by Scott Frank
Hancock was a thick-necked man who Kelly knew had once played fullback for USC and now liked to chew tobacco in the division vehicles, spitting the juice more or less into a Styrofoam coffee cup as he drove.
Kelly had bought a new suit for the interview, a black Anne Taylor, and felt overdressed, like maybe she was trying too hard.
Looking around the room, she couldn’t believe what a pigsty the place was. Candy wrappers and coffee cups littered the floor. At one point her bare knee scraped the underside of the table and she could feel a hardened wad of gum stuck there.
These were the guys supposed to be always on the make for dirty cops and they couldn’t even keep their own fucking space clean.
Sergeant Bill Hoyt, Kelly’s defense rep and a twenty-year veteran, stood near the door staring into his own coffee cup as Hancock played the tape.
Kelly heard the sound of a door opening, followed by a voice that was both her own and yet unfamiliar at the same time as it said, Hey, rapo, whassup?
And then the whole scene came back to her.
The kid, who called himself Streak on account of he was the only one who ran fast enough to get away from a narco raid on a crack house a couple years earlier, was leaning back in the chair, staring at one of the D.A.R.E. TO KEEP KIDS OFF DRUGS fliers taped to the wall when Kelly stepped into the interview room clutching the phone book.
A handsome kid, Streak looked her up and down as he sat forward, resting his elbows on the table, a big grin on his face as he said, “Hey, mamma. Whassup yoself?”
Kelly hit him across the face with the phone book, knocking that handsome face momentarily out of round as Streak flew sideways out of the metal chair and into the wall that had the flier taped to it.
As Streak mumbled, motherfucka, struggled up onto all fours, Kelly raised the phone book over her head and brought it down hard with both hands onto the kid’s neck, splaying his legs, and sending his face crashing to the linoleum, hard enough she heard his nose break.
“Get up, rapo.”
As he pushed himself up, turned his head and looked back at her, she could see one of his bottom front teeth sticking out through his lip.
“Where’s Carla?”
“Who?”
“The little girl, rapo. Where’d you stash her at?”
Streak sat up against the wall, grabbed at the back of his head and said, “I don’t feel so good…”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want my lawyer.”
Kelly kicked him in the chest and Streak suddenly found himself without any air in his lungs. She then picked up the metal chair and brought it down on his head and Streak bent over, blood running into his lap from a three-inch divot in his forehead.
Kelly stepped forward, pulling the gun she wasn’t supposed to have in the room from the holster on her hip as she squatted. She grabbed Streak by the front of his shirt, shoved the muzzle in his ear and said, “Wanna know a secret?”
“I want my lawyer, bitch.”
“I wanna die, Streak. Today, if possible.”
Kelly remembered his face was covered with blood, his eyes staring back at her, not blinking now as she pulled the hammer back on the Beretta.
“What I’m thinking is, let’s go together. You and me. Right now. Make everybody happy.”
“You can’t be doin’ this…”
“What do you say, rapo? You up for dying?”
And then Rudy Bell’s voice on the tape, Kelly!
—
Paul Hancock was saying, “There appears to be a slapping sound near the beginning of the tape.”
“A slapping sound?” Kelly turned to look at Paul Hancock. “I hit him with the phone book. I slapped him right out of the fucking chair.”
Her rep, Bill Hoyt, said, “Kelly, you don’t have to say anything, you don’t want to.”
“I want this done,” Kelly said. “So I can go back to work.” Then she turned to Paul Hancock and said, “I was drunk, okay? I’d been drunk for twenty-four hours.”
“You were drinking on the job?”
“On the job. In the car. At the fucking dry cleaner.”
“Since when?”
“Since right after we went into the house on Gault.”
“You were upset?”
“Clearly.”
“Because of the nature of Mr. Rabidou’s crimes?”
“I was upset, but not at Ronnie Rabidou.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was upset with my husband,” Kelly said. “My ex-husband.”
“You were upset with your ex-husband, so you assaulted your suspect?”
“Steven—my husband—had just moved out the day before. He did it while Rudy and I were bringing in Rabidou.”
“You’d had a fight?”
Kelly looked at Hancock, but it was Bill Hoyt who spoke. “What has that got to do with anything? She’s saying this was a unique thing—a onetime deal. You’ve seen her complaint history, it’s a big fucking nada.”
“It was anyway,” Hancock said. “Now she’s got three 181’s against her. I mean, were you drunk when you talked to the asshole at Los Angeles Magazine?”
“Hammered out of my head.”
“Her husband left her for another man, for Christ’s sake.”
Kelly gave her rep a look that said Please stop helping me.
Hancock looked at her. “Are you drinking now?”
“No, sir. I’ve been sober since…the incident.”
Hancock nodded and said as he made a final note, “Is there any statement you’d like to make at this time before I shut off the tape?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’ve been very nice.”
Hancock glanced at Bill Hoyt, then sat back and said, “I’m going to recommend on the record that you call the medical liaison, get yourself enrolled in our Alcohol Abuse Program.”
“I’m already enrolled.”
Hancock’s report went to Leo Manning. As Kelly’s commanding officer, Manning had the power to recommend a penalty of up to twenty-two days suspension: one working month. Anything over that, however, required a Board of Rights hearing.
Although Leo Manning respected Kelly, even liked her personally, he felt that twenty-two days wasn’t enough. Given the bad PR the LAPD had been suffering of late, it seemed wiser to send this to the Board of Rights. After all, Kelly had broken a prisoner’s neck and then said a few choice things to the press that she shouldn’t have.
So while Kelly awaited her hearing as well as a lawsuit brought on by Ronnie Rabidou’s family, she was temporarily reassigned by Manning out of the gang unit and into domestic violence. As a result, she was also switched from working days to working the 4/10 plan: four days a week, ten-hour days from 1:30 to midnight.
Kelly knew this was how it would end. Knew she’d be stuck doing this until she finally cried uncle and put in to go home. They were politely showing her the way out.
For the time being, working the 4/10 was fine with her since she didn’t particularly feel like being alone with her thoughts anymore, especially not at night.
Kelly was walking into Valley Presbyterian when a tech named Osman Youness called her to tell her what she already knew: the idiot security guard had shot the John Doe eyewit while the still unknown kid shot the councilman with something else.
He didn’t have to brief Kelly, she wasn’t anywhere near lead on the case, but Kelly figured that Rudy had told him to call her just to make her feel better. But then Osman began talking about the slug they took out of what was left of Frank Peres’s skull, and she realized that Rudy wasn’t just being nice.
“It’s a modified Glaser,” Osman was saying.
“That’s some kind of hollowpoint, isn’t it?”
“An old one.”
“So?”
“And an old pistol. Walther P38 looks like.”
“How old?”
“Probably built by Jews in a camp somewhere.”
“I seem to remember counting maybe
a dozen Black Talon casings at the scene.”
“Yeah, I’m looking at them.”
“You sure it wasn’t a MAC 10? I know they had one, the rent-a-cop told me.”
“What I’m sure of,” Osman said, “is that it was a Glaser that came out the end of an old Walther and went into the councilman’s brain.”
Kelly thought about it a moment and then said, “Figure a gun that old had to have been stolen at some point, from a collector most likely.”
“Probably stolen a few times.”
“What I’m saying, at some point, this was a special piece to someone. I’d like to know who.”
“Not much chance that someone connects to a little banger in North Hollywood.”
“Not much,” Kelly said, “but I’d still like to know.”
—
The John Doe was still asleep when Kelly stuck her head into room 416, so she went back out into the hall to chat with his doctor.
A Korean nurse informed Kelly that the man was under the care of a Dr. Ravi, who was currently somewhere in the hospital on rounds.
Kelly had him paged and fifteen minutes later a dark, skinny guy who, Kelly thought, looked more like the kid in Slumdog Millionaire than any doctor stepped off the elevator and introduced himself as Wali Ravi.
Dr. Ravi told Kelly that the John Doe had been shot once in the chest, once in the side—that one really just a burn more than anything—and once just above his left knee. The shot to the chest had been through-and-through, entering through the anterior chest wall, then went through the lung and came out the posterior chest wall right by the vertebrae. He said that it caused some minor lung damage but, fortunately, missed the great vessel walls.
Dr. Ravi was most concerned with the round still embedded in John Doe’s left femur. The damage to the leg, he explained, would be far greater if he removed the round than if he left it where it was. But if the round should move or shift, they, or someone, would certainly have to go in and remove it. Either way, the John Doe would walk with a limp for the rest of his life.
While Dr. Ravi went off to continue his rounds, Kelly returned to room 416 where she found the John Doe still asleep, sat down in the green vinyl chair beside the bed, and studied him a moment.
The night before she had looked at his childlike features and thought him to be in his late twenties, but today, in the bright light of the hospital room, she could see some gray in the sandy brown hair and now figured him to be somewhere in his late thirties, possibly older. It was hard to say for sure. He had one of those faces.
She opened her handbag and took out the stack of ten intelligence cards and laid them down on the rolling tray table. Each white 4x8 card contained a mug shot, physical description, and basic crime history on a particular gang member.
A turf battle over Dehougne Street had recently broken out between the Tiny Locos, a Mexican gang that had had the area for the past five years, and the Vineland Boyz, a black gang that wanted to take over. The Vineland Boyz didn’t stand a chance. The Locos, like all the Hispanic gangs now, had money and support from Mexico. The VBoyz, on the other hand, had been too busy making shitty music videos for YouTube to bother paying attention to their turf.
As she waited for John Doe to wake up, she looked over the cards, some of the names and faces coming back to her, making her suddenly feel queasy. Kelly got up and opened the window. It was the smell, she told herself, all the disinfectant and sick people. The hospital was making her sick, not her past.
She sat back down and set the stack facedown on the table by the bed, but when she looked up, she could still see the kids in front of her.
If only Steven could have seen how she was with these kids. He would’ve understood; he would’ve known that she was doing something remarkable instead of just ruining their marriage. She was thinking that he should’ve come with her on the job a few times when she realized that John Doe was looking at her.
She smiled and said, “Good morning.”
He blinked, looked around the room as if he was trying to figure out where he was. Kelly thought early forties for sure now. He had a nice face, not handsome, but sweet, set off by the mess of hair and light blue eyes. It was the eyes that now made her think he was older. There was some history there.
Kelly’s first thought was that he was some kind of engineer or computer expert. He had that sort of look about him. Intelligent.
She badged him and said, “I’m Sergeant Maguire from North Hollywood Division. If you’re up to it, I’d like to talk to you about last night.”
He smiled at her and said, “They’ve got ESPN.”
He then turned and stared up at the television mounted on the ceiling. Kelly saw now that a baseball game was on, the sound muted, why she hadn’t noticed it before. She had no idea who was playing—baseball bored her to death—but whoever it was, he seemed riveted.
“If I could get you to focus for just a minute.”
“I’m listening. I just really need to watch this.”
“What’s so important?”
“The Kid’s pitching today.”
“The kid?”
“Joe Mills. He’s going to break the record soon and I need to see it.” Her John Doe sounding a lot like a little kid.
“What record is that?”
“Consecutive innings without allowing a run.”
“Yeah? What’s the record?”
“Orel Hershiser went fifty-nine innings in 1988. That’s over six straight games without anyone scoring.”
“What’s your guy at?”
“Right now, he’s in the middle of game number three.”
“You’re waiting for him to break this record and he’s still got over three games to go?”
“It’s his time,” he said. “I can feel it.” He then smiled once more and added, “Right now, the Reds are doing everything they can to help him.”
She looked at the set, confused. “So he’s on the Reds?”
He gave her one of those chuckles, said clearly she didn’t get it.
She smiled, playing along. “Which team is he on?”
“The Cards,” he said.
She just looked back at him.
“St. Louis.” He pointed at the TV. “That’s him.”
Kelly watched as the pitcher jogged to the mound and said, “That guy? He’s gotta be at least thirty years old.”
“Twenty-nine. His birthday is next month.”
“Still,” she said, “a little old to be called kid.”
“He was a star at eighteen and the name just stuck.”
“I bet he loves that.”
He said, “Oh, no, he hates it,” and smiled.
She sat back and watched the game. It seemed to calm the guy. After a minute or two, she took out her notebook and asked, “What’s your name?”
He just looked at her.
“You didn’t have any ID on you.”
He thought for a moment. Then nodded. “The boy took it. The one called Science.”
“We’ll get to him. But right now, I need—”
“Roy,” he said, back to watching the game.
“Roy what?”
“Cooper.”
“Could you give me your address and phone number, Roy?” For some reason she didn’t feel like calling this guy “Mister Cooper.”
“I live at 41 Carlton Avenue. Apartment 4C.” And then, before she could ask: “That’s in College Point.”
“College Point. Where is that?”
“In Queens,” he said. “New York.” Never taking his eyes off the set.
“You’re a long way from home.”
He just nodded.
“What’re you doing in L.A.?”
She watched him stare at the television as he said, “I was looking for a friend.” And then, “A girl.”
Roy Cooper smiled and clasped his hands on his chest, wide awake now, and said, “He’s gonna break the record, I can feel it.”
“And this girl you were looki
ng for, she lives on Dehougne Street?”
“I thought she did,” he said, his eyes never leaving the set. “I think she gave me a fake address.”
“Why would she—excuse me, what’s this girl’s name?”
“Rosa.”
“Rosa what?”
“Rosa Garcia.”
“Why would Rosa give you a phony address?”
“I think maybe she didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
“I don’t follow.”
“She moved out here a few months ago. Told me she would call me when she got here, but she never did. So I got her phone number from her mother and called her. She said she was working a lot and didn’t know if she had time to see me.”
“Where does Rosa work?”
“She’s a dancer. At a club. I don’t know which one.”
Kelly had trouble picturing this guy with a stripper, but one never knew. She sure as shit never pictured Steven with another dude.
“Anyway, I told her that I still wanted to come see her,” Roy went on, “and she said I could do what I want.”
“So you came out here when?”
“Last night. I rented a car and drove over to where she said she lived, but the address she gave me was for some place that made kitchen cabinets.”
“What’d you do then?”
“I walked around the neighborhood, thinking maybe I got the street wrong and then I got lost. That’s when I saw the kids shaking down the old guy in the sweat suit.”
Kelly studied Roy Cooper a moment. One minute he sounded like a little boy, the next he was using phrases like shaking down.
“How many of them were there?”
“At first,” he said, “just three. But then another one came later.”
“You remember what they looked like?”
He described their clothing, the names printed on them.
“Then what?”
“Then the fourth kid came, stuck a gun in my neck, pushed me into the alley.”
“Outside the one called Science, you hear any names?”
“The kid who put the gun on me was called Truck. He had a burn scar on one of his cheeks, the left one I think. And his eye was messed up, too.”
