wife, who began shouting at him in Spanish.

  “Whoa, there, Estella,” he said. “Tell me what the problem—”

  “The pro’lem is my husban’ not here this morning. I got no husban’, no car, no way to get to Mass with the kids. The pro’lem is I doan see Carlos for two damn days. Where is the bastar’? He say he with you.”

  “I’m gonna have to get back to you on this, Estella,” Goodman said. He dropped the receiver onto the cradle as if it had suddenly turned into a rattlesnake.

  Gwen looked at him with raised eyebrows.

  “Somebody broke into my place. I got to get over there, check the damage, see if anything needs doing. I want you to stay here until you hear from me.”

  “Why don’t I come along and—”

  “No good. I want you to be around to pull the plug on Doyle and Adler if anything happens to me.”

  “That’s a great plan, Eddie,” she said. “I can just hang out here, watching the tube and wondering if you’re alive or dead.”

  “I’ll call you from the apartment in thirty minutes,” he said. “If I don’t, send out the troops. Good enough?”

  “Don’t do anything brave or stupid,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, honey, I have great plans for my remaining years,” he told her.

  The noonday sun was hot enough to melt rubber. Goodman parked behind his apartment building and entered through the back door. He took the rear stairwell two steps at a time but proceeded cautiously along the corridor leading to his door.

  He touched a key to the lock and the door pushed open. He gave it a harder push and it swung inward, the still-extended slip lock moving through splintered wood.

  His gun was in his hand as he stepped over the threshold.

  Carlos Morales was lying on his couch, eating a handful of breakfast cereal. “ ’Bout time you showed up,” he said. “Doan you ever come home anymore?”

  “You been here all night?”

  “Where else am I gonna go?”

  “You broke the damned door,” Goodman said, holstering his pistol.

  “You doan keep no key on the molding or under the welcome mat. You doan answer the phone. What am I supposed to do? Hey, how long they been havin’ these little pieces of breakfast food that taste like graham crackers?”

  “Your wife’s going nuts, Carlos.”

  “Tell me something new.”

  “Go home.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He gestured with his chin toward the rear of the apartment. “Bedroom.”

  Hugely annoyed, Goodman stomped to the darkened bedroom. A black teenager in orange and black gangsta wear was lying on the floor, handcuffed to an iron bedpost. He glared up at Goodman and bared his teeth. He had cuts on his face and his right eye was swollen.

  Morales stood at the door. “This here’s Fupdup,” he said.

  “Your fuckin’ ass is dead, man,” the boy shouted in a high, hysterical voice.

  “Why’s he in my bedroom?”

  Morales gestured with his head and led him back into the living room.

  “I tole you this was all gang shit. Fupdup’s a Crazy Eight.”

  “Why is he in my bedroom?” Goodman asked again.

  “Because he’s one of the ones dumped Maddie Gray in that alley.”

  Goodman saw a Corona bottle on the carpet. “Was that the last beer?”

  “Couple more in the fridge,” Morales said.

  He followed Goodman into the kitchenette, continuing to talk while his partner opened a Corona. “Remember when Jamal was tellin’ us about almos’ catchin’ his lunch from the gang in that alley?” Goodman nodded, taking his first sip of beer. “At the time, we forgot to ask him if he could ID any of the Eights in the car. So I been tryin’ to get aholt of Mistah Deschamps to pose that question. Figured that lawyer had him hid away in a hotel, so I been checking ’em all, startin’ with the most expensive.”

  “That’s where you been disappearing to the last couple weeks?”

  Morales nodded. “You can’t do it by phone, amigo. You got to go and talk with the help. I foun’ him yesterday. You know, I had Jamal all wrong. The man’s a dude. He was happy to cooperate.”

  Goodman gave him a skeptical look.

  “Well, maybe I had to twist his arm a little, but he tells me the banger who nearly nailed him is named Fupdup.”

  “He saw him?”

  “No. He heard one of his asshole buddies call out to him. Anyways, Fupdup don’ have much up here,” he said, tapping his head, “but his big brother, Rupert, is runnin’ the Eights these days and he don’t want the bangers calling his li’l bro a fuckup, so he named him himself. Fupdup.”

  “Jamal told you all this?”

  “I doan need Jamal for that kind of information. I know these cucarachas. I know every fuckin’ one of ’em, where they live, where they eat and drink, and where they hang out. Took me less’n an hour to get my hands on Fupdup. He’s a big gamblin’ man. Loses ’bout a gran’ a week back of the Ready-Burger on Western Avenue. ’Course, Lorenzo, th’ dude runs the game, pays Rupert two gran’ for the privilege of having Fupdup piss off the other players. Anyway, none of them seemed to mind me leavin’ with the little bastard, not that they had any choice.”

  “What do you expect to do with him?” Goodman asked.

  “I already did, amigo. C’mon, he’ll tell you.”

  “Let me make a call first.”

  He made it quick, telling Gwen he and the apartment were fine and that she shouldn’t worry. He suggested she stay in. He’d join her later. How much later? He wasn’t sure.

  “That a ring in your nose, amigo?” Morales asked him when he’d hung up.

  Goodman just sighed.

  In the bedroom, the boy glared at them furiously.

  “Fupdup,” Morales said, “tell mi amigo about Maddie Gray.”

  The boy squinted. “Fuck you!”

  Morales removed his gun from his holster.

  Goodman tensed. He hoped his partner wasn’t going to shoot the boy.

  “You know me,” Morales said. “Crazy Cop?” The boy

  nodded. “You held your mud longer than even your brother would have. But you already gave it up. All I’m askin’ for is a repeat. Doan make us do that dance again.”

  The boy looked at Goodman. “We dump the white bitch in the alley,” he said.

  “You kill her?” Goodman asked.

  “Shit no.”

  “Who did?”

  Morales smiled, watching the boy.

  “Don’t know for sure. She dead, is all I know. We drive out to this place, put the dead bitch in the trunk and cart her off to the hood, dump her ass in the bucket. Then we remember the ring, go back and the fuckin’ cops come along.”

  “Tell ’im where you picked up the body,” Morales said.

  “Place out o’ town where honks go to dry out. The Sanktum.”

  Morales grinned at Goodman. “Nice, huh?”

  “Who sent you out there to pick her up?” Goodman asked. “Rupert say it some Ninja Turtle we gotta help.”

  “What’s the Ninja Turtle’s name?” Goodman asked.

  “I just tole you. Name like a Ninja Turtle.”

  Goodman turned to his partner.

  “Don’t ask me,” Morales said. “This guy’s Tap City in the brains. It’s his brother who’s got the answers.”

  “How do we find him? ”

  “I know where he lives, but he’s got all these shooters around him there. We’ll jus’ hang here and wait for a better opportunity. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  Morales put his hand to his belt, tapped something there. “Fupdup’s beeper. Chirped a couple times yesterday evenin’. I let him return the call. It was Rupert. Bi
g bro tole him they had some work to do last night. The Fup man was under my gun and behaved himself and said what I’d told him, that he was with a ladyfren’ and couldn’t make it. Rupert gave him a pass for last night, but said for him to be sure to be on call tonight. So I think we can expect a beep before too long.”

  Goodman asked the boy, “What’s happening tonight?”

  “Ooocie juicie,” the boy said. “Rupert calls, tells me where to be for the ooocie juicie and that’s where I be. Rupert’s the man.”

  Goodman walked out of the bedroom in search of another Corona, Morales at his heels. “What do we do with him, Carlos?”

  “Can’t turn him in,” Morales said. “He’d be out in ten minutes and I’d be spending the rest of my life explaining the cuts on his face.”

  “Speaking of that, how old is he?”

  “Sixteen. So what?” Morales asked defensively. “He and his woman got two kids and Lorenzo tells me he and a buddy stomped a guy to death after a card game. You start thinking that’s a little boy in there, you gonna wind up dead.”

  “Okay. So we can’t arrest him.”

  “Anyway, we need him to lead us to Rupert.”

  Goodman nodded and swallowed his beer. “If we get Rupert and he opens up to us, you know what we’re going to find out?”

  “Sure,” Morales said. “I knew that soon’s Fupdup tole me Maddie’s body was at the Sanctum. The wrong fuckin’ Will-ins is standin’ trial for murder.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The previous night, Nikki had decided she no longer needed Sonny’s “protection.” If Rupert and his gang were inclined to harm her, they’d had every opportunity. The dispirited bodyguard had notified his alternate they were off the case.

  His confidence was bolstered a little by Loreen’s insistence that she’d feel much safer if he’d stick around and have dinner with them. Dinner and drinks at a nearby Mexican restaurant. A couple of margaritas later, Sonny began telling them stories from his crime file, some of them quite lurid.

  By the end of dinner, Loreen was nearly her old self, her chair shifted so that she was almost in Sonny’s lap. Nikki was starting to relax, too. She suggested she would take a cab home, but Sonny insisted on driving. He was not drunk, merely mellow.

  The bodyguard and Loreen waited in the car until she unlocked her front door, and Bird eagerly took over the job as her protector.

  She woke up a little after noon.

  She’d had bizarre dreams, prompted by the evening’s mixture of stress and alcohol. On awakening, she couldn’t remember any of them. She lay on her back, her mind muddled, trying to sift through facts and theories. Top of the list was her belief that she was prosecuting an innocent woman. She wanted to simply close her eyes. Sleep was such a tempting alternative to real life. The hell of it was that you had to get up eventually or they’d bury you.

  She fed Bird, made sure he took his pill. Then she prepared to burn off the tequilla-and-taco residue.

  First stop was the dune. Then a run along the path at Manhattan Beach, slow enough for Bird not to overwork under the hot sun. The whole time her mind was a jumble of questions. Could Virgil possibly be tied in with Rupert and his gang? Would Rupert have any reason to harm Loreen? Did Loreen and Sonny get hooked up? Could she continue to prosecute Dyana Cooper? How much should she tell Joe Walden?

  She stopped for a late lunch at an outdoor cantina where the owner, Rafael, didn’t mind having Bird on the patio as long as he behaved himself. The big dog relaxed at his mistress’s feet, watching her intently while she nibbled a salad and reshuffled the questions on her mind.

  It was four-thirty when she returned home.

  Almost by rote, she cleaned up the bedroom, sort of, showered, and, wrapped in a robe, with the great Aretha wailing through the sound system, she took the Sunday L.A. Times to the patio. Not until she went to the kitchen for a glass of milk did she notice the blinking light on her answering machine.

  Virgil had phoned the night before at ten. At ten-thirty. At ten-forty-five. At eleven-fifteen. And again at midnight. His messages did not suggest annoyance. Merely resignation and disappointment.

  She was about to stop the tape to call him when she heard Goodman’s voice saying, “Sorry I didn’t get back to you, I just got your messages. I’ll try again.” Recorded at 12:24 P.M., just after she’d left for the dune.

  There were two more calls.

  One was from Virgil. “Man, that musta been some dinner with your girlfriend. Later.” One P.M.

  The final was Goodman again, at 1:53 P.M. “We’ve got to talk. It looks like Maddie Gray didn’t die at home after all. The murder took place at the Sanctum. I’ll ...” There was a loud crash in the background. Then angry shouting. “Sorry,” Goodman said. “Got a situation here.”

  She dialed the detective’s number and reached his answering machine.

  Damn! How had he found out about the Sanctum? Did he have proof? What was the noise she’d heard? What the hell was he up to? That’s what she needed: more questions.

  The Sanctum! No wonder that stiff-necked manager had been so nervous on the stand. He must have been scared shitless trying not to perjure himself.

  If the Sanctum was the scene of the crime almost everything Rupert had told her had been a lie. What he’d said, and what all of the evidence indicated, was that Dyana had murdered Maddie at the house in Laurel Canyon. Lose that location as the crime scene and the case against Dyana Cooper disintegrated.

  A new, very strong suspect would then emerge. John Willins.

  He and Maddie go to the Sanctum. They argue. He kills her and takes the body away, to the Dumpster. She frowned. Why did they argue? Lovers’ quarrel? Then who went to the house and pried open the file drawer?

  No. Not exactly a lovers’ quarrel. She’s been drunk and angry all day. She gets mad at him, tells him she has a file on him that could cause him grief. This so infuriates him that he kills her. Later, he has to retrieve the file.

  He doesn’t realize that Maddie also was keeping a file on his wife. Maybe he even flips past it, not knowing the significance of the title “Soul Sister.” He goes home and the first thing Dyana tells him is how her day went, leading with the fight at Maddie’s. Concerned that his wife might actually be implicated in the murder, he goes running to Hobart Adler, who, in turn, brings in his fixer, James Doyle.

  Where do the gangstas fit in? Did they really work for Maddie? Possibly. Would they run the risk of terrorizing a district attorney just to seek revenge on Dyana through the court? No way. They wouldn’t give a damn about the trial; they’d be more direct. Probably try to take her out in a drive-by.

  Or a hit-and-run! God, is there any way Dimitra ...? It’s possible. Why would they have done it, though? What danger did Dimitra pose? I can see the reason the gangstas would want Dyana to be found guilty: then the real murderer could rest easy. But if the real murderer is John Willins...?

  Even though she’d witnessed many examples of man’s inhumanity throughout her career, the depth of her feeling about this one surprised her. She’d seen mothers blame their crimes on their daughters, fathers on sons, brothers on brothers. A husband setting up his wife to save his own worthless hide was par for the course. Nikki realized she’d fallen victim to the cult of celebrity; like the rest of the world, she’d been suckered by the media manipulators into believing that Dyana Cooper and John Willins were the ideal couple.

  Now, she was convinced, the perfect husband was going to great lengths to make sure that his perfect wife was found guilty of a crime he had committed. Not that she could prove he’d done it. Even so, she had to tell her boss about this Sanctum development.

  He wasn’t at home, however, and he didn’t respond to his beeper.

  Then she remembered that in exactly—she looked at her watch—one hour and ten minutes he’d be attending a cocktail party at the Hotel Balmoral before going in to the dinner where he was to receive the African-American Leadership award.

  She ran
into her bedroom, threw open her jammed and jumbled closet, and began searching for the black Halston cocktail dress she’d hoped she’d never have to wear again. Double-damn that Victoria Allard.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Two boys, neither older than nine or ten, circled a battered and rusty mud-brown panel truck that was parked, apparently untended, in the middle of a run-down block of Normandie Avenue. The cracked and sunbaked white lettering stating that the truck belonged to Adam’s TV, had the boys wondering if Adam might be lame enough to have left his truck in that neighborhood with TV sets in the back.

  They moved in on the double doors at the rear of the vehicle.

  The taller boy reached out and tested the handle.

  Suddenly, from inside the truck, a monster dog from hell started barking insanely. It rammed the rear doors, which were obviously just barely holding it in

  The boys ran off down the street.

  “Still think Leander’s a bonehead, amigo?” Morales asked as he turned off the tape recorder and duckwalked back to a canvas chair inside “Adam’s” truck.

  Goodman was sitting on a matching chair directly behind the vehicle’s forward panel. The window to the cab had been painted over, except for a tiny dot the size of a fingertip. A little device similar to a front door security scope had been Krazy-Glued to that spot. By applying an eye to the scope, Goodman got a windshield view of the street.

  “I didn’t say he was a bonehead,” he clarified, “I said he was a fanatic. Who else but a fanatic would buy his old surveillance vehicle from the garage when he mustered out?” The owner of the truck was a retired vice cop named Al Leander. “Who else would have tapes of dogs barking?”

  “You gotta admit, this stuff comes in handy.”

  “What’s Leander need it for? He’s retired.”

  “Let’s be thankful he had it,” Morales said. “Not many LAPD guys, retired or active, I’d trust with Fupdup. On one side, they’d kill the little bastard as soon as look at ’im. On the other, they’d feel sorry for him and let him go. Leander’ll keep him chained up in his basement, but he’ll feed him and maybe even let him listen to the friggin’ ham radio. We’re lucky we got Leander.”