by Marcia Clark
There was no such thing as too many moves in my book. “Hit me, I’m all ears.”
63
“Unless the shooter found another connection, he’s going to need more guns,” Bailey said. “And we know he called Jax on his cell phone last time—”
“And we got Jax’s cell phone,” I said. Bailey nodded. “Did you book it into evidence yet?”
“Not yet. I was thinking we might want to get a search warrant for it and try to find the call from our shooter.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock, but if we hurried, we could just make it to the jail where Jax was being held. And I had a feeling the jail deputies would stretch visiting hours for us on this case.
“Maybe,” I said. “But it’d be faster to get Jax to give consent and help us narrow down the list of calls.”
“He won’t even say hola unless we give him a deal.”
Which neither of us wanted to do, but time was running out. Now that Logan’s death was public knowledge, the second shooter might start to feel the pressure. And if he was getting nervous that we were about to catch up with him, he’d want to stage his final coup. “What would you rather do? Deal, or be too late to stop another shooting?”
“Fine,” Bailey said. “Let’s go see our cartel thief.”
“My, my. So judgmental. You’ve got Jax’s phone?”
“In my glove box.”
It was a smooth move to keep the phone handy. Since we weren’t worried about lifting prints or DNA, it was a good idea to hang on to that phone—just in case our shooter tried to reconnect with Jax to get more weapons. We left the station and headed for the Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street. It’s the largest county jail in the world. And the epitome of institutional dreariness and misery. As we entered the squat, concrete building, the familiar odor of disinfectant mixed with sweat, urine, and despair made my empty stomach seesaw.
Bailey and I checked our guns, passed through the metal detector, and asked for an attorney room. Unlike the usual setup, with a row of seats and a glass partition with phones, the attorney room is a windowed cube with a table and chairs. It affords sound privacy, but the air barely circulates and the glass walls are always filthy. It makes me feel like a hamster in a cage.
After ten minutes, a room opened up and the deputy escorted us inside. Not long after that, Jax, his wrists chained to his waist and his feet connected by more chain, was escorted in. We’d pulled his rap sheet the night we busted him and found only two arrests, both for possession of cocaine, but no convictions. It was a miraculously clean sheet, all things considered. His lips stretched into a wide grin when he saw us, and it wasn’t because he’d been lonely. Clean sheet or no, Jax was savvy enough to understand that when cops come to visit, it probably means a deal is in the offing.
I got right to the point. “Just so you know the lay of the land, Jax, you’re facing charges for possession and sale of illegal weapons. If you decide to help us out, we can make some of those charges disappear, but not all of them.”
Jax tried to fold his arms across his chest, but the chains wouldn’t stretch that far and his hands fell back to his lap. He leaned back in his chair and looked at us through half-closed eyes, trying to recover some cool. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“I want probation.”
They always do. “Won’t happen, Jax. The guns you sold were just used in two shootings. Lots of people died—”
Jax gave me a hard look. “I don’t believe you.”
“You know better than that,” Bailey said. “We can’t make this shit up. Either the bullets match the guns or they don’t.” Jax set his jaw. “So you didn’t hear about it?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t hear about nothin’. I don’ live in the States.”
“Okay, well there’s no way you’re getting a straight walk,” Bailey said. “To tell you the truth, we’re going to have a hell of a time getting anyone to agree to any kind of deal for you.”
Jax looked from me to Bailey, then blew out a long breath. “Well, I ain’t talking for free.” He rolled his head from side to side, sending out a ripple of impressively loud cracks. “Got arthritis in my neck. Doc says cortisone shots might help me.” He looked from me to Bailey. “I want a prescription. Some physical therapy maybe. And you got to dump some of the charges.”
I shrugged. “We don’t ‘got to’ do anything. We’ve got you by the nuts, Jax. This is your only chance to beat any of the counts.”
Jax worked his jaw from side to side. It cracked too. The man was a mess. “Okay, I’ll deal. But you gotta move my cell. Guy I’m with is a damn junkie who don’ believe in showers. And he passed gas all night long. It’s disgusting.”
I bit down on my cheek again. “I’m pretty sure we can arrange that. Bailey?”
Jax looked at Bailey. Her expression was completely blank. No one could top her poker face. After a few moments, she nodded slowly. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jax gave a short nod. “Okay. What you want?”
Bailey pulled out Jax’s cell phone, which was in a baggie. “I need you to show me which call came from the last guy Shane sent to you.”
“Young güero bought the AKs?”
“Right.” Bailey took the phone out of the baggie and pulled up the list of recent calls. “I’m going to start with the day before yesterday and work backward.”
“It was before that. Day before yesterday I was in Ensenada.”
Bailey nodded. “Yes, Jax, I know. I’m just making sure we don’t miss anything.”
Jax studied the list for a couple of seconds. “Keep going.” Bailey scrolled down the list. When she got to one day before the theater shooting, he told her to stop. Jax pointed to the number at the top of the screen. “I think it’s this one.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Jax frowned and shook his head. “Pretty sure. Thing is, I don’ remember whether it was an eight one eight area code or a nine five one.”
Eight one eight was the San Fernando Valley. Nine five one was Riverside. Unfortunately, there were a bunch of both. “Do you remember what time you got the call?”
“Early. I was staying with mi familia and the little ones get up at like, six o’clock, make a lotta noise. He called before that. And I met him in the daytime. I’m sure about that.”
That would help. Bailey copied the numbers to her phone while I tried to squeeze Jax for a better description of the güero, but the guy had been smart enough to cover up with a hat and sunglasses, and Jax really wasn’t looking.
“Now here’s the deal, Jax,” I said. “We’re going to hang on to this phone. If the guy calls you again looking for more guns, we’re going to need you to set up a meet with him.”
“And we might even have you come,” Bailey said. “You down with that?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I guess.”
I signaled that we were finished. As the deputy stood him up, Jax looked at us. “Wait…this guy, who’d he kill?”
I nodded. “High school kids. A lot of them. And some people at a theater.”
“Kids? He killed kids?” With a disgusted look, he spit out, “Pinche cabrón. Tell you what, you find him, just get him in here. I’ll take care of him.”
Bailey looked at the waiting deputy. “You didn’t hear that.”
He gave her a deliberately blank stare. “Hear what?”
64
It had been a lot of hard-and-fast running in the last forty-eight hours, and by the time we left the jail, Bailey and I were both beat. Plus, I was starving. “I don’t know about you, Keller, but I’m about ready to eat my own hand.”
“Yeah, me too. So let’s make it someplace close. And quiet.”
“Checkers?” The restaurant on the ground level of the downtown Hilton had a peaceful, comfy dining room and great service.
“Sold.”
We pulled up in front of the restaurant in less than ten minutes and scored a table next
to the glassed-in patio. I looked out at the skyline. The night was clear, but the ambient light from all the office buildings shrouded the stars from view.
I picked up the menu. “Think we can risk a glass of wine? I could sure use one.”
“No, but I’m getting one anyway.”
We both ordered the sea scallops with baby bok choy and a glass of white, which we decided felt less alcoholic than red.
I help up my glass. “Here’s to Jax getting a phone call from psycho-boy.” We clinked and sipped.
“Pisses me off about the suicide,” Bailey said.
“Yeah, there’s no satisfaction in it. We can’t get our pound of flesh and we can’t get any answers.” Which was why shrinks usually had to rely on what these shooters left behind. Like the Columbine basement tapes or letters or journals. “We should let Michael and Jenny know.”
“Won’t be any surprise to them.”
True. They’d pegged Logan as suicidal right off the bat.
Bailey continued. “Tomorrow we dig into Evan’s background. His parents have been calling the chief about ten times a day—”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
“Me either. But we’re doing all we can. And I got Nick to do a computer search on Evan’s background since the family bounced around so much.”
“Do we know where he lived before they moved to the Valley a year ago?”
“Yeah, Texas.”
Our dinner arrived, and the delicious aroma brought all conversation to a halt. We didn’t speak again until we had forked up the last of the scallops.
Bailey patted her mouth with the napkin and sighed. “What do you make of that car Jax described?”
An old Chevy junker. “My first guess was Rent-A-Wreck. But even they require a credit card, don’t they?”
“Probably. But we can’t do much without a license plate. Or at least a better description.” Bailey’s cell rang and she looked at the number. “Van Nuys Division.” That was in the San Fernando Valley, but not the west valley, i.e., Woodland Hills. With a puzzled look, she answered the call. “Keller.”
I took out my cell phone and found seven messages, all from the same number, marked urgent. Vanderhorn. I didn’t need to listen to know what they said. Vanderhorn had heard the press release about Logan Jarvis’s death and was on the warpath. I’d have to call in and face the music tomorrow. Bailey sat up in her chair.
“What? When?” she said.
My chest tightened as I watched her make notes on her small pad. I motioned to the waiter that we needed the check. Whatever Bailey was hearing, it wasn’t good.
When she ended the call, I said, “The check’s coming. Do I want to know?”
“No—”
“Tell me it’s not another—”
“Shooting. At the Target on Ventura near De Soto. Three wounded, one dead. So far.”
“Do they have him?”
“No. By the time they called the cops, he was out of there.”
“Any descriptions of the guy? His car?”
“Don’t know yet.”
We could only hope. I paid the check, and we were on the road in less than two minutes.
Bailey flew down the freeway with grim determination, weaving through the last of the evening’s commuters. For both our sakes, I decided not to distract her. And I didn’t have a thought worth sharing anyway. All I could think about was the fact that we were always playing defense, always too late to do anything more than witness the carnage.
When we got to the scene, I saw that this Target was a freestanding building fronted by a huge parking lot. Right now, at least half of the lot seemed to be filled with squad cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. Bailey parked as close as she could, and we jumped out and hurried toward the store. Then it occurred to me that this location should have been considered West Valley. “How come Van Nuys Division called you?”
“Everyone and his brother responded. I’d guess they put Gina on this and she told someone to call me.”
Bailey was right. After she’d badged us past the line of patrol officers holding back the crowd—the curious and the reporters—we found Gina talking to a man in a sport shirt and tie just outside the store. She waved us over. “This is the manager, Enrique Sosa.” Gina pointed to a double row of registers near the front of the store. “Enrique was walking toward the cashiers when it happened.” He was still breathless and sweating in spite of the cold night air.
“Is that where it happened? Near the cashiers?” Bailey asked.
“No, it was in front, just inside the entrance.” He pointed to the three sets of double doors. The area was guarded by another set of officers. Behind them I saw paramedics huddled around a body on the floor. Torn, bloody pants that’d been ripped off the body lay a few feet away. Next to them was a purse, its contents strewn across the floor. “He walked in and just started shooting.”
“Could you see his face?” I asked.
“No, he was wearing a ski mask. One of those kinds with just eyeholes. And he had on a coat, like an Army jacket—what do you call it—”
“Camouflage?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Could you tell how tall he was? Anything about his size?” Bailey asked.
Enrique swallowed and wiped his forehead. “Uh, I think he was kind of tall.” But Enrique wasn’t much taller than me—five feet seven, tops. Most men would seem tall to him.
“Could you show us how much taller than you?” I asked.
“Maybe about this much?” Enrique gestured about three inches above his head. That would make the shooter about five feet ten. “And he looked kind of stocky, I think. Not fat. Just…not thin.”
It was possible the coat made him look bigger than he really was. This type of eyewitness description could be notoriously unreliable. One man’s idea of big was another one’s idea of medium.
“Did he say anything when he was firing the guns?” I asked.
“No. He just started shooting at everyone around him. Then he ran out.”
“Did you see him throw anything down before he ran?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think he dropped the guns.”
“Did you see him do that?” I asked.
He frowned. “No, I guess not, but I heard the police saying that.”
We wrapped up with the manager and stepped away to talk to Gina privately.
“Have they found any decent witnesses?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Gina said. “You might check with Jay Rollins. He took the people in the parking lot.” She pulled out her cell and punched a number. “Hey, Jay, where you at? I’ve got the lead IO here.” She listened, then said, “Okay, I’m sending them over.” Gina ended the call. “I’ve got to stay here and coordinate.” She pointed to a black man in a detective uniform—sports jacket, tie, and slacks—in the parking lot, standing next to an unmarked car. He was talking to a squat woman in a long skirt and hooded parka.
“Thanks, Gina,” Bailey said.
I couldn’t remember when I’d seen Bailey look so miserable, so defeated.
Gina gave her a sympathetic look and slapped her on the back. “Don’t worry, Keller, you’ll get the son of a bitch. You always do.”
We headed for the parking lot. “Yeah,” Bailey muttered under her breath. “The question is, when?”
When we got to him, Jay was still listening to the woman, and she didn’t sound as though she was inclined to be finished any time soon. He nodded in our direction and held up two fingers to let us know he’d wrap it up.
“I mean, it was just a blur,” she said. “But I know I saw a guy running. I know I did.”
From Jay’s expression, I could tell this was probably the fifth time she’d repeated that amazingly unhelpful statement. But there was something about him that told me he was pretty good at dealing with people like her. He couldn’t have been much past his forties, but he had a kind face and a relaxed attitude. Jay let the woman run through it all again, then thanked her and
motioned for us to follow him.
He headed toward a circle of squad cars at the far west side of the parking lot. As we fell in next to him, we exchanged introductions.
“I don’t envy you this one, Detective Keller. But I think I may have the break you were looking for.”
A break. At last. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
65
Jay stopped and pointed to a squad car ten feet away. “We’ve got a witness over there says he saw the guy get into a car. Got the description of the car and the license plate.”
Bailey looked from the car to Jay. “No shit.”
“No shit. He’s—well, I’ll let you see for yourselves. But I think his story’s solid.”
“Someone ran the plate?” Bailey asked.
“Of course. It’s registered to a woman. Angelica Freeman. Address in Canoga Park.”
“What kind of car was it?” I asked. Please let it be an old Chevy.
“Pontiac sedan. Nineteen eighty-six. Our guy said it was a screwed-up junker.”
Close enough. I could feel my heart beat faster. “It wasn’t a stolen?”
“No. But we’re checking on the insurance. Might just be that the woman wasn’t driving it so she didn’t realize it was gone.”
Jay led us to the squad car and pointed to the backseat, where a young man in his twenties was bopping to the sound coming from his earbuds. His shoulder-length brown hair looked like a combed-out Brillo pad, and probably would’ve been flying all over the place if it hadn’t been for the knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows, one of which was pierced. He wore a frayed, dirty-looking blue puffer coat and sneakers that were coming apart where the rubber met the canvas. The overall look told me indoor plumbing wasn’t a regular experience for him. His home address was probably the seven hundred block of Ventura Boulevard.
Jay leaned down and tapped his arm. “Hey, Forest, got a couple more people for you to talk to.”
“Oh, sure thing, Detective!” Forest jumped out of the car, tugged on his cap, and gave us an anxious smile.