I sat there thinking about all of it. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the colorful but rain-heavy sky was turning gunmetal gray. Alexa went inside, but I lingered for a few minutes thinking about my options.
The twenty-four-twenty-four-hour rule governs most homicides and states that the last twenty-four hours of the victim’s life and the first twenty-four hours of the murder investigation are the two most important time frames in the case.
During my search into Lita’s life, I had begun to formulate those time lines and work on setting up a victimology. Victimology is the study of the victim’s life. You try to determine what she was doing when she died that might have drawn the killer to her. In addition, you are looking for personality traits, habits, or relationships that might suggest motive, method, or opportunity. That included employment, dating history, sexuality, reputation, and criminal record. I had plenty to start with.
The twenty-four-twenty-four-hour rule also postulates that something might have happened during the last twenty-four hours of the victim’s life that could be the inciting event for the murder. The argument with Carla over the ceiling fan being a perfect example.
However, I was beginning to suspect that Lita’s murder had nothing to do with that ceiling fan or Carla and Julio Sanchez. We would hold them a little longer to be sure, but I suspected that the real reason for Lita’s death might actually lie, as Nash had suggested, in the murky depths of her tangled anti-police obsession.
Hitch and I might be hunting brother cops.
CHAPTER
12
I went inside and found Alexa waiting for me in the bedroom. She was lying in bed reading a crime stat report, but she was also wearing a sexy pink negligee and she looked beautiful. I needed something beautiful to end my day. I stretched out beside her and moments later we were making love.
Even though my head was spinning with this case, I could always find a way to lose myself with her. We began our lovemaking on the bed but consummated it on the floor. The way that happened was Alexa, always a playful lover, started tickling me and we ended up rolling off the side of the bed.
When we were done, I held her, feeling her warm breath against my neck.
“He’s not going to get us,” she whispered in my ear.
Later, when we were lying in bed and I could hear her breathing deepen and grow steady, I looked at the ceiling and tried to further sort out my feelings about Lita Mendez, Carla and Julio Sanchez, and Nixon Nash. Every fiber in my body suggested whatever was going on, it wasn’t going to end well. I was beginning to buy into Nash’s dire prediction for my future.
Sleep wouldn’t come, so I slipped out of bed, grabbed a robe, and went to my desk in the den. I sat there, trying to categorize and systematize.
At the top of my bothersome issues list was Edwin Chavaria. Even though his tip had produced the Sanchezes, the ceiling fan, and the rest of that fire drill, there were big parts of Chavaria’s story that wouldn’t lie down for me.
I’m not exactly a gang squad expert, but I’ve worked my share of gang cases. In my experience these guys rarely, if ever, put their business in the street. They take care of their own problems in their own ways. They don’t rat anybody out or bring in the cops.
Beyond that, Chava had actually gone on camera with Nix Nash, calling out Carla Sanchez, putting a murder beef on her. How was that going to look to his homies on First Street when it aired? Would a guy like Chava who had done serious prison time actually play the rat on national TV? What would that do to his street cred? I suppose it was possible, but I had my doubts. Unless, of course, somebody had put him up to it and made it fiscally worth his while. Then he could brag to his vato homeboys that he’d gamed the chota, getting them to chase false leads.
Muy rifo, homes.
Nash’s MO was to get cops investigating bogus leads and then, while they ran in circles, solve the case himself. That’s exactly what had happened in Atlanta, and my gut told me that’s what he was trying to do here.
All things considered, I was very unhappy with our case against the Sanchezes.
I was also worried about the smells we’d noticed when we arrived in Lita’s stuffy house. Both Hitch and I had smelled garlic, and the ME’s report said Lita had a partially digested dinner of beef enchiladas and beans in her stomach but that there was no trace of garlic in the stomach contents.
I’d been kidding Hitch about missing the boat with his guess that it was Bolognese sauce, but Hitch really is a Class A chef. Alexa and I had been up to his house many times and he’d cooked some of the best gourmet food I’ve ever tasted. He knew his stuff, and he’d said he smelled garlic, onions, and bay leaf or sage.
I went on the computer and found a few recipes for enchiladas online. Most of them contained garlic. I shut off the computer and sat there thinking. I get hung up on stuff like this. Little details that fight the pattern. How could Hitch and I have both smelled garlic if she didn’t have garlic in her stomach?
I opened my notebook and made a note to try to find out why. It might be nothing, but either way, I knew it would pester me until I found the answer.
Then I closed my crime book and sat back, planning tomorrow’s moves. I had a lot of people to talk to, including a bunch of cops who would become pissed the minute I suggested they might be suspects.
At the top of my interview list was a name that threatened my future like the swine flu.
First thing tomorrow, Hitch and I had to go talk to the Dark Queen of Internal Affairs.
CHAPTER
13
The new Police Administration Building had replaced Parker Center, built in the seventies and known as the Glass House. The new PAB was a mammoth ten-story, steel and glass rectangle in downtown L.A., located right across from City Hall.
With an open atrium, a one-acre park, and an artfully designed east face to protect the offices on that side from sniper fire, it has yet to be christened with a new name, official or otherwise. I hope we’ve not become so politically correct that we just take to calling it the PAB or name it after the mayor. I’d prefer something more appropriately flamboyant like “The House of Mirrors” or “The Puzzle Palace.” Hitch jokingly wants to call it the “Porcelain Throne” because it’s where busted dirtbags get flushed into the criminal justice system.
Whatever we end up calling it, the building is a state-of-the-art police facility, six years in the making. It also houses a new computer COMSTAT center for our huge City Crime Stat Board, a 450-seat auditorium for news events, and a 200-seat first-floor café. It’s been advertised as an environmentally correct green building, whatever that means.
The old Glass House was like a crumbling tenement in the projects, with broken elevators and a circulating air system designed in the dark ages.
Our new space for Homicide Special was on the sixth floor. It was well designed, with big double-desk cubicles and spacious glass windows with views of City Hall. As with all new buildings, there were stringent housekeeping considerations put in place by our über-proud city managers. No wanted posters, fliers, or taped material of any kind could be displayed on the walls. No personal paraphernalia or pictures allowed on desks, filing cabinets, or attendant work surfaces. All furniture must be kept in the areas designated for its initial use, et cetera, et cetera.
Hitch and I happened to pull into the seven-hundred-car belowground garage at exactly 8:00 A.M. He parked his Porsche Carrera just as I was locking my Acura. He looked great, as always. Purple shirt, white collar, black tie, and a charcoal gray suit with a wide pinstripe. I’m feeling more and more like the filthy Persian rug next to this guy.
We’d already talked by phone and knew that Stephanie Madrid was on the agenda for this morning. Neither of us was looking forward to that interview.
“Listen, Hitch,” I said, biting the bullet as we headed to the elevator. “I think I should take the interview with Captain Madrid alone.” He looked over, surprised. “One of the perks with Alexa being Chief of D
’s is assholes like Captain Madrid don’t quite know how to deal with me.”
“Good point, but I’ve thought it over too. I can’t let you do this by yourself.” He smiled at me. “You can be on point if you want and receive the preliminary pleasuring and first round of oral stimulation, but I’ll be there to watch your back and cover the retreat.”
“They’re giving blow jobs at IAG now?” I said in mock surprise.
We rode up in the new steel elevator, got to the sixth floor, and headed to our assigned cubicle. People were still a little subdued in this building. The old Glass House was noisy, but the new shop still felt a little like church.
“You guys got a real doozie,” Lincoln Fellows called softly from his desk as we passed.
“We’re movie producers,” Hitch said. “Our jobs here are of little import.”
That begat a moderate chorus of catcalls and insults.
“Wonder if the CSI report came back,” I said as we sat at our desks. I turned on my computer and found it had been e-mailed over to us at seven this morning.
“Got it,” I said. Hitch came around to read over my shoulder.
The DNA on the coffee cup we’d found in Lita’s driveway did not match either of the samples we’d taken from Carla or Julio Sanchez.
“That’s disappointing,” Hitch said.
“We’re gonna have to cut ’em loose,” I told him. “We got nothing on these two.”
Hitch looked skeptical. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Once we turn them loose, we’re never gonna see them again. Maybe it’s just with Nix Nash hovering I hate to give up such an easy slam dunk.”
“Okay, we’ll keep them until tonight. But then they’re outta here.”
I scrolled down to the coffee content analysis. The lab had managed to isolate the blend.
“It’s something called Brazilian Honey Nut,” I said. “Never heard of it. Sounds expensive.”
“You never heard of it ’cause all you drink is Folgers. These better Brazilian blends aren’t in many of the standard vending machines. What’s your plan with this? Find a machine that dispenses this stuff, then arrest everybody in the closest coffee room?”
“Brilliant. One day you’re gonna be a total superstar.”
“Guess we can’t put this off any longer,” I groaned, and pulled out the department directory, looked up the extension for Capt. Stephanie Madrid, and dialed.
“Captain Madrid’s office,” a man whined in a very tight, humorless voice. He sounded like his tail was stuck between the cheeks of his ass.
“This is Detective Scully. I’m over at the PAB in Homicide Special. My partner and I are investigating Lolita Mendez’s murder. We’d like to book an interview appointment with Captain Madrid as soon as possible.”
“How ’bout ten minutes? Can you get here by then?”
“Ten minutes?” I said, looking at Hitch, who frowned. Generally, we don’t get such prompt service from our division commanders.
“Captain Madrid has been expecting your call,” the man continued. “She said she would make herself available anytime this morning, the sooner the better.”
“On our way,” I said, and hung up.
“I don’t like it,” Hitch said. “Something’s burning.”
We rode down in the elevator and took my car over to the Bradbury Building, parking in the police lot next door. We went in through the back patio, past the sculptured wall titled “Passage of Time,” depicting the history of Biddy Mason, a former slave who became one of L.A.’s pioneering philanthropists. Then we headed across the marble floor toward the beautiful ornate wrought-iron elevator.
“Wait a minute,” Hitch said, and turned back. He went inside the small cafeteria and walked over to the coffee machine. I followed and watched from a distance while he studied the selections.
“And?”
“No Brazilian Honey Nut.” Then he put some coins into the machine and hit a random button. A cup dropped. It had a green and white design. Once it filled, he pulled it out and placed it untasted in the trash.
“You keep trying to pin this on Captain Madrid and your career really will combust,” I kidded.
“Not to worry.” He smiled. “Let’s go kick the Bitch Queen’s ass.”
CHAPTER
14
Internal Affairs leased the top four floors of the six-story Bradbury Building. We walked past several private offices rented out to other businesses on the ground level. I saw a brass plaque on one of the doors that read:
MADRID & SLOCUM
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
DISCREET INQUIRIES
I pointed at the door as we walked by. “Lester Madrid has his office here?”
“Yeah, didn’t you know that?”
“No. I thought he was on Moorpark in the Valley.”
“You obviously haven’t been getting enough one-eighty-one complaints recently. He’s been renting here for almost two years.”
“That must be convenient for Stephanie,” I said.
Retired LAPD sergeant Lester Madrid was an ex-gunfighter from our old SIS squad who was married to Capt. Stephanie Madrid.
Les had been involved with the Special Investigation Section back when it became famous for being an assassination squad. Ten years ago SIS had an unusual operating agenda. The unit would target predicate felons, a classification the department used for criminals we determined to be irredeemable. These were violent men who were so committed to a life of crime that no amount of incarceration or psychiatric resourcing could ever make a difference.
An SIS surveillance team would wait for these guys to come out of prison, set up on them, and follow them around. The good thing about this type of felon was, it didn’t take too long for them to start piling up parole violations, often meeting up with old ex-con buddies or buying cold guns off some dirtbag street vendor.
SIS would not arrest the target for any of these transgressions. Instead, they would sit back and wait. Patience was a mighty ally in their line of work, and before long the felon and his newly formed crew of degenerate shooters would decide to take something off, a market or a bank. SIS would be waiting outside when the criminals came running out. It was then that the SIS surveillance team would attempt to initiate their arrest. These arrests tended to end in shoot-outs, and most of the time the predicate felon and his criminal buddies failed to survive the inevitable gunfight that ensued. The operative theory in the unit was a dead asshole never beat his case on a technicality.
However, the unit’s violent record drew a lot of criticism, and many L.A. Times editorials had been written. SIS was under so much scrutiny that the chief reconstituted the unit and it now had a very stringent set of guidelines.
As a human being, I had often found myself troubled by the methodology of SIS. But as a cop, I had cheered. This unit took down violent offenders. Their brand of street justice often ended with a brass verdict. The appellate court was in heaven.
Lester Madrid had been one of the team leaders on the old SIS and had been singled out for a lot of scrutiny when the heat was on. Les was one of those tall, Clint Eastwood–looking ass-kickers with a buzz cut and a mile of jaw. He never smiled. Sergeant Madrid had managed to survive the SIS IA investigations only to accidentally discharge his weapon in the locker room a few months later, putting a 9mm slug into his lower leg and blowing apart his femur. He now walked with a cane.
After the locker-room accident, Les Madrid took medical retirement and became a private investigator. That is how this legendary LAPD gunfighter ended up doing discreet inquiries. His PI practice mostly consisted of investigating reality show contestants, to make sure “The Bachelor” didn’t have an unprosecuted felony rape in his past or “The Millionaire” wasn’t bouncing checks.
I occasionally still saw Madrid at police functions with his wife, who was also a non-smiler. He’d be standing in some corner, leaning on his cane, clocking the room with eyes like stones.
Hitch and I took the elevator to the fourth
floor where the Advocates Section was located. The doors opened and we walked out and stood next to the large mahogany handrail that capped a beautiful black wrought-iron balustrade, which ran around the perimeter of the six-story open promenade. From all six floors you could look up to the leaded-glass ceiling above or down through the open atrium to the marble floors of the lobby below. The Bradbury Building didn’t look like it belonged in Los Angeles. It looked like it should have been in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
Hitch and I took a moment outside the Advocates Section to agree on our interview technique.
“I’ll take point,” I said. “If you think of anything, jump in.”
“Got it.” He smiled ruefully at me. “First Lita Mendez, then Nix Nash, and now Stephanie Madrid. Who’s next, Fenrir?”
“Who the hell is Fenrir?”
“Famous Norse monster known as the ‘World-Destroying Wolf.’”
God knows where he comes up with this stuff.
“Just follow my lead,” I said.
We walked inside the office, gave our names, and were informed by her terrified male adjunct that Captain Madrid kept her appointments short, with only fifteen minutes allotted to each.
Ten minutes later the adjunct led us through a door into a very small outer office with one window looking out on the Dumpsters in the alley. I certainly didn’t want to be here. I would have loved any reason to escape and attend to easier police business downstairs. Where was Lord Ding Wallace when you really needed him?
From there, we were shown into the chief advocate’s spacious office. Captain Madrid rose to meet us.
She was fifty-five, short and abrupt, with absolutely no overtly feminine qualities. Her ash-brown hair was cropped short in a kind of pageboy helmet. She wore almost no makeup, no jewelry, and had a stocky but muscular athletic frame. I’d seen her a few times working out on the track at the Police Academy field. She was a choppy, earnest runner. Pugnacious face, pushed out over hard-pumping arms and pistoning legs. She’d be chugging the oval, relentlessly eating up the miles on our new graphite track. I wondered if she and Lester ever did the nasty and, if they did, who got to be on top.
Vigilante Page 7
