Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “Drop me off at Nana’s,” Maria finally said, tired of his droning on. Of all her family, she loved her grandmother the most, and she always looked forward to seeing her.

  He glanced back again, and said to her in Spanish, “Your mother will want to see you. Are you not planning to visit?”

  Her mother. A hood rat, by Maria’s definition. A punchboard for the gang ever since her father was killed. Who knows, maybe even before. Maybe that’s why her father had stayed stoned and occasionally knocked around the little chola he had married at seventeen. She hated her mother, though she pretended not to. Truthfully, she hated the entire family—other than her grandmother—and all of their friends. The neighborhood. She only wanted out, away from them all. But there was no way out. With that, she had come to terms. Mostly.

  “If I’m meeting with the cop, I don’t plan to stay in the neighborhood,” she replied in Spanish. Then she switched to English: “Nana is the only relative we have who isn’t a fucking gangster. What if he—this cop—wants to pick me up, or drive me home? Am I going to have him bring me into the hood, introduce him to my gangster uncle and chola mother?”

  Her uncle’s mouth tightened behind his heavy black mustache. Though his eyes were concealed by dark shades, she could feel them penetrate her as he watched her in the rearview mirror. He too returned to speaking English. “You watch how you speak of your mother.”

  Great, she thought. Uncle Ed has probably been hitting that shit too. Bedding down with her mom, his sister-in-law. He was such a pig.

  They rode in silence for a minute while coming into East Los Angeles on the southbound I-5. She was looking out the window at the train tracks and concrete bridges painted with bright colored graffiti, and the faraway buildings that stood tall against a smoggy sky. In the distance she could see the stands of lights of Dodger Stadium, and for a moment she reflected on childhood memories of going to games with her father. And the gang. Always the gang. They sat in the cheap seats out in left field and the vatos drank their beer and talked shit and sooner or later—but always—they would jump someone from another neighborhood and beat him down. Half the time they would end up going to jail and the women would drive home without them. She hated L.A.

  He said, “So, you want me to take you into Whittier, when we ain’t even packin’ heat?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll be fine. Aren’t you a mobster?”

  He reached down and fumbled for his cigarettes in the console, then extracted a Camel and lit it with a Bic lighter. He cracked the window and exhaled a plume of smoke toward it. “Whatever you say, Officer Lopez.”

  Thursday night the whole crew gathered again in the Homicide conference room. Floyd and Mongo, me and Ray, Lt. Joe Black, and Davey Lopes, each of us gravitating to the seats we had claimed earlier in the week. Cops were resistant to change. Something as petty as temporary seats in an anonymous room claimed by no one would become permanent, structured, unspoken seating arrangements. We were joined by the captain who seldom was seen in the office after five. He walked in and pulled out one of the four remaining chairs at the table without speaking to anyone.

  Lt. Black greeted him. “Captain.”

  “Good evening, Joe. I thought I’d join in tonight.”

  Joe smiled.

  Without further ado, Ray took it from there, bringing all in attendance up to speed.

  There had been no luck with the license plate search through traffic cameras. Nothing showed up. Not for the victim’s vehicle nor for the sedan with the two suits who had visited Chaney. There was still no sign of the missing person, Marilynn Chaney. I found it interesting that neither Ray nor Lopes brought up the possible theory that Lopes had referred to last night, that maybe the two of them—Marilynn Chaney and Lisa Williams—were one and the same. Ray talked about the apartment, Floyd’s theory that it was uninhabited other than for the purposes of business, and he restated that there had been no similar murders that we were aware of. He looked at me and said, “Right, partner?”

  “Right. From what I understand, you have the young girl murdered in the valley, which was probably a sex crime. It happened inside her house right after school, so it may have even been a student. Or maybe a boyfriend, or some gang initiation. But there’s nothing that overlaps with our murder on that case. So, other than a handful of gang killings, we have nothing else. Oh, and I guess LAPD had two Russians whacked in Hollywood. I can’t imagine how that would have anything to do with our case.”

  Floyd said, “Unless it was a Russian mafia hit on our girl in the Beamer.”

  The room fell silent for a moment. Ray said, “What are you thinking?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just thought I’d throw it out there, muddy the water a little more.”

  Captain Stover grunted and rolled his eyes. “That’d be great.”

  Floyd continued. “You know, weirder shit has happened. It’s not your normal, everyday pervert that goes around chopping women’s hands and heads off. This almost feels like a message, or revenge. Unless that was done just to conceal her identity.”

  “Except we have DNA,” I said.

  “But what killer would think of that? I mean, unless you have a hunch who the victim is, what would you compare it to? Our victim was only in CODIS because she took a felony rap after the law passed, Prop 69, which mandates all felons will have their DNA collected and put into the system.”

  Captain Stover asked, “What felony did our victim commit? I thought she was just a hooker.”

  “Extortion,” Ray said.

  Which triggered the thought I had had a few times but continually forgot to ask of anyone. “Has anyone ordered the extortion cases from records? There might be something there, maybe a hint about how she got herself whacked.”

  Floyd spoke up. “They’re ordered, should be here next week at the latest.”

  “So back to the Russian,” Ray said, looking at Mongo, “what do we know about that murder?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing other than that my cousin is working on it. She’s on a task force that’s working the Russian mob, so I assume the victim must be a mobster. Unless they think he’s the victim of a mob hit. But I don’t know.”

  It was the most I had heard Mongo say in one sitting.

  “We can look into it, Ray,” Floyd offered.

  “That’d be good,” Ray said, and quickly jotted a note. Then he looked around the room. “Okay, anything else?”

  Captain Stover asked, “What’s the deal with the missing and her husband? That seems to be a big part of this that can’t be explained. She’s still gone, hubby’s a mystery, and our girl gets herself killed in the missing person’s car. Something is wrong there.”

  I looked over and saw that it bothered Floyd too. His expression told me his brain was processing all of it, and his eyes told me he knew that he and I were likely on the same page, that there was some type of connection between the two women. Or, as Lopes had blurted out in the previous night’s briefing, maybe they were one and the same.

  Lt. Black asked, “Have you guys done anything to get that DNA sample on our missing?”

  I spoke up before Ray could say that we hadn’t. He didn’t know I had been out there the night before, and by revealing it now it would at least show we had made an effort since the lieutenant first suggested it. “We tried last night, Joe, but Chaney wasn’t home. I’m thinking about a trash run.”

  Ray glanced over, seemingly pleased with my answer.

  “Are those still legal?” Captain Stover asked.

  “Yep.”

  “I thought I had heard—”

  “Case law,” I said, “once it’s out on the sidewalk or street, courts have ruled it’s good to go.”

  Ray said, “Sounds good, partner, thanks for that.” Then he looked around for a moment before settling his gaze on the veteran who was slouched and silent in his chair. Lopes had checked his phone often during the meeting and he was uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Not that he was e
ver loud and obnoxious, or even the vocal, opinionated type, but when working on a case, he didn’t hold back his thoughts and ideas. Tonight, though, he didn’t seem to have anything to add or questions to ask. He seemed anxious or otherwise distracted. “Lopes?”

  Lopes shook his head. “Nothing, man.”

  “Okay then, guys, let’s wrap it up. I guess we’ll see how tomorrow plays out and whether we think we need another briefing.”

  “Before we go,” Stover interrupted, “I need to give something to the captain at Santa Clarita in the way of an update. They are under the gun on this. What do you guys think we can tell them that they can give to the local media up there without jeopardizing anything you’re working on?”

  Ray looked to me. I didn’t hesitate. “We tell them nothing. We ask for their help. They just want a story. Recap old information: ‘We have a woman who was killed in a car. The car belongs to a missing person’—go ahead and put out her name and photograph—‘but we have not been able to confirm that the body recovered in that car is that of Marilynn Chaney.’ That will give them plenty to talk about.”

  “But that’s a lie, right? We know who was killed in that car.”

  “Well, Captain, actually it’s not necessarily a lie,” Ray said. “We are in fact trying to confirm whether or not the woman in the car is Marilynn Chaney.”

  “I’m confused. I thought we had ID’d her as Lisa Williams.”

  Ray said, “Lopes came up with a theory last night that maybe it’s just the one woman, two names.”

  “Jesus,” he said. He stood and picked up his notebook, glanced around the room as we all followed suit. “Keep me posted on this.”

  Lt. Joe Black assured him he would.

  I caught up with Lopes in Unsolveds. He was collecting his belongings. “You in a hurry tonight? You seemed a tad distracted.”

  “I told you about Maria, from the Bay?”

  “Prison guard.”

  “That’d be the one. She’s in town, that’s all.” He smiled. “We’re going to have a drink, and no, she doesn’t have a sister.”

  “Have fun, buddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’m off for the weekend, but you guys can call me if you need anything.”

  I reminded him the checkbook was open on this case, and told him if he’s bored to come on in. He said he didn’t expect to be bored this weekend, and smiled.

  Ten minutes later Lopes was on the phone getting directions from a friendly and flirtatious Maria Lopez with a Z as he headed east on Slauson toward Whittier. He asked if she was hungry, or if she just wanted to go out for a cocktail. She said maybe both. He suggested a Mexican restaurant just down the road from her in Norwalk.

  “Norwalk Trese?” she asked, citing a known street gang in that area.

  It silenced him briefly. The way she had said it bothered him.

  Maybe it was from working at the institution, he reasoned. Cops were the same everywhere, adapting some of the language of the gangs. Some would speak in similar fashion as they became accustomed to communicating with them more than others in society. You could listen to cops tell stories over drinks, and you would hear them use words like gats, biscuits, heat, and piece, when referencing guns. They might refer to their girlfriends as homegirl, concha, chica, or jaina.

  Lopes also knew that no matter how much she tried to distance herself from the neighborhood where she was raised, there were pieces of that culture that would remain a part of her foundation. Growing up in The Avenues, or any other barrio or ghetto, had lasting effects on a person. Though she had said she was never affiliated with gangs, and she had described her childhood as that of typical immigrants (overcrowding a small home, men who worked each day and slept under the same roofs with their extended families), she would know the streets. Or, in her case, The Avenues.

  But she had reactively cited the correct gang of the area in which Lopes had suggested. Varrio Trese Norwalk, or, as she had correctly abbreviated it, Norwalk Trese. He wondered if that was a coincidence, and as he thought of that for a moment, he thought of the bigger question: Did she know that Norwalk and The Avenues were at war? Is that the reason she blurted it out?

  “What,” he said to her, “you can’t go there?”

  “Come on now, Detective,” she said, “I already told you I’m not affiliated. Why would you say some shit like that?”

  He waited for a moment. He pictured the glimmer in her eyes, her bright smile, and the dimples that had drawn him in. Lopes said, “Just messing with you. I’ll see you in about twenty minutes, unless I hit traffic.”

  “Okay, I’ll be ready to go, sweetie.”

  Sweetie.

  Lopes glanced in his rearview and checked his tail. He always checked his tail. He had been instrumental in taking down many gangsters, including made members and associates of the notorious La Eme prison gang. They were not to be taken lightly, and hits on cops were not unheard of. Satisfied, he relaxed in his seat and thought about the pretty girl he was headed to see. He felt himself smiling at his memories of her from the first time they met. Pelican Bay. She walked confidently through the halls as she had escorted him to an interview room. Eyes would turn with each person she passed, inmates and faculty alike. She was hot, and she likely knew it. She was also probably fifteen years younger than he, or better. His smile faded, and cynical Lopes questioned, why him? All the young studs around, yet she hooked up with him the first time they met and was now bringing him to Whittier to pick her up. He hadn’t even checked her out or checked out the address she provided to see if there were any notations of gang affiliation. He was slipping.

  Norwalk Trese.

  He quickly started thinking of the Lopez families he knew that were connected to the mafia. There were several. None from Whittier that he knew of, not off the top of his head. What about from The Avenues? He didn’t know.

  He was being paranoid. Or was he?

  Lopes dialed the office.

  Something was eating away at him.

  29

  MARIA LOPEZ SET her phone on the bathroom counter and smiled as its light faded, the name Lopes disappearing from the display. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and fussed with her hair, throwing it all to one side but then letting it settle back on both shoulders. Frustrated, she fumbled in her purse for a ponytail holder, digging around past the hairbrush, several lipsticks, her cigarettes, a lighter, her folding knife, and several snacks: a package of peanuts, a box of Chiclets, and a packet of cinnamon-flavored gum. She found one and put it between her teeth, pushed her hair back with both hands, and combed through the thick black mane until it pulled tight the skin of her forehead. She held the ponytail with one hand and took the band from her mouth with the other. When finished, she turned each way quickly, the ponytail swinging with the motion. Were her earrings too big? That was the question now that her hair was pulled back. After a moment she concluded they were fine. She had bigger hoops, but she didn’t want to look ho-ish. She had tamed the eyeliner, knowing cops were more conservative. This Lopes may like his cha-cha girls, but he probably wasn’t looking for a hood rat, a sucia. Though, she could be one at times, and had been, she silently acknowledged. She smiled at the sucia staring back at her. Then she laughed, accentuating her prominent dimples. She had learned at an early age that the dimples would always draw them in. All of them, young boys and older men. Cops and gangsters alike. Lesbians too. Though she had no use and little tolerance for the latter, all the others she had experienced.

  They called her “Dimples” growing up in her neighborhood, The Avenues. And when she was young, she had spray painted it on fences and buildings. She had written it on papers and book covers. Using a marker, she had tagged her backpack, her tennis shoes, parts of her clothing with the given moniker and more: Dimples. Avenues. Aves. Surenos 13. Sur 13. RIP Boxer . . .

  She applied a dark lipstick, ran her tongue across her teeth, and then smacked her lips. Maria leaned into the mirror to check closely. Perfect. She
tugged the bottom of her blouse to lower the neckline a little, and then she pushed her breasts up while straightening her posture. There, just right, just enough cleavage showed for a first date.

  First date. Who was she kidding? She went to his hotel after he visited Pelican Bay, had drinks with him in the lobby, and ended up in his room. This cop named Davey Lopes. Spent the night in his bed, made love to him that night and again in the morning. She had brought with her an overnight bag. Now she pictured his smile, the glimmer in his squinting eyes as he had later teased her, telling her he knew she had wanted him.

  This was no first date.

  Maybe a redo.

  She could tell him, “Look, Lopes,”—no, she would call him Davey now. She liked that. Davey. “Look, Davey, that night in Brookings, the hotel, well, I don’t normally do that. I mean, I’m not really that kind of girl . . . I’m no hoochie mama.” No, she silently argued to her reflection, that’s stupid. That’s what bimbos say, white girls. And actually, she knew she was that kind of girl, and he likely knew it too. Maybe—she saw herself leaning into him, running her finger down his chest, “Look, I like you, Lopes—Davey. I need a redo, because, well, I deserve one. Every girl does from time to time. Let’s call this our first date, okay?”

  Maria sighed at herself. She wasn’t sure what to say. Or maybe not say anything at all. Really, what was she even thinking? This couldn’t ever be a thing. Or could it? No, impossible. Her family would never allow it. Even if they did, Lopes would never accept her for who she really is. He could never even know. Which is why it would never work.

  It wasn’t her fault she was born into a fucked-up family of gangsters. But it was her cross to bear nonetheless.

  Disgusted, Maria threw the burgundy lipstick into her purse.

  She frowned at her reflection, and then she smiled. She checked her teeth once more for lipstick stains, and then made the sign of the cross on her forehead before turning from the mirror. She stopped briefly before walking out to check her bra strap for her stash. Even going out with a cop, she wouldn’t trust not needing cash. She reached for the light switch but paused to check her ass in the mirror. Satisfied, she flipped the switch and turned into the hallway where she was greeted by the smell of warmed tortillas.