‘Why are we with her?’ Difiore mouthed at her partner as they accompanied Lisa Dade to her official vehicle.
Quindica shrugged and climbed into the rear seat while the police chief sat next to her driver.
‘I need to get away,’ the LAPD boss said wearily. ‘Keep me company.’
‘Yes, ma’am. You think the couple will tell us anything more than they told Matteo?’ Difiore glanced back through the rear window and spotted the lead detective following them in their car.
‘I hope so. When they see us in person.’
Jim and Emily Curiel. The NYPD detective brought up Matteo’s report on her phone. Retired. He had been a building construction inspector, employed by the city, while she had been a school teacher.
‘Salt-of-the-earth kind of people,’ Difiore guessed, speaking softly so only her partner could hear. ‘One daughter, who works in tech in San Francisco, no other children. They’ve been in LA all their lives.’
‘You think we’ll get nothing from them?’ Quindica whispered.
‘Yeah.’
‘You heard what the chief said. Look at her. She’s stretched tight.’
Difiore nodded. Dade’s neck was rigid with tension, tendons taut against her skin. A pulse fluttered visibly in her forehead whenever she looked at them.
‘Understandable. Her city hasn’t experienced these kinds of attacks in a long while.’
They broke off when the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the Curiels’ residence.
A patrol cop who was leaning against a cruiser snapped to attention.
‘They’re inside, Chief,’ he told Dade at her questioning look. ‘I informed them you would be coming.’
‘Thank you, Terry. You did great.’
That’s one reason she’s got most of the cops’ loyalty, Difiore thought as she observed Dade at work. She calls them by name, makes them feel important, can relate to them. She goes to bat for them.
‘Waste of time,’ Matteo grunted when he joined them. ‘They aren’t going to tell the chief anything more than what they told me.’
Difiore made no comment and trailed behind Quindica as they went into the house.
The living room was cozy, with warm colors. A muted-red throw on the floor. A well-used couch in front of a fireplace, which the elderly couple occupied, family photographs and paintings on the mantelpiece and walls. A home on which love and care had been lavished.
Dade introduced herself and her companions, made small talk to make the Curiels feel comfortable. She noted the small bandages on their foreheads and, despite her warm words, the wariness in their eyes.
‘You’ve met Vance,’ she said, smiling at them. ‘He’s our best detective. He’ll find who is responsible for burning that house. He’ll—’
‘That place deserved to be destroyed,’ Emily Curiel interrupted her fiercely. ‘It was used by that gang. Entire neighborhood knew about it. What did the cops do? Nothing.’
‘Ma’am, you know we can’t act unless we suspect—’
‘Jim, you remember when LAPD raided it?’
‘Yeah, last year. They arrested a few men, some cop came on TV and said they had cleaned up the neighborhood. But the gang returned as if nothing had happened.’
This will be tough, Dade sighed internally.
‘How are your wounds healing?’
‘They’re fine. Superficial cuts,’ Jim Curiel growled. ‘Ma’am, I have to ask, why are you here? We told him everything that happened.’ He jerked his chin at Matteo. ‘We held nothing back.’
‘You don’t remember anything else? About that man who shot those two—’
‘He saved us.’ Emily Curiel glared at her. ‘He could have run away. There was enough time for him to escape when those thugs broke inside.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Did he say anything that you remember? He’s our prime suspect—’
‘He should get a medal for what he did. Cleaned out that place and took out two gangsters.’
‘Ma’am.’ Difiore came to Dade’s rescue. ‘Did he look like this?’ She showed them Grogan’s photograph on her screen.
‘Him! No. We described him to this cop.’ It was the wife’s turn to jerk her head in Matteo’s direction. ‘He was wearing glasses, he had a heavier build. He didn’t have green eyes.’
‘Brown or black.’ Jim Curiel nodded his head. ‘Neither of us were in a state to observe him closely.’
Difiore wasn’t done. She scrolled swiftly on her phone, turned the screen towards the couple and played a video. Ellen Ronning, a prominent TV journalist, interviewing Grogan in New York. ‘Did he sound like this?’
Emily Curiel’s lips thinned in anger. ‘We told you he didn’t look like this man. Why do you keep showing—’
‘Mrs. Curiel,’ Dade interrupted gently. ‘That attacker—’
‘He didn’t raise his hand or his gun on us.’
‘No,’ Jim Curiel echoed. ‘In fact, he was unarmed when we saw him. He reached for his gun only when those thugs broke in. He rescued us from them.’
‘Sir,’ the chief said patiently, ‘he could have been in a disguise. That’s why Detective Difiore is playing that tape. Perhaps you could recognize his voice.’
The couple listened intently and then shook their heads. ‘He didn’t sound like that. That man’s voice was deeper, harsher,’ the wife said. ‘No, he isn’t that person in the interview.’
‘Did he say anything about a vehicle? Where he was going to?’
‘He took Jim’s Ford.’
Matteo leaned forward urgently. ‘Ma’am.’ He addressed them sharply. ‘You didn’t tell us that. You said he went through the back gate.’
‘We are old,’ she snapped back. ‘You think our memories are like yours, young man?’
Dade couldn’t help smiling at Emily Curiel’s stinging reply. She broke into a grin when Jim Curiel winked at her slyly. Her troubles—the mayor demanding hourly updates, the media camped outside the headquarters, the investigations that were going nowhere—suddenly seemed distant. I like them, she thought. What did Gina say about them? Salt of the earth? She’s right.
‘The key was hanging there.’ She pointed to a hook near the door to the backyard. ‘He took it, asked where the vehicle was and went away.’
‘You remember the license plate, ma’am?’
Jim Curiel snorted. ‘It’s our car. Of course, we do.’ He recited it to the detective, who made a hurried phone call and put his phone away.
‘Where was it parked?’
‘On Boulder Street.’
‘Why there?’
‘We run out of parking on this street quickly. There are always spaces on Boulder. And no,’ he said firmly when Matteo made to question him again. ‘This man didn’t say where he was going. He didn’t tell us his name. He didn’t leave anything behind.’
A dog trotted into the room, sniffed the visitors and climbed into Emily Curiel’s lap, its tail wagging furiously.
‘We wouldn’t even have known he was passing through our yard if Oscar hadn’t woken us up.’
‘Ma’am.’ Dade stroked the pet, who licked her palm. ‘Did Oscar attack him?’
‘No. He was on a leash. But those thugs—’ Her eyes hardened. ‘One of them kicked him. He deserved to die just for that.’
Difiore led the way out of the Curiels’ house, donned her shades and waited with Quindica while Matteo and the chief thanked the couple.
‘That was smart thinking,’ the task force lead complimented her as they headed back to their vehicles, ‘showing them Grogan’s photograph and video.’
‘It came to nothing.’
‘Investigations are like rolling a boulder uphill.’ He shrugged, waved to the chief and drove away.
‘Vance will find the Ford dumped somewhere,’ Dade said after a while, as her driver took them back to the office. ‘Probably burned, and even if isn’t, it will be clean.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Difiore agreed.
‘You know.’ The chief turned around to face them. Her eyes were distant, her expression remote. ‘I’ve never had to arrest a friend.’
She’s referring to Grogan.
‘It could be anyone, ma’am,’ Quindica said softly. ‘Another gang attacking the Street Front. Heck, Covarra doesn’t lack enemies.’
‘It isn’t anyone. His gang and Armenian Bros have been sniping at each other for years. That’s the most brutal rivalry in town. None of the previous attacks had this kind of precision. They were street brawls, drive-by shootouts, killings in a bar. These attacks,’ she said as her green eyes regained focus, ‘they are military-style. Planned to the smallest detail, executed perfectly. And the gear,’ she paused, laughing mirthlessly, ‘no banger would even think of using such equipment.’
Difiore squeezed Quindica’s thigh in warning when her partner went to speak. Let her talk.
‘But, Cutter, I’ve seen him work. This has his signature. He can disguise his appearance, his voice, he can use ghost weapons … but it’s him.’
She straightened and pulled out her phone. ‘Vance,’ she ordered the detective, ‘meet me at the office. We’re fifteen minutes away.’
Difiore and Quindica followed her silently when they reached the LAPD headquarters. They took their cue from the chief, who ignored the assembled reporters’ questions and didn’t look at the TV cameras.
Up through the elevator and to her office, where Matteo, Cruz and Estrada were waiting.
‘We found the Ford, ma’am. Burned out, in a parking lot in West Hollywood. Forensics team is going over it right now, but I’m not hopeful.’
Difiore watched the chief straighten files on her desk. Adjusted a paperweight and placed it neatly on a stack of papers.
‘Where’s Grogan?’ Her eyes were flinty when she raised them.
‘He’s gone, ma’am. He’s not at the two addresses we have for him. He’s not answering his phone. It shows he’s at the Sycamore place, but its empty.’
He exhaled softly. ‘He’s gone off the grid, ma’am.’
‘What progress have you made with your investigations?’ Dade fired at Difiore and Quindica.
‘Not much,’ the FBI SAC answered. ‘Matteo’s helping us, but still—’
‘You two know Grogan better than anyone else in this room, in LA in fact.’
Difiore sensed it from the chief’s tight face. Her guts tightened when she heard her next words.
‘Stop your work for now. You can return to it later. Find Grogan. Bring him in for questioning.’