“I—I mean, it sounds really familiar. I’m sure I’ve read about it. Do you advertise?”
“Mostly word of mouth, and my website links to the national CPO credential registry, so I get found through there too.”
Jarsdel nodded and made a note. “Before the wedding, did you notice anything strange? Anyone following you, weird phone calls, anything like that?”
“Uh-uh. No.”
“What about your husband? He get in any arguments with anyone? It might not even have seemed like a big deal when it happened—a fight over a parking spot or maybe he cut someone in line at Starbucks? You never know.”
“You can talk to him if you want, but I doubt it. We went over everything at the time.”
“Do you know when he’ll be home?”
Aleena looked away. “We’re separated. I can give you his number.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “Not the best way to start off a marriage, you know?”
“Yeah.” Jarsdel didn’t know what else to say. He looked down at his notepad. “Is there anything else you can think of that’d help us find out who did this?”
“I really wish there was,” said Aleena. “It’s the ugliest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Jarsdel put away his notepad. “We’ll do everything we can.” But he knew as he said them that his words lacked conviction. She seemed to sense that as well and didn’t respond.
Jarsdel’s phone buzzed on his belt. He silenced it without looking at the screen. “Thank you for your time. And for the drink. Where can I put the glass?”
“Just leave it there,” said Aleena.
They stood, and once again Jarsdel noticed how empty the place was. The only thing in the sitting room besides the two sofas and the coffee table between them was a flat-screen TV. The shelves on either side of it were empty, save for a few envelopes carelessly tossed there. Bills, probably.
The two of them made their way back to the front entrance. Aleena opened the door for him. On his way out, he turned to face her. He felt like he had to say something, to give her some assurance, but nothing came. Instead, he took his notepad back out again. “I’m sorry. I forgot to ask for a good contact number for you.”
“Isn’t it already in the file or whatever?”
“Just to be on the safe side.”
Aleena gave him her number and that of her soon-to-be ex-husband. “I wouldn’t call him, though,” she added.
“Why not?”
“Abby was his dog. He said it was like losing a child. It makes him really upset to talk about it, so I wouldn’t call him unless it’s to tell him you found the guy.”
Jarsdel’s phone buzzed again. This time, he unclipped it from his belt and looked at the screen. One missed call, a voicemail, and now a text from Morales: We got the DNA. Hurry your ass up.
“Afraid I have to get going,” he told Aleena. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything, no matter how seemingly insignificant, please give me a call.”
She took his card. “Detective Marcus T. Jarsdel.”
“Yeah, but nobody calls me Marcus,” said Jarsdel. “Friends call me Tully. Middle name’s Tullius—Tully for short.”
“Okay. Tully,” she said, smiling now and holding out her hand. “I’m Aleena.” Her hand was cool from the glass of iced tea, her grip strong and steady.
A blast from a car horn startled them both. “My partner,” said Jarsdel. “Thanks for your time.”
“I’m giving a talk this Friday, if you really want to know about what I do.”
“A talk? Where?”
“You know the Philosophical Research Society? On Los Feliz? It’s not really my scene—a bit crystal-rubby for me, but they’re interested in the science of it. Anyway, seven o’clock, if you want to come.”
The horn sounded again—three urgent bursts.
Jarsdel flushed. “Sorry. He’s a… He’s kind of a… Forget it. I’ll definitely try to make it. Thanks.”
* * *
“I don’t get it,” said Jarsdel as they came down out of the hills. “What does he mean it’s inconclusive? I thought we had a hit.”
“Familial DNA hit. Meaning we didn’t get the guy exactly, but we know it’s a brother.”
Morales was driving. Jarsdel pulled out his iPad and found the email from Dr. Ipgreve. He clicked on the attached file, revealing a chart of DNA markers. It didn’t mean anything to him until he got to the bottom, where it indicated a probability of 99.9998 percent that the subject in question was a full male sibling of a Lawrence Wolin. He punched the information into the dashboard computer.
“Here he is. Lawrence Wolin, DOB 8/20/77. Got a driver’s license on here too. Priors for disorderly conduct and felony battery. Doing eleven months at County for assault.”
“Tough guy, huh? Let’s go see him.”
The Twin Towers Correctional Facility was located at 450 Bauchet Street, right in the middle of downtown, and stood adjacent to the older Men’s Central Jail. From the outside, it could have passed for a kind of sprawling, high-security office complex, albeit with very narrow tinted windows. It had its own Yelp page, and the reviews were unsurprisingly poor, many referencing the fact that the Towers had been ranked among the ten worst prisons in the United States. Jarsdel believed that part of the horror of being incarcerated there had to do with its proximity to ordinary life. State facilities like Corcoran or Mule Creek were mercifully located in the middle of nowhere. But like those poor souls in Alcatraz who could hear New Year’s celebrations across the San Francisco Bay, inmates in the Towers had a perfect view of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, the Hollywood sign, and, most painfully, the Gordian network of freeways that carried Angelenos, however slowly, wherever they wanted to go.
Jarsdel and Morales checked their weapons when they arrived and informed the sheriff’s deputy on duty that they were there to see Lawrence Wolin. The two detectives were escorted to an interview room, passing signs that read: Attention: Do not discuss sensitive information when inmates are present and Do not proceed past this point with an inmate without first announcing “Coming through.”
The interview room was different from the ones at Hollywood Station. Those resembled tiny offices and maintained a pretense of neutrality. Just because you were being questioned in one of them didn’t mean you were being accused of a crime, and you might be allowed to leave when the interview was over. This, however, was the other end of the justice system. Here, you were already guilty, and you could bet that anything the cops had to say to you in this room wasn’t something you’d want to hear.
Jarsdel and Morales had come during lunch and had to wait twenty minutes before Wolin was brought out to them. He was a wiry, horse-faced man, his equine features enhanced by a mane of curly, shoulder-length hair. His cheeks were unnaturally hollow, suggesting missing back teeth. The deputy sat him across from the detectives and cuffed him to a steel bar affixed to the table. He instructed the detectives to call out when they were done, then left the room. Jarsdel pretended to smooth out his tie, activating his recording app.
“I’m not talking without a lawyer,” said Wolin.
“We’re not asking you to talk,” said Morales. “Just listen.”
Wolin shrugged. “Heard that one before.”
“We have some difficult news for you,” said Jarsdel. “We believe that someone close to you may have been involved in a serious incident.”
“Fuck’s that mean?”
“Hear about that body in Thailand Plaza a few weeks back?” asked Morales.
Wolin cocked his head and squinted, a parody of someone desperately trying to remember something. “Hmm. Let’s think. Well, I was in here, so…”
“We know you weren’t involved,” said Jarsdel. “But we think the victim could be related to you.”
“Why?”
“DNA,” said Morales. That seemed to satisfy Wolin who, like most criminals, looked upon DNA analysis as a great but mysterious force.
“The indications are that it’s your brother,” said Jarsdel. “Have you been in contact with him?”
“Nope for both.”
“Sorry, you have two?”
“Well, that is kind of usually what people mean when they say ‘both.’ Cops don’t need a GED anymore?”
Jarsdel ignored the remark and pressed on. “Do you have any idea which of them the victim might be?”
“Eric’s in the Corps. Okinawa. So it’s probably Grant.”
Morales was startled at the ease with which Wolin speculated on the violent death of a relative. “You don’t seem very upset. You understand we’re talking about a body, right?”
Wolin didn’t answer.
Jarsdel had his notepad out. “You have a last-known address for him?”
“Some hole on Edgemont, south of the Boulevard. I don’t remember exactly.”
“You know of anyone who’d want to do your brother harm?”
Wolin laughed. “I wouldn’t’ve thought anyone’d give enough of a shit about him to want him dead.”
“I take it you weren’t close,” said Morales.
“He sucked at life. Big dreams. Always working some scam or another.”
“He sucked at life? Who’s the Joe Shitbag sitting up here in the Twin Towers?”
“What’d he do for a living?” asked Jarsdel.
“I don’t fuckin’ know, okay?” Wolin’s voice took on an edge. Morales pointed a finger at him. That was all, just a finger, but it calmed Wolin down. “Check with the Wax Museum,” he said with a shrug. “He was tight with a couple of ragheads who ran the place.”
Jarsdel made a note. “The Hollywood Wax Museum?”
“That’s the one.”
“Any idea on a name of one of those—”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Well, back to Grant, we’ll also need any other vital details you can give us. Height, weight, birth—”
“Hey,” said Wolin, brightening. “You think I could get out of here and ID the body for you? I could do that.”
“Forget it,” said Morales. “Burned beyond recognition.”
“Burned, huh? Sucks to be him.”
“Height, weight,” Jarsdel repeated.
“Ah, fuck it. I’m done talking to you guys.”
“Wait a second,” said Morales. “You understand your brother was murdered, right? You tellin’ me you so cold you ain’t gonna help us catch who did it?”
“Hey, you know what I had for breakfast today?” said Wolin.
The detectives stared at him.
“No? Well, let me tell you. I got fake scrambled eggs—the powdered kind, okay? And some stale-ass bread, and a sticky little fruit cup with a spot of mold on it the size of a dime. What you guys have for breakfast?”
“Mr. Wolin,” Jarsdel began.
“That’s what I thought. Okay, so when you and I have the same thing for fucking breakfast, then we can talk. I’ll talk to you all day long and sing you sweet music.” He turned his head toward the door. “Guard!”
The deputy reentered. “Everything okay?”
“We’re done,” said Wolin.
The deputy stepped over, unshackled Wolin from the desk, then cuffed his wrists.
“You find the guy who barbecued my brother,” Wolin said on his way out, “give him a big smooch for me.”
* * *
Jarsdel had volunteered to drive back to Hollywood Station, and the two detectives pulled out of the parking lot reserved for law enforcement personnel. They headed south, then Jarsdel made a right on Cesar Chavez, away from the 101 on-ramp.
“Where the hell you goin’?” asked Morales.
“My treat,” said Jarsdel, pulling onto Alameda. Next, they turned onto First, and Jarsdel found a vacant meter.
“What’s this? Little Tokyo?”
“Yup.” Jarsdel got out and, sighing, Morales followed.
“Trust me. My folks started bringing me here when I was a kid.” He glanced over and saw that, in his enthusiasm, he’d walked far ahead of his partner. He slowed, letting him catch up. So far, Morales hadn’t offered an explanation for his limp, and Jarsdel had thought better than to ask.
“How far’s this place?” asked Morales.
“Just up ahead. See that crowd over there?” He pointed to a group clustered under a yellow awning printed with the words Daikokuya Original Noodle & Rice Bowl. “Don’t worry. It’s a quick turnover. And worth the wait.” When they reached the restaurant, Jarsdel ducked inside and put their names down on a clipboard.
Morales was glowering at him when he came back outside. “We don’t have all day to dick around out here.”
“We gotta eat, right? Look, it’s practically a sin to be so close to this place without stopping in. If you think I’m wrong, you can give me shit about it as long as you want.”
Morales leaned against a parking meter, then migrated to a chair in the waiting area as people began to be seated. The wait was longer than Jarsdel had hoped. Twenty minutes, then half an hour. He glanced at Morales, but by then, the other man had seen the heaping bowls of ramen and smelled the rich pork broth, and his frustration had been overcome by hunger. By the time they were finally seated, his mood had completely changed.
“So what’s the best thing here?” he asked, scanning the short menu.
“You want the original Daikokuya bowl.”
After they put in their orders, the two detectives were quiet. Morales sipped a Coke and scanned the restaurant. It was designed like an authentic Tokyo ramen joint, with the kitchen located inside the dining area. Bar stools lined the counter, and customers seated there could watch their food being prepared. Jarsdel and Morales were at one of the red vinyl booths that abutted the opposite wall, on which hung vintage Japanese posters and exquisitely battered metal signs. The place was bustling and cramped but cozy.
Jarsdel was the one to break the silence. “Back when I was in uniform, my TO and I stopped by In-N-Out for lunch one day. So we get our food, and right away, his phone rings, and he goes outside to take the call. I don’t want to be rude and start eating without him, so I decide to use that time to go use the men’s room. I’m gone maybe a minute, that’s it. When I get back, my TO’s still outside, but now there’s this string sticking out from my burger. It’s an incongruous image, puzzling, and I didn’t know what to make of it. Then I take the bun off, and then I’m even more confused. At first, I think it’s a tea bag, but then I realize—”
Morales snorted. “That was you?”
“What was me?”
“The tampon in the burger. We heard about it all the way over in Wilshire. During roll call, Captain made a point of telling us never to leave our food unattended.”
Jarsdel felt a peculiar sense of pride and nodded. “That was me.”
“Probably not what you were hoping for when you joined up,” said Morales.
“No, I guess not.”
“What were you hoping for?”
“What do you mean?”
“You had a career before, right? History professor. Why would you trade that to be a cop?”
“I lectured at Pasadena CC, but it was always some entry-level survey class for freshmen. Not exactly the Sterling Professorship.”
“Still,” said Morales. “None of my business, but it just seems like you had a pretty good life figured out for yourself.”
Jarsdel considered, unsure how much he wanted to tell Morales, who until now hadn’t expressed the slightest interest in him. “I was twenty-nine,” he said finally. “Six months away from my doctorate, and I realized my life would be exactly the same, year after year, until I retired. That I’d give the same lectures, g
rade the same papers, publish in the same journals, and that the most rewarding aspect of my job would be shepherding others through the same process. And all so they could do the same thing I was doing. Give lectures and grade papers and get published in journals.”
“Yeah, that’s some bleak shit, Tully,” agreed Morales.
Jarsdel noticed he hadn’t called him Prof and was glad. “I just didn’t see the point,” he went on. “I mean, I love history. I really love it, but—I don’t know. It’s something else to make it your life’s work. And I couldn’t imagine myself contributing anything new to it. It’s hard to explain.”
“I hated history,” said Morales. “I always knew I wanted to be a cop, so what good was it gonna do me? No offense or anything.”
Jarsdel nodded. “You have to come to it for the right reasons. The cause and effect of it, the story—that’s it, really, above everything. The story of why.”
“Why what?”
“Why we are the way we are. How far we’ve come, how much we’ve learned.”
Morales smirked. “Come on, man. How far we’ve come? Tell that to Grant Wolin.”
“Yeah, you see, that’s exactly my point,” said Jarsdel. “Look how shocked we are by that. There was a time when—and not that long ago—any regular person just woulda said, ‘Oh well,’ and not even given a shit. Instead, you’re horrified.”
Before he could continue, their food arrived. Aside from the noodles and the broth, Daikokuya ramen teemed with bean sprouts, seasoned bamboo shoots, scallions, thick slices of kurobuta pork, and a large, soft-boiled egg. The men ate ravenously and in silence. When they were finished, Morales leaned back and shook his head.
“Okay. You were right. Worth waiting for.”
Chapter 8
They made a deal: Morales would write up the warrant if Jarsdel conducted the initial search of the victim’s property. They had the warrant signed that evening, and as Morales sat down to dinner with his family, Jarsdel was pulling up in front of Grant Wolin’s apartment. Parking was scarce, and he finally gave up and grabbed a spot in the lot of a 99 Cents Only! store around the corner.
Wolin’s jailed brother had been right about the apartment. It was located on Edgemont, between Santa Monica Boulevard and Lily Crest Avenue, a block west of LA City College. It was as drab and unremarkable as the building occupied by Dustin Sparks, if even more dilapidated. But unlike the other complex, this one had a directory at the front gate. The light that was supposed to illuminate the list of residents had gone out, and Jarsdel had to use his Maglite to read the names. He found the one labeled Manager and typed in the code. Through a mess of static, the line began to ring.
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