“Who the hell would be watching you?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
He waited a few seconds before saying, “You don’t suppose Val would have a P.I. watching you, do you?”
“For what? No, that wouldn’t even make sense.”
“You’re right, scratch that.”
“I was wondering about feds, or even Internal Affairs.”
“It’s not I.A., not smoking non-filtered cigarettes. Now if we found a tampon and bubblegum wrappers on the ground, I’d say there was a chance you were onto something.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, good point. I don’t know, man, it’s just really strange.”
“Well, if there’s one thing we love, dickhead, it’s strange. I’ll see you in half an hour. Put on some coffee. I probably shouldn’t drink any beer since I have to stay awake all night.”
15
FLOYD SHOWED UP with a bag that held two burritos. “I’m starving, Dickie, have you eaten?”
“Not hungry, partner, but thanks.”
I walked away from the door and directly back to the balcony, hearing the front door close behind me and feeling Floyd’s presence at my heels. I took the far chair and offered the closer one to Floyd with a nod of my head. “You want a beer, or coffee?”
He sat down. “Well, I was going to be good and have coffee, but these burritos would go better with beers, so . . .”
“Sit tight, I’ll grab a couple.”
I returned with two cans of Coors Light, handed one to Floyd, and popped the top on the other. “What do you think of my new place?”
He looked around as if the balcony was the focus. “I like it, Dickie. Pretty cool for a bachelor pad. Think of it like this, you don’t have a lawn to mow, don’t have much to keep up inside, and nobody’s going to give a shit when you leave your dirty socks on the floor.”
“I’m definitely living the dream.”
We sat silently for a few minutes. Floyd was devouring the first burrito and I was staring up the street, thinking about the car that had sat there an hour or so before.
It had been just over a year since I was shot. Floyd and I had been investigating a murdered prostitute, a transsexual who went by Susie Q, though her birth name was Shane Wright. While investigating Susie’s murder, we stumbled upon another dead prostitute who happened to be Susie’s best friend. She, also a man in the process of becoming a woman, had been killed across the street from where Susie was murdered, at about the same time. We solved the two cases, unraveling a prostitute ring that had evolved into drugs and extortion. Susie and her friend were not happy with their handler and childhood friend, Donna Edwards, and some of Donna’s gangster friends. One such friend, Gilbert Regalado, lived in East Los Angeles with his mother and some other relatives including an uncle named Jorge Regalado. Jorge had spent most of his life in prison and had only recently been released. On the night I was shot, Floyd and I had gone to find Gilbert. We did, and when he ran, Floyd chased after him and another gangster. Floyd and I became separated, and I found myself inside the dingy home of Gilbert Regalado, searching for my partner. It was there I found myself in a fight for my life as Jorge and I came face to face, barrel to barrel. Gunfire erupted, smoke filled the room, and the two of us fell to the floor bleeding from gunshot wounds.
A few days later, I awoke in a hospital bed down one kidney but still alive. That’s when I learned I had killed Jorge in the shootout and Floyd had arrested Gilbert and physically beaten two other men in his efforts to get to his downed partner inside the home. Gilbert and Donna Edwards were later charged with the murders of the two prostitutes. I spent a year recovering from being shot.
During that year, I had minimized communications with my old partner and friend, Floyd, and had never bothered telling him why. He probably understood, because he knew me better than anyone. There was a good chance I wouldn’t be coming back at all, and I needed to distance myself from the job and all that came with it, even the friendships. Or rather, that’s what I believed at the time. Maybe I was only feeling sorry for myself, I don’t know. The shrink called it depression. During that time, my wife of six years had packed her bags and now I was facing my second divorce. I blamed both failed marriages on the stresses of being a cop, though in all honesty, I’m not sure it was entirely the job.
Floyd broke the silence as he took his last bite. “So, tell me about the dead chick up in Newhall. What the hell was her problem?”
“She lost her head,” I joked. “Technically, it’s Santa Clarita, out in the industrial area. But to answer your question, there’s not much to tell, other than what you know. You saw the scene, the victim photos. You heard Ray’s brief of the case. I don’t know, man, it’s just one of those really bizarre ones. I wish you were on it with me. I wish it was ours.”
He waited, watched, and continued eating.
“I mean, who does something like that? And why? We told you about the old man, right? The guy had no emotion whatsoever. His old lady gets whacked, gets her head cut off, and this asshole sits there in his big leather chair telling us he knows we consider him a suspect in his wife’s death.”
“You guys identified her?”
“No, that’s the point. He tells us that—that he knows we consider him a suspect in his wife’s death—and says he has retained an attorney. Then he says he’ll speak with us anyway, against the attorney’s advice.”
Floyd stuffed the wrapper of the first burrito into a paper bag and pulled out the second one. He gestured, offering it to me, but I shook my head. Focused on unwrapping his burrito, he said, “He’s playing you.”
I cocked my head and raised a brow.
“I’m just saying,” Floyd continued, “that maybe that’s his strategy. Put all that shit out there and play it cool, make you doubt he could be involved with his wife’s disappearance. Using that all the cards on the table approach, to soften you up.”
He was right, it was disarming in some ways. When a man looks you directly in the eyes and tells you he knows he’s a suspect, basically says, let’s get this over with, I don’t need an attorney, it makes you feel the guy has nothing to hide.
“Yeah, well, he might be playing us right now, but I’m going to rock him and his attorney’s little world here soon.”
“You remember that asshole, Wayne McKnight?” Floyd asked. “He had that idiot attorney who kept leaving voicemails, telling us not to contact his client.”
My grin answered his question as to whether or not I recalled it.
Floyd continued, “I thought the captain was going to lose his mind. Every time that asshole told us we couldn’t talk to his client, we’d go down there and knock on asshole’s door. Then he faxes over a letter to put us on official notice. So, we drove down there and knocked on his door again. His old lady was about to lose her mind, and she says, ‘Haven’t you heard from our attorney?’ You go, ‘Yeah, we don’t give a shit about any of that. Where the hell is Wayne?’
“We get back to the office and Stover’s marching all over the bureau with steam blowing out of his ears. He sees me first and starts yelling at me, ‘What the hell is wrong with the two of you?’”
Floyd was chuckling now. “I tell Stover, ‘What?’ He says, ‘You know goddamned well what.’ So, I just shrugged and told him he needed to talk to you. I said, ‘Go see Dickie, he’s the asshole who’s convinced the attorney can’t invoke the privilege for his client. The hell do I care?’”
He looked over and we were both laughing now.
“He storms over to your desk and starts chewing your ass, telling us we can’t talk to this asshole because his attorney said we can’t, and you said, ‘Captain, you do realize this guy’s not in custody, right?’ He says, ‘Yeah, and . . .’ and you go, ‘Well, if he isn’t in custody, and he hasn’t invoked his right to counsel to us—which he hasn’t—we’re going to continue knocking on his goddamn door until he tells us to go pound sand. We’ve got a murder to solve.’”
I waited while F
loyd took a long swig of his beer, finishing it off. “I swear I thought he was going to shoot you. I’m surprised he didn’t bench you or send you to Missings after that. He was so fucking mad, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him stroke out right there in the squad room.”
I collected the empty beers and went in for a couple more. After handing him a fresh one, I said, “Yeah, I guess maybe I could’ve handled that better.”
“Dude, it was classic Dickie. That’s the shit I lived for, working with you.”
I sat down. “Yeah, but that’s the type of shit that’s given me a lot of headaches too, me being an asshole like that. It’s no wonder I’m without a partner now, working Unsolveds. Stover hates me.”
That hung in the air for a few minutes and neither of us was laughing or smiling now. We were both looking out over a quiet neighborhood scantly lit by sparingly placed yellow streetlights and a budding quarter moon over the mountains to the east.
Floyd finished his burrito and washed it down with beer. He checked his phone and started texting someone and the smile crept back onto his face.
“What’s going on, anything important?”
He didn’t look up. “Nah, just my new idiot letting me know he’s already sent two teams out. Apparently, it’s not going to be a quiet night after all. I probably better head back.”
“You think you guys will stay together?”
There it was, I put it out there. It popped out against the promise I made to myself that I wouldn’t ask. But here I was, alone in my personal life, and alone in my professional life. To say I felt abandoned by everyone I gave a shit about—Floyd and Val—was an understatement.
He finished his text and leaned back in his chair, took another swig and let the question marinate for a minute. “I don’t know, Dickie. I mean, I don’t want to train anyone else, that’s for sure. That’s a pain in the balls. He’s a good dude, easy to work with, so I don’t know . . . I mean, probably, unless something changes.”
I looked away without responding. He knew what I was asking and completely avoided the topic. There it was. Same as with Val, the message was it’s time to move on, nothing personal.
In the awkward silence, he said, “Dude, if we have a chance to get back together, I’d be happy to. But honestly, I don’t think Stover’s going to let that happen. Know what I mean?”
True or not, it was good to hear it. Something to hold onto. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I guess we burned a lot of bridges with him.”
He grinned. “And cars.”
I nodded.
“Well, brother, I better head to the office before Mongo breaks something. I’m sure he’s buried now, handling the phones and paperwork with two teams sent out. Plus, your former lieutenant is bound to show up at the office to write his memos, and wonder where the hell I am.”
I nodded.
“You got a to-go cup for that coffee?”
I stood and motioned for him to walk in. “You bet.”
After pouring Floyd a cup to go, I followed him onto the landing and waited while he descended the redwood staircase into the back yard. He looked up before going through the gate. “Keep your eyes open, Dickie, and give me a call if you need anything. I can be up here in ten minutes if need be, twenty tops.”
“You bet, bud. Have a good night, and thanks for coming out.”
He nodded and disappeared behind the other side of the six-foot, redwood fencing that encircled the yard.
Coffee sounded good, so I poured myself a cup and resumed watch from the balcony. I sat and thought about my conversation with Floyd, and I thought about my position at the bureau, which essentially was the role of a utility player at this point. Available for all, committed to none. Like my personal life.
The streets were quiet now with only the occasional car traveling past. I spent a few minutes trying to convince myself I was being paranoid, and then I began thinking tactics. I came inside and closed the door to the balcony and the blinds that covered it. I locked the door and placed a table and lamp in front of it. I closed the bedroom window and blind and did the same in the kitchen. That was it for glass. I went downstairs and retrieved the shotgun from my trunk, along with a box of shells. After securing the gate, I leaned two cookie sheets against it, so that if it was opened, there would be a noise to alert me.
Back inside I killed all of the lights, kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the couch, the shotgun leaned on the arm of the couch near my head and my pistol resting on my chest. I closed my eyes and waited to drift off, thinking about the car and the man and the cigarette butts I found on the street.
But before I found sleep, my mind ran the gamut of possibilities: I thought about the man who had shot me a year before. The Hispanic gangster named Jorge Regalado who I shot and killed in turn. I wondered if his nephew, Gilbert, was still in jail, or could he be out? I made a mental note to run him on the computer back at the office. The mean, ugly face of Jorge stuck with me though as I tried to move past that nightmare in waiting. I could see his snarling face with his bushy mustache and the spittle flying through the air in slow motion, just as I recalled it from that night in East L.A. The two of us, face-to-face, shooting each other in a room that smelled of burned tortillas, dirty feet, and cigarettes.
Cigarettes!
I pictured the cigarette butts collected from the street, and saw the dead convict, Jorge Regalado, with a non-filtered Camel in his mouth. Then Gilbert, same image. I pictured both of them with their tattoo-covered arms and necks and I pictured the body of Shane Clayton Wright, a soft young man who had been changed to a woman, who sold her body on Long Beach Boulevard in Lynwood. Jorge was the one who had killed her, and Gilbert was an accomplice. One was dead; the other should be in jail. I’d been off work ever since that night when Jorge met his maker and Gilbert was taken into custody. I had only returned to my duties two days ago, just more than a year later. Now the whole event and its players again weighed heavily on my mind, considering the situation at hand.
There had even been a crazy vet, a former sniper who, for a long time, had been a prime suspect. We had called him Fudd, and although there would be no motive I could think of, I went ahead and pictured him in the car watching me too. He had watched our suspects in that case—Gilbert and Jorge—and obtained photographs along the way. His work was largely responsible for our solving the case. Would he be watching me now? Crazier things have happened.
But if not Fudd, or a Regalado—or friends or family thereof—then who? Who would be watching me now, and why?
Maybe just coincidence.
No, I didn’t buy it. I don’t believe in coincidence. Had there not been two cigarette butts, I could move past it and maybe just be aware of my surroundings to be certain. But no, the two butts told me someone had sat there a minimum of fifteen minutes, probably longer. The type of cigarettes told me something about the person who smoked them. Sure, two generations ago servicemen were known to smoke non-filtered cigarettes, even after being discharged. But that hasn’t been the case for a long time. Very rarely will you now find someone smoking a non-filtered cigarette who hadn’t acquired such a taste in prison.
Floyd had asked about Val. That didn’t make sense to me. There would be no value for her in having me watched. Honestly, I doubt she cared what I was doing. I considered briefly the possibility that it could have something to do with Chuck and Patti, or their careers, but I quickly dismissed the notion. They had been retired for quite a while, and their career paths were very different than mine. Patti had worked in the Training Bureau for many years, and Chuck had been a motor cop. People hated getting tickets, but they generally didn’t kill a cop over it.
I wished Elvis was here to bark if there were an intruder. Elvis the bulldog, not fat Elvis.
Jesus, was I going to have to go through all my cases from the last decade to see who had been released? In this state, you never knew who would be released regardless of their crimes. I thought about a case Floyd and I had han
dled in which a man had killed his family after being released from a psych ward. He had spent two years there after killing someone else, but the state had determined he was rehabilitated. Maybe I’d better check his name next, see if he’s been rehabilitated again.
Finally, as I grew tired and felt myself finally drifting off, I decided the entire episode with the stranger in the car was unrelated to me or my career. The clarifying moment came to me when I pondered how anyone would find me and realized the answer was, they wouldn’t. There were no records beyond my department personnel files that had been updated with my new address. There was no way anyone outside of law enforcement would have access to that information.
And with that reconciled, I slept.
The apartment remained dark throughout the day from the heavy blinds that covered the few portals: a glass door that led to the balcony and two windows, one in the kitchen and the other in the small bedroom. It would be a plus after long nights at crime scenes when I’d need to sleep during the day. However, waking up at 11:30 a.m. was not something I generally intended nor embraced, even on a Saturday morning. But sleep had come late and sparingly so I accepted it as it was.
I opened the blind to the balcony and scanned the road. I didn’t see anything of concern, though doing so had given me the idea to bring my binoculars in from my county car. I cooked a couple of eggs and a piece of toast and took breakfast and coffee out to the balcony. I would become accustomed to spending much of my time at home outdoors, as I wouldn’t be satisfied with occasional checks of the street below. I would watch nonstop while home until I figured this out or eliminated the idea that any threat existed. Apparently, the idea of it being unrelated and not a threat hadn’t reconciled after all.
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