She hesitated to mention the Sara Montaine case because Giordano might not want people knowing she was spending time on a year-old undetermined death that was probably a suicide.
“Giordano has everybody on the table reviewing unsolved cases for now. I just stopped by to return a records warrant.”
“Those old cases are tough. Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime and bounce ideas around.”
Before Davie could respond, she heard Striker’s companion call his name. The woman’s arms were crossed over her chest and she was shooting daggers at him from across the room. Striker frowned, but Davie couldn’t tell if it was from concern or irritation. In high-
pressure situations, his face was always an unreadable mask, which made her wonder if the woman was more than a colleague.
Striker glanced at Davie. “Sorry. Gotta discuss a few things with my partner before we testify. Can I call you later?”
Davie turned and walked toward the clerk’s office. Over her shoulder she said, “You have my number.” She sensed his eyes on her as she walked away.
“Talk to you soon then,” he said.
Davie doubted he would call and supposed it didn’t matter if he did. She had no skin in the game with Striker. She didn’t even know much about him except he had an intriguing tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. Once when he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, she’d gotten a peek of a word ending in e. She’d asked him what it said, but he only teased that he might tell her when he knew her better. He’d made no attempt to do so, and they hadn’t spoken in the weeks since their joint case. That’s why she wasn’t about to hold her breath waiting for her phone to ring.
Davie returned the records warrant to the clerk’s office and headed back to the station. She spent the next couple hours at her desk in the squad room calling witnesses in the Javier Hernandez gang murder. Many of the phone numbers had been disconnected and of the people she reached, none had anything new they were willing to offer. Five o’clock came and went. Alma Velez didn’t show for the interview. Davie called the young woman’s cell and got a generic voice message. She called her workplace, but it was closed.
Earlier in the day, Davie had confirmed with Velez that she still lived with her mother at the address listed on her driver’s license, a unit in a nearby housing project called Mar Vista Gardens. If the mother was still around, she might know where to find her daughter.
“Hey, Jason,” she said. “You want to drive with me to Mar Vista Gardens and talk to a gang queen?”
“It’s getting dark. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“If you’re scared, I could take somebody else.”
He sniffed and straightened his tie. “Somebody else doesn’t have my superpowers.”
“I guess that means you’re in?”
“Only because you need me, Davie.”
She stifled a smile. “I’ll check out a car and meet you in the parking lot.”
10
Engagement.
He was nearby on another job when he got the call. He’d been following her ever since. She was a small woman, but he wasn’t fooled by her size. She had already killed two men and he’d discovered long ago that underestimating an opponent could be fatal. In the light, her red hair reminded him of threads of Spanish saffron in the paella from his favorite café in Zaragoza. But that pantsuit was a turnoff. Too bad, because he was a man who appreciated the female form and he could tell by the way she moved that underneath that polyester was a body worth admiring.
The client hadn’t confirmed details of the plan, not yet, but the detective had pushed buttons—big time. If surveillance was all they needed, they could have hired another contractor for less money. He assumed part two of the assignment was going to be more interesting, but for now, his instructions were to follow her and report on the people she talked to.
He’d kept his distance. Cops noticed people tailing them, even when they were driving a lowbrow Toyota rental like he was. Didn’t really matter if he lost her. He knew where she worked, where she lived, and the license plate number of her Camaro SS V8. The car used to be a dude-mobile. Lately he was seeing a lot of chicks behind the wheels of muscle cars. At least her Camaro was red, not some bullshit color like purple. Later this evening he’d turn in the Toyota and rent an SUV. They were so common in L.A. he’d be practically invisible.
He sat behind the wheel and fingered the military-issued St. Christopher medal around his neck, its rough edges worn flat from three generations of handling. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but it had kept his grandfather, his father, and him safe for all these years. He’d reconciled to himself that no son would wear it after he was gone.
He glanced out the window and thought about Gizmo, hoping he was adjusting to the kennel. He’d adopted the cat after receiving an alert. A kill shelter had him listed as a dead cat walking. He’d stared at Gizmo’s ink black fur and droopy eye. A chunk of his right ear had been chewed off in a fight, but the battle scars only made him more attractive. An hour later, Gizmo was sprung and headed for a new life. The little guy was jittery around strangers, but other than that he’d been an excellent companion.
At the courthouse, he’d watched Detective Saffron from a distance. He could easily pick her off from where he was hiding, but that wasn’t his assignment. Even if it were, it was dangerous to shoot her in a public place. He had two ironclad rules of engagement: No collateral damage and kill only who he was paid to kill. If the client had wet work in mind, they’d want something subtle and all loose ends tied up. That sort of operation took time to plan, but complex jobs satisfied his creative impulses and this client could afford to pay.
For now, he was content to wait, because the money was good and this piece-of-shit Toyota had great air conditioning.
11
Before leaving the station, Davie placed another call to Velez’s cell phone but got the same disembodied robotic voice inviting her to leave a message. The housing project was less than a mile from the station, so it took Davie and Vaughn only a few minutes to roll into the complex through the open metal gate. Just past the unmanned guardhouse she backed into a parking space. It would make leaving easier should the need arise.
Mar Vista Gardens was a six-hundred-unit housing project that bordered Culver City and Ballona Creek. The residents were predominantly Hispanic and had once included members of the Culver City Boyz, a Mexican-American street gang that used the complex as their home base. LAPD gang injunctions and sustained police presence in the neighborhood eventually forced them out of Pacific and into neighboring communities.
Davie opened her car door. “Ready to rock and roll?”
Vaughn adjusted the frequency on his handheld radio. “I’m ready for a Paco’s Tacos combo plate, but whatever.”
“I’ll buy you dinner after.”
His lips parted in a faux look of yearning. “Marry me?”
She gave Vaughn a deprecating smile to acknowledge his running joke and got out of the car as he radioed a Code Six. They had an hour to notify dispatch that they’d safely returned to the car.
All sixty-plus rectangular buildings in the complex were set on flat ground and painted a color Davie thought of as pinky beige. The fading sun filtered through the leaves of a sycamore, dappling the sidewalk and hard-packed grass with lacy shadows. In the air was a faint smell of urine. Behind one of the units Davie saw clothes hanging on a metal T-bar clothesline similar to those that had dotted the landscape in the Jordan Downs projects in Watts. Years ago, an LAPD patrol officer had suffered serious neck injuries when he ran into clothesline wires during a foot pursuit at night.
Davie felt a tug on the sleeve of her jacket. She turned to see Vaughn pointing to a ground-floor apartment at the end of a building just ahead. “That’s the unit over there.”
Vaughn followed as Davie walked up to the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw he
r partner scanning the surrounding area for potential threats, his leather holster creaking as he rested a hand on his weapon. By mutual agreement, their usual routine was that she conducted the interview and he watched her back.
Before knocking, Davie put her ear to the door and listened for sounds of life inside. Gunshots blared from a TV—a Western or maybe a cop show.
She knocked. A woman shouted, “Who’s there?”
“LAPD,” she said, stepping to the side of the door in case someone inside decided to blast a couple of rounds through the wood.
Seconds later the door opened, releasing the smell of mildew and rancid grease. Standing in front of her was a heavyset white female in her forties with stringy blonde hair. Balanced on her hip was a dark-haired boy under two, Davie guessed, with round brown eyes and cupid-bow lips. In his hand, the kid held a soggy cracker.
“Good evening, ma’am.” Davie held up her badge. “Are you Alma Velez’s mother?”
The woman’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Yeah, so what?”
“I’m looking for your daughter. Is she here?”
Her expression turned glacial. “She’s not back from work yet.”
“When do you expect her?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes she comes home. Sometime she don’t. What do you want with her?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Javier Hernandez. Ms. Velez was supposed to meet me for an interview at the station after work. She didn’t show up. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
The woman’s smile was forced. “Worried? That’s a good one. Like I told you, she ain’t here.”
Davie stepped back. “I want to ask her about Felix Malo. Do you know him?”
She frowned. “He’s in prison, but you already know that, right?”
“Is your daughter still in touch with him?”
“She’s a grownup. I don’t keep track of who she talks to.”
Davie nodded toward the child, who seemed uncommonly stoic for a kid his age. “Cute baby. Yours?”
The woman looked at the child like she’d forgotten about him. “No.”
“So, he must be your daughter’s kid. Who’s the father?”
The baby could have belonged to anybody, but if Velez and Malo had a child together, it increased the likelihood they were still in touch.
“That’s none of your business,” she said.
“Where does Ms. Velez hang out when she’s not at home?”
The toddler tried to force the cracker into the woman’s mouth. She batted away his hand, sending crumbs cascading down her shirt.
“I already told you, she’s an adult.”
Davie noticed Vaughn inching toward the door. “You mind if my partner and I come in and look around?”
“You got a warrant?”
“You got something to hide?”
The kid began squirming to get down. “Manny, be good!” The woman bounced him on her hip and he settled back into silence. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her chin raised in defiance, “that Alma’s inside hiding under the bed or something. Well, she ain’t. I’m done talking. I got things to do.” The woman moved to close the door.
Davie stopped it with her boot and held out a business card. “If Ms. Velez comes home, please ask her to call me.” Baby Manny reached out, grabbed the card, and stuck it in his mouth. Strings of drool began falling from his lips. Davie figured it didn’t matter. It was unlikely Velez would use the number on the card to call Davie back.
It was dark outside now. Sounds always seemed more sinister at night, especially in the projects. Davie tensed when she heard loud voices arguing.
She didn’t speak to Vaughn until they reached the main sidewalk. “That was fun.”
“Yeah, it warms my heart when a citizen goes out of her way to support law enforcement.”
“You think Velez was inside the apartment?” Davie asked.
“We could hang around for a while and see what happens, but it’s probably a waste of time.”
They were nearing the parking lot when Davie swept her gaze across the area and saw a young female walking across the lawn.
She grabbed Vaughn’s arm and pointed to the woman. “You think that’s Alma Velez?”
“Could be, but it’s dark and she’s too far away for me to be sure.”
Davie called out. “Alma Velez?”
The young woman stopped and turned toward Davie. Then she started running.
“What the—?” Davie ran after her. “Alma Velez, it’s Detective Richards. I want to talk.”
Velez kept running. Davie heard her partner’s heavy breathing behind her. With every step she felt the heft of her weapon and the flashlight on her belt, as well as the metal handcuffs inside the pouch at the small of her back. A moment later, Velez disappeared behind a building.
Davie had been running three times a week for the better part of a month, so she was pretty sure Alma Velez couldn’t outrun her. She doubted the woman would return to her mother’s apartment, but others in the complex might hide her.
“Let’s split up,” Vaughn said, pointing to the left. “I’ll go this way. You circle around back.”
Separating from her partner was a bad idea and against protocol, but if it meant cornering Velez it was worth it. Davie ran around the building, but her quarry had melted into the landscape. There was also no sign of Vaughn. Davie stopped to survey the grounds and to collect her thoughts. She did a three-sixty pivot but detected no movement in the shadows nor did she hear any footsteps.
Just ahead was the unit with the clothesline. Nearby was a fetid commercial garbage bin. The back of her neck prickled with tension when she heard a rustling sound. The bin was large enough for someone to hide behind. Davie’s hand brushed across the smooth leather of her holster as she drew her .45 and inched closer to the bin, using a tree trunk for cover.
“Police!” she shouted. “Put your hands behind your head and step out in the open.”
Nothing moved. She glanced over her shoulder, but Vaughn was nowhere in sight. He must have been too far away to hear her shout. Behind her, Davie heard the swishing sound of a solid object moving through air at a high rate of speed. Without thinking she stepped away from the tree with her hands in a dive position and executed a shoulder roll. Her technique was rusty. Pain seared her body as her right shoulder collided with the concrete sidewalk. Ignoring the ache, she rolled and sprang into a squatting position in time to see a baseball bat slicing through the air where she’d just been standing. Her adrenaline surged when she realized she was no longer holding her weapon. Blades of dried grass prickled her hand as she groped the area around her, desperately searching for her pistol.
A man stood above her. He raised the bat and stepped into the next swing. She skittered away from his reach. In the dim light she saw he was about five-eight and 140 pounds. Young. Brown skin. He had on jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt. A ballcap was pulled low on his face. Right-handed. She could smell the acrid sweat of fear. He didn’t play by the rules because he didn’t know them. His clumsy moves signaled he wasn’t a trained fighter. He didn’t have a gun or he would have killed her already. Same with a knife. The bat seemed like a weapon of convenience. But squatting on the ground was a bad place to be in a fight, especially with somebody looming over her.
Finding her gun would have to wait. She’d come back later with her flashlight—if there was a later. To survive, she needed leverage. She ran for the clothesline. The man was close behind, breathing heavily. She jumped high and grabbed the T-bar. Swung to build momentum. He was close to her now, the bat raised to swing at her again. With a loud bellow she planted her feet on his chest, shoving him backward with all the force she could muster. He was startled by her shout and thrown off kilter by the kick. He staggered a few steps, dropping the bat as he windmilled his arms to regain his balance.
Somewhere in the distance, Vaughn called her name. She shouted “Here!” but there was no time for further conversation. The man came at her again, roaring with rage. She swung on the bar, but this time he grabbed her legs and pulled. Her grip slipped. Her back slammed to the ground, whipping her head with a thud. Air whooshed from her diaphragm. The handcuff pouch dug into her skin.
He stood over her and threw a wild punch. She rolled sideways. His fist connected with the metal clothesline bar. He screamed in pain. She pushed herself off the hard lawn and rose to a standing position. He seemed disoriented. She grabbed the front of his sweatshirt with both hands. Pulled him toward her. Snapped her neck forward in one quick strike, slamming the hardest part of her forehead square onto the bridge of his nose. There was a crunching sound. Blood misted onto her cheeks and blouse. He covered his face and groaned. Then he ran.
Davie’s pulse raced. The gun. Her shoulder and back ached as she limped back to the garbage bin and swept the beam of her flashlight across the grass until she found her weapon.
Her partner ran down the sidewalk toward her. “You okay?”
She blurted out the man’s description. “He’s headed toward Braddock. I’m going after him.”
“Are you out of your freakin’ mind? Stay where you are. I’ll call it in—”
She ran before he could finish his sentence. Her head and shoulder throbbed, but she jogged through the dimly lit grounds, keeping watch for obstacles on the path. The last thing she needed was to fall and injure something else.
Just ahead she spotted him, running toward a bicycle propped up against a building. He hopped on and pedaled away. Davie heard sirens. Patrol officers were on the way, but she suspected the man had already blended into the neighborhood.
Vaughn’s eyes widened as he saw the blood on her face and clothes. “What the hell happened? You said you were okay.”
She winced in pain as she placed the gun in its holster. “I broke his nose.”
The Second Goodbye Page 5