“I’d prefer to stand.”
“I’d like you to sit. Please,” he said sternly, as if even this small challenge to his will was annoying to him.
I decided to save my shots and not get into it over trivial bullshit. I picked up the briefcase, which was surprisingly heavy, put it on the floor beside the chair and sat.
“Where are Detectives Broadway and Perry?” I asked.
“For now, let’s stick to you.”
“Alright. What do I have to do with Homeland Security? I’m a homicide detective working a serial murder.”
“There are things going on in this world that would appall even you, and I’m sure you’ve seen your share of atrocities. A life-or-death espionage game is being played in the streets of most major U.S. cities every day. In Los Angeles we have one of the most vigorous contests. Unfortunately, you got mixed up in this because someone in the foreign intelligence community elected to hide a political killing in your grisly serial murder case.”
He crossed to his desk and picked up a blue LAPD folder. I recognized it as a Professional Standards Bureau file with my name on the cover. Under Title 2 of the Police Bill of Rights, that folder, which contained all the complaints ever filed against me, was a confidential document and could only be accessed with my written permission. He set it down without mentioning it, just showing it to me to let me know he could cut right through my wall of rights anytime he chose.
“You are to turn the Andrazack killing over to me, and agree to no longer pursue it. He’s not in your murder case. He was an alien intelligence officer in this country illegally, who also had a high threat assessment rating.”
Virtue seemed to know all about my investigation. I only ID’d Andrazack twelve hours ago, and the identification was supposed to be under a CTB Cone of Silence. I couldn’t help but wonder how he came by his information.
“Mr. Virtue, excuse me, but despite the dead man’s nationality or illegal immigration status, I don’t think my bosses will want this investigation removed from the Fingertip case. It’s certainly possible that he could have stumbled into the wrong place and was targeted by our unsub. Beyond that, the man was murdered in Los Angeles. Shot in the head, mutilated, then dumped into the L.A. River. That certainly makes it a city case. If it’s not going to be worked by LAPD, who’s going to handle it?”
“I will,” he said, and gave me his warm political smile, acting as if he had just decided we were going to be buddies after all.
“You will,” I repeated. “Personally?”
“Well, not personally, but I’ll put someone from the local office of the FBI on it.”
“Excuse me again, sir, but the Bureau doesn’t have jurisdiction. Since this is an L.A. street crime, Homicide Central represents a better option.”
Now he was getting frustrated. “Homeland Security and the FBI will take the case as a matter of national security,” he said flatly.
“I see. Okay, well, then I’ll need to hear that from my supervisor. I can’t just walk away from an active case I’ve been assigned to. Somebody from my division has to give me the nod.”
Virtue had again picked up the blue folder and was tapping that Bad Boy file on his fingertips letting me know what an asshole he thought I was being. “Let me make that call then. Excuse me.”
He turned and walked into an alcove where there was a secure communications hookup. A big black box scrambler sat next to a digital phone. He dialed a number.
While he talked softly into the instrument, I made a little trip over to his I Love Me wall. A mahogany-framed plaque announced his graduation from Princeton. Another frame displayed his graduation diploma from the FBI Academy at Quantico. He’d been in the January class of ’68. I remembered hearing that Virtue was once a Cold War warrior for the FBI. There were fifty or more pictures of R. A. Virtue shaking hands with world leaders, national sports celebrities, actors, and U.S. politicians. I saw shots of him standing with President Jacques Chirac in Paris and with former USSR President Brezshnev in Lenin Square. There was one of him with Jimmy Carter in an African village, surrounded by children with distended bellies. I moved further down the wall where a few big-game shots were displayed. Guys with two-day growths wearing fur-lined vests, smiled vacantly at the camera with large-bore rifles broken open over Pendleton sleeves. All of them were grinning proudly while some freshly slain longhorn sheep or elk looked into camera with that same startled look you find on old people in wedding pictures. In one of these shots I saw a narrow-shouldered man with orange hair. I leaned closer.
Agent Underwood of da motherfucking FBI.
“Okay, your chief and the head of your Detective Bureau, whom I’m told is also your wife, are on the way over,” Virtue said as he reentered the room. “Apparently they want to do this in person so they can get a case transfer form signed for legal reasons. You can wait in the outer office.”
I exited into the waiting room and sat on a chintz sofa, fuming while picking imaginary lint off my jacket. The light blue-and-green furniture in this suite was cool and restful but did little to calm me. After seeing Underwood’s picture this made a little more sense. When I told Agent Orange, my temporary supervisor, about Davide Andrazack, I broke my word to Broadway and Perry. Although he’d pledged to keep it confidential, that lying dickhead had obviously blabbed everything to Virtue or Nix.
A little while later Roger Broadway arrived looking tired and pissed, escorted by his own super-sized steroid case in a black suit. Roger sat in an expensive high-backed wing chair. I started to speak, but he caught my eye and shook his head. Then Emdee Perry joined us.Another huge fed had him in tow.
Perry didn’t sit, choosing instead to look out the window at the lights on Wilshire Boulevard. “These boys are startin’ t’get my tail up,” he muttered softly.
Finally, Chief Filosiani and Alexa arrived with someone in a brown suit who was introduced as George Bryant, from LAPD Legal Affairs. They stopped in the waiting room to make sure we were okay.
I nodded a greeting at Alexa who nodded back. She looked under control, but I knew she was pissed. She’s my wife and I can read the storm warnings. A minute or two later, we were ushered into Virtue’s plush office. Tony introduced Alexa and Bryant, and we all sat on the plush furniture.
“I’d like to know under what authority you detained these detectives working under my command,” Alexa challenged, going right at Virtue the minute everyone was settled. Tony hung back and let her vent.
“I have a situation here,” R. A. Virtue said.
“You’re damn right you do,” she snapped. “These men are not criminals. You can’t kidnap police officers and hold them without cause.”
“You might want to try and contain yourself, Lieutenant Scully,” Virtue said coldly.
“I think she’s right,” Tony said. “You’ve held these men since eight-forty this morning. We didn’t know what happened to them. A major situation alert went down.”
“This involves national security,” Virtue said.
“You can’t just pick up our people and hold them without warrants,” Alexa challenged.
“Our powers are sanctioned by the Homeland Security and Patriot Acts of two-thousand-one,” Virtue countered. “These three men were involved in a sensitive case, and we simply held them as material witnesses until I could get down here and deal with it. Now, do you want to stand around and argue that, or can we get on with the business of this meeting?”
Tony was fuming, but Virtue didn’t seem to mind. “You are to turn loose your fourth Fingertip John Doe murder.”
“Why’s that?” Tony demanded.
“The dead man was, in fact, an Israeli national involved in an act of deadly espionage. The case affects national security and falls directly under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. I’m not asking for your permission, Chief. I’m simply notifying you of what’s going to happen.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he’s still a Fingertip murder,” Tony argued. “What
proof do you have that he’s an Israeli national?”
“This.” Virtue handed over a Homeland Security identity sheet with a picture of Davide Andrazack, his name, and dental records. “Run this dental scan against your dead body for verification, but I’m claiming the case under FISA, USPA, and the U.S. Immigration Act. All your evidence and crime scene materials are to be immediately sent to Agent Nix at the L.A. office of the FBI on Madison.”
“I’m not sure those three acts grant you that authority,” Tony challenged.
“Tell them, Mr. Bryant,” Virtue said, turning to our attorney.
“I’ll have to check the specifics, but if Andrazack was here illegally and involved in espionage, then it’s probably their case,” Bryant said.
“I’ll sign the case transfer document now if you brought one,” Virtue said. “The officers’ cars were sent over to the LAPD motor pool on Flower Street.” Indicating with this piece of housekeeping, that as far as he was concerned, the issue had been settled and the meeting was over.
Ten minutes later the case was transferred and we were standing in front of the Tishman Building. Filosiani waved to his LAPD driver who pulled the chief’s maroon Crown Vic to the curb. Perry, Broadway, Alexa, and I all squeezed into the backseat. Alexa was almost in my lap, it was so crowded. The legal affairs guy, Bryant, was up front with Tony and the driver. It was a full, angry car.
“That was short and sweet,” Alexa said once the car doors were closed.
“When I get fucked, I usually get kissed,” Tony growled.
“What are we really supposed to do?” I asked.
“We give him the case,” Tony said. “I don’t like it any better than you do, but it ain’t like we don’t have enough murders to solve. It’s just that arrogant asshole pisses me off, is all.” Then he turned to the driver. “Get us the hell out of here.”
In the spirit of the moment, the sergeant behind the wheel floored it and laid an unintentional strip of rubber up Wilshire Boulevard.
28
I rode the elevator to the sixth floor with Alexa. She was quiet, still angry. The door opened and we walked the green carpet to her small office. It was a few minutes past 9 P.M. and Ellen was gone. The streetlights below Alexa’s window were rimmed with tiny halos of fog.
“That was certainly a thorough mauling,” she said as she started dropping things into her briefcase, getting ready to go home. “God, Shane, when I couldn’t reach you on your cell or on your MCT or police radio, I almost died. I couldn’t imagine what happened. Ten hours of not knowing…”
I put my arms around her. “Who does that asshole think he is?” she continued. “I’ve got half a mind to file charges of illegal detention.” She rested her head against my chest.
“It’s borderline, babe. Virtue’s got too much political juice. It’s best to wait till his own sense of self-importance lures him all the way over the line and then hit him.”
“I’ve heard he has his eye on the governorship. That he’s arm-twisting Hollywood celebrities and business people into investing in his campaign. He’s already got a website. After he’s governor, I’ve heard he even has plans for the presidency.” She shuddered. “Just what this country needs, another self-serving power junkie in the White House. God help us.”
I held her until she calmed down.
“Listen, Alexa, one thing did come out of all this that we need to pay some attention to.”
“If it has to do with this case, forget it. We’ve been ordered to hand it over to the FBI.” She pulled away from me and continued angrily slamming files into her briefcase.
“Someone in foreign intelligence popped Davide Andrazack and made it look like a Fingertip killing. Somehow, that shooter knew to carve the correct symbol on his chest. I find that very troubling.”
She stopped packing up and turned to face me. “You’re right. How did they know about that?”
I ran through what Broadway and Perry had told me about how there might be a bug, or a computer scan on CTB. I also shared my suspicion that maybe the leak went further than that.
When I finished, Alexa’s brow was furrowed and her mouth pulled down into a scowl.
“I think we need to get someone from the Computer Support Division to sweep this place. Start with CTB and move to our main crime computers. Don’t forget the ME’s office.”
She nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll get right on it.”
“I’m gonna go down and check on my messages. I’ll meet you at home in an hour.”
The task force on three was still humming. It had progressed remarkably since this morning. Nobody seemed to miss me much. The detectives were all settled in. A chair with a broken back was pushed up to my desk. The phones were hooked up and I had been assigned extension 86. Someone’s idea of a joke?
Word had already reached the cubes that John Doe Number Four was being yanked out of the serial case. It was officially logged as a copycat and was being worked by Justice. I got a few smug looks. I was back in the shallow end with the rest of the kiddies, my early lead eviscerated. Nobody wanted to be my secret partner anymore.
I sat at my desk, picked up the phone and tried the Queen of Angels Hospital. I was told that Dr. Pepper had gone home for the day and that Zack was resting and not receiving calls. I knew that after nine in the evening they had a phone cut-off but the woman on the switchboard made it sound like Zack had made a choice.
I listened to my voice mail. Some were callbacks on old cases, a few were people asking about Zack, and one was from a CSI criminalist in ballistics named Karen Wise who said that she had a report on the 5.45 slug we’d pulled out of Andrazack’s head.
Since that wasn’t my case anymore, I was tempted to e-mail her to contact Kersey Nix at the FBI, but curiosity got the better of me, and I dialed her number.
“CSI,” someone answered at the Raymond Street complex.
“Detective Scully, Homicide,” I said. “I’m looking for Karen Wise.”
“She went home. If it’s about an active case, I can connect you to her residence.”
“Please.”
I waited, and then a girl with a sexy voice came on the line. She had one of those low, fractured contraltos, that gets your fantasies boiling.
“Shane Scully,” I said. “You called about my slug. Get anything?”
“We got a cold hit on an open homicide from the mid-nineties,” she said, referring to a situation where a bullet or cartridge from one crime had striations or pin impressions that matched it to a bullet in what seemed like a totally unrelated crime.
My interest picked up at warp speed. “Wait a minute while I get a pencil.”
I looked in my battered gray desk. Nothing in my pencil drawer but bent paper clips and dust, so I stole the supplies from a neighbor, then sat down again and snatched up the phone. “Okay, go.”
“The striations on the slug from homicide victim HM-twenty-eight-oh-five, line up perfectly with the striations on a bullet that killed a man named Martin Kobb, in June of ’ninety-five. Kobb was shot in the parking lot behind a Russian specialty market on Fairfax in West Hollywood. The case was never solved. What makes this even more provocative is Marty Kobb was an off-duty LAPD patrol officer working a basic car in Rampart. He was in plainclothes on his way home when he entered the market and interrupted a burglary in progress. Looks like he just stumbled into it, pulled his off-duty piece, chased the robber into the parking lot, and got shot with the five-point-four-five slug.”
“A burglary and not a robbery?” I asked.
“According to the case notes, the perp was rifling through the cash register while the owner was in the back. Since it wasn’t a stickup, it was technically classified as a burglary that turned into a one-eighty-seven.”
“Sounds like you have the case file there with you.”
“I thought you’d want it, so I had Records send me a copy. I brought it home in case you called.”
“Thanks, Karen. Now listen, because this is very i
mportant. Tell nobody about this cold hit. I don’t care where the request comes from—how high up. If someone asks, just refer them to me.”
“Why? What is this?
“Trouble,” I said. I gave her the fax number for Homicide Special and asked her to fax the file to me immediately.
“I can e-mail it.”
“No computers. Send me a fax.”
I raced up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. When I got to the Xerox room the fax was already coming through. I plucked it out of the tray and carried it over to my old desk. The summary was just as Karen Wise reported. In June of ’95, Martin Kobb, an off-duty patrol officer, walked into a Russian specialty market on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax and interrupted a burglary in progress. There were no witnesses to identify the shooter because the store-owner was in the back supervising a delivery of vegetables, and the robber had simply been emptying the register when Kobb came in. He chased the suspect out to the parking lot and the burglar dumped him with a 5.45 slug. Now, ten years later, the bullet in his death matched up perfectly to the striations on the one we dug out of Davide Andrazack’s head five days ago.
29
The FBI had called Red’s Roadside Towing to haul our cars to the main police garage on Flower. I ran into Roger Broadway as we each forked over forty-five dollars to buy our cars back.
Broadway dug into his wallet and complained, “This rusting piece-a-shit Fairlane ain’t worth forty-five bucks.” He paid the civilian working the police garage who had fronted the money to the tow operator.
“It’s a motor pool car. At least you can expense it. I’m probably stuck ’cause this is my personal vehicle,” I said, as I handed over my cash.
He was about to get into the tan Ford, when I stopped him. “Hey, Rog, you don’t think maybe there might be a tracking device or something on that old beater?”
He frowned.
“Because I keep wondering how those FBI guys knew where we were to run us off the road this morning.”
“Damn good point,” he said.
We went over the undercarriages of both vehicles with a mirror on a pole that the police garage used to check for bombs. We found a miniaturized transmitter attached by a magnet to the left rear fender wall of Broadway’s Fairlane and pulled it off.
Cold Hit Page 14