From the way Sullivan pronounced the word, Stepanovich could tell he was drunk. "What about actors?" he asked.
Sullivan pointed to the television. "No normal man could. Dress up in chaps and a toy gun ... and wear makeup probably even lipstick."
"Actors make a lot of money."
"Millions of dollars," Sullivan gloomily agreed. "People worship them, they buy their diet books, put their pictures on the bedroom wall. Actors are some of the most powerful people on earth. They get elected president."
"So what's the point?"
"The point is: what kind of man would want to play dress up for a living? Actually put on Maybelline eye shadow and strut around on a stage?"
"You'd have to be a little different, I guess."
Still staring at the television screen, Sullivan sipped his drink. "That guy on TV right there is probably a Hollywood queen: a daisy chain tough guy. A weight-lifting, jizz gurgling fruit."
"What the hell got into you?"
Sullivan hoisted his glass and threw his head back. The ice stuck in the bottom of the glass for a moment, then slid to his lips. Chewing it, he set the glass down and wiped his mouth with a cocktail napkin. "Fordyce was a believer," he said.
"You're drunk."
"I already know all the details of the shooting. You know how? Because half the station was in here after they cleared the scene. The divisional dicks sat right here and second-guessed your whole operation. They bad mouthed the shit out of the CRASH special unit."
"They weren't there," Stepanovich said angrily.
"But don't let this bother you," Sullivan said with emphasis. "Cops talk about everybody. They like it when someone else fucks up. It makes them feel better about themselves. Gossiping. Backstabbing. It's part of police work."
"You've never heard me second-guess another cop," Stepanovich said.
"That's because you believe cops are better than everyone else. That they can save the world." He finished his drink. "You're a true believer like Fordyce."
"Let's change the subject."
"Fordyce was cannon fodder, a cog in the machine."
The sense of rage that had been swelling inside Stepanovich reached the back of his throat. His lips and face tingled with it. "Why don't you just shut the fuck up?"
Sullivan motioned in a threatening manner. "C'mon, copper. Make the bartender shut up. Pretend you're John Wayne like that asshole on TV. You gonna shoot me?"
Stepanovich reached across the bar and snatched Sullivan with both hands. "I told you to shut your goddamn mouth."
Sullivan tossed his drink and Stepanovich felt ice and watery booze hit his eyes and nose. He yanked Sullivan over the bar and cocktail glasses broke. They struggled fiercely, slamming against racks of bottles and the sink. Then, suddenly, as Stepanovich stared at Sullivan's straining, bug eyed alcoholic face, he realized what he was doing and released his grip.
Sullivan pulled away and stood there glaring at him.
"I didn't mean to do that," Stepanovich heard himself saying in embarrassment. "I'm sorry."
Sullivan, breathing hard, leaned back against the bar cupboard to steady himself. He unzipped his trousers and began tucking in his shirt. "Fordyce told me that when Harger picked him for the gang unit, it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life," Sullivan said, grabbing a clean chimney glass and dipping it into ice. "Before that, he thought everyone considered him a bookworm a wimp."
Stepanovich grabbed some napkins and dried his face and the front of his shirt.
"Fordyce told me his mother and father were proud of him because he was a cop," Sullivan said combatively. Using his index finger, he gave the cocktail a quick stir, then took a sip. "That's what it's all about, isn't it? Making the family proud ... status, authority ... being one of the guys ... carrying a piece, showing off for the neighbors ... everybody has his own reason for being a cop. His own goddamn fucking deficiency."
Stepanovich moved from behind the bar and picked up his drink. Sullivan was drunk, but he wasn't crazy.
"Harger's probably trying to increase the size of the CRASH unit right now, having his secretary write the memo for him while he fucks her in his office. Two-gun Bob Harger, Mr. LAPD. Mr. Metro Division. Mr. Police Olympics."
"I thought you two were friends."
"I said we worked together," Sullivan said, leaning against the barstool. "That don't mean we're friends. It means I got to know the man."
"And you think he's a prick?"
"No," Sullivan answered, staggering from behind the bar to confront Stepanovich. "A prick is part of a man. Harger is a dildo. A rubber dick. A phony. A three-dollar bill. Ever heard the story about him over-powering a suspect and shooting him in the face? It's bullshit. The guy was a lunatic and killed himself by grabbing Harger's gun."
"So? That doesn't mean any "
Sullivan fondled his drink like a chalice. "Heard about Harger being a big Vietnam hero?" he said. "More bullshit. He was in the National Guard. How do I know? Because I know the guy who did the background investigation on him before he was hired. Harger is the ultimate bureaucrat a tap dancer transferring from division to division, getting his career ticket punched along the way. He gets off on having everyone think he's the Chiefs right hand man." Sullivan finished his drink and spat ice back into the glass. Setting his glass down, he folded his arms and put his head down on the bar.
Though Sullivan was drunk, Stepanovich knew what he was saying was true. Unlike others he knew who would make up lies to get back at someone with whom they had a grudge to settle, Sullivan either said nothing or told the truth depending on his degree of drunkenness. This, Stepanovich decided, was probably why Sullivan was chronically depressed. Or, hell, was it the other way around?
A group of detectives, including Black and Arredondo, entered the bar.
"Wake up, Sullivan, you sorry assed wino beeroholic-fuckhead," Black shouted.
The phone rang.
Stepanovich reached over the bar and picked up the receiver. "Rumor Control."
"This is Brown from latent prints. Does Stepanovich be there?"
Stepanovich put a finger in his other ear to block the bar noise. "It's me, Maxine," he said, feeling a twinge of excitement. "Do you have something?"
"That partial thumbprint on the spray paint can. It was made by the right thumb of a White Fence gang member named" there was the sound of papers shuffling "Primitivo Estrada, a.k.a. Payaso. I got his fingerprint card sitting right here."
"Can you testify to that?"
"There ain't enough points of identification on the print for me to take witness stand and say it be him and no other motherfucker on this planet Earth. But it be his print sure as shit. I pulled the boy's package. He's been arrested quite a few times."
"I know the name. Is there a current address in the file?"
She yawned. "Nothing current. Says here he was a victim of a shooting at the Queen of Angels Church "
"I know about that, too."
"I hope this helps you."
"It sure does. And thanks for putting in the extra time."
"When an officer gets shot, I be working night and day," she said. "It doesn't bother me a bit. Now you be careful out there. Hear?"
Stepanovich said thanks again and set the receiver in the cradle. Motioning to Arredondo and Black, he took them aside.
"Maxine found a print on the spray can. It's Payaso."
"White Fence's Payaso?" Black said.
"That's a ten four. I need to run a couple of things out on my own before we move. I'll call you here."
****
SIXTEEN
At the district attorney's office, Stepanovich located Howard Goldberg in the law library just off the reception area. Howard's wheelchair was pulled up close to a table piled with law books. A husky, bearded man, he wore a short sleeved white shirt with two pockets filled with pens, pencils, and highlighting markers. His faded paisley necktie was dotted with a handcuff tie tack. He had he
avy wire rimmed eyeglasses with eye-magnifying lenses and wore a black yarmulke. Holding a bulging black bread sandwich with both hands, he was leaning close to an open law book, nibbling as he read.
After the accident, Stepanovich remembered, while he had been pushing the wheelchair bound Howard from his house to and from Carver Elementary School on Third Street each day, Howard would always be reading a book. He had the ability to carry on a full conversation and read at the same time.
Howard looked up, squinting because his eyesight was limited. "Joe Stepanovich?"
"None other."
Howard smiled broadly. "I hope you're not going to make me write some six hour search warrant."
"I'm working on Fordyce's murder and I need some advice."
"Sit down, friend."
Stepanovich took a seat across the table.
Howard stared at him for a few moments. "You look awful," he said. He immediately reached into his black metal lunch pail and took out a sandwich wrapped neatly in clear plastic. He leaned across the wide table and set it in front of Stepanovich.
"No thanks."
Howard turned the lunch pail to display its contents. "Miriam sends four sandwiches to work with me every day. No matter what I say, it's always four. Rather than argue with her, I give three of them away. Take the sandwich."
"Really..."
"Take the sandwich. Unless you don't like liverwurst."
Stepanovich shrugged and said thanks. Only when he unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite did he realize how hungry he was. The liverwurst and tomato and onion seemed like the best sandwich he'd ever tasted. "I'd like to run something past you unofficially," he said.
"Prosecutors get in trouble giving out unofficial advice."
"You're the best deputy district attorney in L.A. County, Howard. I just want your gut feeling on something."
Howard squinted at Stepanovich for a moment. Suddenly he wheeled his chair away from the table, punched the door closed, and wheeled back. "No one will know we've talked," he said, taking off his glasses. "You have my word."
"A hypothetical situation " Stepanovich began, not sure how to best protect his friend.
"Fuck hypothetical. Just talk."
"A drive by shooting, a caper car is found a few miles away and near it - not in it, mind you, but near it - lying on the ground, is a spray can with a partial fingerprint of a known gang member."
Howard tugged his beard. "That's all?"
"There's no witness evidence because the caper car has smoked windows. No one got a look at the shooters."
"The gang member whose fingerprint was found," Howard said. "Can you tie him to a motive?"
"Fairly well."
"Guns?"
"No guns," Stepanovich said with his mouth full.
"You need a confession from Mr. Fingerprint."
"But Mr. Fingerprint isn't a singer."
"But, on the other hand, he might sing like Caruso if I charged him with murder and he faced sitting down in the gas chamber."
"Nothing short of that will get his attention," Stepanovich said, continuing to eat.
Howard lifted his glasses from his face and blew gently on the lenses. Rubbing the deep, reddish indentations on the bridge of his nose, he said, "So you want to know, even though the case is weak, whether you can get a court filing against the suspect in order to squeeze him for the names of the other shooters."
Stepanovich nodded solemnly.
When Howard set the glasses back on, the lenses caused his kindly blue eyes to appear tiny and deep set in his eye sockets. "If an officer were to bring such a case in, I would have to tell him there was enough probable cause to arrest the suspect whose fingerprint was found, but not enough to hold him. Even if a friendly DA tried to file the case to help the investigating officer, he could never get it past Weber, my filing supervisor, whose only concern in life is to keep the office's conviction record high. I'm willing to help, but it won't work."
Stepanovich sat there for a moment. "Thanks, Howard. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention I came in."
"We've known each other since grammar school. You don't have to say that to me."
Stepanovich felt somewhat abashed. "Sorry," he said, standing up to leave. "I didn't mean that "
"Do you feel all right?"
"I'm OK."
"Your eyes look like two burnt holes in a blanket."
"Thanks again."
"I can imagine how you feel after what happened to Fordyce, but people make poor decisions when they're emotionally involved," Howard said as Stepanovich walked toward the door. "Sometimes it's better to take some time off."
In the courthouse underground parking lot, Stepanovich climbed behind the wheel of the police sedan and sat there for a few minutes, considering the alternatives. Then he started the engine and accelerated out the exit and into the street. In a trance of anger and frustration, he drove slowly, aimlessly. At a stoplight on Olympic Boulevard he found himself staring at a large advertising billboard depicting a small island in the middle of an enormous aqua blue ocean. Above the island were the words: "CATALINA IS TWENTY SIX MILES ACROSS THE SEA." He stared at it until the car behind him tooted its horn. With his decision made, he swung a U turn and stepped on the gas.
It took him less than ten minutes to get to the county hospital. Stepanovich moved briskly along the dimly lit hallways. Unlike the frenetic atmosphere during the day, the hospital corridors were empty except for a few clean up men disdainfully mopping sections of hallway here and there. At the intensive care ward he pushed the swinging door open a few inches. Gloria was standing in front of a heart monitor machine with another nurse. She saw him and motioned to her colleague to take over. As she stepped into the hallway, he tried to kiss her, but she responded only politely. He noticed deep circles under her eyes.
"You get off in a few minutes, right?" he said.
"Yes."
"Catalina Island."
"What about it?"
"We're going to have dinner there."
"You're crazy."
"I'm driving you home to change, and we're heading to San Pedro to catch a boat."
"We'll never get on without reservations."
"Then we can take a helicopter."
"I really can't. I have too many things to do."
He took her by the arm and led her to the nurses' station.
After she had grabbed her purse and signed out, he drove her to her apartment, where, still protesting, she changed into a dinner dress. They were at the Catalina Island cruise boat dock in San Pedro within an hour, but Gloria had been right, the boat was full, so they were forced to take an expensive helicopter flight from the nearby Ports of Call village departure pad. Stepanovich was thankful they accepted credit cards.
Twelve minutes after taking off, they arrived at Catalina's Avalon Bay. It was dusk and as they descended, the island seemed to glow with its own peculiar richness: white cliff side homes looking down at a harbor faced by a street of ship shape hotels and artificially weathered storefronts. At the end of town a curving esplanade led to the Greek columned Catalina Casino and Ballroom, an impressive domed landmark from the thirties.
Climbing off the airship onto a long wooden pier, the youthful chopper pilot told them the last flight from the island was at eleven thirty.
They walked along the pier to a narrow thoroughfare running between the beach and a line of hotels and shops facing the ocean. Meandering slowly along the strand, feeling the salt air and gently lapping waves and Gloria's arm in his, Stepanovich felt tension starting to leave him.
"I had forgotten how peaceful it is over here," she said.
"Thanks for coming with me. I had to get away."
"Getting away is part of it. But talking about your problems is what really helps."
They passed a candy shop with a taffy pulling machine working endlessly in the window, a souvenir shop, a door-less bar filled with tanned young beer drinkers wearing shorts and T shirts.
; "It's not like you're the most forthcoming person in the world either," he said.
"Maybe I'm not," she said, without looking him in the eye. "But I guess we can't help the way we are."
He shrugged.
"Or can we?" she asked.
"What are you getting at?"
"Is it actually possible for you and me to change to give up everything and live differently?"
"I'm not sure," he said.
"It all depends on what's important to you. Look at the people who live here. They gave up everything to live a peaceful life on an island."
"I could do that."
"I don't think so. I don't think you could ever leave your job."
They had dinner in a small Italian restaurant and were lucky to be seated before a window that offered them a view of the entire harbor. As they sipped Chianti, two sailboats beat the settling darkness, racing from beyond the rocks at the edge of the harbor and mooring in choppy water near the casino ballroom.
A spindly middle-aged waiter wearing an apron and a bow tie, who said he'd come to the island three years ago for a weekend and had never returned, served them solicitously all evening and soon they were stuffed.
"I'm sorry," Stepanovich said.
"About what?"
"I'm sorry for pulling you away from everything at such short notice."
"It's not that."
"Then should I ask?"
She leaned close and kissed him. "I don't want anything to come between us," she said, then put her head on his shoulder.
After dinner, they walked arm in arm along the boardwalk near the casino ballroom. A balmy ocean breeze wafted from the leeward side of the island and the bay itself, filled with swaying pleasure craft hiding from the blackness farther out to sea, glimmered metallic gray.
"It's after eleven," Stepanovich said, checking his wristwatch as they passed under a boardwalk street lamp. "We'd better get back to the helicopter."
"It seems like we just got here. What a wonderful evening."
He stopped and took her in his arms. "It doesn't have to end. We can stay here."
"But I have to be at work at ten tomorrow."
He kissed her neck. "We can take the eight o'clock boat. "
"We'll never get a room this late."
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