I punched the button, and the background noise on the cell phone charged into our room. “We’re back,” I said.
“Hey, Preach,” Dolinski’s voice boomed from the speaker, and my Dad smiled again but didn’t speak. He still had all his teeth, and his smile was as alive as ever. My smile. “I knew I’d hear from you today. Can you believe this shit is still going on?”
Dad shook his head as if Dolinski could see him.
“Where was I? Oh, yeah: Robert Jenkins, otherwise known as a pain in my ass. Anyway, so the Hollywood streetwalkers say he’s ripping them off. Dealers say he’s ripping them off. Vics say he’s popping innocent kids and planting guns, just like the Rampart stuff that got in the news. Jenk’s questioned again and again, knows he’s being tailed. Nothing fazes him. Brass bounces him around. Preach came close to getting Jenk fired, but the higher-ups wouldn’t go for it. That’s why Chief Randall didn’t show his sorry ass at Preach’s retirement, but what do you want from that prick?”
Dad mumbled something I almost understood:Get to the damn point.
Dolinski went on. “I guess this is what Preach wants me to tell you: There was evidence—actual physical evidence—linking Robert Jenkins to the murder of that rapper, Shareef. It was a security video from the scrapyard where the body was dumped, a DA’s dream. A car, the tag number, a profile of Jenk’s face. Even the body across his shoulder, wrapped in a sleeping bag. I never saw it, but that’s the story. And what happens? The tape getsstolen out of the goddamned evidence locker. Somebody—somecop —walked in and took it. And what did brass do? Nothing. They don’t search Jenk’s car. They don’t search Jenk’s house. Not even a goddamned interview.
“And get this: That hands-off directive came from the chief’s office. Chief Randall doesn’t want to have to explain why his ownson was a business partner with a dirty cop and suspected murderer like Robert Jenkins. Their company’s closed now, but Robert Jenkins and Chief Randall’s son used to have a security company called Real Deal. Their specialty was off-duty cops who were willing to play dirty. I saw a Polaroid of Robert Jenkins and the chief’s son smiling over a pile of money, like inScarface. Is the shit thick enough for you yet, kid?”
It was. My heart blocked my throat. “Keep going.”
“And Lieutenant Nelson’s a smart guy, but he’s got the Disease,” Dolinski went on.
“What disease?”
“Preach won’t like hearing me say this, but he knows it’s true: My people can do no wrong.That disease. It’s the same with us Polacks, with everybody. If it’s been us-against-them, loyalty gets tested. Chief Randall is black, and Nelson’s got his back. But nowanother rapper’s dead in Los Angeles? And there’s an LAPD connection, like with Biggie Smalls and Shareef? The department’s in a panic. So if a theory pops up linking Robert Jenkins to rappers and bangers, Nelsons’s not gonna be as interested in that. Jenk’s body is already cold. Butyou ? Yeah, you’re Preach’s son—but Preach is retired. Randall’s a different story, with all his reform bullshit after Rodney King and Rampart. He’s a national figure. There’s more at stake. You know I’m not lying, Preach.”
My father sighed, dispirited. Surrendering something. I realized the magnitude of politics that must have been on my father’s back as his career was ending. Nowonder he’d had a heart attack, with a stroke on its heels three years later. Devon Biggs had warned me, and now I had confirmation from an insider.
“I need to know what happened to Shareef,” I said. “It could be linked to Serena. Can you get me copies of files?”
Dolinski groaned and sighed, a windstorm on a speakerphone. “Preach, your kid is killing me,” he said. “I shouldn’t even be talking to him.”
“From what you’re saying,” I said, “Jenk could have killed Serena. And then maybe he got killed in retaliation.”Whose retaliation, I wasn’t sure.
“More likely, someone got spooked and wanted to keep him quiet,” Dolinski said.
Dad gestured for Marcela, who had been listening while she read Dad’s prescription labels—Plavix, Aggrenox, Toprol XL, Diovan, Lipitor, the list went on—and straightened the items on his bed table. She leaned over, and he whispered in her ear.
“Captain Hardwick says to tell him about Mexico,” Marcela said.
“Right,” Dolinski said. “Jenk had a rep as a hired gun. In ’04, I interviewed a snitch who told me Jenk drove down to Tijuana to make hits for stateside dealers, and my informant would’ve been willing to testify. But it never got that far. Nobody ever arrested Jenk, and my snitch got shanked at Lancaster.”
“If you know all this, why don’t you come forward?” I said.
My father began shaking his head. He made a sound to answer, before he remembered he couldn’t trust his tongue. He only sighed, frustrated.
“Where do I start, Preach?” Dolinski said. “Look, kid, I’m two years from retirement. I’m not volunteering to be the big white elephant in a media circus. I can see it now: A white cop tries to tear down a beloved black chief? Kiss my hairy Polack ass. And most important: It’s all theories. I can’t prove anything. Too much evidence has been lost. Documents destroyed. There’s nothing in the book linking Shareef to Robert Jenkins, believe me. RHD had its head so far up its ass on the Shareef case, the halls still stink. But I know the lead on Shareef, and he’s a good detective. It’s not his fault he blew the case. Chief Randall shut him down.”
To me, it sounded paranoid to think that a cover-up in Shareef’s death might have originated with the chief of police. But whether or not Chief Randall was involved, LAPD culture was entrenched enough to keep investigators from rocking the boat. Any version of Serena’s death involving Robert Jenkins or LAPD officers would not be fully investigated—especially now that Jenk was dead. It wouldn’t take a mastermind or a conspiracy; human nature would keep leading them back to me.
“Lorenzo and DeFranco came by my house during the search. Let’s call it a drive-by,” I told Dolinski wryly. “They promised to get to me if I’m arrested.”
“That’s near-fetched, kid,” he said. “Lorenzo was Jenk’s shadow, and his gang connections go deep. There’s always bangers in lockup who could get to you, sure.”
Dad nodded, agreeing, and the concern in his eyes told me how scared I should be. It’s hard enough to face the specter of jail, even for a night. But if a quick demise was waiting for me inside, I had to get out of town, with or without my passport.
But I didn’t say that in front of Dad. “What should I do?”
“Your best bet?” Dolinski said. “If Nelson gets his arrest warrant, call me—fast. Call this number, my mobile. I’ll do what I can to get you in protective custody. But be careful. On the outside, you’re on your own.”
“On the outside, I can take care of myself.”
Dolinski laughed in a way that was too hearty. “You hear that, Preach? He can take care of himself. I tell you, your kid really handled himself when Nelson was going at him. He didn’t take any shit, just like somebody else I know. OK, I gotta fly. Preach, remember you still owe me a hundred bucks, you cheap SOB. I know you couldn’t believe it, but my Seahawks really won the Super Bowl in 2005. So pay up.”
Dad smiled, remembering. He looked shaken, but he was all right.
“He’s smiling. I’ll pay his debt when I see you,” I said. “You’re getting me those files on Shareef, right? And an incident report on Jenk?” Once April’s voice turned up on my voicemail, Nelson would freeze her out of the information loop.
“Sorry, kid. Don’t push your luck,” Dolinski said.
He was gone before I could thank him for maybe saving my life.
When I hung up, Dad’s face seemed more alive than usual. His eyes were dancing.Buzzing. I had brought something into his day he could be a part of, a true-life experience that wasn’t from a television screen.
“OK, that’s it,” Marcela said. “No more cops and robbers, Captain Hardwick. If your son is exciting you too much, he should go. Remember your blood pressure.”
&n
bsp; “We’re done today,” I told her. “Promise.”
Marcela scowled at me, skeptical. “I need to finish my rabbit food,” she said, patting Dad’s arm. She grinned. “Just like old times, eh, Captain?”
My father nodded. His eyes twirled again.
“I owe you a drink,” I told Marcela, kissing her cheek.
“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that,” she said. “The fantasy is nice,gracias, but you don’t owe me. Captain Hardwick knows I would do anything for him.”
Dad mumbled for her again, and she listened with her ear to his mouth, laughing girlishly. This time, Marcela only smiled to herself and turned to leave without a translation. That moment was theirs.
That old dog,I thought, staring at my father with new admiration. Dad still had his own life. Everything wasn’t gone. Dad stared at me, too, equally amazed to have learned something about me. I wondered what he had learned, and what he thought.
Stripped of our buffers, our silence was back. But I felt more at ease beside him than I had in longer than I could remember. And one thing was sparkling clear: My father and I needed to talk more.
“I was scared to death to tell you before,” I said. “Now I wish I had, man.”
Dad nodded and shrugged.It’s done now, his shrug said.
“I’m going to fix this. Somehow.”
Dad grabbed his marker and started to scribble something on the paper, but he got frustrated and gave up. Instead, he looked back up at me and nodded.Come here.
I walked to the side of the bed and leaned close, mirroring Marcela. I was so close, I smelled the soap on my father’s face. I smelled his breakfast on his breath. I smelled his hair tonic, and the coconut oil scent reminded me of his bathroom medicine cabinet in the old house. Our house.
“Kayyyy…fooool…” Dad said.
I didn’t understand. He repeated it, more loudly. My eardrum vibrated, but I couldn’t make it out, except that it sounded like he was calling me a fool. I felt like one.
“Kaye? Is that someone’s name?” I said, desperate to understand.
“He said ‘careful.’”
Chela’s voice startled me. How long had she been standing in the doorway?
“As inbe careful. Nana had trouble talking, too,” Chela said, walking to the opposite side of the bed. She gripped the bed’s metal railing, rocking on her heels with a sudden bout of shyness. Why could everyone hear my father except me?
“Dad, this is my friend Chela,” I said. “I told you about her.”
“Hello, Mr. Hardwick. Pleased to meet you,” she said.
Chela was right; Nana had raised her with good manners even if their time together had been cut short. Dad assessed Chela with a smile, impressed by her. He had never been a hands-on father, but Dad adored young people from a distance. That was why he had visited so many schools over his career, why he cared about building parks. Making a safer world for girls like Chela had been a part of his calling.
“You…too,” my father said.
At long last, I had brought a girl to meet my father.
Chela, I learned, kept a regimented schedule—breakfast by eleven o’clock, coffee refill by midday, and lunch no later than two—so I spent the early part of my day shuttling her from one drive-thru window to the next.
Between feedings, I had time to learn more about Shareef’s murder. I couldn’t expect Dolinski to come through with more detailed information, so I got myself started at Wired on Vineland, my favorite internet café. Good food, easy chairs, reasonable rates. Chela sat at the computer beside me and disappeared into My-Space. I checked over her shoulder once in a while and saw photo signatures of other teenagers on her screen, mostly girls. Harmless enough, I hoped.
I checked my email account, too. I have an encrypted account—one I established years ago, when I was working for Mother—and signed on without a problem. I smiled when I found the emailed photos of M.C. Glazer were waiting for me, in full color. I printed six copies, hiding them from Chela, and deleted the files. Someone who was determined enough could retrieve the files, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for the police to charge me for assaulting Glaze. Unless someone planted evidence against me, the cases involving Serena and Robert Jenkins would fall apart—so Nelson would be eager to pin anything on me he could find.
Next, I searched for details on the death of Shareef Pinkney.
I was traveling with Alice in South Africa when Shareef died—our farewell journey, because I was about to quit the business and Alice was sicker than I knew. But news of his death trickled to us in Cape Town, which is a testament to the international appeal of hip-hop. Street vendors in the sprawling Cross Roads township were selling T-shirts memorializing Shareef’s face within forty-eight hours of his death.Has Serena’s face reached the Cross Roads yet?
I tried to call Serena from overseas but never heard back, and I was sad for a day on her behalf. But as a result of my distance and a daily schedule of wine tours and safaris with Alice, I didn’t hear much about how Shareef died. All I knew was that he’d had a concert at the Staples Center earlier that night. At the café, I pieced together a timeline from the internet, including what seemed like a well-researched story from theL.A. Times written by another reporter while April was probably still in college.
Shareef finished his set at the Staples Center and left the venue at 12:30A .M. He and his entourage arrived at the Hollywood nightclub Concorde by 1:00A .M. He reportedly drank heavily and made out publicly with at least three different women during a brief contractual appearance at the club. All three women were invited to ride in a limousine back to his house, but only one took the offer; she said she never saw Shareef the rest of the night. Outside of Concorde at 2:15A .M., Shareef exchanged words with two men police suspected were tied to local gangs, but despite a lot of shouting, no one saw any violence. Shareef’s bodyguards confirmed that Shareef was driven back to his house, where several party guests—including Serena—remembered seeing him.
But no one saw Shareef after 4:00A .M. And his car wasn’t in his driveway.
Six hours later, his corpse turned up wrapped in a sleeping bag at a local dump. He had been shot twice in the chest with a .32 that was registered to him. But the gun was never found. None of Shareef’s bodyguards were charged, but police complained that they were tight-lipped and unhelpful—probably embarrassed about losing their employer on their watch, I figured. But they did finally admit that Shareef kept that gun in his car even though he didn’t have a concealed-weapons permit. There was no evidence that the shooting had taken place at the party. Forty-five guests were questioned, but none were arrested. There was a quotation from Devon Biggs, something stunned and pain-filled. Biggs had been negotiating tour details in London when he got the news, and it sounded as if a reporter had thrust a microphone in his face without warning him of the question to come.
With the facts laid out before me, I was amazed at one major similarity between Shareef’s death and Serena’s: both had vanished overnight and been foundwrapped up several hours later. Serena had been found in a garbage bag, Shareef in a sleeping bag. First Shareef, then his protégée. Did someone think they were disposing of a little trash?
Shareef had been killed before April was working in Los Angeles, or she would have noticed the link sooner. But what excuse did the police have? There were signs that the killings might be the work of the same person, or related somehow—but I had been out of the country when Shareef died, not to mention that I’d never met him. And Hal Dolinski said a security video might have shown Jenk disposing of the body!
What if evidence existed proving Jenk was involved in Serena’s death, too? What if it really was a cover-up to protect the chief and his son? Maybe another cop had killed Jenk to cover the trail, with orders from on high. And now there was only me.
I went to the men’s room and dry-heaved over the pristine toilet, bracing myself against the stall’s narrow lime-green walls. I hadn’t had enough food to throw up, but my stomach tr
ied anyway. Afterward, I washed my face in the sink, my heart drumming. No wonder Devon Biggs was wearing Kevlar to his office. I was glad I had Glazer’s Smith & Wesson in my Beemer; but I’d better hope my car wasn’t searched.
It was two o’clock when I found a working pay phone outside Wired and called April. I could tell from the sound of her voice that something had happened on her end, too. She was distant. I summarized what I had learned about Robert Jenkins and Shareef, but her responses were bland, almost uninterested.
Maybe the unreturned kiss was nagging her, I thought. Women can feel very different in the light of day after sex; I once had a client who told me that she wiped away all evidence of my presence late at night so that, by morning light, there would be nothing to remind her of her sinful indulgences.
“Are you okay?” I said finally. I almost ignored the difference in her, considering my more pressing problems. But I missed her.
“Lieutenant Nelson called me,” she admitted.
Ah,I thought. I heard doubt in her voice, for the first time.
“And?” I said.
She paused. “He said an arrest is imminent. He feels good about his evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“He didn’t say.” I didn’t believe her.
“He’s bluffing, April,” I said. I hoped he was, anyway. “What else?”
During her silence, I remembered what Nelson had told me during my questioning:Whatever you’re not saying is loud and clear. The silence, as they say, was deafening.
I sighed, glancing inside the Wired window to keep an eye on Chela. She had struck up a conversation with a man at the computer beside her who was at least fifty, disguising his age with a shaved head and extra hours on weight machines. Well-dressed, designer shades, nice watch. Chela slipped a flirtatious pinky finger into her mouth. Sex workers know how to spot a mark.
“I’ll be more than happy to answer to anything Nelson said about me,” I said to April, my eyes still trained through the window. “I just can’t have that conversation now. I have an appointment with Tyra.”
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