by Robert Crais
“I know.”
“I know you know. The police found you with the body.”
“Are you here as an attorney, Alan? Are they going to charge me?”
“No, nothing like that, but—”
He managed to look pathetic. I had never seen Alan Levy look pathetic before, but then he suddenly frowned.
“Tomaso was murdered. Tell me a young man found himself in a relationship that resulted in murder, I would say that sort of thing happens all the time. But not this particular young man. Not at this particular time. Maybe you were right about there being more to this than the pictures recovered with Byrd.”
The frog eyes blinked.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“Marx is still working the homicides.”
Levy’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
“But Marx closed the case. He shut down the task force.”
“Marx kept his top people on, what they call his inner circle. The task force might have been officially shut down, but Marx is still kicking rocks. The problem is, I’m not sure whether he’s trying to find evidence or hide it.”
I told him how Marx was connected to Leverage and how he had interfered with the Repko investigation even before Byrd’s body was found. When I described the video disk of Debra Repko’s murder, Levy grew irritated and stopped me.
“What did they do with it?”
“No one knows. Marx took it away from the CGI house before the work was finished. It’s possible he sent it to the FBI lab, but that’s only a guess.”
“So the FBI has it?”
“I don’t know where it is, Alan. For all I know, Marx is using it as a bookmark. Either way, it was probably garbage like SID said.”
Levy told me to go on, and I did, anxious to finish so I could leave for my meeting with Maldenado. When I told Levy about Ivy Casik, he leaned forward.
“This woman claims someone was writing a book about Lionel Byrd?”
“She’s claiming Byrd told her someone was writing a book about him. He could have made it up.”
Levy considered me for a moment, then took out a pad.
“Is she credible?”
“She knew Byrd had been charged in the Bennett murder and about the trumped-up confession Crimmens used to make his case.”
“Have the police interviewed her?”
“They went to her apartment, but I don’t know if they reached her. She wasn’t home when I went back to check.”
“Which officer was that, Marx?”
“Bastilla.”
Alan grunted again and wrote something.
“All right. I’ll try to see the Casik woman, too. Tell me how to find her.”
He copied her name and address as I gave him directions, then tapped at the pad with his pen.
“Here’s what I can do. I’ll request Byrd’s criminal history—not just the arrest record, but the complete history. The DA shouldn’t object, and if she does, well, there are others who won’t.”
“Why the history?”
“Perhaps an officer who arrested him turns up on the task force. Maybe an attorney who once represented him now works for Leverage. You never know what you might find.”
I nodded. The big gun rolls into action.
“I’ll see if I can find out what Marx is up to. Maybe I can get more information from the inside than we’ve been able to get from the outside.”
We. I didn’t bother to correct him.
“Let’s get back to Tomaso for a second. Do you know which detective is in charge of the case?”
“That would be Crimmens.”
“Ah.”
Levy smiled as he made the note, then looked back at me.
“Had they identified any witnesses? Anyone see or describe the killer or a vehicle?”
“No witnesses by the time they cut me free. They had already started the canvass. They were striking out.”
“Evidence recovered at the scene?”
“Nothing they mentioned in front of me. Alan, look, I have to get going.”
He put away his pad and pushed back from the table.
“I know you have to go, but listen—you should be careful. Byrd had these pictures. That much is an undeniable fact. The man didn’t just find them on the side of the road.”
“Didn’t we go through this before?”
“Yes, but Tomaso has caused me to reconsider. Even if Byrd wasn’t a party to the murders, the person who gave those pictures to him was, and Byrd and that person were connected. That man is still out there.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want to end up like Tomaso, do you?”
“Alan, I have to go.”
“If Byrd was connected to someone at Leverage, maybe we’ll find the connection through his record. In the meantime, stay away from Marx. You should lay low for a while, Elvis. Don’t give these people an excuse to arrest you.”
“They could have arrested me yesterday.”
“They might still change their minds. Give me a chance to find out what they’re doing before you get yourself in worse trouble.”
We reached the door, and I watched him go to his car. It was a lovely car, and he waved as he got in.
“Hey, Alan. Good to have you aboard.”
He twisted around to look at me. He said, “I’m sorry I doubted your instinct.”
I smiled as he drove away.
26
MEMBERS OF the Los Angeles City Council had downtown offices on Spring Street, but each member also maintained an office in his or her district. Maldenado’s district office was in a two-story strip mall in an area where most of the signs were in Spanish and Korean, conveniently distant from the spying eyes that went with the downtown action. The councilman’s office was located above a women’s health club. The women entering the club were uniformly beautiful, but this probably had nothing to do with the councilman’s location.
I parked underground, walked up to the second floor, and entered the reception area. The receptionist was speaking Spanish to an older couple while two men in business suits waited on the couch, one tapping out a text message while the other read some sort of document. Photographs hanging above the two men and behind the receptionist showed Maldenado with Little League teams, sports stars from the Dodgers, Lakers, and Clippers, and various politicians. I counted Maldenado with three different California governors and four U.S. presidents. The only person who appeared with Maldenado more than once was Frank Garcia.
The receptionist said, “May I help you, sir?”
The older couple had taken a seat.
“Elvis Cole for Mr. Maldenado. I have a ten o’clock.”
“Yes, sir. They’re expecting you.”
She immediately led me around her desk and into Maldenado’s office. She didn’t bother to knock or even announce me. She opened the door, let me walk in, then closed the door behind me.
Before entering politics, Henry Maldenado had sold used cars and trucks, and had been good at it. His office was large and well appointed, and reflected his love of cars with models of classic Chevrolets. Maldenado was a short, balding man in his fifties who looked younger than he was, wearing jeans, a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, and cowboy boots. A bank president’s desk sat at the far end of the room, bracketed by a glass wall overlooking the street and a couch. He came around his desk, offering his hand and a charming, natural smile. A second man sat on the couch.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Cole. If I haven’t expressed this before, I want to personally thank you for the help you’ve given to Frank in the past. He is one of my closest, dearest friends.”
“I’m sure. Thanks for making the time, Councilman.”
The other man was nothing like Maldenado. He was thin, with a sagging face and steel-colored hair. His sport coat and slacks fit like secondhand clothes draped on a rack. I made him for his late sixties, but he could have been older. He did not stand and made no move to greet me.
Malden
ado waved at him as he showed me to a chair facing the desk.
“This is another close friend, my advisor, Felix Dowling. Felix has been working the back rooms of this city longer than either of us cares to admit, isn’t that right, Felix?”
Maldenado laughed, but all Felix managed was a polite nod.
Maldenado hitched his pants and hooked his butt on the front of his desk, one foot on the floor, the other dangling in front of me.
“So, Abbot tells me you have some concerns about my friends at Leverage. They’re a fine firm. Been in business for many years. Just a fine group of people.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about them.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, I don’t know much about those folks, but Felix here, well, Felix knows just about everything about everyone in this town, so that’s why he’s here. He knows where the bodies are buried, I’ll tell you that.”
Maldenado laughed again, but Felix still didn’t join him.
Felix said, “Why don’t you freshen your coffee, Henry?”
Maldenado glanced at his cup and appeared surprised at how empty it was.
“You know, I’ll do that. I’ll be right back, but you boys don’t wait for me.”
Maldenado closed the door on the way out. I glanced at Dowling, and Dowling seemed to be sizing me up. The office felt different with Maldenado gone, as if it suddenly belonged to Dowling and maybe always had. I let him look.
He said, “So. You’re the boy got the sonofabitch who killed Frank’s daughter.”
“My partner and I. I wasn’t alone.”
“She was a sweet kid. I met her a couple times.”
I nodded.
We looked at each other some more.
He said, “Okay. What’s up?”
“I believe Leverage Associates might be acting to suppress or subvert a murder investigation. Would they do that?”
He shrugged with no more reaction than had I asked if they validate.
“Would they? In my experience, people will do damn near anything. If you’re asking whether they’ve done that kind of thing in the past, my answer would be no. I’ve never heard them to be associated with anything that extreme. They’ve had clients get into trouble, sure, but never like that.”
He stopped, waiting for the next question.
“Are you familiar with their client list?”
“Sure. They have five or six on the council, couple of commissioners, on up the line. Right now, I’d call it fourteen clients holding office and another thirty or so contenders.”
“Could you get information about those individuals if I wanted it?”
“Yes. You want their entire list?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Done. What else?”
The door suddenly opened. Maldenado took half a step in and froze in the opening. Dowling and I glanced at him, but he backed out of the room, closing the door.
Dowling said, “Forget him. What else?”
“Do you know the name Debra Repko?”
“No.”
“She worked at Leverage as a first-year associate. That’s a training position where—”
“I know what it is.”
“She worked with several clients while she was there. Maybe a lot of them. Could you get their names?”
“That one I can’t promise you. I can get some names, no doubt, but I’ll have to see. Was she screwing somebody?”
“She was murdered almost two months ago. When her case was being investigated, Leverage didn’t want their client list made public or the clients questioned. They had a deputy chief named Marx crowd out the detectives.”
Dowling seemed interested for the first time.
“Thomas Marx?”
“You know him?”
“Never met, but he wants into politics. A lot of these guys do. He’s had a few conversations.”
“It’s beyond the conversation stage. He’s signed up at Leverage.”
Dowling seemed surprised.
“Marx is with Leverage?”
“They think they can position him for a shot at the council.”
Dowling stared with the same surprised expression, then suddenly barked a single sharp laugh.
“Of course. Wilts is with Leverage.”
Casey Stokes had mentioned that Wilts thought Marx had what it took to get elected. I thought Dowling was saying the same, so I nodded along.
“That’s right. Someone told me Wilts was a big supporter.”
Dowling made the bark again.
“Bet your ass he is. Marx was Wilts’s fixer. How do you think Marx got to the top of the glass house?”
The glass house was Parker Center.
“Marx took care of Wilts for years, and Wilts took care of Marx. Guess he still is. Wilts must have brought him in.”
Wilts had been at Marx’s press conference, but I had seen Wilts at dozens of press conferences over the years and thought nothing of it. I had not known their relationship was deeper, or longer, and now a nervous tension grew in my belly. Debra Repko’s final event was a dinner for Nobel Wilts.
“What kind of trouble did Wilts need fixed?”
“Those days, Wilts was a notorious drunk. I’m talking blackouts. He was always getting pulled over or crashing his car. Couple of times he got out of hand with a broad. Whatever. He’d call Marx, and Marx would make it go away. That’s what fixers do.”
“And Wilts returned the favors?”
“Leverage wouldn’t be interested in a stiff like Marx unless he was holding an ace. I’m guessing Wilts brought Marx in as his successor. The old man must be thinking about calling it quits.”
“As simple as that? Wilts tells Leverage Marx is his boy and Leverage takes him aboard?”
“Well, Leverage isn’t doing it because they like his smile. This stuff costs money.”
“So who’s paying the tab? Wilts?”
Dowling made a flicking move with his hand.
“Nah, he probably pressed one of his backers into footing the bill. They make the investment now, they get the favors later. Politics is like Oz, only you never see the magician behind the curtain.”
“Can we find out?”
He thought about it a moment, then checked his watch.
“I’ll have to get back to you. Anything else? Henry has a full day.”
I thought about what he had told me and all that went with it. Marx was no longer just a cop shading an investigation for publicity; now he was a cop who covered up crimes. I wondered how many crimes he had covered, and if Wilts was his only angel.
“One more thing, Mr. Dowling. How far back do Marx and Wilts go?”
“Gotta be fifteen or twenty years. Fifteen, for sure. I can tell you exactly how they got together. I heard it from someone who was there. You do what I do, you hear things, you learn from what you hear.”
He went on without waiting for me to ask.
“Wilts was still a supervisor, before his first run at the seat. Found himself shit-faced at Lenny Branigan’s, but that didn’t stop him from trying to drive. He didn’t make it half a mile. Sideswiped a line of parked cars, just raked right down their sides knocking off the mirrors, and ended up on the sidewalk. When he came to, Marx was wiping the blood from his face, had to be about three in the morning. Marx wasn’t even on duty that night, just happening by, and one thing led to another. Marx drove Nobel home, then brought his car to a boy in Glendale who worked fast for cash. I’ve used him myself. You know who told me this story?”
I shook my head.
“Wilts. Wilts said, you need a boy you can trust, you call this boy Marx. He was looking out for Marx even then, figuring I’d use him.”
“Did you?”
Dowling smiled.
“I have my own fixers.”
Dowling glanced at his watch again.
“Anything else?”
“No, sir. I guess that’s it.”
“Okay. You talk to Frank, tell him Chi
p Dowling sends his respects.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
I thought of a final question when I reached the door.
“One more thing—”
He nodded.
“What’s the worst thing Marx ever fixed?”
“I don’t know the worst thing he fixed. All I know is the worst I’ve heard about.”
I let myself out.
27
I SAT in my car in the strip mall parking lot, watching the women come and go without seeing them. The heat was suffocating. It baked down from the sky and bounced up from the parking lot and soaked into the car until the car became part of the oven. The heat came from all sides, and didn’t let up, but I still did not move. I didn’t like what I had learned from Dowling or what those things led me to think.
The manila envelope with the articles and files I had collected was behind the passenger seat. I fingered through the printouts until I found the one I wanted, and reread it.
Marx had investigated the murder of the first victim, Sondra Frostokovich, almost seven years ago. Described as an administrator for the city, her body had been found by workmen in an empty building on Temple Street, four blocks from where she worked in the city administration building. She was twenty-four years old, and had been strangled to death with an extension cord. Lindo had pointed out the blood dripping from her nose in the death album Polaroid. Three drops that, when compared to the coroner investigator’s crime scene pictures, established the Polaroid had been taken within moments of her death. When I closed my eyes, the frozen image returned to life, and the red pool continued to grow.
The short article provided no personal information of any kind. No family members, spouse, or children were mentioned, nor was a place of birth or school affiliation. The article ended with the plea from Marx for anyone with knowledge of the crime to come forward. He had almost certainly worked the case with a partner, but the only officer identified was Detective-Sergeant Thomas Marx of Central Bureau Homicide.
It was a long road from sergeant to deputy chief, and Marx had traveled that road in only seven years.
I dialed Information and asked for any listing in any city area code for Frostokovich. It took a moment, but the operator found five listings scattered over three area codes—two male, one female, and two showing only initials. Good thing Sondra wasn’t a Jones or Hernandez.