Molina stood with her hands wrapped around her elbows, watching through the one-way glass.
Alch stood slightly behind her, hating the occasional foot shuffles that showed he was more nervous than the guy at the interrogation table.
“I suppose the drug task force would let you interview him after they’re through,” Alch suggested finally.
“And give Nadir the steering wheel to this squad car? Everything we said would be on tape. I do not want anything I have to say to him on the record. Look. He’s glancing over, letting us know he knows we’re watching.
“He doesn’t know who is watching, that you’re watching.”
“Yes, he does, he certainly does.”
Molina turned so fast she nearly walked over him on her way out. “Let’s hope the narcs nail him good for this one.”
* * *
But when Alch discreetly followed up on Molina’s instructions later that early Thursday morning he discovered that Nadir’s story had been iffy, but plausible enough to get him released.
So Alch immediately reported to Molina in her long narrow office.
“I was called because of the Maylords murders, but how did you hear about this stuff going down?” Alch asked.
Molina shuffled papers even while he struggled to glimpse their contents upside down.
“I was working late.”
“Leaving Mariah alone at home?”
“No, not that she isn’t claiming she’s old enough for it. I still have a neighbor lady sit with her nights, and, boy, do I hear about it every time. How long before they stop saying they’re old enough?”
“Until they’re old enough. Guess I’ll go home to my English bulldog. He’s twelve too, but he’s a lot less demanding than a preteen girl.”
“Get outta here, Morrie.” She smiled thinly and waved a hand.
He left, as uneasy as when his Vicky had promised never to smoke. She still was smoking today.
Some headstrong preteen girls were pushing forty.
Molina rapped her fingers on her chair arms until she had counted one hundred and Alch had to be through the hall and on the elevator.
She stood, unconsciously pushed her blazer sleeves up as if expecting hard work, then jerked them down again before the cheap polyester blend could wrinkle.
She knew what she wanted to do, had to do.
She went into the hall, down three doors to the day-watch commander’s office, and brushed her knuckles against the ajar door, moving in right after.
She was ranking here, even if she had no authority over the drug task force.
She paused to observe the man lounging at Sergeant Roscoe’s desk.
Roscoe would have a heart attack to see this. You had to love those narcs from their filthy tennis shoes to their low-riding pants that bunched like accordions at their ankles. Add long, matted hair, tattoos, BO, and facial hair that gave scraggly a bad name. They were almost ready to audition for the Antichrist.
“Lieutenant Molina,” the man greeted her. “Aren’t we looking natty for the night shift.”
“No competition for you, Paddock. You’re Prince Charming.”
He laughed. “Man, I can’t sit up straight now to save my soul. So consider yourself saluted. What can I do for you?”
“You see right through me,” she joshed back, taking the chair across from him. “Fascinating as the drug bust at Maylords is, I’ve still got two unsolved murders on my roster.”
“They’re related, right?”
“I’m not so sure. That Maylords operation is a snake’s nest of sexual and office politics.”
“Tell me about it! I could hardly arrest those biker dudes; they kept mistaking it for an especially assertive pickup.”
“You have any trouble making the case?”
“Nah. We’d been tipped off. The drugs were smuggled in imported furniture. The stuffing wasn’t goose down like it should have been, but it was white and fluffy and all neatly plastic wrapped.”
“So who’s behind it?”
“The so-called security staff was mostly all in on it. The bikers picked up the goods when they said so, and then the stuff went into the distribution chain. Your CAPERS detectives might be of use to us in pursuing the insider angle. I don’t want to drag people in for questioning and alert the contact.”
“Sure. They’ve plenty of questions to ask. We don’t have any solid leads on the murder, or murderers, yet. What about . . . wasn’t there one guy you let go?”
“Yeah. Ex-cop outta L.A. Turned out he’d been the one who tipped us off. Had some nutsy notion of playing the hero and tracking them before we got there. I mean, you’re off the force, stay off the force.”
“Right. An amateur detective might be useful to us, though. What’d you get on him?”
Paddock’s dirty fingernails rifled through a slew of paperwork. Finally he turned to the typewriter and rolled a sheet out of the platen.
“Here it is. Rafi Nadir. Made sergeant in L.A., for about one month. I’ll call down there to check his story.”
Molina scanned the familiar form, memorizing the only two facts she needed. “Looks like a loser,” she commented.
“If we can use him, that’s good enough.”
“Right.” She stood. “Don’t stay up too late. You could use a beauty sleep.”
Dirty Larry Paddock laughed as she eased out the door. She heard the one-handed typewriting resume while she paused, repeating the numbers over and over to herself.
Address and telephone number. That was all she needed. Not what she wanted, but what she needed.