I shook my head at him “You sure have some delicate sensibilities for an ex-cop. And here I thought you’d ‘seen it all.’” I put ostentatious quotation marks around the last phrase. It was one of Al’s favorites and, until this moment, I’d actually figured it for true.
Al was a cop for a couple of decades, until he was gut shot while on a routine call. Even after he’d been wounded he’d tried to stay on, but he turned out to be constitutionally incapable of spending his life behind a desk and leaving the fieldwork to the other guys. He’d taken early retirement and become an investigator for the federal defender’s office.
“I’ve seen transvestites before,” Al said. “I’ve arrested transvestites before.”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “You know, this and that.”
“Oh, great. You’ve rousted transvestites all across the city, but you can’t stand the idea of sitting in the same room with one. Well, I’ll have you know that not only is Heavenly a lovely woman, but she’s also a client.”
“I’ll sit down with any paying client, no matter who they are,” Al said. The cracked leather cushion of his chair gave a little sigh as he settled into it, and the oak creaked and groaned under his substantial weight. Someday that chair was just going to buckle under and collapse in a pile of splintered twigs.
I refrained from telling him that Heavenly wasn’t paying us anything yet, and even if she did hire us, it was unlikely that I was going to have the nerve to charge her anything like our regular fee.
“Here,” Al said, handing me a pile of papers. “You do Australia. I’m going to try the Finnish police. My guy at Interpol turned up a possible arrest record for an Arthur Fanswatler in Helsinki.”
I pulled out the list of Australian area codes. Why the online services don’t have a more accurate record of listed phone numbers is beyond me. “You really get off on saying that, don’t you?” I said.
“Saying what?”
“My guy at Interpol.”
Al laughed. His “guy” was a computer analyst and a friend of Chiki’s. Our assistant was on supervised release from federal prison for computer fraud, for hacking the INS system. This was back before the INS had been absorbed into the Department of Homeland Security and I guess security hadn’t been as tight as it is now. Or maybe it’s still just as easy to hack into, who knows? Chiki was the Robin Hood of East L.A., giving out green cards to people he thought deserved them. He hadn’t made a dime off his exploits, and he’d done it all with a 28k modem and an old Mac Plus that he’d modified himself. When his case came across the Interpol analyst’s desk, the guy had been so impressed that in addition to adding Chiki’s name to the list of known computer hackers and security risks, he’d sent him a fan letter. Chiki had been serving the second year of his federal sentence when he got the letter, and they immediately became fast friends and correspondents. Once Chiki started working for us, François had been happy to lend us the occasional hand.
After leaving word for Detective Jarin, the case officer assigned to Violetta’s homicide, I busied myself calling Australian operators.
Right before I had to leave to pick up the kids from school, Al gave a bellow and pumped his fist in the air.
“Got him!” he said. “Arthur Fanswatler, resident of Helsinki. Date of birth, January 11, 1954. Investigated in 2002 on suspicion of downloading kiddie porn. No charges filed.”
I shuddered. “Maybe the studio will change their minds about the name once they realize that one of their Fanswatlers is a pedophile.”
“Not our problem,” Al said. “One down, one to go.”
By then I was running late for carpool and had barely enough time to nurse Sadie before shoving her into her carseat and tearing up the 5 to make the rounds of the kids’ schools. I was only five minutes late for Isaac, but there was construction on La Brea Boulevard and a cop sitting right where I’d hoped to make an illegal left turn. I arrived at Ruby’s school only nine minutes late by my watch, but eleven by her teachers. I knew from past experience that there was no appeals process, so I just gritted my teeth and paid the fine.
Ruby was most displeased by my tardiness. She had her backpack on her back and was tapping one purple-booted toe. “You’re late.”
“Don’t I know it. Eleven bucks out of my pocket. I’m sorry, kiddo, but there was terrible traffic. And you know it takes a long time to get here from Westminster.”
“So leave earlier.”
“Ruby!” I said, but there wasn’t much heart in my rebuke. She did, after all, have a point.
“In case you forgot,” she said as she clambered into her booster seat. “Madeline is coming over for a playdate. At three.” She pushed back her sleeve and studied her Tinkerbell watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes.”
“I didn’t forget. We’ll make it.” But of course I had forgotten. It’s hard enough to keep my own schedule straight, let alone my daughter’s. What with gymnastics and Mad Science, Tae Kwon Do, and Hebrew school, I spent most of my time in the car. And when I wasn’t driving her to an activity, I was either taking her to or hosting a playdate.
I hate the very idea of playdates. Our parents never set up playdates for us. They sent us “out to play.” What child nowadays goes out to play? What child ambles over to a neighbor’s house, rings the doorbell, and asks if Sally or Susie can come out and play? All of us parents are so fearful of strangers wandering through our neighborhoods, even in neighborhoods like mine that are full of big houses nestled in well-tended gardens. We barely even let our children out within the confines of our fenced backyards. Instead we schedule playdates, supervising their social lives and activity calendars like social secretaries.
“I want a playdate, too,” Isaac said.
“I didn’t set one up for you today, little man,” I said.
“It’s not fair! Ruby gets a playdate and I don’t.”
A few months ago I had decided to stop responding to the kids’ claims of injustice with a bitter “life’s not fair.” It might be true, but it doesn’t do much by way of convincing them of the correctness of my position. This time, I tried something my mother used to do that had been pretty effective when I was a kid. I ignored him and turned on the radio.
Madeline and her mother were waiting for us on our front steps because of course we didn’t make it home by three. As I labored to the door with Sadie dangling from one arm, and the kids’ backpacks and my purse from the other, I plastered a bright and hospitable smile on my face.
“I’m so sorry we’re late,” I said. “Traffic. But why didn’t you just ring the bell? Peter should be home.”
“We did ring the bell,” Madeline said. “We rang it and rang it.”
“That’s enough, Maddy,” her mother said. “I told you Ruby would be here sooner or later. She was worried Ruby’s mommy had forgotten all about us, weren’t you, sweetie?”
Maddy nodded.
So Maddy and her mom were on time. Big Deal. Donna Jorgenson Farrell had exactly one child, a live-in nanny, and no job. Unless her Pilates class ran over, she was destined never to be late to anything.
“I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the house,” Donna said as we walked through the door, down the front hall, and into the ballroom. The kids’ bikes were tossed in a corner of the empty room, and there was a little pile of broken parquet flooring pieces that Sadie had gathered on one of her foraging expeditions.
Donna hid her moue of disapproval with a gay little laugh. “Gosh, it must be so hard to decide what to do with a room this size.”
“We’re debating between a pool hall and a roller rink.”
“Oh, how interesting.”
I ushered Donna into the kitchen while the girls ran off to Ruby’s room, Isaac in their wake. “Can I get you something to drink or do you need to get going?” I said hopefully.
“Oh no, there’s nowhere I need to be. I’m happy to stay and help with the girls. And I’d love an iced green tea, if that’s not too much tro
uble,” she said.
I gave what I hope was a not too sickly grin. “No trouble at all.” I set about rummaging through my cabinets, steeping a cup of tea and pouring it over ice. I will never understand these mothers who insist on hanging around for playdates. They turn what might otherwise be an easy afternoon into an endless round of small talk and hostess duties. Here my oldest daughter was pleasurably distracted and instead of enjoying that relatively rare occasion, I had to sit here sipping tea with a virtual stranger. It would be one thing if we were friends. I’d gotten close to a number of the moms of kids in Ruby’s preschool class, and could happily while away hours in their company. What with the two younger kids and work, I just hadn’t had the time to make friends with the elementary school mommies. And now I was paying the price.
I probably would have liked Donna more if she wasn’t so thin. And if she hadn’t brought her own packets of sweetener in her purse. “We try not to take any sugar; it’s really just a drug, you know. And this is the only natural sugar substitute out there. You ought to try it. I’ll leave you a few packets, if you like.”
I glanced down at the roll of fat spilling over the waistband of my pants. I’d recently started being able to get the zipper all the way up on my pre-pregnancy jeans and I’d celebrated by cramming myself into them nearly every day. I guess they didn’t look quite as good as I’d hoped.
“Great,” I said.
Donna clearly had no problem with the zipper of her cocoa suede slacks. Her midriff, revealed by her fetching little half-sweater, showed no evidence whatsoever of reproduction. She took a delicate sip of her tea and said, “I heard the most remarkable thing on the radio today. There is a company in Japan that will insert a small microchip under the skin of your pet, so that if it ever runs away they can track it on a global positioning system.”
“They’re putting LoJacks on dogs?”
“Isn’t it remarkable? Apparently the only problem with the technology is that it won’t work if it gets wet, but they’re working on solving that. I think it’s just terrific. I mean, if they can figure that little glitch out, there’s no reason we can’t use them for children. What’s more important, right? A dog or a baby?”
“You want to insert a microchip into Madeline?”
Donna was so wrapped up in the possibilities she was describing that she did not hear the doubt in my voice. Or else she just ignored it. “Just think if poor Polly Klaas had had a microchip under her skin. They could have found her right away, before that man did anything to her.”
“But wouldn’t a kidnapper just cut it out? Wouldn’t that be worse for the child?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re totally undetectable. They’d have to be.”
I couldn’t stop myself. I launched into my speech about how FBI statistics show no greater threat of child abduction now, in 2006, than thirty years ago, and how the real danger our children face is our own fear. I was really getting into it, describing the toll our restrictions take on our children’s lives, pontificating about the dangers of raising children who’ve never experienced activities unmediated by adults, when I noticed Donna’s face. Not that I’m unused to that particular expression of disapproval, but it does tend to stop a person in her tracks.
“Oh, but Juliet. Even if only one child a year is taken, you don’t want that to be your child, do you? And consider what this means for when the girls are teenagers. We’ll be able to know exactly where they are at all times. They’ll never be able to lie to us.”
“Like we lied to our parents?”
“Exactly!” she said, happy for me because I finally understood. “They’ll never be able to go anywhere or do anything without us knowing exactly what they’re up to.”
“Well, that does sound like fun for them. And for us. I can’t wait.”
Four
IT looked like Detective Jarin wasn’t particularly eager to return my call, and since Al was coming up to the city to see a man about a gun, I convinced him to accompany me to the 77th Division. I figured we would have more success in person than over voice mail.
Al and I met out in front of the station. He spent an anxious moment figuring out what to do with the original needlefire Damascus double-barrel smoothbore shotgun he had picked up for next to nothing from a man who had to unload his gun collection fast because he was convicted of a felony, and being found in possession of even a collectible could cost him five years in jail.
“I can’t leave it in the car around here,” Al said, clutching his new beloved to his chest and staring suspiciously around him. “This is figured European walnut I’ve got here.”
The thing about most dangerous Los Angeles neighborhoods is that, with a few exceptions, they don’t really look so awful. The strip malls have check-cashing joints and taquerias in the them, instead of boutiques and sushi bars, but a strip mall is more or less a strip mall. The houses don’t look so bad, most of them, and it’s only once you see the bars on the windows and the gates on the doors that you realize you’re not in Mar Vista. The drug deals going down on the corners tend to give it away, too.
“You’re parked right in front of a police station,” I said. “You really think someone is going to smash your window to get an old gun?”
“First of all, this gun isn’t old, it’s antique. And second of all, you’re damn straight I think someone is going to break in and steal it, police station or no police station. People want guns, that’s a fact. They’ll do anything to get them.”
“I agree. That’s why I think they shouldn’t be so damn plentiful and easy to buy.”
“Are we really going to have this discussion again?”
I followed him into the station and stayed quiet while he made nice with the desk sergeant. By the time Al got around to asking if Jarin was available and if the sergeant would hold his gun for him while he spoke to the detective, they were old friends. The officer was only too glad to give the detective a buzz. Buttering up cops is Al’s specialty and one of his most important skills as an investigator.
Detective Phil Jarin was a slight man, with a hollow-cheeked face pitted with acne scars. His dusty blue sport jacket looked at least two sizes too big; it hung off his shoulders, the sleeves dropping to his knuckles. His fingernails were bitten so short that raw skin puffed over the nailbeds. It was clear from his suspicious glare that Al’s brothers-in-arms bluster wasn’t going to make any headway with this guy.
I took over, explaining why we were there and telling him that we hoped he’d give us an update on the case, some information that we could pass on to the family.
“What was the name of the victim?” Jarin said, rubbing one chewed finger against the side of his face and frowning.
“Violetta Spees.”
He looked blank.
“African-American woman, about twenty-four years old? Murdered six months ago?”
He nodded. “Right, right. Blunt force trauma to the head. As I recall they had a long sheet on her over in vice.”
Why wasn’t I surprised that he couldn’t remember her name but he easily recalled her history of prostitution?
We were standing at the front desk as the business of the precinct eddied around us. Just then two uniformed officers came in dragging a handcuffed young man between them. The prisoner was swearing at the cops and shouting about his rights. He wanted a lawyer, and he wanted one now.
“Do you think we might find somewhere a little more quiet to talk?” I asked.
“Who is it you represent?” the detective said.
I pulled out the retention letter I had had Heavenly sign before she left our office. “The victim’s sister, Heavenly.”
Detective Jarin cracked a small smile. “Oh sure. I remember that guy. He can call himself whatever he wants, but on his arrest record he’s known as Henry Spees.”
Neither Al nor I let our faces give away the fact that we hadn’t known about our client’s record.
Al said, “Well, he’s a she nowadays, and going by the nam
e Heavenly.”
“You can come on to the back if you want,” Detective Jarin said, “But there’s not much I can show you. That case went nowhere, probably a John who got a little too worked up. The file’s pretty thin.”
He wasn’t kidding. The index sheet at the front of the file had only a few things logged into it. Other than the initial report, a few photographs, an autopsy report, and a one-page supervisor’s log, the file was empty. There was none of what you would expect to see in a complete homicide file. There were no records of an investigative canvass, the door-to-door inquiry and search for witnesses that is routine in a murder investigation. There were no witness statements or interview reports of any kind. The crime-scene report was brief, to say the least. A few sheets of paper and a checklist, most of which was blank. There were no supervisor assignment sheets. There was no news-clipping file.
“Nothing much here,” Detective Jarin said.
“Would you consider showing us the autopsy report?” Al asked.
“You know I can’t do that.” He began leafing through it, angling his shoulder so we couldn’t read it. We were sitting catty-corner to his small metal desk, on two chairs he had brought over. “I don’t mind telling you what’s in it. Basic stuff. Black female, abdominal scar, most likely from cesarean section, cause of death, like I said, blunt force trauma to the head. Ragged laceration on the back of the skull. Cranial fracture and cerebral hemorrhage. That’s about it.”
“Is there any indication of what she was hit with?” Al said.
He shrugged. “She might not have been hit at all.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“She could have been pushed or fallen against something. It’s not real clear. Medical examiner thought it was one hard blow. That’s as specific as he was willing to get.”
“No paint or metal flakes in the wound?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Was there any evidence of sexual assault?”
“There was evidence of semen. We submitted it for analysis. Hmm.” He sounded disturbed.
Bye-Bye, Black Sheep Page 3
