by Tyler Dilts
“Eat the rich,” she said.
I rang the bell again. Thirty seconds later, a shadow moved across the frosted-glass inset in the door.
“Who’s there?” the dark shape asked.
“Police.” Jen and I held up our badges.
The door opened three inches, and a nervous blue eye peeked out over the safety chain.
“We’re looking for Daryl Waxler,” Jen said.
The door closed enough to allow the person inside to unfasten the chain and then opened again. “That’s me. I’m Daryl. Everybody calls me D.J., though.” D.J. was tall with shaggy blond hair. A blue, pigment-dyed tank top and baggy, knee-length shorts hung on his lanky frame. He shuffled his bare feet on an expensive-looking rug. “Is this about the accident the other night?” His eyes darted back and forth from Jen to me.
“What accident?” I asked.
His mouth hung open for a moment as he realized that he had spoken too soon. Jen let him off the hook. “What’s the D.J. stand for? Daryl Jr.?”
“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight back and forth.
“It’s okay, D.J.,” Jen said. “We’re not interested in the accident. Can we come in?” He exhaled audibly, and his posture unraveled into a comfortable slouch. Taking a step back, he ushered us into the foyer. Twelve feet behind him, on the far wall, a full-length mirror reflected our images. To the right, a short hallway led into the kitchen. Straight ahead was the sunken and very large living room. He leaned on the edge of the open door.
“Actually,” I said, “we’re looking for your father. We need to ask him a few questions. Is he home?”
D.J. looked down at the rug on the polished hardwood floor. “No, he’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Jen asked.
“Tuesday.”
“Not until then?” Jen looked at me in the mirror.
“No,” he said, “Dad’s at some conference in San Diego. One of his consulting things.”
“When did he leave?” she asked.
“Thursday morning.”
“Did you know a woman named Elizabeth Williams?” I asked.
“Elizabeth? No, I don’t…wait, you mean Beth? My dad’s girlfriend?”
Jen raised an eyebrow at me. “Is he still seeing her?” she asked him.
“Well, no,” he said. “I guess it’s more like she’s his ex-girlfriend.” He looked at Jen, then at me, then back at Jen. “Is she all right?”
“That’s what we need to talk to your dad about,” I said. “Do you have a bathroom I could use?”
“Sure,” he said. “You can use mine. Just go through the kitchen and into the hall. It’s the first door on the left.”
As I walked through the kitchen, I heard Jen speaking behind me. “So,” she said, “do you go to Palos Verdes High?”
“I graduated last spring,” D.J. said, deepening his voice. That’ll impress her, I thought. The Waxler kitchen, on the other hand, was impressive even to me. The space was at least twenty by twenty, with three walls taken up by vast expanses of stainless steel, oak, and polished granite. The fourth wall, except for a freestanding island equipped with stools on three sides, was open to a coastline view that stretched all the way to the north end of Santa Monica Bay.
I walked through the kitchen and, following D.J.’s directions, found myself in a similarly oversized bathroom. Tiled all around, with double sinks and separate tub and shower stalls, it was nearly as big as my bedroom. The only things that made the room even moderately tolerable was the crust of dried toothpaste in one sink and the overflowing dirty-clothes hamper next to a second open door.
Instead of relieving myself, I poked my head into D.J.’s room. Furnished in late modern-teenage-boy, the mess was at least consistent—dirty clothes draped over anything drapable, a skateboard upside down and three feet from the nearest wall, a helmet another two feet away from that, a single dirty sock in the middle of a king-sized pillow. Hanging over the unmade bed, two posters shared the wall. In the first, Samuel L. Jackson glared out at me in full SWAT gear, looking at once exponentially cooler and more menacing than Steve Forrest ever could have imagined. The second poster was from the LA County Coroner’s Office gift shop—a white victim outline on a black background over the words “Got Death?” The logo had been a huge hit for the coroner—especially among homicide crews—until the milk people sent a cease-and-desist letter to the county supervisor’s office last year.
In the corner of the room was a large, L-shaped computer desk, on which was perched what I assumed to be the latest big-screen titanium Apple notebook computer. The power was on, and a cartoon Japanese swordsman spun in choppy circles across the screen, in front of the name “Samurai Jack,” which was displayed in a font designed to mimic the brushstrokes of Japanese calligraphy.
But the bookshelf next to the desk was what really caught my attention. A familiar-looking spine jumped out at me from the top shelf. I moved in closer and saw a textbook I remembered from both my college and academy days. Criminal Investigation. I scanned the rest of the titles. The top shelf was full of academic texts on criminal justice, recognizable to just about anyone who’d majored in the subject and probably to just about anyone who’d ever been through a major city’s police academy: Practical Homicide Investigation, Criminalistics: An Introduction to Forensic Science, Techniques of Crime Scene Investigation, The Forensic Casebook. D.J. had more cop books than most cops I knew. On the lower shelves, he had a section devoted to true crime, and below that crime fiction. He seemed particularly fond of James Ellroy, Elmore Leonard, and Richard Stark. D.J. was into the cops and robbers.
I didn’t want to take too long, so I went back into the bathroom, relieved myself, washed my hands, and headed back out to join Jen and D.J. The foyer was empty. They had retired to the living room, where they were sharing the leather sofa.
“Hey, Danny,” Jen said as I took the two steps down into the room. “D.J.’s going to major in criminal justice at Long Beach State next semester.”
He smiled sheepishly at me, as if he was used to people frowning upon his chosen career path. “My alma mater,” I said.
“That’s what I told him.”
I looked at D.J. “It’s a top-notch program. I made detective less than four years after I graduated.”
“Really?” he asked.
“You want to be a detective?” I asked.
“Yes sir, I do.”
“I think that’s great. Don’t get too many kids from Palos Verdes signing up for police work.” Law school, maybe, I thought, and for the very civic-minded, maybe a three-year stint in the district attorney’s office before moving into the private sector. Not many of the locals even enroll at Long Beach State, for that matter. The ones who don’t make it to the Ivy League or to the University of California usually have their parents buy them a nice private-college education. That’s how USC earned its nickname, University of Spoiled Children.
Jen stood up, and D.J. rose in response. “We should get moving,” she said. He walked us to the door and out onto the porch.
“Thanks, D.J.,” Jen said, handing him a business card. “Ask your dad to give us a call when he comes home, okay?” She shook his hand and held it just a second or two longer than she should have.
“Sure,” he said.
I nodded at him. “Have a nice day.”
After a moment’s pause, in which his gaze drifted from me to Jen and back again, he smiled at us and replied, “You too.”
Walking back down the tiled path, I waited for the heavy sound of the closing door but didn’t hear it. When we were a safe distance away, I whispered, “He’s watching us.” I turned my head just enough to see Jen nod. As we drove toward the gate, Jen said, “What do you make of that?”
“Him watching?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing,” I said. “But I think you’ve got yourself another groupie. Seems like a nice kid.”
Jen caught my eyes in the rearview mirror. “
So,” she said, a bit of hardness in her voice, “I guess Waxler’s alibied for Friday night.”
“Won’t hurt to check it out,” I said.
“What is that?” she asked. “Strike three?”
“Couldn’t say. I’m not big on baseball metaphors.”
On our way back, we stopped for lunch at Ruby’s, a retro-themed restaurant franchise on the ground floor of The Shops at Palos Verdes. Several years before, I’d worked a murder on a joint task force with the LA County Sheriff’s Department. Then, The Shops had been simply an upscale suburban shopping mall. Since then, though, someone with a lot of money decided that traditional enclosed malls weren’t the rage anymore and ripped the top off the place. They covered the walls in beige-pink stucco, planted a few trees and little patches of grass, and—presto change-o—the mall was now a trendy open-air shopping plaza. But the ivy-covered hillside behind the four-level parking structure remained unchanged, and the memory of a thirteen-year-old boy named Jesus Rojas, whose body had been found there, still seemed to hang in the air. I wondered if anyone else noticed it.
Jen needed a restroom, so while I waited, I killed time by wandering along and looking in the shop windows. I paused in front of a jewelry store’s display of men’s watches. The Seiko on my wrist had seen better days—the crystal was scratched, the bezel nicked and dinged, the stainless-and-gold finish of the band worn to a dull sheen, and the batteries seemed to wear out quicker and quicker. After nearly eleven years of almost constant wear, it was probably due for retirement. But it had been a gift. Megan had given it to me to celebrate my college graduation.
“Finally buying a new watch?” Jen asked. I’d never told her where I’d gotten the old one.
“Nah, just looking.”
Ruby’s was on the ground floor, next to an ice-skating rink, and both had survived the mall’s scalping relatively intact. Jen and I sat down among the Sunday afternoon crowd of angst-ridden teens and trophy wives, who gazed out at their daughters on the ice with Olympic ambition in their eyes. I ordered a cheeseburger and a vanilla malt. Jen had a chicken sandwich and iced tea.
“How’s your brother?” I asked between french fries.
“Got his MCAT scores back.”
“Yeah? How’d he do?”
“Better than he expected. Ninety-eighth percentile.”
“That as good as it sounds?”
“Yeah,” she said. “With those scores and his grades, he can go to med school pretty much anywhere he wants.”
“Your folks must be proud.”
“They are.” She was watching a dark-haired girl of about twelve spinning in place on the ice.
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’m proud too.”
“Johnny’s a good kid,” I said. “He’s worked hard. He deserves this.”
The girl on the ice jumped and spun in the air. “I used to skate,” Jen said.
“I didn’t know that.”
She looked back at me and took a drink of her tea. “Danny,” she said, “there’s a lot you don’t know.” I wasn’t sure how to take that.
Back in the car, Jen dialed a number on her cell. “Hello. Can I speak to Rudy, please?” She didn’t get the answer she was hoping for. “He’s not? Is this Michelle? Hi, this is Sensei Jen. Do you remember me? We met when Rudy took the test for his green belt.” She gave the girl on the other end a moment to process the information. “Yes, that’s right.” She smiled at something she heard. “I’m fine. How are you? That’s good. Would you ask Rudy to call me as soon as he can?” Jen asked the girl to write down her phone number and then made sure the girl repeated it back to her correctly. Then she thanked her and hung up.
“He still hasn’t been to class, huh?”
“Nope.”
“He’s how old?”
“Seventeen.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s doing bad,” I said, more out of blind hope than confidence. I didn’t want to see Jen hurt again.
She started the car and backed out of the parking spot without answering.
“Damn it,” Ruiz said. “Where’s Dave?” Marty hunched his shoulders. Jen and I looked down at our laps. The plan had been for the four of us to meet in the lieutenant’s office and fill him in before we all headed upstairs to sit down with the rest of the task force. Dave was nowhere to be found.
“Marty?” Ruiz asked, his black copstache curling with his lip.
“Don’t look at me,” Marty said, raising his hands from his lap with his palms held outward. “I’m his partner, not his mother.” He was trying to stay calm, but I could see the tension in the clench of his jaw.
“I’ve had it,” Ruiz said. “If he doesn’t get his shit together, I’m going to take—”
The door opened, and Dave came in with a broad grin on his face and a thick file folder in his hands.
“Where the hell you been?” Ruiz stood behind his desk.
“What?” Dave stopped just inside the door. He looked confused.
“You’re fifteen minutes late, Dave.” The Texas inflections were creeping back into the lieutenant’s voice.
“Sorry, Boss.” Dave began to lift the folder as if he wanted Ruiz to look at it. “But you’ve got to—”
“I don’t want to hear any of your excuses.”
“Look, if you’ll just—”
“I’m sick and tired of this. You’re a disgrace. You disrespect me. You disrespect the squad. You should be ashamed of yourself, you—”
Dave threw the file folder like a Frisbee into Ruiz’s chest. It bounced off, and papers scattered all over the desk and floor. “ViCAP came back with a hit,” Dave said. “A matching MO. I was running it down with Organized Crimes. It’s all in the file.” He slammed the door behind him on his way out.
Ruiz grunted and looked down at the mess of papers. He shook his head and stood there, ignoring us. After half a dozen deep breaths, he put his hand in his pocket, jingled some change, and walked out without a word.
The rest of us sat there in silence. I watched the brass hands on the clock behind Ruiz’s desk circle the faux-marble dial. A small engraved plaque on the base read “Compliments of Ocean Crest Credit Union.” After a minute and seventeen seconds, Jen spoke.
“They say it might rain tonight,” she said.
“Yeah?” Marty said.
“I think it was a thirty percent chance.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Twenty-four seconds of silence.
“I like the rain,” Marty said.
“Me too,” she said.
Thirty-eight seconds.
“How long do we wait?” I asked.
“Supposed to be upstairs in ten minutes,” Jen said. “Should we pick up the papers?”
“It’s not our file,” Marty said.
“Well,” I said, “since procedure already seems to be deteriorating…”
Jen went for the papers on the floor around the far end of the desk, I took the near end, and Marty started gathering the pages that had landed on top of the desk. When we’d put together three neat piles and were sorting through them, the door opened, and Dave poked his head in.
“The lieutenant wants us all upstairs.” He looked at us trying to make sense out of the mess of papers in our hands. Ruiz had managed to turn the heat down, but the anger still burned behind his eyes. “What are you doing with my file?”
Ten minutes later, the task force was assembled in the conference room. Deputy Chief Baxter was the only absentee. None of us was knocking ourselves out to track him down. The lieutenant and Dave were all pleasant smiles, buddy-buddy, but if you looked close, you could see the residual anger in the tightness of Dave’s neck, the tension in Ruiz’s jaw, the way they refused to make eye contact.
“We may have a break,” Ruiz said. Immediately the table quieted. “Dave came up with a hit through ViCAP. I’ll let him fill you in.”
“Just got this a few minutes ago,” Dave said, “so no copies on any of t
his yet. Here’s what we got. Guy named—shit, how do you say this?” He paused and looked down at his notes. “Yev…uh…Yevgeny Tropov? Something like that. Two years ago, Seattle police find a woman hacked up, just like our teacher. They get lucky, though. A witness spots a car, traces to this Tropov.
“Further investigation yields some matching fiber evidence. They think they got a case, right? Turns out this guy’s a big-time button man for the Russian mob. The dead woman’s the wife of some petty bureaucrat, a city commissioner or something, who’s been on the take with the Russians and wants out. Now, the city guy and his wife have been trying for years to have a baby, and she’s finally managed to get herself knocked up. They’re all happy and shit, right? So this is why the guy wants out—so he can make a clean start with the new family and live happily ever after. The Russians, though, they have other ideas. They send Tropov to make an object lesson out of the wife. He takes a machete and goes to town. Chops out her womb, baby and all.”
One of the guys from Missing Persons whispered, “Jesus,” looking down at the table.
“That’s not all,” Dave went on. “The clincher is Tropov’s a local now. Been working out of Long Beach Harbor. Organized Crime spotted him two months ago working with a smuggling crew they’re trying to nail.”
“If Seattle had a case,” Jen asked, “why didn’t they put him away?”
“The Russians play hardball,” Ruiz said. “First the witness disappeared, then one of the jurors. Wound up in a mistrial, and without the witness, the DA didn’t have enough to refile the case.”
Everyone at the table turned toward Kincaid. Cops always blame the lawyers. We can’t seem to help it.
“So what’s our next move?” Marty asked.
“Pick him up,” Ruiz said.