by Steve Garcia
Krajcek put both hands on the wheel and exhaled. “That could have gotten you killed as well, Captain.”
“Know your enemy,” Mangan said, grinning. “So, how many johns have we surprised tonight with the offer of free room and board?”
“Kind of slow. Three were sent down. One scared off.”
“He figured it was a setup?”
“I don’t know if he thought Wagner was a cop or simply sensed something wasn’t right, but for no apparent reason, he cut out.”
“I think he got a look at Wagner in the light,” Kahn said.
Mangan nodded. “It happens. You can never tell about some people. It’s a little after seven, so in roughly another hour it’ll be dark. That’s when the trolls arrive.”
“Wagner said the regulars were gathering in front of the Biscayne,” said Krajcek.
“Really? Too bad. They’ll lure some trade away from us.” He stood up and checked the street. “Tell you what, if things don’t pick up by eight, we’ll call it a night. How about I get you guys some coffee?”
“Sounds good,” Krajcek said. “Two sugars.”
“Black,” Kahn said.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Kahn watched Mangan walk off in the rear-view mirror. Wagner was humming to himself again.
“You follow any sports besides the NFL?” Krajcek asked.
“The Dodgers. College football.”
“How about the NBA?”
“Nah.”
Kahn glanced in the mirror. The sidewalk was empty. He was determined to spot Mangan when he came back. Being caught off guard like that bothered him. It was the kind of thing Angie always warned him about. Getting too relaxed in a dangerous job. The radio suddenly screeched. “Appetite! Ouch, shit…appetite, you fuckin’ assholes.”
Kahn was out and running. He could hear the muted shuffling of a fight now even without the radio. As he reached the corner he could see three young men pounding the snot out of Wagner. He was flat on his back, his legs propped up against the two-foot-high concrete wall. The assault had cleared the corner. No one had stayed to lend a hand. They had simply vanished into the night.
“Fucking fag,” shouted one of the muggers wearing a UCLA jacket. “Get your AIDS-infected ass out of here.”
Kahn hopped the wall, pulled his weapon. “Police! Stop and drop.”
The closest thug turned and took a swing at Kahn, who countered with a gun across his jaw. The man spun around and hit the sidewalk. Kahn repeated his order, “Police!”
The distraction was all Wagner needed. His fist flew up, catching the second man in the groin and dropping him instantly. Wagner rolled and smashed him between the eyes with the back of his fist. “Bastard!”
The third guy jumped back over the fence to run but Krajcek hit him in the back like a lightning bolt and took him to the sidewalk.
Wagner popped up. He looked at the guy lying on the ground next to him and kicked him in the gut. “Not so fucking tough when the odds even out, are you, punk?”
“What the hell happened?” Krajcek said. He had his member of the trio by the collar, already cuffed.
Wagner gently touched his cheek, then twisted his jaw. “These three guys came along talking smack. They all looked drunk and I didn’t want them screwing things up, so I sat on the wall to let them through.” Wagner brushed off his clothes. “The one Krajcek is holding punched me right in the forehead. It caught me off guard and toppled me off the wall like fucking Humpty Dumpty. I cracked my head on the pavement.” He touched the back of his head. “Then all three of the superheroes pounced on me.” Wagner turned and kicked the guy on the ground again. He groaned.
“That’s enough,” said Krajcek. He nodded to Kahn. “I’ll get us a wagon.”
Kahn dragged the man he smashed in the mouth closer to the wall and cuffed him. “What in the hell is the matter with you dumb asses?”
The man spat out some bloody saliva. “Shit dude. We were out having a few drinks is all. Then one of the fags tried to pick us up. That one you’re standing with. He’s the one. We were fuckin’ offended, you know?”
“Bad news. The ‘fag’ you decided to assault is an undercover cop. Now, before you say it’s his word against the three of you, we recorded everything.”
He looked up at Wagner. “You’re a cop? You sure as hell look queer. Or are you maybe a queer cop?”
Wagner went to kick him like he had the other guy on the ground, but was held back by Kahn. “Easy, partner.”
A squad car rolled up at the sidewalk, lights flashing. Krajcek leaned down.
“I called a wagon.”
“We’re not here for you,” said the officer. “We’ve got a possible homicide down at the Biscayne.”
Krajcek saw the wagon pull around the corner. “Here she is.”
The patrol car carried on down the street and disappeared at the next turn.
Kahn and Krajcek loaded the three men into the cage. “Get them some medical attention,” said Krajcek. “And find out if they really are college boys. If they are, inform their school’s president.”
“The one who’s still bent over may not have any balls,” Wagner said. “Look in his mouth.”
Back at the car, Krajcek’s radio beeped. “Yeah?”
“You boys still on station?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes. What’dya have?”
“Reported homicide three blocks away. Hotel Biscayne. Want to take a look? I’ve sent a unit. It should be there any second.”
“They just got here. We’ll be right after them.”
“Let’s call it a night here,” said Krajcek. “Harlen’s chances of pulling in his current state are practically zero.”
Krajcek dropped Kahn and Wagner at the front steps of the Biscayne, where a bunch of hookers were gathered in small groups with passersby, business forgotten for the time being.
Wagner grabbed a coat and walked with Kahn up to the hotel lobby. The paint was peeling off the front of the building, and inside a dirty red carpet led to the clerk’s desk.
“What kind of a dive is this?” asked Kahn.
“I’m not sure anyone has spent the night in twenty years,” said Wagner. “It’s a one-sheeter.”
“A one-sheeter?”
“A clean sheet with every fuck.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Beats the hell out of a back alley.”
The clerk was a skinny black guy with two gold teeth who appeared to drink at least two out of three meals a day.
“Which way to the dead guy?” Wagner said.
“Are you more police?” the clerk asked. His lips tugged hard on a cigarette, despite the regulations.
Kahn had no inclination to stop him. “Yes.”
“Third floor. Three twelve.”
“Elevator work?”
“The stairs are faster.” He coughed and pointed.
“Great.” Kahn said. “You the one who found the body?”
“Nah. One of the…erm…tenants phoned it in from a payphone. Said he noticed the door was open to the dead guy’s room. When he peeked in, he spotted him and notified the front desk.”
“That’s you, right?” Krajcek asked.
“That’s me. Naturally, I did my civic duty and called the police.”
“But you never went up to see if the man was alive or not?”
“And desert my post?”
The stairs were worn in the center from generations of transients, prostitutes, and winos tramping up and down. The place smelled of piss, the second floor especially, as though someone had recently contributed to the odor. The urine smell was accentuated by the yellow-green paint on the walls.
Krajcek opened the door to the third floor. A light streamed into the hall from an open door. “Must be the place.”
As they reached three-twelve they found two uniforms, one male, one female, standing inside the door, both with
smiles on their faces. “That was quick. To what do we owe this honor?”
“Moreno, Grunwald,” said Krajcek. “This is Detective Wagner and Kahn. We were working a little vice sting around the corner.”
“Well, that explains him,” Grunwald said, nodding toward Wagner. “The vic is in the bedroom. Cause of death was brain damage.”
“Brain damage?” Kahn asked.
“Yeah, there’s a bullet in it. There don’t appear to be other wounds, but considering the amount of blood, there didn’t have to be.” She led them to the bedroom. “No ID on him, but he’s dressed like a streetwalker, so some of the others might be able to put a name on him. Looks to be around twenty to twenty-five years old.”
Kahn looked at the body sprawled facedown across the bed on the bloodstained sheet. The dead man was fully clothed. There was one entrance wound in the right side of his head, an exit wound on the other. The spray of blood and brain matter extended from the spot on the bed where he lay to the wall and on the floor in between. It was still sticky.
“He should have known his way around, how to avoid getting into a bad situation,” Krajcek said.
“Bad luck sucks.” Kahn looked around. The room was dingy and smelled of stale smoke and sex. The place wasn’t so dirty that you’d be afraid to use the toilet, but definitely was on the worn-out side of things. At one time the wallpaper was stripes and flowers but they had faded to almost nothing. Several of the wooden floorboards were warped. Both windows had a yellowing shade pulled part of the way down—both crooked. Two straight-back chairs and a battered table sat against the far wall. On top was a metal ashtray, which had been emptied but not cleaned.
Wagner leaned in across the body, careful not to touch anything.
“No defensive wounds on either arm, and they took his watch.” He pointed to a narrow pale band around the dead man’s right wrist.
“Looks like a straightforward robbery,” said Kahn.
Grunwald had marked one brass casing’s spot on the floor with chalk. Kahn checked the dead guy’s pockets. Nothing but a lighter.
“Who talked to the desk clerk?” Krajcek asked.
“I did.” Grunwald flipped his note pad open but didn’t need the reference. “Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Couldn’t say if this kid was a regular. He came in, paid for the room, took the key and sheets, and went upstairs.”
“The clerk didn’t see anyone with him?”
“He can’t remember.”
“Get the ME to check for sexual activity. There might be a DNA match with his killer.”
As if on cue, Barrett arrived. Three years back, just before he met Angie, Kahn had spent the night with Barrett down at the lab. It was the weirdest place he’d ever got laid. He’d made the mistake of telling Wagner. “Hi, Doc,” Harlen said. “Many stiff ones down at the morgue?”
“Hello, everyone,” she said, ignoring him. “Ready to let me do my thing?”
“We’re done,” Kahn said. “I’d appreciate it if you could determine whether the victim had sex recently.”
“Will do,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Just the usual,” said Kahn, trying to apologize with his eyes for his partner’s way with words.
“Give me some space then, gentlemen.”
Kahn, Krajcek, and Wagner left the room and walked down the dimly lit stairs and into the cool air. The lights of two squad cars had cleared the sidewalk of everyone but a couple of drunks laughing wheezily with one another and passing a brown paper bag between them. Wagner put a cigarette in his mouth.
Mangan was holding a cardboard tray of coffees from Fratelli’s and was speaking with one of the uniforms. When he saw Kahn he shouted over, “When they told me the lift wasn’t working, I thought I’d wait down here. These are gonna be cold—” He looked at Wagner’s bruised face. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Three punk college kids jumped me. For some reason, they thought I was a homo and they didn’t apparently care for homos.”
“Trouble seems to love you, detective.” He turned to Kahn and Krajcek, and they each took a coffee. Kahn sipped his; it was indeed cold. “Well, what do you fellas think happened upstairs?”
“Someone killed themselves a hooker.”
Mangan nodded. “All right, detective, so what do you think—that we have a new Jack the Ripper on our hands?”
“No,” Kahn said. “It was just a robbery, I think. Some john didn’t feel like paying.”
“And wanted a new watch and cell phone,” added Wagner.
Mangan checked his watch. “It’s a little early, but considering our bait is looking kind of sad, let’s call it a night. And anyhow, you guys have a homicide to write up.”
“But we’re vice tonight,” Wagner protested. “Let Coombs and Albanese take this one.”
“Sorry, detectives, Siley’s already said it’s yours.”
“I bet he has,” grumbled Wagner.
Mangan laughed. “Sarge, will you take the detectives back to the station?”
“Sure thing, Captain,” said Krajcek. “See you tomorrow.”
As Mangan walked off along the street, Wagner sucked on his cigarette. The scent of the smoke caught on Kahn’s throat, and he fought the urge to light up. Something was bothering him, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
21
Albanese pointed his finger at Coombs. “It’s almost eight. You should go home.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“See you tomorrow.”
He walked down the aisle whistling a tune and headed for the back door.
She really should go home—an evening on the couch was just what she needed. Plus, her Spanish wasn’t going to get any better unless she knuckled down. A shame Sal had to back out the previous night, but her cat, Poirot, had enjoyed most of the food she’d bought on the way back from Cresner’s party.
Coombs put a Post-it note about a stolen credit card in Wallace’s cubicle. Her eyes caught another file there—it was the full ballistics report from the Pearl shooting.
Philippa Wallace must have been sleeping with someone in the department to get the results so quickly. Even in her days with the Feds, Coombs hadn’t known ballistics work that fast, unless it was a serial case.
Since the move to homicide, she’d barely spent any time with Sal. Emilio was a very good cop, and after the first few failed attempts at hitting on her, their partnership was a promising one. Siley had been threatening rotations for a few months now, and she wondered how she’d get on with Sal working side-by-side for full shifts. Maybe too well. Hell, as long as she didn’t get teamed up with Harlen Wagner things would be okay.
Coombs sat in Wallace’s chair and flipped open the ballistics report. Makarov, huh? A lot of firearms were coming over these days from the former Eastern Bloc. The gun hadn’t been found at the scene, but was cataloged under serial number TE9023. That meant the weapon had either been recovered since or previously identified.
Hadn’t she heard Phil saying that it was the same gun as the Simons suicide?
Coombs moved back to her computer and tapped in the serial number. A string of records came up, with links to other weapons with similar serials. Nothing strange there—if a shipment of guns hit the streets, it was likely a single gang was buying them up. She hit the record for TE9023, and the record loaded.
A shiver went down her spine—the same one she’d felt when Cresner stumbled over FID’s questions. All the records were previous, going back three months. That meant the gun had come into ballistics and somehow got back out into circulation. And that meant only one thing—bent cops.
Coombs punched the number to evidence—they’d be able to tell her if any firearms scheduled for destruction had gone missing. After the first ring, she hung up. Slow down, Joanne. She didn’t know who was involved.
She scrolled through the records of the Pearl murder weapon. Two killings over the past
six months, both
members of Los Lagartos, a gang running out near Fairfax. Also some bullets pulled from the wall of a corner store after a shoot-out. The gun had been picked up on the scene of a gang murder in Wilshire, found in the hand of a dead banger called Raphael Tijando.
But from there, it somehow hit the streets again, because four weeks ago, a bullet from the same Makarov was taken from the brain of another gang member, Arsenio Ignatiez.
Now that wasn’t right.
Coombs clicked through to link to the Ignatiez file. A warning popped up: File sealed by FID, D.W.
What the hell?
Coombs looked up and checked the Pit again, even though she knew it was empty. A cataloged weapon had reached the streets again, and been used in another murder. Wallace wouldn’t thank her for butting into their homicide, but hell, she had just cleared two straightforward cases and needed something to get her teeth into.
She stood up and walked down to the administration office where Val Lewdizc was reading a copy of the Enquirer.
Coombs got as far as the filing cabinets before Lewdizc put down her magazine. “Can I help you, detective?” she asked, staring over the rims of her half-moon spectacles.
Coombs pointed at the drawers that housed the hardcopy homicide files.
“I wanted to look up an old murder file.”
“Did you now, missy?” said Lewdizc.
Coombs felt about seven years old in the kindergarten class. “Yes, please,” she said.
“Well, make sure you leave a note saying that you took it away,” said Lewdizc. “I’ve lost count the number of times Donald Kahn or that partner of his have messed up my files.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Coombs. She quickly found the I section. It was a thin file, but the one corresponding to Ignatiez wasn’t there.
“Say, Val, the file I want isn’t here.”
“No shit,” said the administrator. “Is there a note?”
Coombs checked again. “Nothing.”
“Well, in that case, it ain’t a murder and I can’t help you.”
Perhaps Wallace or Sal had already taken it. Or FID. She didn’t want to get them into any trouble with Val, or bring any FID heat on to herself, so she sloped back to the Pit.
