Pacific Homicide

by Patricia Smiley

  “What did this wit supposedly see him do?”

  Davie glanced around to make sure there was no one within earshot. “He saw the guy leaving the apartment of a suspected drug dealer whose girlfriend just turned up dead.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Metro Tux signaled for another MGD. Her father pulled a bottle from the refrigerator and slid it down the bar toward him. Then he washed and dried wine glasses until he had six of them lined up on the back counter like soldiers guarding some lonely outpost.

  “I left a message for his talent agent, but I doubt Falcon will get it. I was hoping you could give me advice about how to approach him.”

  He grabbed the pitcher and dipped it in the water. “If he gets a whiff you want to talk to him, especially about drugs, he’ll tell you to go pound sand, or more likely, his lawyer will do it for him.”

  “A woman is dead.”

  “Even more reason to kiss off an interview with the cops.” Her father threw the wet towel in a basket on the floor and pulled a clean one from underneath the counter. “You’re smart enough to figure out how to interview a celebrity. Why are you asking me?”

  “Once a cop, always a cop.”

  “So they say,” he said as he studied her expression. “There’s something else on your mind.”

  She swirled the ice in her glass. “Malcolm Harrington. The mayor just appointed him IG of the Police Commission.”

  Davie was fifteen when Harrington sued her father in civil court for negligence in the on-duty shooting of a local gangbanger. The case was bogus; the jury saw that, but even though they ruled Bear was not liable for damages, the department pressured him to retire. After that everybody took sides. A lot of people abandoned Bear, including her mother and brother and several of his so-called friends in the department. Davie had stood by his side throughout the ordeal, but the stress hadn’t been easy on either of them.

  “I read that in the paper,” he said, drying the pitcher. “The mayor will regret his decision.”

  “Maybe, but that still puts Harrington in charge of my shooting case.”

  “I thought the investigation was closed.”

  “It was but the former IG died before he signed the papers. It’s up to Harrington now. I’m worried. I remember what he did to you.”

  Her father slammed the pitcher on the bar. “You think I forgot? I think about it every damn day. I risked my life for this city for sixteen years. If it weren’t for one cop-hating lawyer named Malcolm Harrington, I’d be collecting my full pension right now instead of working my ass off just to make ends meet.”

  “I know. I was there. Remember?”

  Bear raked his hand through the stubble of his self-inflicted crew cut. “Look, Ace, once he finds out you’re my kid and you were involved in a shooting, he’ll screw you over just like he did me and nobody from the Big Blue Machine will do shit to help you.”

  “I’m going to make a few phone calls. See what I can find out.”

  The clamor of voices had ramped up a couple of notches. Davie heard laughter and the clack of a cue stick slamming a ball across the pool table. She watched her father’s face and saw a subtle shift in his expression.

  “Just watch your back.”

  She nodded and slid off the barstool. “Thanks, Bear. I’ll do that.”

  7

  Just after one a.m., Davie drove her car through the security gates toward her rented guest cottage in Bel-Air, part of the so-called Platinum Triangle that also included Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills.

  At the end of the long driveway she pulled the Camaro into the carport at the back of the house. Gravity propelled her fatigued body out of the car and into a crisp night air filled with the aroma of cedar trees and a silence that only extreme wealth could buy. There was no entrance to the cottage from the back of the house, which she considered a design flaw. Out of habit, she scanned the area before walking around to the arched entryway.

  The cottage was 581 square feet, 449 on the main floor and 132 on the upper floor loft, which had twin dormer windows and was accessed by a spiral staircase. There was one bathroom off the bedroom. That may have been inconvenient for guests but so far, none of her friends had complained.

  A wood bench sat to the right of the front door near a round table and three chairs positioned on the flagstone patio. She opened the door, which was a wood and wrought iron affair that reminded her of a medieval castle.

  Once inside the cottage, she flipped on the Tiffany lamp and dropped her car keys onto the eighteenth-century Chippendale walnut dressing table. A stark watercolor by Andrew Wyeth hung above the table. In it, one leafless windswept tree stood alone in a meadow, its limbs reaching out of the shadows toward a stand of evergreens in the distance, pleading its case. She didn’t know much about art, but she understood loneliness and the harsh landscape never failed to draw her in.

  Her boots made no sound on the hardwood floors as she walked through the small living room, veering left into her bedroom. She set her notebook on an armchair and placed her gun and badge in the top drawer of the bedside table.

  Her father believed Malcolm Harrington would screw her over in some sort of twisted revenge plot, but she had found that people were generally more complex than that. It was possible Harrington had become a decent guy who had forgotten about her family long ago. But until she knew which Malcolm Harrington she was dealing with, she had to remain vigilant.

  Tension constricted her muscles. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, so she decided to go for a swim. Her pantsuit landed in the laundry basket, barely grazing the rim. The outfit was one of three siblings, all black, all size zero, and all machine washable. Her clothes were among the few items in the house that were hers. Everything else belonged to her landlord, Alexander Camden.

  A year ago, Alex had served as an art consultant on one of her cases, shortly after she’d made detective. She’d been working Southeast Division Burglary, investigating a theft from an antiques store. The only item stolen was a rare eighteenth-century French vase, which told Davie the thief had targeted the item. The department’s art unit suggested she contact Alex, who had been helpful to them in the past.

  Using his client list, she located a collector who had been approached by the thief with an offer to sell the vase. Davie set up an undercover sting, recovered the vase, and arrested a former store employee.

  A month later, she called to tell Alex he was being subpoenaed to testify in the case. During the conversation, she mentioned she had to move because her apartment was being converted into a condo. He offered to rent her the guesthouse. It was furnished, which was convenient because she had little furniture of her own and none that was worth keeping. Acquiring things had never been a priority for her.

  In the months since she’d moved in, they had developed a symbiotic relationship. She loved to hear about his travels to exotic places in pursuit of art and antiques for his wealthy clients. He liked that a cop lived in his guesthouse, and he kept the rent low to make sure she stayed.

  Davie slipped a parka over her swimsuit and made her way through the rose garden along the flagstone path toward the pool. Vincent and Leonardo were barking in the distance, which meant Alex was home. A moment later, she felt two cold noses sniffing her legs and two warm tongues licking the backs of her hands.

  “Hey, Leo. Hey, Vinny,” she said, ruffling the golden retrievers’ coats until the dogs were satiated with the attention and willing to lead her to the edge of the pool. She dipped her toe in the water, knowing that in summer or winter Alex always kept the thermostat fixed at eighty degrees.

  Through vapors of steam rising from the water, she saw Alex lying on a chaise longue holding a martini glass and wearing a navy sports jacket, charcoal slacks, and a Burberry plaid scarf knotted around his neck. He had gray hair and claimed he’d earned every one them. His chiseled features reminded her of
an aging version of Michelangelo’s David.

  “Good evening, Davina. Care to join me for a nightcap?”

  She had never liked her name, but Alex made it palatable because he spoke it with affection. Her brother, Robbie, had been named after her mother’s older brother, who’d died in the Battle of Duc Lap in the early days of the Vietnam War. Her mother had picked the name Davina at random from a book of baby names. It meant “the beloved one.” Davie was sure her mother had forgotten the meaning long ago.

  “I’ll have a Pellegrino,” she said.

  “I must be clairvoyant.” He pointed his martini glass toward a mahogany cart that held an emerald bottle in a champagne bucket. “One day I hope to win you over to a more elegant choice—a dry martini or Scotch. I have a twenty-five-year-old Macallan that will cure anything that ails you.”

  She twisted off the bottle cap and flopped onto the chair across from him. Vincent rested his head on her foot while Leonardo settled into a futon near the spa.

  “You’re up late,” she said.

  “I just got home from a meeting with a difficult client and noticed you weren’t back yet.”

  “Worried?”

  “I’m used to your odd hours, but I’m still human.”

  “What’s your client’s problem?”

  “He’s a billionaire but he still wants a Mona Lisa for the price of a velvet Elvis. I’ve tried to disabuse him of that notion, but he remains immune to logic. I’ve also been warned he’ll try to stiff me on my final bill.”

  “You don’t have to work with him.”

  Alex sipped his drink. “I’ll find some way to accommodate him. He’s one of those rich tech entrepreneurs who might recommend me to his equally rich friends. It’s in my best interests to make nice. What about you? Are you working a case?”

  Davie gave him a few generalities about Anya Nosova, mostly details that would likely appear in the morning newspaper.

  “I hope the boyfriend didn’t do it,” he said. “It’s so clichéd.”

  Davie held the water bottle to her temple to ease her budding headache. “Seventy-five percent of victims are killed by somebody they know.”

  Alex raised his glass in a toast. “To choosing your friends wisely.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I read in the Times the mayor appointed a new Inspector General of the Police Commission. Will that delay your OIS case?”

  “I don’t know. The former IG was ready to close the case, but Malcolm Harrington will decide now and that could be a problem.”

  She gave Alex the short version of her father’s fifteen-year-old troubles with Harrington and Bear’s fears that he would cause trouble for her as well.

  “Perhaps my rich client can speed things up by buying him off.”

  “I don’t think he’s for sale.”

  Alex studied her over the rim of his glass. “My dear Davina, at the right price, everyone’s for sale.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “What’s happening with that Spencer Hall person? Still spreading nasty rumors about you?”

  “Like I said before, I’m not sure he’s behind the rumors, Alex. I hope not, because I just found out he’s transferring to Pacific.”

  Alex pushed himself into a sitting position. “Why would the department do that?” The dogs seemed to notice the tension in his voice because they padded over to him for reassurance.

  “They wouldn’t have unless he requested the transfer.”

  He petted the dogs until they settled at his feet. “What are you going to do?”

  “Talk to him.”

  Alex retrieved the olive from his glass and dropped it into his mouth. “Be careful. As Voltaire said, ‘It is the flash which appears, the thunderbolt will follow.’”

  He finished his martini and took the dogs inside the main house for the night. Davie left the unfinished Pellegrino on the cart as she dropped her jacket on the chair and slid into the deep end of the pool.

  Since she’d first entered the police academy, she had lived by the credo posted above the gym door: The more you sweat, the less you bleed. That was at the forefront of her mind as she sliced the water with her strokes until exhaustion overtook her. She dragged herself from the pool and returned to the guesthouse to shower.

  As she lay in bed, she thought about Spencer Hall’s transfer to Pacific and Malcolm Harrington’s newfound control over her and the impact each might have on her future. Memories from the day of the shooting flashed through her mind in a kaleidoscope of sensory images: The taste of the Cheez-its she’d eaten in the car mixed with the fragrance of gardenia blossoms carried on a sullen summer breeze. The woman screaming from inside the house. The echo of knuckles pounding on the hollow wood door. The smell of sour milk radiating from the T-shirt of the five-year-old girl who had let them into the house. Her mother’s face reduced to pulp. Her father’s fist, dripping blood onto the flowered bedsheet. Rough leather abrading Davie’s finger as she unsnapped the gun from its holster. The deafening explosion. The fog of gunpowder hanging on the stagnant air. The suspect’s dilated pupils black as spilled ink. A child’s screams casting a pall over everything.

  Sometime in the early morning hours she fell into a deep sleep as Voltaire’s words clawed at the edge of her dreams.

  8

  Malcolm Harrington sat on a leather chair in Mayor Lloyd Gossett’s office at City Hall, still upset over his telephone conversation the previous day with Chief of Police Chad Juno. He had not expected the chief to be pleased with his decision to reopen the Davie Richards officer-involved shooting case, but he had not anticipated a vitriolic rant either.

  Gossett sat at a wood desk the size of an aircraft carrier. Behind him was a painting depicting an abbreviated Los Angeles cityscape that spanned from the ocean to the mountains. The mayor preened as a young Asian woman manicured his fingernails in preparation for a People magazine photo shoot later that day.

  “Did old Cotton Balls bring up my name?” Gossett said.

  Harrington could almost see the waves of bitterness radiating off Gossett’s spray-on tan, a hue that made his skin seem more Big Bird yellow than San Tropez bronze.

  “Chief Juno understands you and I are friends. His term is up next fall and he thinks you’re pressuring me to reopen the Richards case to make him look bad.”

  “I’d love to fire Juno,” Gossett said, “but I’m up for reelection. I can’t afford more enemies.”

  “If things go my way, this investigation could be the pièce de résistance of your campaign.”

  “What makes you think anybody cares?” Gossett asked in a tone that was poised and self-assured. “Last year the city slashed Juno’s budget by twenty percent. He still cut homicides in half. The city council thinks he’s Kobe, Cesar Chavez, and the Pope all rolled into one.”

  The manicurist lifted Gossett’s soapy hand from the dish and patted it dry. Harrington didn’t like the idea of having her as a witness to this conversation, but he was lucky to have engineered an appointment with Gossett on such short notice. The mayor’s executive assistant had dragged him through hell until Gossett interceded on his behalf. Friendship had its benefits.

  “Juno claims to be a reformer,” Harrington said. “He’ll go along with my investigation once he knows you’ve endorsed it. If he’s really on the side of justice, he’ll understand it’s the right thing to do for the department and the city.”

  Gossett’s ramrod-straight torso seemed staked to the chair. “Juno’s no reformer; he’s an enabler. His record of disciplining officers is pathetic at best. I appointed you to keep him in check. He knows that and he’s not happy about it.”

  The manicurist began sweeping a file across Gossett’s nails as if she were wielding a saw. The skritch-skritch-skritch sound was making Harrington testy.

  “I don’t want to be
left swinging in the wind,” Harrington said. “I need to know I have your support.”

  Gossett inspected his squared-off fingernails. “Is Davie Richards a rogue cop? Is the department covering it up? Those things would get me excited.”

  The mayor’s resistance was hiking Harrington’s blood pressure. “Her old man was dirty. Who knows what I might uncover about her when I start digging?”

  The manicurist squeezed oil from a bottle onto the mayor’s cuticles, releasing the syrupy scent of almonds into the still air. Gossett seemed to be in a trance with his eyes closed.

  “A jury ruled William Richards was not liable for Daniel Luna’s injuries,” Gossett said. “And unlike you, they weren’t the slightest bit upset that a beautiful woman like Maria Luna was going to spend the rest of her life in some dingy apartment with ten relatives, listening to her son bitch about his fate.”

  Harrington felt his face flush with anger. “Politics has made you timid, Lloyd. Richards shot an unarmed teenager and lied about it under oath. He should have been prosecuted for attempted murder. Instead, he walked away with no consequences.”

  “He lost his job.”

  “A small nod to justice.”

  The manicurist struggled to open a jar of buffing powder. Gossett sensed the movement and opened his eyes. He took the vessel from her hand and gave the cap a violent twist before returning it to the table.

  “Your investigation has to be meticulous,” he said. “I don’t want anybody thinking I’m out to get the Richards family. If you can’t make a slam-dunk case against this woman, you will quietly drop the whole thing. Understood?”

  Righteous indignation churned Harrington’s gut as he stared at the US and California flags, standing like silent sentinels behind Gossett’s desk.