Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  Floyd looked at Ray and said, “I think Lopes may be onto something with this one and the same theory, the idea that our missing girl is also the dead woman.”

  32

  FLOYD OPENED HIS case notebook and began flipping back and forth through a few pages nearly halfway into it. The notebooks were supplied to us and we went through them quickly. Every case required a fresh notebook, and in many cases an investigator would fill several of them. They were designed to fit in a suit coat or rear pants pocket, and the covers were printed with the Homicide logo, a bulldog that appeared ready to fight. An article had appeared in the Los Angeles Times back in the seventies that had labeled the L.A. Sheriff’s Homicide detectives as bulldogs, and ever since we had embraced the sturdy breed of dog as our mascot. The notebooks made me think about Elvis, and it made me want to get on better terms with him. If we became buddies, I could bring Elvis to the office when I watched him for Chuck and Patti next week. Maybe let him piss on Floyd’s chair.

  The pages of Floyd’s notebook were filled with words written in black ink with important notations accented with red ink or highlighted in yellow. I had worked with him long enough to know this was not unusual; this was the product of his undiagnosed obsessive-compulsive disorder. Any detective could pick up a notebook from his desk and dictate a report that was as accurate as if they had been with him on scene or during the interviews. I had done so on many occasions. I would sometimes bargain with him since he never wanted to drive: “You drive, I’ll dictate.”

  Working on a fresh case, we always tried to stay up with the dictation. It wasn’t his favorite thing to do, but I didn’t mind as much. I was never big on talking to strangers unless I had to, and I wasn’t even the most talkative around those who knew me. I could spend hours in the same room with someone in comfortable silence. But I didn’t mind speaking into inanimate objects or conversing with dead people. Homicide was the perfect assignment for me.

  He lowered the notebook and leaned back in his chair. “Okay, ready?”

  Ray and I glanced at each other. I asked Floyd, “Should we have cocktails for this?”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, Dickie. It’s never a bad idea. Anyway, here are my thoughts on this fiasco you’ve gotten me into. I think there’s something to Lopes’s theory that they are one and the same, this Lisa Williams and Marilynn Chaney. That the dead woman is the missing person, who was also living large as a high-class hooker. One woman living two lives. Well, you know how I feel about hookers, so I figured this warranted a more detailed inspection—”

  “No surprise there,” I said.

  Floyd grinned. “Where is that asshole, anyway?”

  “Who, Lopes?”

  “Yeah, Lopes, dickhead.”

  “He’s still at the hospital, far as I know.”

  Satisfied, Floyd continued: “Well, I started thinking, maybe old what’s-his-ass, your missing’s old man, found out his wife had a second life, a secret life where she’s giving it up for big bucks and not sharing the wealth. I mean, that limp-dicked S.O.B. probably doesn’t miss the action—if he’s even straight—but he’s pissed to find out she’s got this place in the Marina and a hundred-thousand-dollar car he didn’t know about. You have to figure, if she’s been hooking enough to support that lifestyle on the side, she’s not home very often, if at all. The marriage is likely just a façade. He probably has his deal on the side too, maybe a little pirate hooker or a young Asian boy, someone with very little facial hair. Who knows?

  “Which leads me to my next ah-hah moment . . . So, running with Lopes’s theory, I had to wonder how that would work. If Marilynn Chaney and Lisa Williams are one and the same, would it not make sense that each vehicle should have evidence of one woman’s presence—DNA, hair, fingerprints? We know that the DNA from the corpse was identified as a match to DNA in CODIS attributed to Lisa Williams. But there was no other source of DNA compared to that of the corpse. The lab had collected trace evidence which included hair, but nobody had asked for any other samples to be compared to the DNA from the corpse. Or, Lisa Williams.

  “Now,” he said, and pointed at me, “I took the liberty to push for a rush on all collected DNA evidence from your crime scene, as well as the Marina apartment and Lisa Williams’s badass Porsche. If they are not one person, we should find a second profile somewhere, right? Something? Anything? There’s no way you don’t leave a trace of evidence behind when in your personal vehicle.

  “Lastly—and I’ve been thinking about this a lot—if she was killed elsewhere and put in the vehicle to make it look like she had driven there, for whatever reason, and the dead woman is Lisa Williams—not Marilynn Chaney—then there shouldn’t be any evidence of Williams in that car, other than her body and her blood. Her head and hands would have been removed elsewhere, if you guys have it right. Yet, Gentry found Williams’s prints on that registration.”

  He looked at me. “Dickie, how the hell do you get fingerprints on anything when you don’t have any hands?”

  Before I continued, he answered his own question. “You don’t. Lisa Williams was in that car before she was murdered. Given that the prints are on the registration, I would say she was in the car many times before she was murdered. In fact, I would say—as Lopes surmised—that she is the owner of that car. She—Lisa Williams—is Marilynn Chaney.

  “Finally, if Lopes is right, there shouldn’t even be hair belonging to Williams in that car. But there should be hair from our missing person in that car, right? Marilynn Chaney should be all over that car—hair, prints, DNA. But I bet we don’t come up with anything other than Williams. I think Lopes has it right.”

  The three of us sat quietly for a moment in contemplation. I was thinking about the two women, the DNA, hair, latent prints, a woman living two lives, or two women with a connection. Ray was likely processing everything Floyd had said in similar fashion. Floyd had likely moved on and was wondering about lunch or what the hell Mongo was up to or thinking about some reporter with pretty eyes.

  “When are they going to have results, partner?” Ray asked. “Did they say?”

  Floyd’s hazel eyes darted back and forth from me to Ray as he answered. “I don’t know. They know it’s a priority case, but I didn’t push a rush. Nor did I ask. Do you want me to ask?”

  “Yeah, partner, if you wouldn’t mind. I have to be honest, this is intriguing, this idea of it being just the one woman living two lives. I’d like to know about that as soon as possible. So, yes, if you wouldn’t mind, Floyd, maybe get an answer to their ETA and urge them to expedite. They know—I’ve previously told them—that the sheriff is keeping his eye on this case. That should be more than enough motivation. If not, we’ll have Joe make a call.”

  I nodded, agreeing with Ray. Floyd stood and faced the two of us in a fighter’s stance, absent raised fists. It was his natural stance from years of training and practice in the gym and near anything that reflected his image. He looked at us smugly and said, “Okay, bitches, I’m out of here!”

  He walked away shadow-boxing and mumbling: “Where the hell is Mongo? Has anyone seen my Mongo?”

  Later that day when I had finished reviewing the call logs from the cell phone of Maria Lopez, I typed an affidavit of probable cause and its accompanying search warrant and drove to East Los Angeles Municipal Court. I walked into Department 3 on the second floor and paused inside the heavy wooden double doors to remove my hat. The Honorable Judge Porfirio Vazquez peered at me over reading glasses that sat on the end of his nose and were secured by a chain around his neck. With two fingers he motioned for me to approach even though a trial was in progress and a witness was being questioned. The prosecutor, an attractive Hispanic lady in her thirties wearing a bright red dress and black nylons, stopped her line of questioning as I approached the bench. The jurors seemed distracted by it as well. The judge motioned for the prosecutor to continue, and she did.

  Judge Vasquez received the warrant and affidavit over the front of his bench and r
aised his right hand slightly as a cue for me to do the same. The questioning continued in the background while the judge accepted my silent oath and carelessly flipped through the pages I had handed him. He scribbled his name on the appropriate pages of my search warrant and affidavit. He had signed dozens of my warrants over the years and no longer scrutinized my probable cause declarations. I had also testified before his court on many cases. He knew of my assignment and trusted that if I sought a warrant while he was in trial, it was urgent. I quietly thanked him, wishing to explain that the other courts were now dark, there were no other judges available in the courthouse, and I didn’t have time to get downtown. He likely knew it anyway. Judge Vasquez only nodded while handing back the stack of papers which was now disheveled and no longer clipped together. I walked through the two sets of doors and stopped in the hallway to reorganize the search warrant and affidavit.

  I decided to forego filing the papers and drawing a warrant number from the clerk. I would do it later when I presented Judge Vasquez with a Return to Search Warrant. I didn’t have the time nor inclination to worry about clerical matters late on a Friday afternoon. I returned to the office and faxed the telephone search warrant to the Custodian of Records at Verizon Wireless. That completed, I set the file and evidence-held cell phone aside. That was all I could expect to accomplish until Monday, absent a more urgent cause such as a hostage situation, a kidnapping, or a matter of national security. At least as far as Verizon Wireless was concerned. For us, weekends were no different than Mondays or Wednesdays, other than the welcomed absence of administrators.

  I returned to find the bureau had once again dwindled down to the few of us who had too much work or nothing better to do. My eyelids were heavy as I stared across the sea of desks, focused on only the far window showing a darkening sky. I leaned back in my chair and rested my head against the wall behind me, pulled my hat forward to shield my eyes, and drifted off to sleep again.

  Leonard lit a cigarette, crumpled the empty package, and tossed it onto the coffee table where his feet were propped. He was bored. In prison all he could think about was freedom, but it was overrated. Free to do what? The only thing good about being outside was the predator to prey ratio. Inside, he was always on guard. Two of every three men were predators and if given the chance, they’d cut you or stab you or choke you to death for your clean towel or newer tennis shoes. Out here, predators were a drop in the bucket. The sea was full of fish and you rarely saw sharks. Leonard could roam freely and confidently without fear of his fellow man. Even if he crossed paths with another predator, there would be no reason to fear him. Predators only prey on other predators when that’s all there is to choose from, or when they are forced to do so as a manner of survival. Never for a wallet or tennis shoes or sex.

  Now he wished he hadn’t killed the goddamn Russkies. He needed a different car after his encounter with beach boy, the tanned and somewhat buff boat washer, obviously a cop like the other dipshit. Leonard couldn’t risk driving back into that neighborhood in his Taurus. He wished he knew how to steal one. Well, he could cut some bitch’s throat and steal hers. That would be the way to do it, he supposed, when you didn’t know how to hot-wire a car. Hell, he didn’t even know how to break into one unless he smashed a window. Nobody wanted to drive around in a stolen car with a smashed window though. He wondered about the car lot and the two dead Russians, and he pictured them rotting in the trailer and stinking up the neighborhood. Not likely, he decided; they had probably been discovered and there was no way Leonard was going back to a murder scene for a car. Though if they were still there, he wouldn’t mind going back just to see how they would look and smell now, and to see the bugs crawling over them and getting fat on their flesh. Everyone had to make a living, even maggots.

  He puffed a series of smoke rings toward the ceiling and thought about Whitey. If Whitey were with him, life would be perfect. They could work together and hang out together and do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted to do it. But Whitey would never be free, and once again Leonard pondered if he wouldn’t be happier back in prison. He sat up against the soft, worn couch cushion and mashed his cigarette into an ashtray that needed to be emptied. Then he flopped back and stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

  I awoke to Lopes pulling a chair up next to me. When I lifted the front of my hat and looked into his weary eyes he said, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “No worries, buddy,” I said, sitting up and trying to collect my wits. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “She’s basically in a coma and living on machines. They don’t know. It doesn’t look good.” That hung in the air for a few moments. “Come on, man, let’s go get a cup.”

  I followed Lopes into the kitchen and we drained the remaining coagulated black liquid from the bottom of a scorched glass coffee decanter, its brown handle indicating the contents were leaded. There were three carafes at the coffee station and only one with an orange handle. It was for the administrators, or maybe secretaries. Nobody working cases would settle for decaf. He started another pot, dumping the old grounds into a tall metal trash container and refilling the filtered basket with mounding scoops of Folgers. As he did, I told him about the phone, that I had gone through and made a list of all calls—incoming, outgoing, and missed—from the call log. And that I had written a search warrant for phone records and served it on Verizon, adding that I didn’t expect anything back until at least Monday. I told Lopes that Floyd was running full steam with the one woman Lisa Williams/Marilynn Chaney theory, thinking maybe changing topics would be beneficial for us both.

  He watched the coffee dripping into its carafe without responding for a moment. Finally, he looked up at me and said, “You want to go to Pelican with me?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  I glanced at my watch; it was nearly eight now. “Can we get the plane?”

  “Probably not this late on a Friday,” he said, “but we can go commercial. Take a redeye and get some sleep on the plane, be at the prison bright and early so I can beat the sleep out of Spooky’s beady little brown eyes.”

  “Why not? I don’t have anything else planned for the weekend.”

  “It would be good to have you up there with me when I wrap my hands around that little asshole’s neck. I want some answers on this deal with Maria, and if he doesn’t have any, he had better fucking get some, the little prick.”

  “I’d be happy to go along, but I doubt you’ll need my help in there.”

  “I might need you to keep me from killing him.”

  “Okay, let’s do it. You going to make a call, let them know we’re coming up?”

  “No. I’m going to drop in and surprise him. I don’t know that I can trust any of the guards to keep quiet about it. I don’t want him warned. I want to walk in and look him in his eyes; that will tell me if he knows or not. If he does, you’re going to have to keep me from killing him. Got it?”

  I nodded, and we filled our cups with fresh coffee and walked silently back to our desks.

  33

  THE NEXT MORNING we stood in a large room that echoed with our every footstep or movement. Neither of us spoke though both of us were perplexed by the greeting we had just received. When Lopes spoke through the intercom, presumably to those who sat behind a wall of mirrored glass, he identified us and stated we were there to interview Victor “Spooky” Hernandez in C-block. There had been silence for a few moments before a male voice instructed us to wait there, that someone would be out to speak with us.

  I didn’t know what Lopes was thinking but I knew I didn’t like the reception we had received. Having interviewed hundreds of inmates in custody facilities throughout the nation, I was familiar with odd occurrences and nothing surprised me anymore. But this had a different feel to it, something I couldn’t pinpoint and didn’t like. I could tell by the look in Lopes’s eyes he didn’t like it either.

  After what seemed to be half an hour but was only five minute
s, a heavy door was keyed open and a man in casual attire—khaki pants and a polo shirt—walked through and immediately made eye contact with Lopes. The logo on his shirt identified him as a gang investigator for the California Department of Corrections, Institutional Gang Unit. The corrections department logo features the scales of justice, a torch, and equal parts of sea, mountains, green pastures, and the big city. California was the perfect geographic location for quality living. At one time.

  Lopes nodded and the short, stocky investigator—a white man with a gray mustache and goatee against a tanned narrow face—called him by name. “Davey, how are you?”

  “What’s up, Morgan? The fuck’s going on here?”

  The investigator glanced at me but didn’t introduce himself. Lopes was otherwise focused. The man called Morgan said, “Spooky’s dead. He was found yesterday morning in his cell.”

  Lopes glanced at me with intensity in his eyes. He looked back at Morgan. “Murdered?”

  Morgan nodded. “His cellie strangled him. An old associate of his, Juan Torres. They were supposed to be compatible, Lopes. I’m sorry.”

  “Joker. He’s from Hazard too,” Lopes replied. “That’s a hit, from the mob. Joker wouldn’t kill Spooky if he had a choice. Those two have been homies since they were little kids.”

  “We’re working it, but nobody is talking.”

  “How fucking rare,” Lopes said. He turned and stared off at the horizon beyond the glass doors and the three of us stood silent. He turned back and said to Morgan, “I want to talk to Joker.”

  Morgan shook his head, saying, “No can do, Lopes. I’m sorry man, that’s down from the warden. It isn’t going to happen.”

  Lopes huffed and turned to walk out. I shrugged at the man I had never been introduced to and turned to follow Lopes. Outside under the coastal sunlight and blue skies, walking rapidly toward our rental car, I said, “What now?”