by Steve Garcia
Kahn gripped the wheel at the ten and two position and stared at the speedometer. “I know you don’t like Angie.”
Wagner’s body jerked around. “What? That’s not true. She’s got a nice ass and all, but you’ll never convince me that tofu is a food. But I don’t have to eat that shit. You do. If that’s good enough for you, then go for it.”
“I’m having trouble adjusting to the food rules myself,” said Kahn, keeping his eyes on the road. “I still think it’s worth it, though.”
“So you’re happy without meat and cigarettes?”
“I still cheat.” He held up his cigarette.
“And what about chasing women and getting drunk? Take last night, for instance—”
“That was getting old,” Kahn said, cutting off Wagner’s tale of conquest. “I really don’t miss either, most of the time anyway.”
Wagner shrugged.
Kahn flipped his cigarette out of the window. “You’re still in as my best man, right?”
“Fuck, yes. Did you really think I’d back out because your bride-to-be doesn’t eat meat?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
The accident added almost twenty minutes to the drive time. Kahn slowed as he passed the address. He leaned over and eyed the house. One story, gray shingles. Detached one-car garage. No one visible. “See anything?”
“No. Mama must still live here, though. There’s a small veggie garden along the fence. Looked like lace curtains on the front window.”
Kahn pulled the car around the corner and stopped. He picked up the radio. “Adam Zero-Zero-Five. We are code six at seven twenty-one South Le Brea.”
“Ready?” Wagner grabbed the door handle and was out of the car.
Kahn stepped into the street, gave the neighborhood a once-over, and then joined Wagner.
“Front or back?”
“Let’s check around outside first.”
Wagner walked two steps ahead of him down the gravel driveway. Kahn felt as though they were being watched. He scanned the windows on the side of the house, looking for any sign of movement—the ruffle of a curtain, a shadow, the glint of a gun barrel. He wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he was before he had been shot. Nearly two months of desk duty had dulled his instincts, slowed his reflexes. He was rusty.
Voices.
Kahn stopped and looked at his partner. Wagner pointed toward the garage, signaled to move forward. Kahn nodded and, as silently as he could, walked to the left as Wagner moved right. There were six frosted windows in the garage door. Two were boarded up. No one was visible through the other four, despite there obviously being someone inside.
Each step he took in the driveway sounded as though he was crushing a hundred grasshoppers underfoot. Surely they could hear the noise inside the garage. Or was it because the blood was pounding in his skull that everything sounded more intense?
Calm down. It could be Santana’s mother in the garage getting a screwdriver.
Kahn rested his left shoulder against the front of the garage. Wagner assumed a mirrored position on the other side. He waved, and then gestured that he was going to lift the door while Kahn provided cover. Kahn nodded.
Wagner held up three fingers for the silent countdown. Three. Two.
The glass in the window closest to Wagner’s head exploded. A bullet whined its way past him carrying shards of broken glass with it and slammed into the house.
“Shit,” Wagner yelled, as he spun away and dove into the backyard.
“Police! Drop your weapons!” Kahn yelled.
Another shell tore through the door near Kahn’s groin. He stumbled back and around the side of the garage. He squeezed his radio mic. “This is three-oh-three. Shots fired. Requesting backup. Repeat. Three-oh-three reporting a nine-nine-niner.”
The door was thrown open and four men ran from the garage, howling, cursing, shouting. One waved a gun as they barreled down the driveway. He turned and fired. Kahn rolled back along the outside wall of the garage.
“Police!” Kahn yelled. He took aim on the last man, low, at the legs, but Wagner stumbled into his line of fire.
“Police, you sons of bitches. Stop!”
One man bolted to the left, one ran straight and entered an alley. Two more, including the gunman, headed right. Wagner gave chase to the guy in the alley.
Kahn reached the street, hesitated. No one was visible to the left, and to the right, only one man was still in sight. I guess he’s mine. Kahn called in again. “Three-oh-three. In foot pursuit of Hispanic male. White T. Jeans. Running west on Regent.”
He had covered only a block when a squad car pulled out, lights flashing, and took up the chase. Kahn stopped. He was puffing pretty bad. Out of shape. Besides, the squad was closer than he was. They could have him.
Kahn hurried back to catch up with his partner. He crushed the talk button on his radio. “Wagner, where you at? I’m entering the alley now.”
“Block and a half down the alley moving south,” Wagner said. “I had him for a second but the little greaser got away.”
“You still have a visual?”
“He’s here somewhere. I think he’s in the backyard of this house.”
Kahn ran down the alley. He saw a white object fly from the left and strike Wagner, who only had enough time to put up his right arm to deflect it. A flowerpot. Dirt, glass, and flowers exploded across the road.
“Goddamn it!” he screamed, staggered back, and fell to the street. “Motherfucker!”
Kahn raced up in time to see a matching flowerpot come hurtling at Wagner from a back porch. This time he jumped aside. The pot shattered in the street, scattering begonias.
Wagner burst through the back gate and raced toward a young Latino man on the porch. The man jammed his hand into his jeans pocket.
“He’s going for a weapon!” Kahn shouted.
The Latino took two steps down the back stairs. Wagner launched himself into the man’s chest. They stumbled backward and toppled into the steps. Wagner was thrown off and the Latino rolled over and pushed himself with his right arm from the horizontal to a near-seated position. Kahn kicked his right forearm as hard as he could.
The arm snapped. “Santa María!” the man screamed. “Mi brazo! Mi brazo!”
Wagner gasped for air as he struggled for his cuffs. “Don’t…let him…get into…his pocket.”
“Don’t worry. I broke his fucking arm,” Kahn said. “You okay?”
Wagner rolled on to his back, pointed at his chest as he sucked in air. “Smoking…kills.”
“Take it easy. Everything’s cool.” Kahn reported the arrest of the suspect. “We have one of the four. He was injured resisting. Need an ambulance. We’re in the alley across from the South Le Brea address.”
“That ain’t Santana,” said Wagner, now on his haunches.
“No shit.”
Wagner held his ribs as he took a deep breath. “He matched the description.”
“They all matched the description.” Kahn squatted next to the groaning man and patted his front jean pockets. “What’s your name?”
“You broke my arm, motherfucker.”
Kahn stood over the fallen youth. “If you don’t tell me your name right now, I’m going to break the other.”
The young man’s tear-filled eyes widened. “Alejandro López.”
“Okay, don’t start crying now, tough guy,” Kahn said. “Who else was in the garage with you? I need names. Was one of them named Santana? Jesus Santana?”
López shook his head. “No sé.” He groaned and clutched his upper arm tighter as Kahn pulled a house key from López’s front pocket. “A key.” He held it up and showed Wagner.
Wagner squatted over him and frowned. “Come on, don’t try to be the hero. You guys shot at cops. You’re in a world of hurt. Help yourself out. Tell me who had the gun, ya dumb shit.”
“I don’t know!” he yelled. He stared through watery eyes at Wa
gner. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Get me an ambulance. You broke my arm.”
“I chased your ass down here, Alejandro, so that bullshit isn’t going to fly. Now, how about you tell me where you live?”
The suspect moaned. “Here. I live here. That’s my house key.”
“I’ll bet.” Wagner eased Kahn aside and rolled the man over. He screamed but Wagner didn’t stop until he had found the guy’s wallet.
“Okay, let’s see what this might tell us.” Wagner searched through the wallet for ID. “No driver’s license. No green card. Six bucks. I guess you’re not dealing. Oh, here’s something.” Wagner pulled out a photo ID, then rolled his eyes. “Crap.”
“What is it?” Kahn asked.
“Here.”
Kahn looked at the laminated ID. “Hey, Alejandro?”
López’s face was scrunched up in pain. “What?”
“This is a high school ID. Is this you?”
“Who the fuck do you think it is?”
“He’s fifteen. And he lives here.”
“Yup,” Wagner said. “And he sure as hell ain’t Santana.”
Kahn sighed. “The arrest report is going to be fun.”
Wagner nodded. He looked at his own arm, held it up for Kahn. There were several scratches and a good-sized red welt a few inches below his elbow. “And unfortunately, partner, it looks like my writing arm is going to be out of action for a few hours.”
7
Reyes parked the car in front of the Davey home on South Weverly. “Nice neighborhood. Near Wilshire, but quiet.”
Wallace checked in the wing mirror, her hand on the door. “Quiet at half past eight in the morning. Let’s go see how evil this Sam Davey really is.”
“How’s your ankle?”
“It’s fine.” She’d kept ice on it until the end of the movie and popped a couple of painkillers that morning. She looked at the Davey’s house. The background check they ran suggested Davey made serious money but the house, though large, was certainly not overwhelming. Unpretentious. Simple. Light-gray fieldstone. White trim. Small, neat yard. Very conservative.
Reyes rang the bell. A pale, small man with sandy hair opened the door. He was wearing a bathrobe. “Yes?”
Wallace held her ID out for him to see. “I’m Detective Wallace. This is Detective Reyes.”
“Ah. You’re the ones who called this morning. I’m Sam Davey. I was just about to throw on some clothes. Come in.” He stepped aside and gestured for them to enter.
Wallace and Reyes were shown into the living room. Neatly decorated with sturdy furniture from someplace like Sears.
“This is my wife, Janet,” Davey said.
Wallace looked over the attractive woman. She had short brown hair and wore designer jeans and a raspberry-colored three-quarter-length-sleeve shirt. Her wing chair—it had to be her chair that she stood in front of—was covered with a muted rose fabric. She wore a lot of gold jewelry. Wallace counted five bangles on her wrists and noted heavy, looped earrings. Cigarette smoke curled up from the ashtray. A glass of cola or iced tea sat on the end table on a ceramic coaster. Mrs. Davey nervously wrung her hands as she greeted the officers.
“Hello,” she said. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”
“Coffee if you have it,” Wallace said. “Thank you.”
“I’m good,” Reyes said.
“Excuse me,” Janet said, scurrying out of the room.
“Have a seat,” Davey said. He sat in a recliner. Wallace took out a notebook, dropped it onto the coffee table, and took a seat on the dark-brown sofa. Reyes stood off to the side studying the photographs and artwork hanging on the walls.
“Are these buildings here in the photos ones your company built?”
“Yes. Most of them. There are a couple of famous buildings, like the Empire State under construction.” Davey felt his robe pocket, looked to the chair where his wife had been seated. “Do you see a pack of cigarettes over there?”
“Yeah.” Reyes picked up a pack of Montclairs and handed them to Davey.
“Thanks. So, what can I do for you?” He lit his cigarette with a milk porcelain table lighter.
“Like I told you over the phone, there was a fire at the Green Cheese Entertainment building.”
“Damn shame, but why are you here?”
“Your company, that’s Sphinx Construction, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bid on the Green Cheese project?”
“I bid on phase two—the film set. I passed on the expansion project.”
“Why did you choose not bid to on that part of it?”
“For years my company focused on commercial construction. It’s still the major part of our business. However, a few years back, we began moving in a new direction, focusing on constructing film sets. We’re slowly building that division to be self-sufficient.”
“Really? So you would drop commercial construction all together?”
“We would keep our finger in the pie. Who knows what tomorrow might bring. Maybe these independent film companies all fold tomorrow. Then what? But for now, there’s money to be had.”
“Is there enough money there for you and your competitors?”
“It’s a booming business right now. See, in the old days in Hollywood, it used to be only the major studios that needed that kind of work done. But today, with all the new technology, almost anybody can make a picture. Those that get a few bucks together have sets built.”
“I didn’t know that,” Wallace said. “And you say there’s enough work there to keep your company in the black?”
“Let me tell you something. My family has been in the construction business here in LA for three generations. You survive by knowing the market and adapting to it.”
“Here’s the coffee,” Janet said, carrying in a tray.
The offer of a simple cup of coffee had turned into a performance. Mrs. Davey carried a silver coffeepot, creamer, and sugar bowl on a silver tray and set it on the table. She poured coffee for Wallace. “Cream, sugar, Sweet’N Low or hazelnut Cremora?”
Wallace declined. “Black is fine.”
Mrs. Davey put a small almond cookie on the edge of the saucer and handed it to her.
“Are you sure you won’t have something?” She smiled at Reyes while she prepared a cup for her husband.
“The coffee does smell good,” Reyes said. “Okay, sure. Just a splash of cream, please.” He took a seat on the sofa next to Wallace. Janet Davey poured another cup, added the cream, then put his cookie on the saucer and handed it to Reyes. She gave everything the once-over, smiled, then returned to her chair.
Wallace waited until Mrs. Davey was seated again. “Mr. Davey,” she said, “the fire at the Green Cheese Entertainment building was most likely arson. It’s very possible that we are looking at a homicide, as well.”
Perhaps anticipating the next question, the next comment, Davey stopped in midmotion of tapping his ash into the ashtray. He resumed sitting in an upright position, looked at Wallace, and said nothing. It was his wife who spoke up.
“Homicide?”
“Murder, Mrs. Davey,” Reyes said, helpfully, munching half of his cookie. “There was a body in the fire.”
“Oh, my!” she said.
“We spoke with a Sonny Giordano…” said Wallace.
Davey sat back and took a drag. “He’s a liar.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t even know what he said. It doesn’t matter. It’s a lie.”
“Giordano suggested that you were extremely angry about losing the bid and swore revenge.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Sonny Giordano and his brother-in-law have no class.”
“You didn’t threaten him?”
“No, sir. He’s full of it. Was I frustrated? Sure. Pearl Construction has been getting a lot of jobs lately that…” He stopped and sipped his coffee. “Well, let’s sa
y they’ve gotten more than we have.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t tell him that you’d ‘get him’?”
“Maybe I said that, but it’s like telling someone you’ll kill them when you’re mad. It’s a figure of speech, that’s all. You wouldn’t really kill them.”
Mrs. Davey squirmed in her chair.
“In other words, Giordano is overreacting?”
“Pearl Construction underbid me fair and square. That’s the way we do things. You win some, you lose some. I already told you, we’re doing fine. Plenty of work.”
“How do you feel about Mr. Giordano personally? You like him?”
“I’m not his friend, if that’s what you’re asking, but I don’t hold any grudges when it comes to business. You can’t afford to.”
“So there is no reason for you to want to burn down one of his sites?”
“Ha! What a laugh. Unlike Pearl, my family name means something in this town. Something good. Do you honestly believe I would risk everything we’ve built over all these years because I lost one construction job? Not likely.” He ground out his cigarette. “Besides, Sonny Giordano is hardly more than a hired hand—a manager. Bart Pearl is the owner. If I was going to have a grudge, don’t you think it would be with him?”
“Excuse me. I have to use the little girl’s room.” Mrs. Davey rose and walked around the coffee table toward the hallway.
Reyes started to rise but Mrs. Davey urged him not to. “No, please keep your seat. I’m sorry.” She glanced at her husband, then hurried out of the room.
“She’s a little nervous,” Davey said. “You don’t need her in here anyway, do you?”
“No. We came to see you. Why is she nervous?” Wallace asked.
“You know, police in the living room. It tends to unnerve some people.”
“It doesn’t bother you though, right?”
“Not at all.” He smiled. “What else would you like to know?”
“Actually,” Wallace said. “I was wondering if you would care to discuss some of the other run-ins you’ve had with Pearl in the past.”
