I shrugged, “Unless he’s just crazy.”
Kenny shook his head. “Neighborhood where I grew up, you’d have to be insane to shoot at the cops. I mean, it happened, but only when a guy was cornered hard, didn’t want to go back to the joint. You didn’t just shoot at the po-lice for shits and giggles. Of course, back then, a brother shoots at the cops, he didn’t ever make it to court. There would always be some kind of furtive movement or some other shit to justify killing the asshole, or so it seemed.”
I thought about Fudd getting gunned down by the surveillance guys, thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“I don’t know, Kenny, none of this makes any sense to me. It’s not like we put any pressure on the guy, never even questioned him. We spoke to him one time on the sidewalk, asked him what he knew about some people living in this house, a place we later find out our victim had been to the night before she was killed. This guy—Floyd named him Elmer Fudd—goes off, talking trash about all of them. The girl we’re looking for because she’s black, her friends because they’re Mexican, the lot of them screwing up his neighborhood, blah, blah, blah.”
Iggy, grinning again, said, “The same guy blasting at cops from his window is worried about the neighborhood going to shit?”
“Can you believe it? And we didn’t do anything but listen to what he had to say, thanked him for being a concerned citizen, and left him standing there rubbing his belly.”
“Good thing me and Iggy didn’t get that case,” Kenny said. “He might have shot our asses the first night, Mexican and a brother snoopin’ around the neighborhood.”
“Maybe he is a nut job,” Ignacio said. “One of them guys that just decides he hates the cops, and there you were.”
Kenny shrugged. “Who knows?”
I shrugged also, nothing to add.
After a moment, Kenny said, “I have a question for you though. What do you call them?”
“Who?”
“These transformers. Do you call them he, or she?”
“It’s confusing.”
“I mean like on the reports,” Kenny clarified. “You refer to them as male, or female?”
“We listed ours as Shane Clayton Wright, Susie as an alias. Sex? Female. Born male, died female. Probably setting a precedent here, not entirely sure it’s the right way to do it.”
“It’s crazy,” Kenny said.
I agreed. “Something Joe Friday never had to deal with; that’s for sure.”
I stepped inside the curtain and scanned the dressing room, making slow visual circles, beginning on the outside and spiraling my way to the victim. A seasoned investigator will try to see not only that which is present, but also that which might be missing, something that should be present in the scene but isn’t.
While continuing my study of the dressing room, I asked, “Did you guys get him ID’d yet?”
“Not yet,” Ignacio said. “Definitely a man, though. See his hands, feet?”
“Hairy-assed legs,” Kenny added.
“Any witnesses?”
“Just two. The owner, and a doorman,” Kenny said. “The patrons made it out before the cops got here, as shocking as that may seem.”
“Looks like some of them left their cars,” I said. “Maybe you guys will ID a couple wits from the cars?”
Kenny nodded. “I would think so.”
“That’s the plan, anyway,” Iggy added.
“Don’t reckon you’d be lucky enough that one of the cars belongs to your suspect.”
“Not likely,” Kenny said. “We aren’t that lucky.”
The victim lay sprawled on the floor, face down next to an overturned vanity chair. Assorted makeup containers and lipsticks littered the vanity and the floor beneath it, scattered around the victim’s body along with cigarette butts from a spilled ashtray.
He—or maybe, she—wore a long black sheer dress, black nylons, and black pumps. The hair, presumably a wig, was long, thick, and black; it would be perfect for Halloween. I stepped closer and squatted next to him. There were bruises on the side of his neck, his head turned slightly to one side. His brown eyes were dull and clouded, holding the familiar stare of sudden death.
“You guys ask for a coroner yet?” I asked, still squatted, studying the victim.
“Should be here any time,” Kenny said, “if you want to stick around.”
I stepped back alongside Kenny and Iggy, and the three of us stood there in silence. Three veteran homicide detectives visually processing the scene through practiced, weathered eyes, and taking our time with it. Allowing it to marinate in the silence, no place for urgency in the practice of crime scene investigation. Three cops—black, white and Hispanic—and a dead man dressed as a woman, gathered in a plush room with mirrored vanities and racks of exotic clothing and lipsticks for the boys. It occurred to me there were few circumstances that could bring the four of us together, this gathering the most likely of scenarios.
“At this point,” I said, “I primarily want to know how much work he’s had done, what kind of aftermarket equipment he’s got going on in them designer panties.”
“That’ll make a difference?” Kenny asked.
“I don’t know. It might.”
Ignacio folded his notebook and stuffed it in his rear pants pocket. “You think we’ve got a serial killer?”
“It’s what I’m wondering.”
When the coroner’s investigator arrived and examined the remains of the victim, he determined the sex to be male, though he appeared to have had breast augmentation surgery. I asked Ignacio to keep me posted with his case, let me know if anything interesting happens. I also told him what we learned about serial numbers on breast implants and asked him to be sure to check into that at the autopsy. I wished Kenny the best of luck on his fishing trip and departed the scene in style, the Ford Tempo an excellent choice to motor through the city of the rich and famous.
The Hollywood Freeway flowed nicely now. The rush-hour crowd had been replaced by those who worked late and those who had waited out traffic by doing happy hour or hitting the gym, and the few of us who hung out at drag queen bars with dead entertainers. I rolled the windows down and took in the sights, sounds, and smells of the big city as I motored south through Downtown Los Angeles.
South, the opposite direction of home.
14
STRUGGLING WITH WHETHER or not to call my partner, I continued toward Donna Edwards’s house thinking I could pull this off with no trouble, without a chance encounter with Fudd or any other catastrophic event. Fudd wouldn’t be home, I reasoned, not after shooting it out with the cops. Every detail of the incident had been broadcast on the five and eleven o’clock news, two days in a row now.
No way he would be stupid enough to come back here, I thought. At least not yet.
I hoped.
Besides, I thought, Floyd would probably be in bed by now, nearly 11pm. We had both been buried lately, the cases coming steadily, and it had kept us working long hours. Floyd tried hard to balance work with the family life, having three kids, all involved in sports. I pictured him coming home in the Suburban, unloading football and soccer gear from the back hatch while telling the kids to get started on their homework, maybe saying to Cindy, Yell when it’s time for dinner, I’ll be out in the garage. The garage being Floyd’s happy place, complete with weights, a heavy bag, a speed bag, and miscellaneous workout equipment. Also, a refrigerator full of beer. And by now he’d have the kids in bed, a belly full of beer, and likely be passed out.
Everything would be fine, I reasoned. I’d just drive by, have a look at the house—what would be the harm in that?—and be on my way, headed home. Thinking about this as I drove south on the Hollywood Freeway, south on the Santa Ana Freeway, and off at Paramount Boulevard. Still confident it would do no harm as I turned the corner onto Third Street and saw Floyd’s car parked two houses down from Elmer Fudd’s.
What the hell?
Probably doing the same as me, I reasoned, as I
coasted to the curb with my headlights off, pulling in behind his car in stealth mode. Maybe Floyd and I were on the same page, each thinking to swing by and have a look, check Donna’s house, no need to bother your partner, no reason to make a big deal of it. See if Donna had made an appearance yet, or if the bodies had mysteriously surfaced. Maybe they’d been dug up by cats.
I could see the front of Fudd’s house, the dark, bullet-riddled, two-story that now sat boarded up and garnished with crime scene tape and evidence markers.
A light flickered inside Donna’s house, which I caught with my peripheral vision. I watched for a minute but didn’t see any other light or movement. I began second-guessing what I had seen, and wondering if I had seen anything at all.
The interior light of my loaner vehicle came on as I opened the squeaking car door. I quickly reached to cover the light with the palm of my hand and cursed the loaner. I needed my cop car back, the Crown Victoria. A vehicle properly equipped for police work: big engine, heavy-duty suspension, hardwired police radio in the glove box, red light for the front, a blue and amber for the rear, and a siren to assist in commuting through the congested city. But most importantly, quiet doors and adjustable interior lights, the small things cops truly appreciate.
I glanced at Fudd’s house again as I stepped from the car, the memory of Floyd and me being pinned down by gunfire flashing through my head. I crossed the street and paused beneath a tree in Donna’s yard, feeling slightly more secure in the dark shadow. I scanned Donna’s house again and it occurred to me that the front blinds were now open. Someone had been in the house since my last visit.
I looked over at Fudd’s house, then again to my partner’s vehicle. I lifted my H&K 9mm from its holster and tucked it along my leg. I moved further onto the property, silently following shadows cast from trees and rooftops as I listened for any sounds. I heard nothing beyond the distant traffic and crickets in the night.
Moments later an explosion pierced the silence. I hit the ground—falling partially into the hedges along the garage—and scurried through the dirt and foliage to the corner of the house. I looked up to see a couple kids speeding past in a lowered Honda car, its tires squealing and stereo thumping as the occupants laughed, enjoying the moment. I stood and brushed myself as the taillights faded into the night, realizing the loud report had been a backfire. My heart pounded as I poked at the inside of my hat, reshaping its crushed dome and brushing away the dirt.
A female voice startled me. “May I help you?”
Donna Edwards. I recognized her in an instant as I turned. She appeared just as she had in her photo: straight brown hair framing soft brown skin and defined cheekbones. Her jawline tapered to a small chin, accentuated by a dimple. Her narrow eyes studied me, her head cocked slightly to one side as her brows crowded together, indicating question or maybe concern about the man in her yard fixing up a dirty fedora.
I brushed myself again and straightened my tie. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, pulling the gold star from my belt to display. “My name’s Richard Jones. I’m a detective with the sheriff’s department, and I’ve been looking for you.”
“Looking for me?”
“You’re Donna Edwards, right?”
“Yes.”
“There’s some things—”
“Is this about that crazy man across the street?”
“No—well, not exactly. Why do you ask?”
She nodded that way. “Looks like something happened.”
I glanced over and realized the yellow tape made it obvious.
“Maybe we should step inside, if you wouldn’t mind too much. I’d like a few minutes to speak with you.”
“Fine, come in,” she said.
I followed her to the front door.
“By any chance, have you met my partner?”
“Um, no,” she replied, “not to my knowledge.”
She reached inside and flipped a switch and the living room lights came on. She held the door open and stood to the side, inviting me in with a nod of her head.
“Nobody’s been here to see you?” As I stepped past her through the entryway, I smelled the distinct odor of burned marijuana.
“Not tonight,” she said.
Donna closed the front door behind her and walked past me, leading us into the living room where she gestured for me to have a seat on a leather sofa. She sat at the edge of an adjacent chair and pulled a cigarette from a brown snakeskin cigarette pouch. Her red, manicured nails accentuated her delicate hands as she lifted the cigarette in one hand, a butane lighter in the other. It was the type of lighter most often used for lighting cigars. Or to burn a spoon full of heroin, or heat the end of a crack pipe.
I took the seat, still smoothing out my hat, turning it this way and that, checking the shape while thinking of where to begin with the young lady, the childhood friend of Shane Wright. Get right to it and tell her about his death? Or maybe start off by talking about the whack-job across the street?
But something bothered me and gave me pause. And it was more than just the smell of marijuana or the image of Donna Edwards burning a glass cocaine pipe. It was something else.
I thought about Floyd’s car parked across the street. I had glanced inside and saw his raincoat—a black London Fog with an American flag on the lapel—neatly folded across the back seat. He always kept a coat in his car year around. His tan London Fog had burned up with the other car, and I remembered him replacing it with the black one. It left me no doubt this was the car assigned to my partner. But why was it here and where the hell could my partner be in this neighborhood? I had left him at court several hours earlier, splitting up for the day as he needed to head home and get the kids off to their games. He had said maybe he would barbecue some steaks tonight, have a few drinks, and he seemed happy to be ending the day early. So why the hell was his car parked across the street?
“Well?” she said, breaking the silence, “what did you want to talk about?”
Her light-brown eyes beneath long narrow brows studied me as I sat in silence, hearing her say it again, her voice calm, quiet, and cool as she waited impatiently to find out what I wanted to talk about. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, her posture perfect, the light-blue t-shirt draping over her shoulders and nearly covering her gray shorts. A confident young lady but with questions, not unexpected from someone who received a surprise visit from a homicide detective.
Had she been sleeping, maybe awakened by the backfire of the speeding car? All of the lights in her home were off when I arrived and had remained so until she and I entered the home. Why were the lights off? There had been a flicker of light; was it from inside, a television maybe, or could it have reflected from somewhere outside the home? Was someone else in the house? Had she been in the Jacuzzi tonight? Maybe, I thought, I should take a break, tell her I’d be back and go have a chat with my friend, Lanh Hoang. See if he had anything to report, find out if he had enjoyed a peep show tonight.
I glanced at my watch, aware of her watchful eyes. It was now 11:22 p.m. Where the hell was Floyd?
15
FLOYD ANSWERED HIS cell phone on the fourth ring asking what the hell was my problem, calling him at 11:30 at night. He said, “Of course I’m home, where the hell else would I be?” Then he said, “Yes, I drove my county car home tonight. Did you think I took the train?” A moment later he yelled through my earpiece, “What the hell do you mean my car’s been stolen?”
It sat in front of me, plain as day. I leaned on the hood of my Ford Tempo, looking at the license plate with the December registration tag—one of several indicators of a government vehicle—and said, “How else do you suppose it ended up at Elmer Fudd’s house?”
“It’s where?”
“You know what, hold on, let me take a better look. See if the ignition’s punched or maybe you left your keys in it.”
“I’m going outside,” Floyd said, “check for myself. I think you’re screwing with me.”
Floyd grunted and
groaned into my earpiece as I walked to the passenger side of his vehicle. I could see him in my mind, Floyd sitting up, paused at the edge of his bed, his eyes squinted and nose wrinkled, looking for a pair of shorts or something to throw on, no doubt sleeping in the nude. Probably looking at the clock now, then over at his sleeping wife. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, pissed off. At me or her? All these images from too many business trips, too many shared hotel rooms, too much information about my twisted sister’s personal life. I looked through the passenger’s window but saw nothing unusual, no stripped steering column, no punched ignition, none of the usual signs of a stolen car.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” he said through my earpiece.
“Not where you left it?”
“Captain’s going to kill me,” Floyd said. “What’s this, three cars in a week between the two of us? This isn’t a joke, right?”
“Lucky for you, I’ve recovered it.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead.”
“Jesus. What’s the damage?”
“None that I can see. Ignition is even intact. Probably jimmied the door, I don’t see any damage to the locks or windows.”
“Wait a minute, Dickie, are you telling me Elmer Fudd stole my car?”
“More likely than Donna Edwards.”
“She’s probably dead.”
“Well, actually, I have some more news for you, slick. Donna Edwards is home now.”
“What?”
“I just had a little visit with her—”
“What the hell are you doing out there by yourself, anyway?”
“Something told me to come by.”
“Great,” Floyd said, his voice suddenly calm again, “you’re having visions and hearing voices. I knew it would come to this eventually.”
“It’s like a sixth sense. Woman’s intuition.”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” Floyd said, disconnecting without saying goodbye.
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