Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3)

by Alan Russell

What I said was true enough, but far from the complete story. Still, it changed Catalina’s tone and attitude. “I would be very grateful for that.”

  She gave me the name of the detective. Without my asking, she also provided me with her cell number, volunteering to answer any questions I might have.

  “I’ll be sure to follow up with you,” I promised, at which time Catalina seemed to realize I was still standing on the stoop.

  “Please come in,” she said. “I’m answering the door because the club is here today to pay its respects. Savannah was also nice enough to allow us to use her house for an emergency meeting. With Langston’s death, everything’s crazy.”

  “I hope you’re making plans to keep the club going.”

  “That’s what we all want, but no one seems to know how to make that happen.”

  “At least you’ve started planning.”

  She nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Langston was the club’s glue. If we didn’t know how indispensable he was before, we sure do now. But let me take you to Savannah.”

  I followed Catalina, assuming I would be taken to a quiet location where Mrs. Walker was waiting. What I wasn’t expecting was to find her sitting in the living room with at least a dozen members of the 187 Club. Everyone stopped talking when they saw me, and I offered a nod to the room.

  Mrs. Walker rose from her chair and said, “Please excuse me.”

  She came up to me and offered me a pleasant as well as circumspect greeting: “Thank you for coming, Detective.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  We escaped the room’s scrutiny by starting down the hallway. Paintings lined both sides of the corridor. There were spiritual scenes, and folk art with mostly black subjects.

  “You have a beautiful house,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “We’ve lived here for almost thirty years. When we first looked at this house, Langston said we couldn’t afford to buy it, and I said we couldn’t afford not to buy it. The backyard was always my refuge. It looks out over Marina del Rey, and on clear days you can make out Catalina Island. I wanted to have a mortgage-burning party this year, but Langston wasn’t convinced. He said no one did that anymore.”

  “That’s only because in California no one ever pays off their mortgage,” I said.

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  She opened a door, and I was shown into a small room that had been made into an office. The desk had stacks of paperwork. There were composition notebooks, files, and computer printouts. In the center of the desk was a laptop, which was attached to a three-in-one printer. Next to the desk was a filing cabinet.

  “Welcome to Langston’s inner sanctum.”

  “Is his computer password-protected?” I asked.

  Savannah shook her head. “I’ve used it on a few rare occasions, so I know it’s not, but that’s about all I can tell you about anything in this room. Langston didn’t like his work space disturbed. That’s why you’ll have to excuse the mess.”

  “It’s a lot neater than my own work space,” I confessed.

  She began to take her leave of the room, but paused at the doorway.

  “Langston always liked the door closed, even when it was only the two of us in the house. I always said, ‘Why do you need the door closed?’ And he would say to me, ‘I think better that way.’ Would you like the door opened or closed?”

  “I’m with Langston. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer it was closed.”

  “I should have known,” Savannah said. As she closed the door, I noticed the small, sad smile on her face.

  Even though I’m a cop, and even though I had permission to go through Langston Walker’s papers, it still felt like a breach of privacy. To sit at someone else’s desk is revealing, even before you start digging through the contents. You get a feel for the person by what’s on the walls, what pictures they value enough to place close to them, and what items are within reach. Walker’s love of family was on display, but his desk was first and foremost a work area. At first glance the area might have looked disorganized, but everything was functional. He had sorters, trays, and organizers filled with paperwork, pens, highlighters, tape, staplers, and such essentials as glue and scissors.

  Early in my scrutinizing, I realized Walker was definitely old school. I went into his computer and searched its history. He hadn’t cleared its cache for some time, if ever, and I was able to look at all his browsing data. Nothing immediately jumped out at me as relevant to the case. I studied all the computer documents he’d worked on during the last month.

  These days police work, like so many other professions, is electronically dependent. Walker had risen through the ranks writing reports rather than inputting data. That would have changed at the end of his tenure, but in his retirement he had reverted to what was most comfortable for him. There were lots of handwritten composition notebooks piled atop one another. Each seemed to serve a different purpose, and I spent some time getting used to his system.

  I pulled out my own notebook. In that regard, Walker and I weren’t too different. I noted the date and time. One section of my notebook was for taking notes, and another section was for compiling questions or making notations for things I would need to do. My first entry was: Get Walker’s cell phone and make list of incoming and outgoing calls. Then I wrote down: Find out why Walker was late to our dinner. He had apologized for being late, and had told me that he’d had to put out some fires. I needed to know what fires those were.

  Walker was also a believer in file folders, in which he stored articles and printouts. The folders weren’t color-coded, and some weren’t even labeled. Sifting the wheat from the chaff wasn’t going to be easy.

  I made my own priority pile of those folders and notebooks that interested me most. One folder contained half a dozen maps of L.A. In two of the maps, X didn’t mark the spot, but instead marked half a dozen spots. Judging from where the Xs were, I was looking at Santa Monica, Westwood, Hollywood, La Brea, Northeast L.A., and Central L.A. There were no street addresses, and nothing to designate what the Xs meant except that on one of the sheets, the number “480” had been written, and the Central L.A. X had been circled. Walker apparently liked his maps to be enigmatic. There was a map of L.A. and the surrounding area marked with red lines, and a map of Westside and Central City with red, green, blue, yellow, and purple lines. It would have helped if Walker had printed out a key of what I was looking at.

  On one piece of paper in his map file folder, Walker had written the words “comfortable street.” He’d underlined the word “comfortable” twice. Not only maps were in the folder. I found a piece of paper where he’d written, “It’s like the line from Hamlet about protesting too much.”

  While thinking about Walker’s Shakespeare reference, I suddenly started. It was already four o’clock. I called up Lisbet, and when she answered, the first thing she said was, “Why do I get this feeling I’m being stood up?”

  “I’m going to be late,” I admitted.

  “How late?”

  “Six o’clock,” I said, but Lisbet heard my wishful thinking in those words.

  “More like seven?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I have work I should be doing anyway. How about I come over for pho tomorrow night at six thirty?”

  “I am pho-tunate to have an understanding girlfriend like you.”

  “I am going to pretend I am deaf in one ear.”

  “I promise to nibble both your ears tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

  We said our good-byes, and each of us offered a last smooch over the phone. Then I went back to Langston’s paperwork, picking up the largest of his folders. On its cover he’d written “187”; inside was a hodgepodge of material that pertained to the 187 Club. Near the front of the paperwork, I found my name and telephone number and the notation, “April’s speaker.” There were inspirational articles about overcoming grief, notes ab
out meetings, and reminders of things that needed to be done. Deeper into the folder was a list of the members’ names, addresses, and phone numbers. Still deeper were photocopies of police reports, along with notes pertinent to some of those cases. Altogether there were five reports, each detailing a homicide.

  The contents of the folder couldn’t be hurried through. There was a lot inside, and I settled down to my reading and note-taking. The common denominator was a lot of death. It was the 187 Club, after all, I thought.

  The case that interested me most was my potential ghost case, which was held together with a large binder clip. I flipped through the pages and read about Carlos Ceballos’s death. The DA had opted not to prosecute the gangbangers from the Spook Town Compton Crips, telling LAPD there was insufficient evidence to get a conviction. LAPD said they had the shooters. Gang graffiti bragged about the killing, and the word on the street also fingered the shooters.

  A knock at the door almost made me jump. I’d been so absorbed in the material that I’d lost track of place and time.

  “Come in,” I said.

  Savannah Walker opened the door. On her face was the same sad smile I’d seen earlier.

  “How many times do I remember seeing a dazed expression just like that one?” she asked. “I’d always have to awaken Langston from his other world.”

  Time had gotten away from me. It was now dark outside, and my surprise showed.

  “Langston and I had a private joke. I would call him Punxsutawney Phil. That’s how he’d look when I interrupted him in here. I’d often bring him a meal.” She looked at me. “What about you?”

  I realized she was offering to bring me dinner; I’d long overstayed my visit.

  “That’s not necessary,” I said. “I was just leaving. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to bring some of your husband’s paperwork home with me. There’s still a lot I need to go through.”

  She gestured to the desk, indicating I could take anything I might want.

  “I have all sorts of food in my refrigerator,” Savannah said, “more than I could ever eat. You’d be doing me a favor by taking some of it home.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said, “but—”

  “I really do hate seeing food go to waste. And I’ve got some nice meat for that dog of yours. He’s probably starving by now.”

  “He probably is,” I said. “And I know he’d be nudging me now, telling me to accept your offer. So if you really don’t mind, I’ll happily take two doggie bags to go.”

  CHAPTER 33

  THE GREATEST HUNTER ON EARTH

  Writer Anne Tyler once wrote about humans coming home from the store with various cuts of meat, and the reaction of Fido to the appearance of this bounty: “Dogs must think we’re the greatest hunters on earth,” she wrote.

  By this time I think Sirius knows I’m not the greatest hunter on earth, but that didn’t stop him from offering me plenty of tail wagging at the food I brought home. Savannah Walker had been more than generous, filling containers with chicken, brisket, baked beans, potato salad, and corn muffins.

  I cut up some of the chicken and brisket, mixed it with dry food, and then Sirius went to town. Then I made my own plate, nuked it, and had my late dinner. During the drive home, my stomach had awakened to the passage of time, and I was now hungry. Those who’d brought food to Savannah Walker had been making an offering of love to her and her late husband. As much as I enjoyed eating the food, the thought of it still left something of an aftertaste in my mouth. Had Langston Walker paid the ultimate price for my meal? I already owed him a dinner; now I owed him two. It was up to me to find a way to pay him back.

  Before it got any later, I decided to make a call. I was fairly certain my contact was a single parent, and that his son would have school in the morning. Over the past two years, I’d spent a lot of time with Ellis Haines, more than was good for me. He’d caused a lot of upheaval in my own life, but that was nothing compared to what he’d done to the families and loved ones of his victims, like Art Epstein and his son Joel.

  When Art answered his phone, I said, “Mr. Epstein, this is Michael Gideon. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “No, of course not, Detective,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Something has been nagging at me,” I said. “Detective Walker and I met for dinner after the last 187 Club meeting, and he arrived about half an hour late. I’m wondering what delayed him. He apologized for being late and told me that he’d had to ‘put out a fire or two.’ I know my curiosity probably sounds silly, but I’m wondering if you know what fires he had to put out.”

  “I wish I knew,” he said, “but I left as soon as you finished speaking. Joel had a sitter, and I didn’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” I said, “and I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  “It was no bother. And if you’d like, I’d be glad to find out why Langston was late for your dinner. I’m friends with a few of the more active club members. They might have stayed to put away chairs and help, so they’d know.”

  “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “I’d like to do it,” he said.

  “I’d appreciate it, then. I’m trying to tie up a few loose ends, and that’s one of them.”

  “Detective Walker and the other club members helped me get through a very tough time,” he said. “When I heard about Langston’s death, I thought about what a godsend he’d been for me. I wish I’d told him that.”

  “A lot of people are wishing the same thing now,” I said.

  Then I gave him my cell number, and he promised to get back to me.

  The ghost was elusive. It didn’t pop out at me and say, “Boo!” It was lurking in the shadows.

  I wanted to believe the Spook Town Compton Crips were Langston’s ghost, but the more I looked into the Ceballos case, the less likely I thought it was.

  Danny Ruiz of the South Bureau’s Criminal Gang and Homicide Division had been the lead detective. I didn’t know Ruiz, but I knew people who knew him. Reading through Walker’s notes, I could see that he’d talked to Ruiz on multiple occasions. I decided to get in on the party line and called Ruiz’s cell. After identifying myself and apologizing for not calling during office hours, I explained that I was following up on the late Detective Walker’s inquiries into the Ceballos homicide.

  Ruiz didn’t hide his annoyance. “What do you want me to say?” he asked. “The case is what it is. We think we made our case. The DA still wants more. Barring a confession, and I’m not holding my breath on that one, we’re stalled.”

  In L.A., more than two-thirds of homicides are gang related. Even if it’s one of your own who’s been killed, the rule is you don’t talk to cops.

  “I’m curious about Catalina Ceballos,” I said. “According to what I’ve read, she insisted her husband wasn’t a member of a gang, and also doubted that he dealt drugs.”

  “That’s because Carlos didn’t want to tell his new bride things that might upset her,” said Ruiz. “And while it’s true he wasn’t an active gang member, he was an occasional dealer. Even Mrs. Ceballos has come to reluctantly accept that fact.”

  “Mrs. Ceballos says that she has been threatened by the Crips for continuing to press for an investigation. She fears that she and her family are being targeted.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. But the gang knows we’d be all over them if they attempted any retaliation.”

  “Do you know if gang members threatened Detective Walker?”

  Ruiz offered a disdainful laugh. “Cockroaches run from light, and so do gangbangers.”

  It was the reaction I expected, but it was still disappointing. Gangs operated on their own turf and generally didn’t stray. The idea that a gang would ambush a retired cop on a rugged trail far from their haunts was far-fetched.

  I had a few follow-up questions for Ruiz, then thanked him for his cooperation. He clicked off without saying good-bye.

  F
or the moment I decided to put aside the Ceballos case; that made Walker’s 187 Club folder noticeably thinner. There were still four other cases to look at, though. Maybe Langston Walker’s ghost would still surface.

  I read through the paperwork, paying particular attention to the police reports in the 187 folder. Why had Walker picked those five cases? From what I could determine, there were some 150 members of the 187 Club. In any given month, roughly a third of the membership showed up to the monthly meeting.

  Walker could have had 150 cases in his folder, but he only had five. I cross-indexed the cases with the club members associated with them; all were loved ones of the victims. It was unclear if there was something about these particular cases that Walker didn’t like. Maybe the loved ones, like Catalina Ceballos, had asked him to look into the homicides. I would have to contact them to find out if that was so.

  There didn’t seem to be any common denominator in any of the cases. All of them had ostensibly been solved, although three of them were “cleared others.” I wondered if Walker had earmarked those cases because of that designation. The victims were black, Hispanic, and white. The murders had taken place in Carson, Hawthorne, Central L.A., Southeast L.A. (the outskirts of Compton), and Fairfax. Two of the victims had been shot, one had been stabbed, one had died of blunt-force trauma, and one had been hit by a car. Gang violence was suspected in two deaths; the other three involved a drug deal gone wrong, a bicyclist hit while riding, and the murder of a transgender female caught in a love triangle.

  Write-ups in the Los Angeles Times detailed the deaths. Every year the paper puts out what it calls “The Homicide Report,” providing a story for every victim. I thought about the old chestnut: What is black and white and read all over? In these cases it might be more accurate to say they were red all over.

  Earlier in the day I’d looked at a map marked by five different Xs, but unfortunately these cases didn’t correspond to the locations on the map. The only potential map match was Andrea Rhodes, who’d been killed on her bicycle by a hit-and-run driver in central L.A. I remembered Walker’s handwritten reference to a “comfortable street,” and wondered if that could have any relevance to her death. The car that hit Rhodes had been registered to Donald Warren of Culver City. According to Warren, he didn’t remember driving that night, but Warren was no stranger to blackouts. Over the years he’d had three DUI convictions and was an admitted alcoholic. Even cirrhosis of the liver hadn’t stopped him from drinking, and apparently driving. It was that disease that killed him four months after his arrest. The case had never gone to court; Warren’s timely death had spared taxpayers that expense. Because of that, the case was a “cleared other.”