by Miles Corwin
I cuffed him, grabbed him by the wrists, and ferried him to the elevator. At the ground-floor jail, I fingerprinted Fuqua and then, feeling a flood of relief and exultation, booked him for Pete Relovich’s murder.
CHAPTER 18
At midnight, after the press conference, after I finished writing the three-page arrest report and the nine-page follow-up investigation report, I called Nicole.
“Yeah,” she said, sounding groggy.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“Saw you on television tonight.”
“Yeah. If it bleeds it leads. Anyway, I wanted to stop by.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“It’s too late. Some other time.”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“This isn’t a good weekend for me. I’ll give you a call next week.”
I decided to back off. “Sure,” I said, hanging up the phone. I slipped the murder book in the bottom drawer of my desk, shut off the computer, took the elevator to the ground floor, and walked out into the night. I could smell the fog before I could see it, that distinctive brackish scent blowing in from the ocean. It was late May, but Southern California’s traditional June gloom had descended on the city a few days early. The skyscrapers on Bunker Hill were barely visible, with just the tops of the buildings peeking through, their lights twinkling in the swirling mist. The fronds of the palm trees bordering PAB were beaded with water and dripped onto the sidewalk.
I was still charged up from the sudden windup of the case, too restive to return home, so I walked over to Hill Street, crossed the freeway overpass spanning the 101, the stream of headlights dimly flickering down the ribbon of wet asphalt. I entered a narrow courtyard at the fringe of Chinatown, where aqua and yellow paper lanterns glowed in the fog. A ginseng store, a dusty acupuncture office, and several small sweatshops were tucked away in the courtyard, one of which was still open. Two young Asian women, surrounded by bins of fabric and enormous spools of thread, were hunched over sewing machines, beneath the glare of florescent lights. The scene reminded me of my father. Another sweatshop; another part of downtown; another century.
At the end of the courtyard, I walked through a door beneath a red neon sign shaped like a lizard and into a small lobby with a black and red terrazzo floor. A wizened Asian man behind a desk scrutinized me for a moment. When he recognized me, he flashed a toothless smile. He stepped on a floor button and buzzed me through a door that led to a bar.
I discovered the Red Gecko a few years earlier while I was investigating the murder of a Chinatown jewelry store owner. The man regularly played high-stakes mah-jongg in the back room, and I originally thought another gambler had killed him. I later discovered that two members of a Hong Kong triad whacked him because he wouldn’t pay their shakedown fee. The owner and employees of the Red Gecko were grateful that I had never notified vice detectives about the game in the back room. Since then, whenever I wanted a quiet drink, they welcomed me with beers on the house.
Sitting at a table near the back, I could hear the click of mah-jongg tiles in the adjoining room. The only other patrons in the bar were a wealthy Chinese restaurant owner, his young Vietnamese girlfriend, and two heavily made-up bargirls wearing carved jade pendants. One made her way toward me, but the bartender shouted at her in Vietnamese and she swiveled around and returned to her stool. He then walked over with a Tsing Tao beer and a glass.
“Every time, you always welcome here, Detective Ash Levine,” he said in heavily accented English.
“Good to see you, Lam.”
I handed him a few dollar bills. “How about some quarters.”
Lam returned with the change, and I scanned the tunes on the jukebox, my favorite one downtown because the recordings were all vintage jukebox classics. I punched in a dozen of my favorites, including “Blue Gardenia,” and “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” After I downed two beers, I tried to pay, but Lam waved me off. So I walked back to the table and left a ten dollar tip.
In the courtyard the smells of garlic and sauteed onions hung in the air. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and I realized that I was ravenous. I walked over to Broadway, sat at a corner table at Hop Woo, a brightly lit restaurant that stayed open late on weekends. When I finished my fried rice with duck and scallops, I walked back onto Broadway. The fog was now so thick I couldn’t see across the street. My face and hair were speckled with mist. I felt disoriented as I struggled to find my way back to Hill Street, up the freeway overpass, and through downtown to my loft.
I flipped on the CD player and skipped through Kind of Blue to “Flamenco Sketches,” a moody, plaintive cut that usually soothed me when I was too amped up to sleep. I played it over and over, closing my eyes, trying to relax, concentrating on Miles’s and Coltrane’s soaring sound, hoping I would be able to sleep tonight. But images of the case continued to flash in my mind’s eye, like a slide show run at warp speed: the floor tile, the netsuke, the ojime, the blood splatter pattern, the Kleenex, the fractured hyoid bone, the broken glass behind Relovich’s house, the uncle’s fishing boat, the ex-wife’s tears.
By five o’clock, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I left my loft and walked south on Los Angeles Street, past the sleeping homeless in small tents and cardboard boxes, emaciated hookers waving at passing cars, and street corner dealers selling rocks that contained more baking soda than cocaine. The fog was thick overhead, but to the east, I could see the faint signs of sunrise: pinpoints of light irradiating the sky a pale pink.
I cut over to Maple and then slipped into the Flower Mart, a vast, cavernous warehouse bustling with shippers, shoppers, distributors, merchants, bargain hunters, and floral designers. From end to end, wholesalers displayed their wares, acre upon acre jammed with flowers of every genus and hue.
I liked to stroll down the aisles after I cleared a case. The end of an investigation often left me-after the initial thrill and sense of accomplishment-drained, empty, and despondent, because I knew that in the next hour or day or week, there would be yet another murder; another grieving wife, child, or mother left behind; another killer to track. At the flower mart, the rush of sweet, heady fragrances; the luxuriant melange of colors, textures and shapes; the earthy scent of freshly cut stalks was a palliative. I felt that it purified me, provided a brief infusion of grace and optimism that enabled me to regain my perspective, to ready myself for the next case.
After an hour of wandering about, I felt my head clear from the long night, the beers, the sustained adrenaline rush of the case, the disappointment about Nicole. I returned home, crawled into bed, and immediately fell asleep.
When I awoke, I checked my digital alarm clock: 6:12, but I had no idea if it was morning or evening. I looked outside and could see shafts of sunlight slanting through the office towers. The sun was setting. I closed my eyes and I began to think of Nicole, those glittering flecks of green in her eyes, the night we spent together, her bizarre needs and, now, her distant manner.
After I showered and dressed, I hopped in my Saturn and sped to Venice. The sky was still overcast and the arched Venetian bridges were cloaked in mist that rose from the canals. When I heard Nicole slam her screen door, I walked up the path and joined her on the porch.
“Do I have a stalking cop on my hands?” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“I had a great time the other night. But the on-again, off-again thing I’ve got with the ex-boyfriend is on-again.”
I shrugged. “The old song.”
“I guess so.” She leaned over and kissed me, then lightly licked me on the neck. “I’d still like to see you sometimes. But not here. The weekends are going to be tough for me. I’ll let you know when.”
“That kind of deal’s not going to work for me. If things change, call me,” I said over my shoulder as I climbed off her porch and walked toward the canal.
When I heard
her door close, I stopped and lingered in the pewter light, staring out at the water, feeling hurt and foolish. The last time I had been at her house, when the night was full of promise, the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine filled the air. Now an offshore breeze carried the stench of society garlic-wispy purple flowers that grew in a corner of her yard. The scent of a moldering affair.
CHAPTER 19
When I reached my desk Monday morning, I picked up a note from Duffy: “Hell of a job! Congrats on clearing the case. I knew I could count on you. I’m in meetings this morning. Let’s talk this afternoon.”
As Ortiz sauntered through the squad room door, he called out, in a mock newscaster tone, “Detective Levine, do you feel a sense of closure? Do you feel the unfortunate ghetto youth was compelled to commit murder because of his underprivileged childhood?”
He leaned over my desk, shook my hand, and said softly, “You did Pete Relovich right. He was a good cop. I’m glad you nailed that gangster. And I hope-”
Ortiz paused when he heard Graupmann’s booming voice.
“I softened Fuqua up,” Graupmann boasted to another detective. “I was like the guy at the bullfight who jabs at the snorting bull with one of those spears until he’s covered with blood. You know that guy.”
“The banderillero,” Ortiz called out.
“That’s it,” Graupmann said. “Then when Fuqua was just about ready to give up, the Manischewitz matador stepped up and finished him off.”
Ortiz chuckled and said, “Maybe you just got yourself a new partner.”
“God forbid.”
“I haven’t eaten. Let’s grab some breakfast.”
“I don’t think I-”
Ortiz wagged his finger at me. “You just cleared your case. Duffy’s not here. Face it, you got no excuse this morning. And to celebrate, I’m buying.”
“Okay, I’ll take you up on your offer. A cheap bastard like you will probably never make it again.”
Ortiz drove to his favorite restaurant, Astro’s, a twenty-four-hour coffee shop a few miles north of downtown. As we sipped coffee, waiting for our omelets and toast, he said, “So how’s that hottie that Papazian pimped for you?”
“She was all over me like a cheap suit. Then she dumped me.”
“It’s one thing if your wife walks out on you. That’s normal. Happened to you-happened to half the guys in Felony Special. Christ, that’s what my first and second ex-wives did.” Ortiz sipped his coffee. “When I was at Hollenbeck, the crusty old D-3 who recruited me to work homicide said, ‘Don’t get married. Just find a woman you hate and buy her a house, a car, and give her half your pension. Because after you work homicide for a few years, she’ll divorce your ass and take it all anyway.’”
The waitress brought our breakfast, and as I shook salt on my omelet, I said, “She mentioned something about an old boyfriend coming back on the scene.”
“Sounds like a load of shit. Anyway, if your wife leaves you, it’s nothing personal. That’s the way it goes. But if some broad you nail once dumps you, now that’s a real insult.” Ortiz patted me on the shoulder. “Let me give you some advice, mijo. Next time you want to get your rocks off, don’t go after some classy art gallery bitch. She’s out of your league. You gotta know your limits. You know what they say about boxers: when they move up in weight, they can’t take their punch with them. Well, you just moved up in weight, too, and you never had a chance. Come with me to an academy barbecue. I’ll find you a nice cop groupie who’ll rock your world and come back for seconds.”
When we finished our breakfast, Ortiz said, “So, one case down. What’s next?”
“It’s not exactly down. I’ve still got some follow-up to do.”
Ortiz laughed. “You say that about every case. They should put that on your tombstone.”
As I walked through the squad room, Duffy craned his head out of his office and motioned for me to step inside. “Again, great work, Ash,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Just got calls from the chief, Assistant Chief Grazzo, and Commander Wegland. They loved the press conference. Great for the department. They all send their congratulations. And their thanks.”
I sat down and said, “It isn’t over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to two witnesses, Fuqua had a partner.”
“Witnesses?” Duffy lowered his chin and raised an eyebrow. “More like a crackhead and a dumb-shit broad.”
“I’d still like to find Fuqua’s partner.”
“The only way you’re going to find the partner, if there’s a partner, is after the prelim when Fuqua realizes death row’s got a cell with his name on it. Then he’ll give up his mother and his favorite pit bull to save his ass. His P.D. will talk to the D.A. and it’ll be let’s make a deal time. You had your chance with Fuqua and he didn’t give you shit.”
“I’d like a little more time on this one.”
“We picked up a triple in Mar Vista a few nights ago. I want you to help the primaries.”
“There’s something about this case that still bothers me.”
Duffy smacked his forehead and said, “Oh, no! Here we go again. Do you always have to pick, pick, pick?”
“You sound like the department shrink.”
“You need a shrink. Can’t you just be happy that you cleared the case and move on?”
“It’s just that there’s a few things-”
“Okay, okay,” With a look of weary forbearance, Duffy asked, “What is it?”
“I’m still bothered with the setup in the living room. I can’t see Relovich sitting on the sofa across from Fuqua. A veteran cop would never allow himself to be maneuvered into that kind of setup.”
“If Fuqua’s pointing a nine at him, he’ll sit wherever the hell he’s told to sit. What else?”
“A week before Relovich was killed he called Internal Affairs.”
“It’s not so unusual for a retired cop to call I.A.”
“But he’s killed before he ever gets to talk to them. I don’t like the timing.”
Duffy backhanded the air with a dismissive flick. “He could have been seeing I.A. about any thing.”
“Fuqua just spent a nickel in Folsom. The blacks and Mexicans are at war in there. A black wouldn’t partner up with a Mexican after hitting the streets.”
“But it looks like Fuqua did.”
“Maybe.”
What else?”
“A few other things that you’ll just blow off. Why don’t you cut me some slack. I think I’ve earned a second look at this case.”
“Every time we clear a case in here, there’re always a few things that don’t add up. Fuqua’s our guy. He had the motive. And you can’t argue with DNA. All this shit you’re laying on me, you knew about it from the get go, but you still chased Fuqua and jacked him up.”
“When that DNA matched Fuqua, the case came together so well, I just rode the momentum. But now-”
“Now that the momentum’s run out, you’re suffering from the paralysis of analysis.”
“I’m not saying Fuqua didn’t do it. I’m just saying I want to find the partner.”
“You think that pimp Abazeda who ran those escort girls was involved?”
“No. I don’t think he’s got the balls for it. He’s just an asshole with a big mouth.”
Duffy crossed and uncrossed his arms. “Damn it, you’re a pain in the ass. Sometimes you’re like the cow that gives the farmer a bucket of milk. Then kicks it over. Then pisses on it.”
“I resent-”
“Let me lay it out for you. Pete Relovich’s murder is cleared. Fuqua’s in custody. Fuqua had a motive. Fuqua was tied to the crime scene. So the chief is happy. The assistant chief is happy. Commander Wegland is happy. Captain Paganos is happy. And I’m happy.”
Duffy began pacing in his small office. “Remember what your old guru, Bud Carducci, used to say?” Duffy asked.
“Yeah. When you hear hoofbeats-don’t think zebra.”
�
��Well? Why ignore the obvious explanation and go looking for some far-fetched one?”
“Carducci’s saying doesn’t apply here.”
“I think it does. You should be proud that you got that gangster off the streets. If you start all over on this one, you know what that means for me? I’ll be pestered again with phone calls from the brass all fucking day. I’ll be badgered by reporters, asking why this case isn’t wrapped up. I’ll be hassled by the other detectives who want to know why they keep getting paged at three in the morning for new cases, while I refuse to put you back on the on-call board.”
“I think it would be worthwhile-”
Duffy held up both palms. “Ash, you know I respect your instincts. But frankly, you have a tendency to overthink a case. I think you’re doing it on this one. Still, I asked you to come back and solve the homicide. And you did. So I’ll give you one more week. I owe you that much.”
I shook my head. “I need a month to put this case together properly.”
“A week,” Duffy said. “You’re back on call next Monday.”
“Three weeks.”
“Ash, I’m not going to haggle with you. You get a week.”
“I need three weeks.”
Duffy narrowed his eyes. “One week. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“But after your week,” Duffy said, pointing to the on-call board posted on a wall, “you’re going back up there.”
CHAPTER 20
The next morning, I opened up the Relovich murder book, but couldn’t concentrate as I flipped through the pages. I grabbed my cup from my bottom drawer, walked across the squad room, filled it with coffee, returned to my desk, and tried again.