The cops came, of course. In the early going, the place was swarming with Beverly Hills detectives who looked and dressed like the citizens they served, meaning lots of gym work and very sharp clothes. The Colombo look doesn’t fly at BHPD, which occasionally earns them static from other law enforcement types. But when you’re dealing with people who think fast food is a brisk sushi chef, you get a lot farther if you don’t show up sporting three shades of plaid. The chief once told me that being a good cop and knowing which tie goes with which shirt aren’t incompatible skills. I agree.
But well-dressed or not, they’d all been warned by Jake Praxis, who’d somehow shown up at the hospital an hour after I’d been shot, to not even breathe in my direction unless he was present. And when one captain tried an end-around, Jake buttonholed him and said that if he did it again, he’d drop the chief as a client.
So when the medical staff finally okayed an interview, Jake, attired in his jury-best, sat in my green La-Z-Boy, dangling an Italian loafer, while Detective Sergeant Dion Manarca, a stocky guy with a prematurely gray crew cut, opened the session. His partner, a piranha-eyed skeleton named Pantiagua, stood off to the side, one hand in his pocket, absentmindedly clicking a Zippo.
But Manarca and Pantiagua weren’t from Beverly Hills. They were from the Major Crimes unit of the LAPD, and they didn’t open the conversation by explaining why they were involved.
Earlier, Mallory had brought me a quart bottle of Broguiere’s milk and an egg salad sandwich from Jerry’s, but I’d only eaten half the sandwich and had one glass of milk. Sgt. Manarca eyed what was left. “You gonna finish that?”
When I said I wasn’t, he took the sandwich in one big paw and the bottle of milk in the other and got both down in a few seconds. As he wiped his face with the back of his hand, he said, “Fuckin’ ulcer needs to be fed like six times a day.”
He took me through the two days I’d spent with Kim like the pro he was, covering everything in minute detail, sometimes going over a point several times. While he talked, he jotted an occasional note in a small, black leather notebook, but I couldn’t tell what seemed to matter to him and what didn’t.
As we were reliving the evening at Tacitus for the second time, I suddenly remembered the spider on the shooter’s arm. But just as I was about to mention it, Manarca closed his notebook, reached into his breast pocket and came out with two photographs. He handed one to me, and I took it with my good hand. Staring back at me was a mug shot of a good-looking, dark-haired kid in his early teens.
“That the shooter?” asked Manarca.
“Could be, but I’d need to see him in person to be sure.”
“Would it help if I told you Tacitus Gambelli and two of his waiters have already made a positive ID?”
“From this?”
“Yep.”
“I’d still like to see him.”
Manarca took a breath like an exasperated teacher talking to a thick third-grader. “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. One of our black and whites found his body early this morning—in the back end of a stolen pickup.”
“Where?”
“East L.A. Behind a dry cleaner’s. Name’s Jacinto “Kiki” Videz. Age fifteen. Guatemalan. Came in by coyote six years ago with his parents and four brothers. Father died of a drug overdose. Mother works as a domestic in Los Feliz. Two brothers are vacationing at San Quentin, and the other, Fernando, is a fugitive. Wanted for boosting about a hundred cars. Another fuckin’ tribute to Homeland Security.”
Now I understood why the Armani cops had stepped aside. They’d want to be kept informed, but this wasn’t their beat. “So what’s Kiki’s story?”
“Known associate of Los Tigres. His juvie record is sealed, but the gang detail has him in the system. Drug trafficking, strong-arm robbery, extortion and arson. A solid citizen.”
“A gangbanger doing a hit in Beverly Hills. I don’t buy it.”
Pantiagua spoke for the first time, spitting out his words. “Fuckin’ Westside gringos. You live in your big fuckin’ houses behind those big fuckin’ walls and don’t know shit.”
Jake coolly looked at Manarca. “Sergeant, why don’t you tell Jimmy Smits here that if he wants to play whose dick is bigger, we’ll call downtown before you ask your next question.”
Pantiagua’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Jake, fists clenched. “What’s with the Jimmy Smitts bullshit, you Jew motherfucker? You don’t have the balls to say ‘beaner’?”
Jake was on his feet and into a boxer’s crouch faster than I thought any man could move, let alone a millionaire lawyer with a bulge around his middle. “For the record, my mother’s name was DaSilva, so I suggest you grab yourself a fistful of ‘lo siento’ before I kick your cock up between your ears. And you so much as breathe the word half-breed, your skinny ass goes down the elevator shaft.”
Now, this was a new side of Jake Praxis, and I’ve got to say I was rooting for Pantiagua to test him. But the cooler head of Manarca prevailed. “Manny, you can’t afford another write-up, so stand over there and shut the fuck up.”
Everybody went back to their respective corners, and Manarca got on with it. “Los Tigres force an associate to murder somebody to become a full member. It’s the way they bond, and how they make it difficult to cultivate a snitch. Not much incentive to turn state’s evidence if you know you’re gonna have to do twenty-five to life anyway. Usually, these guys just whack a rival banger, but Mr. Videz must have had a little showboat in him. You and Ms. York were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“They get bonus points for shooting two?”
“My guess is he decided he had no choice. Guy your size.”
“Then why isn’t Kiki nursing a tequila hangover from his initiation party instead of lying in a meat locker downtown?”
“Because what he did was stupid. Bangers are like cockroaches. They hate the fuckin’ light. It brings out the politicians and the task forces. And there ain’t no brighter light than being the lead story on CNN five straight nights. Videz was a liability, so they served him up.”
I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head. “Too many leaps.”
“Mr. Black, you ever put together jigsaw puzzles when you were a kid?”
“What’s your point?”
“Ninety percent of the pieces could be missing, but if you had the right ones, you’d still be able to recognize the Eiffel Tower.”
“That line usually close a reluctant witness?” I said with not-very-well-disguised sarcasm.
So Manarca handed me the second photograph he’d taken out of his pocket. It was a shot of a blue-jeaned knee, bent at an odd angle, and next to it was an empty flower basket. Well, not completely empty. A 9mm Beretta lay in the bottom.
“I suppose you’ve already got a ballistics match, or we wouldn’t be going through this charade?”
“Unequivocal,” said the detective.
Jake stood up. “Then I take it you’re finished with my client.”
I handed Manarca back his pictures. He took them and put both back in his pocket. “The good news is that as soon as the story breaks, the media’s gonna beat feet outta here and give you some peace.” Turning to Jake, he said, “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Praxis, I’ll have a statement typed up and sent to your office. Mr. Black can review it at his convenience and make any changes he feels necessary. Just get it back to me as soon as you can so I can close this out.”
Pantiagua was already heading toward the door.
“Sorry about Ms. York,” said Manarca. “Beautiful lady. I’m glad you pulled through.”
But I wasn’t finished. “So that’s it? No follow-through on Tino or Dante?”
Manarca gave me his best tired-cop look. “Even if what she told you was true, it was unrelated to her death. And since I don’t have a complaining witness, the kidnapping, or whatever it was, is history.”
He was right, and I knew it, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. As Manarca turned to leave, I said, “Humor me for a minute, Sergeant. Did Kiki Videz have any tattoos? Maybe one on his right arm?”
I thought I saw a flicker of something in Manarca’s eyes, then it was gone. “Funny thing. The ME said somebody took a machete to the body after the guy was dead—hacked both arms off at the elbow. They weren’t in the truck, so my guess is Los Tigres had a little show-and-tell with the troops to smarten up anybody else who might have a wild idea.”
I took a long look at the detective, who was suddenly perspiring. “Starting to look a lot more like a steaming turd than Paris, isn’t it, Sergeant?”
Manarca didn’t answer.
“Who claimed Dr. York’s body?”
“So far, no one.”
When the cops had gone, I said to Jake, “You think he’ll work it on the quiet?”
“Right. Because he’s got that big incentive clause in his contract.”
I looked out the window. There was a crane across the street swinging an I-beam into the frame of an unfinished building. I watched the two guys on the receiving end expertly get a rope around it and pull it in.
Suddenly, I felt very tired. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, it was dark, and Jake was gone. I heard the dinner cart in the hallway, then someone knocked on my door. “I’m not hungry,” I called out.
But the door pushed open anyway, and Mitchell Adams came in, wearing a Delta Airlines Windbreaker over his uniform. He looked old and very, very tired. “I read about you in the paper,” he said. “The girl? Was she the one in Walter’s picture?”
I nodded.
“Walter’s dead too,” he said wearily.
I looked at him. “Why don’t you sit down, Mitchell. You look like you’re out on your feet.”
He sat on the edge of the green La-Z-Boy. I let him get to it in his own way.
“The night after you got shot.” Mitchell’s voice cracked, and he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “Walter had a nice little darkroom out in the garage. Somebody surprised him. Opened him up with a knife. So much blood, it came up over the soles of my shoes. Had to identify him from his clothes. Thank God my sister didn’t find him.”
“Tino,” I said under my breath.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I said.
Mitchell shook his head. “No way you could. Didn’t make the papers. Detective they sent around was a brother, and he didn’t want to fuck around with what he figured was just one more dead hustler.”
I didn’t answer. I’d met black cops who had nothing but contempt for their own.
Mitchell went on. “This guy, Davis, when he saw the house had been torn to hell—furniture sliced open, carpet pulled up—he asks was Walter dealing or using or both? I told him Walter didn’t even take fucking aspirin. Like he didn’t hear me, he asks what gang he was in.”
I watched Mitchell. There was a quiet anger on his face now.
“So I says to him, he was a member of the skycaps. And the guy starts to write it down. Then he gets it, and I can tell he’s done with me and Walter. Unless the killer shows up with a confession hanging around his neck, he ain’t even gonna think about it anymore.”
Mitchell reached into his Windbreaker and pulled out a manila envelope. He threw it on the bed.
I looked at it. “Walter’s negatives?”
He nodded. “Found them in his locker at work. Figured you was the only one might put them to good use. Wasn’t gonna be Detective Davis.”
Mitchell looked out the window. “And I’m the one told him to hang onto them. You think I helped kill my nephew?”
“I don’t think it would have made any difference. Whatever this is about, they aren’t leaving any loose ends.”
He thought about that for a moment. “All I want is one favor.”
“Name it.”
“If you find the guy, you call me, and I’ll come do the job. That’s not possible, you promise me you’ll make him suffer.”