Khang speaks, his face turning crimson. “Leflers are fucking pimps, and they raised a whore—”
“Khang,” Haddad says, “we’ve answered that question in the statement.” He turns to me. “The Leflers’ criminal history is well-documented, and Ms. Lefler is currently incarcerated as a result of it. Khang has no other information that indicates Mr. Lefler is currently engaging in criminal activity, or has involved his daughter or Sonita in any such activity, including prostitution. Next question, if you please.”
Big surprise. Now for the second swing: “The suspect we have in custody, Taquan Oliver, told me this morning that a man was standing over Sonita in the bushes, presumably just after Sonita’s death. Oliver said the male fled immediately, and he didn’t get a great look at him. He described him, though, as short and muscular with short, slicked-back hair. Do you have any idea who this person might be?”
Khang’s eyes flare at that, and he draws on his cigarette so hard that the suction incinerates half the stem down to the filter. He grinds out the smoke in the crystal ashtray before him and says, “No.”
I show him Taquan’s picture stored on my iPhone, identify him, and ask Khang if he’s ever seen him around before.
“No,” he says.
I nod and wait a minute, anticipating a question I don’t get. So I make a big show of opening the case file, riveting my eyes on the reports inside and slowly flipping through the pages, waiting for one of these guys to say something, waiting for one of them, probably Haddad, to start peppering me with questions.
The only thing Haddad does, though, is use his thumb and forefinger to smooth out the smug little grin that’s turning up the corners of his mouth. It’s as if he thinks he knows what I’m up to—i.e., creating uncomfortable silence so one of them can fill it with a spontaneous statement. He’s wrong about that, but he can think whatever he wants to.
The silence starts to make Khang fidget.
Haddad lets the silence drag on a few seconds longer before he nudges Khang with his elbow, clasps his hands on the table and leans in to me, making no effort now to suppress his grin. “Is that all you have, Detective?”
“No, I need to check out Sonita’s room and whatever space she might have occupied in Khang’s house. You know, just to see what I find there.”
Khang responds without consulting Haddad. “My houseman will cooperate fully if I am not present. He will be expecting you.”
I nod. “Well, I guess that’s it. Thank both of you for your cooperation.”
I gather my file and iPhone, stand, shake their hands, give each a card and ask them to give me a call if Khang hears from Monique or thinks of anything else that might help the investigation.
I walk slowly to the door, giving them plenty of time to call out and ask me to return so I can answer the painfully obvious questions they failed to ask.
This doesn’t happen.
I wheel around just before I make it to the door and return to them. When I get to their table I place my hands flat on its surface and lean in to Khang’s face.
Expressionless, Khang stares up at me.
Haddad’s smug smile is gone. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
From the corner of my right eye I detect movement, and I snap my head in that direction to see the punks at the bar dismounting their stools and moving at me.
Khang halts them dead in their tracks with a show of his palm. “Angkouy chou!” he says, and regains direct eye contact with me: “Speak your mind, please.”
“I intend to, Khang….You know, I talked to two people about Sonita’s murder before working my way here today, two people who weren’t anywhere near as close to Sonita as you were. And you know what? Both of these people, one way or another, asked me whether we had a suspect in custody and whether I think he did it. And Mrs. Khemra, your sister, who was so torn apart over the news of Sonita’s death she went into shock, asked me the same thing. She also made me swear a solemn oath I’d find Sonita’s killer. But you, on the other hand, didn’t ask—”
“Now, wait,” Haddad says. “That was my fault. I advised Khang not to—”
I show Haddad my palm and say to Khang, “Would you please tell your lawyer to shut the fuck up so I can speak my mind?”
Smiling just enough to be noticeable, Khang turns to Haddad, who receives the unspoken message loud and clear; Haddad clasps his hands and stares at the tabletop like he just lost his paycheck on a poker hand.
Khang nods at me to continue.
“Thank you,” I say to Khang, and in return he gives me a slow blink of his eyes. “Now, I’m not accusing you of Sonita’s murder. I’m not clearing you, either, but there’s a lot about your demeanor today that makes me think you cared for that girl and wouldn’t harm a hair on her head. But you didn’t say a word about Taquan Oliver today—even after I showed you his picture. And you didn’t ask me what evidence we’d gathered against him, or even ask whether I thought in my gut he killed her. All these things make me think you know something you’re not telling me, which could be the identity of her killer. Could be, too, that you’re looking for the killer yourself and know you’re way ahead of me.”
Khang smiles at my latter guess, making me think I hit pay dirt with that one, and lights another Salem, carefully exhaling the smoke to the side so none will reach my face.
He doesn’t say anything.
“I think I know the kind of man you are, Khang, and hear you have a lot of resources at your disposal. I also don’t blame you for wanting to do what my gut’s telling me you’re planning to do. Just do yourself a favor, and one for me, too: let me handle Sonita’s murderer. If the fucker gives me half a chance, I’ll put a bullet in his head myself and wrap him up in a bow for you.”
“A bow?” he says, smiling as he draws down his smoke.
“Figure of speech,” I say, shrugging my hands, “but I’m being very literal about the bullet-in-the-head part—that I will do with no hesitation.”
His eyes light up and his lips quiver just a little, making me think for an instant that he’s going to say something like, Hell yes, go ahead, name the price, but he doesn’t.
I say, “When I leave, talk to your lawyer and tell him what you know. He’ll give you the same advice I just did. Then have him give me a call, or call me yourself.”
He gives me a faint bow of his head as I push off the table.
Before I turn to leave, he says, “Detective Crucci.”
“Yeah?”
“I do not know who killed Sonita.” A small smile. “Not yet.”
Babe
Compared to a prison cell, this service bay of a shuttered gas station on West Hollywood and Portia is more than tolerable. The metal folding chair is rickety, sure, but there is a can of Miller High Life in my hand, and its five siblings are chilling on ice in the plastic sack at my feet. Life is good, and I pass the time watching motes swim around the few shafts of late afternoon sunlight able to penetrate the grime-caked windows. I am waiting for my son, happily anxious for him to appear, and my mind wanders back to the first time we ever really connected.
Leo was about six months old then, and it was as forgettable a night as there ever was. I had arrived home late and just collapsed in bed with Lorraine—who was zonked on some controlled substance or other and reeked of another man’s aftershave—when Leo’s forlorn moan snapped me awake like the crack of a whip. This had never happened before. The boy always seemed most content when he was alone, but even more so in his crib at night where he could be fairly certain he would be free of all human contact. I jumped out of bed and hurried into his room to find him sitting up in his crib, digging his little fists into his eyes as if trying to force the tears back into their ducts.
Panic locked me up tight. Jesus, I thought, what the hell am I doing with a kid? Me, Babe Crucci, the son of a woman who abandoned him months after he was born, the son of a man who was the undisputed world champion of dysfunctional fathering.
Tempted to
pick him up but knowing better—physical contact, especially the loving kind, always caused him to howl with displeasure—I leaned over the railing and said, “What is wrong with my son, huh? Having a bad dream?”
Startled, he jerked his head here and there in search of my voice before he looked up to find me hovering over him. With no hesitation he thrust up his hands and said, “Dada.”
Not only was this the first time, to my knowledge, he had so enthusiastically sought the comfort of another human being, but this was also the first time he had ever addressed me as his father (if he ever addressed Lorraine by anything resembling “Mama,” either before that night or since, I never heard it). By calling my name and reaching for me, he had made it clear he knew what I was to him and that he needed me. The nakedness of his emotions melted my heart and put a lump in my throat. Tears came to my eyes for the first time since I was a kid myself, and I reached into the crib, picked him up, and pressed my wet cheek against his, saying, “Yeah, man, I am your dada, count on it,” and he looked into my eyes as if he truly understood me. Then he put his arms around my neck and hugged me with all his heart—another first.
His heart beat against mine as I held him tightly to my breast, awash in parental emotions. Damn, look at me, I thought, being protective and loving, comforting my kid with the best of them. Cooing softly, patting his little diapered butt, I walked him to the window. It was a clear night, and the moon and stars shined down on us and illuminated the backyard. It was impossible for me to ignore the thought of my father’s ashes strewn back there in the northeast corner, but the thought was fleeting. Thoughts of my father could not ruin that moment of mine and Leo’s, and I knew it was one I would remember forever—the first time I experienced my son’s love.
After that night the feeling came and went as randomly as a winning roll of the dice. The infrequency of it was not entirely my fault—Leo’s congenital callousness played a role, as did Lorraine’s lunacy—but I ignored my boy way more than I should have. It is also undeniable that my choices took me out of his game for seventeen years, two months, and thirteen days.
Whiling away the time by wondering if I will ever experience that feeling again, I sit here for a few more long moments, sipping beer, when the back door creeks open, slams shut. Dress shoes scrape and click against concrete, then his voice: “Old man, you really know how to pick meeting places.”
My heart jumps.
“You wanted private,” I say, “I got you private. Nico just bought this place for Joe. Nico said to tell you hello, by the way.”
He says nothing.
I sigh and reach into the sack of beer, twist off a can and hand it to him as he walks by.
He pops it open and remains standing as he inspects the folding chair across from me; he’s dressed in a classy suit, so I cannot fault his fussiness. He says, “I’m afraid of contracting a disease from this place.”
“Go ahead and sit. I wiped the chair off with some paper towels and Windex I found in back.”
He nods and sits, crosses his legs, scratching his chest as if nursing a rash.
“What happened to your eye?”
He dabs at it with his forefinger. “The fight with Levitch. She tried to use my eye socket as an ashtray for her cigar.”
“Ah…You, uh, in pain?”
“It’s all right.”
“Hope there’s no scar. It would ruin your eyes. You have nice eyes, like—” I stop myself before saying, “your mother’s.”
He still completes my thought: “Like Lorraine’s,” he says, turning up his beer, eyeing me as he swallows. “Connie used to say that, too, in her more sentimental moments—that is, when she was drunk on her ass.”
Connie is his dearly departed aunt, his mother’s sister, who took Leo into her home when he started high school. Connie and Lorraine never got along—practically hated each other, in fact, unless they were both blasted. When they were blasted you would think they were the closest sisters on the planet.
We regard each other silently, neither of us knowing how, or whether, to continue this thread of conversation. He removes a pack of Marlboro reds from his breast pocket, lips one and lights up. He bumps one out for me and extends the pack.
“Thanks,” I say after he lights me up.
He nods and says, “Late this morning, my lieutenant called me on the carpet and asked if I’d heard anything about Macky getting hit.”
I almost gag on the smoke. After coughing and clearing my throat, I say, “You have my undivided attention.”
He drinks, draws on his smoke. “And he asked me about Joe Sacci. He reamed me for not knowing anything about the ‘power struggle’ going on between Macky and Joe and Tarasov.”
“Does he know Macky’s dead?”
“Know it? No, you only know it when you find the dearly departed’s corpse, or what’s left of it. The rumor he got clipped, though, is circulating via the snitch grapevine.”
Thinking, Jimmy Coyle, I say, “I might know the source of that, uh, vicious rumor….Rest easy, the source is one we need not worry about anymore.”
He gets it; not that he is outwardly happy about it, but he definitely gets it. He takes a gulp of beer. “Abel also brought up what they’re calling the Beverly Barbecue.”
“The Beverly what?”
“Levitch and Latzo.”
I reflexively show him a palm. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Then how the fuck you know what I’m talking about?”
Smart-ass. “My ears are always open.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “Anyway, they identified Latzo’s remains from a dog tag he wore that survived the fire. They’re working on identifying what’s left of Levitch, but they figure it’s her from her association with Latzo. Abel told me word on the street is Sacci and Tarasov were in on the Barbecue together. Macky’s snuff, too.”
“Shit.”
He nods as he smokes. “That about sums it up, yeah.”
“What steps are your blue friends taking to investigate all this?”
“Other than what I’ve already told you, I’m gonna be your worst source on all that. Abel’s barred me from having anything to do with either investigation. He said I have a conflict of interest.” He halts the can of beer before it reaches his mouth, says, “Because of you, for starters,” and drinks, swallows, crushes the can in the palm of his hand. “He also knows I’ve been hanging around the Venetian lately, and he jumped my ass because I haven’t reported it to him. He said your Sacci connection gave my presence at the Venetian project the appearance of impropriety. And he asked if you had recruited me to work with Joe.”
“The latter question shows how much he knows….How did he know you were hanging around the Venetian?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, but obviously somebody saw me go in there or leave there. I tried to smooth it over by saying Nico’s a confidential informant, but…” He shrugs.
“I take it this supervisor of yours did not buy that story.”
He hesitates an instant, says, “Some of it, but not much. He basically told me he knows what I’ve been up to with Joe, and gave me a walk on all of it. It’s a cop thing, you know, the Blue Code?”
“Yeah, yeah, everyone has heard of this. I just hope your so-called Blue Code has not gone the way of our omertà.”
“It could, because his silence comes with conditions. He said I have to sever all ties with Sacci, and not to go around anybody connected to him again.”
“Me included?
“If you weren’t included, we wouldn’t be having drinks in this fucking hole.”
I nod, shrug. “Well, to the extent it matters to you, I am no longer connected to Joe Sacci. My retirement became official today, at a meeting with Joe and Viktor. He threw me a ‘retirement party’ at his place.”
He grimaces, smirks. “You’re shittin’ me.”
I shake my head. “No, my son, I shit you not.” I finish my beer, grab two out of the sack at my feet, hand him one and pop min
e. “I had an old-fashioned send-off, minus the gold watch. I am out, permanently out.”
I draw on my cigarette, gauging his reaction through the smoke. My son is studying me as if seeing me for the first time, and the brain waves we exchange are encouraging.
“So,” he says, “what the hell are you going to do to occupy your time, play shuffleboard?”
I smile, having zero intention of telling him I have one more job to pull off before my real retirement begins. “Enjoy life,” I say, and to dial up the good vibrations a few more notches, I unsnap the briefcase at my feet, remove an envelope, and toss it to him.
He flinches when he catches it, eyes it, fingers its thickness, tests its heft.
Man, I always dig the look on his face when I give him money.
A shy smile creeping across his face, he runs his fingers through his hair, hair like mine and his mother’s—jet black and curly, thick. “How much is in here?”
I say, “Half of what I owe you.”
“And the other half?”
“You will get it right after we return home from a Dodger’s game, any one you want to attend. Just let me know when you are ready.”
He shakes his head. “Me and this ball game thing you have playing in your head like a stuck record could be a case study for psychiatric interns,” he says. “But I can ultimately work in a ball game if it’s that important to you.”
I smile.
He raises his rump to stuff the envelope in his back pocket. “I could get addicted to paydays like this. I’m almost sorry you’re retiring.” He smiles. “Almost.”
“I understand.”
He inclines his head and edges forward in his seat as if preparing to stand. “Look, uh, I hate to just take a bribe and run, but I do have to run.” He must read the disappointment in my face, because he resettles, clasping his hands in his lap. “But I guess I can stay another minute or two.”
This small gesture of respect pleases me. “If you need to go, go. Tell me first, just for fun, where do you need to be?”
This question seems to make him uncomfortable. He twists his neck as if to crack it. “A few stops related to the murder case I mentioned this morning. The victim was a young girl we found last night in MacArthur Park, a prostitute, from all appearances. She went to Compton High.”
Deadly Lullaby Page 20
