by Tyler Dilts
“I should probably go,” I said.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
When I didn’t answer, she came to me.
“I had a nice time tonight,” I said.
Her eyes locked on mine, and in the second before I looked away, I thought I saw her make the decision not to try to change my mind.
“So did I.” She smiled and seemed resigned to my need to say goodnight. “I really hope we can do this again.” She put her hands on my arms and kissed me and I tried to kiss her back.
“You’re shaking,” she said.
“It was a little cold in the bathroom.”
As I went out the door, she caught my hand in hers and I looked back. Her eyes were green with little golden-brown flecks.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let go.
In the car on the way home, the midnight British people on KPCC were talking to the tallest man in the world. He was getting married.
20
FLEECE KNIT CAP: NO LABEL OR LOGO, DARK GREEN.
“Did you ask him about the prepaid cell number?” I said. Patrick and Marty were filling me in on Medina’s interrogation. A dangerous-warrant team had picked him up at his home address while I’d been out with Julia the night before.
“No,” Patrick said. “He was stonewalling on everything. I figured why risk it. If we tipped him off that we knew the number, he’d get word out.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “Maybe we can keep the number in play. He give up anything?”
“No,” Marty said. “He lawyered up.”
I thought about that. “Who’s schooling these guys?” Anybody who’s ever seen a cop show knows the smart thing to do when you’re arrested on a murder charge is to invoke your right to counsel. It’s surprising, though, the number of suspects who don’t. They think they’re smarter than we are, or that asking for an attorney will make them look guilty, or that we can’t possibly know what we know. We question a lot of innocent people, but we don’t arrest too many. If we bring someone in on a murder beef, we’ve got cause. Most suspects, guilty or innocent, talk to us. But first Omar and now Medina had lawyers, and even Francisco and Pedro had kept their mouths closed. Whoever was pulling their strings was smart enough to plan ahead and to make sure his button men were more afraid of him than they were of us.
“I don’t know,” Marty said.
Patrick looked at me. “You think it could be Benny War?”
“The only connections so far are his family link to Omar and the fact that Siguenza is his golfing buddy.”
“Who’s that?” Marty asked.
“That’s the guy representing the kids who killed Bishop.”
“Send me everything you have on Benny,” Patrick said to me.
“What do you mean ‘everything’?”
“Contact info, phone numbers, addresses, interview reports, everything.”
“Think you can link him to the mystery phone?” I asked.
“I’ve got all the metadata, calls, texts, locations, all of it. If we can put the phone in the same place as Benny, even once, we’ve got something.”
“Watch your step,” Marty said. “You could be getting into dicey territory with privileged attorney-client communications.”
“As long as we start with the mystery number and trace direct connections from it to other numbers, we’re good,” Patrick said. “The warrant clears us for that.”
“But isn’t it a problem to start with Benny’s number and check it against the phone records?”
“It all depends on how I set up the search. If I only search for the mystery number and not Benny’s, we should be okay. Same justification the NSA spies on us. Not allowed to look directly, but if they make a connection from a valid source, then it’s fair game.”
“Really?” Marty said. “You sure about that?”
“This week,” Patrick said, “I’m sure. Who knows what will be legal next week?”
He was right. The laws regarding access to digital information were changing every week. The NSA scandal hadn’t helped us any either. We had to watch our steps more carefully than ever. Metadata was big news, and that meant that every defense attorney and suspect who’d ever logged on to CNET was taking a shot at a Fourth-Amendment defense.
When we had the squad room to ourselves, Jen turned to me and said, “So how did it go?”
For a second I thought she was referring to something work related. “How’d what go?”
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t give me that.”
By that time I had figured out what she was asking about. “It was okay,” I said. “We just went for coffee. In the East Village.”
She waited for me to go on, and when I didn’t, she said, “Tell me about it.”
“We just talked, got to know each other a little bit.”
There was another pause. I wondered if she felt awkward too, or if she was just aware of my discomfort and intentionally drawing out the silences. Probably the latter.
“Do you like her?”
“What? Are we in high school?”
“I’m not. You? Who knows?”
I thought about the way the date ended, and a sudden flush of embarrassment came over me.
Jen saw it. “Uh oh. What?”
“Nothing,” I said, too quickly. “We had a nice time.”
She studied me. It didn’t take her long to figure out something had gone badly and left me flustered and too uncomfortable to talk about it. I knew she’d narrow it down to a few likely possibilities, each as disconcerting as the others.
Her tone softened. “You going to see her again?”
“I don’t know.” Honestly, I’d been so busy all day that I hadn’t thought much about it. Would I see her again? Would she even want to see me? The questions bouncing around in my head made my stomach churn.
That afternoon, Jesús texted me.
im worried
What’s wrong?
theres a guy at jackntehbox. think hes watching me
Are you by yourself?
yea
Are there other people there?
yea
Stay there. Is he staring at you?
no. looked a couple times. i could see his reflection in the window.
Does he know you know he’s watching you?
i dont think so.
Good. Keep looking at your phone. Can you describe him without looking at him again?
yea. big, realy big. old. mexican i think
Does he have a mustache? Hair?
no mustache just fuzz on top
Anything else?
got a tatoo on neck
Mother fucker. Jesús was looking at the man who killed his father. He’d obviously shaved and started letting his hair grow back. Ruiz’s office door was closed. I didn’t bother knocking. He looked up and scowled at me, but his expression changed as soon as he saw mine.
“Solano’s killer is tailing Jesús.”
“In Oceanside?”
“Yeah. They’re both sitting in a Jack in the Box right now.”
“Got an address?”
Where are you? Address or cross streets?
vista by town sight
Town Sight’s a street?
yea
I told Ruiz and he picked up his phone and dialed. He identified himself and told the operator it was an emergency. He was being transferred to the watch commander when I got back to Jesús.
Stay where you are and just keep staring at your phone, okay? Somebody’s going to be there soon to help you out.
ok
Don’t worry. It might not be anything at all. And nothing will happen as long as you’re with other people. It’s going to be okay.
im scared
Don’t be. I’m here and help is on the way. Have you ever seen this guy before?
i dont think so is he somebody you know
I doubt it. You eating?
i was. not hungry now
You get tacos? I love their tacos.
/> those arent tacos!!!
Maybe not, but they’re really good.
you never had a real taco?
Where do you get real tacos?
all over its long beach
When you get back, you show me, ok? I’ll buy us both tacos.
hes getting up
Dont look at him
watching reflection threw his trash away going out
Just let him go.
got in a white mustang
Can you see the license plate?
6fgr274
I told Ruiz the make and tag number. He relayed it to the watch commander in Oceanside.
That’s good. Is he gone?
yea
I went to my recent calls and tapped Jesús’s name on the screen. He picked up before I even heard the ring. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I overreacted. He just got up and left. Maybe he wasn’t really watching me.”
“Probably not,” I said, wondering how much I should tell him. “He was probably just some guy. But it’s good you texted me.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
Ruiz was watching. I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“There’s a cop car in front,” Jesús said.
“Go meet them, but don’t hang up.”
“Okay.”
There was a rustling static on the other end of the line, and then a woman’s voice. “Who is this?” she asked.
“Detective Danny Beckett, Long Beach PD.” I gave her a brief rundown of the situation. “My lieutenant’s talking to your sergeant now. They’re going to be looking for the suspect, but could you stay with Jesús?”
“Of course,” she said. I thought I could hear a bit of disappointment in her voice. There was a murderer in the vicinity and she had to babysit.
“Maybe take him back to his aunt’s house?”
“Let me just clear it with my supervisor.”
She gave the phone back to Jesús.
“She okay?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “But I think I like Detective Tanaka better.”
I laughed. “We all do,” I said.
The Oceanside PD issued a BOLO and had four cars in the area searching for the Mustang. Within fifteen minutes they found it abandoned in a neighborhood a little under a mile away from the Jack in the Box where Jesús saw the man who’d killed his father. It took another half hour for them to determine the car had been stolen from the lot of an industrial park two hours before Jesús texted me. The neck tattoo didn’t leave prints or any other evidence behind.
“Can we get protection for him now?” I asked Ruiz.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Jen, Patrick, and Marty were all back in the squad room by then. After I brought them up to speed, Jen asked, “What now?”
“The lieutenant’s going to move him,” I said.
“Where to?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“They must have found him through the aunt,” Marty said.
“Yeah,” I said. “How else could they have?”
Patrick said, “You kept his phone, right?”
I nodded.
“He have any other electronics?”
“No, and he stayed offline, too.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And you trust him?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”
Patrick thought for a few seconds. “We thought he might have found Jesús’s father by tracking his calls. But there was no way he could have tracked him to Oceanside, because you gave him the burner.”
I nodded again.
“So was it just a coincidence that he killed Solano on the same day his son called him for the first time in years?”
“What are you thinking?”
21
COLEMAN SLEEPING BAG: LIGHTWEIGHT, LIME GREEN W/ BEIGE INTERIOR, WELL USED, ZIPPER BROKEN.
Felicia Solano might have been a drunk, but at some point, it looked like she had also been a good Catholic. Along the wall opposite the front door of the small house on Ohio was a pristine white side table with curved legs and scallops carved into the edges under the single wide drawer. There was a lace table-topper on which sat a foot-tall porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary. Directly above the statue, an ornate wooden crucifix with an authentically painted Christ figure was nailed in place. Surrounding him were four small oil paintings of figures I couldn’t identify but took for saints.
One of the bullets that had penetrated the front wall had lodged in the plaster near the ceiling, a good four feet away from the crucifix. I tried to impart some significance to that distance. Was it a near miss or a wide one?
I’d been inside waiting for nearly three hours as the sun went down and darkness filled the small house. And I was beginning to think Patrick’s idea, a long shot to begin with, was not going to pay off.
If Neck Tattoo had used Jesús’s phone to find Roberto Solano, then it was likely he’d still be tracking the activity.
We went to see Jesús’s friend David and his mother. With generous bribes—a smartphone for David and the security of a new number for his mother—we were able to convince them to part with his old cell. We took David’s phone and Jesús’s, which was still in my desk, and a new prepaid phone, and set up a series of text messages that told whoever might be monitoring the activity that Jesús and his family would be moving to a new location but that they’d be stopping by the house to pick up fresh clothing and a few other necessities.
“Why do we need both his old cell and a new burner? I’m not sure I follow,” Marty had said.
Patrick explained it as if he were talking to elementary-school students. And of course I’d never admit it to anyone, but I was glad because I didn’t get it either. “If someone was following the activity on Jesús’s old phone, they’d see that nothing has happened recently.”
Marty nodded and I tried not to.
“But our guy saw him on the phone in Oceanside, so he’ll know he has another phone.”
It finally clicked into place. Patrick sent a message to David’s phone from the new burner saying that Jesús and his family would be coming home to pick things up. But he didn’t reply from David’s phone. He took Jesús’s old phone and sent another text. This one said: im not supposed to use this phone but i don’t think you read the text from my new one. Then he repeated the information from the first text and replied from David’s phone.
If anyone was paying attention, they’d think the Solanos would be visiting Ohio Street sometime that night.
“Anything going on out there?” I said into the radio.
Patrick’s voice came back. “Nothing.” He was on one of the balconies of the apartment building next door. From his vantage point, he could see the driveway, the small house, and most of the backyard. We had an undercover surveillance team on the streets around the house watching for any sign of someone checking out the house.
We’d given them plenty of time to make a move. Or get set up for one.
“Should we send them in?” Patrick asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
Our first hope was that someone would try to get inside to set up an ambush. At this point, that seemed unlikely.
I peeked through the mini-blinds on the front window and watched Felicia Solano’s old Hyundai pull up the narrow driveway. The porch light was off and only ambient light filtered down toward the front porch. When Lauren Terrones got out, dressed in sweats and a zip-up hoodie, I could almost believe she was Jesús’s mother. Jen, though, in her cap and khaki pants, was much less convincing as a teenage boy.
If anything was going to go down, now would be the time. “Patrick?” I whispered into the mic.
“All clear,” he said.
They came up onto the porch, and Lauren slid a key into the deadbolt. Once they got inside, they closed
the door behind themselves and turned on the lights. Then Jen went into the back bedroom and loaded up reusable shopping bags with clothes for Jesús and Maria. Lauren went into the front bedroom and did the same.
I watched them, my Glock in my hand pointed at the floor, my ears focused and listening for any unusual sounds outside.
“No movement,” Patrick said. “Everything looks clear. Marty?”
“All clear.”
Patrick checked in with the rest of the team. Clear all around.
There was one more possibility. When Jen and Lauren loaded up the Hyundai, they’d drive to a predetermined rendezvous point near the LBPD North Patrol Division station. The surveillance team would follow them in three cars. The drive would give them plenty of time to determine if anyone else might be following them.
The headlights of their car shone on the blinds in the front window, illuminating the living room. The glow faded as they backed slowly out of the driveway.
“They’re off,” Patrick told me. “I’ll come down, meet you outside.”
We sat on the porch of the Solanos’ bungalow and listened to the report from Jen and the team. It took them twenty-six minutes to make it to where they were going. They weren’t followed.
“Sorry,” I said to him. “Thought we had a chance with this one.”
“Me too.” We were quiet for a few moments. “I still don’t believe that Jesús’s father just happened to get killed on the same day he called.”
I didn’t either. Detectives don’t like coincidence. We spend all of our time looking for connections, chains of cause and effect, one thing leading to another. We counted on those connections, and we couldn’t do anything without them. Coincidence, though, shits on all of that. When we start accepting coincidence, we stop making cases.
22
T-SHIRTS, SEVEN: ASSORTED BRANDS, COLORS, AND STYLES.
We’d had close to a hundred calls and e-mails since we’d put out the press release with Bishop’s photo. Almost all of them were dead ends. A few were legit, people who knew Bishop in passing or had seen him on the street or at one of the shelters. None of them, though, gave us any information more substantial than we already had. After Henry Nichols and Mr. Lee, the best lead we found came not from the media outreach but from pounding the pavement.