Mongo grunted.
Floyd said, “Or else, they screwed something up with the DNA. Have you considered that?”
“That was Stover’s concern,” I said, “so we’ve asked Provost to run it through again.”
“We love her.”
Mongo and Ray both looked at him with question in their expressions. I just chuckled.
Ray said, “Look, there’s a lot of possibilities, but until we know for sure what we have here—as far as an absolute ID, Williams’s records and a full history on her, et cetera—we’re spinning our wheels.”
“So that’s where we start,” I said. “Let’s divvy up the tasks and get at it. Our goal should be to have a positive ID by tomorrow night—did she give us a time frame on rerunning the DNA, Ray?”
“Yeah, she said give her twenty-four hours.”
“Okay, then that’s the plan. Tomorrow at this time we should have everything about Williams, everything about the Chaneys, an absolute on the DNA that confirms it is in fact Williams in that car, and then we can brainstorm plots and motives. What do you guys think?”
“Sounds like a plan, partner.”
Floyd said, “Works for me,” while Mongo nodded in agreement with his partner.
We made a list of everything that needed to be done, divided the list into bite-sized pieces, and divvied up the assignments. Floyd and Mongo were first going to do a complete background on Williams which they could start now and work on into the night. Then, they would start contacting known family and friends of Williams’s during the day tomorrow, maybe into the evening if need be. Ray and I were going to conduct a more thorough background on both Marilynn and Philip Chaney. We all agreed there was more to them than what we knew. We would look into insurance policies, insurance claims, financial records including liens, judgments, bankruptcies, all matters involving civil actions, and get a complete history of residency on them. We wanted to know where they were raised and went to school, where they attended college, past employers, and all known associations. By midday tomorrow we planned to visit the crime lab where we would follow up with Dr. Provost about the DNA report and check in with latent prints to see if they had any results from processing the vehicle. Finally, if all went well, we would check with the coroner’s office on toxicology and trace evidence from the body and clothing.
Ray said, “What do you guys think about checking with the feds, see if they have anything going on with Chaney. I’m still bothered by the two suits that showed up with the cold-plated car.”
“Feds won’t tell us shit,” Floyd said.
Mongo surprised us all by speaking. “I have a cousin who’s a feebie. She’s assigned to the Wilshire field office but she’s on a task force working Russian mafia with LAPD out of Hollywood Division. She might be able to get us something as a favor.”
Floyd was frowning. “You didn’t tell me you had a female cousin who’s a feebie.”
Mongo shrugged.
“I hope she isn’t built like you.”
Mongo smiled but didn’t reply. Floyd had named him after the character in Blazing Saddles, the huge man named Mongo who was simple-minded but strong as an ox. He was a killer of men, sent to take out the sheriff, but the sheriff had tricked him—whipped him, according to Mongo—and won his respect. I pictured our Mongo hugging Floyd and saying, Mongo like Floyd. Mongo not kill him.
“If you could check with her,” Ray said, “I think that’d be good. If she can’t find anything out, maybe she can hook us up with someone who can.”
“We can check with the Fugitive Task Force out of Major Crimes,” I said, “there’s usually a couple feds working with our guys over there, and because they work around deputies, they’re less inclined to be pompous assholes than the rest of them.”
Mongo looked up when I said it, but I didn’t get a read on him. Maybe he thought I meant it as a dig toward his cousin. No, he wouldn’t make that leap, all local cops hate the feds. He wouldn’t take it personally. Would he? Maybe he doesn’t like me, the thought occurred to me.
Ray mumbled to himself while making a couple more notes. He looked up, pointed his pen at me, and said, “Okay, and you’re still running with the plates, right? Weren’t you waiting on the DMV investigator to get back to you?”
“Yeah, I am. But I’m also going to try something else. I was thinking about going to our traffic division, maybe LAPD’s too, and having them do a search for that vehicle’s plate being captured on traffic cams. I hear they can do that now, that it’s all computerized. Maybe if we can see a pattern, we can figure out who they are. You know, like the plate hits the cameras near the FBI building on Wilshire a couple times a week. That would tell us a lot.”
“Or on the fifteen, heading back and forth to Vegas,” Floyd said.
“Mobsters?”
“Never know, Dickie.”
I said to Ray, “You did say you checked LAPD and some of the nearby jurisdictions, right? San Fernando, Burbank, Glendale?”
“White said he checked them. Maybe we should follow up?”
Mongo nodded, and his partner said, “I’d definitely check it again. You can’t rely on White, no offense, but also, you can call twice and get two different answers. I say we check. That’s something we can do tonight, and me and Mongo can take care of it.” He looked over at Mongo who was now writing something on his notepad.
“Good,” I said. “Ray, you have anything else?”
He shook his head, and each of us stood without being prompted to do so. As we gathered our notes and cups and prepared to disperse, I reminded the room, “Stover said unlimited overtime, basically gave us the approval to spend his entire budget on this case. I say we try hard to not disappoint him.”
Floyd grinned. “Says the guy with no life.”
At ten o’clock Leonard still sat watching the house and stewing over the four-hundred dollars he had spent having his car towed and repaired. He sat low in his car, wearing a suit from J.C. Penney with a badge clipped on the belt in the front and a pair of handcuffs doubled over the back. His flashlight sat on the seat next to him. It was called a Maglite, and it was big and heavy. The type of light you could beat a man to death with if you needed to or just wanted to. Leonard wished he had a pistol to complete the look. He had also come to the conclusion that the best idea was to shoot the cop; it was the easiest thing to do.
He pictured the display of guns inside the uniform store and he pictured the outside of the store with its glass windows and door. It couldn’t be hard to get in there, smash and dash with a handful—or maybe a pillowcase full—of guns. He glanced at his flashlight and thought about using it to smash the glass door and using its light to help him find his way back to the guns. He’d break the display case glass, grab what he needed, and be out in five minutes.
If the goddamn cop didn’t show up soon, Leonard would go case the uniform shop and see if it was doable. He didn’t remember what shops or stores were nearby, and of course he hadn’t been there at night to see what type of activity there was. Or maybe he’d go find the Russian and kill him instead of killing the cop or robbing the cop shop. That rotten bastard had cost him nearly two grand now, the car and repairs all added together. He could sneak up behind him and cut his throat with his new knife, open him like a fish, take his gun from his waistband and clobber him with it or shoot him in the back of the head. Then he could walk calmly into the office and turn that whore upside down and shake the money out of her big bra. He was certain she’d have a stash there, probably a derringer also, or maybe a little .25 auto.
He would give Mr. Piggy until midnight. The fucking guy was probably in a bar or at a whorehouse, for all Leonard knew. He doubted the man had a girlfriend, from what he had seen of him. Leonard thoughtlessly pitched another burned cigarette out of his window and leaned back on the headrest. It was going to be a long two hours. He hated this part of the job.
I returned to my temporary desk in the Unsolveds office where I planned to make a couple of cal
ls to start checking on those traffic cameras. Before getting started, I tried Val’s cell. It rang four times and went to voicemail. She sounded happy on her custom greeting, and I pictured her recording it. I saw her smile fading and her soft eyes narrowing as she made one recording after another, never happy with how it sounded to her. She was a perfectionist, which had been part of the problem. Now she was being a perfect pain in the ass, dare I say a royal bitch, refusing to answer my calls. I guessed she was finished and had moved on. It occurred to me I should try to do the same.
Leonard left at a quarter till midnight, sick and tired of waiting for the cop. Pig hunting was boring. He grinned, picturing telling Whitey about pig hunting. Leonard had always preferred to have most conversations in his head, other than those he had with Whitey. Even before prison—when he was just a child—he seldom spoke a word to anyone. Not his mother, not other kids at school, and not to the teachers unless forced to do so. Sometimes not even then. He never had friends until he met Whitey Blanchard in prison. Whitey was the only friend he’d ever had, and Leonard missed him terribly since leaving Raiford. He made a mental note to write Whitey a letter. He could tell him things with the code they had worked out so the prison pigs wouldn’t know what they were saying. The cops always read the inmate mail before passing it on in either direction. It was their policy. When sending out a letter, you didn’t seal the envelope; they did. In twenty-five years, Leonard never sent one out, and he had never received a letter either. Other than legal correspondence. But Whitey had lots of friends and received a lot of mail. It had always made Leonard a little jealous.
He drove past the uniform shop on Hollywood Way and was discouraged to see that once the business was closed, the glass was protected by a wall of wrought iron that stretched like an accordion to cover the entire store front. He pulled to a stop directly across the street and stared at it, feeling more frustrated by the minute.
A couple of ideas came to mind, mostly born from conversations with more experienced, well-rounded criminals while serving time. He thought of one who had told stories of committing burglaries by dropping in through the ceilings. The burglar had explained that once you cut a hole in the roof or removed a vent or fan or some other rooftop contraption, it was easy. Nobody ever secured the roofs of their businesses. Leonard thought of another who told him about pulling bars off of doors and windows. He was a biker and had specialized in ripping off drug houses. He and his biker friends would show up with a truck and lengths of chain. They’d fasten the chains to the bars on the doors and yank them from their structures with the truck. Then the bikers would file in with automatic weapons and take what they wanted. The biker was doing life without the possibility of parole on a murder charge, having killed a man who tried to defend his stash with a nine-millimeter. The biker had zippered him with a Mac 10 .45 caliber machine pistol. The biker had the superior weapon and was more committed to being the victor.
Leonard spent a few minutes thinking about pulling the bars from the cop shop. He could go steal the tow truck of the Armenian down the street who took him for four bills just a few hours earlier. But now this was just getting complicated. There had to be better ways to get a gun.
He drove off and decided he would go back the way he had come, through the Hollywood Hills and down into Hollywood and across to downtown Los Angeles. He liked being able to travel without being on the freeways. He felt more comfortable with his limited experience of driving, and it seemed to him there was less chance of being stopped by the cops.
As he descended into the festive streets of Hollywood, he decided to take the scenic route and check out the prostitutes and drug addicts that lined the boulevards. He found it interesting that some streets were worked by women, others by boys. He thought about stopping to talk to a few who had caught his eye but thought better of it. He didn’t need to draw that type of attention to himself.
As he departed the strip, he decided to take a drive by his Russian friend’s car lot. The smiling Russkie with his big-titted peroxide blonde. He didn’t know if the man lived there at the lot in his trailer office or if the place would be locked up tight this time of night. He assumed the latter, but thought he’d drive by just to check. Somehow, he was going to get some money back from that goddamn gypsy.
Leonard slowed in front of the small used car lot and saw it had been secured with chain link gates that covered the drive. He pulled into the driveway with the intention of seeing if the gates were actually locked, and when he did, he was immediately greeted by two Dobermans that appeared from nowhere and charged the gate. They barked furiously and slobbered at the prospect of eating an intruder, bouncing up and down behind the chain link gate in the lights of his car. No way was Leonard playing games with these two dogs.
He headed toward his little room in the rundown hotel on Main Street, thinking about the Russian and his lady friend. Leonard decided it would be best to deal with them during business hours when the dogs were nowhere to be seen, probably locked in a cage somewhere. Maybe shake a pistol out of the blonde’s blouse and cap them each in the head. Whitey would love that story.
20
TUESDAY MORNING I woke up on the couch still dressed in yesterday’s suit pants and shirt. The jacket and tie were carelessly hung over a dining room chair. There were two empty beer cans on the table next to me, and the TV was still on though the volume had been muted. I checked my watch. 9:15. I did some rough math in my head and figured I’d had five hours of sleep, since I had not come in until well after three and then apparently took the time to unwind before passing out.
I checked my phone but there were no calls. No calls from Val, which was no surprise, and none from Floyd, which was a bit of a surprise. He generally called me when he was headed to the office just to bullshit and pass the time. Maybe he was getting a late start too, though he had left the office two hours before me last night.
After a quick shower, I dressed and was preparing to leave when I thought to check the street from my balcony. I didn’t see the car that had been there a couple of days prior, and there was nothing else that looked suspicious. Still, I double-checked my pistol to confirm there was a round in the chamber and the magazine was full and properly inserted into the butt of the gun.
When I picked up my phone, I saw there was a missed call from Floyd. He must have called when I was in the shower, probably on his way into the office.
I headed out, removing my cookie sheet alarm system from the gate and then balancing a small twig along the top that would fall to the ground if the gate was opened while I was away. I’d just have to remember to check it before going through when I returned home.
As I pulled from the curb and drove past the line of parked cars, I studied each one. I stopped at the sight of cigarette butts on the street in the empty space between two parked cars. I collected the butts and saw they were the same as the others had been, non-filtered. I tossed the envelope containing the newly acquired butts onto the seat next to me and headed to the office, pissed off. I hadn’t seen the butts when I came home last night. I had been more worried about the parked cars, and I looked each one over as I passed by twice before parking. Nothing seemed suspicious and the car I had seen a couple days prior was nowhere to be found. But was another car parked where these butts were? I couldn’t recall. It seemed I should have noticed, but I hadn’t. Maybe too tired. Maybe I was getting sloppy.
The thought occurred to me that I needed to have DNA collected from these cigarettes, but without a case, there was no way to do it. At least not through the department where it mattered. I could send them to a private lab and have DNA extracted for a couple thousand bucks probably, but what good would it do? I needed the DNA submitted and ran through CODIS, the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System, to see if there was a match to an existing profile. And the only way to do that was to be acting in the course of an official law enforcement criminal investigation. Not on a hunch or concern.
I could use the case number from the San
ta Clarita case. Who would know?
I shook my head and let out a breath. That would be dangerous. Career-ending dangerous. But what was I supposed to do, wait until something happened to start investigating it? I knew what the captain would say, and I knew what would happen if I was caught doing it. With my luck the DNA would be linked to a serial killer and then I’d never be able to conceal what I had done. The crime lab would explode with elation over connecting other cases to the one in Santa Clarita. Only he wouldn’t be guilty of the one in Santa Clarita, only of stalking me. But why? Especially if the DNA did come up linked to other crimes, why would that person be outside my apartment? Maybe it was worth the risk.
I felt a headache coming on and decided to grab a breakfast sandwich from Jack-in-the-Box before getting on the freeway. It was the breakfast of champions. My body was a temple, just look at me. Great sleep patterns, terrific diet, regular exercise if you counted sit-ups (from the chair) and jogging (to the refrigerator). Jesus, maybe I should forego Jack-in-the-Box and find a place that serves bloody marys to go.
When I got on the freeway, I called Floyd.
“Where the hell are you, Dickie?”
“On my way in. You?”
“Mongo and I are here at the office, have been for an hour, and the two assholes who we’re supposed to be helping with their case are nowhere to be found.”
“No shit, huh? Ray’s not there either?”
“No, and to be honest, you’re both pissing me off. The captain even asked about you guys. I lied and told him we were in the office until four this morning, and you’d be in shortly.”
“Thanks, man. Anything cooking?”
“No, but you are definitely starting to bore the shit out of me. Hang up on yourself and get your ass down here.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart.”
Ray pulled into the office parking lot behind me and parked two spaces over. We met each other outside our parked cars and I asked if he were following me. He said I should be so lucky, a reference of my current dilemma.
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 45