The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  Proceed with caution.

  The chief was getting up, walking around the desk, and sitting on the edge directly in front of him. He was staring at him and measuring him and appeared to be mulling something over. When he spoke finally, his voice was so tight and controlled that Matt felt a chill creeping up his spine and almost shivered.

  “Why are you bothering the people who own DMG Waste Management, Detective?”

  A long moment passed. Matt was stunned by the question.

  The chief leaned closer and was seething. “Why are you bothering them?”

  Matt gave him a look. “Bothering, sir?”

  “That’s what I said, Detective. Why are you doing it?”

  This was a homicide investigation. The question seemed outlandish. Matt turned to McKensie for help, but his supervisor’s face remained blank.

  “Why are you looking at me, Jones? Answer the chief’s question.”

  Matt turned back to the chief and met his hard gaze. “They’re people of interest in two homicides, Chief. We believe that they could be distributing narcotics.”

  The chief was in his fifties and had been the prime mover in restoring the LAPD’s reputation as one of the best police departments in the country. He was a lean man, steady and tight, with tanned skin and most of his dark hair gone now. But it was his eyes that made him stand out from the crowd. They were almost the color of Matt’s .45—black, with a dark-blue glint here and there that had a way of penetrating whoever the chief trained them on like bullets.

  “Who are the people you’re talking about, Detective? Who are the people of interest in two homicides? Who are the people that you believe are distributing narcotics?”

  Matt didn’t understand why this was happening. He felt like everything in the world had suddenly turned upside down.

  “The three partners,” he said finally. “The three men who own DMG.”

  “Have you seen the drugs you’re talking about? Do you have any evidence to back your claims?”

  Matt shook his head. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  The chief leaned closer. “Be careful, Detective. Very careful. Do you have any evidence at all that these people are involved in anything?”

  “We think that they may be connected to Robert Gambini in some way, or even his uncle. It’s still early.”

  “Early? Is that how you see it, Detective? You and your partner over here think it’s early?”

  The chief shook his head in disbelief. Matt watched him get up, roll the desk chair over, and take a seat. He was sitting so close now that Matt guessed he was trying to intimidate him. But why would a cop with his record do this? The chief of police, who’d rebuilt the department from a pile of ashes.

  The chief met his eyes and kept them there. He leaned even closer.

  “Do you know who Dee Colon is?” he said.

  Matt’s heart sank as he suddenly connected the dots.

  He knew exactly who Dee Colon was, and now he had some idea—nightmare or not—why the chief was trying to undermine their case. Dee Colon was a city councilwoman—the most powerful politician in Los Angeles. But even worse, the woman was dirty—the very definition of a corrupt politician who had been able to beat the odds because of her talent and media persona. It didn’t make any difference that she came off like a crime boss. It didn’t matter that she’d turned the mayor into her personal go-go boy. Or even that she stood accused of taking piles of cash under the table from more than a dozen labor unions and tech companies, even three movie studios. When the lights came up and the TV cameras started rolling, Dee Colon had a crowd of supporters behind her because she was, as she said herself many times, the woman of the people.

  Matt stared back at the chief. He guessed that Sonny Daniels had cut a check to the city councilwoman and was making the delivery when he and Cabrera saw him driving his Aston Martin up the hill from their facility this morning.

  “Are you with me, Detective?” the chief said. “Do you know who Dee Colon is or not?”

  Matt nodded but remained silent—the anger beginning to stir in his gut.

  “Dee Colon is trouble,” the chief said. “The kind of trouble I don’t want, and the department doesn’t need right now. She came to my office with the mayor this afternoon. Both of them vouched for the three partners at DMG. It turns out they’ve known each other for quite a while. She said they were friends.”

  A long moment passed, the chief’s words hitting the office floor like a pipe bomb. Sonny Daniels paid off Dee Colon, and what? The investigation goes away? In what world was that okay?

  Matt could feel the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream now. The rage spinning like storm clouds gathering strength over a warm sea—the kind of wind that blew buildings down. He tried to become still, imagining himself sitting in a meadow in Afghanistan with his rifle aimed at a window half a mile away. The patience it required to wait for the subject to make a mistake and step before the glass for a look outside.

  They always made the mistake, he thought. They always stepped before that glass and looked outside.

  Matt tried to keep his thoughts to himself because he knew that if he said anything at all he’d be fired. Off the force without a way back.

  The chief rolled the desk chair even closer. “I’m not asking you to shut down your homicide investigation, Detective. I’m just asking you to think more clearly, and do it before you act. This is only your third case. I’m asking you to think better than you have in the past. Do you understand?”

  Matt nodded again but kept his mouth shut.

  The chief glanced at Cabrera, then back at Matt. “Your partner here told us that the owners over at DMG have been only too willing to pitch in and help you. In fact, your partner said that they invited you into their offices on two separate occasions. That they gave you a tour of the place and showed you their security tapes freely, transparently, without a warrant or even a call for legal advice.”

  The anger was storming through his entire body now. Out of control and in a free-fall rage. Not buildings anymore, but whole cities could be blown down.

  “Is that what he told you?” Matt whispered in a hoarse voice through his teeth.

  The chief gave him an odd look. “He said that when you showed them a photograph of Robert Gambini, they didn’t recognize him. They had never even heard of the man and didn’t know who he was. Is that true, Detective? Is that what happened?”

  A long moment passed. Another test. Another chance to demonstrate that he was truly on the mend and had somehow managed to regain his self-control.

  “Is that the way it happened, Detective? They didn’t know him?”

  Matt looked down at the floor, then nodded slightly. “Yes, sir.”

  The chief smiled like he’d heard what he needed to hear. He got up to leave, walked over to the door, then stopped and turned back. Matt couldn’t look at him and let his eyes drift back to the floor.

  “I’m glad that we had this talk, Detective. I’m glad you understand that right now the department needs your best effort. Sonny Daniels, Ryan Moore, and Lane Grubb are no longer to be considered persons of interest in this investigation. In all probability they didn’t see anything and don’t know anyone involved but, like good neighbors, just wanted to help. A girl was murdered on her fifteenth birthday and buried in a shallow grave. Now pull back your surveillance team and get to work solving this murder case.”

  Matt was speechless. He turned and watched the chief walk out of the room. Through the glass he could see him crossing the bureau floor. When he looked out McKensie’s window, he saw the man walk down the sidewalk, get into the back seat of the Chevy Suburban, and drive off.

  The sun had gone down, and it was dark outside. No one in McKensie’s office said anything. No one moved.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “I’m sorry, Matt. McKensie called me into his office, and the chief was already here. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t warn you.”

  “You don�
�t owe me an apology, Den. What just happened isn’t your fault.”

  “But the chief’s been bought. It’s outrageous. He’s the chief of police.”

  Matt shrugged. “We don’t know that. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said in a low voice. “This one’s complicated.”

  A moment passed.

  They were in the conference room with the door closed. Cabrera returned to his seat where his laptop was set up beside a legal pad and a cup of coffee from a fast-food restaurant. Matt was standing by the window with his back turned, looking across the bureau floor into McKensie’s office. The lieutenant had tossed everything off his desk onto the floor and kicked it into the corner. When the phone rang two minutes ago, McKensie had ripped the wire out of the wall and tossed the phone into the trash. Now the lights were out, and Matt thought he could see a bead of light glowing from the end of a cigarette.

  Cabrera flipped a page over on his legal file. “Did you know that this bitch councilwoman makes fifteen grand a year more than the governor of the state?”

  Matt turned away from the window and smiled. “Are you serious?”

  Cabrera nodded. “Dee Colon’s annual salary is over two hundred grand.”

  “That’s a lot of money for doing almost nothing.”

  “It gets better. It turns out that two hundred K isn’t enough to keep her happy. The Times did a story about her last summer. They said that it would take a million bucks a year to cover her lifestyle. Remember that old TV show? That’s the title the writer played with. That’s the headline. LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND NOT SO FAMOUS.”

  “Maybe she’s got family money?”

  Cabrera shook his head. “Not a chance. Her parents brought her over the border. She was dirt poor, just like me.”

  Matt glanced at his partner’s laptop, pulled a chair out, and sat down. “What happened with SIS today?”

  Cabrera turned to his computer and opened a window to reveal three photographs of the exotic cars they’d seen parked in the lot at DMG this morning.

  “They took these shots of their plates.”

  “And you ran them.”

  Cabrera glanced at his legal pad. “All three cars are owned by a company called Yellow Brick Leasing.”

  “Here in LA?”

  “Yeah, over on Wilshire. I spoke with the manager. Two-year leases, no problems, and she said all three pay on time. Yellow Brick only leases to VIP types. And only high-end cars. The manager was nice but couldn’t say anything more because she’s locked in by privacy agreements.”

  “But you ran these guys, right? Where do they live?”

  “All over town. Ryan Moore lives in the Palisades. Lane Grubb’s got a place in Hollywood Hills.”

  “Where?”

  “Ledgewood Drive near the reservoir,” Cabrera said. “Within a stone’s throw of the Hollywood Sign.”

  “What about Sonny Daniels?”

  “West Hollywood, above Sunset.”

  “What about women?”

  “It looks like Sonny might have had a problem in college. He’s been divorced twice and probably getting killed with alimony.”

  “What kind of trouble in college?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  Matt nodded. “What about the other two?”

  “Grubb lost his wife a couple years back. She died at Sloan Kettering in New York, so it must have been cancer.”

  Matt thought it over. “That could account for why he might be using. He’s wounded. It might be the reason he’s the weakest of the three. What’s up with Ryan Moore?”

  “He’s still married to his first wife. He’s got three kids.”

  “Anything else?”

  Cabrera shrugged. “All three of these guys are the same age. They’re forty-five years old. Just from the way they were acting, Matt—even the way they were dressed—I’m guessing they go way back together.”

  Matt had thought that they might be childhood friends ever since he set eyes on them.

  His cell phone started vibrating.

  He pulled the phone out of his pocket, crossing the room to the window for another look. McKensie’s office remained dark, and that bead of light from a cigarette was still there. He glanced down at his phone and read the name blinking on the face. It was the deputy DA, Mitch Burton.

  “You there, Matt?”

  “I’m here. What’s going on?”

  Burton’s voice became louder, like he’d just switched over from speaker to the handset. “What did you do to Dee Colon?”

  Matt shook his head back and forth. “I’m not sure, why?”

  “You must have done something.”

  “I’ve never met her, but let me guess. The city councilwoman showed up at the district attorney’s office this afternoon. She had the mayor with her. Together they vouched for the partners at DMG and said that they had known each other for a while and were friends. They probably weren’t too specific on how long they’d known each other or how good their friendship’s been. When they left, the DA stopped by your office and said hands off. The three partners aren’t involved in the case and were just trying to be good neighbors to help us out.”

  Burton started laughing. “Good neighbors. You’re a mind reader now. I had no idea.”

  “The chief just left. He tried to feed us the same story. Hands off.”

  Burton’s voice changed. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

  “All the same, you must have done something to her, Matt. Dee Colon does not like you. And she’s not the kind of person you’d really want as an enemy. She thinks you’re a cowboy. According to the DA, she tried to quote a Bogart movie but blew it. What’s that movie?”

  “Casablanca?”

  “No. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. She told the DA that she ‘don’t need no stinking cowboys in the LAPD. And the cops don’t need no stinking cowboy to investigate the murder of a girl who was buried in the woods.’ I bet she said the same thing to Chief Logan.”

  Matt didn’t know how to respond except to repeat that he’d never met the city councilwoman. Not once. Not ever.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Burton asked.

  “Carefully,” he said in a low voice. “Until we know more.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I was worried you might want to quit.”

  “Never.”

  The door opened, and McKensie walked into the conference room.

  “I’ve gotta go,” Matt said to Burton. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Matt clicked off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. McKensie had a brutal expression on his face and looked like he’d just walked out of a bar fight and lost. Glancing at Matt, the big man with the white hair and wild green eyes turned to Cabrera and grimaced.

  “You told me these guys at DMG, the three partners, brought in heat this afternoon.”

  Cabrera became very still. “Three heavyweights with guns, sir.”

  “To protect industrial waste?”

  “That’s what they’re saying.”

  McKensie sat down on the edge of the table, rubbing his chin with an open hand. “How many SIS guys do we have keeping an eye on that place?”

  Cabrera checked his legal pad. “Eight,” he said. “Two groups of four working twelve-hour shifts.”

  McKensie looked like he was mulling something over. After a while, he turned to Matt.

  “I have a friend over at SIS, Jones. The kind of friend who owes me forever and knows how to keep things quiet. So this is what we’re gonna do. From here on out, we’re invisible. You’re gonna cut the number of SIS guys down to four. One pair working twelve-hour shifts, and tell them to move back. No one can know that they’re there. What we’re doing is off the books and off the record. You two guys are gonna do the same thing. Your new mantra is watch, listen, collect until something shakes out and we’ve got a better idea of what’s going on. I
s that clear, Jones?”

  Matt nodded. “Clear as a sky with no clouds, sir.”

  “Watch, listen, and collect,” McKensie repeated. “Like you’re a couple of nature boys taking a walk through the woods on a sunny afternoon.”

  He stepped over to the door, opened it to leave, then turned back. “Now keep your mouths shut and get the hell out of here. It’s been a long goddamn day, and I’m tired of looking at you two.”

  THIRTY

  McKensie had a way of saying things . . .

  As Matt pulled out of the lot, he thought about the number of men and women who he had taken orders from as a soldier in Afghanistan. Here in LA he had worked for more than a handful of supervising officers as a cop, an undercover detective in narcotics, and now for the last three months a rookie homicide detective. Of all the people who directed him and issued orders, McKensie was the one he most admired.

  It wasn’t just the way he spoke. It was the way he handled himself. The way he saw things and what he stood for.

  Matt noticed that the radio was tuned to the news station and switched it off. Pulling up to the red light on Sunset, he wondered how long he’d been working without sleep. After tossing it over, he decided that he felt okay enough to take the long way home.

  He made a right turn instead of a left and within a few blocks was gunning it down the entrance ramp and onto the Hollywood Freeway. It would be a late-night visit to the Buena Vista Meadow picnic area. He wanted a last look of the day to think things over. He wanted a fresh view of the crime scene to sleep on.

  The heavy traffic seemed like it was headed north into the Valley. Matt breezed toward downtown, exited onto the Harbor Freeway, and then proceeded onto surface streets. Within another five minutes, he was making the steep climb up Elysian Park Drive. When he reached the top of the ridge, he saw the picnic tables and the grove of pine trees on the other side of the meadow and killed the engine.

  He popped open the glove box. Grabbing his flashlight, he started to get out of the car but stopped when he heard something.