by David Chill
"Thanks. Appreciate your cooperation."
Longley nodded cautiously. "Let me know if this kid Garcia is in any hot water. I don't want any troublemakers on my payroll. The last thing I want is a bunch of real cops sniffing around here."
I took another look at his surroundings. "Me neither," I said, and walked out of his dirty office.
Chapter 3
It was a little past 5:00 pm when I reached 9th and Alvarado. This was an impoverished area just west of downtown LA, a neighborhood that better resembled a Third World country, than a community adjacent to a shiny, new urban enclave. It was situated near the heart of one of the most prosperous areas in the world, but most of the people who lived here did not share in that wealth.
The addresses I had for Diego Garcia were apartment buildings located near each other. They were close to MacArthur Park, a grassy area immortalized years ago in a song chronicling the end of a love affair. This was once a nice neighborhood, a place where people could take rowboats and drift out onto a small pond. Or lounge around on a beautiful green lawn. I suppose a few people still did that, but the neighborhood was no longer serene. It had changed drastically over the years and not for the better. Largely gang-infested, these were the mean streets I would frequently visit when I was an LAPD officer. The people who lived here were poor, and they stayed here because this was all they could afford. There were few ways out.
The campaign staff had provided me with a Stone Canyon yearbook from the previous academic year, so I knew what Diego looked like. But when I knocked on the doors at both addresses, there was no answer at either. My guess was the parents might still be at work, so I decided to walk around the neighborhood for a while. I passed a variety of shops hawking cheap phones, cheap toys and cheap food. A number of check-cashing outlets were nearby. A law office promoting immigration services had a large and prominent neon sign. Mexican Ranchera music blasted from speakers jerry-rigged next to the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to me, but I still didn't feel comfortable. I was glad I had my .38, but would have felt more secure wearing a uniform and a badge. And having a partner nearby.
As I wandered along Alvarado Street, I came across an attraction I had forgotten about. Many years ago, in a different era with different residents, Langer's Deli had flourished. The neighborhood eventually declined and business trailed off. It seemed the restaurant would likely go under. But a few years back, the city completed an initial section of the Metro Rail train line, connecting this neighborhood with the downtown business district. All of a sudden, Langer's was a five-minute train ride away for many office workers, and business steadily picked back up. It was often packed at lunch. Even now, close to dinner hour, the place was doing a brisk business. And with good reason. Langer's was considered the best place in the city for a pastrami sandwich, and foodies had declared it among the best pastrami in the world. I was a frequent patron as a patrol officer and decided now would be a good time to revisit old memories.
I took a seat at the counter, but before I ordered, I called Gail and asked if she wanted me to bring her home anything. She worked near downtown and was quite aware of Langer's. Yes, she said. Absolutely. A No. 19, please.
"Sounds like you know the menu," I said.
"I just know what I like."
"Is this what they call a craving?"
"No," she said, "I think I'd want one even if I weren't seven months pregnant."
"How are you feeling today?"
"Fat and ugly."
"You will never be ugly," I smiled into the phone. "Never, ever, ever."
"You're sweet," she said.
"I know."
"Do me a favor?"
"What's that?"
"Don't take all night to bring my sandwich home."
I laughed and said I'd try, knowing it might be a little while because I was working. I told her I needed to make some headway on finding Diego and his family.
A waitress in her mid-50s with bleached blonde hair stopped in front of me and asked what I'd like. She wore a harvest gold apron with a nametag that said "Maggie." I ordered two No. 19s, one for here, one wrapped to go. She wrote it down and smiled.
"Midnight snack, hon?" she asked.
"No, the other sandwich is for my wife."
Maggie pursed her lips, seemingly impressed. "You're a good husband."
"Happy wife, happy life."
"This is the way to do it. My ex-husband would order two of these and go eat 'em both himself."
A few minutes later I was diving into a big pastrami sandwich on soft rye bread, loaded with coleslaw, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing. The flavors co-mingled wonderfully. After I finished, I sat back and relaxed. The waitress sauntered back over.
"Hit the spot, didn't it?"
"It did."
"I used to think that was a crazy combination for a sandwich. Then I tried it. Amazing. You just never know."
"Helps to keep an open mind," I said.
"It does," she said and started to clear the dishes.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, hon."
I took out the Stone Canyon yearbook and opened it to a page of student photos. I pointed to the one for Diego Garcia and asked if he looked familiar. She studied it for a long minute and then spoke.
"Yeah, I've seen him around the neighborhood. He was actually in here last week. Why?"
"I'm just doing a background check. But you say he was in here?"
"Yeah. A little unusual for a neighborhood kid, but what was really unusual was who he was with. A nicely dressed couple. Business suits, very professional. They were having a what seemed like a stern conversation. The kid didn't look too happy."
"Any idea what they might have been discussing?"
"No. I try not to listen in on people's private conversations. When I first started waitressing I did. But I quickly found out most of these conversations are pretty darned boring."
"Anything else you can tell me about this young man?"
"Not really. I live up in the Valley. My only contact with this neighborhood is when I walk from my car to the restaurant. But I think I've seen him working at one of the stores down the street."
"Anything else?"
"Seems like a good kid. Never hassled me. I think he's got a couple of brothers though, or maybe they're just older friends I've seen him with. They're a little scary."
"How so?"
"Rough-looking guys. Shaved heads, arms all inked up. Always making comments when they see me. They're more the norm around here. That kid," she said, pointing to Diego, "is an exception."
I flipped a page and pointed to a photo of Molly. She had long, curly blonde hair and an upturned nose. "How about her. Ever seen her in the neighborhood? Maybe recently?"
She glanced at it and shook her head. "Never seen her before."
"Are you sure?"
"I'd know if I saw her. Especially in this area. Talk about someone who would stand out."
I thanked her, left a five dollar tip, and took Gail's sandwich with me as I walked outside. Stopping at my black Pathfinder, I placed it under the back seat, and demonstrably pressed the remote to make sure I locked the door and set the alarm. A couple of street kids sat on a fire hydrant and stared at me. I made eye contact briefly and then walked back down the block. I strode back into the address Tony Longley provided, and walked up four flights of stairs. The interior smelled musty with a slight hint of urine. Graffiti lined the staircase walls.
This time, when I knocked on Diego Garcia's door, it opened a few moments later. A short woman wearing a tired expression looked up at me.
"Mrs. Garcia?"
"Si?"
"Habla Inglés?" I asked hopefully.
"Yes."
"Good. Are you Diego's mother?"
She nodded her head yes, eyeing me cautiously.
"My name's Burnside," I said and handed her my card. "I'm an investigator. I'd like to talk to you for a moment."
"All right
."
"May I come in?"
She took a glimpse behind her before turning back to me. "I ... I don't think ... "
I waved my hand. "It's all right. I'm working for someone at your son's school. Stone Canyon."
A curious expression formed on her face. She said nothing.
"May I talk to your son?" I asked.
"He not home."
"Where is he?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. He may be around. In neighborhood."
I opened the yearbook to Molly's photo. "Have you ever seen this girl?"
The woman stared at the photo and her eyes widened. "Si, señor. Molly. She friends with Diego. Just friends."
"Uh-huh. When was the last time you saw her?" I asked.
She looked down and shook her head. "I don't know."
I sighed. I was learning things, but not exactly what I needed. Mrs. Garcia didn't know me, didn't trust me, and I didn't blame her. I was keenly aware that in her world, there were a lot of hidden dangers in cooperating with any authority figure. I didn't know if I could bridge the trust barrier, but I wasn't getting anywhere this way.
"Look," I started. "I don't think Diego is in any trouble. And I'm not looking to get him into trouble. I just need to find this girl. Her father is very worried. You're a parent, so I think you can understand. Diego and Molly didn't show up at school today. So I'm sure someone from Stone Canyon is going to be calling you, too. If they haven't already."
She considered this. "Diego with his father today. Down at the store. He say he could take day off from school and could work if we need. And we need money."
"Okay. But you look worried. Is there something else?"
She shook her head no. I tried a new tactic.
"What about the girl?" I asked. "Was she here this weekend?"
The woman's eyes got even wider. She opened her mouth for a moment and then thought better of it.
"If she's in trouble," I continued, "Diego could be in trouble. I can help you. I can help Diego. But you have to trust me. Just a little bit."
She looked into my eyes, seemingly trying to read what was behind them. She had no reason to confide in me. But Diego's mother was conflicted about something, and I needed to gain her trust somehow.
"When you have a problem" I said. "It helps to talk about it. Things aren't always as bad as they might appear."
"I never met you before," she managed.
"But you know there's a problem. And you know it's not going away by itself. I'm sure you'd want to help Diego if you could."
"Diego is good boy. He is different."
"I'm sure he is."
"And he is smart. Very smart."
"I don't doubt it. If he got into Stone Canyon School, I'm sure they saw something in him."
"Yes," she said. "But he was accepted because of my employer. The Gobay family. I work at their home. Many years. In Bel-Air, near the school. Sometimes I bring Diego with me, they have boy his age. They became friends. The family thought Diego should have a good education. They placed him in Stone Canyon. They have ... how would you say? Influence?"
"Yes. That's often how things happen," I agreed. No doubt the Gobay family was a big donor to the school. I waited for Mrs. Garcia to say more.
"I don't want to see Diego in trouble," she said. "And that girl is trouble."
"How so?"
"She and Diego. They don't belong together. They are from different worlds. They have different goals. Their future. It is not with each other."
"Maybe I can help," I said.
Now it was her turn to go silent.
"Mrs. Garcia, I'm going to find Diego eventually. It's what I do for a living. And if he's in trouble, I'll try to help him."
She thought about this for a minute, and a modicum of trust finally began to sink in. "All right," she finally said. "He is down at the Grande Mart. Alvarado between 7th and 8th. This side of street. His father work there. Diego helps him."
"And the girl?" I asked.
She shook her head. I waited again. "She is gone," his mother finally said. "And she no coming back."
*
The Grande Mart wasn't so grand, and it wasn't much of a mart. It was a storefront that was shoehorned in the middle of a dozen other storefronts, all hawking cheap merchandise to customers who didn't have a lot of discretionary money. I wondered how many of these shops could stay in business for the long haul, and I had a funny feeling many of them didn't.
There were a few customers in the Grande Mart, mostly young men in their early 20s, all with tattoos and shaved heads. They milled about, picking up merchandise, looking at it and absently putting it back in a different place. Behind the counter was a 40-ish man and a teenage boy. Using the experience of my many years as an investigator, I deduced that the teenager was Diego. He was a slender, good-looking kid with black hair, slicked straight back. He wore a black t-shirt that said L.A. Galaxy in gold lettering. I walked to the counter and picked up a portable CD player that cost under $20. I got the feeling it might last a week. If it worked at all.
"Hola," the young man said.
"You're Diego," I told him, not giving him the opportunity to think about it.
He stared at me for a moment and spoke slowly. "How can I help you?"
I handed him my business card. No sense scaring him into silence by flashing a fake badge. "I understand you go to school at Stone Canyon."
He fingered my card. "Yes, I do," he said. "What is this about?"
"Molly Palmer. You're friends with her."
Diego Garcia turned away and didn't respond. The 40-ish man behind him looked at us for a moment, and then went about pretending to straighten things up as he listened in on our conversation.
"Molly hasn't been home in two days," I said. "Her father is concerned."
The young man processed this for a moment. "I'm surprised he even knows she's gone."
"Why do you say that?"
He shrugged. "He's not very involved in her life. Neither her mother nor her father. They let her do almost anything she wants."
"Her father's an important man. You know that."
"Yes. Very important. But Molly's not important to him."
"She's told you that?"
"In a way she has. Lots of kids at school wish they could get away with what she gets away with. Can stay out all night, no curfew. Studies when she feels like it. Knows she's getting into a good college because of her family."
"Sounds like that bothers you a little."
"It bothers me because I know she's capable of more. She's smart. In her own way. She picks up on things fast. There's book-smart and there's people-smart. She's the latter."
"Which one are you?" I asked.
He gave a small smile. "I'm more book-smart. But around here, you have to know how to deal with people. It's the only thing that matters in this neighborhood."
No doubt about that, I thought. "Are you going to college?"
"Maybe. If I can get a scholarship. My parents have no money to help me. And the days of working your way through school are over. It's just too expensive. Even at a Cal State school. Without financial aid, I'd have to take out loans."
"They're available."
"I know. But I've seen people get loans, finish college and then not find a job. They come back here and just hang."
What he said made some sense, but it was also true people can choose their own paths. People who go to college with a definite purpose and study things with the intent of getting a specific job usually do all right. Business, math, engineering, teaching, and nursing, were all marketable areas of study. The people who had trouble finding work often studied something that didn't lead directly to an employable profession. Anthropology and philosophy majors were not high on most employers' lists of potential hires.
"So I have to ask you more about Molly," I continued. "Whatever you might think of her parents, you should know her father did hire me to find her. And to make sure she's okay. Do you know whe
re she is?"
"No."
"Did you see her this weekend?"
He hesitated for a moment and licked his lips. "Yes."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
Diego tapped his fingers on the counter. "I saw her at the Coliseum on Saturday."
I had an uneasy feeling about what he said. And what he didn't say. Some people were bad liars. "It feels as if there's more to this," I commented.
The 40-ish man standing behind Diego now approached the counter. The man had a swarthy complexion and wore a thick black mustache. On the heavy side, with wide features, he was wearing a tan dress shirt, the type that wasn't meant to be tucked inside the trousers. I noticed something stuffed in his back pocket that appeared to be a leather sap. A sap had one basic purpose: to incapacitate an adversary.
"What's going on here?" he asked.
I held up my hands. "Just having a conversation. One of Diego's classmates has gone missing. Her parents hired me to find her."
"Who is that?" he asked.
"Molly Palmer," I said, handing him a business card. "Do you know her?"
"Of course," he said.
"Dad!"
The man turned to Diego. "Listen, hijo. When parents are trying to find a missing child, you help them. Entiendes?"
Diego rolled his eyes in exasperation. His father turned back to me. "She was here this weekend. She told me she and Diego had a class project they had to work on. She came back from the Coliseum with Diego. She spent the night."
I stared at him and said nothing. Sensing an important detail had been left out, he added, "Diego slept on the couch. She slept in his room."
"Is Molly still here?"
"No," his father said, glancing at Diego. "She left last night. Very quickly I might add."
"Do you know where she is now?" I asked.
His father looked at Diego. Diego said no.
"Okay," I answered. "Thanks. You have my card. Please call me if you see her. Or if you hear of anything. Or remember anything. Anything at all."
I walked back out onto the street and started toward my Pathfinder. I sensed I was being followed. Rather than turn around, I slipped into a small market that had a rack of fruits and vegetables out front. I walked around the store for a minute and then walked back outside. Diego's father was waiting for me.