Pacific Homicide

by Patricia Smiley

  Vaughn had been unusually quiet, but when he heard that he abandoned the sculpture. “What’s a live drawing?”

  Gallway pulled a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “A model poses nude while I sketch. Every fifteen minutes or so she moves to a different position. It’s a great way for an artist to study the human body.”

  “I’ll bet,” Vaughn said. “How much did you pay her?”

  “A hundred dollars and all the food she could eat, which wasn’t much.”

  “Did that include dessert?” Vaughn asked.

  Red splotches appeared on Gallway’s cheeks. “What exactly are you implying, detective?”

  Davie fired off a question to cut the tension. “How long did she stay?”

  “About a month.”

  “Why did she leave? Did you two have a falling out?”

  “More like a falling in. Anya fell in love.”

  “With Andre Lucien?”

  Gallway poured milk into a metal cup and held it up to a metal arm attached to the machine. The frothing produced a strangling sound, the sound Anya must have made when somebody’s hands closed around her neck and choked away her life. She studied Gallway’s long agile fingers. They seemed delicate, but they might still be strong enough to end a woman’s life.

  “She met him at the beach,” Gallway said. “Apparently, she found him irresistible.”

  “How did you feel about that?” Davie asked.

  Gallway poured the milky foam into the cup. “I was happy for her.”

  She studied his expression but saw no sign he was lying. Still, no man liked getting dumped, especially a successful man like Gallway who might expect gratitude for taking in a homeless waif like Anya Nosova.

  Davie waited until he carried the cappuccino to the leather chair across from her. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The day she moved out. I didn’t hear from her again until a week ago. She called and asked if she could move back in with me. She told me she was pregnant but the father didn’t want the baby. She needed a place to get away and think. I told her I was in a new relationship and it wouldn’t be convenient.”

  “How did she take the news?”

  “She cried. I felt terrible. When I first met Anya I got the impression all she ever wanted was to be a wife and mother. To me it seemed hopelessly old-fashioned, especially for a beautiful young girl with her whole life ahead of her. But that’s why she wanted braces.”

  “Braces might get you married and pregnant in Vladivostok,” Vaughn said, “but not in L.A. How’d she figure?”

  Gallway’s jaw muscles tensed as he wheeled around to meet Vaughn’s pointed stare. “Her teeth were crooked. She thought if she had straight teeth her children would, too, and that would make her a more attractive marriage partner. I told her it didn’t work that way, but she didn’t believe me. Her naïveté was charming, so I referred her to orthodontist friend of mine.”

  From what Davie was learning about Anya Nosova, she guessed the woman’s yearning for braces was less charming naïveté and more posturing for free orthodontia.

  “Who paid the dentist?”

  He shrugged. “I think he did the work for free.”

  Anya had a knack for tapping into the kindness of strangers: Skjelstad, Lucien, Gallway, and now the dentist. She was sounding more and more like a modern-day Blanche DuBois.

  Davie wrote the orthodontist’s contact information in her notebook. “Who was the baby’s father?”

  He took a sip of the cappuccino. “I assumed it was Andre. You must have asked him. What did he say?”

  “That the baby wasn’t his.”

  He leaned toward, his face strained. “Then whose was it? You have to find him. They’re probably together.” He set the cup on the coffee table. “Look, I’ve answered all your questions. You’ve ignored most of mine. There’s something you’re not telling me. What’s happened to Anya?”

  Gallway’s concern seemed genuine. Either he was an accomplished actor as well as an artist or he didn’t know that Anya was dead. Telling somebody that a loved one had been killed was always the worse part of the job for Davie, but there was no reason to withhold the bad news any longer.

  “Anya’s been murdered,” she said.

  There was silence and then a sharp intake of breath. Gallway’s shoulders slumped and anguish settled into the lines of his tanned face. There was no surely you don’t think I did it. He seemed unaware that she and Vaughn might consider him a suspect. Still, there had to be a reason a sophisticated man like Gallway was interested in a naïve girl like Anya. It was a small detail that didn’t fit the pattern. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

  Nobody tells the truth anymore.

  “Where were you last Saturday night?” she asked.

  “Santa Barbara,” Gallway said. “We were at the Biltmore all weekend.”

  Before she could ask another question, she heard the outside door open and footsteps advance toward the living room. Vaughn moved toward the hall with his hand on his weapon just as a man in his twenties rounded the corner. He was dressed in Spandex cycling gear and had a helmet tucked under one arm. He looked sweaty and physically taxed, as if he had just battled Lance Armstrong up L’Alpe d’Huez.

  Vaughn’s sudden movement apparently unnerved Gallway because his tone became shrill. “It’s okay. It’s Rod.”

  At first, she thought Rod was just another model arriving at the condo to pose nude, but when he reached for the Lalique bowl that Vaughn had moved and centered it perfectly inside the dust-free circle on the table, she knew he had intimate knowledge of this place.

  “I have horrible news,” Gallway said, extending his hand toward the young man. “Anya’s been murdered.”

  The helmet fell to the floor with a hollow thud. A moment later, Rod knelt in front of Gallway, surrounding him with an intimate, comforting embrace.

  Anya had told Lucien that Gallway had been her lover, but that was another lie in what was becoming a long list of them. Davie wondered why Gallway hadn’t admitted upfront that the two had never slept together. Maybe he assumed she and Vaughn already knew.

  There was someone else in Anya’s life, then. A secret lover whose identity she had hidden from everyone. Secrets didn’t remain secret forever. Someone knew. People talked. Davie hoped Anya’s telephone records would lead her to the baby’s father and possibly to her killer.

  14

  Vaughn rescued his latte from the floor of the car moments before Davie pulled away from Gallway’s condo. As they approached the entrance to the 405, Vaughn’s cell phone rang. Davie could tell from listening to her partner’s side of the conversation that there had been another homicide in Pacific Division.

  He ended the call and turned to her. “That was Giordano. He wants us back at the station—pronto.”

  “What happened?”

  “A tourist in Venice stumbled over a body in an alley off Main. He’s assigning me as IO, so you’re on your own, partner.”

  “Where are Garcia and Montes?”

  Vaughn took a sip of his latte. “Garcia is off until Monday, Montes is in court. It’s just you and me for now.”

  Davie entered the freeway on the Wilshire onramp. “The second murder in the division and it’s still January. That’s a regular crime wave. Who’s the vic?”

  “A homeless junkie named Beau Fischer. Giordano says he hung out mostly in Venice, but Santa Monica PD scooped him up a couple times on drug charges and ADW.”

  Davie wasn’t surprised. Assault with a Deadly Weapon and drugs were common in the homeless community. “Any suspects?”

  “Another hype probably killed him over dope. Just my luck, you get vatrushkis and movie stars, and I get to do a bum sweep in Venice, looking for witnesses.”

  “We need all kinds of
experience if we want to be good detectives.”

  Vaughn made a drama out of swiveling toward the backseat. “I hear an echo. Is Giordano in the car?”

  She let Vaughn off at the sidewalk in front of the station. Then she headed east toward the Volga Bakery, knowing there was one stop she had to make first.

  The building’s dull brick façade seemed to sag under the burden of an ornate sign: Garden Vista Assisted Living Apartments. Davie parked in the garage and made her way to the front desk. She jotted her name on the log and waited while the ancient elevator groaned to the second floor. At the end of the hallway, she used a key to enter unit 221. The room was filled with remnants of a life well-lived: a chintz loveseat, a grandfather clock, and a rogue’s gallery of family photos clustered together in silver-toned frames mounted on the wall.

  “Who’s there?”

  It was a woman’s voice, quivery and frail. A cloud of snowy hair rested against the back of a blue recliner as the footrest retreated, leaving the woman in a sitting position.

  “It’s me, Grammy. I just stopped by to say hello.”

  “Davie? Is Robbie with you?”

  Her grandmother couldn’t see that Davie’s brother wasn’t in the room. Macular degeneration had stolen nearly all of her sight.

  “I came alone.”

  The slight slump of her shoulders conveyed disappointment, but she disguised it with practiced cheer. “How lovely.”

  Davie leaned over so her grandmother’s outstretched hand could touch her face. Grammy’s hand felt soft and cool against her skin. It smelled of Jergens lotion, triggering childhood memories of weekends at her grandparents’ house, when Poppy was still alive and all things seemed possible.

  “Your mother was just here. I’m sorry you missed her.”

  Davie didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. She hadn’t seen her mother in six months and that was fine with her. After her father was forced out of the LAPD, he descended into a dark pit of despair. Her mother found Bear’s depression impossibly dreary. She said she had to get out of the house or she’d go crazy. A gym membership was just what she needed to clear her head. Soon after, she had exercised her buff new body into the bed of a wealthy real estate developer. The two married before the ink was dry on her parents’ divorce papers. At fifteen, Davie was left to deal with her mother’s betrayal and her father’s shattered psyche. Bear had recovered; the relationship between Davie and her mother had not.

  After a long silence, her grandmother said, “I know Evelyn has her faults, but she’s still my daughter.”

  “She’s lucky to have you in her corner.”

  “I’m in your corner, too, Davie.”

  “I know, Grammy.”

  It was almost four thirty p.m. One of the aides would arrive soon to take her grandmother to eat in the community dining room. Grammy was still in her slippers, so Davie brought her shoes and support stockings from the bedroom and knelt by her chair. The stockings were tight, so it took some tugging to get them onto her feet and pulled up to her knees.

  “Are you still living alone in that man’s guesthouse?”

  “His name is Alexander Camden. He’s a good guy. Don’t worry.”

  “What happened to that nice young man you were dating?”

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “I’m sorry. I liked him.”

  “I know, but not every man is Poppy.”

  “I suppose not,” she said. “Your grandfather was special, but I worry there’s nobody around that place for you to talk to. Not like at an apartment house where you bump into people at the Dumpster. Don’t you get lonely?”

  “I get together with friends when I can. Right now there’s not much time for that. I’m always at work.”

  “Even on the weekends?”

  Davie slipped the shoes onto her grandmother’s feet and fastened the Velcro straps. “Sometimes.”

  “But sometimes you’re at home. Maybe you need a dog to keep you company.”

  “I can’t take care of a dog right now, Grammy.”

  She sighed. “You’re probably right. Dogs get bored without their people. A cat?”

  Davie picked up a comb from the end table and used the rat-tail to refresh the curls on her grandmother’s head.

  “Someday, maybe.”

  “I worry that you’re alone. It makes me think about the thing that happened to you.”

  Her grandmother called her officer-involved shooting “The Thing,” for the same reason the people of Northern Ireland referred to their history as “The Troubles”—because surviving violence gives you license to abbreviate. Davie was still angry that her mother had burdened Grammy about details of Abel Hurtado’s death. It was just another of her piss-poor decisions.

  “That was months ago, Grammy. Nothing like that will ever happen to me again.”

  “There are a lot of bad people in this world, Davie. Sometimes it’s hard to pick them out of a crowd.”

  Years of training and experience as a cop had taught her how to pick bad guys out of a crowd. At least she hoped so. Anya Nosova hadn’t been so lucky.

  Davie kissed the wrinkles creasing her grandmother’s forehead. “I have to get back to work now.”

  Her grandmother patted Davie’s cheek. “I wish you could stay for dinner. It’s always a treat to watch Mrs. Edelstein drool in her tapioca.”

  “Sounds like fun. How about a rain check?” Davie stood. “I may not be able to stop by tomorrow, but I’ll call for sure.”

  “I know you will. You always do.”

  Davie paused at the door. “Bye, Grammy. Love you.”

  “Love you much.”

  It was the same goodbye script the two had repeated for as long as Davie could remember. A rush of emotion filled her chest. Some might have called it love, but she had learned that certain things were too pure to dilute with labels.

  The elevator lumbered to the ground floor. When the doors opened, she signed out and headed for her car. Parked just outside the front door in the loading zone was a dusty cable company van. The dirt was unusual. Most companies kept their vehicles clean because, to many customers, clean equaled high-quality product and good service. Even Pacific detectives were expected to wash city vehicles in the car wash next to the station’s garage.

  She glanced up and caught the driver watching her. The guy looked normal enough—buff, blond, and neat in his company polo shirt—but his eyes were narrowed and calculating. Grammy was right. Picking bad guys out of a crowd wasn’t easy. It took practice.

  A moment later, the cable guy broke eye contact and Davie returned to the car. A dirty van was a small detail that probably meant nothing, but a lot of men had served time in prison because of her. Call it intuition. She had learned not to ignore those feelings. During the drive across town to the Volga Bakery, she kept checking her rearview window for any signs she was being followed.

  15

  “Skål!” Malcolm Harrington clinked glasses with his host Thor Amdahl in the dining room of the Sons of Norway Lodge, a converted house in a Van Nuys residential neighborhood of low-slung homes and squat apartment buildings.

  Harrington was still feeling buoyed after his successful meeting with the mayor, so while waiting for the dinner meeting to begin, he downed a glass of aquavit and dutifully admired the lodge’s gift shop filled with all things Norsk, including rosemalled plates, krumkake bakers, aebleskiver pans, and lefsa grills. His enthusiasm had earned him an invitation to the annual lutefisk and meatball dinner in November. Lye-soaked fish swimming in butter was not at all appealing, but excursions into the city’s cultural backwater were part of his new job as Inspector General. The police commission’s goal was to increase ethnic diversity in the ranks of the LAPD, and if any group qualified as a minority in the City of Angels, it was Norwegian-Americans. He doubted there was a single person in all o
f city government who knew the meaning of uffda!

  Harrington felt his cell phone vibrating in his coat pocket. He checked the display and saw that the call was from LAPD Internal Affairs Investigator Alex Sloan. Shortly after speaking to the mayor, he had asked Sloan to reopen the Davie Richards investigation. He must have found something or he wouldn’t be calling so soon.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Thor, but I have to take this call.”

  Amdahl glanced at the women setting up the buffet. “Should we wait dinner for you then?”

  “Why don’t you start without me?”

  “Oh boy, I’ll save you a seat, but you’d better hurry up. The reindeer roast goes fast.”

  Harrington hurried outside the building before answering the call, hunching his shoulders against the cold air. “What is it, Alex? I’m up to my eyeballs in knackbrod and limpa.”

  “I’m parked across the street. We need to talk.”

  Harrington scanned the area and saw the flashing headlights of a city ride. He walked across a strip of dead grass in front of the building and made his way to the vehicle. As soon as he opened the passenger door, the collective reek of cigarette smoke and pine air freshener assaulted his senses. Hot air blasting through the vent only exaggerated the odor. Harrington slid into the passenger seat. He shut off the heater and lowered the window to get some fresh air.

  Harrington had requested Sloan because the detective also worked off-duty as a private investigator. Harrington’s law firm had hired him on a few cases and found him to be a loyal soldier even though the man’s addiction to nicotine counted as a character flaw in Harrington’s book.

  “You’ve been smoking in the car again,” he said. “You really should stop.”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “When I’m ready.”

  Harrington accepted temporary defeat. “What did you find?”