We stood for a moment, taking in the pungent garlicky odor that clung to the drapes and was mixing badly with the slight copper-sweet smell of Lita’s blood and decaying brain tissue.
I saw a uniformed sergeant pull up in a department slick-back. He was holding a yellow sheet, which I knew was our search warrant.
“Better glove up,” I said. Both Hitch and I pulled latex packs out of our jacket pockets and put them on.
Then a CSI van pulled up, followed by the ME’s wagon. We went outside to meet them. Once they were gathered around us on the porch, Hitch, Laguna, and I began organizing the investigation, starting by turning the house over to the videographer so he could document the crime scene. CSI and the MEs would then take over, working the body, dusting for prints, and looking for shoe impressions inside and out.
The cameraman went in alone and started doing his walk-through. After he was finished, the evidence retrieval team from CSI began to scan of the kitchen floor. We’d asked them for an electrostatic dust print lift, so one of them pulled metallic film sheets from a case and a metal ground plane to create a static charge on the lifting mat. This caused any dust prints below the mat to bond to the film surface, making a precise mirror image of the print on the film mat. They picked up half a dozen shoe sole patterns. Once they were finished securing floor prints, they waved us in.
Hitch checked the sink. It was empty, but there were a lot of pots and pans in the dishwasher. They’d already gone through the cycle, so there was no telling what she’d been cooking. The coroner would have to provide that for us with a stomach content analysis.
While CSI and the ME continued to work, Hitch and I went back outside and walked up the driveway in a cold wind that was made crisp with the promise of an incoming storm. We checked the garage and found a red ’94 Chevy Caprice parked inside.
“We gotta get this towed to Cal State,” I said. “Get Forensics to go through it.”
Hitch made the note, then looked up. “Nix Nash is going to be all over this,” he observed.
“I know.”
“He’s gonna make us look like douche bags on national TV.”
“Yeah.”
“We should pull the pin, Shane. Pitch this one back and put in our papers before this guy is leading a five-man camera crew around in our assholes.”
“Probably good advice, but I’m not somebody who likes getting chased off.”
I looked down and noticed a paper coffee cup in the dead bushes on the edge of the property beside the driveway. It was right where the driver’s side door would be if you’d parked there. I looked closer and saw that it was a paper vending-machine cup with a delicate brown floral ring design just under the lip of the cardboard circumference. It was a fairly recent discard, because there was still some wet coffee residue in the bottom that hadn’t evaporated.
One of the crime scene techs was just walking up to the porch carrying an equipment case from her vehicle.
“Excuse me.” I asked her, “Could you collect this paper coffee cup for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then check with Patrol and make sure none of them dropped it. If it’s not theirs, try and get me a DNA scan off the rim and a coffee content analysis.”
“Okay,” she said, and went back to the CSI truck, returning a few seconds later with a clear plastic evidence bag and forceps.
She picked up the cup carefully and deposited it into the bag, then walked down to show it to the sergeant in charge of the Hollenbeck Division, who had delivered the search warrant. He was now helping Detective Becker supervise the neighborhood canvass by his patrol officers.
My phone rang and I looked down at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. It was a 626 area code. That’s somewhere in the East Valley, I think. I picked it up.
“Is this Detective Scully?” a man’s voice asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Nixon Nash. I’m about a block away in your media control area. I understand you’re the lead detective. I thought we should have a chat.”
“How did you get my name and this number?”
“I have contacts,” he said noncommittally.
“You mean you have a spy inside the police department?”
“Let’s not bicker. I’ve got some information that might advance your case.”
Then we were both silent, listening to each other breathe.
“I’m only a few blocks away. I can help you,” he prodded.
“I’ve seen your show, Mr. Nash. My guess is nothing involving you is going to help me.”
“Geez, that’s kinda rough,” he said as if he hadn’t been trashing cops on TV for the last two years. “If you’re talking about those detectives in Georgia last season, they completely botched it. I’m trying to help the police, not hurt them. How does a bad murder investigation help law enforcement?”
“I’m pretty busy right now,” I hedged, not wanting to get sucked in by this guy like those cops in Atlanta.
“I discovered a witness who can help determine motive. I already know Lolita Mendez is the victim. That’s gotta be a hot grounder for you guys. How ’bout you and me put our heads together and solve this thing?” I could hear a smile in his voice.
“Just a minute.” I put him on hold and looked at Hitch. “It’s Nash. He knows the vic is Lita Mendez. He says he has a witness who can supply motive.”
“Don’t swallow that hook,” Hitch said.
“You stay here. There should be a patrolman on the curb with a crime scene attendance log. Get somebody out there and keep this going. I’ll go see what he’s got.”
“What he’s got is your pension and a box of matches,” Hitch warned.
I gave him one of my goofy funny smiles and punched up the call again. “I’m on my way over,” I said.
“Of course you are,” Nash replied arrogantly.
CHAPTER
5
The media control area was located a block to the west of the crime scene across from the Evergreen Cemetery on Sloan Street. I found Nix Nash standing at the back of his van in the middle of a circle of ten production people. He was a slightly plump, relatively short thirty-five-year-old man about five feet, seven inches tall. He had blue eyes and a cherubic face framed by teased blond salon-highlighted hair. His clipped moustache was the standard Errol Flynn, darkened a few shades to give it presence.
When he saw me approaching, his circle of peeps and sycophants parted and he walked out majestically to greet me like a star emerging from behind a curtain. He was smiling warmly as he extended his hand.
“Gee, Detective Scully, this is really great,” he gushed. “I’m Nix Nash. What a total pleasure to meet you.” Napoleonic insincerity.
We shook hands and before I could reply he went on: “I can imagine what you probably already think about me, but please be assured that all I want here is to help catch this killer.”
There was a warm likability about him. A charisma that I didn’t trust for a minute, because most accomplished performers can affect it. He took a step back and bowed his head in a gesture of theatrical humility. When he looked up, his expression had become contrite.
“Please give me a chance to be your colleague on this,” he said earnestly. “Let me show you what I can do before you judge me.”
“You said you have a witness who will advance my murder investigation?” I said, sticking to my mission.
“I do. I surely do.” Then he shook his head in mock amusement. “Damnedest thing, how this keeps happening to me of late. How my fans recognize me from the show or because they’ve read my book. They’re interested in the good work I’m doing and simply want to help out. This particular fan saw me setting up, walked right over, and volunteered some amazing stuff.”
There must have been more than half a dozen personal pronouns in that statement.
“People feel helpless today,” he went on. “Government is too big, justice too scary; people just want a chance to get back in the game.
” Then his smile widened. “I’m certainly not kidding myself that you’re glad I showed up here, but here’s something you need to know, Shane.” He paused. “Can I call you Shane?”
I shrugged.
“You need to understand that I’m a man of integrity. If you’re cool, then I’m gonna be cool. I like to say any cop who does his job right has not one thing to fear from Nix Nash.”
He was still overdosing on personal pronouns and had just added one third-person reference. This guy was really high on himself.
“Where’s the witness?” I asked.
“In the van.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Backgrounding with my producer, Laura.”
“Backgrounding? What’s backgrounding?”
“Fact-checking, getting corroboration on some of the things he just told us during our taped interview.”
“You’ve already interviewed my witness?”
I was starting to get pissed, and obviously that annoyance had leaked into my tone, because he said, “There’s no reason to be alarmed. For the love of Mike, I’m only trying to help move this along.”
“Well, you’re not helping. If he’s a witness in a murder, and if you’ve interviewed him before the police, then you’ve contaminated him. You’ve put a statement on film that could contain falsehoods. That’s going to make it much harder for me to get to the real truth, because he’s already locked in by what he just told you on camera. The fact that you went ahead without checking with us constitutes obstruction of justice.”
I was trying to back him off with that, but it didn’t work, because he quickly turned to the group of people standing behind his van and called out, “Marcia, could you help us out over here for a moment, please?”
An extremely attractive middle-aged blonde wearing a tailored pinstripe pantsuit broke away from the others and walked toward us. I immediately recognized her from her time as a prosecutor here in L.A. Her name was Marcia Breen and I’d worked one case with her in the nineties. It was before I’d met Alexa. Marcia and I had actually gone out a few times when she was in the DA’s office. A few years after our short romance, Marcia had blown a high-profile murder prosecution. That loss had caused a media feeding frenzy and our politically astute DA had scapegoated Marcia, dumping her from the division to save his own ass.
After that she left town and I’d lost track but wasn’t surprised to see her here, because Nix Nash liked to hire ex-cops and prosecutors like Marcia Breen who’d once been locals to give him additional tentacles into the local power structure. He liked to put these experts on the air as well, and Marcia certainly wouldn’t hurt his ratings, because she was beautiful.
“Hi, Shane,” Marcia said as she approached, a small bemused smile on her chiseled features.
“Is this really your new job, Marcia?” Not bothering to hide my disdain.
“The good news is I’m down to eating my pride one show at a time.” She said this without a trace of rancor.
“Marcia, please confirm my opinion and tell Detective Scully that it’s not obstructing justice for us to interview a volunteering witness,” Nash said.
“That’s right, because he sought us out,” Marcia explained, still favoring me with her smile. “He’s in the Evergreen gang and hates cops. There’s no way he would ever have talked to you to begin with, so nobody obstructed anything. As a matter of fact, we didn’t obstruct; we instructed him to talk with you.”
“This isn’t going to work like it did in Miami and Atlanta,” I said to Nash. “I don’t intend to stand back while you investigate my homicide behind my back. I’ll file so much paper you’ll think you’re in a ticker tape parade.”
“We’ve broken no laws,” Nash said.
“I assume you paid him for the witness interview?” I replied. Since neither Nix nor Marcia denied it, I knew I had guessed right. “If we ever want to use this wit in court, the defense attorney will challenge his statement, calling it paid-for testimony. That violates the statute on dissuasion of evidence.” I was on pretty thin ice with this argument, and from their expressions I could tell we all knew it.
“If you’re talking about Criminal Statute 136.1, that only deals with dissuasion through intimidation,” Marcia said. “But I’m pretty certain you already know that.”
I’d lost that round. Time to move on.
“Why don’t I get back to you later on the legal stuff. So where is he? Produce the witness.”
Nix nodded to a man in a V-TV windbreaker standing a few feet away, who opened the rear door of the production van. A moment later a tough-looking gang-tattooed vato wearing baggy jeans and a Pendleton shirt buttoned at the throat jumped down from inside the van. It was the same guy we’d seen Nash interviewing down the street as we’d pulled up.
“Meet Edwin Chavaria,” Nash said, introducing this obvious thug. “He likes to go by ‘Chava.’ Just to save you the trouble I had Marcia call a friend of hers downtown. We found out that Chava has a criminal record but no outstanding warrants. I’m sure you’ll probably want to run him yourself, but he’s trying to cooperate, so you should cut him some slack.”
Now Nash was explaining my job to me. “Chava,” Nash continued, “Detective Scully is going to ask you some of the same questions we just asked. It’s perfectly safe to cooperate with him as we agreed.” Treating me like a guest at my own party.
The banger didn’t say anything but held my gaze insolently.
“Come with me,” I said. “We’ll talk over there.” I pointed to a spot across the street.
“I ain’t going over there with you. You wanta talk, chota, we talk here or not at all.” He shot Nash a look. That little glance for approval told me they’d agreed to this provision in advance.
Just then, a slender, freckled woman with a mop of curly red hair, dressed in a work shirt, Birkenstocks, and jeans motioned at two cameramen who shifted HD cams up onto their shoulders and started flipping switches. Power lights blinked on. They were hot and rolling.
“I’m not doing my interview as a segment for your show,” I said.
“Can’t say I blame you.” Nash smiled sympathetically. Then he turned to the freckled woman, who seemed to be in charge of the crew. “Laura, we’ve already done our piece with Chava. It’s your call of course, but the police always prefer to conduct their business in private. Whatta ya say?”
The slender woman seemed to consider this as if it were actually her decision and not his, in spite of the fact it was actually mine. Then she motioned the cameras down.
“This is Laura Burke, my producer,” Nix explained. “You’ll get to know her shortly. Laura runs this traveling circus from transpo and equipment rental to music and postproduction. We all do pretty much what Laura wants around here.” Nash was smiling at his no-nonsense producer, who was clocking me with brown Rottweiler eyes. “Go find a nice spot to chat,” Nash suggested. “Why don’t you try the other side of the white van. We’ll wait here.”
Chava shrugged, so I led him off. I wasn’t about to go where Nash instructed, but Chava came to an abrupt halt on the far side of the production van. “This is far enough,” he said. “I don’t gotta do nothin’ you say. If you wanna talk to me, we do it here.”
Since we were out of earshot of Nash and the TV crew I decided to give in on this point and took a digital tape recorder out of my pocket, slated it verbally with the time and date, along with Chava’s full name and address.
Edwin Chavaria’s eyes were alive with anger. I was the hated chota, and he was determined to hold his ground. The big E on the right side of his neck and the two teardrop tattoos under his eyes marked him as an Evergreen street killer.
“Let’s hear it,” I said, holding the tape recorder between us.
He just glowered. I shut off the tape so I wouldn’t record what came next.
“Listen, Chava, I’m nowhere near as good a guy as Nash told you. Actually, I’m sort of a raging shithead. My word is worth nothing. Get me angry and I�
�ll dig up some open paper on you. I don’t care if it’s just an unpaid ticket, I’ll find a way to slam your ass in jail.”
He took a long moment just to let me know he wasn’t worried.
“You should lighten up, malandro,” he finally said, then took a breath and nodded, so I restarted the tape. After a moment, he began slowly telling his story. It sounded rehearsed.
“Last night, me and some a my boys was sittin’ on lawn chairs in the front yard of my cousin’s place over on Savannah Street,” he began. “We was blazin’ up sticks, y’know, gettin’ mellow. Little later, my posse gets up and goes inside for beer and to play videos. I’m sittin’ alone on my chair out there enjoyin’ my mota when this short, really mega-fat chick rolls up inna truck and parks across the street in front a the house where that woman got capped.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t wear no fuckin’ watch. I use my phone and it was inside. Eight, nine, how do I know?” I nodded and he went on. “So this chica gets out, walks up, and bangs on the fuckin’ door with her fist. Even from across the street I can see this is one very pissed-off puta fea. Minute later, that Lita person, she opens up. Next, these two bitches start screamin’ at each other. Shit gets real loud. So loud, I could even hear what they was sayin’ from all the way across the street.”
“Tell me.”
“The fat one screams, ‘I want my motherfuckin’ ceiling fan back!’ and the little one, Lita, she tells her to fuck off and it ain’t her place no more, so it ain’t her fan ’cause it was like an attached fixture or some such shit and goes with the apartment. They screamin’ at each other over this stupid ceiling fan. Nobody about to give nobody no play. Then the short fat bitch grabs the little one an’ they all up in each other’s shit, pullin’ hair and stuff. Lita knees the fat one inna pussy and before she can get upright slams the door in her face. Then the fat one screams, ‘I’ll get you, bitch!’ and waddles back to her truck, revs the engine, and squeals out. That’s it.”
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