by Steve Garcia
He shook his head. “I have no idea. None.” He index and middle finger pressed against his lips. “Damn. Did you want me to see if I can identify the person?”
“We’ve already moved the remains,” Reyes said. “Not that it would have done much good. You understand?”
“Oh. Right.”
“Could you tell us where you were this afternoon? Say from twelve on?”
“Me? I’m one of the victims and you cops try to make me the bad guy? Unbelievable. Fine. I think I can fill in the blanks. I had lunch at the Italian place near my office in WeHo. It’s called The Rubicon, on North Crescent Heights.” He paused, snapped his fingers, and said, “Oh yeah, I know. I stopped and bought a pack of Rolaids at Arnies. A block over from the restaurant. Then I went back to the office. I was there until around four. Then I went home.”
“Did you have lunch with anybody who could confirm that you were at this restaurant?” Reyes asked.
“The owner, Mario Bertelli is his name. He’s an old friend. He sat with me for a while.”
“I assume there were people in your office who will testify to your presence?”
“My secretary sits about ten feet away. She’ll tell you.”
“How about at home?”
“My wife.”
“I bet your dog was there too.”
“My dog? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you seem to be surrounded by a lot of loyal friends, Mr. Giordano. How fortunate for you. You can go now.” Reyes was hoping that the hint of disbelief would bring an exaggerated response—one that might accidentally reveal more than Giordano wanted. He refused the bait.
“Yeah. Maybe I will go home now. It doesn’t look like I can do much here.”
“Not tonight. It’s officially a crime scene now, I’m afraid. We’re looking at arson. Maybe murder. Hopefully we’ll be able to let you rummage around some time tomorrow, but I can’t promise.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll go, then.” He backed away a few steps. “You go check Davey out. That’s who did this.”
They watched him drive off. Reyes looked at Wallace. “I’m sorry, but I gotta say it.”
Wallace looked confused. “Say what?”
“Elvis has left the building.”
5
Wallace was hungry and tired but she was home. She stepped inside the front door and kicked off her shoes. “Oooh. That feels so good I feel guilty not paying for the pleasure.” Her ankle was still sore but didn’t look swollen. If she kept it elevated, it would be fine by morning.
“David?” she called softly. No answer. Maybe he’s gone to bed already.
She took her suit jacket off and threw it over a hook on the tree. Quietly, she moved down the hall toward their bedroom. Phil sure as hell didn’t want to wake David if he had managed to fall asleep. He had been in a foul mood lately and said it was due to lack of sleep. Most mornings she’d wake to discover that his side of the bed was empty, and she’d find him sprawled on the couch or the recliner with the television on. When she asked him what was wrong, he blew her off with a litany of excuses. Headache. Dinner didn’t settle well. Too hot. She didn’t think it was any of those things. For a while she wondered if it might be another woman, but there weren’t any signs of that, either. Whatever it was, she couldn’t put a finger on it and that bugged the hell out of her.
There was a light coming from under the door of the office. They had planned on making it the baby’s room at one time, but after a while, it had become their home office. That was twenty years ago and, in Wallace’s opinion, that was part of the trouble they were having. But David’s problems seemed more recent, more intense. She pressed her ear against the door. No noise. Maybe he had fallen asleep using the computer.
As quietly as she could, she turned the knob and opened the door. David was awake and furiously reading the open page on his laptop. His hand cupped the mouse and scrolled down the page. David reached for a tablet and made a note and when he did, Phil caught a glimpse of some kind of spreadsheet. Then he spotted her standing silently in the doorway.
“Holy…” David said, with a start. “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep. What are you doing?”
David turned to the computer and minimized the window. “Nothing. I’m catching up on some shit for work is all.”
“FID has you taking work home now?” She stared at her husband. He appeared confused. No, no, not confused. He looked in pain.
“It’s nothing. The major asked me to lend him a hand cleaning up some stuff.”
“Really?”
“What’s that mean? Don’t you trust me?”
“Hey, what’s the matter with you? Of course I trust you. I was only asking.”
David’s chin dropped to his chest. Slowly, he raised his head with a look of sad frustration. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”
“Okay, it’s nothing. Let’s change the subject. What did you have for dinner?”
“I stopped and got a crab roll on the way home.”
“Swell.”
“Want me to run out and get you something?”
“No. You go ahead doing ‘nothing.’ I’m going to go scrounge up something to eat and watch a little TV.”
Phil stepped from the room and closed the door behind her. She tried to picture what had been revealed during her brief glimpse of the computer screen.
Phil poured enough water for a single cup of coffee into her coffee machine and switched it on. She heard the familiar gurgle as it started heating the water. While it brewed, she took out some peach yogurt, dropped a handful of granola into it, and headed for the living room. She found the remote on the table next to David’s chair. The couch seemed to be the most inviting space to rest, to stretch, and to put her tired feet up. She sat, sighed, and took a spoonful of what was passing for dinner that night. Mindlessly, she began flipping through the channels.
What in the hell could be so damned important about a spreadsheet that David would want to hide it from me? Was that really force investigation work?
The ten o’clock news was on, and they were covering the fire. Standard stuff. A reporter—Muffet McKnight—with the fire behind her. Back to you, Celeste. Wallace chuckled a little. The media must have shown up when the fire was at its zenith. They came, got their shots, did an interview with Hastings, then left once the building fell in on itself. By the time Wallace had arrived, they were all off in search of other tragedies, except for that newbie from Fox. She’d been lucky not having to wade through that school of piranhas.
Wallace finished her yogurt while the news anchor droned on about obese children, a gun brought to a local elementary school, and the governor promising to lower taxes if he was re-elected. She returned to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, grabbed two Oreos from the cookie jar, and went back to the couch.
She clicked “up” on the remote and saw Humphrey Bogart’s handsome face. The Classic Movie Channel was her secret guilty pleasure and Casablanca was at the top of her list of favorites.
“Monsieur Rick, what kind of a man is Captain Renault?”
“Oh, he’s just like any other man, only more so.”
Wallace heard the door to the study open. She turned slightly and watched David disappear down the hall. The light from the bathroom was followed by the sound of the door closing. Instinct took over. She stood, put her coffee and second cookie on the table, and hobbled hurriedly down the hall. She peeked into the study. The laptop sat open.
She stood in the doorway, torn between curiosity and a vow. “David?”
“In the bathroom.”
“If you’re done working for tonight, Casablanca’s on.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
Wallace took a last look at the screen. What am I doing here? She trusted David, didn’t she?
She returned to Bogie. A few minutes pas
sed and David entered the room, carrying his laptop. He sat in his chair and opened his computer. He clicked a few buttons and the glow reflected on his face.
“Can you mute that, please?”
She pushed mute and dropped the remote on the couch next to her. “What’s up?”
“Look, things might get a little rough in the coming days. I’m not supposed to be letting this out to anyone but…”
“Don’t you think you can trust me?”
“It’s not my doing. I’ve been ordered to keep this investigation quiet but…”
“But what? Come on. You know I’m not big on melodrama. Could you cut to the chase and tell me what’s on your mind?”
He stared at her as if, perhaps, he was reconsidering what he had said.
“Look, if you don’t want to tell me, don’t. Me and Bogie got a thing going on.”
David said nothing. Phil reached for the remote.
“The district attorney thinks we have a bad cop or two in the department.”
Wallace swallowed hard and withdrew her hand. “What? Why do they think that?”
“I can’t tell you everything yet, but this investigation has been going on for months. Now the pressure is on to wrap it up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? You’ve had investigations in the past and you’ve always shared them with me.” Wallace paused, her head tilted slightly back. Her eyes focused on the slowly turning overhead fan. “Aw shit!” She paused. “You think something’s rotten in the Hollywood, don’t you?”
“And Wilshire.”
“Who?”
David shook his head.
“What, then? Can you tell me what the cops did?”
“The district attorney thinks someone is dealing in stolen weapons.”
“Guns?”
“Pieces the police confiscated and scheduled for destruction are showing up on the street. Look, I’ve probably said way more than I should have. I didn’t want you getting caught flat-footed on this. It’s been tearing me up. I didn’t know what the hell to do. Soon we’re gonna have to come out with this and your buddies are going to wonder which side you’re on.”
“Which side I’m on? So you’re saying that some of the cops they’re looking at are in my squad? My detective squad?”
“I can’t say. I could be in deep shit if word gets out on this before we move. You have to keep it to yourself.”
She gave him one of those looks but David closed his computer. “I shouldn’t have told you. They specifically said not to tell you. But I couldn’t…” He looked at her with the sad eyes of a puppy that had pissed on the carpet.
“Don’t let it worry you. I won’t let it leak, I promise.”
“Thanks. I’m really tired. Do you want to go to bed?”
“You go ahead. I’ve had a rough one today myself. I’m going to unwind a little with Bogie before I hit the sack.”
“Fair enough,” David said. He rose and crossed the room. He stopped momentarily and looked at her. “I love you.”
Phil nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”
David smiled weakly. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Wallace waited until she heard the bedroom door close. Selling guns? Who the hell would be stupid enough to do something like that? She dunked her Oreo into the lukewarm coffee. Wagner? Had that dumb idiot gotten himself involved in something stupid? No. Not likely. He was a pain in the ass sometimes, but he was honest. Shit.
I was probably better off not knowing. What’s that old saying? A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
Phil clicked the volume. She mouthed the dialogue along with Bogie.
“I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray; you wore blue.”
She sipped her coffee, wishing she was at the bar in Rick’s Américain instead of sitting here worrying about David and his damned investigation. No one on the squad would do anything crooked. She was sure.
Ninety-nine percent.
Wallace finished her Oreo and washed it down with another sip. In a few minutes she was back in Casablanca with Bogie and Bergman where nothing made sense, and yet, everything seemed perfectly logical.
6
“Everybody can relax, I’m here,” Wagner said. Kahn looked up and saw his partner at the door, holding up a grease-stained sack. “Anybody want a doughnut?”
“Where they from?” shouted Albanese.
“What the hell difference does that make?”
“If they’re from Stan’s, I’ll take one.”
“Well, they ain’t from Stan’s. You want one anyway?”
“Got a gooseberry filled?”
“I’ll take that as a no. Gooseberry? Christ.” Wagner walked down the center aisle of the Pit. “Anyone, anyone? Where are Phil and our Mexican friend?”
“They wanted to catch a suspect early,” said Coombs.
Wagner reached Kahn’s cubicle and stuck the bag over the wall. “Doughnut, partner? Sorry I couldn’t find one that Angie would approve of but they didn’t have any low-fat, no-sugar, tofu ones. Go figure, huh?”
“Jesus, Harlen,” Kahn said. “You look like you slept in a pile of donkey shit.”
Wagner was unshaven. His tie was tangled and there were stains on his shirt collar. It was a pretty sad display and that was only the parts Kahn could see. “We’ve got a little morning duty to perform.”
Wagner stepped around and took a seat next to Kahn’s desk. He took out a plain cake doughnut, showed it to Kahn, and took a bite. “Gotta soak up the beer.” He slapped his stomach. “I’m probably going to need a dozen of ’em.”
“You didn’t make it home last night, I assume.”
Wagner brushed a few crumbs from his tie and shirt. “I made it to somebody’s home. I just can’t remember whose.”
“You can fill me in some other time. Seeing as it’s eight twenty, I started work without you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Pussywhipped.”
“What?”
“Angie is turning you into a eunuch. So I’m twenty minutes late. Big fucking deal. You’re as bad as Albanese with his fuckin’ gooseberry doughnut shit, except he doesn’t have a woman to blame it on.”
“Moving right along. I got a call from Ren Takata over at narcotics about twenty minutes ago. Do you remember the Tarántula Azul Airlines drug bust?
“Sort of.” A spray of partially chewed doughnut spewed over the desk. “I’m a little foggy this morning.” Wagner crimped the top of the doughnut sack and dropped it on Kahn’s desk. “Weren’t the guys in charge of that airline running a narcotics smuggling ring? They were bringing the drugs in on their own planes.”
“Right. Narcotics swept up most everyone from the airline’s LAX offices. They didn’t do quite as well in the South American or Mexican units, but they got some of those guys, too. In the final tally, they got enough of the players to cripple the operation.”
“Okay, so what’s up?” Wagner picked up the photograph of Kahn’s fiancée with his greasy fingers. Kahn reached over, took the photo, and placed it back on the desk.
“When their raid went down, they missed one of their main targets. The ex-gang lord Jesus Santana.”
“I remember that shithead,” said Wagner. “He was like the king of some Hispanic gang in LA.”
“Yeah, El Cuervos to be exact. The Crows. Nasty group. He worked out quite an arrangement. He had several Latino gangs buying the Tarántula Azul drugs from him.”
“Didn’t he get the hell out of Dodge two steps ahead of the hounds?”
“He headed to Mexico at the first sign of trouble. However, Takata said someone spotted him at his mother’s house in South LA yesterday.”
“South LA?” said Wagner. “Goddamn it, Don, are you getting PC now on top of everything else? Come on partner, call a pig a pig.”
“Okay, okay. South Central. That better?”
“It is what it is.”
“I
n any case, Santana’s got a sheet as long as your arm, including an outstanding murder charge from two thousand five. Narcotics is asking for an assist on this one.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Give me two minutes to refill my cup and I’ll meet you at the car.”
Kahn grabbed a few notes off of his desk and headed for the car. He climbed in, started it up, then glanced at his notes for the proper spelling of Santana’s mother’s name. As he typed “Santana, Esmerelda” into the computer, Wagner joined him.
“Hey, partner,” Wagner said. He put his travel mug into the cup holder, buckled his seat belt, and immediately lit a cigarette. “Let’s do it.” He offered the pack to Kahn.
Kahn lit up as he pulled out of the division’s parking lot and headed south on Wilcox to Sunset.
“What part of paradise are we headed to?”
“Right in the middle of Inglewood.” He checked the computer screen. “South Le Brea to be exact. We should be there about nine thirty.” Kahn flipped his ash out the window as he turned south on Highland. “So, what did Blaylock have to say about you hitting on his rookie?”
“That was such bullshit. I think he’s getting some of that. She was fine with everything and then she saw Blaylock and she went all ape shit on me.”
“How much trouble are you in?”
“None. Everything’s cool.”
Wagner spun the computer and typed in “Santana, Jesus.” His file appeared on the screen. He clicked “Photo” and a four-by-five JPEG popped up. The headshot of a young man filled the screen. “Hell, he actually isn’t bad looking. Only twenty-nine.”
“He didn’t strike me as your type. I mean, you do know he’s a Mexican, right?”
“Up yours. I figured he would have a pockmarked face and greasy hair. Shit like that. He looks kind of respectable.”
“Except he pushes drugs and isn’t picky about who he pulls the trigger on.”
“Hey, all I’m saying is that he ain’t ugly, okay?”
Traffic slowed for a bus–motorcycle accident at Melrose and Highland. A few bystanders were taking pictures with their cell phones while the police systematically funneled traffic around the broken parts. The EMTs worked frantically as they moved the rider toward the ambulance. Poor bastard.
