Kind of Blue

by Miles Corwin

  I believed Quan. “Did your daughter keep her word?”

  Quan beamed. He opened his wallet and showed me a picture of a young couple with a baby boy. “She married a fine young man a few years ago. This is my first grandchild.”

  When I returned to the squad room, I picked up the ringing phone.

  “Ash Levine here.”

  “I read something in the Hadassah News that was very disturbing.”

  I sighed. “Hello, Mom.”

  “The article said that mixed marriages fail at twice the rate as the national average. Just imagine what the statistics would be if they studied Jewish-Arab marriages.”

  “Mom, I have no intention of marrying anyone now.”

  “Things can change.”

  “Not with me.”

  “Are you still dating that Iraqi girl?”

  “Lebanese.”

  “I can’t keep those countries straight. Are you still dating that Muslim?”

  “She’s not a Muslim. She’s Christian.”

  “Are you still dating her?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain. Let’s talk another time.”

  “Will you be coming by for Shabes dinner on Friday night?”

  “Sorry. I can’t make it.”

  “I think you should. Uncle Benny met a nice girl in his building. Single. Very attractive. From a nice family. He wants to bring her along.”

  “Forget it. Tell Uncle Benny I appreciate his efforts, but to hold off.”

  She did not respond.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently.

  “Look. I’m just too busy this week. Please pass that along to Uncle Benny. Tell him not to bring the girl.”

  “Oh, your job is so important. God forbid, another shvartzeh gets murdered in South Central and you don’t show up. That would be such a tragedy—”

  “I don’t work South Central anymore, Mom.”

  “Wherever you work, I think it’s important that you have dinner with us on Friday because—”

  “Got to go Mom,” I interrupted.

  I hung up, and returned to the files I had recovered from the archives. A homicide in the Hollywood Hills looked faintly promising. The victim was a small-time burglar named Jack Freitas who had clipped the wires to the alarm system at the home he was robbing. The owner, Lloyd Silver, was vacationing in Italy with his family when Freitas broke in. The case was a curious one because someone shot Freitas in the temple, but the killer was never caught.

  Relovich and Mitchell had been on patrol in the area, heard the gunshot, and sped to the scene. They found the body and arrested a homeless man wandering down a nearby street, who, they later discovered, had no connection to the case. Homicide detectives theorized at the time, according to the files, that Freitas’ partner double-crossed and killed him because he didn’t want to share the loot.

  What interested me was the name of the firm Silver owned—Kyoto Import-Export. Since Kyoto was a city in Japan, it followed that Silver might have collected some netsukes and ojimes. The property report, however, did not list any stolen objects d’art. The thieves had blasted open a bedroom safe and stole Silver’s wife’s diamond and emerald jewelry, valued at more than $300,000.

  I decided to stop by the Lloyd Silver’s house in the Hollywood Hills.

  CHAPTER 25

  I headed west on Sunset at dusk and cut north on a canyon road, past hills cloaked in chaparral, studded with yucca and stunted fan palms. Cruising beneath a canopy of live oaks, I pulled onto a narrow, winding street, the homes bordered by oleander with pink and red blossoms, thick stands of bamboo, and cactus gardens, the prickly pears starred with pale orange blooms.

  Silver’s house was easy to spot, a dramatic, modern structure, all sharp angles, built of glass and steel, teetering on a hillside. After climbing fifty-one steep steps, I rang the front bell. While I waited for someone to answer, I realized how quiet it was in the hills compared to my loft. The only sounds were the breeze rattling the bamboo and the cars whirring through the canyon.

  A man looked through a peephole and shouted, “Who is it?”

  “Detective Ash Levine. LAPD.”

  “ID?”

  I covered the peephole with my badge.

  The door opened, revealing a short, skinny man with thinning gray hair and a little ponytail. He wore shorts, sandals, and a short-sleeved yellow silk shirt. “What’s the problem, detective?”

  “No real problem. Just checking out some old cases. I wanted to talk to you about that burglar who was killed at your house about ten years ago.”

  Silver sighed, absentmindedly fingering his ponytail.

  “Can I come inside?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I followed Silver into the living room, which had a sweeping view of the city, sheathed in a film of smog. The room was spare, almost monastic, with hardwood floors and a scattering of black leather and chrome furniture. The white walls were bare.

  I joined Silver on the sofa and asked, “When it’s clear, can you see the ocean from here?”

  “A few times a year,” Silver said, looking distracted. “So what’s this about? Did you finally find out who killed that thief in my living room?”

  “We haven’t.”

  “Well, he was no great loss. But that means the shooter is still out there victimizing other home owners.”

  “With your cooperation, we might be able to get him behind bars.”

  “And recover my property?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “Not exactly. I’m working on another homicide case and I’m trying to determine if it’s related to that murder at your house.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “It was,” I said. “But just to cover all my bases, I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I noticed from the crime report that three hundred thousand dollars worth of jewelry was stolen from your safe.”

  “That’s right,” Silver said.

  “That’s a lot of jewelry.”

  Silver flashed me a forced smile. “My wife has expensive taste.”

  “What kind of business are you in?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, sounding defensive.

  “Just background.”

  “Okay. I’m in the import-export business.”

  “From what country?”

  “Japan.”

  “What do you import?”

  Silver nervously tugged on his ponytail. “Is all this necessary?”

  “Got anything to hide?” I said, smiling.

  “Of course not. We import Japanese electronic equipment.”

  “And what do you export?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You said your business was import-export.”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  I sensed Silver’s growing irritation, so I shifted the interview in another direction. “Anything else stolen from your house?”

  Silver lightly brushed his forefinger across his lips and said “Just the jewelry. I told the officers that at the time.”

  “You sure nothing else was stolen?” I asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “How about any art work or art objects?”

  He shook his head.

  “You sure no small Japanese figurines were stolen, or things like that?”

  Silver glowered at me. “You calling me a liar, detective?”

  I knew this was a critical juncture in the interview. If I was too belligerent, too combative, Silver might refuse to answer the questions and tell me to pound sand or call his attorney. I had no leverage. I would simply have to walk back down the fifty-one steps and drive off.

  I didn’t know if Silver was lying; I didn’t know if the Freitas homicide and the jewelry heist were connected to the Relovich and Mitchell murders. Still, I was suspicious of Sil
ver for reasons I couldn’t articulate. Maybe it was because Silver’s business had a Japanese connection; maybe it was because he was so testy. The murder also bothered me. Why would Freitas’s partner shoot him during the heist? Why attract all that attention? Why not just wait and plug him later?

  I inched closer on the sofa to Silver. “Let me break it down for you. If you don’t level with me right now, I’m going to do two things. First, I’m going to obtain your insurance records and examine the jewelry purchases you made and confirm that they were truly worth three hundred thousand. If they weren’t, I’m going to go after you for insurance fraud. The second thing I’m going to do is talk to the supervising detective at Hollywood Homicide and ask him to reopen the Jack Freitas murder case. If he finds you’ve withheld any information, I’m going to request that he prosecute you for conspiracy,” I said, bluffing. “And conspiracy in a murder can get you locked up for a very long time.”

  I knew immediately that I had hit pay dirt. Silver blinked hard. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You’ve got no proof,” he said weakly.

  “You continue jacking me around, and I’ll make sure I get the proof. But if you level with me right now and tell me everything that happened, I’ll forget about the insurance company. I’ll forget about talking to Hollywood Homicide.”

  I checked my watch. “I’ll give you one minute to decide. Then I’m leaving. By tomorrow, you won’t even recognize your life anymore.”

  Silver gazed out at the smog, a thousand-yard stare. Dropping his chin to his chest, he said softly, “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “There were some other things stolen.” He sighed wistfully. “I had some very nice works.”

  “All Japanese?”

  “Yes. A hanging scroll from the sixteen hundreds. An eighteenth-century two-panel screen—ink and color on silk. Some exquisite splashed ink landscapes, and a few erotic woodcut prints—all hundreds of years old.”

  “Any netsukes?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, pained. “Netsukes, iron tea kettles, iron sword guards, ojimes, lacquered boxes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police or the insurance company about these items? They weren’t listed on the property report.”

  Silver reached around and tugged on his ponytail again. “You sure if I tell you the truth, you’re not going to go after me for this?”

  “I’m not interested in insurance fraud, art theft, or income tax evasion,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “All I care about is the murder I’m working. I just want to see if it’s connected to what happened at your house.”

  “Okay,” Silver said softly, more to himself than to me. “I couldn’t talk about these items because I wasn’t supposed to have them.”

  “Why not?”

  “A few Japanese art dealers were ripped off. Some very old and very valuable items were stolen. It was too risky to fence them in Japan. So the thieves sold them to an American. The Japanese would not be too happy to see these treasures leaving their country. But if the American had an import business, he would know how to slip these items in through customs. Back in the States, he could have kept some of the items and sold some of the others.”

  “Just so I’m clear, this person you’re talking about is you?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “And it was hard to launder the profits, so you kept a lot of cash in your home safe.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  Ignoring him, I asked, “How much?”

  “About two hundred thousand.”

  “So you inflated the amount of your wife’s jewelry—which was never stolen—to, at least, cover your cash loss and some of the art. The rest, you just had to write off.”

  “That’s pretty close to it.”

  “Why’d you take the chance of displaying this stuff on your walls?”

  “I didn’t keep them out here,” he said, pointing to the living room walls. “They were in our bedroom and my home office, where guests aren’t permitted.” He stared out the window again. “What’s the use of risking so much to secure magnificent works of art if you can’t see them?”

  “Any idea who ripped you off?”

  “I still don’t have a clue.”

  “Any idea why Freitas was killed?”

  “Whoa,” he said, waving his palms. “I had nothing to do with that. That’s your area of expertise. Certainly not mine.”

  It was so dark when I drove back down the canyon—the moon was obscured by high clouds—that I had trouble negotiating the hairpin turns, but I relaxed when I finally hit Sunset and headed east. As I approached downtown, I decided I was too energized to go home, so I pulled into the parking garage, walked to PAB, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. I pulled the tape recorder out of my briefcase with the microphone in the corner, listened to Silver’s interview again, and summarized it on a statement form for my murder book.

  CHAPTER 26

  Galvanized by the break in the case, I spent a restless evening at home. I tried to sleep, but kept squirming in bed, thinking about the interview with Silver. At three thirty, I finally crawled out of bed, showered, and dressed; I knew I was too charged up to get much sleep. Driving north on Broadway, I flicked on my windshield wipers. It was a typical foggy June morning, socked in from the beaches to the valleys. As I stopped at an intersection, the slick street reflecting red from the signal overhead, I decided to splurge on an expensive breakfast.

  I drove a few blocks west of downtown and parked in front of the Pacific Dining Car, located on a bleak intersection, across the street from a gas station and a liquor store with a rusty metal security gate in front. I liked the restaurant even though, like so many L.A. institutions, it was more façade than reality. Built in the 1920s as a replica of a railroad dining car, steel wheels were bolted on and the structure was rolled to an empty lot. Still, the atmosphere was comfortable and clubby and it served some of the best—and most expensive—steaks in the city.

  The twenty-four-hour restaurant, with gleaming wood paneling and polished brass lamps, was quiet and desolate. I settled in at a corner booth and ordered the breakfast filet and scrambled eggs, a short stack of blueberry pancakes, and a carafe of coffee. I ate slowly, savoring the meal. When I heard the first wave of delivery trucks grinding their gears as they rumbled down West 6th Street, I bought a paper and lingered over my coffee.

  When I returned to the squad room, Duffy intercepted me. “So where are we on the case? What now?”

  I decided not to brief him about my interview with Silver. I didn’t want to tell him anything yet that might attract attention from the brass, who might waste my time by calling me in for meetings and updates.

  “I’ve got a few things I’m chasing,” I said.

  “Well, don’t do anything too crazy over the next few days, because I won’t be around to run interference for you with Grazzo. We’ve got a department retreat for homicide supervisors this weekend in San Diego. I’m heading down this afternoon.”

  I left Duffy’s office and Ortiz grabbed my arm and led me toward the break room. He poured us two cups of coffee and said, “Let’s go outside.” We took the elevator down the ground floor and sat on a stone bench in front of the building.

  “So what’s happening with your gallery owner?”

  “She wants to see me when her boyfriend’s not around.”

  Ortiz clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t be so gloomy. Could be the ideal relationship. You don’t have to waste any time and money on going to movies, dinner, or, with this babe, boring art gallery openings. You can just nail her when her boyfriend’s not around and have plenty of time left over to play golf with me.”

  “I don’t play golf.”

  Ortiz swung an imaginary club. “Now’s the perfect time to start.”

  When we returned to the squad room, I grabbed the Freitas homicide file, leafed through it, and jotted down the names of the two Hollywood Homicide detectives who investigated the mur
der. Relovich and Mitchell were the patrol officers who responded to the scene; I wanted to see what the investigators had to say. Searching the LAPD’s Alpha roster, I discovered that one of the detectives was still with the department—he now worked as a lieutenant in Northeast. I called him and asked about the case. But he didn’t remember much and he told me the case wasn’t worth pursuing.

  “Just one less scumbag on the street now,” he said.

  I asked about his former partner, and the lieutenant provided the phone number of a private investigation firm in San Jose. The former partner, however, recalled even less about the case.

  I cut across the squad room to Commercial Crimes and wandered into the office of Dave Papazian, the art cop. I told Papazian about the robbery at Silver’s house, his import-export business, and the man’s art collection. “You ever come across this guy?” I asked.

  Papazian shook his head.

  “You ever hear of that heist at his house?”

  “When was it?”

  “About eleven years ago.”

  Papazian stroked his chin. “That’s before my time, before I got this gig. But just to be safe, I’ll check my records. If he’s filed any theft reports since then, I’ll let you know.”

  I returned to my desk, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. The interview with Silver was definitely a break. The problem was I didn’t know how to follow up on it, how to create a progression to the next clue, and the next, and the next. After talking to Silver, I assumed Relovich and Mitchell were dirty; I assumed they had stumbled onto the crime scene while on patrol and pocketed the cash from the safe before the homicide detectives arrived.

  If Relovich and Mitchell were dirty, I didn’t relish the prospect of documenting it. I knew the revelation would be devastating to their families. When Relovich’s daughter was old enough to learn the truth, she’d be crushed. But the shooter, I suspected, was still out there. He’d already killed two ex-cops. He might kill another.