Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  He didn’t look back and didn’t answer. We rode to the airport in silence and dropped the rental. Finally, he spoke. “Well, we have three hours before our flight back. Let’s get through security and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter till nine and breakfast sounded better, but I wasn’t going to say so.

  It was mid afternoon when Lopes and I walked through the back door and into the squad room to find Rich Farris and his partner, Lizzy, saying goodbye to Ted Hampton and his floppy-eared hound he calls Rocket for reasons that escape me. Lopes veered off toward the front desk without speaking to anyone. I assumed he would be checking the medical status of Maria Lopez and the progress of the investigation. I greeted Ted and patted Rocket on the head before they walked out the back door. Rich Farris sat waiting.

  “Well, how did it go?” I asked.

  He bobbed his head in a combination of shaking and nodding as if the result had been a mixed bag of good and bad, or better than nothing, or worth a try but probably not anything that was going to solve the case of the strangled Asian girl in San Fernando. He said, “Well, we think we know where he parked, that’s about it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, the dog picked up a scent trail from the bedroom where she was killed, followed it downstairs, out the back door, around through a side gate, down the sidewalk to the middle of the street where the sonofabitch just stopped. He looked left and right, walked in a few circles, and then looked up at Ted like, This is the end of the line, my brother.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. So, we knocked on some doors, but nobody remembers seeing anything suspicious or made note of any cars that didn’t belong in the neighborhood. Most of the adults were working and the few kids we spoke with just shrugged. They didn’t know shit, probably came home and started playing video games and eating chips and picking their noses.”

  “You think he got in a car there.”

  Rich Farris nodded. “There was a cigarette butt right where the scent trail ended. It was about ten feet from the curb, right about where someone would step out of a vehicle and drop a cigarette on the ground as they walked away. Ted collected scent from it and said Joe’s dog can do a scent lineup or some shit, see if the lighter and the cigarette have corresponding scent. We’ll bag the butt for DNA but we might wait until we see what the dogs do on the scent.”

  My mind raced. I could hardly contain myself with the obvious question, but I didn’t want to interrupt. As soon as he finished, I asked, “What type of cigarette, Rich?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, just some kind of non-filtered, probably a Camel.”

  Could I have been so lucky? No, I’m never that lucky. But I also couldn’t talk myself out of the possibility, even though I had no way to make it work in my head. How could I possibly make a connection between a young girl being murdered in San Fernando and my stalker in Burbank? It was a long shot. “When’s Joe coming in for the scent lineup?”

  “He’s on his way. Ted said he was going to go get a burger for him and Rocket, said they were both starving. I guess that hound dog eats hamburgers.”

  “Probably just cheeseburger snacks,” I joked. “Listen, Rich, I want to try something when they come in, if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got some similar cigarettes from another case I’m working. I’d kind of like to have the dogs sniff to see if there’s a match between those and the one you’ve got, or that lighter.”

  “Yeah, no problem, Dickie. What do you have, another little girl murder?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s probably unrelated. Nothing even similar, other than the smokes. It seems to me we don’t see these non-filtered cigs very often. But still, it’s probably completely unrelated.”

  Rich nodded but his eyes said he knew I wasn’t telling him the truth.

  “Okay, Dickie. I’ll shout at you when they get here.”

  I found Lopes standing in silence at the front desk while an investigator was busy on the phone. “Any word?”

  “He’s checking with the hospital now,” Lopes replied, nodding toward the investigator on the phone in front of us. “Nothing from Martinez or Blair on the investigation, no workable information. Nobody saw shit. Two shooters from the pattern of spent casings, all nine-millimeter. What’s up with Farris and the dog? What do they have going?”

  “He’s working that case from San Fernando, the little girl.”

  Lopes nodded.

  “I’m going to give them a hand doing a scent lineup here in a bit, and I’ve got some follow-up to do on our Santa Clarita case until then, if you don’t need me for anything.”

  “Nah, man, thanks.”

  I went back to my desk and opened the bottom drawer where two envelopes were buried in the back beneath some files. I pulled them out, opened each and peeked inside to make sure they were the envelopes with the cigarette butts I had collected from the street outside my apartment. They were. I kept one and secured the other back inside the drawer.

  Farris called out, “Back lot, Dickie,” as he passed through the door to the parking lot with Lizzy on his heels.

  Evidence in hand, I crossed the squad room and followed them out back where Ted stood talking to Joe, who held a yellow lab at his side on its leash. We shook hands and I looked at Ted. “I have something I would like to include in the lineup, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, what do you have?”

  I opened the envelope and positioned it so that Ted could see inside. “A couple of similar butts from another case. Can you pull scent off those? I need to keep them for DNA though, so . . .”

  “No worries.”

  Ted retrieved his scent collection device from his van. It was basically a battery-powered, hand-held vacuum like a Dust Buster. A sterile pad that functioned as a filter would be placed between the inlet and the collection chamber, and it was from this pad that scent would be introduced to the dog. Ted asked me to hold the envelope containing the cigarette butts. He turned the vacuum on and held the mouth of it against the envelope’s opening. With gloved hands, he removed the newly made scent pad and placed it in a Ziplock bag but didn’t seal it closed. He handed me the baggie and said, “Go put it out there somewhere with the others.”

  There were six similar plastic bags strewn ten feet apart across the mostly empty parking lot. I walked to them and looked back at Joe and Ted and Rich Farris and Lizzy who all watched from fifty feet away. I said, “Hey, don’t let Joe or that mutt watch, I don’t want any cheating.”

  Joe laughed, then turned so that he and his dog were faced away. I quickly rearranged a couple of bags and put mine in the middle. Once ready, I gave the okay. Joe introduced his dog to scent that had been collected from the cigarette lighter. He then took the dog to the field of baggies containing scent pads and asked the canine to check them one at a time. The dog showed no interest in the first three bags, and then after sniffing the one that I had placed in the middle, he sat and looked up at his handler. Joe praised him and threw a tennis ball across the parking lot. The dog ran and fetched it; that was the reward.

  Joe looked at me. “That was yours, I take it?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s a match.” He looked at Rich Farris and said, “Okay, let’s do yours next.”

  The same process took place with similar results. Joe’s Labrador retriever had indicated that the scent from the cigarette lighter found inside the dead girl’s residence contained scent that corresponded with that from the cigarette butt found outside of the crime scene, as well as with scent from the butts left by my stalker. It was the first time I had ever witnessed a successful identification process and didn’t rejoice. In fact, I hoped to not throw up, as I was suddenly overwhelmed with a sick feeling, a rapid heartbeat, and a rising body temperature. A serial killer was stalking me.

  That night we had a briefing that only included myself, Ray, Floyd, and Mongo. Lopes was nowhere to be found
, and we didn’t bother him. He likely had returned to the hospital or maybe had gone home for some sleep and to freshen up. Lt. Black was not around, and we didn’t expect to see him on a Saturday evening. Same for the captain, to my great delight.

  For the first ten minutes we talked about the Maria Lopez shooting. It was the topic du jour, so I told everything I knew about the victim, the shooting, and to a lesser degree, the connection—or relationship—between Maria Lopez and Davey Lopes. When finished, Floyd said, “Well, if they need any help on that case, we’re available. I mean, either way I’m lying about a shitload of overtime this weekend.”

  I then told them about Spooky being killed up at Pelican, and how Lopes and I had gone up to maybe get some answers on the Maria Lopez shooting. I told them Lopes was convinced it was mob related. Nobody commented.

  Ray took over and recapped what Floyd had told us the day before as far as his theory on Williams and Chaney being the same person. Mongo had not been there for the conversation, though it was likely Floyd had discussed his thoughts with him. Still, Ray wanted to hash through it again, and as he did he checked off parts of a list he had before him and added notes to the bottom of it.

  “What about your cousin, Mongo?” Ray asked.

  “That deal is all Russian mafia shit. The guy that got whacked was vin switching and cold-plating cars and selling them to illegals, or people who need untraceable cars. Probably a wetback did him in.”

  Cold-plating cars rattled around in my head as Ray said, “Okay, so nothing of interest. Oh, how was he killed, this Russian guy?”

  “Had his throat cut by a knife, nearly decapitated him. But the woman had her throat hacked to pieces, not sliced. Probably two different killers, completely different methods.”

  Now I had cold-plating and decapitated both rolling around in my head.

  Ray said, “Definitely nothing to do with our deal then, right?”

  Mongo affirmed it with a slight nod. Floyd was looking at him. Everyone looked at me when I said, “Not so fast.”

  And then: “First, I wouldn’t assume there are two killers based on what Mongo described as far as the murders. One may have been more spontaneous than the other, or the killer had more of a fight with one of the victims than he had had with the other. Since there were two people killed, maybe the first was caught off guard and was quick and easy, and the second was combative.”

  “Okay,” Ray said, “but the point is, this doesn’t have any overlap with our case.”

  “Except the cold-plated car, and maybe the near-decap.”

  I could see he hadn’t previously considered it. I looked over and saw the same expression on Mongo’s face. Floyd was with me; his relaxed expression confirmed it. He likely had reached similar conclusions before I mapped it out. We seemed to always be on the same page, even now after a year’s sabbatical and no longer being partnered.

  “I don’t like coincidences,” I said, and looked to see Floyd nodding in agreement now, “and the fact that two suits showed up at Chaney’s has bothered us throughout this investigation. One, because we don’t know if they’re feds or mobsters—”

  “I’ve said mobsters all along,” Floyd interjected.

  “—and two, the car they drove was cold-plated. Now, I don’t want to get way out in left field, but I need you guys to hear me out on this and follow along. You all know that one of the cars driven by whoever the hell it is watching me is also cold-plated. I hadn’t filled you in on this, but Chuck saw him at the house yesterday.” I looked at Mongo and said, “Chuck owns the main house of the apartment I live in, and he and his wife are both retired deputies.”

  I looked over at Floyd who was frowning, probably because this is the first he’d heard of this. “Yeah, the same guy was watching the house yesterday. Chuck got a pretty good look at him as he drove past. Interestingly, he said it was a white guy, maybe forty, blond hair. Didn’t get a plate but it had to be the same guy. He had been parked in the same location where I had seen him previously. Chuck yelled out at the guy when he drove past and the guy took off like a bat out of hell. He called to tell me about it, and I told him the whole story about being watched. But it gets worse.

  “Rich Farris had the dog alert on a cigarette butt on the street at the end of a scent trail, up in San Fernando on that Asian girl murder. It was non-filtered, like the ones I found after this asshole had been around my place. So, they do a scent lineup today, and I throw my hat in the ring, have them check those butts I recovered. I’ll be a sonofabitch if that lab of Joe’s didn’t ID them. Same scent on butts at my house and on the lighter and butt from the Asian girl murder.”

  “Unreal,” Floyd said.

  I nodded. “Look, I can’t wrap my head around this, but when Mongo said ‘cold-plated car,’ something grabbed me. Then, when he described the ‘near decapitation,’ I about lost it. I mean, can you imagine if this is one guy out there doing all of this killing? To nearly take someone’s head off with a knife, that puts that asshole in the ballpark of sawing off someone’s head and hands. Same type of person. And those people aren’t just all over the place.”

  Ray said, “Man, what are you thinking then, partner?”

  “I don’t know, Ray. Maybe a professional, and all these are contracts being filled.”

  “Wait,” Floyd said, “but the Asian girl was strangled.”

  “Yeah, I know. But, maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe a pro has several ways he likes to do his hits. Maybe he’s a pro that does hits but gets off on little girls on the side, I don’t know.”

  “But then why would he be watching you,” Ray asked, “if this is all one guy, and he’s a pro?”

  I was shaking my head as I drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know, Ray. The only thing at all I can think of is if it’s related to Regalado, the asshole I killed a year ago, and his family. Maybe they put something out on me. I hit up Lopes and he didn’t find any connection to the Mexican mafia, but he did say they were down with White Fence, and that White Fence puts in a lot of work for the mob. I don’t think it’s too far a stretch to say they asked for a favor.”

  “But the guy watching you is white, you said.”

  “I know, Ray . . . I know. Some of it doesn’t work.”

  “And our victim in Santa Clarita is white,” Ray said, “and higher class at that. It doesn’t look like Mexican mob stuff to me. And then the car lot guy is a Russian. This thing is all over the place, and although there are some overlapping suggestions, it doesn’t add up. Plus, partner, I’ll be real honest with you, I don’t put a lot of faith in those dogs.”

  Maybe he was right. When you said it aloud it didn’t make sense; there were too many holes in it. But then there were too many connectors too: the cold-plated cars, the decapitation, the scent. I wasn’t convinced, but I wasn’t ready to dismiss it either. I said, “What about throwing my cigarettes into the DNA mix? Have them tested against—” and I realized we didn’t have DNA from a suspect on any of the other cases. “Never mind.”

  I sat deflated for a minute. Floyd said, “Wait, you may be onto something.”

  I perked up. What had I missed? “What?”

  “Let’s submit your evidence for DNA and see if we get a profile. If that asshole is in CODIS, the pieces might fall together. Think about it, we get a CODIS hit, we’d have a photo, prints, criminal history, associations, locations—the whole shebang. Let’s ID this asshole and work it backwards, see if he connects to Regalados, see if he likes little girls. Maybe he has skin crimes on his rap sheet and he’d show up as a registered sex offender. Let’s see if he’s connected to Russians for any reason, or to the Mexican mafia by chance. Shit, Lopes may know the asshole, or know more about any association between Mexicans and Russians, if there is one. I think you might be onto something. It might also be way off course, but what does it hurt to try?”

  “How? How do we submit the DNA on something that has no case number?”

  Floyd laughed. “What, suddenly you’re worri
ed about the rules? Buy me a beer after and I’ll drive you up to the lab and we’ll tell Gentry to get it done on the sly. It will only matter if the parts come together, and then we’ll worry about procedure.”

  Ray was rubbing his head and had a concerned look on his face. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know, guys.”

  “Trust me,” Floyd said. “We’ll keep you clean on the whole deal. We don’t have time to fuck around with policy when someone’s trying to kill Dickie.”

  And with that he stood as if there would be no further discussion. Mongo followed him out the door.

  I looked over at Ray, wanting to apologize but the words escaped me.

  He said, “I’m not sure if I’m glad Joe Black wasn’t here tonight, or if I wish that he had been.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry. Floyd does crazy shit all the time, and he always lands on his feet. You watch.”

  34

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Floyd and I were driving out of the lot together in his black Ford Taurus, but he went the wrong way, assuming we were going to the crime lab.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “The crime lab, and then out for a burger and beer, but you’re buying.”

  “Do you need directions? I can tell you how to get to the lab, if you need me to.”

  “We have to run by my house first.”

  “Oh, well that’s a bit out of the way, like thirty miles and two hours traveling.”

  “We’re on overtime, Dickie, in a county car that runs on county gas. Don’t you worry about it.”

  I removed my hat and stretched my arm across the back of his seat. “Okay, I don’t have anything better to do. Plus, I haven’t seen the kids for a while. Have at it, pal.”

  He glanced over and smiled.

  After a minute passed: “Okay, I can’t stand it. Why are we going to your place?”