by Terri Nolan
“Precisely. That squares with the PR’s statement of an oh-seven-hundred arrival time. Also, her car was parked uphill when we arrived.”
“Thoughts?”
“We don’t have enough facts to shake out a theory,” said Thom.
“Then why aren’t you monkeys shaking trees?”
Thom patted the book. “We organized what we have so far so you can make an informed decision in regards to passing the Lawrence homicide to another team.”
“This investigation is not headed toward round three. I made myself clear.”
“Yes,” said Thom. “But I had sex with their twenty-two-year-old foster daughter the night they were killed. She was the person who discovered the bodies and now she’s a person of interest. I must iterate that I’m compromised. Even a rotten defense attorney will smear our case if I’m associated. It might already be too late.”
“Did you know her relationship to Lawrence?” said Craig.
“We met at a bar. I had no knowledge of her family and limited personal background. But that doesn’t diminish the severity of the matter. If she’s involved with their murder we’re screwed. If she’s not involved we’re still screwed. Four people were targeted and their murder was heinous. Justice won’t prevail for our victims if at the backend the integrity of the investigation is questionable in any regard.”
“You really had to stretch your mouth to get all that out,” said Craig.
Thom snapped his mouth shut.
“I get the situation,” said Craig. “You don’t have to get all highbrow.”
“Sorry, LT.”
“Why is she a person of interest?”
“During the interview,” said George, “she made it clear she didn’t like the kids, nor was she sorry they were dead.”
“They were killed first,” added Thom.
“Did she have opportunity?”
“Maybe,” said George. “According to her statement, she and Thom parted ways at oh-two-thirty and she went home. It’s to be determined if one of her roommates can place her there.”
“Motive?”
“Only whispers,” said Thom, pointing at the binder. “There are a lot of angles. Lawrence was a city attorney and that fact alone smells like a hit. But a total blackout? It could be personal. And the message on the mirror is unclear right now.”
Craig curled his fist around a coffee tumbler and took a long slug. “Step out, George.”
George eyed his partner with a quick swipe of panic.
“It’s okay, LT,” said Thom, “Say what you need.”
Craig ticked his head toward the door.
“Sure. Okay.” George squeezed Thom’s shoulder as he left the interview room.
Thom’s sexual escapades finally bit him in the ass. He expected news of a discipline hearing, or forced counseling, but nothing prepared him for what Lance Craig said next.
“I’m in a fix here, Thom. What I’m about to tell you is off the record. If I get the slightest whiff that you’ve repeated what I’m about to say, I’ll make it my mission to ruin you. Am I clear?”
Thom nodded and braced for the blow.
“Seymour and Morgan drew the case. They were the team on call. It was important to remove S&M before they got too involved. I took them off because I already knew you had been with the girl.”
Fury lit Thom’s face. He knew what would be next.
Craig ran his finger around the lip of the coffee tumbler to avoid eye contact. “You’re the target of an integrity audit.”
That he didn’t expect. Thom fisted his hands and said nothing. Forced Craig to explain.
“It started when the feds were invited to assist with the Blue Bandits.”
The Blue Bandit case was Gerard Keane’s mess—Thom’s uncle wasn’t the mastermind, but he finished it in a big way. At the top were Ralph Soto, a retired commander of Central Bureau, Deputy Chief Theodore Rankin, and Gerard, a captain at Hollywood Station. Along with five other cops, they used the Janko Medical Center as a base of operations to conduct off-duty bad business: extortion, blackmail, high-end drug dealing. They revived the legend of a cop gang called the Blue Bandits to take credit for murders they didn’t commit in order to induce fear on the street and keep their cop employees in line.
Due to Birdie’s investigation into Matt Whelan’s death, she discovered his undercover role and it all came crashing down to a horrific end. Rankin committed suicide, Gerard killed Soto, and the Highway Patrol killed Gerard. Janko’s police staff were left to fend for themselves. In part two of Birdie’s article coming out tomorrow, it will be revealed that Gerard was also the long-sought-after suspect in the Paige Street murder—a home-invasion burglary turned deadly. For sixteen years, his role remained unknown to the LAPD and the FBI. Instead, suspicion landed on Thom’s brother, Arthur, who shouldered the scrutiny for his uncle. It was a shameful legacy to live with and all the Keanes in the department had to deal with the aftermath of suspicion and contempt.
Thom expected a formal 181 complaint: a status quo, run-of-the-mill, internal affairs complaint that went through the Professional Standards Bureau. An investigator would interview the target of the complaint, his co-workers, and anyone else of interest. Once the investigation started there was no way to hide the fact that it was taking place or who filed the complaint. Cops are big gossips. They liked to talk.
But an IA was an entirely different animal.
They were secret. Run by unknown officers out of unknown offices. The Police Protection League had tried for years to rid the department of the practice because there was no defense, no recourse. The verdicts on internal audits never saw the light of day unless charges were filed, leaving him no way to defend himself. If found guilty you were gone. Early retirement. Out on disability. Whatever.
If there had been a 181—so named for the form—Thom could fight off the beef, his reputation could be restored publicly to his peers. If word got out about an audit, the suspicion would solidify into fact—especially since Birdie brought the topic public in the newspaper article. It was going to be a long haul to save his marriage; and now, he’d have to stretch his limits to salvage his job.
“And my family?” said Thom in reference to those on the force.
“I can’t speak to that,” said Craig.
“Integrity audits usually involve money or drugs planted at a crime scene to catch dirty narco cops. As a homicide detective I rarely come into contact with either.”
“That makes an IA a little difficult. You’re not checking money or drugs into evidence so we can’t determine if your hand’s in the till. No, you’ve been under surveillance.”
“To determine if I had a role in Gerard’s business?”
“SOP and you know it.”
“Why not ask, LT? No one has interviewed me since I testified for the Grand Jury.”
“Would you admit guilty knowledge? Don’t answer that. Look, there’ve been rumors about the Teflon coating of your family for a long time—and the close relationship with the Whelans. You’re a bunch of slickers.”
“I know. They call us the Irish Mob. So what? We’re made to suffer for the sins of one?”
“Precisely,” said Craig. “The department as well as the feds are pissed that Gerard went undetected for the Paige Street incident for so long. They don’t forget shit like that.”
“Who’s surveilling me?” Thom hoped it’d be the FBI. They don’t work in the same building. If it were the feds, his phones would be wired, a tracker on his car, and a crew of two following. That would equal six, twenty-four-hour monitors. A lot of man hours. What really burned Thom was that they probably had photographs of him and Jelena in the backseat of her Honda.
“It’s so expensive I doubt the bill is being paid by L.A.,” said Craig. “You were seen with the girl. Her plate was run, her identity established. Later
, when she turned up again and discovered a crime scene it became my job to make the case yours to test your integrity.”
“Damn you!”
“Okay, I’m damned. But that doesn’t change the fact that you came clean about your intimate relations. You passed.”
“You should’ve known better, LT. I’m the guy who thinks about the endgame.”
“True. You’re one of my best in that regard. I like you, Thom, this is the only reason we’re having this confidential conversation.”
“So now what?”
“You and George work the case.”
“Seriously? After all this?”
“It’s not my call.” Craig pointed upward. The command staff offices were upstairs on the tenth floor. “Work it tight and right.”
And keep looking over my shoulder, thought Thom.
When Thom stepped back into the squad bay, he detected a perceptual hush. Seymour and Morgan were standing together two rows over, their eyes on Thom. No one other than George and they knew about Jelena so something else must have happened.
George said, “We have another—” he quoted his fingers— “‘message murder.’”
“A serial,” said Thom.
“The victim is Jerry Deats of Santa Monica. The SMPD sent a law enforcement bulletin looking for similarities to their murder. I called the DIC. She sent me this.” He gestured at the photo on his computer screen. Dead fish was scrawled on a bathroom mirror.
“Damnit!” said Thom.
“I told her we’d come by today to take a look.”
Thom sped from the squad. Found Craig pacing the corridor, cell to his ear. Thom hung back while Craig finished.
“I just heard,” Craig said a few minutes later. “We have a potential serial. The SMPD is willing to let us take the lead.”
“This is a perfect opportunity to get out from under the train wreck. We should let them take it.”
“We have the resources and manpower.”
“Yes, but—”
“We’re lead. That means you. Get to it.”
When Thom returned to his desk, S&M were leaning on George’s cubicle looking down at him.
Thom noted the impeccable press job of Seymour’s white shirt. Morgan’s muscular, squat frame was covered in black on black, with a bolo, and cowboy boots, as per usual. He reminded Thom of a frontier undertaker.
“Ever work a serial before?” said Morgan.
“No. You guys?” said Thom.
“Was on the Grim Sleeper taskforce,” said Seymour.
“Your work just amped up exponentially,” said Morgan. “Once it goes public the story will be chum in a shark-infested kiddie pool.”
“Thanks for the visual,” said George.
“Better you than us,” added Seymour. “But really, if you need help, let us know.”
Seymour passing out assistance? On the day after Birdie’s article came out? Perhaps he felt bad about mucking up the investigation of her abduction and this was an attempt at penance.
“I mean it,” said Seymour.
Whatever the motivation, the offer was a first and Thom wasn’t going to let the opportunity expire. “How ’bout the computer rounds while George and I do the flat foot. And search the newspaper archives?”
“Done,” said Seymour.
Morgan registered his unhappiness with a nostril flare and followed his partner back to their cubicles.
George leaned in. “Busy day ahead. We better fuel up.” Besides the obvious food reference, fuel was code for ‘share’ as in ‘need information now.’
“You got that right,” whispered Thom. “Huevos Rancheros at El Tepeyac. We’ll take two cars. We’re gonna split up afterward. LT won’t let us give it back.”
“I work Lawrence. You work Deats. We meet in the middle.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
eighteen
El Tepeyac Café was on the east side of the Los Angeles River on Evergreen Avenue in patrol area 456 of Hollenbeck Division. In deference to the cops that populated its tables, many of its burritos bore the station’s name. Hollenbeck de Asada, Hollenbeck de Machaca, or the most popular Hollenbeck—pork in chile sauce, rice, beans, and guacamole. Thom maneuvered his city car in the tiny lot and parked between a Lexus and a dingy pickup. El Tepeyac was popular with the high and low.
Thom pulled out his business cell. He liked this phone. It supported a full range of data capabilities. Photos, emails, reports. Information. Priceless for a homicide detective. Thom started carrying two cellphones a year ago. The department didn’t reimburse work-related cell phone usage. Thom had tired of divvying up lengthy bills for the tax write-off—same as for his firearm, handcuffs, and other job-related hardware. With dedicated phones he no longer had extra work at tax time.
Thom realized he held the wrong phone. He replaced it with the personal cell and punched his parents’ number.
Nora answered with sleep in her voice. “Thom, why are you calling so early?”
“Ah, Ma. Did I wake you?”
“No, I haven’t had my coffee yet. You okay?”
“Fine. Sorry I missed brunch yesterday.”
“Solving murder is important work. What’s up?”
“I’m in the mood for coddle tonight.” An authentic Irish casserole of onions, bacon, potatoes, and pork sausage.
Nora took a long, sad breath. “You want soda bread with that?”
“Ballymaloe would be better.”
“Okay, son. I’ll fix dinner. See you later.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
Thom had just told his mother to arrange an emergency family meeting at the Manor. Coddle = all hands on deck. Ballymaloe = wire sweep required. Paranoia or good measure? When Arthur was under suspicion for Paige Street, the FBI made no secret of their surveillance. They relished the intrusive nature of monitoring and the invasion of privacy forced upon the entire clan. The family established codes so they could meet and talk freely. No one liked the subterfuge, but they got used to it.
_____
Thom leaned against the car and lit an after-meal cigarette. He took a deep pull, then handed it to George.
“I’ll take a full one.”
Thom wasn’t surprised. George had been fidgety and unfocused throughout breakfast. “The IA is really upsetting you.” He shook the pack.
George plucked one and fired it up with the tip of Thom’s.
“The IA was to be expected,” said George, blowing out smoke. “What bothers me more is the FBI surveillance.”
“Alleged.”
“Whatever. Think I’m at risk?”
“You have something to hide?”
George looked away.
“I’m sure the feds don’t care if the person you’re sleeping with has a dick.”
“What the hell?” groused George.
“Whoa. Gallows humor, man. Why are you so sensitive all of a sudden?”
“It’s your crude delivery.”
“It wasn’t crude yesterday when we gave Spenser a hardon.”
George got much worse from some guys in the squad. The most popular prank was a photo of two dudes having sex. George’s head would be taped over one of them. Sometimes the top, sometimes the bottom. Occasionally, his face would be with a woman. The ac/dc hazing usually didn’t bother him. He played it up like he did with Spenser. As the newest guy, it was George’s role to be pizza boy until someone replaced him. So for now, he took it. What mattered was that people actually cared because no one knew for sure. Damn that stint in Vice.
“Hell, I know you’re not a catcher,” said Thom.
“What if I am?” All serious.
Thom loved George like family. He could care less. One way or the other or both. “Then you stop wearing pink, man.”
George hit Thom in th
e arm. “Gotcha.”
“Hell with you,” said Thom.
They enjoyed the smoke in silence. After a few minutes Thom said, “Let’s go over the game plan.”
“Get a signature for Lawrence’s office. Briefcase and laptop is priority.” A warrant wasn’t technically required, but they wouldn’t give any future judge a reason to bounce a search in a high-profile homicide. Especially one involving a city attorney with a potential suspect tucked away in a file. Privacy rights and all.
“The judge that signs will probably appoint a Special Master to supervise us.”
“Like we need a babysitter,” said George.
“What then?”
“I’ll interview the roommates. See if any of the girls can substantiate Lena’s alibi.”
“Don’t call the person of interest by her nickname. Too personal and informal. Any misstep can be a disaster.”
“I hate when you correct me.”
“I’ve been doing this longer. Hit the bar, too. Hank’s. On Grand. Track down the bartender. See what he has to say. What he remembers.”
“What’s his name?”
“Why should I know?”
“Hold on,” said George. “Jelena told me you knew the bartender. She said she could contact you through him.”
“I chatted him up. But I’ve never been to that bar before. Never met him before. I remember he was a young guy. Looked barely legal.”
“Lie number one.”
“Good enough reason to haul her ass in,” said Thom. “Think she’ll go anywhere?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Okay, let it sit for today. Bring her in tomorrow. We’ve got the cut at one. I expect you there.”
Autopsies made George squeamish. They were hard business. The stench of disinfectant, the fluid on the floor, the medieval-like tools, and the general ickyness. As the lead detective, Thom’s presence was non-negotiable. He let George off the hook when he could. But not this time. The high-profile situation made his presence necessary.
“George, keep in touch and be careful.”
“As always.” George flicked the butt and ground it into the pavement until it turned to dust.
