Rather than head downtown for roll call, Lee chose to check in with Wolfe by phone. “I’m going to visit the Vasquez family,” she said. “And Yanty is hard at work trying to get access to Vasquez’s phone records, e-mails, and online activity.”
“Sounds good,” Wolfe said. “What about Prospo?”
“He’s working on a search warrant for Vasquez’s apartment,” Lee replied.
“Roger that,” Wolfe said. “Keep me informed.”
Lee promised to do so, broke the connection, and pulled into a strip mall. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the local coffee shop with a grande mocha and a blueberry scone in hand. In a clear violation of departmental policy and a couple of laws, Lee ate breakfast while she drove.
The working-class community of Glendale was north of where she lived, had taken a heavy hit during the plague, and was still on the long road to recovery. But it looked like roughly two-thirds of the houses were occupied. And, judging from the numerous neighborhood-watch signs, the local homeowners were doing their part to keep crime under control.
After a wrong turn, Lee got back on track, and had to wind her way through an old subdivision before arriving in front of the Vasquez house. She couldn’t park there however since the driveway was full of cars—and at least a dozen vehicles were parked on the street. Friends and relatives? Probably. And based on previous experience, Lee knew that the presence of so many mourners could make her job more difficult.
Lee parked the creeper half a block away and walked back. The Vasquez residence was a ranch-style home with a brick façade and a raised planter that ran along the front. Judging from the profusion of flowers someone had a green thumb.
Lee rang the bell and heard a distant chime, followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opened to reveal a pleasant-looking woman with carefully arranged black hair. Her eyes were red as if from crying. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Lee,” Lee said, as she opened her ID up for the woman to look at. “I called last night. Are you Mrs. Vasquez?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “Please come in. My husband and I have visitors, but we can talk in the kitchen.”
In order to reach the kitchen it was necessary to pass through a living room packed with people, including a Catholic priest, who nodded to Lee as she passed by. Halfway to the kitchen a man whom Lee took to be Mr. Vasquez got up off a chair and fell in behind her.
The house had been built back before open interiors became popular and had never been remodeled. So, with the exception of a pass-through, the kitchen was partitioned off from the dining area. Three children were seated at a table playing a board game—but left when Mrs. Vasquez ordered them into the backyard. “Please,” Mrs. Vasquez said. “Have a seat. This is my husband, Jorge. And this is Detective Lee . . . Would you like something to drink? Coffee perhaps?”
The words had a robotic quality—as if Mrs. Vasquez was going through the motions. “No, thank you,” Lee replied. “I’m sorry to intrude. I know this is a very difficult time for you and your family. But the department wants to apprehend the person or persons who murdered your son and bring them to justice as quickly as possible. And that’s why I’m here . . . to collect any information that might help us solve the case.”
Mr. Vasquez was sitting across from her. He was small, wiry, and starting to go bald. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “But I’m not sure that we’ll be of much help.”
“You never know,” Lee said, as she placed a small recorder on the table between them. “Let’s start with the last time you spoke with Rudy.”
Mrs. Vasquez started to cry at that point and began to snatch tissues out of a box. So it was up to Jorge to field Lee’s questions. It seemed that Mrs. Vasquez had spoken to their son on the phone about a week prior to his disappearance. It had been a routine call, the kind young men make to keep their mothers happy, and lasted about ten minutes.
As the interview continued Mr. Vasquez said that no, they didn’t know of anyone who would want to harm their son, nor were they aware of any problems in his personal life. “He was a good boy,” Mrs. Vasquez insisted, as she blotted her eyes. “He liked to listen to music, ride his bike, and play baseball. But most of all he loved his job. He was five when he told me that he was going to be a policeman.”
There were more tears after that—and Lee figured that she had what there was to get. Many eyes followed her progress as Mr. Vasquez led her through the living room and out onto the front porch. Once there he looked around as if to ensure that no one else could hear. “I know you,” he said solemnly. “You’re the cop that killed those bank robbers. Promise me this . . . When you find the people who killed my son, shoot them. “Do you hear me?” he demanded, as the tenor of his voice rose. “Kill the bastards.”
And with that, he turned around and went back into the house. The door clicked as it closed. The interview was over.
After leaving the Vasquez residence Lee pointed the car downtown. There was a ton of administrative crap waiting for her with more coming in all the time. Her phone rang. “This is Lee.”
“It’s Prospo,” the voice on the other end of the call said. “I have the warrant.”
“Outstanding . . . Give me the address. I’ll meet you there.”
Lee pulled over to jot the address down, and saw that it was in West Hollywood, an area sometimes referred to as WeHo. A place where a lot of gay people had chosen to live. Did that mean Vasquez was gay? No, but it raised the possibility. And his sex life might or might not be relevant to the case. “Thanks,” Lee said, as she pulled away from the curb. “I’m on the way.”
Lee took Hyperion Avenue to Santa Monica Boulevard, which led straight to West Hollywood. The four-story apartment house was on the east side of Martel Avenue and looked like thousands of other flat-topped white stucco buildings.
Prospo was there, along with a slightly overweight, middle-aged crime-scene investigator whom everyone called “Moms.” Having already obtained a key from the on-site property manager, they were ready to enter the apartment that Vasquez had occupied for most of the last two years. It was on the second floor, facing out onto a shared walkway and the street beyond. What could have been his bike was chained to the metal railing.
Prospo opened the door and pushed it back out of the way so that he could eyeball the interior. Then, confident that they weren’t about to step on any evidence, he let the others in.
Moms had something like a thousand investigations under her belt and didn’t need any instructions. Her camera whirred, and light strobed the walls, as the detectives gave themselves a tour of the one-bedroom apartment. It was decorated man-style, with leather-covered furniture and a couple of dying plants. Sports stuff, including free weights, were scattered about. An old surfboard had been hung over the couch, which sat across from a huge flat-screen TV.
There was some cop memorabilia too . . . including a class photo from the academy on one wall and a framed lifesaving medal on another. All of which was consistent with Lee’s expectations, and sadly enough, not that different from her apartment. I need to move, Lee thought to herself for the second time in twenty-four hours. I need a fresh start. I need to call Lawrence.
As for Vasquez’s sex life, that wasn’t clear. Snapshots of men and women were pinned to the refrigerator with magnets so it could go either way.
“I don’t see any signs of violence,” Prospo said. “Nothing that would suggest that Vasquez was abducted from the apartment. And that’s consistent with the Bonebreaker’s MO. None of his victims were taken from their homes. Not so far.”
“I agree,” Lee replied. “I think we should talk to his partner next.”
“She’s scheduled to meet with us at 2:00 P.M.,” Prospo said. “Back at the cop shop.”
“Nice work,” Lee said. “Come on . . . I’ll take you to lunch. Maybe we can find a Mexican restaurant that serves meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”
* * *
Lee was sitting at her desk,
working her way through 247 e-mails, when Officer Syndy Seko appeared. She was dressed in her blue uniform and looked like a recruiting poster. A black band was wrapped around her badge to symbolize the loss of a fellow officer. “Detective Lee? I’m Syndy Seko. I was told to report to you at two o’clock.”
“Thanks for coming,” Lee replied as she stood up. “Come on . . . We’ll grab Detective Prospo and find a place to talk.”
The place turned out to be a nearby conference room, which, judging from the mostly eaten cake, had been used for somebody’s birthday celebration earlier in the day.
Seko had vaguely Asian features, almond-shaped eyes, and a freshly scrubbed appearance. If she was nervous Lee couldn’t see any sign of it. “So,” she began. “Let me start by saying how sorry we are about your partner’s death.”
Seko produced a short, jerky nod. And her lower lip quivered for a second. That was when Lee realized that Seko was battling to keep the lid on her emotions. “Thank you,” Seko said simply. “I miss him.”
“I know this is hard,” Prospo said sympathetically. “But partners have a special relationship with each other. Chances are that you know things about Rudy that his family isn’t aware of.”
Seko shrugged. “Probably . . . What would you like to know?”
“Did Rudy have enemies?” Lee inquired. “People on or off the force who might want to harm him?”
Seko shook her head. “No, not that I know of. People liked Rudy.”
“How ’bout his private life?” Prospo inquired. “Did Rudy have a girlfriend? A boyfriend?”
“He had a boyfriend,” Seko replied. “But they broke up three months ago.”
“Was the breakup amicable?” Lee wanted to know.
“Yes,” Seko said. “I know Marty . . . And he would never do anything to harm Rudy. Not physically anyway.”
“So, was Rudy out and about?” Prospo wanted to know.
“We worked a lot of overtime,” Seko answered. “But when Rudy could, he liked to hang out at the Hi-Jinx Club. That’s where Rudy met Marty—and he hoped that lightning would strike twice.”
“But no current lovers?” Lee inquired.
“Not that I know of.”
The interview continued for another ten minutes and ended with a request that Seko call them should something relevant come to mind. Once she was gone, Prospo looked at Lee. “Don’t tell me . . . Let me guess. We’re going to visit the Hi-Jinx Club.”
“You can read minds!” Lee said. “I’m impressed. Here’s hoping we find some sort of lead there . . . Because at this point, all we have so far is a whole lot of nothing.”
* * *
Lee spent the rest of the afternoon working her way through administrative tasks and was about to catch up when Prospo appeared. “Are you ready?” he inquired. “The Hi-Jinx is open, and the manager is expecting us.”
“Yeah,” Lee said, as she logged out. “Do you want to meet me there? Or would you like a ride?”
“I’ll meet you at the club,” Prospo replied. “I’ll go home from there.”
Lee nodded, and they rode the elevator down to the garage together. Once in her car, and on the way, Lee checked her six. There was no sign of a tail, so she allowed her thoughts to wander. She had lied to Kane. So how would he react when Jenkins told him the truth? Lee figured that Dr. Kane would receive the news with equanimity. But what about the man? Would he be angry? Perhaps. Or maybe he wouldn’t give a shit. Maybe he viewed her as another whack job. A wayward patient in need of a steadying hand. That would be horrible.
The Hi-Jinx Club fronted on the tree-lined Santa Monica Boulevard. The parking was out back, and it was early, so there were plenty of parking places to choose from. As Lee slid into one of them, Prospo pulled in next to her.
On the way into the club they passed the restrooms, huge fish tanks on both walls, and the door to the kitchen. The lighting was so subdued that it was hard to see across the room. Round tables and chromed chairs were arranged around a dance floor and the table where a DJ would sit later on. There were some customers but not many. The bar, which was supported by a beautifully lit fish tank, took up most of the right-hand wall. Prospo went over to speak with the bartender. “We’re looking for Andre . . . He’s expecting us.”
The bartender responded with a nod. “Sure, I’ll tell him.” Then he turned toward a door labeled OFFICE.
Lee was still looking around when a man emerged from the office and came out to meet them. “Hi, I’m Andre . . . Welcome to Hi-Jinx.”
“I’m Detective Lee—and this is Detective Prospo.”
“Right,” Andre said, as he shook hands with Prospo. “We spoke on the phone.”
“So you know why we’re here,” Lee said as she shook hands with the bar owner. “We’re trying to find the person or persons who murdered Officer Rudy Vasquez. His partner says he came here on a frequent basis.”
Andre had very little hair and what remained had been cut short. He had well-groomed eyebrows, high cheekbones, and the body of a runner. He nodded. “Yes, Rudy was a regular. I liked him. Everybody did.”
“So, how ’bout it?” Prospo inquired. “Was Rudy here on the night of the sixth?”
“I don’t know,” Andre replied. “Hundreds of people come and go every night. I can’t keep track of them; nor do I try.”
“How about those cameras?” Lee inquired as she pointed them out. “Do they work? And do you keep the footage?”
“They work,” Andre assured her. “And we keep everything for a rolling thirty days.”
“Can we look at the images from the sixth?” Prospo wanted to know. “Or will we need to get a warrant?”
“There’s no need for that,” Andre replied. “You can watch it in my office. Follow me.”
In order to enter the office it was necessary to walk behind the bar and pass through the door located at the far end of it. The room was about the size of a large walk-in closet and furnished with an ancient safe, a built-in computer station, and a couple of mismatched chairs. The walls were lined with DIY shelves that were laden with binders, piles of marketing materials, and a collection of bowling trophies. “Sorry about the mess,” Andre said. “Have a seat at the desk. I’ll show you how to access the video files.”
Prospo plopped down in front of the screen, followed the directions that Andre gave, and caught on rather quickly. “Good,” Andre said, as Prospo shuttled back and forth. “I need to excuse myself if it’s okay with you. Happy hour is about to begin, and that’s when things start to get crazy.”
“No problem,” Lee said. “Thanks for the help.”
As Andre left Lee took up a position directly behind Prospo, where she could look over the other detective’s shoulder. Video started and stopped as he worked his way through the fifth and moved into the sixth. Vasquez had been working shift two that day—and it ran from 7:00 A.M. to 3:30 P.M. So Prospo chose 4:00 P.M. as a starting point.
There were multiple cameras and all four shots appeared on the screen at once. So that, plus the poor lighting, made viewing difficult. One camera was pointed straight down at the cash register, however—so they could ignore that.
The next twenty minutes were spent starting, stopping, and rewinding. Every now and then, Prospo would tap one of the boxes, causing the image to pop full screen.
But it wasn’t until the rolling time stamp read 05:36:27 P.M. that they hit pay dirt. That was the moment when Vasquez strolled into the club and paused to speak with the bartender. The patrol officer was wearing an open-necked sports shirt that hung out over his jeans. To hide his off-duty weapon? Probably . . . And that was something Lee had long wondered about. How had it been possible for the Bonebreaker to subdue not one, but nine armed cops? It was a mystery within a mystery.
At that point they had Vasquez on the day he disappeared in what could have been the place where he was abducted. Lee felt a rising sense of excitement as the footage continued to roll. Prospo had three speeds to choose from: normal, kind of
fast, and a blur. “Kind of fast” was the best for their needs.
They watched as Vasquez left one camera shot and entered a second one. He did some table-hopping before settling down at a spot near the front entrance. And that’s where he was when a man joined him fifteen minutes later. They talked for a while, danced, and consumed two rounds of drinks. The time stamp read 07:22:19 P.M. when they got up and left. “Bingo!” Prospo said. “They went out through the back door.”
“Yeah,” Lee said grimly. “Vasquez’s car was found in the lot, so I figure Mr. Goodbar drove. Back up . . . I want another look at him.”
Prospo backed the video up, hit PLAY, and clicked the box labeled CAMERA 3. The image was large but the angle was far from ideal. Still, Lee could see the man sitting across from Vasquez. He was a good-looking guy, with a head of dark hair, a straight nose, and a nice mouth. Still another good-looking gay guy . . . What a waste.
Once they stood, Lee was able to see that the two men were roughly the same height, and since Vasquez was five feet eight inches tall, that meant Mr. Goodbar was too. “I’ll get Andre,” Lee said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky . . . Maybe he knows who the pickup artist is.”
Lee went out into the bar, waited for Andre to complete a conversation with a customer, and asked him to return to the office. Once there Andre watched the video three times. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, “I don’t know him.”
“Damn,” Lee said. “Please keep your eyes peeled, and if he shows up, let us know right away. Here’s my card.”
“Yeah,” Prospo said, “and here’s mine. One of our techs will come by to copy that video. In the meantime please don’t erase any part of that video file—and don’t let anyone else have access to it.”
“No problem.” Andre said. “I’ll keep the office locked.”
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