I pursed my lips. “I sent him home.”
“That doesn’t look nice.”
“Why should he get involved?”
“He’s already involved.”
“Ask anyone in the restaurant. We weren’t together more than ten minutes.”
“We did ask people, Decker. And what you said is true. And that in and of itself is suspicious. Ten minutes is more than enough time to buy a baggie.”
I stared in disbelief. “You think he was a dealer?”
“You tell me.”
“Why?” I snapped. “Because he’s black?”
Brill’s face remained flat. “You tell me.”
“He’s a critical-care nurse at Mid-City Peds. We were arranging a date.”
“That can be done on the phone.”
“He just got off shift. He wanted to see me in person. The poor man had been working for almost four days straight. I took one look at him and sent him home to get some sleep.”
“Name?”
I sighed heavily. “Yaakov Kutiel. He was the same guy I was with when I witnessed the hit-and-run.”
Brill was silent.
“He was just walking me to my car.”
“So he’s your boyfriend?”
Not anymore,I thought to myself. “We’ve dated.” I was losing patience. I took a couple of deep breaths. “I didn’t plant the pills. End of story.”
Again he was silent.
“If I were you,” I said, “I’d start thinking about how I could use this boon.”
Brill looked at me.
“Like using the pills to get him to talk about Sarah Sanders’s rape.”
“If it wasn’t fiction.”
“Can’t we at least find out?”
“We?”
It was time to show them I had an ego. “I made the bust. My presence in the room will make him nervous. But you can do all the talking.”
“Gee, thanks, Decker.”
“If he wasn’t the point man in the rape, maybe you can use the pills to get him to flip and tell us who it was.”
“What makes you think he wasn’t the point man?”
I shrugged. “Sarah described the meanest guy as being a white guy with a shaved head. Let’s just put him on the griddle and see how high he jumps.”
Brill got a call on his cell. He stood up, spoke a second, then hung up. “Excuse me.”
I shrugged.
He left the room. I knew they were conferring on the other side of the mirror. Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Mack Stone from Hollywood Detectives came into the room with Brill. Stone was in his mid-fifties, around six-two, with a thick build, fleshy features, and a head of dark, curly hair. He sat across from me, giving me one of those intense looks.
“How’s your arm?”
“My arm?”
“Connor says you have quite an arm.”
“Oh.” He was referring to my position on the LAPD Hollywood Bowling League—women’s division. We made first last year. “Ready to do it again, sir.” After my awful rookie year, I was determined to be ever the good sport.
Stone frowned, the creases on his forehead like wrinkles on a bulldog. Stubby fingers raked through his hair. “Germando El Paso. What do you want with him specifically?”
“I want to see if he was involved in the gang rape.”
“Where’d you get your information about his involvement?”
“A street person.”
“Who?”
I shrugged. “A bag lady, sir.”
“A bag lady?”
“Yes. But before I went after him, I looked him up and made sure I’d have something to hold him on if I caught him. The last thing I wanted was to be hung out to dry. The baggie was a bonus, sir. And it sure as hell explains why he ran from me.”
“He looks like a fast little mother. How’d you run him down?”
“I’m very quick, sir.”
“I mean, you wouldn’t have pulled a gun on him for a traffic warrant.”
“I would never point my weapon at a fleeing traffic violator. That is flagrant misuse of a firearm.”
“How’d you get him down without your gun?”
“I caught up with him and whacked him on the back. He tripped and fell.”
Stone studied my face. “Ever made the list of forty-four?”
I laughed. The list of forty-four was reserved for those officers with the worst civilian complaint records. “Uh, no.”
“Charges against you?”
“None.” I looked at him. “Why? Is El Paso thinking of throwing a brutality charge at me?”
He smiled. “Not by the time we’re done with him.”
∇
“You’re in deep turd,mi amigo, ” Brill said. “You’re looking at a felony drug conviction: possession with intent to sell. That’s a lot of jail time. Then, when you combine it with your traffic warrant and your prior drug conviction, I think a case could be made for three strikes.”
El Paso’s pitted, thin face lost color, his ashen cheeks in stark contrast to the black shirt he wore. His legs were housed in a pair of baggy, saggy jeans. His nose and forehead were scraped from his fall, adding more markings to his punk visage. He had tattoos on his hands, tattoos on the back of his neck. I’m sure if he took his shirt off, he’d be a gallery of blue ink.
Three strikes meant a mandatory life term in prison. Germando’s charges didn’t qualify, but he didn’t know that.
“She plant them,” he shouted out.
“No, she didn’t plant them,” Brill said. “You know how we know that?”
Germando didn’t speak.
“We found a witness who was with her.”
“See, I tell you she was with someone. A black man. A dealer—”
“No, he isn’t a dealer,” Brill explained, “but he is her boyfriend.”
“Her boyfriend is a dealer?”
“No, Germando, he’s not a dealer. But being as they’re close, when we get him on the witness stand, whose side do you think he’s going to be on, hmmm?”
Germando grew sullen. “I wan’ my lawyer.”
“Sure,” Brill said. “But before you make the call, I want to tell you a little story. It might help you out if you listen. Might help you out big time.”
El Paso raised his brown eyes to my face, then to Brill.
Justice said, “This story goes back maybe six months ago. A rape,amigo, and notjust a rape. This is a gang rape in the men’s bathroom at MacFerren Park. And not just any gang rape, it’s the gang rape of a retarded girl who was fooling around with her retarded boyfriend. Someone beat the crap out of him, then threw him in the trash can. He was left for dead. Sound familiar?”
His eyes got wide, but he shook his head. “No. I never hurt no one.”
“Nothing like that.”
“I don’t hurt no one.”
“I’m not saying you did. Just that you might have been there.”
“Nah . . . I no there.”
I said, “We put you in a lineup, Germando. We bring the girl in.” I pointed to his neck. “That tiger on your throat is a pretty obvious calling card.”
“You say she’s retarded.” El Paso rubbed his watery nose. “No one will believe her.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” I told him. “I think lots of people will believe her.” I leaned across the table and poured him another glass of water. “The point is . . . are you sure enough to take a chance in front of twelve people who’d love to give a banger twenty to life?”
Brill said, “You want to call your lawyer now?”
Stark silence. We both waited him out.
El Paso said, “Wha’ happens when I call my lawyer?”
“Then we stop talking and you’re charged with felony drug possession,” I told him.
His eyes darted back and forth. “And if I no call him?”
“Then we keep talking,” Brill told him.
“We talk about the story Detective Brill just told you,” I added.<
br />
“I never touch that kind of girl. She no right in the head.”
“But you know who we’re talking about,” I said.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe isn’t a good answer,” Brill told him. “Maybe makes us think you’d say anything to avoid a drug conviction.”
“I hear about it,” El Paso said. “I hear that they do a re-tard. Me? I no interested in the girl. Too ugly.”
“Who did her?” Brill asked.
“Wha’ you give me if I remember good?”
“Up to our lawyers,” Brill said. “I’ve got to present the situation to them. But I can’t present the situation if I don’t know it. That means you have to tell it to me.”
“But once I tell, I have nothin’.”
“You have to trust us,” I said.
El Paso laughed.
“That hurts my feelings,” I said.
“Not as much as you’ dealer boyfrien’ hurt my back.”
“Bah humbug!” I lit a cigarette for him. He took it.
Brill said, “Start talking, Germando. I’m tired.”
“I know. You look like shit.” El Paso gave me a lecherous smile. “Now, you, mama, you lookgood. ”
I took his cigarette away. “Germando . . . ifI can take you down like I did, those gorillas inside will have you touching your toes in an eye blink. Now be polite and start talking.” I stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, then sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.
Brill’s eyes went from my face to El Paso’s ugly mug.
“I don’ do nothin’ to her,” he reiterated. “I just wait at the door till they done.”
“Who did something to her?”
“Maybe Juice Fedek . . . Pepe Renaldes maybe. I don’ remember. Long time ago.”
I said, “The boy you beat up—”
“I don’ beat up no one,” El Paso stated.
“Someone beat him up,” I said.
“Not me. Maybe the others.”
“Was he alive when you left?”
El Paso shrugged. “I jus’ wait at the door.”
“Where’d you get the bag from?” Brill asked.
“What?”
“The bag of X,” Brill said. “Who’d you buy it from?”
Again El Paso asked for his lawyer. This time, he was adamant. The door to discussion was officially closed and dead-bolted.
29
Juice Fedekwas Joseph Nicholas Fedek: twenty-one years of age, a young man with a seasoned record—two breaking-and-entering charges, one assault, two misdemeanor drug possessions, two DUIs with a suspended license for a year. Eight months in county, bumped into early parole due to overcrowding. Then he was picked up on a DUI, served an additional four months, another early release, same reason. Where he parked himself was anyone’s guess and Germando claimed he hadn’t seen him since his last tour in the cellar.
Pepe Renaldes was gainfully employed by Do-Rite Construction—bonded and licensed. The company’s claim to fame was custom-built homes in Brentwood, a liberal, ritzy white area in the West Side of Los Angeles, a neighborhood I knew intimately because my mother and stepfather lived there. They had their book clubs, their wine-and-cheese parties, and their endless discussions on the state of the world. I loved my mother dearly. As my father admitted, she had not been given a fair shake in her first marriage. She was happy now, and that was good. But I could take the intellectualizing only in small doses. Their lifestyle had all the pitfalls of backbiting academia without the college credits.
Since both lads were lacking outstanding warrants, I had no choice but to wait until a game plan was formulated between El Paso’s lawyer and the DA. I had wanted to show their mugs to Sarah Sanders, see if she could pick them out of a six-pack, but I was told to hold off. With my hands figuratively bound, I went on my shift and worked a solid eight hours, getting home around twelve, exhausted and depleted.
Lots of phone messages, but none from Koby. No e-mails from him, either.
Why wasn’t I surprised?
Saturday was devoted to finding David Tyler. That meant phone calls to homeless shelters, halfway houses, and other community centers for the developmentally disabled. Then there was my “sacrosanct” lunch with Mom. As I traveled around Brentwood, I looked for houses going up and Do-Rite Construction signs, but was out of luck.
There were still no messages from Koby when I got home. That would die unless I got things going again. So on Sunday, I swallowed my pride. I went shopping and bought him an orange shirt—on sale and nonreturnable. Afterward, I wondered why in the hell I did it, because who was this guy to me.
I should have dusted him, except I was lonely. Over the past year, I couldn’t find the energy to attend parties or barhop, so where was I going to meet guys except at work and that wasO-U-T —out. There had been chemistry between us and I was loath to give that up. Still, I waged an internal debate.
In the meantime, I hopped in my car and went over the canyon to visit Dad, wanting to fill him in on my search for David Tyler—or so I told myself. What I really wanted was some old-fashioned pats on the back for a job well done with Germando El Paso. As I approached my father’s house, Koby’s gift in hand, I wondered why I was carrying it.
Yeah, right.
I knocked on the door. Rina answered. “Hi, honey. Your dad isn’t home. He took Hannah out for one of those painting things. You know, you paint a plate and they charge you fifty bucks for something you’re going to put in a drawer and never use.”
I smiled. I knew what she was talking about.
“Come in. I’ll find the address for you.”
“Nah, never mind. Just tell him I stopped by.”
Rina studied my face. By the look on hers, I must not have appeared neutral, let alone happy. “Cindy, you drove out all this way. Why don’t you wait for him? He’ll be back in an hour.”
“No thanks. Just tell him I’ve gone through about a quarter of the possibilities and I’m still looking for David. He’ll know what I mean. He can call me later on. Just to discuss a few things.”
Rina pulled me inside. “How about some coffee?”
I smiled and shrugged. She hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. I followed obediently. I swept my hand across the kitchen counter.
Rina said, “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing.” What a stupid response. “I’ll get through it, Rina. Thanks.”
She didn’t push it. “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh.” I took out my purchase. “It’s for Koby.”
The shirt was bright orange, more vivid than I had remembered. Rina stared at it.
I said, “I got it on sale. Nonreturnable.”
“I can . . . understand that.”
I smiled. “Koby likes color.”
“Well, then, he’ll certainly like that.”
“He ruined one of his shirts at the accident, using it to stop some bleeding. I thought I’d replace it.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“It will be if I give it to him.”
Rina waited for more. I didn’t offer up anything. She poured two cups. “It’s fresh. You take yours with cream, right?”
“Cream and an Equal. Girly coffee.”
“Me too.”
I drank the coffee. It was good and had cinnamon in it, and that only made me feel worse.
She said, “This, too, shall pass.”
“I guess everything passes eventually. You die.”
Rina smiled. “Now you’re sounding like your father.”
“God forbid.”
“No, that’s a good thing. I love your father.”
“That makes two of us.” I put the cup down. “I don’t know, Rina. This was going to be a peace offering. Now I have doubts if it’s even worth it. Maybe I should cut my losses.”
“You know best.”
“I like him. But men are so damn difficult.”
“Get me in the right mood, I�
�ll agree with you,” Rina said. “This weekend, your father has been a doll.”
“Maybe it’s me.”
“Want my advice for what it’s worth?”
“Sure.”
“The shirt’s not returnable. It’s for a rather specific taste. Give it to Koby. Otherwise it’ll go to waste.”
∇
The day was spectacular, even if I wasn’t. His car was in the driveway, and for a moment, I just wished it would all go away—all the bad feelings that got in the way of life—so we could hop inside and cruise on an endless highway. I rang the bell, and when he didn’t answer, I went by the side and peered over the gate. This time, the back door wasn’t open, but I could see motion in the garden. I tried the latch, but it was padlocked. He wasn’t expecting visitors, but I didn’t care. I hopped the fence.
“Hello?” I called out.
“In back.”
The orange trees were still heavy with blossoms and perfume. I stopped at the entrance to his backyard. He was right. A week later and the garden had turned all color and aroma. He was trimming the rosebushes, wearing faded jeans, a green tank top, and sneakers without socks. He gave me the courtesy of a glance, then clipped off a stem containing a ruby red bud.
“Wow!” I brushed my black slacks off, dirty from my excursion over the fence. “It’s beautiful back here.”
“Thank you.” He glanced at me, then began to peel thorns off the branch. “But I think I have the better view.”
I thanked him. “How’s the back-room floor coming?”
He spoke to me, though he was focused on the flower. “It’s not coming. I don’t use power tools when I’m upset.”
He held out the stem to me.
I took it and sniffed it. “Très élégant!And as long as we’re in a giving mood . . .” I lifted the bag. “A little more pedestrian, but like someone said, it’s the thought that counts.”
He regarded my present, wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a shiny gift bag with rope handles. “For me?”
“Unless there’s someone behind you, yes.”
His eyes, although no longer bloodshot, still lacked sparkle. They went from the gift to my face. “I’m utterly stunned. I don’t know what to say.”
“ ‘Thank you’ is always in fashion.”
“Thank you.”
Street Dreams Page 23
