She had also been instructed by my mother to save the little cards that came with the arrangements, for the time when I would feel up to sending acknowledgment cards. To the chagrin of my Emily Post–loving mother, I could never bring myself to do it but relegated the cards to a file with the other funeral arrangements. That file and some others were stashed in a box that was awaiting transport to Aubrey’s garage.
Maybe I was just being paranoid, but I’d been a detective long enough to know when someone was hiding something, and Burt Rivers showed all the telltale signs—flushed face, inability to look me in the eye, the way he hesitated when I suggested he get Perris to return those files. Or maybe I just wanted to take the onus off my brother, who, despite being a royal pain in the ass, I’d always believed had my best interests at heart.
The few remaining boxes in Keith’s office seemed to be in the same location where I’d left them when I’d gone through them that Sunday. Which meant that Perris, who had access to my parents’ copy of my house key, must have found what he was looking for the first time around. But he’d never think to look for the bit of evidence I was seeking because he would not have known of its existence or understood the significance it might have.
I found the box labeled PERSONAL and, inside, the file that contained Keith’s obituary and other mementos from the funeral. The sympathy cards and ribbons from the floral arrangements brought back the memory of the two closed caskets, side by side in the funeral home, the damage done to those dear bodies making them too difficult to restore for viewing. Perris had held my hand at the funeral home when I was making the arrangements, had ended up picking the caskets, viewing their bodies, and even determining with the funeral director that the caskets would remain closed. How could my brother have done all that and then betrayed their memories with this theft? Had it all been an act? And if so, what was he covering up?
I pawed through the envelope until I found the cards that came with the bouquets.
OUR HEARTFELT SYMPATHIES, the first card read, signed by the criminology department at the university. The chair of the department, a craggy old coot who smelled of Old Spice and cigar smoke, had made a point of letting me know at the repast that they’d sent it and a donation to the university faculty fund in Keith’s name.
That arrangement had come from Edelweiss, a floral shop in Santa Monica. Allen A.M.E.’s Missionary Society, my grandmother’s group, had sent an arrangement from a black florist on La Brea, the card reading: NO MATTER THE CHALLENGE, THE LORD IS YOUR STRENGTH AND YOUR SHIELD. And while you could put what I really knew of the Bible onto the head of a pin, that little paraphrase of Scripture had brought me comfort, as had a handwritten copy of the Twenty-eighth Psalm from which it was taken that Grandmama Cile gave me before the service.
Then I found it. SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS, it read and was signed simply, A FRIEND. No one had come forward to claim the enormous spray of white roses and gladiola that the card accompanied, and I was too overwhelmed by grief to bother figuring out who had sent it. And by the time I’d joined the department a year later, had uttered that inadequate phrase myself a hundred times when interviewing the families of victims in the years since, the card had been long forgotten. But Burt’s slip of the lip plus that little card, its envelope yellowed with age, brought it all back.
The arrangement was from Tip-Top Florists in Culver City, the silhouetted logo on the envelope identical with the one on the card Burt gave me. Too bad Burt’s brother-in-law wasn’t around to tell me who had sent it. But even if he was alive, I doubted if he’d remember, or tell me if he did.
But I remembered. Remembered Burt had never met Keith, had never taken part in surveilling our house when Cinque Lewis threatened our lives, or had met him anywhere else that I knew of. But somehow Burt knew Keith would have wanted me to “move on” and had the nerve to tell me so, knew what my brother’s wishes were for me, too.
“I’ll move on,” I promised Burt’s card. “Just not the way you think.”
9
Coffee and Cream
I practically flew downtown, my mind racing ahead of my speeding car. A dozen memories flickered in front of me, including a conversation I’d had with my godfather, Chief Youngblood, just over a week earlier.
We had just closed the Vicki Park investigation, and he had called to get the names of my partners who’d helped crack the case. Then he switched hats and urged me to cut Perris some slack. “Your brother’s got a lot of demons he’s wrestling with,” he counseled, “just like the rest of us.” But I was so busy deflecting what I assumed were criticisms about the way I’d handled my cases that I’d overlooked the parts that came back to me now.
Uncle Henry had also said that night that he had a good idea about what was bugging Perris, but he had never explained what he meant. I thought about dropping by his office to see if he would elaborate now, but I decided to hold off until I could present him with something more than missing files, a floral card, and vague suspicions about my brother and Burt Rivers.
Arriving at my desk on the third floor of the PAB, I saw a note from Thor: MEET US IN BIG MAC’S OFFICE ASAP. Concerned I was missing a strategy session for our interviews at CZ Toys, I rummaged through my mail until I found a copy of the letter of commendation Billie told me Chief Youngblood had written about our work on the Park case. I stuck a Post-it note on it and folded it together with a form I grabbed from a stack on top of the file cabinets. Shoving the whole thing into an interdepartmental envelope, I hurried to the ladies’ room and locked myself into a stall at the far end of the room.
Years before, I had cobbled together scraps of information on Keith and Erica’s murders and the hunt for Cinque Lewis into some files, wheedling information from my Uncle Henry, then a lieutenant in the Southwest Division, where the Black Freedom Militia was headquartered, and later from the detectives who had investigated the case. When Lewis turned up dead last year during the riots, I had pulled the murder book on Keith and Erica, seeing for the first time as complete a file on the investigation as was available. And while I recalled nothing there that linked Burt Rivers to my husband, Keith, or Perris and Burt to his or Erica’s murder, there was something in my files that had turned my brother into a thief—something he didn’t want me to know.
But there were gaps in the information I had, and in Keith and Erica’s murder book, identified by numerous blacked-out pages and the words “confidential” stamped across them. Those pages came from PDID, the department’s Public Disorder Intelligence Division, which investigated black nationalist and other high-profile targets, and the BFM, with its revolutionary slogans and “death to the pig” demonstrations, was one of them. Problem was, no one below the rank of deputy chief could access PDID files.
Which was why I was hiding out in the ladies’ room.
A few minutes later, I was done, the paperwork completed in nondescript block letters, Deputy Chief Henry Youngblood’s tight scrawl carefully copied into the blank for the requesting officer, and a Post-it note attached requesting that the PDID file on the BFM be delivered to Detective Justice in RHD. Maybe these files would give me the answers I sought, maybe not, but I was tired of people trying to pull the okey-doke on me, pretending to be concerned about me when they were just covering their own asses. Satisfied, I dropped the envelope in the outgoing mail, stashed my purse, and knocked on Big Mac’s door.
I was surprised to see Captain MacIverson Armstrong in the office so early. Or at all, truth be told. Our commanding officer had coasted so long on his thirty-plus-year reputation in RHD—a rep that had earned him the nickname Big Mac—that I’d taken to calling him something else: Captain MIA. But MIA was there that day, his patrician features grim as he sat in an old leather chair at the head of his conference table. To his right was my boss, Lieutenant Kenneth Stobaugh, jittery as one of the racehorses in the engravings that lined MIA’s walls. To MIA’s immediate left sat Billie and next to her Thor, both of whom looked as if they wanted to jump down the t
able at two men who sat at the other end, their backs to the door.
“Ah, here she is now. Detective Justice, we were just talking about you.” MIA motioned me forward and explained how I was one of the original detectives investigating the Smiley Face shootings.
Wondering who was talking about me, I walked around the table to sit next to Stobaugh and to get a better look at our mystery guests. Seated directly across from me was Jackie Perkins, a young detective I knew from Financial Crimes assigned to help out on the interviews down in Irvine. Jackie’s blond bob bounced in greeting, but the other two sat immobile in suits so crisply tailored it could mean only one thing.
MIA nodded at Perkins to continue. “As I was saying, when I got the assignment, I called the local SEC office and got copies of their last few ten-K and ten-Q reports faxed over.” She adjusted her cat’s-eye glasses, her gray pupils large behind the lenses, and licked at her lips. “An hour after I made the request, I got a call from Special Agent Taft.”
An olive-drab suit, draped over the broad shoulders of a man the color of black coffee, took up the story from there. “The Securities and Exchange Commission knew the FBI and U.S. Attorney’s office were in the middle of a joint investigation of some of the officers of CZ Toys and called us when your request came through.”
MIA’s lips curled inward as he glanced at us. “What are you looking at them for?”
“A number of charges are in the works.”
Although the look on MIA’s face made clear that he wasn’t satisfied with his answer, Taft did not elaborate. “What are we talking—embezzlement?” I demanded, thinking of the argument I’d overheard between Renata and Alma at the hospital.
“If the SEC is in the loop, I would think you’re investigating possible securities violations, too,” Perkins added.
Taft’s full lips parted enough for him to say: “Perhaps. And maybe other charges, as well.”
Thor consulted his notes from our interview at CZ Toys. “So should we assume the company’s better-than-expected earnings are bogus?”
“That’s what we’re in the middle of ascertaining.” Taft spoke again while the other guy made a note. “So you people stomping around asking questions is not what we need at the moment.”
“‘You people!’ ” Color rising to his cheeks, Lieutenant Stobaugh snorted like the black people at the NAACP convention where Ross Perot first uttered the phrase, but this time the shoe was on the other foot. “I’m sure ticking and tying numbers makes your and Mr. Wunderlich’s boats float, but you forget this is a murder investigation we’re working, not some kind of corporate paper chase!”
Stobaugh’s outburst made both men seem to swell in their suits, a reaction that was not lost on MIA. “You’re not suggesting we back off of a murder investigation for this?” he demanded.
“If so, you boys are a little late.” Thor tapped at some pages on the table before him. “CZ Toys has already confirmed our interviews today with a half dozen of their financial people plus their external auditors. We’re due down there in a little over an hour.”
Wunderlich, the paler side of the coffee-and-cream team, finally spoke up. “Hey, we understand this is a little awkward for you.” This one’s flattened Brooklyn accent, which made you sound like youze, was at odds with his Brooks Brothers–style suit and oversized Mont Blanc pen. “But it was our understanding that the shooting last summer—”
“Which, need I remind you, resulted in the death of one of the victims,” Billie snapped.
“—was the work of the Nation of Islam,” Taft finished, cutting off the smart remark I could see forming on his colleague’s lips.
The FBI agent’s dark skin and melodious baritone reminded me of an actor in a Michelle Pfeiffer movie my girlfriend Katrina had swooned over a few months before, but what he was saying just didn’t add up. “Those theories didn’t—”
“Hold up, Justice.” Thor leaned forward. “You say that, Agent Taft, like you have some evidence of the Nation’s involvement.”
Taft turned up his palms as if to say That’s why we’re here.
Thor nodded triumphantly at Billie and me. “I told you it was a plausible theory!”
Billie sat stone-faced, but Kenneth Stobaugh looked as if he was having trouble controlling his excitement. “For God’s sake, man,” our lieutenant exclaimed. “If you and Wunderlich have something, put your cards on the table!”
“The FBI tries not to interfere in local law enforcement’s investigations,” Taft demurred.
“I’m sorry, but this doesn’t add up for me.”
All eyes shifted toward me, including Special Agent Taft’s, which I noticed were the color of dark chocolate. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said evenly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s Detective Justice,” I reminded him, annoyed by the tingling sensation his gaze was causing along my spine. “And since you and Agent Wunderlich—”
“That’s Assistant U.S. Attorney Wunderlich,” the other guy corrected, his voice condescending.
“Sorry, since you and the AUSA here seem to know so much about the Nation of Islam being behind the Smiley Face shootings, why didn’t you come to us sooner? You’d have saved us a lot of time, energy, and effort if you’d just told us what you had.”
“Frankly,” Wunderlich replied, his voice testy now, “we believe your murder investigation and our investigation of CZ Toys are unrelated. And, given our understanding that you were already pursuing the Nation, it was decided that we should continue our own investigation as quietly as possible.”
“Where did you get all of this ‘understanding’ about our investigation?” Stobaugh wanted to know.
“From our contacts within Justice.” Agent Wunderlich wasn’t talking about members of the Justice Family Nut House but about the Department of Justice, which had recently indicted Sergeant Koon and his band of merry ass-kickers on civil rights violations after they were acquitted of the criminal charges in the Rodney King beating. The civil trial against them was just a few weeks old, but with a new U.S. Attorney General in place and reportedly watching the proceedings closely, it was a new day in the DOJ and, it seemed, a new set of eyes watching over our shoulders.
Billie leaned forward. “What did your contacts within Justice think when they heard about—”
“Our request for the ten-Ks and ten-Qs?” I interrupted, hoping to forestall Billie mentioning Nilo Engalla’s reappearance up north.
Wunderlich looked from Billie to me to Taft. “That we needed to come forward with what we know about Malik Shareef and his dealings with certain elements within the Nation of Islam.”
“Which was not a priority,” Billie added, “until you thought we were getting too close to your investigation.”
“That’s your interpretation, Detective Truesdale.” Wunderlich’s smile was strained. “That’s not the way we’d characterize our intentions at all.”
Billie rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth in reply.
Taft raised his hands in a truce-like gesture. “Look, folks, we came here in the spirit of cooperation. We had to get clearance from our bosses at the Bureau and DOJ to even be talking to you about either the Nation of Islam or CZ Toys!”
“Which we fully appreciate,” MIA assured him. “And I’m sure you appreciate that my detectives have to go where the case takes them, even if it’s in the path of your investigation. As Lieutenant Stobaugh said, we’ve got a murder to solve.”
Wunderlich’s face had turned red, his mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. He was just about to explode when Taft leaned over and whispered something to him, which made him reconsider and nod reluctantly. “Perhaps we could put you in touch with our informant,” Taft offered.
“Who’s that?” Thor asked.
“Christopher Deinhart,” Wunderlich said grudgingly.
“Of Shuttleworth and Bezney?” Thor consulted his list. “We’ve got him down here as the manager for the CZ Toys audit. We’re seeing him and his audit partner
this afternoon.”
“Deinhart was arrested last December in Santa Ana on a DUI and possession of cocaine charges,” Wunderlich told us. “Once he gets in front of the DA, he starts trying to bargain. Swears he’s got information about accounting irregularities at CZ Toys that he wants to trade for the DA making the charges go away. The locals didn’t know what to make of him, so they called us.”
“Is his information any good?” Thor asked.
“It might be. When the audit staff was testing the depreciation on some of the company’s scheduled assets, they discovered some personal usage that concerned them.”
“Like the corporate jet Gabriella Zuccari uses to attend the Paris fashion shows?”
Wunderlich stared at me. “Where did you—”
“We have our sources, same as you,” Thor replied, warning me to keep quiet with a stern look. “But if what you’re talking about is the company’s practice, how’s that illegal?”
“It isn’t necessarily,” Perkins piped up from her spot next to Thor, “unless management fails to appropriately disclose it. Which I’m assuming they haven’t, or you wouldn’t be talking to Mr. Deinhart.”
Wunderlich’s lips firmly held his response in check.
“Let me ask you this, then,” Perkins pressed. “Have Shuttleworth and Bezney filed an eight-K?”
Thin-lipped silence from Wunderlich. “It’s a matter of public record, Vern,” Taft reminded him.
“No, they haven’t,” the other man replied tersely.
Nodding, Perkins explained to us: “Anytime an auditor resigns a publicly traded company, they have to file a Form Eight-K with the SEC.” She turned back to Wunderlich. “Which means, since they haven’t, you could also be looking at Shuttleworth and Bezney for not busting the company’s chops for the accounting violations.”
Strange Bedfellows v5 Page 11
