Harrington felt the hair stiffen on the back of his neck. “Excuse me? Are you saying Detective Richards wasn’t assigned to MAC?”
Perez ran her finger down the page. “The report says she was assigned to Burglary.”
“Then why was she with Hall?”
Perez looked up. “There was only one other MAC detective on duty that day, Hall’s partner, but he’d been subpoenaed to testify in court. There was nobody else available, so Detective Richards volunteered to go on the call. Why? Is it important?”
“Maybe. I knew her father, William Richards. I tried a case against him and the LAPD years ago in civil court.”
Perez returned the file to the desk. “Her dad’s a cop too?”
Harrington stared at her without responding.
“Sorry,” she continued. “My mother always tells me I’m too nosy.”
Perez’s gaze was direct and unflinching. She didn’t look sorry; she looked ambitious, a good quality in an employee as long as it was paired with loyalty. Only time would tell if she had either trait.
Harrington held up his hand to stop any further apology. “You work for a man whose job it is to ask questions. My history with William Richards is no secret. Fifteen years ago, he worked as a gang detective. During a drug bust, he shot a sixteen-year-old named Daniel Luna and left him permanently confined to a wheelchair. Richards claimed the boy reached inside his waistband for a weapon, but no weapon was found. The LAPD brass ruled the shooting was within policy.”
“You disagreed?”
“I believe the LAPD ignored evidence against Richards because Daniel was a gang member and a known drug dealer.”
Harrington had taken the case pro bono because Daniel’s mother, Maria Luna, begged for his help. All these years later, he still remembered her perfect caramel skin and the sheen of her thick black hair cascading down her back. The way she looked at him in court—
adoration bordering on hero worship—unleashed a chorus of hosannas that made the Mormon Tabernacle choir seem like humming off key in the shower.
Perez opened a nearby file drawer and pulled out a box of Godiva chocolates. “Yours?”
Harrington had just turned sixty-one, but he prided himself on keeping fit. He leaned back in the chair with his hands behind his head, exposing a stomach flat from running and lifting weights. “Do I look like a man who indulges in sweets?”
Perez shrugged and put the chocolates in the box. “Do you know Davina Richards?”
“Only from seeing her in court every day. She was a piece of work.”
“What happened with the case?”
“William Richards took the stand and claimed he was innocent. The jury believed him. They decided neither the LAPD nor Richards was liable for Luna’s injuries.”
Perez had filled one box with her former boss’s property and began taping it shut. “Must have been disappointing.”
That’s a gross understatement, he thought. For a long time after the trial, the injustice of the verdict burned Harrington’s stomach like molten lava. He began soliciting clients who had been wronged by the police, vowing to never lose another righteous case. Over the years, he had filed numerous lawsuits against the LAPD. His supporters called him a watchdog. Detractors called him a zealot. He thought of himself as the conscience of cops who didn’t have one of their own.
“I believe Richards was testilying—perjuring himself on the witness stand.”
Harrington remembered the look on Davie Richards’s face when the verdict was announced. It was a combination of relief and anger. Understandable. She was a teenager supporting her father. He had almost felt compassion toward her until she shot him a hostile stare as he followed Maria Luna out of the courtroom. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard her mumble the word asshole. He shouldn’t have let it bother him, but he had just watched Maria’s adoration for him crumble and in his memory, Davie Richards’s asshole had turned to loser, a word that stung.
“Do you think the daughter could be lying about why she shot Mr. Hurtado?”
“Anything’s possible. Even back then, she was a hothead who had no respect for authority.”
“Whatever happened to William Richards?”
“The LAPD pressured him to resign, but that was no comfort to Daniel’s mother. Her son was still a paraplegic with no medical insurance and no future.”
Perez lifted the framed law degree from a hook on the wall and placed it in the remaining box. “What are you going to do?”
The position of IG had been created because of the LAPD’s history of corruption and abuse of power. Harrington now had God-like power over all police records and personnel to aid any investigation into police misconduct. With one telephone call he could have anything he needed to put Davie Richards under the microscope.
“I’m going to take a fresh look at the investigation.”
Harrington didn’t have to read the reports to know he was going to reopen the case. Maybe the shooting had been within policy, but he had to know for sure. Davie Richards’s old man was a dirty cop who’d gotten away with attempted murder. If his daughter’s OIS case didn’t hold up to scrutiny, he would use the full power of his office to make sure she ended up behind bars.
But before he did anything, he was obligated to inform the Chief of Police of his plans. He didn’t anticipate a warm reception. Chief Juno defended his troops like a gung-ho general.
Harrington gestured toward the boxes. “Save the packing for later. I need to make a call.”
4
Davie maneuvered the Crown Victoria through the crush of traffic on Manchester Boulevard, straining to read the street numbers. She had forgotten her dark glasses, and rays from the afternoon sun pierced the windshield, cutting into her eyes like shards of glass.
Vaughn looked up from the missing person report and glanced out the window. “Pull over. That’s Lucien’s place over there.”
Davie a saw a three-story apartment building with a beige stucco exterior, a flat roof, and balconies that were barely long enough for a napping St. Bernard. The place had as much appeal as bad wine in a plastic glass.
“Let’s park on the side street,” she said. “If Lucien sees a police ride pull up in front of his place, he might get hinky.” She pressed the transmit button on her Rover handheld radio. “Fourteen William sixty-six. Code six at five-eight-two-three Manchester Boulevard.”
“Roger, fourteen William sixty-six,” the dispatcher said, repeating the relevant information.
Davie glanced at her watch. It was twelve fifteen. Department regulations required her to call in a Code 6 whenever she left the car for a field investigation, especially when it was with a possible suspect in a homicide case. She had an hour to let the dispatcher know she was safe. No call and she might get a testy reminder, maybe two. No response after that, the dispatcher would call in the cavalry. Davie couldn’t risk Armageddon over a missed radio call.
As she approached Andre Lucien’s ground-floor unit, she motioned Vaughn to move behind a bush to the side of the door where he could watch unobserved. If anything went wrong, he would be out of the line of fire and ready to react.
While her partner scanned the area for potential trouble, Davie pressed her shoulder to the wall near the door with her hand poised on her gun. Andre Lucien might not pose a threat, but only Superman could see through a closed door. She pounded her fist on the wood. There was no response. She knocked again, louder this time.
“Los Angeles Police Department. Open the door. We’d like to talk to you.”
She stood near the door listening but heard no sounds coming from inside the apartment.
“Dude’s not home,” Vaughn said.
Davie waited a moment longer, just to be sure, before clearing Code 6 with dispatch. “Let’s door-knock the manager,” she said to Vaughn.
According to the ma
ilbox tags in the apartment’s lobby, the manager’s name was John Bell. He occupied the second-floor unit at the opposite end of the building from Lucien’s place.
Bell answered the door in a plaid flannel bathrobe and a Dodgers baseball cap but not much else if his hairy legs and bare feet were any indicator. Davie guessed he was around fifty, wearing an affable smile, and a crumpled mantle of defeat. She introduced herself and told him she had some questions about Anya Nosova.
“Andre told me she didn’t come home last Saturday. I hope she’s okay.”
Davie wanted to find out what Bell knew before telling him Anya was dead. “We have some promising leads.”
Bell gestured them inside. “Cool. Lay ’em on me.”
Davie stepped over the threshold into a small living room separated from the kitchen by a half wall. A black leather recliner, an end table, and a love seat formed a neat L. In one corner of the room, a stack of what looked like movie scripts bundled together with brass-colored brackets formed a column nearly six feet high. Books with titles like How to Create Compelling Characters and The Screenwriters Handbook were strewn across the end table. Hundreds of multicolored three-by-five cards covered the kitchen counter and the beige carpet. Others were pinned to the walls next to photographs of people, which appeared to have been ripped from magazines. The collage reminded Davie of a stalker collecting information on his latest obsession.
“What’s that on the walls?” she asked.
“Story ideas and pictures of my characters. I got the idea from one of my screenwriting books. It helps me stay organized.”
Bell scooped up a fan of cards from the love seat’s cushions and gestured for Davie to sit. Vaughn remained standing but Bell didn’t seem to notice. He pointed toward an open laptop computer on a footstool in front of the chair.
“I’m installing a new operating system, but don’t worry, I can talk and download at the same time.”
Davie glanced around the room. “Are you alone?”
He winked. “Not anymore.” He slumped into the chair, shifting his baseball cap so the bill was backwards, as if he thought that made him look sexy. Davie ignored the gesture. Vaughn moved down the hallway, looking into each room to make sure Bell wasn’t lying about being alone.
Davie kept her expression neutral as she filled out a Field Interview card with information Bell provided, including his height, weight, date of birth, and California driver’s license number. He told her he was a screenwriter who had managed the apartment complex for the past seven years. When she asked if he had any tattoos or distinguishing marks, he said he had a mole on his ass. She declined his invitation to verify in the field.
“What’s the plate number on your vehicle?” she asked.
“Don’t have one. Everything is within walking distance. If I need wheels, I borrow my buddy’s Olds. It’s one of the last ones they made, and it’s a honey. I’d be happy to take you for a spin sometime.”
“Does your buddy have a name?”
Bell glanced at his computer screen, perhaps searching for the answer to her question. “Jerry Forrester.”
“You have a contact number for Mr. Forrester?”
Bell rattled it off but paused before continuing. “It’s a coincidence you showing up today, because I’m writing a spec script about an alcoholic detective who’s afraid of guns. Do you people really call each other dicks, or did some pulp fiction writer make that up? Just curious because I used it in the script, and I don’t want a real detective like yourself rolling her eyes, especially when they’re as beautiful as yours.”
Davie shifted her gaze to Vaughn who had been peering into a room off the hallway. He had obviously heard Bell’s comment because he slapped his palm to his forehead.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We call each other dicks all the time.”
Vaughn used his middle finger to scratch an imaginary itch on his cheek to indicate what he thought of her attempt at humor before moving on to clear another room.
Bell picked up a bowl of popcorn from the floor and thrust it toward her. “Want some? It’s organic.”
“No thanks. How long has Andre Lucien lived in the building?”
Bell grabbed a fist full of kernels and stuffed them into his mouth. “A couple of years. Anya moved in about three or four months ago.” He swallowed and nodded his head toward her gun. “So, how do you like your Glock?”
“It’s a Smith & Wesson. Forty-five.”
Bell looked disappointed. “Really? Somebody told me the LAPD issued Glocks.”
“Not anymore,” she said. “The official duty weapon is a Smith & Wesson M&P.”
Bell hesitated, still thinking about Glocks, no doubt. Davie saw Vaughn in the hallway, walking toward her. He gave her a thumbs-up sign, signaling he had cleared the apartment.
“Do you have a photo of Ms. Nosova?” Vaughn said.
Bell glanced over his shoulder. He looked surprised, as if he had been so focused on Davie that he had forgotten Vaughn was in the apartment.
“A while back I took some snapshots so she could send one to her dad. She’s an only child and he missed her a lot. I think I printed an extra copy.”
“Do you have her dad’s contact information?” Davie asked.
“He lives in Ukraine. Her mother lives in Moscow. They’re divorced. Andre must have the phone numbers.”
“Does Anya have a cell phone?”
“Sure.” Davie wrote down the number, noting that Bell recited it from memory.
Bell walked to a card table in the kitchen that bowed under the weight of stacks of paper. “You guys have a BOLO out for Anya? Or is it called an APB?”
“For now,” Vaughn said, “all we have is a missing person report.”
Bell sorted through the papers on the table until he found the photo. He walked back into the living room and handed it to Davie. The surface of the paper was greasy with a substance that smelled like butter.
Davie stared at the image of a young woman squinting against the sun. A strand of windblown blonde hair was caught in her lip gloss. Matchstick arms poked out of a tank top. Her features were symmetrical and flawless, but the wariness in her eyes confirmed that beauty alone did not always make for a happy life. Her elbow wasn’t in the picture, so Davie couldn’t tell if it was inked with a spiderweb tattoo. She wanted to believe Anya Nosova was somewhere safe and happy, but science would almost certainly prove otherwise. At least now there was a face to the investigation.
“Is this the only picture you have of her?” Davie asked.
Bell hesitated. “No, but that’s the best one. Sometimes it takes a few shots before you get it right.”
“Where are the others?”
“I deleted them. Digital, you know.” Bell paused. “She’s almost as pretty as you are.”
Davie glanced up from the photo, unsure of how long she’d been trapped in her thoughts. “Pardon?”
“Anya. She’s a looker. I told her she should get an agent, do some film work. She has the bones. She told me she came to the US to be a model, but she didn’t like it. Her mom was a prima ballerina with the Bolshoi. Anya traveled all over the world with the company to watch her mom perform, so she’d had enough of celebrity.”
Vaughn took the photo from Davie’s hand but remained standing. “Who did Anya model for?”
“She never said.”
“She’s skinny,” Vaughn went on. “Does she have an eating disorder? A drug habit?”
Bell shrugged. “We all have our demons.”
Vaughn’s tone sharpened. “Which one did she have, Mr. Bell?”
“Neither that I know of.”
“Why did she ask you to take her photo instead of Mr. Lucien?” Davie asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Andre didn’t have a camera.”
“Or maybe the photos were your idea because
you had a thing for her,” Davie said.
Bell’s facial muscles slackened. “Why would you say that?”
She changed the subject, hoping to throw him off balance. “How would you describe Mr. Lucien’s and Ms. Nosova’s relationship?”
“He didn’t treat her right. They argued a lot. He was always pushing her to get pregnant but she didn’t want to have a baby outside of marriage. Money was an issue too.”
“Is Mr. Lucien employed?”
“I don’t know where Andre gets his scratch. He pays the rent on time. The rest is none of my business.”
Bell’s computer dinged. He leaned over and pressed something on the keyboard. “This shouldn’t be taking so long.” He was still looking at the screen so Davie figured he was talking about the download, not the interview.
“Did she have any friends in the area other than Mr. Lucien?” Davie asked.
“None that I know about.”
Vaughn stood near the door scrutinizing Bell. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Nosova?”
Bell pressed another key and the screen flashed shades of purple and blue, like it had suffered a direct hit from a meteor. Davie sat back and waited.
“Around eight o’clock last Saturday night. I hit a wall with my writing, so I walked to the grocery store to buy a bottle of Glenfiddich. That’s the drink of choice for the dick in my script. Research, you know. I got back just as Anya was getting into a taxi. She looked like she was dressed for a night of clubbing.”
“Do you remember the name of the cab company?” Davie said.
He thought for a moment. “Sorry. It was dark outside. I didn’t see the name. Couldn’t even tell what color the car was.”
“Did you notice if she came back to the apartment that night?” Vaughn said.
“Huh-uh. I had a couple of drinks and went to bed. Even without the booze I sleep like the dead.”
“Did you ever have any problems with Mr. Lucien?” she said.
Pacific Homicide Page 3
