by JF Freedman
Dixant throws up his hands in appeasement. “Back down, girl. Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m only following orders here.”
I’m shaking. I’ve never encountered anything like this before. “Whose orders?”
“Can’t tell you.” He stuffs the folder back into his briefcase. “I’m trying to help you, Jessica, but okay. Forget we had this conversation. I’ll see you at trial.”
Before he goes, he zings me one last time. “Your man is going to prison. We’re going to make sure that happens.”
THIRTEEN
JOE BLEVINS, MY BOSS, goes ballistic when I tell him about the ugly threats Wayne Dixant made against Roberto Salazar and, by proxy, me. “You’re positive he wasn’t screwing with your head?” he grills me.
“He was dead serious.”
Joe is incredulous. “That’s not only criminal, it’s idiotic.” He immediately picks up the phone and calls his counterpart in the D.A.’s office, demanding that they meet, right away.
Less than an hour later, Joe summons me back to his office. He has a big shit-eating grin on his face. “I guarantee you Mr. Wayne Dixant is getting the chewing out of the century, even as we speak,” he tells me with relish. “He was way out of bounds. Ted Archibald was so angry I was afraid he was going to rupture an artery.”
Ted Archibald is a senior assistant D.A., the equivalent for their side as Joe is for ours. He can be an uptight martinet, but he plays by the rules.
“He had it coming,” I say. I’m still enraged. “I’ve never been threatened like that in my entire life.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Joe assures me. “He’ll be as docile as a little lamb.”
“What was all that about, anyway, that big cartel knocking off warehouses down at the port?”
“That’s real,” Joe says. “The county’s working with the state and the feds. Dixant’s a tiny cog in the machine. He was trying to make brownie points with the big boys. Instead, he’s gonna have a reprimand in his file.”
“So has he been taken off this case?”
“Archibald offered. I told him it wouldn’t be necessary. We’ll go as planned.”
“Why?” That disturbs me, that Joe made the decision without consulting me. He is my boss, but we work as a team, and everyone’s opinion should be considered. Usually, it is.
“You want this over, don’t you? You want your client to be done with this as soon as possible, I thought.”
“Yes, I do,” I agree.
“If a new D.A. gets assigned, they’ll want a continuance, at least a couple of months. The sword will be hanging over your fellow’s head all that time. Get in fast, clean it up, get out,” he advises me. He smiles again. “Besides, you’re going to own Wayne Dixant. He’ll be your little lap dog. You’ll practically be able to put a collar around his neck and make him beg for treats.”
I see the twisted logic to that, but I don’t like it. Dixant is being publicly humiliated. He’s wounded, and wounded animals are the most dangerous.
“They’re going to drop the grand theft charges,” Joe says. “They know they won’t be able to make those stick. It’s just going to be accessory to transporting. You can cut a sweet deal on that.”
“No, I can’t,” I say.
“Why not?” He’s surprised. We plea-bargain almost everything.
“Because he didn’t do it,” I answer. “He doesn’t have a record. No matter how good a deal we could cut, he’d be marked for life. I can’t be party to that, it’s not fair.” My hackles are up about this case because of Dixant’s vile threats. “I’m going to get him off, Joe.”
Doubtfully: “You sure?”
“I feel very confident.”
Joe’s a pessimist. Given the District Attorney’s high conviction rate, he has to be. “The client is good with that? He knows the downside? You’ve had that conversation with him?” He gives me a stern look. “Confident and dead certain are not the same thing, Jessica. Don’t make this a personal vendetta between you and Dixant. He isn’t worth it, and that’s not the right way to conduct a case, which you know.”
“Salazar didn’t do it,” I repeat. “He was sandbagged by a friend. I can convince the jury of that. He’s good people, Joe, the jury’s going to see that.”
Joe gives in. “Okay. It’s your case. Do right by it.” He picks up his phone, signaling me our meeting is over.
“Oh, one more thing,” he says, as I’m halfway out the door.
“What?”
“Don’t just win. Kick that moron’s ass.”
I smile. We have people’s lives in our hands, but we play a high-stakes game too.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
FOURTEEN
TONIGHT IS THE BEGINNING of the full moon. In the past month, gun sales in Los Angeles County have quadrupled, especially west of the 405. Most of the new buyers have been women. For their own safety and those close to them, I hope they learn how to use their weapons properly.
To err on the side of caution, I have changed my running schedule. I still run after work, but I do it earlier. Now that daylight saving time is here I can get home, change into my running clothes, and get in my ten to twelve miles before it’s dark. It’s not as easy running at seven at night, because the streets are clogged with traffic, and I’ve had to alter some of my routes to avoid constantly stopping and starting, but safety trumps inconvenience. Now, instead of running through the quiet residential streets, I run down to the bike path that parallels the ocean and take it north, where I pick up Palisades Park until I get to San Vicente Boulevard.
My route is a pedestrian freeway in the early evening hours. There are thousands of runners, walkers, bikers, and skaters cruising up and down, most of them in their own little cocoons. They are oblivious to everything—they could run down a granny creeping along with her walker and never know it. It’s like running an obstacle course; I can’t let my mind wander as I do when I run late at night, I could get wiped out if I’m not alert.
There is a benefit to training in all this congestion. When I run my marathon, I’ll be bunched in a tight pack for at least the first half of the race, so this is good practice for learning how to navigate in a mob. Occasionally I’ll strap on my iPod and zone out, but usually not, because I like to be aware of my surroundings, and I need to monitor my pulse, speed, stride. As an extra precaution now, I run with a fanny pack. I keep it light, only three items: my cell phone, driver’s license, and a pepper-spray canister. I don’t expect to be attacked—I’m a moving target, and I will not stop to talk to anyone I don’t know—but I’m more vigilant now than I was before these killings began.
I don’t carry my gun. Not only is it too heavy, I don’t want to bring that vibe into my running. Running is a physical activity, but there is also a Zen aspect to it. You want to mesh your spirit with your body, to be in the moment. That’s what my running coach told me when I started training. He is very much into the spiritual side of running. He is also a vegetarian, a practicing Buddhist, and has almost zero body fat. I am an omnivore who has no strong religious or spiritual beliefs, and I have more padding than I would like, but I understand where he’s coming from. Taking life as he does is the antithesis of the kind of lifestyle most of us practice, and it can be summed up as “Get over yourself.” For me, that is an important axiom to think about, because I take myself too seriously. I consider it a major character flaw. I want to change that part of my personality, and running helps, even if only a little bit.
I cross Ocean Avenue where it meets the San Vicente median, and as I run along the grassy strip I see the first one. He’s near the corner of San Vicente and Sixth Avenue. He is outfitted as a cable repairman, but to my practiced eye, cop radiates off him like blue light off a neon sign over a country-western bar. He’s futzing around, trying to look inconspicuous, but even from forty yards away I can see that his eyes are in constant motion.
He sees me looking at him, and the faintest smile of recogni
tion plays across his face for a moment, then vanishes. I can’t imagine he knows who I am or what I do, but we made some kind of connection. Maybe he’s subliminally trying to say I’m out here to protect you; or maybe he just likes my legs. Whatever the reason, he’s out here tonight. Which means dozens of his brother and sister officers are too.
As I run, I look at my fellow runners more closely, particularly the women. If they can dress up female cops as hookers and send them out cruising Hollywood Boulevard, they can outfit them as joggers and deploy them here as decoys. Not only as runners, but anyone. I don’t know if any of the women who have been murdered were runners, but that doesn’t matter. They were alone, presumably, vulnerable prey.
All the killings happened late at night, so these officers are going to be putting in long hours, because it isn’t even dark yet and they are already here. That’s how serious this is to L.A. law enforcement. The heat from above must be intense. If the killer strikes again this month and doesn’t get caught, the fear factor will go through the roof, and careers will be in ruins.
The first night of the full moon comes and goes, and no one is killed. The second night, the same. Tonight will end the official full-moon cycle. The previous three murders took place during this specific three-day period, so theoretically, tonight is the last time the killer will strike, if he is going to.
All day long, at work, I can feel the tension building; everyone can. It’s like when a pitcher takes a no-hitter into the ninth inning—no one says anything about it, but the air is electric with anticipation.
I go for my evening run, and I see them everywhere, I’d bet there are twice as many undercover cops out tonight as on the previous two. In their minds, the killer has to strike. He’s done it three months in a row, the pattern has been set. I wonder where Cordova is. Cruising all around, I assume, checking with his troops, his cell phone glued to his ear. This is his show—if there is another murder tonight, his ass will be in a sling. If there is another murder and the killer isn’t caught, that sling could be a coffin.
As I run, I scan the passing faces for a clue, a telltale giveaway.
Every man I see looks suspicious to me. But my time on the streets is without incident—I finish where I began, at the front door of my house. Nothing is different tonight from any other night. I hope that’s true for every other woman in this city.
It’s four in the morning. I went to bed early. Now I’m awake, and can’t get back to sleep. I’m as wired as if I had drunk six cups of coffee and eaten a box of doughnuts. Standing barefoot in my pajamas, I look out my living-room window. We don’t have street lights on our block, but because it is the full moon and there is no fog rolling in, it is bright outside. I can see all the way down the block, almost to the end of the next. If I walked outside and went to the edge of my street, I could turn the corner and see the ocean, six blocks away.
This would be a great time to go running. I’ve done it before when the streets were deserted and I could be alone with nothing but my thoughts. I’m not going to do that now, of course. I ran less than twelve hours ago, and somewhere out there, a killer is at large.
But I’m too antsy to go back to bed. There is an all-night coffee shop on Broadway, across from the pier, where the night owls—the late shift and the insomniacs—hang out. I can drive there, park right in front, have a coffee or hot chocolate. I won’t be alone—there is safety in numbers.
And I’ll bring an extra ounce of protection. I take my gun from its safe place, check the magazine to make sure it’s full, and stick it in the day pack I sometimes use as a purse. I throw on a pair of jeans, a lightweight sweatshirt, and I’m out the door.
The coffee shop is almost empty—only a few diehards sit as solitary sentries the length of the counter. I’m the only woman, but these men are too much into their private worlds to do more than register my arrival with a quick look, then turn away. There is no waitress service at this wee hour; I wave to the cook behind the counter, tell him I want a cocoa with a shot of coffee, and sit down in one of the booths.
“And a short stack,” I call to him. I burn calories like a match burns kindling; I need all the carbohydrates I can get.
As I eat my pancakes, drink my coffee, and glance at the other customers, I feel as if I am a character in an Edward Hopper painting. A sad mixture of lonely people with nowhere to go. That isn’t me, but it could be. There is nothing more pathetic than an old woman alone.
The pancakes are rubbery and the coffee is greasy, but I wipe my plate clean. Pushing away from the table, I fish some bills out of my wallet to cover my tab, and leave a generous tip on the counter. I remember back to my waitressing days, how crummy I’d feel if a customer stiffed me. That extra dollar won’t break anyone’s bank, and the server has been acknowledged as an equal human being, not a servant.
By my TAG Heuer, it’s five-fifteen. The faintest line of pale light is starting to show, night fading away, morning creeping in. Did the Full Moon Killer strike? I wonder. If not by now, then the time has passed. That would throw the city for a loop.
A block away, where the Third Street Mall ends at Broadway, there is a cluster of newspaper vending machines. I didn’t get the scores last night, and I want to know how the Dodgers are doing. It’s great to have a winning team—it boosts the entire city’s morale, especially since the Lakers tanked again this year. I walk down the street, drop a couple of quarters into one of the machines, pull out a Times, and turn to the sports section.
A car screeches to a stop behind me. As I turn, startled, two men jump out and approach me. They are robust, tough looking. One of them has shaved his head. He sports a dangling cross in his left earlobe. The other man, who is older, is Marine Corps square.
Immediately, they hold up their hands to reveal their badges. “Police. Don’t panic.”
“Jesus, you scared me,” I say. My heart is fluttering.
“Sorry, miss,” the taller one says. “We just want to make sure you’re all right.”
They certainly are on the job. How many other women have had this level of observation tonight? “I’m fine,” I say. “Thank you for your concern.” I start to walk away.
“You’re not on foot, are you?” the cop persists.
“No.” I point. “My car is right there. The blue Toyota.”
“We’ll walk you.”
“That’s not necessary, really. It’s only a block.”
“We’ll feel better.”
To protect and serve, for real. “Okay. Fine.”
We walk toward my car, and before we reach it, two other cars careen around the corner from Ocean Avenue and slam up to the curb. A lone man gets out of each one. Like my escorts, they are dressed for action in jeans, running shoes, short-sleeved shirts. Their holsters are clipped to their belts.
“You?” One of them exclaims, staring at me. He looks surprised, and angry.
He’s not someone I want to see. “Hello, Lieutenant Cordova,” I answer, feeling sheepish.
Cordova turns to the others. “Thanks, fellows. I’ve got this.”
The other detectives look askance at me. “Okay,” one of them answers. They walk back to their vehicles and drive off, staring at us again as they go.
Cordova shakes his head at me, like a schoolteacher admonishing a truant. Technically, we are in the Santa Monica Police Department’s jurisdiction, but since he’s in charge of the task force, he can cross boundaries.
“For God’s sake, Jessica, what are you doing out here at night?” he asks. “You know better.”
He’s right, and I’m grateful for the concern, but I don’t like being scolded. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down here for coffee. Besides, it’s morning now.” I look east, in the direction of the first blush of pink that’s peeking through the dark gray sky.
“Technically, it’s still night,” he refutes me. “You should not be outside. Definitely not alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I tell him.
He looks around.
There is no one else on the street. “Who are you with?” he asks suspiciously.
I open my pack and show him my gun. “Mr. Equalizer.”
He stares at it, at me. “You’re licensed, I presume.”
“Of course. Do you want to see it?” As I reach in to take the automatic out of my purse, I can’t, despite the tense circumstances, resist tweaking him. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
He puts his hand on top of mine, restraining me. His hand is huge—it dwarfs mine. I feel the muscles in his fingers; this man is powerful. “Don’t be brandishing that, for God’s sake,” he admonishes me. “You don’t joke around with guns.” He pulls his hand away, a bit self-consciously. “You know how to shoot it, I hope.”
“Sorry about that,” I apologize. If anyone should know that guns aren’t playthings, it’s me. “Yes, I know how to shoot,” I say. “Anytime you want to come out to the range and watch me, let me know,” I offer. I smile impishly. I don’t know why I’m flirting with him—must be nervous energy. “We can have a contest.”
“You’ll lose.”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself.”
He smiles. The tension between us has dissipated, smoke drifting away.
“Has anything happened with …?” I can’t finish my question, the subject is too fraught.
He knows what I mean. “Not that we know about—so far.”
“So maybe he hasn’t killed anyone this month?” I ask with rising excitement.
Cordova won’t buy into that supposition—it’s too optimistic, a luxury he can’t afford. “We won’t know until later today, or maybe tomorrow.”
There is another question I’ve been wondering about since I spotted that undercover detective the first night. “Do you think he might have picked up on your surveillance?” I ask him. “I knew you guys were there, I picked up on your people right away. If I could spot you, maybe he did, too. He must be extra careful now, with all the publicity.”