“Ten, a Juanita Doe just came in. Definite homicide. Autopsy’s pending. They’re still trying to ID her.”
“Where’s the body?’
“One-one-oh-four,” she said, referring to the building at the county coroner’s office where autopsies take place.
“I’m on my way,” I said.
I raced around the house, my heart pained, but also eager to know if this was Clara. As I ran to the Shelby, a tow truck pulled up, ready to haul my mortally wounded Toyota to its next incarnation. They attached the chain and raised the carcass until it was balanced on its rear tires, then drove away, towing the battered vehicle behind them.
I offered thanks to my Corolla for its service: May you serve well into the future, even if only as parts. Something prickled at the nape of my neck, gone before I could catch it, as my monkey mind next wondered: If a Toyota leads a good life, does it come back as a Lexus?
I made a brief but essential stop en route downtown and arrived at the county coroner’s bearing a peace offering. Heather met me in the parking lot. Even in scrubs, she glowed. I handed over a nonfat vanilla soy latte, and we shared the bittersweet smile linked to better times. The first time I’d exchanged any actual words with Heather was in this very lot, and the second time, I’d tried to woo her with this very drink.
She glanced around before giving me a quick kiss on the lips.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said.
“Well, don’t thank me too much. Bhatnager just informed us that only those directly involved in the investigation can see the body until we get an ID.”
Bhatnager was the Chief Medical Examiner, and Heather’s boss. My face fell.
“But I can tell you this. It’s a Hispanic female, medium height and weight, twenty-eight to thirty-five years old.”
Not Clara then. I was conflicted—half relieved, half disappointed. Conflicted was my normal state so far in this Tibetan year of contradictions.
“Anything else you can tell me? Was she cut up?”
“No.” She lowered her voice. “Shot in the back of the head. Although her tongue was missing.”
So this was an old-school hit and probably about snitching. Which led to my next question.
“Was she wearing a uniform of any sort? Like a maid might wear?”
Heather shook her head. “No. Jeans. Why?”
“Just curious,” I said. This was proving to be a complete dead end.
“There was one odd thing, though. I found some weird grain in her pocket.”
“Grain?”
“Yeah, you know, like millet and stuff.”
My heart picked up speed.
“Could it be birdseed?”
Heather’s face lit up. “Ten, you’re a genius! That’s exactly what it is. Birdseed!”
“I know who she is,” I said. “And I know who can identify her.”
I gave Heather Carlos’s number and told her to break the news gently—that his heart was involved. We stood outside for a few more minutes, as she finished her coffee. She crumpled the cup. The gap of silence slowly expanded into a yawning crevasse between us.
“Ten—” she started, at the same moment I said, “Want to meet for a drink later?”
“I can’t,” she said. “I have plans.”
I’ll bet.
“Doing what?”
“Nothing,” she said, her skin flushing. “Just, I’d rather not say right now, okay?” Heather’s phone pinged. She glanced down. “Bhatnager. I’ll call you later tonight. I promise.” Another quick peck, this one on the cheek, and she was gone.
The sun beat down on me, its touch harsh.
Don’t do it.
I reached for my phone.
Don’t.
I found the number I’d entered yesterday morning and pressed it. Maybe she wouldn’t answer.
She picked up before the second ring. “I wondered how long it would take before you called.” Cielo’s voice was playful and light.
“How did you know I would call? Am I that predictable?”
“Yes,” she said. “So I’m done with work for the day. Want to play?”
I drove with my brain turned firmly off. Twenty minutes later, Cielo admitted me to her Santa Monica apartment, a location disturbingly close to Heather’s condominium. She was wrapped up tight in a white terry-cloth robe, drying her hair with a towel. She smelled like night-blooming jasmine. Her toenails were painted an edible tangerine. In her bare feet, she was a few inches shorter than me. That made me happy.
Cielo stepped closer and slipped her arms around my waist. I lowered my face to her hair and inhaled. I’m a sucker for anything jasmine. She lifted her mouth and met mine for a deep kiss. I finally pulled away, so she wouldn’t feel my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest. She moved her hands to my shoulders and studied my face. Reaching up, she softly brushed a palm over my head.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ve been dying to do that. I love the feel of your hair.”
“Really?”
“Mmm. Like a soft brush.”
I’ve hated my hair ever since I was young, struggling to tame its brazen vertical thrust. Once I moved into the monastery, the issue changed, but the strained relationship remained. I never could decide which was worse—hating my hair or having no hair to hate.
Cielo continued to run her hand across my fuzzy scalp, in soft, delicious strokes.
An unfamiliar sensation spread through my limbs; I was on the border of feeling faint, but in a good way. I think they call it swooning.
I pulled her close again. Heaven indeed. She was everything I never got to have when I first had feelings for a girl. She was my do-over, my Pema, right here and right now. I closed my eyes, loving the way her soft contours fit into my body’s angles so snugly. Pema.
Cielo chuckled. “I’m feeling a lot of activity down here in your jeans, Detective,” she said. “I have an idea.” She pulled on the belt of her robe and gave a little shoulder wriggle. The garment slid to the floor. I had a fleeting thought that this wasn’t the first time she’d executed that move—it was a little too smooth—when her breasts jutted against my chest.
My throat clutched. I cleared it. “I should probably tell you—”
She covered my mouth with her hand. “Let me guess. You’re in another relationship that’s not going so great, and you’re pretty confused about it.”
My startled blink was answer enough.
“Consider me warned. Now shut up, Detective. You’re ruining the moment.”
I definitely did not want to do that. Which is how—an intense and extended session of sexual acrobatics, and a long bath later—I ended up back outside her apartment, walking toward my Shelby, wondering what the hell I’d just done.
Right before I’d left, I had made a second clunky attempt to tell her about my relationship quandaries. By then, she was several bong hits into a post-sex marijuana high, reclining in the tub where we both had been soaking moments before.
She waved my words off. “Tell it to your life coach.”
“But—”
She cut me off. “But nothing. Look, you’re a few years older than I am. Maybe you’re at that settling-down stage. I’m not. I’m twenty-six, I’ve got a good career going, and I want to experience everything I can. Today, that was you.”
“And if I want to see you again?”
“One day at a time. Now go away, Ten.” She smiled. “Detect something else, okay?”
I got in my car and drove, my mind conjuring that last image of her in the tub, her swells and curves peeking through a blanket of soap bubbles.
Halfway up Topanga, the damp, itchy blanket of guilt descended. I didn’t know whether I was guided to Cielo by divine inspiration or by an unconscious intent to mess up my life. Either way, one thing was clear: I had once again proven that between Heather and me, I was the less mature and more self-destructive romantic partner.
By the time I reached my turnoff, a full-scale Tibetan debate was playing
out in my head, complete with dueling lamas punctuating their points of view with lunging feet and clapping hands. The topic was honesty. “You must discuss your erotic activities with Heather immediately!” CLAP! “No! The Buddha says, practice moderation in all things!” CLAP!
Unfortunately, in this case, moderation was just another excuse for keeping a secret. The interchange had an unsettling effect on my stomach, and little waves of nausea formed and dissolved as I parked the Shelby in the garage.
I started for the house and then stopped abruptly.
Well isn’t that just perfect.
I was face to face with the relentless laws of karma. This being a just and fair universe, my property had once again been burgled. This time, the burglar or burglars had entered by busting the kitchen window on the far side of the deck. So much for my security system.
I groaned, remembering my hasty departure that morning. Even a $6,000 security system isn’t much use if you neglect to activate it.
I walked inside the kitchen, broken glass crunching underfoot. The LED tracker, which I’d left on the kitchen table, was now smashed on the floor, as if in anger. My living room and bedroom were tossed as thoroughly as Sofia’s had been. At least the burglars had been unable to break into my safe.
But the Guard-on system was gone. Both monitors, the electronic brains, all of it. Gone. Where the bedroom monitor used to be, I found a crudely scrawled note:
“¡¡¡Chinga tu!!!”
I was pretty sure what the words meant without calling Carlos to translate.
I heard a low cat-growl from behind my hamper, one of Tank’s emergency hiding places. I ran to him.
“You want to come out? It’s safe now.”
He blinked, staying put.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t blame you.”
I filled Tank’s food and water bowls. He’d surface when he was ready. I stepped onto the deck to check for the infrared cameras. They were gone, too. A swell of rage broadsided me, washing away all other thoughts—of guilt, of pleasure, of truth, of lies.
My phone buzzed. Mike.
“Hey,” I said.
“So, something’s wrong with your Guard-on,” he said. “I can’t seem to …”
“It’s gone,” I said. “Fuckers stole it. I’ll call you later.” I hung up on his sputters of disbelief.
I changed into a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and my black windbreaker, and went out into the evening like a good ninja. I had a plan, and it involved being back at the Culver City warehouse by 8 P.M., when the shift changed for the guardhouse occupants. This time I was doubly armed, with the comforting weight of my Wilson Supergrade in the right-hand pocket of my jacket and an equally comforting wad of $100 bills—removed from the envelope stored inside my safe—in the left-hand pocket of my jeans.
In ancient China, the ruling parties behind the building of the Great Wall made a strategic error that proved to be their downfall. The wall itself was almost impossible to penetrate physically. The guards, however, were not so impenetrable. Human corruptibility proved to be the weak link in the blockade, and invading forces soon learned to use a bag of gold for their opening salvo. Once palms were greased, the guards would cheerfully open the gate to let invading forces through, and emperors would fall.
I parked three blocks away from the warehouse with ten minutes to spare, and hugged the shadows as I made a stealth approach into the alley, then crouched behind the dumpster. I waited patiently, and sure enough, about five minutes before eight, a red pickup truck pulled into the alley. I took a big, slow breath and crept to the back of the truck, stooping low. The driver opened the door and climbed out. In two steps, I had the barrel of the Wilson pressed against his temple. “Freeze and you won’t get hurt.”
“Jesus,” he hissed. He started to turn his head but changed his mind. He was rail thin, with a hawk face and a gray buzz cut. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I want inside the lot,” I replied.
“I can’t do that,” he said.
“Chinga tu,” I whispered.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. What’s your name?”
“Oh. Larry.” I noticed his holstered gun was a Glock.
“You ex-LAPD?”
“Nah. Ex-military. Private, army reserve.” From National Guard to security guard. Well, he wasn’t the first one to take that career route.
I removed the Glock from his belt holster and pocketed it. Lowering my Wilson, I pulled the roll of hundreds out of my jeans pocket. “Look, Larry,” I said. “All I want to do is sneak a quick look inside. Ten minutes, tops.” I peeled off five $100 bills and fanned them one-handed, like playing cards. “Five brand-new Ben Franklins, yours for doing nothing. A non-action.”
“Hell, no,” he said. “I could lose my job.”
I counted out five more hundreds. “A thousand dollars,” I said. “Final offer.”
He considered the bait for all of about two seconds before he bit. “What the hell, I could use the cash. My wife likes to go to the Indian casino.”
I held up my hand. “No explanation needed.”
“Gimme a minute or two, until Vern leaves.”
“No problem,” I said. “I can wait for Vern.”
I gave him one of the hundreds, for incentive, and waved the other nine at him one more time before stepping behind the dumpster. Larry unlocked the small side gate and disappeared inside. A few minutes later Vern ambled out to the alley, securing the padlock behind him. He hitched his pants and climbed into his hatchback. Engine coughing, the car disappeared around the corner.
Larry unlocked the gate a few minutes later and gestured me inside with a single, sharp arm jerk. We stood by the guardhouse.
“Save me some time,” I said. “What’s inside those warehouses?”
His face twitched, as if his nerve endings were frayed. “I get paid to guard, not to stick my nose where it don’t belong,” he said.
“Do you have keys?”
“I got keys.” He scratched the side of his nose with a bony forefinger.
Oh, right.
“Are they worth five hundred dollars?”
I handed him a second bill but flashed four more, which I conspicuously transferred to the on-hold stash.
He passed over a key ring. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes,” I said and ran to the modular trailer, the one I’d seen Mark Goodhue enter. I found that key easily. Once inside, my flashlight illuminated what looked like a standard industrial front office, with metal desks and chairs, and a poster board covered with some sort of complex scheduling grid attached to one wall. There was a tall, locked storage unit in the corner, also metal, but the room itself was empty of computers, filing cabinets, or anything remotely removable. These were careful men. I ran outside and fumbled with the keys until I found one that unlocked the first warehouse. I stepped into a dark cavern and again played my flashlight across the space. A dozen or so identical compact trailers, the size and shape of Airstreams, barely filled one end of the warehouse. The trailers were locked, and even up close I couldn’t see inside. A little metal plaque on the outside of each door announced “Model EOT3.1 GTG Medical Supplies, Inc. Goleta, California.”
I pointed my phone and snapped some pictures.
My beam picked up a row of large, barrel-shaped containers, complete with spigots, like beer kegs, lined against a second wall. “GTG Organic Products: We Bring Clean to You!” I read. Maybe the maids came with their own home-grown cleaning products. Nice vertical manufacturing ploy, but nothing illegal about it.
I locked up and hustled to the second warehouse. I didn’t have much sand left in the hourglass. I let myself inside. Before I’d even switched on my flashlight, my nose told me at least part of what was in the building, and sure enough my light revealed hundreds of neatly-tended marijuana plants in transportable, hydroponic containers. This was more like it. I estimated the street value at a couple of million dollars. I walked to the far end of
the warehouse—and whistled. Stacked rows of portable, industrial shelving housed hundreds of extra-large Ziploc bags bulging with multicolored pills, a megaversion of Sofia’s backpack stash.
I was out of time, but I assumed the third building held much of the same. I had seen enough. I stopped by the shack and gave Larry his money.
“I’ll leave the keys and your gun just outside the gate,” I said.
He pocketed the bills, his smile revealing jagged, stained teeth. “See you around?”
“Probably not, but you never know.”
“You keep bringin’ them hundreds, you can drop by any night you want,” he said.
Somewhere, a Chinese emperor shuddered.
CHAPTER 12
I was famished. On the way home I stopped at a 24-hour deli, and nothing would do but hot pastrami. So much for my brief relapse into vegetarianism. I was at war. I needed my meat. The restaurant was surprisingly busy. I found a stool at the counter, joining half a dozen other exhausted diners hunched over their plates, like crows on a telephone wire. While I waited for my sandwich, I browsed the Internet to see if I could find any information on the Airstream wannabes. I tried a few different variations on the words portable and trailer, but nothing useful came up. I added cleaners and security. Lots of images, none of them relevant. What were those trailers for?
I sat back and thought: bags of prescription painkillers, marijuana plants, a company offshoot providing medical supplies, and a place in Goleta that manufactured portable trailers. I entered a different set of parameters, including the serial number of the first van, and pressed SEARCH.
My eyes widened. I was looking at a mobile operating room, eerily similar to the ones in the warehouse. I moved on to the manufacturer’s website and continued to explore. When I saw how much each unit cost, my blood slowed. They were close to $250,000 each, and various add-ons could drive the cost up to $400,000.
If I was right, and that’s what the warehouse was housing, those guys not only had truck-loads of painkillers, as well as pot but also a portable means of creating the demand for them. Holy cow.
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