by Mary Marks
Without support, Martin would have stayed within the safety of the fenced-off ball field. So, what drew him to the river’s edge in back of the field? How did his killer lure him there? He must have felt safe enough to go there alone. Did Martin trust his attacker? Did he know him?
What about the homeless? Was anyone hiding there who might have seen the attack? If I could find a witness, maybe I could help Ed Pappas. I wouldn’t actually be searching for the killer. I knew how mad Beavers would be if he thought I was poking my nose in police business again.
No, I only would be looking for one piece of the puzzle. I only wanted to help clear Ed as a suspect.
I needed to find Hilda. My stomach growled as I got in my Corolla and drove south toward Ventura Boulevard (known as “the Boulevard” or simply “Ventura” to local residents). She hung out in front of a strip mall wedged between two tall office buildings on Ventura, with a great little falafel place I liked to go to. Whenever I saw her sitting in her spot near the sidewalk, I’d stop for a chat and slip her a twenty. I hoped to find her there today.
I pulled into a parking spot halfway down the block and walked toward the mall. Rafi’s Falafel was easy to find. You just followed the scent of cumin and hot oil wafting seductively out toward the sidewalk. My watch read three in the afternoon and my last meal had been a virtuous breakfast of scrambled egg whites and coffee, which—come to think of it—hadn’t stayed with me long. Technically, I’d eaten zero calories today. Pangs of hunger stabbed me accusingly.
Hilda sat in her usual spot and smiled as I approached. She wasn’t old, wasn’t young. Her years of living rough etched her with a kind of agelessness and a wary ability to blend into the background. In the heat of the day, her hair clung to her head in moist strings, and her skin looked desiccated. “Hey, Wonder Woman! Caught any bad guys lately?” She burst into laughter at the joke she always greeted me with.
“Hi, Hilda. I’m just on my way to Rafi’s for a shawarma. Care to join me? My treat.”
“Only if he lets me park by the door. I gotta keep an eye on my cart.” Hilda kept her worldly goods in an old shopping cart, along with large black trash bags full of the cans and bottles she collected for recycling, her major source of income.
“Never hurts to ask.”
Hilda got up and wheeled her cart near the restaurant and waited for me while I went inside. The interior was refreshingly cool and smelled of cooked meat and spices. Rafi looked up and smiled. He was short, with the dark curly hair and brown skin of a Sephardic Jew from Syria or Iraq.
“Hey!” I waved.
“Martha! Shalom.” He pointed to Hilda with his chin “Ma koreh?” (“What’s happening?”)
“My friend Hilda—we want to have lunch in here, but she needs to keep an eye on her cart.”
Rafi shook his head sadly. “I see her every day. Haval.” (“A shame.”) “You know, in Israel, there is no homeless. We take care of poor and old. America’s a rich country. I don’t understand why anyone live like her.”
“Well, can we park her cart near the door so she can see it?”
Rafi shrugged. “Why not?”
I waved to Hilda that the coast was clear. We took a seat at the window.
Rafi came over to our table with a pad and pencil in his hand and looked at Hilda. “Welcome.”
“Hi.” She smiled, showing remarkably clean teeth.
“What can I get you?”
While we waited for our orders, she drank two glasses of ice water.
“Hilda, do you know anything about the small homeless campsite on the riverbank behind the baseball field north of here?”
Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “Why?”
“I found a dead body back there this morning. He was a baseball coach, but he wasn’t killed on the baseball field. He died on the river’s edge, right across from someone’s camp.”
Her voice went flat. “So you’re blaming the homeless?”
“Frankly, Hilda, I don’t know who’s to blame. The police will find out. It’s just that one of my neighbors is a suspect, and I’d like to help clear him.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “What do you want from me?”
“Looked to me like a couple of sleeping bags were still in the camp. I just want to know if the people living there might have seen what happened. That’s all.”
Rafi brought our shawarma sandwiches—fresh, spongy pita bread stuffed with a bed of chopped lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers. Lying on top were fragrant strips sliced off a rotating stack of succulent lamb and turkey meat. Rafi drenched everything with tahini sauce, which dripped down the sides of the pita. I’d figure out the total Weight Watcher points later.
He also brought a bowl of hamutzim—pickled turnips and beets. Extra meat made Hilda’s sandwich especially fat. Rafi had a big heart.
We both made short work of our sandwiches; and when Rafi saw we were done, he brought over two golden baklavas dripping with honey. “On the house.” He winked at Hilda. “Special for first-time customer.”
An idea suddenly popped. “Rafi, what do you do with your cans and bottles?”
“Nothing. I throw them in trash with everything else.”
“Well, if you could save them, Hilda could take them off your hands. She already has an arrangement with Sol’s Deli down the street.”
Hilda raised her eyebrows; she was surprised I remembered something she’d told me four months earlier.
Rafi looked at her. “Sure!” He shrugged. “Why not? I keep separate bag in kitchen. You come every morning at seven to pick up. Otherwise, I throw away. Deal?” He stuck out his hand.
Hilda grinned. “Deal!” She pumped his hand once.
She slurped her tea. “I don’t know who camps over there, but I know someone who does know. They call him ‘Switch.’ He’s sort of an unofficial king of a bunch camping all along the river—from the wildlife reserve, off the 405 Freeway and Burbank Boulevard, all the way west.”
Hilda referred to a whole area of green space surrounding the LA River, part of the Sepulveda Flood Control Basin operated by the Army Corps of Engineers. The three-mile strip west of the 405 Freeway featured a wildlife reserve, golf courses, and parks—including the one next to our community along the watershed.
These days, nobody ventured into the reserve because unsuspecting joggers and bird-watchers risked being accosted and raped. Police believed the group camping there was also responsible for a lot of local burglaries and drug deals. Citizens were advised to stay away from the area.
“I’d be too afraid to go there.” I made a face.
“You’d be right about that. You can’t go alone. He knows me. I’ll go’n ask if he’ll meet with you. If he says yes, then we can go back together, but you’ll have to bring a lot of money. Couple hundred bucks. You’re gonna have to pay a lot to get anything from him.”
“Okay.” I hated to think what Beavers would say if he knew what I was about to do.
“Meet me back here tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have his answer by then.”
I slipped Hilda a twenty and walked back to my car. As I headed home, I wondered what the heck I’d gotten myself into.
CHAPTER 6
I parked in front of my house at four-thirty. Only one police car and a crime scene unit van were parked next to the ball field. Just one Harley remained in Ed’s driveway, along with the huge biker in the red bandana. He turned to look at me, frowned, and started moving in my direction. I didn’t like the looks of him. I hurried inside, closed the door, and set the alarm. Half a minute later, the doorbell rang.
I never opened my door to strangers. I looked through the peephole in the door. A massive set of shoulders filled it. “Who’s there?”
“Crusher.”
Oh, my god!
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
This guy can break down my door with one blow of his fist.
I stepped backward toward the hall table, where I’d
dumped my purse and cell phone. How long will it take for the cops to respond?
“Step back from the door and let me see your face.” I clutched my cell phone, ready to call for help if he didn’t comply.
“Ed told me to talk to you. You said you wanted to help him, right?”
I went back to the peephole and Crusher had stepped back a little so I could see him better. The bearded giant looked down and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Since Ed sent this man, maybe I should hear him out.
I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath. I turned off the alarm and opened the door a crack. Crusher glanced at the mezuzah on my door, identifying mine as a Jewish household.
This giant clearly enjoyed the menacing effect he imposed on people. He wore a short-sleeved black T-shirt under his black leather vest, thick denim jeans, and dusty brown work boots. Up close, he looked a lot older than Ed, somewhere in his late forties. Deep lines engraved his forehead under his red bandana do-rag, crow’s feet creased the corners of his blue eyes, and his red beard was shot through with gray. His beefy arms were freckled and sunburned, except for a white scar running the length of his right upper arm, bisecting the remnants of an angular tattoo. Crusher had some serious years on him.
I wasn’t ready to let him get comfortable, so we stood just at the door. I tentatively stuck out my hand. “I’m Martha Rose.”
Crusher nodded once. His calloused hand, stained with black grease, completely enclosed mine like a whale swallowing a minnow. “Yeah. Ed told me.”
I pulled my hand away. “Why did he send you?”
“The cops came to question him this morning. They said they were following an anonymous tip. Walked straight to his backyard and found a bloody baseball bat under the bushes. Before they hauled Ed away, he told me to talk to you. Said you’d know why he’s being set up.”
“Oh, my God. I do know why he’s being set up. Just this morning he told me he uncovered some irregularities between the Beaumont School and several government agencies. They know he’s digging for information. We can be pretty sure he’s made some very powerful enemies. Ed needs a good lawyer. Does he have one?”
Crusher nodded. “One of the guys. He’s with Ed now.”
“What exactly does Ed want me to do?”
He paused for a second, seeming to size me up. “You’re hooked up with a cop. You could get information for us.”
I crackled at his suggestion. How dare he ask me to manipulate Beavers! “That’s ridiculous. I don’t take advantage of my friends.” Golem or not, I glowered at the giant and put my fists on my hips.
To my surprise, he smiled a little. Then he threw back his head and laughed from a place deep inside.
“What?”
“You’re small but fearless. I like that.”
Small? Did he just say small? I must admit, standing next to Crusher, I didn’t feel the least bit overweight. I stepped aside to let him in the house.
“Would you like some water?”
“No, but I’d sure like to sit down. I’ve been standing a long time.”
My heart sank as he walked inside and headed toward my cream-colored sofa with my favorite blue-and-white quilt draped over the back. I waited tensely for it to collapse under his weight, but I relaxed when only air strangled out of the cushions.
I closed the door and sat in a comfortable overstuffed chair. My living room, painted the color of driftwood, featured neutral-colored upholstery and accents of blues and oranges in the rug and accessories. White linen drapes softly framed the windows. “It’s true I want to help Ed, but I’m not willing to take advantage of my friend. Let’s just get that off the table right now.”
Crusher shifted his weight and the sofa frame groaned. “Okay. I get it, but I know the cops are going to take the easy way out and settle on Ed as the doer. Isn’t there anyone else around here who might have had the stones to go after the bastard?”
“I can’t think of anyone else. Although, I did notice a couple of sleeping bags and other items under the tall bushes on the other side of the river, right across from the crime scene. I’m thinking there might have been witnesses camping there.”
“Or maybe a homeless guy killed the dude. The cops are probably already tearing up their place right now trying to ID him.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but I think I have a better chance of identifying them than the police do.”
Crusher’s eyebrows pushed together. “How?”
“I’ve got a friend.” I told him about Hilda and my plans to find the guy who lived under the bushes. “She’s arranging a meeting with a guy named Switch, a sort of king of the LA River homeless.”
“Don’t be an idiot! I know this guy. He’s a whack job. Gets his name from carrying a six-inch blade. You can’t go in there!”
“Watch me.”
“Okay now, babe, that’s just wrong. Even the cops don’t go in there alone.”
“I’m not going in there to arrest anyone. I’m going in to buy information. It’s just a business deal.”
“You can’t deal with those lowlifes. They’re thieves, pimps, and dealers. Without protection, you could get hurt real bad. Me and the others will have to go with you.”
There it is again! Another man telling me what to do. Is bossiness programmed into their DNA?
“Seriously? You guys look a lot scarier than the police. I, on the other hand, am not a threat. I think I’ll have better luck alone.”
He shook his head. “You’re being stubborn, not smart.”
Crusher was right. I’d be taking a big chance going unprotected into a den of known criminals. “Fine. I’ll ask Hilda what she thinks. She may be homeless, but she’s sharp, and I trust her. If she says it’s safe, I’m going in, and I’ll try to get her to come with me.” I paused for a beat. “How’d you get the name ‘Crusher,’ anyway?”
“I used to be in that line of work.”
“What line would that be?”
“Crushing.”
I hope he isn’t referring to skulls or kneecaps.
He jerked his head slightly toward the street. “You ever ride a bike?”
“What?”
He smiled and ducked his chin a little. “You want to go for a ride sometime?”
“Are you insane? I’m fifty-five years old, for God’s sake!”
“So?”
“What’s your real name, anyway?”
“I told you. Crusher.”
“No, I mean the one you were born with.”
His eyes twinkled. “Yossi. Yossi Levy.”
Impossible! My brain stopped for a second and I blinked rapidly. Did I hear him right? “You’re Jewish? There’s no such thing as a Jewish biker.”
Crusher laughed. He was having way too much fun at my expense.
The knocking on my door pulled me out of my shock. Before I could get up, a key scraped in the lock and Beavers walked into the room. He stood unmoving when he caught sight of Crusher sitting on my sofa. I thought Crusher smiled slightly.
Never taking his eyes off the biker, Beavers said, “Martha?”
I got up and walked over to him. “Hi, Arlo.”
He put his arm protectively around my shoulders, still staring at Crusher. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? This is a friend of my neighbor Ed’s.” I hesitated, trying to decide whether to introduce him as Crusher or Yossi.
Crusher stood, crossed his arms in front of his massive chest, and took a slow, deliberate breath. He towered over Beavers by a good six inches and far outweighed him.
Beavers’s jaw muscle rippled and his frown deepened.
I looked at Crusher. “This is Detective Arlo Beavers.”
Beavers still stared at Crusher, who stared back. Must be a guy thing, sort of like pissing on your enemy. “What are you doing here, Levy?”
Surprised, I turned to Beavers. “You know each other?”
Crusher lifted his shoulder to his ear and cracked his neck. “I’ve seen D
etective Beavers at my shop from time to time.”
“Your shop?”
Beavers let go of my shoulders and assumed an official posture. “Mr. Levy, here, owns a motorcycle repair shop on Reseda, not too far from the station. We’ve had occasion to visit him a few times. Mr. Levy’s shop is well-known to my colleagues in the department.”
He took a protective step in front of me. “So, what are you doing in this house?”
Crusher wasn’t here to hurt me, and I wanted Beavers to know it. “Arlo, I—”
Beavers held up a hand to silence me, and I really, really didn’t like that.
Crusher watched my reaction and then sneered at Beavers. “Trying to get her on the back of my bike.”
The red crept slowly up Beavers’s neck. He opened his jacket, exposing his brown leather shoulder holster. In a very quiet, very low voice, he said, “Time to go, Levy.”
Crusher looked at me and I nodded rapidly behind Beavers’s back. Crusher walked to the front door. “I’ll be in touch, babe. Don’t forget what we talked about.”
He wasn’t referring to the back of his bike.
CHAPTER 7
As soon as the door closed, Beavers whirled around and looked at me, fury heating his face. I’d only ever seen him mildly annoyed—say a four on a scale of one to ten. This anger scored an eleven.
“What just happened, Martha? How could you let a guy like him come into the house?”
I walked into the kitchen and put a kettle on the stove, put a couple of bags of Taylor’s Scottish Breakfast Tea in a pot, and pulled out two cups. “Before we have this discussion, I’d like to get a few things straight.”
Beavers followed me and growled, “Like what?”
Outside, the loud guttering of a Harley-Davidson motor accelerated down the street and off into the distance.
