by Steve Garcia
“You two shared a cell until his release a yesterday. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” His gaze never locked on either detective but wandered all over, finally focusing on the tabletop where he scraped at something unseen by Reyes.
“Just you and Pearl?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything to you about his release?”
“Yes.”
The room was hot, with no air-con, and Reyes could feel the sweat pushing through his pores. “If you think this one-word answer shit is cute, you’re dead wrong. We can turn some screws and make your life inside a living hell.”
Ducker looked at Reyes for the first time. “If I tell you anything and the others find out, I’m a dead man. I ain’t blessed like Pearl was. I’ve got three new roommates since he got out.”
“No one is going to find out anything. We’re the only ones working this case. I’m not writing anything down. No record. Okay?”
“Get me ten packs of smokes at least.”
“Guaranteed. Now, tell me about Pearl. What did you mean that he was blessed?”
“You know—he had a guardian angel.”
“You’re saying he was protected?”
Ducker nodded. “So he said.”
“And you believed him?”
“Hey, I wasn’t sharing with three others back then. He was happy, I was happy.”
Reyes shared a look with Wallace. This was like getting blood out of a stone.
“And did this angel spring him?” asked Reyes.
“I guess so,” Ducker replied. “Bart agreed to flip on somebody. He never said who, but somebody wanted his info pretty bad.”
“He was going to testify against somebody? Who?”
“I have no idea. Pearl was in shit with everybody. At least that’s how he talked. He said he was cutting a deal and they were going to let him loose. I don’t think Pearl planned on coming back ever. He walked out of here, and within ten minutes, the guards were in my cell cleaning out his shit, stripping the bed and stuff. Thirty minutes after that, I’ve got three more roommates.”
“Isn’t it kind of odd that he told you he was cutting a deal? That makes him a snitch and snitches don’t fare too well inside. He wouldn’t go bragging about it to you or anybody else. He’d wait for his release and vanish.”
“Pearl and me shared that cell from the first day he got here, about three months ago. The other guy in the cell the morning Pearl arrived, Sly Conover, was serving life for murder. He scared the hell out of me. I slept with one eye open and hoped he wouldn’t pluck it out.
“The guards came, pulled him out, and put Pearl in. I’m going to tell you that Conover was pissed. He had been in that same cell for years. It was his home. He told me I was his guest. Anyway, the word spread that he was going to take Pearl out.”
“And what happened?”
“Twenty-four hours later, Conover got the shit beat out of him in his new cell.”
“By Pearl?”
“No. Pearl was no pussy, but Conover would have killed him in a straight-up fight. What we heard was that Pearl had a friendly cop on the outside who could pull strings. After the beating, Pearl was given a wide berth by everyone, including Conover.”
“I don’t suppose he ever mentioned this cop’s name?” Wallace chipped in.
“Nope.” Ducker looked at Wallace and motioned that she move closer, to join the group. In a whisper he said, “Someone smuggled in stuff for Pearl. He got some crack. He got me cigarettes. I think that was so I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“The name Cresner mean anything to you?”
“I think so.” Reyes found he was holding his breath. “No. Wait. Wasn’t that the cop who Pearl plugged?”
Wallace nodded. “We’ll see that you get some cigarettes. What kind do you smoke?”
“I don’t care. Some kind of menthol. I usually trade most of them for other stuff.”
“I’ll get them to you.”
“Maybe I should tell people I have two cops who are my guardian angels.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Reyes said.
“Can’t blame a guy for asking.”
Wallace nodded to him, and Reyes stepped into the hall with her. Deputy Bass entered the room to retrieve the prisoner. Reyes half expected to hear banjo music.
“Come on, Sal,” Wallace said. “I want to see who visited Pearl. If this character who was Pearl’s guardian angel came down here to talk to him, he would have had to sign in.”
“Good thinking. Of course, if the guy is working inside the prison, he wouldn’t have to sign in.”
“No harm in trying.”
They stopped back by Sergeant Ehling’s office to pick up their weapons and sign out. The sergeant was out. “Officer Robbins,” Wallace said, “could we see the visitor records for Pearl?”
“Sure,” Robbins said. He retrieved a binder from the book shelf, opened it, and flipped to the Ps. He thumbed through a few pages. “Paxson. Pauly. Pearl. Here he is.” Robbins laughed. “Apparently he didn’t have too many friends.” He handed the plastic three-ring binder to Wallace.
She took it and gasped. “Oh, shit.”
“What’s the matter?” Reyes asked.
“There are only two names.” Her voice was somber. “The first one is arson …no it’s Arsenio. Yeah. Arsenio Ignatiez. He came by twice right after Pearl was arrested.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“I don’t know. We’ll find out. It’s the second guy that bothers me.”
“Giordano?”
“I wish it was. Here.” She handed the binder to Reyes.
“Okay, Ignatiez, Ignatiez again, and…” Reyes raised his head and stared at Wallace. “This is some kind of mess.”
The second name was Raymond Brooks.
14
Wallace sat scrunched behind the wheel of the car as she and Reyes drove back down the 101 toward the station. “I’m having trouble putting all the pieces together and making sense of them. Every time we try to clear up one question, we seem to raise two more. Now, why in the hell would Brooks visit Pearl?”
“You know why,” Reyes said.
“Then give me other reasons why he would visit Pearl in jail.”
“Ones that don’t make him look guilty?”
“I’ve known the man my whole career. There is no way he turned. No way.”
Reyes gazed at the cars they passed. “Come on, Phil. Why do you think FID talked to Brooks and Cresner?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Brooks is Cresner’s buddy. Maybe Cresner’s mixed up in something and they thought Ray knew something.”
“Phil, if Brooks wasn’t a friend, he’d be number one on your suspect list. Pearl had a guardian angel—a cop—who was also smuggling in dope. Only two people visited Pearl. Only one of those two is a cop. Well, at least we think so. Let me run the other guy.”
Reyes turned the computer and typed in the name. Wallace glanced over at the photo.
“Skinny-looking dude.”
“Not bad for a dead man, though.” Reyes pointed to the status line.
“Dead?”
“The report says he was found dead in front of Hamilton’s Home Appliances on East Sixth. Shot.”
“When?”
“About four weeks ago. Unsolved, but suspected drug related.”
“Do we have anything else on him?”
“It looks like he was a two-bit pusher. Numerous arrests, two convictions. Possession. Assault in a bar fight. He could be our drug mule.”
“How in the hell did a convicted dope-dealing felon get access to an addict in jail who was awaiting trial for shooting a cop? That’s beyond comprehension.”
“Pearl’s guardian angel?”
“Had to be. When we get back, I’m going to get Brooks on the side and see what he can tell us.”
“I’d be careful, Phil. The way he reacted in the OR about
us listening in on Cresner—I’ve never seen him get so angry. I mean, he was pissed. He didn’t want to hear anyone suggest that Cresner was dirty. If you confront him, he’s going to take it as an attack on his own character. That kind of thing could linger in his gut for a long time.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I have to do something.”
Wallace thought hard about Brooks. Reyes was one hundred percent correct. Talking to him about his visit to Pearl was risky enough as far as their friendship went. She’d get his back up, sure as shit. Also, if she talked to Brooks about the investigation, there was a good chance word would get back to FID. David’s bosses would probably want to know if he leaked information to her. He would be furious, claiming she was interfering in his job. And that wasn’t the kind of thing you could leave at the office.
“Let’s go over a few things,” she said. “Ducker said Pearl bought his way out of jail by giving somebody up. What if all those jobs Pearl Construction was awarded were the result of a little bribery? And what if Pearl offered to turn state’s evidence against Simons?”
“So Simons takes out Pearl, then tops himself.”
“Been there, done that. Simons doesn’t go to the length of carrying out an intricate murder, carrying the body across town from God knows where, only to sit at his desk and kill himself. There is another possibility. Davey’s wife was bitching about someone downtown trying to screw her husband over because he won’t play their games. What if Davey found out about the bribes and killed them both?”
“Look at Sam Davey, Phil. He’s not a killer.” Wallace took a left. “Hey, the station’s that way.”
“If we’re going to keep checking things out, then let’s swing by Le Cochon qui Vole and see if we find out who Simons was seeing that night.”
“It won’t hurt to ask, I guess, but it’s doubtful.”
“Why doubtful?”
“Because reservations are in one person’s name—the person making them. Reyes and a party of five. That kind of thing.”
Reyes checked his watch. “It’s almost three. Maybe we can grab a sandwich or something.”
“Sure, though I don’t know if your pay packet extends that far.”
Thirty minutes later Wallace and Reyes pulled up at 224 South Beverly Drive and got out.
Wallace took a look at the building and the people milling around outside who were waiting for a table. Two young ladies dressed in what could just be described as a uniform stood to either side of a sign that read Valet Parking. They wore tux jackets with black shorts and white calf-high boots. The rest of the people looked shabby compared to the two valet attendants.
Reyes opened the door.
The lobby area was dark. Modern sculpted sofas. Stylized mirrors decorated with frills and etchings. Impressionist prints. The walls were dark red.
“Ahem. I’m afraid the wait is nearly an hour,” the shiny-headed maitre d’ said. “Do you still wish to be placed on the list?” He tapped his pen on the podium impatiently.
“What if we have reservations?” Reyes asked.
“Do you have reservations?”
“I think we do.” Reyes flipped out his identification card.
The maitre d’ looked around nervously . In a hushed voice he asked, “What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk to the person in charge.”
He turned to a young female employee standing to his right. “Antoinette, please take these—special guests—to the manager’s office.”
“This way,” a petite young waitress said, in a French accent. “Monsieur Perrault’s office is in the back.”
“Are you French?” Reyes asked.
She smiled. “No. They like us to use a little French when we can. I took French in high school, so I can fake it better than some of the others.” She paused outside of the door marked with a plate that said Manager. “My name isn’t even really Antoinette.”
She knocked on the door, waited for an acknowledgment, and opened it. “Monsieur Perrault. These are gendarmes. Monsieur Leggett said to bring them back to see you.”
“Gendarmes?” The man behind the desk rose to his full height of five foot five. “Oh. Police. Right. Merci, Antoinette. I will handle it from here. Please come in, officers.”
Wallace introduced herself and Reyes.
“You received reservations for dinner at seven last night from a city council member called Theodore Simons.”
“Perhaps,” Perrault said. “We receive dinner reservations every night from many of the influential residents of Los Angeles.”
“Well, we know he didn’t show,” Wallace said. “We’d like to know if anyone did?”
“I believe we can handle your request, detective. Confidentially, of course.”
“Oh, but of course.”
Perrault sat down, picked up the phone, and punched a single key. He waited only a few seconds. “Did you take a reservation for Mr. Simons last night?” He looked up and gave a tight grin. “For seven o’clock? Table? Nine. Thank you.” He replaced the phone and spun around, facing a computer on his credenza. “Come around,” Perrault said as he checked his watch for the date. Without a word, he opened a drawer, pulled out a plastic jewel case, one of many, removed the disc, and inserted it into the player. Wallace and Reyes stood behind him and watched the screen.
Perrault hit a number of keys on the keyboard and a few seconds later, with a faint whir, the screen brought up a video. The time 19:00 flashed in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. “Table nine, seven p.m. last night.”
Wallace stared at the screen as figures blurred past each side of the table in fast forward. 19:01. 19:02. 19:03. At seven minutes after seven, a waiter seated a lone male. Perrault slowed the footage. As the waiter handed over a menu, the man briefly lifted his face toward the camera.
“Sonny Giordano,” said Reyes. “That’s our link.”
“Let’s keep watching,” Wallace said. “See if anyone else shows up.”
Perrault sped up the action again, and Wallace watched as the video zipped ahead twenty minutes, thirty minutes. At 19:40 Giordano appeared to place his order. Twenty-two minutes passed and the waiter brought his dinner. At 20:50, after three courses, Giordano finished dining—alone. He drank his coffee, checked his watch, then paid the bill and left.
“Can you burn us a copy of the footage?” Reyes asked.
“Anything to be of service,” said Perrault. “May I ask, is there some problem? I’d rather the restaurant didn’t receive any…bad publicity.”
“You can ask,” said Wallace. “Your cooperation is appreciated, Mr. Perrault.”
A few minutes later, Wallace and Reyes were outside and heading for their car, a copy of the security film in Reyes’s hand.
Reyes settled into his seat. “Are you confused, Phil?”
“Things have gotten kind of fuzzy, all right.”
“Fuzzy? This case is getting crazier by the minute. The brother-in-law of the fire victim who, by the way, should still have been in jail, is going to have dinner with a guy who kills himself not long after breakfast. We’re allowed to investigate the arson homicide, but the FID runs roughshod over us when it comes to looking at the suicide.” He took a breath. “Which may have been a homicide.”
“Call in and ask them to have a unit pick up Giordano.”
“You think he killed Simons? I can’t believe he would have killed Simons and then kept his dinner engagement.”
“If he was smart, he’d keep the appointment. Only someone who knew Simons was dead wouldn’t show up to have dinner with him.”
“Good point.”
“I also think he lied to us. I think he was trying to use us to settle an old grudge against Davey. Now, I’d like to see if we could get him to tell us what he does know.”
“How about two for one?”
“How’s that?”
“I’d like to hear what his wife knows about the situation.” Reyes
picked up the radio. “After all, it was her brother who was killed and you know what they say about blood being thicker than water.”
Wallace nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I hear.”
15
Back in the break room at Wilcox Avenue, Reyes jammed half a cookie into his mouth and shot the wrapper toward the waste basket. “Good for three.”
“Think the NBA could use a five-foot-eight Mexican shooting guard?” said Wallace.
“Let me see how this cop thing works out first,” Reyes replied.
Officer Jaworski had taken Sonny Giordano to IR one and his wife, Rita into a separate room. Both had come in without much trouble, on the basis of helping the investigation into Pearl’s death, though Jaworski had said he detected a hint of resistance in Sonny. Wallace was cursing the coffeepot in low tones.
“You want to take one and me the other, or what?”
“Nah. Let’s do it together.”
“If there was any bribery involved, Giordano sure as hell should know about it. After that, we don’t have much.”
“If we get close, maybe one of them will spill something. As one of my friends used to say, if you can’t dazzle them with your brilliance, baffle them with your bullshit.”
“I don’t know if that’s going to work with Sonny. We might be able to con the wife, though. Maybe we can convince her that hubby had her brother killed.”
“Let’s go with the flow.”
Reyes retrieved the pertinent files and joined Wallace at the IR. She threw open the door to interview room one and took a seat across from Giordano. Reyes stepped in and reached for the door. Before he could close it, Giordano started spouting off.
“It’s about damn time you guys got in here. I’m a busy man.”
“Yeah, well, depending on how things go in the next thirty minutes or so, you may not be so busy for a long time to come.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Wallace took a folder from the stack Reyes had brought into the room. She flipped it open. Inside were several photos of Ted Simons sitting dead at his desk and the restaurant CD in a case. Wallace placed the photos on the table, allowing Giordano a few seconds to check them out. She picked up the jewel case and pointed it at Giordano. “This is footage we obtained from the security cameras at Le Cochon qui Vole. Do you know who’s on it?”
