by Steve Garcia
Reyes tapped the name into the car’s computer, but the search came up blank. “There’s a Dukwon Duke and Dyana Dukes, but no Dwayne.”
“Figures.”
Wallace turned right on to Lemon Grove Avenue. The neighborhood had a little bit of this and a little bit of that. A dry cleaner, a limo company, a storefront psychic named Madame Geraldine, followed by gorgeous older homes, many apparently turned into condos or apartments.
They managed to find on-street parking two doors down from Pearl’s apartment house. Reyes called in. “This is Adam Six Nineteen. We’re code six at five-five-five-three Lemon Grove.”
“Roger, Adam Six Nineteen,” the dispatcher replied.
A white male, thirtyish, wearing a long-sleeve striped shirt and slacks stood with his arms folded in front of the building. He stared at the police car but didn’t budge. “It’s nice to be wanted,” Reyes said, pulling the door handle and climbing out of the car.
“He doesn’t look all that happy,” said Wallace.
The apartment building was on a bit of an incline, maybe ten or fifteen feet higher than the street. Concrete steps led to an elevated sidewalk, which continued to the stairs that then led to the porch and the front door.
Wallace stopped about halfway to the building and looked it over. Reyes went up the steps that led to the porch. He heard Wallace call out from several feet behind him.
“Are you the manager?”
“Yes. You’re the police?”
Reyes showed his ID. “I’m Detective Reyes. My partner back there is Detective Wallace. And you are?”
“I’m Josh Christie. I’ve called the owners and they are furious. They want to know when they can get access to the apartment in question.”
“We’ll see what we can do once we’ve had a look inside.”
“What do you call the style of the building?” Wallace asked.
Christie’s forehead creased in a frown. “The style? It’s…er…French Normandy.”
“It’s painted an interesting shade of green.” Wallace looked at the building. “What do you call it?”
“What the hell? Are you a cop or a decorator?”
Reyes stood on the top step staring up at the manager. “She’s a cop. And she wants to know what color of green that is.”
“Myrtle. It’s myrtle. The trim is oyster.”
“There. See how easy that was?” Reyes stepped onto the wooden porch. “Do you want to show us Mr. Pearl’s apartment?”
“This Bart Pearl—he is the one whose body was found in that fire last night, isn’t he?”
“He’s the one.”
“The owners want to know how long before they can clear his stuff out. They’re losing a great deal of money since he obviously won’t be paying rent any longer.”
Reyes stared at the young man. Pearl was shot and barbecued and this prick was worried about rent. “Maybe you should show us the apartment.”
“It’s an absolute disaster. Once you’re done, it will take several days before we can get it back to a satisfactory state.”
Reyes looked back at Wallace, who smiled and nodded. Another day, another dickhead.
Christie led them down the hall to apartment D. He opened the door and stepped aside. The place had been completely ransacked.
“Have you touched anything?” asked Reyes.
Christie shook his head.
“You sure?”
“I had a little walk through,” Christie admitted. “Just to make sure no one was in here. You know?”
“Oh, I know,” said Reyes. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slowly moved into the room. “Someone was looking for something beside loose change or a TV set.”
“I’m not a cop, but I’m pretty sure that they came in through that window.” Christie pointed to the open window in the kitchen. “I think they broke in to vandalize the place. It looks like wanton destruction simply for the sake of it.”
“You’re right.”
“I am?” Christie said.
“Yeah. You’re not a cop. If you could wait here in the hall while we look around, that would be a good thing.”
“But—”
“Do you have any security in this place?” Reyes asked.
“We have a security camera and a concierge on duty twenty-four hours a day.”
“Really?” Wallace asked. “I bet the tenants appreciate that.”
“They seem to, although this situation isn’t going to help them feel any better.”
“Has Pearl been back recently?” said Reyes, steering his partner back to the scene.
“I hadn’t seen him for a few months. We knew he was inside, but the rent was still being paid. Then the concierge saw him yesterday.”
“Why don’t you go and find the tapes that correspond to that visit?” Reyes paused. “Oh, and we’d like to talk to the dude on the desk, too.”
“Concierge,” Christie said as he was backed into the hall by the firm hand of Wallace pressing on his chest. She closed the door.
Under the rubble and ignoring the damage, the apartment was a classy place. Hardwood floors. Cove ceilings with fans. Leaded-glass windows in the kitchen.
“I could see myself living in a place like this,” Wallace said.
“You looking to move?” Reyes asked. “I think there’s a vacancy.”
Wallace laughed. “I don’t think I could handle Josh every day.”
Reyes continued picking things up and dropping them again. Pillows were sliced open. Every painting was off the wall. The sofa had been turned over, and the fabric covering the bottom was ripped off. “Thorough,” Reyes said.
“That’s an understatement,” said Wallace.
Reyes stepped over a floor lamp into the kitchen. Top to bottom, it was a chef’s dream. Inset lighting. Over-the-counter lighting. Plenty of counter space. Brushed aluminum appliances. Lots of cabinets.
All the cabinets had been emptied by the intruder. Fortunately Pearl hadn’t stocked up on much in the way of food. A couple of cans of soup. A box of chocolate chip cookies. Several microwavable meals-for-one. The fridge and freezer contained only a couple of beers and a quart of milk way past its use-by date.
While Wallace checked the food in the door of the refrigerator, Reyes poked a box of Rice Krispies that lay open and partially spilled on to the counter. He picked up the blue box. Another half cup of popped rice poured out of the box and hit the counter like hail, followed by a thump. “What do we have here?” He picked up a small cellophane bag filled with white powder. “Coke anyone?”
“Hardly enough to rip the joint apart for. Or to kill for.”
“There might have been more. Maybe they found the other bags.”
“Let’s check the rest of the place.”
Room by room, Reyes and Wallace searched through the wreckage. Wallace rapped on the glass of one of the back bedrooms. “This room would be perfect for a study.”
Reyes shook his head. What is with her today?
“You check the bathroom. I’ll do the master bedroom.”
An overturned mattress presented a major hurdle. Reyes tugged it flat, half expecting to find a pool of blood underneath. Nothing. The drawers were out of the dresser, the closet turned inside out, and the contents of both were on the floor.
“Anything?” Wallace shouted from the bathroom.
“Nada. How about you?”
“Nothing. I don’t think our boy met his end here. No kidding though, I like the apartment. They have tumbled marble tile in the bathroom. This gray-green is lovely.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Phil?” Reyes said, putting his head around the bathroom door. “You always have a keen eye for the crime scene but this is a little strange. You seriously thinking of getting a new place?”
Wallace stood with her feet firmly planted on a stack of crumpled towels. “You know how things are. Some days are better than others.�
�
Reyes nodded. “You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know. Things are kind of crappy, is all.”
“I can imagine. Having just one cop in the family makes things rough. Having two, well…” He waited but Wallace said nothing. “Whatever is going on right now can’t be helping things. I’d say wait until you and he both can wrap up your investigations and then see how you feel. Maybe whatever he’s looking at is bothering him and…”
“Crooked cops, Sal.”
“What?” Reyes quickly digested the revelation. “Oh shit. Not Brooks and Cresner?”
“I don’t know.”
Reyes dusted off his hands. “I’m not sure what I can ask.”
“Nothing. David told me nothing else.”
A voice called from the front of the apartment. “Hello?”
“Back here,” Reyes said.
A man in his early fifties, pudgy, wearing a gray pinstripe off-the-rack suit, stepped into the hallway. “Are you the two police officers investigating the break-in?”
“That would be us,” Wallace said. She showed her ID. “That’s Detective Reyes.”
“Mr. Christie said you wanted to see me. My name is Bob Schaefer. I’m the concierge.”
“We’d like to ask you—”
“Oh, and some of our other tenants knew about the break-in.”
“Somebody knew about it?” Reyes asked.
“No. Sorry. I said that wrong. I asked around the building. Only the tenants from one other apartment heard or saw anything. I figured you would want to speak with them, so I brought them along.”
“You did?”
“They’re in the hallway. Would you like to talk to them?”
“Yes,” said Wallace. “I think we would. Could you wait until we finish with them?”
“Of course. Mr. Christie is on the desk so I’m in no hurry. Let him see how hard I work.”
An elderly couple, long past retirement age, stood proudly together in the hall. She was dressed in a simple housecoat. His brown slacks were held up by suspenders.
“This is Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp,” said Schaefer. He pointed to the next door along in the hall. “They’re the tenants from apartment C.”
Wallace introduced herself and Reyes for the third time in half an hour.
“Could you tell me what you heard or saw yesterday as it regards this apartment’s tenant?” asked Reyes.
“What’d he say?” Mr. Beauchamp asked.
“He wants to know what we heard yesterday,” Mrs. Beauchamp said.
“Why don’t you tell them, Julianne,” Mr. Beauchamp said. He continued to smile at Reyes and Wallace. “You see officers, my hearing isn’t so good anymore.”
“All right, why don’t you tell us then, Mrs. Beauchamp?”
“It was eight o’clock. I remember because that’s when Wilson—Mr. Beauchamp”—she pointed a shaky finger at her husband—“needs to take his medication. Every night at exactly eight, we have dessert, tea, and Wilson takes his pills.”
“And last night was no different than any other night of your lives, right?” Wallace asked.
“That’s correct. We heard the tea kettle whistle at five minutes to. I had finished setting up the tray and was on my way back to the dining room—we were playing Scrabble, you know—and there arose such a ruckus next door, I nearly dropped everything.”
“Go on,” Wallace said.
“That’s all there is. Sometimes it was thump-thump,” she said, making her face into a frown and stomping on the floor. “Sometimes it sounded like glass breaking. That bothered me, of course, but then things would get quiet again.”
“How long did the noise go on?” Reyes asked.
“I’m not sure, but I would say that the last significant sound I heard probably was around 8:40.”
And the last significant sound Mr. Beauchamp heard was about thirty years ago, Reyes thought.
“Very good,” Wallace said. “Was there anything else you heard or maybe saw?”
“That was all,” Mrs. Beauchamp said. She turned to Mr. Beauchamp. “That was all, wasn’t it, dear?”
“What? Oh, yes. That’s right.” He nodded, looked at Reyes and Wallace. “Two hundred and forty to one hundred and ninety-seven.”
“Pardon me?” Reyes said.
“She won.” Mr. Beauchamp nodded at his wife.
“He thought you asked what the score of our Scrabble game was,” Mrs. Beauchamp explained. “His hearing, you know. It’s not too good.”
Reyes smiled. “Right. I remember that. Thank you both for coming forward.”
“Our pleasure,” she said. “We heard what happened to the poor man who lived here. That Mr. Pearl. It was all over the morning news.”
“It was horrible,” Mr. Beauchamp said.
I wonder if he means Pearl’s death or his losing the Scrabble game, Reyes thought.
The Beauchamps left. Schaefer looked at Reyes and Wallace. “I assume it’s my turn in the barrel, huh?”
“More or less,” Reyes said. “And there any security tapes?”
“Only in the lobby—it covers the desk and front door.”
“Is there another way in?”
“The garage entrance, used by maintenance, and also a door from the car park.”
“I’ve told your boss we’d like to check the tapes anyway,” said Reyes. “And you were on duty yesterday, Mr. Schaefer?”
“Yes, sir, from eight till eight.”
“Could you tell us what you saw or heard of Bartholomew Pearl?” asked Reyes.
“I was out on the porch enjoying a coffee break. Can’t smoke inside you know, and I can’t leave security post one, as I like to call it, the front desk. Well, who comes up but Mr. Pearl. Kind of sneaky like. He asked if there had been anybody around looking for him. I said no. Then he says can I open up the underground maintenance garage door.”
“Underground?” Reyes asked.
“It’s for our equipment. Lawn care stuff. We have a golf cart in there in case any of our guests are incapacitated. That sort of thing.”
“Did you let him in?”
“No. That area is for staff only. Besides, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t leave my post to unlock it for him. I’d be fired in a heartbeat.”
“People usually didn’t ask to do that kind of thing?”
“No. And it was doubly strange, because he came through the front door.”
“And why’s that unusual?” said Wallace.
“Residents’ parking is at the rear,” said Schaefer. “Normally tenants come in through the back door.”
“So Pearl was on foot?” said Reyes.
“As far as I could tell,” Schaefer said. “When I told him I couldn’t let him in, he stormed off. He seemed, oh, I don’t know, kind of pissed off. Or nervous? But to tell the truth, he was always that way. Agitated, I mean. I’d heard he was locked up on a shooting charge.”
Reyes ignored the hint of a question in Schaefer’s words. “What time did Pearl show up?”
“It was during my coffee break so it had to be right around ten.”
“Thanks. If we need you, we know where to find you.”
Schaefer shuffled away, appearing none too eager to return to work.
Wallace paused in the hallway. “What’s up, Phil? You want to check the tape?”
“No, let a unit do it. I’d like to get a look at Simons’s desk calendar again. I noted only two of the entries. Duke at seven in the morning and dinner at seven in the evening. It was at that new French place I was telling you about.”
“Oh yeah. Le Cochon qui Vole.” The kind of place my ex would eat at.
“That’s the one. We need to find out who was coming to dinner and whether they all showed up. Then we have to find out who those other people were on his calendar, and track down Dwayne Duke, if indeed that is the person we’re looking for.”
“Shouldn’t we stick
to the arson murder,” said Reyes. “It’s not like we need more work.”
“Okay, then tell me how we’re supposed to investigate Pearl’s murder? You know it overlaps with Simons’s suicide—if it was a suicide—and if it doesn’t get covered up.”
“Okay, come on, spill it. You know something.”
“I promised David I wouldn’t tell anyone, so this has to be between us, okay?”
“Sure.”
Wallace leant back against the wall, her shoulders slumped. “FID’s investigation is focusing on two areas of concern—Wilshire and us. David told me it was about taking confiscated guns and selling them, but I think there’s more. That shit with Cresner wasn’t about guns. He was asking about Simons’s and Pearl. There’s something else and it’s dirty and deep. It’s fucked up. We have to get past the FID troops and get some info out of that crime scene.”
“Damn, Phil. We’re going to walk on razor blades if we push into the Simons’s investigation.”
“Who do we know at the DA’s office who can tell us why Pearl was out of jail in the first place?”
“Washington?”
“Great. Call him and see what he can tell you.”
Reyes pulled out his cell phone and called Darryl Washington.
“Hey, Darryl. It’s Sal Reyes. How you been?”
“Good. Busy as hell.”
“Well, then, I won’t take much of your time. I was wondering if you can you do me a favor? I’m working a couple of cases and I need some information on a con by the name of Bart Pearl—”
“Hold it. Sorry. Pearl’s files are sealed. Only FID and the DA’s office have access until further notice.”
“I don’t want his file. I only need…”
“Dude. Off limits.”
“Okay. Okay. Who authorized the lock-down?”
“Barclay-Jones. You see my problem here, right?”
“Yeah. I understand. No sweat. See you around.”
Reyes passed the information, such as it was, to Wallace
“The DA’s office?” she asked.
“Yup. Sounds like the offer of support Barclay-Jones promised is no longer there.”
“If you can’t get it from Washington and we can’t get it from the DA’s office, we aren’t going to get it from anybody else in that chain of command.”
