The next day, as a hard, slanting rain lashed the city, Detectives LaBarbera and Hart, Captain Tatreau, South Bureau Commander Lester Kuwahara, and Lieutenant Lucy Sanchez of press relations gathered around the mahogany desk of LAPD Chief Charlie Miller.
“This is awesome,” said the chief as he gazed out his sixth-floor window through the deluge to the Times building across the street. How appropriate this downpour, he thought. How gloomy the Times building looked. How gloomy it would soon be inside. “This tape is awesome. After those assholes at the Times put all the bullshit pressure on us, and now this? I believe in miracles.” The last four words were uttered in sort of a sing-along to the hit song “You Sexy Thing.” The others winced as if stung by yellow jackets.
Lucy Sanchez wasn’t even paying attention at this point. She was that stunned and disturbed by the tape. She liked Mike. She often talked to him. When he called the LAPD press office, he would usually ask for her. She had even made out with him at the Water Grill bar years and years ago. There were martinis involved and Hama Hama and Kumamoto oysters, too. She enjoyed the lingering kisses and more.
“This is almost too good to believe,” continued Chief Miller. “How sure are we that it is real?”
Lucy snapped out of her daze.
“It’s real, Chief. We checked it,” said Tatreau.
“Sal and Johnny here talked to Lyons last night. They went and paid him a visit. They had a recorder with them.”
“Did he know?”
“No,” said LaBarbera, who was not proud of what he did, just following orders. “We weren’t looking for evidence. We just wanted his voice. We checked with Legal before we went to him. He’s doing really good, by the way. All things considered.”
“Yeah, he’s home, ya know,” said Hart. “Doing good, like Sal says.”
“He could drop dead for all I care. Now gimme what you got. Get to the damn point.”
Hart and LaBarbera looked at Tatreau who took over. “They recorded him and took it to the lab. Three of our tech guys heard the tape. They compared it to the tape you just heard. It’s the same guy.”
“Is this gonna come back to haunt me? Will you stake your rep, your job on it, Jimmy?”
“Yes, Chief. Sir, that voice is the voice of Michael Lyons,” Tatreau said firmly.
“Okay, then that’s good enough for me. We’re going public today. Five o’clock news. No. No. Six o’clock news.”
“Chief,” LaBarbera said, “I just gotta say something. We know it’s Lyons on the tape. But, we don’t know the context. I know Lyons and Johnny knows him well, too. You could even say we’re friends.”
“Point?”
“Point is we both find it kind of hard to believe he is serious.”
The chief kicked his black Johnston & Murphy wingtips on his sturdy desk near a 1977 picture of him in uniform walking a beat on 25th and Diamond Street in North Philly. “He’s telling a known thug, a killer, a prison rapist from what I’ve gathered, that he wants to be shot. It doesn’t sound like a joke to me. That’s not a guy you joke with.”
“I know. But, Mike is a street reporter. He lived in the South Bronx back when they called it Fort Apache. He hangs out in Watts, Green Meadows, and Compton. He could be just joking or talking smack, trying to act tough.”
Hart jumped in. “Trying to impress the guy. I can’t see him wanting to get shot. He sure seems to get a lot of fun out of life.”
“Our point is simply this,” said LaBarbera. “Play the tape if you must, but give out that warning.”
Miller didn’t like this. He wanted to lay the whole culpability for the shooting of Lyons on Lyons himself. Even more so, he wanted the Times to look like the shit they tried to smear on the LAPD. He wanted the Times to be held responsible for this shooting and for the panic they’d tried to create. He absolutely loathed the Times, to the point his shoulders knotted when he thought about the paper. He wanted the Times to be blamed for everything wrong about Los Angeles. For the smog, for the traffic, for the drive-by shootings, for there being no NFL team here, for the 1992 riots, the 1994 North-ridge earthquake, the deadly 2008 Metrolink crash in Chatsworth, the overdose of Marilyn Monroe, the motel shooting of Sam Cooke, the deadly drunken fall of William Holden, the drowning of Natalie Wood, the arthritis of Sandy Koufax, the birth of the mini mall, and the closing of Larchmont Hardware and Henry’s Tacos.
“Look, here’s what is going to happen,” the Chief declared in his most pompous voice, a voice to annoy a Cambridge English professor, a tone to make Cicero cringe. “I and I alone will make an announcement that there has been a significant development in this most curious of cases. A most perplexing case, indeed. There have been no arrests in this case, but a major new lead has been discovered by our detectives. Then I will play the tape, announcing beforehand that the voice is Michael Lyons, the famed glory asshole gang-loving reporter who was shot downtown last week. That’s it. Come what may. Let the public reach their own conclusions.”
“Okay, but we have to make—” began Hart.
“Okay?” mocked the chief. “Well, it’s so comforting, Detective Hart, that I have your okay. That makes me feel very good. Very good, indeed.”
Hart swallowed, then continued. “Chief, I was just going to say we need to make sure that the other voice is not identified. That was part of the deal. I know Commander Kuwahara spoke to you about this, but I just needed to say it again.”
Miller took a long, slow inhale. “Kuwahara already mentioned the deal with this Hoover, as you just stated, but you felt the need to, I guess, what, remind me? Once wasn’t enough? Do you think, young Hart, that I am an old, dense geezer and that is why I need to be told repeatedly about something?”
Silence in the room. Finally, Hart said, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“So, how are we going to play it?” Lucy asked.
“Should I get the word out that there’ll be a news conference here at six?”
“Yes, Lucy,” said Miller. “But, absolutely no leaks. I want this to be a bombshell. A goddamn improvised explosive device set off in the Times newsroom. Announce a news conference at six regarding the Lyons shooting. I think you should say the conference is not to announce an arrest. I don’t want any let downs. Just say, at first, it is to give a update. Then around five, start leaking that this is going to be a shocking announcement. Okay, Luce? Lucy?”
Lucy’s thoughts had once again strayed back to the Water Grill where Lyons got her as wet as the Hama Hamas they were slurping, slithered in two fingers, then pulled them out, sucked one of them and gave her the other. How she went down on his drenched middle finger. How she rubbed him through his slacks.
“Lucy?” said the chief. “Lucy?”
“Yes, Chief, yes, sorry,” she said snapping out of it.