34
The Three-Flush Rule
He found her kneeling by the toilet in the bathroom, wearing latex gloves and brushing black granite powder from her field-investigation kit onto the toilet handle with a fine bristle brush. Every detective and patrol officer carried a crime-scene investigation kit in the trunk of his or her car.
“You got gloves?” she asked, glancing back at him, not bothering with a greeting.
“No,” he replied woodenly. Alexa reached into her open kit and pulled out an extra pair. “I’m gonna need a set of elimination prints from you. We’ve also gotta get a set of Chooch’s and Longboard’s from somewhere.”
“Right,” he said, and looked around the bathroom. “You get anything yet?”
“Hard to tell. A lot of this is junk, smudged or overlapped. I got a partial palm off that kitchen chair, where somebody must’ve grabbed it by the back and carried it. I think, from what you described on the phone, the videotaping took place in the center of the living room. They moved the chairs back to the kitchen, but there are fresh indent marks on the living-room carpet. I marked ’em with chalk, so don’t step on ’em. I’m gonna take pictures. I emptied the kitchen trash into a towel in the sink, but I haven’t gotten to it yet.”
Shane moved out of the bathroom and looked at the small living room. “You try the TV?” he called out to her. After a minute she came out of the bathroom with a yellow four-by-five fingerprint identification card in her hand. She leaned down on the dining-room table and labeled a partial print she had just lifted off the toilet flush handle.
“We’ll never get a print run with these,” Alexa said. “They’re mostly partials and smudged. The best we can hope for, if we even catch these perps, is maybe a match on a few of the basic Galton classifieds—maybe connect up on some of these ridge endings. The loops, arches, and whorls are pretty smudged.”
“Chooch used the TV; maybe the remote has a set of his you can use for elimination,” he said.
She took the channel changer, holding it by its side, and started dusting it, dipping the brush into the glass vial of black powder, then softly brushing the fine camel-hair bristles across the remote, looking for graphite residue that would indicate the oil of a fingerprint. She found a few good latents on the underside of the channel-changer, then took the clear tape out of her field kit and lifted the prints, stuck them on the card, and pressed them down, labeling the back of the card, “Channel Changer Right Index and Middle Finger.”
While she worked, Shane moved through the apartment. There were no signs of a struggle, no blood, but lots of dirty black powder. She had been working there for quite a while and had left graphite everywhere—on the doorjamb at shoulder height, where somebody might lean with a palm, against the wall, on the cupboard doors, on the countertops.
Shane put on his latex gloves and began, halfheartedly, poking through the trash collected on the towel lying in the deep kitchen sink. He found a cardboard roll about an inch in diameter and plucked it out, using a pen from his pocket. Then he saw an empty bag of M&M’s. Longboard was an M&M’s freak. He pulled it out as well and took both items back into the living room. He handed the cardboard roll to Alexa. “Looks like the core from the roll of silver duct tape,” he said.
“I saw that, too,” she said. “We can try, but there’s so much gummy shit on it, I doubt we’ll lift anything.” She took the powder and brushed it on the cardboard core, but as predicted, it was too sticky. Powder clung everywhere, turning the core graphite black and revealing nothing.
He told her about Longboard’s candy addiction, so she went to work on the M&M’s wrapper.
“Was there anything on the videotape you can remember that might be helpful?” she asked as she brushed the surface of the wrapper.
“No,” he said. “Except there was a shotgun in the side of the frame…a riot pump. Looked like an Ithaca.”
“Department issue.” She said what he’d been thinking. “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything. If those guys were cops, they wouldn’t leave evidence behind. They were probably all wearing gloves and picked up or flushed everything.”
“Speaking of flushes, did you check the trap in the toilet?” he asked.
“No,” she said, looking up. “I always hate that job, but I guess we oughta give it a try.” She finished with the M&M’s wrapper, lifting three good prints. “We’re gonna need wrenches to get to the toilet trap,” she said.
“I’ll go see the manager.”
“Don’t bring him in here,” she said sharply.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a total idiot,” he snapped back, then went down to the front desk, rang the night bell, and got the manager out of bed.
“Trouble with the toilet,” Shane lied to the bleary-eyed man, who looked as if he hadn’t shaved in two days. Rumpled, tired, and angry, he glowered at Shane from under the harsh light above his desk.
“Shit,” the man said.
“You got a pipe wrench? I used to be a plumber. I can clear it for you.”
The manager looked at him and computed the odds that Shane might break his toilet against the cost of calling a regular plumber. Money won…South of Main Street, it usually did. The manager moved into the back room and returned with a toolbox.
Shane took it up to the third-floor apartment. He closed the door and put on his gloves, then he and Alexa moved to the bathroom and removed the commode. He took off the porcelain top and plugged the flush valve with toilet paper. Then they began to remove the metal elbow from the back of the toilet.
One of the little-known truths about modern plumbing is that it takes at least two, sometimes three flushes to completely get rid of a bowl load. On more than one drug raid, the perps had flushed the dope with the cops coming through the door, not bothering to repeat the procedure, then were shocked to learn that two or three grams of cocaine remained in the water in the elbow and trap. Liquid samples had rolled up more than one drug dealer. The Drug Enforcement teams called it “the Three-Flush Rule.”
They got the elbow off, and toilet water spilled onto the floor. Shane kept from kneeling in it by squatting as he worked. The elbow looked pretty clean, so he went after the trap, which was below the elbow and was there to keep larger obstructions out of the plumbing lines until they dissolved or softened.
“The things one learns in law enforcement,” he muttered as he finally got the trap out and took it to the sink, emptying the four-inch cylinder into the basin. The last thing out was fat, round, and dark brown. It landed on the white porcelain like a turd on a wedding cake. The object had a shiny gold band around it.
“Cigar,” he said triumphantly, picking it up with his latex gloves. It was a three-quarter-smoked panatela. The gold band said DOMINICAN REGAL.
“I think this is what’s commonly called a clue,” she said, smiling. “We have us a cigar smoker.” She was holding out an evidence bag.
He dropped the mushy stogie inside the glassine pouch, then washed his gloved hands.
Five minutes later they had replaced the toilet fixture, taken the living-room crime scene photos, and were sitting on the cigarette-burned sofa, trying to figure it all out.
“There was no forced entry, so Longboard must have just let the guys in. If they were cops, they probably just flashed a potsy,” she said.
“Maybe.” His mind was circling a worrisome thought, but he pushed it aside. “Coy Love told me to go home and wait for two or three days. That means whatever it is they’re worried about, it goes away after that.”
“Makes sense,” she answered.
“He also said to forget about the Long Beach Naval Yard and Mayor Crispin.”
She nodded, but said nothing.
“These guys aren’t gonna turn Longboard and Chooch loose, are they?” he blurted, putting the distressing thought into words. “They’re gonna kill ’em.”
“Probably,” she said. “They’ll hold ’em for leverage in case you get restless, but once this is over, they can�
�t leave a kidnapping charge and two vics on the table.”
“Shit,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve fucked this up so bad. It’s always like…if I knew yesterday what I know today…”
“Shane, I think we need to tell his mother.”
“Yeah. I guess I’ve been putting that off.” He looked at his watch. “It’ll be sunup in an hour. Sandy is having sleepovers with some DEA target. She won’t be there till sometime after eleven. I’m whipped, but I can’t sleep here. How’s your place sound?”
“I got a couch you can use,” she said, then gathered up all of her stuff and stood in the doorway, looking at the dusted room. “If we leave it like this, you’re gonna forfeit your security deposit.”
“Fuck it. Let’s go.”
They closed the door and locked up, heading downstairs. Shane deposited the toolbox behind the counter without ringing the night bell, and they walked out into the street.
“I gotta drop this department car back at the Glass House. I don’t wanna disobey any of their instructions. Follow me, then later we can go to Sandy’s in your car,” Shane suggested.
“My car’s at home. I was with a friend when you called. I had him drop me off here. I figured we’d use your car.”
“Then who owns that plainwrap?” he said, pointing to the gray Crown Vic across the street. “That’s gotta be department issue. No civilian is gonna buy a stripped-down gray sedan with no air and blackwalls.”
They moved across the street and looked through the windshield of the locked car. They could see the telltale wires hanging down under the dash, identifying the recessed police radio.
“Yep,” she said, “but it’s not a detective car. No coffee lids on the dash.”
She was right. Since detectives had to do lots of stakeouts, they drank gallons of coffee. The cars were department-owned, so the cops had no pride of ownership. The common practice was to peel the plastic lids off the Styrofoam Winchell’s cups and throw them up onto the dash. Shane had never been in a detective’s plainwrap that didn’t have half a dozen or more plastic lids up there. If the motor pool ever cleaned the interiors, the old, wet rings from the tops stained the dash and remained behind as a permanent testament to the practice.
“Staff car?” he said hesitantly.
They both walked around the Crown Vic, looking through the windows. It had beem immaculately cleaned. All the cars in the staff motor pool were automatically washed and vacuumed once a day by inner-city gangsters dressed in jailhouse orange.
Alexa took out her cell phone and punched in a number. After a minute she got the Communications Center.
“This is Sergeant Hamilton, serial number 50791. I found one of our plainwraps parked in a bad spot. It’s a 548E,” she said, giving the radio code for a vehicle parked illegally across a driveway. “It should be moved. Could you give me the officer’s name so I can contact him to move it?” She listened, then said, “City plate, DF 453.” Another wait, then, “Thanks,” and she closed the cell, a troubled look on her face.
“Shit, I don’t even want to ask,” he said.
“It’s a Triple-O staff car,” she said.
Triple-O stood for the Office of Operations, which reported directly to the chief of police. Shane remembered that the administrative staff of the Office of Operations contained about five men and women, all captains and above. The office acted as an adviser to the chief of police and exercised line-of-command oversight in all divisions. In short, Operations was Chief Brewer’s right hand.
“It could have been left here because of the movie,” she said hopefully. “Triple-O handles press relations.”
“You packing?” he asked.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Gimme it. Mine’s gone. I’ve been losing guns faster than winos’ teeth.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Break into this thing. I don’t wanna fuck around with the lock, standing on a street corner. Lemme have it.”
She dug her Beretta 9mm out of her purse and handed it to him. He dropped the clip and handed it back, then tromboned the slide to make sure the chamber was clean. He held the automatic by the barrel, looked both ways for potential witnesses, then broke the side window of the car, shattering glass onto the maroon velour upholstery.
“Dominican Regals are expensive smokes,” he said. “I don’t know many line cops who can afford ten-dollar cigars.”
He opened the door, leaned inside, and started rummaging around. The ashtray was clean. He opened the glove box. There were three objects inside: the departmental registration, indicating that the car was indeed the property of the Los Angeles Police Department; an L.A./Long Beach Thomas street guide; and in the back of the compartment a sealed Baggie containing three fresh Dominican Regal cigars.
35
The Courtesy Report
The unofficial notification of a crime to a civilian was known in police work as a courtesy report.
Shane had revealed Sandy Sandoval’s identity to Alexa over breakfast in her neat duplex apartment on Pico, two blocks east of Century City. He had slept fitfully on her living-room couch, and now, marginally refreshed, they left her place and drove across town. It was Saturday morning, and Barrington Plaza loomed, a tower of sunlit granite.
Shane pulled up, and Alexa badged the shoulder-braided bandleader who announced them, then keyed the elevator. Show tunes from the Boston Pops serenaded their arrival at the penthouse level. It was eleven-thirty A.M.
“So this is the famous Black Widow Nest,” Alexa said, looking at the magnificent hallway on the eighteenth floor.
Most of the LAPD knew about her and knew that Shane had once been the Black Widow’s handler, but her real name had been in the possession of only two Special Crimes detective commanders. Shane had deliberated hard before telling Alexa. In the end, it was the fact that Chooch’s life was involved that made the decision for him.
Shane rang the doorbell to Sandy’s penthouse apartment, dreading the job of telling her what had happened. He was sweating, but it was flop sweat, cold and clammy as wet clothing.
The mahogany door opened, and Sandy was standing there in a tailored black sheath that fit her size-four frame like a second skin—skin that was dusky, the color of dark sand; her eyes, golden-brown amber; her long raven tresses swirling around her shoulders with planned abandon. A single strand of pearls dangled with fuck-you elegance. She was dressed to party. She stood in the doorway, a questioning look on her gorgeous face. Then she shot a quick glance at Alexa.
“What is it? This is a terrible time, Shane. I’m bushed, I just got home.”
“Chooch is gone,” Shane said. “He’s been kidnapped.”
“I…I thought you said you had found him,” Sandy finally stammered, her liquid amber eyes losing focus, clouding like a fighter hit too hard.
“He’s been kidnapped, Sandy. By men who are trying to stop an investigation. I’m afraid…” He stopped. “I think by cops,” he finished.
“Cops?!” she said, and involuntarily her hand went up to her mouth.
“This is Sergeant Hamilton. She’s my—” He looked over at Alexa. What exactly was she? His department prosecutor? His only believer? His nemesis? What the hell else was she?
“I’m Shane’s partner,” she said, answering his question and filling the void.
Sandy spun abruptly and headed back into her apartment. Alexa and Shane followed. She walked slowly ahead of them, fluid as a dancer, her hips swaying seductively. Shane would have preferred a more leaden gait. Even in the face of this news, she radiated sexual grace. When she turned and faced them, he saw distress bordering on hysteria in her eyes. Instantly his heart went out to her, and guilt overwhelmed him.
“Why? Where did it happen?” she asked.
“An apartment on Third Street, a safe house I was renting. I guess they followed the sitter over from my place in Venice. I can’t think of any other way they could have found him,” Shane said.
“We aren’t e
xactly sure who,” Alexa said. “But it appears to be high-ranking police officers who are calling the shots.”
“You should go to the chief. Go to Burl. Tell him what you suspect.”
When Alexa hesitated and looked at Shane, Sandy sank down on the sofa. “You’re telling me you think Burl’s—”
“We don’t know exactly who is involved,” Shane said. “But it goes way up. Maybe all the way to the mayor. It involves Logan Hunter, Tony Spivack, and the Long Beach Naval Yard.”
“The ‘why’ is easier to understand. They took Chooch to keep us from continuing an investigation into it,” Alexa said.
Sandy looked down at the white plush pile to hide her devastation.
“Sandy…I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t see it coming. If I could change this, I—”
She waved this away with her slender hand, sat absolutely still for a moment, then looked up. Her expression had hardened, the vulnerability had vanished. “How can I help? There must be something we can do.” He watched in fascination as she tucked the loose strands of panic away, grabbed hold of her plummeting emotions, pulled hard, and darted up quickly, climbing hard, like a kite in a strong wind.
“Do you know any of these girls?” Alexa asked as she reached into her purse and handed over two packets of pictures from the party at the naval yard. Sandy spread them out on the white marble coffee table. She picked up a small antique magnifying glass with a carved ivory handle and examined each picture.
“I know one or two of these girls,” she said, looking at them slowly, studying the shots, separating out the pictures of the two girls she knew. “Scarlet Mackenzie is the red-haired one. This one here—this blonde—changed her name from Gina Augustina to, what the hell was it…Avon Star. Used to have black hair. I think some of these others used to work with Madam Alex until Heidi took over the L.A. market. They all work the executive trade.”
The Tin Collectors Page 24