Pacific Homicide

by Patricia Smiley

  He hunched against the wind to ignite a cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter. The smoke mingled with swirling dust, exhaust, and the fetid odor drifting from a homeless man sitting next to a shopping cart laden with treasure. A pile of butts, the same brand Quintero was smoking, lay scattered around the detective’s feet. It reminded her, once again, that people were creatures of habit.

  “I hear you used to work RHD,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed into slits, which made Davie think there was a story behind his leaving the unit that probably didn’t include a happy ending. “Call me Q.”

  Not you can call me Q, she noted, just call me Q, like he thought of himself as a one-name celebrity. At least he hadn’t asked her to call him sir. Maybe that came with Attitude 2.0.

  “As I mentioned on the phone—”

  Quintero cut her off. “Yeah, you told me. Here’s a crash course on the Russian mafia. Back in the seventies and eighties, the Soviets relaxed emigration policies. They allowed some good people to emigrate to the US, but they also sent their prison population along for the ride. A group from Odessa settled in Brighton Beach and the Odessa mafia was born. They didn’t expand to Los Angeles until the early eighties, but they’ve been making up for lost time.”

  “I can read all that on the Internet. What I want is recent department intel.”

  “Just because you have a dead Russian girl doesn’t mean the mafia took her out,” he said.

  “The victim had a spiderweb tattoo on her elbow.”

  “That’s a typical Russian prison tat. Those badniks love to ink their bodies. The images read like a memoir. I guess the Russians draw pictures on their skin because they can’t write.” The cigarette between his lips bobbed as he spoke.

  Davie considered challenging Quintero’s assumption, but she doubted that mentioning the works of Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky would alter his attitude.

  “Anya Nosova doesn’t have a rap sheet,” she said, ”and her father told me she was never in trouble back home.”

  “The mafia takes ink seriously. If your girl had an unauthorized prison tat, she might have been green-lighted for a hit.”

  “By the local pakhan?”

  He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised she knew the Russian equivalent for godfather. “He’d kill her just to see if his gun was loaded.”

  “Who are the local players?”

  Quintero inhaled smoke deep into his lungs. “There isn’t much of a structure in L.A., not like in the old country.”

  “There must be somebody leading the pack.”

  He waited for two fresh-faced blue suits with shiny new badges to saunter by before he answered. “Grigory Satine. He owns a nightclub in West Hollywood called Perestroika.”

  Davie didn’t tell Q that she had already spoken to Satine.

  “What’s he into?” she asked.

  “The Russians usually stick to crimes like fraud and extortion. When Satine first put together his syndicate, he tried to sell drugs but he couldn’t compete with homegrown street gangs.”

  “Is he a visionary or a doofus?”

  Quintero swept the area with his gaze. “Look, what I’m about to tell you can’t go beyond the two of us.” He didn’t wait for her agreement. Either he trusted her or he was unaccustomed to anyone challenging his authority. She guessed the latter. “That case I’m working on? Satine is my suspect. We’ve been conducting surveillance on his residences and businesses for months. We think he’s hijacking trucks from the Port of Los Angeles. Other agencies are involved.”

  “FBI?” If the Federal Bureau of Investigation were involved, it could mean that Satine was transporting cargo across state lines.

  Q’s index finger wagged at her like a lazy metronome. “Forget it, Richards. I’m not authorized to say anything else. I can tell you we’re working with a CI. And don’t bother asking who it is. That’s why we call them confidential informants.”

  A young Latina clutching the hand of a toddler ambled by and headed toward the Memorial to Fallen Officers.

  “What’s in the trucks he’s jacking?” she said.

  “Booze and cigarettes, among other things. We traced some of the cargo to Satine’s nightclub.”

  “Sounds like an RSP case,” she said. “When was the last time you saw anybody go to jail for Receiving Stolen Property? Satine will claim he bought the stuff from a seller he thought was legit. If you can’t connect him to the theft, the DA’s office will never file the case.”

  Quintero’s cigarette had burned down to the filter. He took one last hit before crushing it with his heel near the other butts. “We have enough to nail Satine on Grand Theft. There could be other charges too.”

  “Any evidence he’s branching out? Like prostitution?”

  “Could be. He’s a cog who wants to be a wheel. Our undercover team says there are always lots of pretty young girls hanging out at his bar.”

  If Satine were operating a call-girl ring, as she suspected, some of his hookers might be in the country illegally. If so, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, ICE, could be part of Q’s law enforcement coalition as well.

  Davie opened her notebook and showed him the snapshot of Nosova. “She look familiar?”

  Quintero glanced at the photo and shook his head. Davie showed him pictures on her cell that she’d taken at the Edison. He watched over her shoulder close enough for her to smell the cigarette smoke trapped among the threads of his plaid tie.

  Davie pointed to the photo of the woman Falcon had seen arguing with Anya at the New Year’s party. “Know her?”

  His fists clenched and then relaxed. “Lana Ivanov. She manages A to Z Liquors, another one of Satine’s businesses.”

  Another puzzle piece had just fallen into place. The license plate on the Mercedes that Falcon had seen was my1lana, a vehicle Davie had already connected to A to Z.

  “A woman paid my victim’s airfare from Kiev,” Davie said. “She promised high-paying modeling jobs through an agency she owned. I can’t find any evidence the agency exists. You think this Lana Ivanov is working prostitutes for Satine?”

  “White slavery isn’t my problem. Take it up with Vice.”

  Davie continued showing him the photos, pausing at the elevator shot of Satine with the bodyguards and the mystery man.

  Quintero lit another cigarette. “That’s Satine on the left.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “He’s a Russian arms dealer named Viktor Marchenko.”

  He told her Marchenko had been a colonel in the Soviet air force. After the Cold War, the military was short on money and long on equipment and weapons. Marchenko commandeered his first Ilyushin cargo plane loaded with AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenades without anyone even noticing. He sold the weapons and ammunition to third-world revolutionaries, mostly in Africa. Like any good capitalist, he used the profits to buy more planes and more weapons until he had a network of eager buyers all over the world. His net worth grew exponentially.

  “The guy’s a dirtbag,” he said, “but he’s also a billionaire. The Russian government considers him a successful businessman. Local boy makes good.”

  Davie wondered if Marchenko had been the target of Ray Anthony Falcon’s fund-raising efforts or if there had been other Russian billionaires at Satine’s New Year’s party.

  “Why was Marchenko meeting with Satine?” she asked.

  “Everybody wants to know the answer to that question. So don’t go charging into Satine’s nightclub throwing your weight around. You’ll screw up months of work. If that happens, I guarantee you people with juju will make you disappear.”

  A red and gray Metro Rapid bus whooshed by, launching a plastic grocery bag into the air. The homeless man teetered on the edge of the curb to stop its flight.

  Davie ignored Quintero’s threat. “Where’s Marchenko now?”


  “Stand down, detective.”

  Davie yanked the badge from her belt and thrust it within inches of Q’s face. “Last time I looked we were working for the same outfit, so I’d like to know why you’re obstructing a homicide investigation.”

  Quintero remained silent, weighing the consequences of helping her, which made Davie wonder if lack of team spirit had gotten him booted out of RHD.

  “He’s on his yacht anchored off Paradise Cove, but I’m warning you: don’t go near him.” The force of his words created a gust of cigarette breath.

  Davie’s gaze locked on his. She reached inside her jacket and held out a small metal box. “Breath mint, Q?”

  “No thanks. Those things are loaded with sugar. It’s bad for my health.”

  He turned and walked toward the main entrance of PAB. He reached the door at the same time as a man in his early thirties, blond and buff, wearing navy cargo pants and a polo shirt with an oval emblem sewn on the left side. The guy could have been any one of the nearly ten thousand cops on the job, but he wasn’t. He was the driver of the cable van she’d seen parked across the street from her grandmother’s place.

  She watched from the shadows of the building as he flashed his department ID and slipped through security. Internal Affairs was housed in the building. Within IA were Force Investigations, Special Operations, and the Surveillance Unit. Davie figured that’s where Blond and Buff worked, which meant that a fellow cop was following her. Davie couldn’t understand why …

  Unless Malcolm Harrington had reopened her OIS case and launched a new investigation. She had to find out what was going on. And there was only one person she could trust to tell her the truth.

  24

  But as soon as Davie left PAB and slid into the driver’s seat of the Jetta, her phone rang. It was Cal Rogers, the Edison’s Director of Security.

  “I found the waiter from the video but there’s a problem.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” she muttered.

  “He’s undocumented and scared shitless you’ll have him deported if he talks to you.”

  “I’m not interested in his immigration status, only what was under that cart he was pushing.”

  “You’ll need a Spanish speaker before you talk to him, unless you’re fluent. I suggest you find one before the guy disappears. If you get in a bind, I can translate for you.”

  “That must have come in handy working county jail.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “You said you hated police work, but I get the impression you miss it.”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Maybe a little. Look, I don’t want to step on your toes, but I’ve already talked to this guy. He trusts me.”

  There were Spanish-speaking detectives in the squad room, but Davie didn’t know how quickly she could find one who was available. Rogers was ready now, and she didn’t want to risk the waiter getting spooked, so she decided to accept his offer. Finding out who was following her and why would have to wait.

  Rogers told her Carlos Mata could meet them in West L.A. by the post office on Exposition. Mata and his uncle had a gardening job in Brentwood, so he couldn’t stay long.

  Davie ended the call and thirty minutes later, she parked the Jetta in the post office parking lot, located half a block from the 405 overpass. The area had once been a staging area for day laborers, but they had been chased away during construction of the Expo Line light-rail across the street. The tracks had been resurrected from a 140-year-old railroad that had once carried ore and sunbathers from Los Angeles to Santa Monica.

  Cal Rogers was already there with a heavy-set Latino in his mid-twenties with doe eyes that reflected fear and crushing responsibility. They stood at the rear of a beater pickup with Tree Removal hand-painted in red on a plywood frame bolted to the truck’s bed. A man, who Mata identified as his uncle, sat in the driver’s seat with a baseball cap pulled low over his face. The uncle made no attempt to get out of the vehicle and Davie decided to let him be.

  The sunlight exposed smile lines around Rogers’s blue eyes and ignited the aroma of lavender on his skin. Despite the cold, he was wearing only a plaid flannel shirt and denim jeans but no jacket, which made him look like a Pacific Northwest logger.

  She needed background information on Carlos Mata for her report, so she told Rogers what questions to ask and then listened to the exchange, watching the movement of Rogers’s lips and tongue around the Spanish tildes and softly rolled Rs. She understood about fifty percent of the conversation, enough to know that Rogers had a gift for language.

  A few moments later, Rogers turned toward her. “He said he crossed the Arizona border at Nogales about three months ago. The coyote drove him and about twelve other people to Los Angeles. He lives with seven other undocumented workers in his uncle’s converted garage in Pico Rivera. His cousin works at the Edison and got him a temp job at Satine’s party, using fake ID.”

  “Ask him about the cart.”

  Rogers asked Mata the question and translated his answer.

  “He says he and his cousin were working in the kitchen when a woman came in. She was upset. His cousin speaks English, so the woman asked him for help. Some man at the party was bothering her and she wanted help getting out of the hotel without him seeing her. She didn’t want to be followed.”

  Davie showed Mata the photo of Anya Nosova and asked if he recognized her.

  He tapped the photo with his finger. “Sí, sí. Es ella.”

  “Did she say who this man was?” Davie said.

  Mata obviously understood the question, because he shook his head.

  She glanced at Rogers. “How did he get her out of the suite?”

  Rogers continued translating: “His cousin didn’t want to get involved, but Carlos felt sorry for the woman. He hid her in the pantry until his shift ended. When no one was watching, he had her crawl onto the shelf of the cart and covered it with a tablecloth. Then he walked out the door of the suite and headed toward the main elevator. The woman’s weight made the cart hard to push. The wheels kept catching in the carpet.”

  “Why didn’t he take the cart down the service elevator to the main kitchen?”

  Rogers rested his arm on the pickup’s back panel and asked the question. “He says he didn’t want to run into any of the staff. He was afraid they’d ask questions.”

  “The surveillance video didn’t show anybody pushing a cart out the front door. Where did he take her?”

  Rogers waited for Mata’s response. “To the side door off the lobby. He helped the woman off the cart and watched her walked toward the parking lot. After that, he went home.”

  Davie remembered Rogers telling her there was no video camera trained on the side door.

  Mata sank onto the bumper of the pickup. “Su amigo. He pick her up … outside.”

  Davie could barely hear his response over the noise from a passing cement truck. She waited for the dust to settle before asking her next question. “Did you see this friend who picked her up?”

  Mata shook his head and made the sign of the cross. After a few more questions, it was clear that Davie had drained the man’s reservoir of useful information. He hesitated when she asked for his address and cell phone number but finally gave it to her, explaining that the cell belonged to his cousin.

  Davie knew that talking to her had put Mata at risk. She wanted him to know that it took guts to do what he did and she appreciated his courage. She also wanted to reassure him the LAPD would not hassle him about his immigration status. She didn’t want to tell him with her limited Spanish for fear of mangling the words, so she asked Rogers to translate her thoughts.

  “Muchas gracias,” he said and reached out to shake her hand. Then he got into the truck and the uncle drove away.

  Rogers walked with her toward the Jetta. She thought of Anya hiding under that kitchen cart and
wondered who at that party had meant her harm. Lana? Satine? Both?

  “I need to take another look at the parking lot video,” she said.

  Rogers stopped, forcing her to turn toward him. He stood with his feet apart and his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans. A smile curved his lips. “I did that already.”

  He pulled two photos from his shirt pocket and handed them to her. One was of Anya Nosova getting into an older-model sedan.

  “You can’t see the license plate,” he continued, “but the car is an Oldsmobile, a 2001 or 2002, I’d guess by looking at the taillights. I know because my granddad had one just like it. He thought the world ended when General Motors stopped making them.”

  Rogers should have told her about the car and the photo long before now. It was the first chink in the trust that she had built with him.

  He seemed to notice her stony glare. “Look, Carlos told me the whole story when I spoke to him this morning. I figured it was your girl under the cart so I rechecked the parking lot video before I left the hotel.”

  “You could have told me that when you called.”

  His body tensed. “Sorry, detective. I was just trying to help.”

  He had helped her and she didn’t want to appear ungrateful, so she softened her tone. “You have, but I’m not big on surprises.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She turned her attention to the second photo. The camera angle was skewed so she couldn’t see the driver. She glanced at the car, stopping at an image on the back windshield. It appeared to be a round decal of some sort. On closer inspection, she saw that it was a cartoon lion circled by the words: Fairfax High School Class of 1983 Alumni Club.

  Davie turned toward Rogers. “Take a look.”