by JF Freedman
Which no one but the selected members of this task force are privy to, under strict confidentiality.
Here we go. “Secure the area, but don’t do anything until I get there. Except cover her. Don’t let anyone near that body. And keep those kids under wraps until I can talk to them. Any media show up yet?”
“No, sir. We’re on secure channel, like you instructed.”
A small victory. Maybe the only one. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He hangs up. Sonofabitch!
It is Monday morning, one-thirty. The last night of the full moon. In a few hours, the sun will come up. The ordeal would have been over. Now it isn’t.
Cordova stands next to the murdered woman’s body. The ligature marks around her neck are already beginning to darken. Her shorts—culottes, technically—have been pulled off, revealing her vagina, buttocks, and thighs.
He hunches down to confirm his detective’s quick analysis. Forced penetration is not what he’s looking for; that will be for the medical examiner to determine. It’s what is not there.
Same MO as the others. Cordova feels bile rising in his throat, swallows to keep it down. He pulls the blanket over her, to preserve her modesty. It’s the least he can do. Find her killer—that is what he has to do.
He conference-calls the entire task force, all one hundred of them. He tells them: “You know what you’re looking for.”
Three AM. The medical examiner arrives and checks out the crime scene. The victim’s wallet is still on her, in a pocket of her shorts. He hands it over to Cordova, who has not touched the victim, because LAPD policy stipulates that no one touches the body until the coroner has inspected it.
The coroner finishes his work and the body is taken away. The woman’s next of kin have to be notified, always a horrible assignment. Some high-ranking official, maybe even the mayor, will do the honors this time.
The press, rapacious vultures, have already found out there was a killing—they always do—but the details are withheld from them. There will be a public skewering for that later, but for a few hours they have to keep a tight lid on this. That killer is out there, and they don’t want to blow whatever slim chance they have of finding him because the crime was blabbed publicly. By this afternoon, though, the decibel level of the talk-radio shows will be deafening.
A few false leads about possible suspects come in, but they are all quickly checked out and dismissed. It’s like trying to hold water in a sieve, Cordova thinks morosely; they’ve lost him. The fallout is going to be brutal.
Six-fifteen. The sun has been up for more than half an hour. It’s over—he’s slipped through their fingers.
His phone rings. He snaps it open. “Cordova.”
“Just got an anonymous tip,” the detective on the other end says. “Don’t know how credible it is. Fits the profile, kind of.”
The profile being a description they got from an eighty-year-old man, what he saw from a block away, in the middle of the night. Cordova thinks: I should have had the old codger’s vision checked. Might have saved them some grief. But it’s all they have. “Where?”
“Saltair, a couple blocks north of San Vicente. The tipster says there’s a Chicano-looking guy in work clothes sitting in a dark blue Nissan pickup.”
A working-class Latino in that neighborhood at this hour of the morning—that’s funky. Still, he could have a perfectly valid reason.
“Want us to check it out?” the detective asks. “We’re right nearby.”
“Hell, yes. Call me back.”
Cordova hangs up and waits. Christ, this is nerve-racking. A minute later, his cell rings again. “Anything?” he barks out.
“It’s like the caller said,” the detective tells him. “Male Chicano. Looks to be in his early to mid-thirties, in a truck.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Just sitting there.”
“Where are you now?”
“Around the corner. He hasn’t spotted us.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Good morning.”
Roberto Salazar, reading La Opinion, L.A.’s major Spanish-language newspaper, looks up with a startled expression; he didn’t hear anyone approaching. A big man is standing outside his truck, looking at him through the driver’s-side window, which is rolled down. He’s trying to appear friendly, but he’s a cop, you can smell it on him even though he’s dressed casually. A hermano, but still a cop.
Having recently been on the wrong end of an encounter with the police, Salazar is immediately on guard. He replaces the lid on his half-drunk cup of McDonald’s coffee and puts the cup in a cup holder. The wrapper from his Egg McMuffin is crumpled up on the passenger-side floor.
“Hello,” he replies, trying not to sound nervous. But why should he be? “What do you want?” he asks this man, who is crowding his space.
Cordova thinks: the description, although not specific, fits. Dark-colored Japanese truck. Work clothes. And he’s wearing a Dodgers hat. Lots of coincidences.
He flashes his badge. “Police, sir. We’re investigating an incident nearby. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”
Salazar shakes his head. “I haven’t seen anything.”
“May I see your driver’s license, sir?” Cordova holds his hand out, palm up.
Not again. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, sir. I just need to check.”
Salazar sighs. You don’t resist these people, they’ll come down harder on you if you do. “All right.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his billfold, takes the license out, and hands it over. “It’s up to date,” he points out.
“Yes, sir. I can see that.” Cordova glances at the address. East L.A. “Just a minute.”
He walks away ten yards to where two of his men, the ones who spotted Salazar’s truck, are holding down the fort, leaning against the side of their unmarked Chrysler 300 sedan, the model with the big V-8 engine. Cordova hands the senior detective the license. “Run this.”
While the detective gets on his radio, Cordova walks back to the truck. “Won’t take long,” he says affably. Two fellows shooting the breeze. “Whatcha doing ’round here this early in the morning?” The threat is not in his tone of voice, rather in his authority.
“Waiting.”
“What for?”
Salazar cocks a thumb toward the back of his truck, which is loaded with his gardening equipment. “To start work. Can’t cut the lawns until seven o’clock. City rule.”
“Gotcha.” Cordova looks behind him. His man is still checking on the driver’s license. “So how come you’re here so early?”
“Beat the traffic. By six-thirty, the 10 freeway don’t move. I would be late.”
Cordova scrutinizes the man. He doesn’t seem nervous. And his explanation for being here is plausible. He’s sat fuming many a time on the freeways himself.
“Boss.” The detective who is checking Salazar’s ID calls over.
“Be right back,” Cordova tells Salazar.
He joins the other detectives, who look disturbed. “What do you have?” he asks.
“This man was in trial last month. L.A. County Superior Court. Grand theft.”
What the fuck? “What’s he doing out?”
“He was acquitted.” The detective hands the license back to Cordova, who looks at it more closely.
“Humph.” Acquitted or not, this casts a new light on things. “Stay put,” he instructs his troops, “but stay sharp. If he makes any sudden move …” He doesn’t have to finish the thought; they know.
He walks back to the truck, Salazar’s driver’s license in hand, which he is not ready to give back yet. “I need to ask you some questions, sir,” he says through the open window. “Step out of your truck, please.”
Salazar has a pained expression on his face. “Why?”
The fun and games are over. He will still be courteous, because he always i
s, but he’ll be firm now. And careful. He has known officers who were careless with suspects and then were shot to death. “Step out, sir.”
Salazar sighs. Slowly, he folds his newspaper and lays it on the passenger’s seat. He gets out and faces Cordova. “What do you want?” he asks.
“I’m going to search your person. Turn around, put your hands on the roof of your vehicle, and spread your legs. Empty your pockets, please.”
Salazar does as he is told. Cordova pats him down. He’s clean.
“You can put your possessions back in your pockets, sir. Just step over there.” He points to the sidewalk. “We need to search your truck.”
There is nothing illegal in his truck this time, only his gardening equipment. But still, Salazar is offended and angry. No wonder there is so much rage and hatred toward the police. And this man is the same as him, Chicano. No pride, he thinks. He has sold his soul.
Cordova motions to the other detectives, who join him. “Search the back. I’ll do the front.” He pulls on a pair of latex gloves. His men do the same.
“Be careful,” Salazar cries out, as the detectives begin taking out his lawnmower, weed whacker, other tools of his trade, and place them on the ground. “That is my livelihood,” he says indignantly.
Methodically, the detectives unload the bed of the pickup truck. They climb up onto it, get on their hands and knees, and look for whatever they can find. “Got some rope,” they call to Cordova, who is checking behind the seats.
Cordova looks at the specimen they show him, then shakes his head no. His men want to solve this so badly they’re not thinking clearly. “Too thick, too coarse,” he explains. That rope is what a tree trimmer would use to secure a branch he was cutting off. If it had been the weapon used to strangle the woman, it would have torn the flesh of her throat. But her throat was not cut, only crushed. The other victim’s necks weren’t ripped either. If a rope had killed them, it would have been a finer weave.
The detectives toss the rope aside, start searching again. Salazar, standing on the sidewalk, watches with growing anger. But they are the police—you don’t mess with the police. You have to wait them out.
Inside the cab, Cordova opens the glove box. It’s crammed full with junk. He pulls items out: tune-up bills from Jiffy Lube, receipts for supplies, other odds and ends. The usual crap you find in a workingman’s car or truck. Methodically, he checks each item out. Nothing here to indicate any contact with this new victim, or any of the previous ones.
Salazar can’t hold off any longer. He needs to get to his first job. If he falls behind, his schedule will be messed up for the entire day. He walks to the front door of the truck.
“I know why you are doing this,” he says to Cordova, who has finished rooting through the glove box and is now rummaging with his hands under the seats.
Cordova looks at him. “Please step back, sir.”
“It’s because of my trial,” Salazar says. He’s growing more and more upset. All of his equipment is out of the truck bed, strewn about the street. These men are pigs, they have no propriety. “Because I was innocent,” Salazar continues. He is whining, and is upset with himself for sounding like a woman, but he can’t help it, his emotions have gotten the better of him. “My lawyer warned me that the police would hassle me. I didn’t believe her, I thought you people did your jobs fair and square.” Bitterly: “But she was right.”
Ms. Thompson had warned him about being on the Westside early in the morning. But if he didn’t leave his house while it was still dark out, he would never get here on time. He had to make his living. It was unfair to stop him from doing that.
But she was right. He should have done what she told him. He could have rearranged his schedule. Now he’s paying for trying too hard.
Cordova doesn’t respond, because he isn’t going to get in a spitting contest with this man, and also because the man is right. They are hassling him because of his prior arrest. Not the fact that he wasn’t convicted—some are, some aren’t. Your job is to arrest and gather evidence, the rest of the process is out of your hands.
“How much longer will you be?” Salazar asks, in a voice of mounting impatience. He has taken a step back, but he’s still closer than Cordova wants him to be.
“We’re almost finished,” Cordova answers. He’s pissed off, because this has turned out to be a blind poke, and because this suspect isn’t docile. “Now step back, please. Don’t crowd me.”
Reluctantly, Salazar retreats to the sidewalk. He checks the time on his cell phone. He’s going to be late to his first job. He’ll have to cut corners to catch up, which he hates to do. He prides himself on giving every client a thorough job.
From the back, one of the detectives calls over to Cordova. “Finished here, Lieutenant. It’s clean.”
Cordova grunts. He’s almost finished too. A fast look under the floor mats, and that will do it. “Put his stuff back. Carefully,” he reminds them. Even though the man was recently arrested, which is a cloud on his credibility regardless of the verdict, he is a public citizen. Until proven guilty, he has to be treated properly.
The floor under the driver’s side mat is oily, grimy. A few gum wrappers and other small bits of detritus have been squished into the floorboards. Cordova flops the mat back down and lifts the one on the passenger side.
The floor under the mat on this side is cleaner. He gives the space a cursory look. Then, as he’s about to drop the mat, something catches his eye. He squats down and looks closer. “What is this?” He actually says the words to himself out loud.
He almost missed the small item, because it’s dark under there. Very cautiously, he reaches down, picks it up, and examines it carefully, to make sure it’s what he thinks it is. Holding it by the fingertips of one gloved hand, he reaches into a pocket and takes out a small Ziploc bag. He drops the item into the plastic bag, climbs out of the truck, and walks over to his men, who are almost done putting Salazar’s equipment and tools back into the truck bed. “Look at this,” he says. He raises the bag so they can see the contents.
The two other detectives peer at the bag. One of them swears softly. “Where did you find it?” one of them asks.
“Hidden under a floor mat.” Cordova says. “We have to be super careful. Call for backup.”
He puts the plastic bag in his car, locks it, and returns to Salazar.
“Now can I go?” Salazar asks. “My day is already messed up.” He holds his hand out. “I need my license back.”
Cordova looks at him. This has to be the coolest operator I’ve ever encountered, he thinks, or he’s a true psychopath. Or, God forbid, he’s innocent, and the evidence won’t be what we think it is.
Behind them, three unmarked cars drive up. Six detectives get out and approach the two who are assisting Cordova. One of the detectives whispers something to the new arrivals. They stare at Salazar, stunned.
“I’m going to have to take you in for questioning,” Cordova tells Salazar brusquely; no more Mr. Nice Guy. “Turn around and place your hands behind you.”
Salazar jumps back. “No!”
“It’s a precaution, sir,” Cordova explains, firmly. “We have to question you in a controlled environment.” He doesn’t want a public demonstration, in case this turns out to be a dry well, so he makes an executive decision. “We won’t cuff you if you come with us voluntarily,” he offers.
“Not again!” Salazar wails. “What about my truck? What about my customers?”
“We will make good for you,” Cordova says. A promise that can’t be kept, but he doesn’t want this to get physical. Some asshole secretly filming this on his cell phone puts it on the Internet and it’s Rodney King and MacArthur Park all over again.
“What if I don’t want to talk?” Salazar asks belligerently. “What if I don’t want to come with you?” He is surprised (and frightened) by his belligerence, but enough is enough. He is sick and tired of being a punching bag for the poli
ce. “I have a business to run!” he wails. “What have I done wrong?”
Cordova keeps his cool. “Are you going to come with me voluntarily, or not?”
Salazar is shaking. What choice does he have? If he says no, the policeman will pull his gun out, handcuff him, and arrest him. Either way, he’s screwed.
“I will come with you,” he gives in. “You don’t have to arrest me. Whatever it is you think I did, I did not do it.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE SUN IS SHINING, the birds are singing. Amazingly, I don’t feel as much pain as I was afraid I would. Yesterday afternoon and evening I gobbled Advil by the handful—that, a deep Swedish massage, and ice bags on my back and thighs knocked the soreness down pretty well. It’s ten in the morning and I’m already on the road, heading home to the accompaniment of Diana Krall on the CD.
My cell phone rings. Jeremy? He didn’t call last night. I was hoping he would so I could cry on his shoulder. Coordinating our schedules with the differences in time zones is difficult—the window when we’re both available is small. I don’t know how many hours apart there are between here and wherever he is, but it would be night, and the concert might be over.
I have to pay attention to traffic, so I don’t check the caller ID—it’s too small to read while driving at seventy miles an hour. “Jeremy?” I answer optimistically.
No such luck. “It’s Joe Blevins, Jessica. Where are you?”
I look at the oncoming freeway sign as I whiz by. “Passing through Oceanside.”
“Oceanside?” he repeats, as if surprised. Then he remembers: “Your marathon was yesterday. How did you do?”
“Great,” I tell him. More and more, that doesn’t feel like a lie. “I called a day off into your voice mail, didn’t you get it? I have weeks of sick leave piled up, Joe.” I’m a workaholic and he knows it; I shouldn’t have to defend myself about taking off one day.
“I know you did. But you need to come in.” He sounds apologetic, almost frightened. “You’re not listening to the news, are you? Any of the talk shows?
“No. I don’t listen to that garbage.”