The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  Matt let his mind wander. He was thinking about the strings McKensie and Chief Logan attached and wondering why they had called them strings. He was told to lay off Robert Gambini until Mitch Burton, the deputy DA in charge of the Organized Crime Unit, could be brought in for advice. A meeting had been set up for later that morning at 10:00 a.m. in Burton’s office. To Matt, that felt more like the right move—not strings.

  The two murders in Elysian Park had suddenly become radioactive, yet the case hadn’t been traded up to the elite Robbery-Homicide Division. That would have been the right move, too.

  So why hadn’t the chief and McKensie made it?

  As Matt considered the question, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d had a bit of luck in scoring this small victory.

  The murders of Sophia Ramirez and Moe Rey were still on his plate. But so was the mysterious relationship between Gambini and the owners of DMG Waste Management. He thought about Sonny Daniels and his two partners, Ryan Moore and Lane Grubb, and the possibility that their innocence, their willingness to help the other night, might have been completely bogus. The idea that maybe their company was nothing more than a front for a scam.

  Matt cruised down the block and stopped at the red light. When the glare of headlights struck his rearview mirror, he saw a Mercedes idling behind him but couldn’t make out the driver.

  Why was Chief Logan willing to face the music with the media and cover for him, Cabrera, and the entire team from the crime lab rather than clear the deck and restart the case with a fresh crew?

  Matt knew the homicide rate was up and that the department’s resources were stretched thin. But how thin?

  The light turned green. Matt eased his foot down on the accelerator. Checking his rearview mirror, the Mercedes seemed to linger back at the corner, then lurched forward quickly.

  Matt looked back through the windshield. The fog was thicker here. Because of the height of the buildings, the road seemed extraordinarily dark and narrow. He checked the mirror again. The Mercedes had made up the distance and was following three car lengths back. They were the only two cars on the road.

  Tossing it over, something about it didn’t feel right.

  He looked ahead, saw the dog park, and made a right on Westminster Avenue. His eyes flicked back to the mirror. The Mercedes was making the turn with him. As the car drove beneath the lights from the park, Matt could see that it was a black coupe. High end, but that didn’t mean anything anymore, especially in LA.

  He punched the accelerator, hit the end of the block, and made a hard left onto Main Street. Checking the mirror again, he watched the Mercedes vanish into a fog bank, then reappear in the darkness behind him.

  Nothing about it was right.

  He thought about the road ahead. In another seven or eight blocks the buildings would become commercial. Storefronts, bars, restaurants, and cafés that might still be open. Even if they were closed, the street would be brighter, and there was a decent chance he could get a look at who was tailing him in the black coupe.

  He slowed the car down to an easy thirty-five miles an hour and settled into the seat. He made no moves, no turns, no fluctuations in speed. When he hit red lights, he eyed the intersections but never stopped. Checking the rearview mirror each time, he watched the Mercedes roll through the red lights without even slowing down.

  He grimaced, then spotted a coffeehouse to the right on the next corner. Even better, there was a bus stop there, the sidewalk well lit. Wrenching the steering wheel, he skidded to a stop at the curb and turned to the open window just as the black Mercedes started to pass by.

  There was a man sitting behind the wheel, and he turned with his chin up and an arrogant smile on his face. Their eyes met.

  It was Robert Gambini.

  The car made a sharp left at the corner, its tires screeching as it vanished up the street and into the fog.

  Robert Gambini. The new breed.

  A moment passed. Matt looked at his right hand and realized that he was holding his .45. He set the pistol down in the cup holder and spent a few moments committing Gambini’s face to memory. Matt didn’t think that the video image he’d photographed with Trey Washington that afternoon matched Gambini’s presence in the flesh. His dark hair was combed straight back, his face more lean and angular in real life. From the glint in his eyes, the relaxed way he seemed to carry himself, even in the split second he sped by, Matt could tell that he wasn’t a lowlife. That the degree he received from Wharton wasn’t the result of a bribe made by a rich daddy. Robert Gambini had the look and feel of a successful man in his late thirties. A brutal heroin dealer who was making a fortune and wore well-tailored suits.

  He wondered why Gambini did it.

  Why would Gambini follow a cop down Main Street in Venice Beach at three in the morning? Why would he show himself to the detective who was most likely hunting him? Why take the risk?

  It occurred to Matt that Gambini must have been watching them toss Moe Rey’s place. He must have been waiting. He must have known who Matt was.

  Matt let it go.

  There was no one around. Not a single person on the sidewalk or a car in the street. The cafés and bars were closed, the fog in the cold night air billowing. He glanced at the clock on the dash, then pulled away from the curb. Blowing through another red light, he felt the cold breeze beating against his face and shut the windows. Once the heater kicked in, he sat back and tried to relax. But as he crossed the next intersection, the glare of headlights struck his rearview mirror again and he felt his blood pressure spike.

  Gambini had circled the block. The black coupe had just burst through the clouds and was three car lengths back.

  Matt knew from the Love Killings case in Philly that crazy was far more dangerous than steady. Crazy was unpredictable. Crazy was like a rabid dog that just keeps coming your way, regardless of the risks or consequences.

  Matt reached for his pistol, chambered a round, and held it below the window line. He knew who Robert Gambini was now.

  For the next five minutes he kept an eye on the Mercedes. Gambini followed him all the way down Main Street to Pico Boulevard. When Matt made the turn from Pico to Ocean Avenue, Gambini was still only three car lengths back. But then it all changed when they reached the entrance to the Pacific Coast Highway. For whatever reason, Gambini seemed to have had enough. Matt eased off the gas and watched the coupe continue down Ocean. As if to punctuate the end of the night, Robert Gambini, a person of interest in two murders, blinked his lights and tapped the horn before disappearing into the fog.

  Matt shook his head. It was almost as if Gambini had escorted him out of the neighborhood and off his turf. Almost as if Gambini thought that LA was his city and he owned it.

  Matt turned back to the road and accelerated onto the ramp. As he entered the highway, he looked at the .45 in his hand and decided that he’d better keep it close.

  TWENTY

  Matt looked at the receptionist sitting at her computer behind the chest-high counter in the lobby at DMG Waste Management. It was 8:30 a.m., and she was speaking to her boss, Sonny Daniels, on the phone. After a few moments, she palmed the mouthpiece.

  “They’re in a meeting,” she said. “Mr. Daniels was wondering if you guys could come back later.”

  Matt noticed the copy of the Times beside her computer, then gave her a look and rocked his head back and forth. “That’s not gonna work for us,” he said. “We won’t have time later. Tell him it’s important.”

  The receptionist got back on the phone. While they waited, he could see Cabrera keying in on the newspaper. The story had broken wide open sometime overnight and, just as Matt expected, had made the front page of this morning’s paper above the fold. The headline, LAPD'S FINEST BUNGLE ANOTHER ONE, LEAVE DEAD BODY BEHIND, pretty much said it all. Matt and his partner had been singled out for their inexperience and blamed for the debacle. And while Moe Rey’s name as the second victim hadn’t been confirmed, both Matt and Cabrera had b
een seen at Rey’s house last night, so it didn’t take much for anyone to connect the dots.

  The tone of the piece was just as bad as the reality and at times seemed over the top. But what bothered Matt most were the photographs. The article had been cowritten by a crime beat reporter, a woman Matt respected and had spoken with in the past. Somehow, she had managed to break through the police line and enter the crime scene undetected. There were pictures of the tents pitched over the picnic tables at night with their work lights burning. Worse still, the reporter had waited until everyone left, then found her way under the pine trees and snapped a picture of the grave that was more than eerie.

  Matt could remember reading the piece online when he woke up after an hour and a half’s sleep. Everything about the case seemed bigger, more urgent now.

  “They’ll see you in a few minutes,” the receptionist said, her eyes lifting off the newspaper and meeting Matt’s head-on.

  Matt turned and gave Cabrera a look. Then the door to the conference room opened and Sonny Daniels walked out. Matt stepped down to the gate in the counter.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Daniels. We just have a few follow-up questions. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Detective. We can talk in the conference room. Everybody’s here.”

  Matt checked his watch. Their meeting with Deputy DA Burton wasn’t for another hour and a half, so they had plenty of time. Before he and Cabrera arrived, they had come up with a plan. Matt would ask the questions while Cabrera remained an observer, studying the three partners’ reactions and writing everything down. If Cabrera thought Matt missed something important, he was free to jump in at any time. Still, both detectives agreed that this kind of inquiry was all about rhythm. All about pressure—all about the build—then cataloging responses and hoping something unexpected might shake out.

  Matt followed Cabrera into the conference room. Ryan Moore and Lane Grubb were standing on the other side of the table just as they had the other night. And all evidence pointed to the receptionist having told them the truth about a meeting. Papers were strewn across the conference table. Matt could see schedules and lists and another set of blueprints weighted down with a ruler and paperweights. Although the room was slightly darker, the TV muted and switched to a cable business channel rather than Channel Five, almost everything was just as it had been before.

  Matt chewed it over as he watched Sonny Daniels walk to the other side of the table and take a seat between his partners. Once again, no attempt had been made to cover up or hide any of the papers on the table. Once again, all three partners seemed completely at ease and willing to help—almost as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  It seemed so odd.

  Matt let it go and sat down beside Cabrera, who was already opening his notepad.

  “Our offer still stands,” Daniels said. “If you’d like to interview our employees, Detectives, I can make it happen. We can arrange a time.”

  Matt nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “We just have a few follow-up questions for now.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Matt opened his laptop case and pulled out a file. Leafing through the papers, he found two photographs of Robert Gambini that he’d downloaded off his phone and printed an hour ago. Two images of the crime figure that included the man laid out on the grassy bank with his binoculars and camera and then running across the lawn as he chased Sophia Ramirez and Trey Washington into the woods.

  Matt turned and gave the three partners a good look. When he spoke finally, everything about his demeanor was cool and straightforward.

  “What interest would a man like Robert Gambini have in any of you or your company, DMG Waste Management?”

  Matt slid the photographs across the table and watched all three men study the images. Sonny Daniels shook his head as if confused by the question.

  “Who is Robert Gambini?” he said.

  “You don’t know him?”

  “I’ve never even heard of him.”

  “He’s the nephew of Joseph Gambini, the CEO of the Gambini Organization, which is just a front for the Gambini crime family. Robert’s business is drugs. Heroin mostly. Getting addicts off oxycodone so they can buy his dope.”

  Daniels leaned back in his seat and looked Matt in eye. “I’ve never heard of any one by the name of Robert Gambini,” he repeated in a subdued voice.

  “Well, he’s heard of you. He’s watching this place, Mr. Daniels. Take another look at these photographs. The binoculars. A camera with a long lens. Robert Gambini’s a dangerous man from a dangerous family. They kill people, go to prison, and when they get out, they kill all over again. It’s a vicious cycle. These photographs would seem to prove that he knows who you are, Mr. Daniels. And that you have something he wants. We’re hoping you can tell us what it is.”

  Matt let the news settle into the room. He noticed the coffee maker, got up and poured himself a mug while keeping an eye on all three of the partners. Sonny Daniels, Ryan Moore, and Lane Grubb no longer seemed so willing to be helpful. Instead, all three appeared deeply concerned, especially Grubb, who was staring at his hands beneath the glass table. Matt noted the black circles under Grubb’s eyes and glanced back at his hands as he returned to his seat at the table. He thought they might be trembling.

  “You guys know anything about heroin?”

  The air thickened. No one on the other side of the table wanted to be there anymore.

  After several moments, Sonny Daniels cleared his throat. “I guess I’m wondering what this is all about, Detective. I just told you that I don’t know Robert Gambini. That I’ve never met him. That I’ve never even heard of him and have no idea why he might, as you say, have an interest in our company or any of us. And to your question, the answer is no. None of us know anything about heroin.”

  Matt glanced at Cabrera taking notes, then skimmed through his file and pulled out two more photographs. The first was Moe Rey as they found him buried in the ground in a death scream. The second was another blowup, this time from his driver’s license.

  “What about Moe Rey?” Matt said.

  Daniels shook his head again and laughed sarcastically. “Who the hell is Moe Rey?”

  Matt slid the photographs across the table and watched their eyes devour the images. How the man looked when he was alive versus the horror of his brutal death. Ryan Moore finally shot Matt a look and seemed flabbergasted.

  “Who is he?”

  “Who is he?” Matt repeated.

  “That’s what Ryan just asked you,” Daniels said. “Who the hell is he?”

  Matt nodded calmly. “He worked for you. He worked here, Mr. Daniels, in this facility as your employee. He was a low-level associate of the Gambini Organization. He worked for them, too. His body was found with the girl’s up on the hill.”

  Anger was beginning to show on Sonny Daniels’s face. “That guy never worked here,” he said. “Nobody named Moe Rey ever worked for this company. Why are you doing this, Detective? Why are you making things up?”

  Matt slid a photocopy of Moe Rey’s pay stub across the table. Sonny Daniels grabbed it, eyeing the stub but also checking the official LAPD file numbers indicating the stub had been entered into evidence.

  “Moe Rey worked here,” Matt said calmly. “An associate of the Gambini Organization, a friend of the Gambini crime family, worked in this building. And Robert Gambini has his eyes on you, so tell me and my partner what’s going on. It only cuts two ways now, Mr. Daniels. Two people have been murdered. And feigning ignorance is no third way out. Believe me, it won’t work. Either you’re in business with the Gambinis, okay? Or you and your partners are in a great deal of danger because you have something these people want.”

  Daniels sighed, then grabbed the phone and punched in three numbers. His face had turned a deep red. As Matt sat back and assessed the moment, it looked like Ryan Moore had turned them off and was mulling things over deep inside himself. Lane Grubb still appeared
zoned out and preoccupied with his hands hidden below the glass table.

  “Who’s managing the floor right now?” Daniels said into the phone. He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Good. Send him in now. And tell him to hurry.”

  Daniels slammed the phone down hard enough to break it. Within two minutes, the conference room door opened and a shy-looking man wearing a hazmat suit without the hood and headgear stepped into the room. Matt guessed that he was in his fifties, medium height and build with gray hair and dark brown eyes.

  Daniels didn’t waste any time greeting the man.

  “Who is Moe Rey?” he said.

  The floor manager shrugged. “I’ve got no idea, sir. Who is he?”

  Daniels smiled and turned to Matt. “This is our floor manager, John Malone. John hires everybody who works here. If he says he doesn’t know who Moe Rey is, then your Moe Rey never worked here. And you can take that to the bank, Detective.”

  Undaunted, Matt beckoned the floor manager over to the table with a raised right hand and an exceedingly calm voice. “Come over here for a moment, Mr. Malone. This is serious business. Two people are dead. They were murdered just up the hill here. One was a teenage girl. Do you understand?”

  The floor manager turned to Sonny Daniels as if he needed permission. When Daniels nodded finally, the shy man stepped over to the table. Matt reached for the two photographs of Moe Rey, dead and alive, slid them in front of the man, and waited for his reaction. The floor manager’s gaze hit the gruesome image of Rey in the dirt with his eyes open, then rocked back over to the shot taken from the victim’s driver’s license.

  “He worked here,” the man blurted out suddenly. “He worked here, but his name wasn’t Moe Rey.”

  Daniels slapped the table, astounded. “What the hell was it?”