Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  'Different how?'

  'Different like maybe old Charlie Knoll killed his wife for the money,' he said. 'And then even after you found out Martin killed her, I was still worried about people saying, "Hey, Charlie is rich. Maybe I can hit him up for a few bucks." All I was doing was protecting my privacy. It's none of anybody's business how much money I have.'

  'Does your girlfriend know?' Terry said.

  'That's low, Biggs.'

  'Charlie, you were with another woman the night your wife was killed. We have a right to ask.'

  'No you don't,' he said. 'You had a right to ask, before you had the killer. But now, who I was with that night is none of your business. The case is closed.'

  'The case is not officially closed,' Terry said. 'It's being reviewed by the DA's office. What if they call and say, "Charlie Knoll had a motive. Maybe he paid Martin Sorensen to kill Julia and Nora.'"

  'And Jo? And Marisol?' Charlie laughed loud and long. It took a good fifteen seconds till it petered out to a chuckle.

  'What's so funny?' Terry said.

  'You're supposed to be half of the hotshot homicide team, and you're asking dumb questions that make you sound like a rookie. Let me ask you a question, Biggs. If you were going to kill your wife and all of her partners, would you hire Martin Sorensen? He was a cocky son of a bitch who thought he was better than everyone he associated with, and once he started drinking, you'd have to worry that he'd try to impress people by telling them he was a gun for hire. So if the DA's office calls, just tell them that Detective Knoll might be stupid enough to kill his wife for the money he already had, but he's not that dumb that he would hire Martin Sorensen to help him.'

  'I think we've had enough questions,' I said.

  'Good, because I didn't really come back to turn myself in,' he said. 'I'm here to clean out my desk.'

  'You a hundred percent sure you want to quit?' I said.

  'No. Did you know what you wanted five days after Joanie died?' he said. 'The only thing I'm sure of right now is that Nora's and Julia's funerals are on Thursday. That's about as far ahead as I can plan.'

  'We'll be there,' I said.

  'Don't come as cops,' he said, his voice cracking with emotion. 'Come as friends.'

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Around five o'clock Muller stopped by my desk. 'I'm going to catch an early movie,' he said, holding one of Gaffney's DVDs in his hand.

  'Is it any good?' I said.

  'A lot of it is boring, but there's one part that is definitely worth the price of admission. Would you and your friend Detective Biggs care to join me?'

  'Where?' I said.

  He looked around the squad room. 'Anywhere but here. Do you have a DVD player over at your place?'

  'I don't even have a place,' I reminded him.

  We decided that Muller would follow us to Terry's house, so we could watch Gaffney McDonough's video without anybody watching us. We were crawling along on the Ventura Freeway when Big Jim called my cell.

  'Mike, I've got good news,' he said. 'You officially have a roof over your head.'

  'And how do you come to know this?' I said.

  'Kemp and I just finished.'

  'Kemp and you?' I said. 'Dad, what the hell were you doing on my roof?'

  'If that's a crack about my weight,' he said, 'I don't think it's particularly funny.'

  'It's not a crack about your weight. It's a crack about your meddling. What are you doing helping Kemp?'

  'I had some free time.'

  I could feel my blood pressure rising.

  'For your information,' he said, 'I didn't climb on the roof. I hauled a lot of the roofing material for him. Saved him hours. Then I got my buddy Pete to come over.'

  'Who the hell is Pete?'

  'You know Pete Estes. He and his wife Karen sometimes go bowling with me and Angel. Pete's an excavator, so I got him to bring over his Kubota.'

  'His what?'

  'His Kubota. It's a skid steer, you know, like a tractor. I can't believe I've been in the transportation business all my life, and I have a son who has no idea what a Kubota is.'

  'Well, I can't believe I've been in law enforcement all my life, and I have a father who has no idea what a boundary is. Dad, why did you get involved?'

  'Because the renovation has been going slow, because you and Diana want to move in, and because I'm the kind of father who thought his son might appreciate a little help.'

  'Dad, I do appreciate it—'

  'Don't mention it,' he said. 'That's what fathers are for.'

  'Let me finish. I appreciate it, but in the future—'

  He cut me off. 'You don't have to finish. I get it, I get it. Your father tries to help you out, lend you a hand, and it pisses you off. No good deed shall go unpunished, right, Michael?'

  'Dad, it's not a good deed if you get involved in my life without an invitation. When I want your help, I'll ask.'

  'No you won't,' he said.

  'What is that supposed to mean?'

  'I know you. You're proud, just like your mother. You don't like asking for help. And me, I don't like sitting around waiting to be asked. That's why when I found those two dead women the other night, I called you straight out. I didn't wait for an invitation.'

  'You're comparing apples and—'

  'OK, OK. Spare me the lecture. I just want you to know that Pete cleaned up all the rubble in the backyard, and we took it to the dump. Why don't you tell Diana? I'm sure at least she'll have a little gratitude.'

  'I'm sure she will,' I said.

  'Do you want Pete Estes's phone number?' he said.

  'What for?'

  'To thank him. He did the work as a friend. No charge.'

  'Dad, I'm busy. Thank him for me.'

  'Now you're talking. I'd be glad to thank Pete for you. You see how easy it is to ask me for a favour? Call me if you need anything else.'

  He hung up.

  I looked at Terry, who was grinning. 'That was my father,' I said.

  'I could tell,' he said. 'But if I hadn't heard you call him Dad, I'd swear you were back on speaking terms with the contractor from hell.'

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The house was quiet. Emily and Sarah were both in their rooms, Diana was working late, and Marilyn was out shopping for something to wear to Nora's and Julia's funeral.

  'Don't ask me why she won't wear the same black dress she wore last week to Jo's funeral,' Terry said. 'She shops like she's going to a prom.'

  Muller brought a laptop, and we locked ourselves in Terry's office with a bag of chips and a six-pack.

  'Before we get started, I'd like to propose a toast,' Terry said, raising a beer can. 'We've bent a few rules in our day, but this is a new plateau, even for us. Here's to exploring uncharted waters, and not getting caught.'

  The three of us drank to operating outside the department's authority.

  'What we have here,' Muller said, holding up the DVDs McDonough had given us, 'is two weeks in the relatively uneventful personal life of Tony Dominguez. McDonough tailed him mostly nights and weekends, and it's basically a snore. Except for this.'

  He put one of the DVDs in the computer and jumped to the chapter he wanted. 'You ever been to the Roadium?'

  'I was raised in the Bronx,' Terry said. 'We didn't have too many cowboys.'

  'Roadiwra,' Muller said, it's a monstrous open-air market on Redondo Beach Boulevard in Torrance. They've got hundreds and hundreds of merchants, spread out over God knows how many acres.'

  'I've never been there either,' I said. 'What do they sell?'

  'Food, clothes, electronics, hardware, everything, and anything,' he said, if you've got crap to sell, they rent you a booth, and presto, you're in retail.'

  'It sounds like Wal-Mart without the charm,' Terry said.

  'Not the kind of place Tony would go to,' I said.

  'And yet,' Muller said, 'this is where Detective Dominguez's life gets real interesting.'

  He hit play and there was
a very clear image of Tony wearing jeans, an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a black T-shirt, and a Dodgers baseball cap. The camera followed him as he wandered aimlessly from one booth to another.

  'He's not shopping,' Terry said. 'He's blending in.'

  'And he's checking to see if anyone is watching him,' Muller said.

  'McDonough is damn good,' I said. 'Tony has no idea he's being taped.'

  'Neither did you,' Muller said. 'One of the other DVDs has footage of Tony and you guys on Reggie's boat. OK, pay attention to what's coming up.'

  We watched Tony stroll from one booth to the other.

  'He's not even pretending to check out the merchandise,' Terry said. 'He's only looking up at the booth numbers. B-5, B-6, B-7.'

  Tony weaved through the crowd a little faster. And then he stopped.

  'B-14,' I said.

  Terry raised his hand. 'Bingo.'

  The booth was cluttered with racks and tables filled with CDs, tapes, and albums. Tony went to a bin, pretended to browse, then pulled out a CD. He took it to the vendor, and reached in his pocket to pay for it.

  Muller froze the image on the screen. 'Check it out,' he said.

  Tony was handing the vendor a thick white envelope.

  'A lot of places don't take American Express,' Terry said.

  Muller released the pause button, and the vendor deftly took the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket. He put the CD in a bag, handed it to Tony, and walked out of frame. The camera panned to the right and caught up with the vendor as he approached a large grey van parked just outside the booth. He knocked on the side door. It slid open, and a young man cautiously stepped out.

  'Freeze it again,' I said.

  He did, and we studied the two men. They were both Mexican. The vendor was so out of shape, he could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His face was covered with a week's worth of grey stubble, and his body was evidence of a lifetime's worth of bad eating habits. The other guy was in his mid-twenties, wiry build, dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes that telegraphed fear. He had a knapsack on his back and a snake tattoo on his right arm.

  'If you're interested, that's Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent,' Muller said. 'He's some kind of an Aztec god.'

  'That's good to know if we ever go out looking for the snake,' Terry said. 'Who's the kid?'

  'Don't know,' Muller said. 'Let me grab a screen shot.'

  'Grab a few,' I said, including the guy who took the payoff.'

  Muller captured the images, then hit play. Tony and the young Mexican exchanged a few words, then they started walking.

  'Watch this,' Muller said.

  Tony walked casually through the flea market, with the kid just behind him. They were heel to toe, pretending not to be together. At one point they passed a trash can, and Tony tossed the bag with the CD in the garbage.

  'I guess he's not that into music after all,' Terry said.

  'This picture is crystal clear,' I said. 'Why don't they have surveillance cameras this good at 7-Eleven?'

  'Or the women's dressing rooms at Nordstrom,' Terry said.

  'McDonough is working with a top-of-the-line digital camera,' Muller said. 'Based on the angle, I'm guessing it's at about six feet, maybe inside a baseball cap.'

  We watched as Tony and the kid entered the parking lot.

  'Big finale coming up,' Muller said.

  'Don't ruin the ending for us,' Terry said.

  They walked for another thirty seconds, then stopped at a late-model Lexus sedan. The young Mexican got in the back. Tony shut the rear door, and watched the car drive off, as the camera zoomed in tight on the license plate. Muller froze the picture, and I wrote it down.

  'That's basically it,' Muller said. 'There's another minute of Tony walking back to his car and driving off in a different direction.'

  'And Gaffney made it sound like there was nothing interesting on the tape,' Terry said.

  'From his perspective, there really isn't,' I said. 'He was looking to catch Tony shacking up with some woman. As far as he could tell, this was police business.'

  'I went through Gaffney's notes,' Muller said. 'He logged it in as "Target paying off an informant.'"

  'Since when does LAPD pay off CIs by slipping them envelopes and picking them up in sixty-thousand-dollar cars?' Terry said.

  'Did you trace the license plate?' I asked.

  'Umm, that was a little dicey,' Muller said. 'Since we're supposed to be flying under the radar, I didn't want to do it from the office.'

  'No problem,' Terry said.

  He took out his cell and dialled. 'Yeah, good evening dispatch, this is Detective Terry Biggs. My partner and I are in this real nasty neighbourhood in Compton, and there's a car parked here that costs more than any of the houses on the block. It might be stolen. Can you run the plates for me?'

  He pushed the speaker button on the phone, and we waited.

  The dispatcher came back a minute later. 'Well, you're right about one thing, Detective,' she said, it doesn't belong to anyone in Compton. But so far, it's not reported stolen. You might want to check with the owner to see if it's missing.'

  'Good idea,' Terry said. 'You got a name?'

  'The car is registered to a Dr Ford Jameson, Beverly Hills.'

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The next morning we called Wendy and told her we needed to take a personal day.

  'Just stay in touch in case all hell breaks loose,' she said.

  We agreed, and by 9:00 a.m. we were headed south on the 405 toward the Roadium.

  Gaffney's video didn't do it justice. It was much more vibrant and energetic than he had captured on tape - a sprawling street bazaar with commerce happening in multiple languages, all of them loud.

  We parked and went to the main office. Mike Romo, the director of operations, was eager to cooperate.

  We gave him the date and the booth number where Tony had exchanged the envelope for the young Mexican with the snake tattoo.

  It only took him a few seconds to type it into his computer and come up with a hit. 'The vendor's name is

  Raoul Castaneda,' he said. 'I'll be right back.'

  A few minutes later he returned with a folder and handed it to us. Inside was a photocopy of fat Raoul's driver's license.

  'Jeez, he's only thirty-eight years old,' Terry said. 'He could use a couple of salads and about a year and a half on the treadmill.'

  'Did you do a background check on him?' I asked Romo.

  A woman sitting at a nearby desk blurted out an involuntary laugh. She quickly turned around and apologised.

  'We'll take that as a no,' Terry said.

  'It's more like an impossibility,' Romo said. 'We have seven thousand different vendors selling here over the course of the year, so background checks are out of the question.'

  'Is Castaneda here today?' I asked. 'We'd like to talk to him.'

  'No. It looks like he mostly rents on weekends,' Romo said. 'And by the way, you're not the first to come looking for him. According to the memo in his folder, an agent by the name of Deborah Aronson was here asking about him six months ago.'

  'What kind of an agent?' I asked.

  'She's with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. She left her business card.' Romo handed it to us, and we copied her name and number.

  We thanked him, went back to the parking lot, and I called ICE Agent Deborah Aronson.

  She was not as quick to cooperate as Romo.

  'Are you looking at him for an immigration or a customs violation, or is this something else?' she said.

  'Agent Aronson,' I said, 'we barely have time to solve all the homicides that get thrown our way, so LAPD is happy to leave immigration and customs issues to ICE, CPB, USCIS, and the rest of the Homeland Security alphabet soup. Castaneda may or may not have information on a case we're working on, and once we heard you were asking about him, we thought we'd check and see what you have on him that you might be willing to share with your local under-budgeted, overworked law
enforcement partners.'

  That softened her up. She laughed. 'OK, Detective Lomax, how can I help you?'

  'What do you have on Castaneda? And hopefully, it's more interesting than he's been peddling illegal copies of Britney's latest CD.'

  'He's a coyote,' she said. 'Correction, he's only an alleged coyote, because we've never been able to convict him, but we know that he's part of a thriving business smuggling people across the border. He was born in Mexico, moved here thirty years ago, and became a US citizen. He still has plenty of friends and family on the other side who drive the illegals across. Castaneda waits on this side of the fence, picks them up, and helps them find work here in the Land of Opportunity.'

  'And then they just blend into the fabric of LA?' I said.

  'Only for about a year or two,' Aronson said. 'He traffics in a lot of young men who are looking to earn mucho American dollars, then go back to the wife and kids with enough money to live extremely well. So not only does he pick up these border jumpers after they sneak across, he drives them back to Tijuana, and they walk back across the bridge to Mexico with a fistful of dollars.'

  'You have all this on him, but you can't convict him?' I asked.

  'He's smart. The one time we thought we nailed him, his lawyer beat the charge. Said that Castaneda just drove down to the border town, met an old friend, and gave him a ride to LA. The judge let him go.'

  'What happens if you convict?'

  'His US citizenship wouldn't save him,' she said. 'He'd wind up doing some jail time, or at the very least get slapped with a fine, and then it would be adios amigo. We'd deport his sorry ass. Of course, he'd probably wind up operating his coyote business on the other side of the border, but that would be the Mexicans' problem, not mine. Does any of this help?'

  'All of it helps,' I said. 'Thanks, Deborah. Crime- fighting is a two-way street, so if I can ever reciprocate the favour, just ask.'

  'Well, I do have one question,' she said. 'You have a very charming way about you. In the interest of interdepartmental relations, how would you like to get together for a drink after work some evening?'