“Please, I need you to be serious,” JP raised his voice, which he seldom ever did. “You may be in a lot of trouble. Have you ever had sex with that woman?”
“No.” Bob responded in kind to the tone in JP’s voice.
“Have you kissed her or done anything that could be construed as having an interest in her?”
“No. I told you that before.”
“Have you ever had an affair or inappropriate physical contact with any client?”
Bob took his time as if he were thinking. “Just that druggie guy with no teeth and….”
“Bob, please.” JP pleaded, as he stepped closer.
Bob stepped down from the bench and looked directly at JP. “Look, you know me well enough to know how much I love my wife. Marilee and I have our problems like everyone else, but I would never cheat on her, and certainly not with a client. I’m not that stupid. So, what’s with all the questions?”
“I talked to my friend, Greg Nelson, at the department. He said Klakken is really out to get you. He’s hanging his hat on your relationship with Dana.”
“So he’s an idiot. He’s got nothing. My relationship is totally professional.” Bob removed a cigarette from a half-empty pack he had retrieved from his pocket and lit it up.
“He has a witness,” JP said in his usual, quiet tone.
“That’s ludicrous. Who?”
“Dana.”
“Dana?” Bob said, disbelievingly.
“Yes, apparently she told Klakken you two were an item.”
Bob’s face turned red with anger. He threw his hands up in the air. “This is unbelievable!” He took a few steps to the right and then back again. “That lying bitch. What’s her game? What can she possibly gain from saying we’re having an affair?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s hoping you’ll be arrested for Foreman’s murder.”
“Why?” Bob’s face appeared to know the answer to his own question before JP answered.
“Maybe she’s working a blackmail scheme, or setting you up for a lawsuit. Or maybe she killed him.”
Bob took a long drag off of his cigarette. He just stood there in silence for a few seconds.
“So, what do you want to do now?” JP asked.
“I guess I better start by calling Leahy. And I’ll need to conflict off the dependency case.”
“Can you do it without using this information? Because we don’t officially know this and I would just as soon Klakken didn’t know there was a leak.”
“I’ll talk to Leahy. We’ll come up with something.” Bob paused.
“I understand if you have to use it, but if you don’t it may benefit us in the future. Either way, you have to get off the case before that woman gets you alone again.”
“Oh, damn,” Bob said.
“What?” JP said a little sharper than he intended.
“I picked her up at her house last night and took her to the hospital to see Marcus.”
“Geez, Bob.” He shook his head. “For a smart guy, sometimes you’re about as sharp as a mashed potato.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t seriously think I’d be a suspect.”
“Well, you are.”
“Do you really think they may arrest me?”
“I still don’t think they have enough for an arrest, but they may have enough for a search warrant.” JP tipped his hat back. “I know you haven’t done anything. I believe what you’re telling me, so bear that in mind when I ask you: Is there anything that might appear incriminating in your house or office?”
“In my house?” Bob’s face suddenly displayed a look of awareness of what was really happening. “They could search my house,” he said dejectedly.
“Most likely, they’ll do both. That is, if they can even get a warrant. I’m not sure they can.”
Bob shrugged. “I don’t know what they could possibly find. I haven’t done anything.”
They stood there in silence for a few minutes, Bob blowing smoke rings in the air, JP deep in thought, trying to figure out how to protect his friend.
Bob broke the silence. He sounded like a lawyer again. “Now I see why you wanted to meet me in the park. But Greg did say they weren’t going to arrest me, right?”
“No, not yet. They’re trying to get a warrant as we speak. If they do, they’ll be out soon.”
“I haven’t done much criminal law so I’m not certain what it takes to get a warrant, but I do remember a few of the basics from law school…like they can’t just be on a fishing expedition. They have to have probable cause. How could they possibly establish probable cause?”
“A lot of it comes down to the judge issuing the warrant and what his relationship is with the DA or the detective making the request.”
“You mean, if the judge likes the guy, they get their warrant?”
“No, not if he likes him, if he respects him. Some cops are too lazy to do their investigations themselves and get what they need. They go right into search warrant mode. Others do their due diligence and so when they ask, the DA is more likely to fight for them and the judges are more likely to trust their assessment. I’m not saying judges don’t weigh the facts and make the correct legal judgments. I’m just saying there’s a human factor and if it’s questionable then personalities come into play.”
“And Klakken? Where does he fall on this ‘respect’ continuum?”
JP sighed. “Right at the top.”
Bob finished his cigarette and then took out another, counting the eight cigarettes left in the pack. He put it in his mouth, lit the tip, and breathed in a long deep drag. “I guess I picked a lousy time to quit smoking.”
Chapter 22
JP knocked on the door of a small house in North Park. It was an older neighborhood where many of the houses stayed occupied by the same families for fifty or sixty years. The front lawn was small but well manicured. Flowers lined the walkway to the house, and an enormous bird of paradise, perfectly groomed, stood near the entrance. JP could hear someone moving about inside. He waited while he watched to make sure no one left from another exit. After several minutes an old man answered the knock on the front door.
“Are you Ludwik Bernard Sampulski?” JP asked.
“Yes,” the old man said.
JP extended his hand. “I’m JP Torn. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, I was just about to have some tea. Would you like to come in and join me?” Ludwik said in a heavy Polish accent.
JP entered cautiously, surprised at the open invitation to a stranger. The furnishings inside the house were simple but tasteful. The house smelled old, and although it was cluttered with items accumulated over many years of daily living, it was clean and tidy.
“Please,” Ludwik said, pointing to a chair at the small maple table which sat in an extension off the undersized kitchen. JP sat down and the man shuffled the few steps to the kitchen. He removed two teacups from a wooden mug rack that sat on a mint green tile counter and slipped his left index finger through the handles. The room obviously hadn’t been remodeled since it was built in the early fifties. The quaint style and the smells conjured up fond memories from JP’s childhood visits to Aunt Norma’s home.
“Have you lived here long?” JP asked.
“Just over fifty years. I bought this house shortly after I came to America with my wife Tekla.” He picked up the teapot, walked back to the table, and looked around with pride. “A poor boy from Poland never could have had such a lovely home. Ah, but in America, hard work can buy you many belongings. I was good with my hands back then. I made beautiful things.” The old man poured two cups of tea, shaking a little as he poured. “Now, I’m not so steady.”
Ludwik went back to the kitchen and obtained two spoons and a container of cream before he seated himself in a chair adjacent to JP.
“It’s a very nice home,” JP said.
“After my dear Tekla was killed, I thought about returning to Poland. At times I wished I had never come here b
ecause then maybe she would still be alive.”
“Do you mind my asking what happened to her?”
“She was killed by a drunk driver as she walked to the market.”
“I’m so sorry,” JP said.
Ludwik poured a good dose of cream into his tea. “It happened many, many years ago. And she was very happy for two years in her new home. America was her dream. By then I had had a taste of freedom and couldn’t return to the Communist oppression that ruled the country.”
JP strained to make out the words through the thick guttural sounds, but Ludwik seemed lonely and appreciative of the company and JP found him fascinating. Though he would rather sit there and listen to Ludwik’s stories, he decided he better broach the subject he came there to discuss.
“Mr. Sampulski, you are listed as the registered owner of a 1989 white Acura, license plate SMS9925. Is that your car?”
“Yes, that’s my car, but I don’t have it anymore. My son Ludwik has it.” He took a deep breath. “That boy has gotten himself in trouble again, hasn’t he?”
“I’m not sure, but I need to talk to him. You called him Ludwik. Does he ever go by the name Sammy?”
“Yes. He never liked his name…my name…my father’s name. I was proud to have my father’s name. I thought my son would be, too, but from his first day of school he wanted to change his name. He said the kids teased him. I told him stories about his grandfather, hoping to instill some pride in him. I told him how his grandfather was a member of the Polish Underground State and fought for educational and social reforms. He also fought against Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. Ludwik Bernard Sampulski,” the old man said with great pride in his voice, “was not a Jew himself, but he fought against the oppression of the Jews. He fought for freedom. He loved his country but he dreamed of bringing his family to America where they could live in freedom. He was shot and killed before he had the chance to come here.”
JP was caught up in the old man’s stories, even though it took great effort to understand much of what he said. He enjoyed listening to history through the eyes of people who had experienced it because he heard the emotion as well as the facts. This gentle, kind man who sat before him exuded pride and pain in his narration.
“But you did. You completed your father’s dream.”
“Yes. I kissed the earth when I landed in America and then I gathered up a handful of dirt for Tatus.” JP must have looked confused because the old man quickly said, “For Papa. I saved the dirt.” He stood up and walked to a shelf in the living room and took down a small mason jar with a faded, flowery cloth fastened over the lid and tied off with a red ribbon. “Here’s the dirt I picked up. I always intended to return to Poland one day and lay it on my father’s grave, but I never made it back there. I carried it in a match box for many years, but Sammy’s mother, Clarice, made this new home for the dirt when the match box started to fall apart.”
“So, you remarried after Tekla passed on?”
“About ten years later I met Clarice. She was a lovely lady but very different from my Tekla. She was a good wife and a good mother to our two children. It was Clarice who gave Ludwik the name Sammy after many fights at school over his name. I fought her at first, but I finally let it go.”
JP looked at the clock on the wall. The time had slipped by and he was running late. “Does Sammy live here with you?”
“He lived here until about six months ago. Even then, he would come and go. He never held a job for very long and he has been in trouble since he was a kid. He had a hard time even when he was very young, and when he was six years old his mother was diagnosed with cancer. Two years later she died and it got a lot worse for Sammy. I tried to be a mother and a father to him, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very good at it. I never really understood why he did the things he did. He was always stealing something, mostly from other kids and from stores. The last few years he stole things from our house and sold them. When he took my car, my daughter put her foot down. Her husband came over and changed the locks on my doors. Sammy came back once but left when he couldn’t get in.”
“Did you report your car stolen?”
“No, his sister wanted me to, but I didn’t. I can’t drive anymore anyway. It’s my last gift to Sammy.”
“Do you think your daughter may know where he is?”
“I doubt it. They’ve never been close.” Ludwik looked up from his teacup with a concerned look on his face. “What has Sammy done?”
“He hasn’t done anything that we know of, but a friend of his died and we’re trying to gather information about the friend.” JP didn’t think it would do any good to tell him that George had been murdered. It would only worry the poor man. So, JP asked a few more questions and left.
Chapter 23
Marcus had been on the ventilator for just over thirty-six hours when Sabre received a call from the hospital on Saturday evening that the ventilator had been removed. He regained full consciousness shortly after extubation, but remained in critical care. Sabre waited until morning and then drove to the hospital to see him. He was asleep when she arrived so she sat by Marcus’ bed. When he opened his eyes, she could see the deep redness had already lightened a little; the bruising on his neck was starting to take on a slightly yellowish color.
“Good morning,” Sabre said.
“Morning,” Marcus said with a weak, raspy voice.
“Does it hurt to talk?”
The slight movement of his head and the closing of his eyes indicated to Sabre that he was trying to say “yes.”
“You don’t need to say anything. I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing. I spoke to the doctor this morning. She says you’re much better.”
He looked so innocent and vulnerable as he lay in the hospital bed. He was just a little boy who had already suffered so much pain, enough that he didn’t want to go on living in this world.
“It was stupid,” Marcus muttered.
Sabre took his hand. “It’s over now. You’re going to get better. I know life sucks sometimes, but it’s going to get better.”
Sabre thought how unfair it was that this little boy was born to parents who cared more about themselves than their children—a mother who couldn’t satisfy the needs of her children until her own were met, and a father who used him as a pawn in his schemes. Sabre knew some of their behavior was drug and alcohol driven, but that was a choice, too. They were the adults. This child should not have to pay for their weaknesses. Sabre decided right then to not let Marcus suffer one more day.
Sabre was reluctantly driving to the Starbucks on the corner of Balboa and Genesee for a blind date. Her friend, Jennifer, had been encouraging her to meet some new men and arranged this meeting with a friend of a friend. Jennifer herself hadn’t met this man but her friend had told her how wonderful he was. He was new in town, a transplant from Wisconsin, and he wanted to make some new friends. After much discussion and Jennifer calling in some favors, Sabre agreed to meet for coffee. He wanted an evening date, but Sabre refused to go that far.
The closer Sabre got to Starbucks, the more she dreaded her decision to go. The only positive thing was that it might distract her from dwelling on another restless night filled with more nightmares.
She arrived about fifteen minutes early, bought her own decaf misto to avoid the awkwardness of who was going to pay, and took a seat at a small table on the southeast corner of the small café. With her back against the wall she could see who entered. She looked around to confirm he wasn’t already in the room, but didn’t see any man over twenty who was alone.
Sabre relaxed and sipped her coffee. She thought about Marcus. Although he remained in the critical care unit and had already made great strides toward recovery, how was she going to help him survive everything else in life?
A man entered the café alone. He stood about five-foot-nine, had a slightly round but attractive face, and his hairline had just begun to recede. That wasn’t exactly how he had been described to her,
but she watched him anyway. He walked directly to the counter, ordered his coffee, and left without looking around.
Jennifer’s friend, whom Sabre had met once while she was dating Luke—the last of a string of bad relationships—assured Jennifer that the man from Wisconsin was Sabre’s type. Sabre smiled to herself at that comment. Did it mean he was dark and handsome like Luke? She didn’t know she had a “type” and if she did, what the heck was it. Though she had dated a lot, she had only had a few serious relationships. She thought all the way back to high school about the men she had dated, but she couldn’t conjure up a “type.” She wasn’t so shallow that physical attributes would make or break a relationship for her because once she grew to know someone all that changed. But she was no different than anyone else in that when she first met a man there was something in her brain that said “attractive” or “unattractive.”
While she waited for her mystery man she watched everyone who entered the coffee shop and gave them the litmus test. Most of them she didn’t find attractive. She did notice one thing: She definitely wasn’t attracted to the suits.
This little game kept her mind occupied for a while, but it didn’t take long before the visions from last night’s dream entered her head. She remembered the hanging, dead bodies; sometimes they had faces, sometimes they didn’t. The numbers of bodies had accelerated from one to dozens. The ages of the men or boys changed, but they were always male and always at the little yellow house. She wondered why the scene wasn’t at the mansion in La Jolla and why her father always came to her rescue. But she was grateful for his presence because for a few minutes each night she saw her father again even though she was filled with fear.
Sabre watched more people come and go—families with small children dressed in church clothes, couples holding hands, girlfriends sharing time together, and students with laptops who were studying. A few single men came and went, none giving her even a first glance. The arrangement was for the mystery man to approach her. He had seen photos on Facebook and he assured her he would recognize her.
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