“Sure,” Lori said, a cold sensation running down her back. The words ‘we have to talk’ always meant bad news.
“Is anything wrong?”
“Your temper,” Joanna said straightforwardly.
“It’s going to get you into trouble, particularly when you’re dealing with people like Jake Sinclair. He won’t stand for it.”
“I know,” Lori said quietly.
“I try to control myself, but that damn Sinclair always seems to set me off.”
“Do you think he does it intentionally?”
Lori shrugged.
“Sometimes it seems that way. Christ! He can be so abrupt and rude. He never considers the other person’s feelings.”
“That’s Jake,” Joanna had to admit.
“But don’t take it personally.”
“How else should I take it?”
“Professionally,” Joanna said at once.
“Jake is a tough cop who solves murders.
He doesn’t want to be your pal. He just wants you to answer his questions because that will help him solve his murders. And being nice and polite and tactful is not part of his makeup.”
“So you want me just to put up with his boorish ness
“If you want to learn from him, you will,” Joanna told her. “He can teach you every bit as much as I can. Maybe even more, when it comes to murder.”
Lori slowly nodded.
“He is sharp. You have to give him that.”
“Oh, I do.”
“So what you’re telling me to do is cool it.”
“That’s the smart move.”
“Can I tell him to go to hell every now and then?”
“I guess.” Joanna grinned.
“But pick your spots carefully.”
Lori turned to leave, then stopped and turned back.
“I could use a little advice on how to handle something else.”
“What?”
“The news media,” Lori said.
“They’ve gotten my home number, and I swear the damn phone hasn’t stopped ringing. They want to know all about the bomb and the victims and the body parts.”
“What do you tell them?”
“I don’t. I just hang up. But the calls keep coming, even in the middle of the night.”
“I’d advise you to take your phone off the hook when you go to bed and go to sleep with your beeper.”
“Then I’ll probably end up getting beeped,” Lori said.
“Are you getting the same kinds of calls?”
“Constantly,” Joanna replied.
“Yesterday I got a call from a tabloid offering me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for an interview. And another two hundred thousand for some photographs of body parts.”
“Jesus! The media will do anything for information.”
“They’re just responding to public pressure,” Joanna said.
“The newspapers and TV news programs make this their lead story every day and every night. Remember, people are scared, particularly since the bomb went off in a residential neighborhood. Everybody wants to know who and why and how close we are to solving this crime. And those are the major questions the press has.”
“The answers are really simple.”
“Oh?”
Lori hung a knapsack over her shoulder.
“The answers are as follows—we don’t know who and we don’t know why and we’re still a million miles away from solving this case.”
Wednesday, March 31, 11=00 a.m.
The television screen showed Simon Murdock mounting the podium for a press conference at Memorial Hospital. His expression was somber, his face closed and lips tight.
“He ain’t too happy,” Farelli commented.
Jake watched the screen, thinking that Murdock in his dark pinstriped suit had the warmth of an undertaker.
“I’ll bet he screws things up.”
“I thought he was supposed to be so smart.”
“He’s one of those people who can be smart and stupid at the same time.”
The detectives were seated at the counter in a luncheonette having coffee and donuts. It was 11:00 a.m.” and lunchtime customers were starting to drift in.
Outside the day was humid and hazy, the sun barely visible.
“Why have a press conference at all?” Farelli asked.
“It beats me,” Jake said absently. He reached for a napkin and began writing down numbers: 5x10= 60.
“Five times ten is fifty,” Farelli said, glancing over Jake’s arm.
“I’m just rounding off numbers,” Jake said, continuing the calculations on the napkin.
“I’ve got four men in the screening room at the rehab institute. The room has four screens, so each man will be watching a different view as a video comes up. An individual video lasts five minutes. So, if you wanted to see ten videos, it would take five times ten, or fifty minutes. Right?”
“Right,” Farelli agreed.
“But you’ve got sixty written down.”
“You have to allow ten minutes each hour for loading the camera and focusing and that kind of thing,” Jake explained.
“So the actual viewing time per hour is fifty minutes. That means you can look at ten videos per hour. That’s eighty a day, or around five
hundred a week.” He restudied the numbers and sighed heavily.
“That means it’ll take over two months to get through all the videos.”
“And by then, your bombers will have done their deed and be long gone.”
“Tell me about it.”
The detectives turned their attention back to the television screen.
“And, of course,” Murdock was saying, “there are some matters which I cannot comment on at this time. That being understood, I will now take your questions.”
A female reporter with blond-streaked hair quickly got to her feet.
“The only eyewitness to the bombing has died suddenly and unexpectedly at Memorial,” she said in a nasal tone.
“There are reports he was murdered. True or false?”
“The patient died from aspiration with airway blockage,” Murdock answered promptly.
“Some unusual findings were discovered, and these are being investigated.”
“So you’re saying there was no evidence of wrongdoing?” the reporter persisted.
“I’ve answered your question,” Murdock said evasively.
“Let’s move on.”
A local television anchorman, recently demoted to roving reporter, stood.
“Is it true that the widow of the eyewitness has filed a wrongful death suit against your hospital?”
Murdock swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably.
“I can’t comment on that.”
“To the tune of ten million dollars?” the reporter followed up.
“No comment.”
Farelli whistled softly.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“A person’s got to live,” Jake said.
A black reporter in a smartly tailored suit raised her hand. She identified herself as being from Time magazine.
“Did the eyewitness describe any of the terrorists before he died?”
“No comment,” Murdock said.
“We have two independent sources who say he did,” the reporter went on.
“The terrorists involved were described as Caucasians and Mexicans. And some other identifying features were given as well. We believe the story to be true, and we’re going to run it. If you want to deny it,
now is your chance.” There was an awkward silence as Murdock put a ringer inside his collar and stretched it.
Jake leaned forward.
“Say something, you dumb son of a bitch,” he urged quietly.
“You’ll have to ask the police about those matters,” Murdock said finally.
“One of our sources is associated with the police,” the reporter pressed on.
Bullshit, Jake thought. The stor
y most likely came from Claire Stonehauser or her sister or both. That was where a reporter with a good nose would go to sniff out information.
Farelli asked worriedly, “You think we got a leak?”
“I doubt it.”
“But that’s a reporter from a national magazine saying the cops gave her the information.”
“She said the source was associated with the police,” Jake corrected him.
“The reporter got the story from the widow or her sister. And since the widow discussed everything with two homicide dicks, that means the source had exchanged information with the police. That’s a form of association.”
“Give me a break,” Farelli said, hating the play on words.
“Doesn’t anybody speak English anymore?”
“Not on television.”
Murdock was still dancing around the subject, trying to evade the direct questions.
The Time reporter asked pointedly, “Did one of the terrorists have a goatee or a shaved head?”
Oh, shit, Jake groaned to himself.
“I have no knowledge of that,” Murdock said.
“Exactly what knowledge do you have?” the reporter asked curtly.
Murdock stared at the woman, fighting a losing battle to control his temper.
“I
have knowledge of a forensics laboratory at Memorial that’s filled with body parts from that explosion. And in that laboratory is a very fine forensic pathologist who is going to put those body parts back together and tell us exactly who those terrorists were.”
“And that could lead to the murderers of your eyewitness?”
“It very well could”” Murdock caught himself, but too late. Farelli slapped an open palm against his forehead.
“Christ! He is dumb.” The reporter smiled thinly.
“How many body parts do you have, and how close are you to putting them back together?”
Murdock cleared his throat quickly.
“That subject is no longer open to discussion.”
The reporters jumped to their feet and yelled questions at Murdock. The clamor was so great that the individual questions couldn’t be heard. Murdock held up his hands and tried to restore order. The reporters raised their voices even more.
“What do you think?” Farelli asked.
“I think anybody who knows anything about those terrorists is going into deep cover,” Jake said.
“If they’re Mexican they’re running for the border. If they’re Caucasian they’re heading for the woods.”
Farelli nodded.
“I’ll bet our guy with the goatee is shaving it off right now.”
“Damn right,” Jake agreed.
“And he’s going to let his hair grow too.”
“Think this will be enough to scare away the bombers?”
“Hell, no,” Jake said at once.
“They’ll stick around until they finish what they set out to do.”
“They’re not going to like what Murdock just told them,” Farelli said.
“They won’t like it a damn bit.”
“And they know how to get into Memorial Hospital,” Jake said darkly.
“They’ve done it once before.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Farelli finished his donut and got off his stool.
“We need a cop outside that cold storage room where the body parts are kept.”
“Make it two cops,” Jake said.
“Have the other one standing outside Joanna’s office, around the
clock.” Thursday, April 1, 2=15 p.m.
Maxie Birnbaum led the way up the stairs of the four-story apartment building.
Joanna and Lori were just behind him, hurrying to keep pace. At the third-floor landing they stopped to catch their breath.
“Isn’t there a city ordinance that says you’ve got to have elevators in these buildings?” Lori bitched.
“Not in East Los Angeles, there ain’t,” Maxie said.
“If the landlords thought they could get away with it, they wouldn’t have stairs either.”
The stairwell was narrow and poorly lighted. The dull gray paint on the walls was cracked and peeling, exposing plaster held together with chicken wire. There were water stains everywhere.
“Are you sure Jose Hernandez lives here?” Joanna asked.
“That’s what a friend told me,” Maxie answered.
“He lives in an apartment with his wife and mother-in-law.”
“Did you call to see if they’re still here?”
“I called, but the phone had been disconnected.”
“Great,” Joanna muttered and reached for the railing to pull herself up the steep steps.
Maxie sprinted ahead, his powerful legs taking the stairs two at a time. They came to the corridor on the fourth floor. All of the doors were closed with noises coming from behind them. A television set on too loud, children screaming and crying, adults arguing in Spanish. The smell of spicy food permeated the air.
Maxie knocked sharply on the door and stepped back, waiting. A dead bolt lock turned, then another lock turned. Slowly the door cracked open, its chain still in place.
A middle-aged Mexican woman with a lined face looked out.
“Quef” “We’re here to talk with Jose Hernandez,” Maxie said in an official-sounding voice.
“He’s not here,” the woman said, eyeing the group suspiciously.
“You bill collectors?”
“No,” Joanna said quickly.
“We’re from Memorial Hospital.”
“Oh,” the woman said, nodding.
“You here about his cancer?”
“Could we speak with you for a moment?” Joanna asked.
“It’s very important.”
The woman unchained the door and opened it widely, then stepped aside. There was no furniture in the small living room. No chairs, no couch, no lamps. Light came in through a closed window, one of its panes missing. Against the wall were big cardboard packing boxes.
“You are his mother-in-law?” Joanna asked.
“St,” the woman said.
“Why has Jose not called?”
“We think he was involved in a very bad accident,” Joanna said quietly.
“Is he dead?”
“We think so.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change. She made the sign of the cross and murmured a prayer in Spanish.
“We knew death was always close by. The cancer was bad.”
“What did Jose tell you about his illness?” Joanna prompted.
“That he had a bad cancer in his intestines and that it had spread to other places in his body.”
“Did the treatment help at all?”
The woman shook her head.
“Even when they removed his tumor at Memorial Hospital he did not improve. Then they gave him drugs by vein, but that too did not help.
His tiredness grew worse. He could no longer work as a gardener.”
Joanna nodded to Lori, both remembering the calluses on the dismembered hand.
“Was he still involved with boxing?”
“He only watched on television.”
“And when was his last fight?”
“More than five years ago.” The woman stared at Joanna for a moment, her dark eyes narrowing noticeably.
“What does this have to do with Jose’s illness?”
“The accident was very bad,” Joanna told her.
“We’re trying to make an accurate identification of the person.”
“His face …” The woman’s voice trailed off. “Destroyed,” Joanna said truthfully.
The woman crossed herself again.
“God will restore it.”
“Did he have a tattoo?” Lori asked softly.
The woman nodded.
“On his fingers were the words Love and Hate. He had tried to have them taken off, but you could still see traces of the letters.” She smiled faintly.
“My daughter was so pleased
that he had the tattoos removed. He did this for her.”
“So they were very much in love?”
“They have been close since childhood,” the woman said.
“And with his illness she has been very worried about him.”
“Where is Jose’s wife?” Lori asked.
“She has returned to our home in Guadalajara,” the mother-in-law said.
“If we wanted to speak with her, how—?”
“Hold on a moment,” Joanna interrupted, thinking something was wrong. A wife who was worried about a sick, missing husband wouldn’t move back to Mexico without him.
“She had no hesitation about leaving without Jose?”
“It was Jose’s wish,” the woman said.
“We were to take the five thousand dollars and make our home in Mexico beautiful. He told us he would join us later.”
“To die in Mexico?” Joanna concluded.
“That was his plan, I believe.” The woman shifted on her feet, taking some of the pressure off.
“He was so proud to give her the money. It was everything he had left in the world.”
“All of his savings, huh?” Maxie inquired.
“Oh, no, senor. There were no savings left. Everything had been used up long ago. The money came from a modeling job Jose had obtained last month.”
“Modeling what?” Joanna asked quickly.
“Clothing that one wears to go hunting.”
That didn’t make any sense, Joanna thought. A man wasting away with widespread cancer wouldn’t be a good model for anything but death.
“Who gave him this job?”
“Two crazy gringos,” the woman said matter-of-factly, then realized her inadvertent rudeness.
“I meant no offense, senora.”
“None taken,” Joanna said, concentrating on the hunting apparel Jose was supposed to model and wondering if that was what he was doing in the rugged terrain where he was blown apart.
“Did he describe the two gringos?” “Only that they were young Americans.”
“Did one have a short beard or a goatee?”
The woman shrugged.
“Jose made no mention of that.”
“Will you ask his wife this question when you see her next?”
“Of course,” the woman said, then took a deep breath.
“What shall I tell my daughter about her husband?”
“Tell her the truth,” Joanna advised.
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