OURTIMES WAS LOCATED ON CRENSHAW BOULEVARD, A MILE FROM TRAIL 5 IN Bonner Park. The building did not exude the confidence and importance of downtown’s historic Times building with its murals, chevrons, and stainless steel. OurTimes lived in a single-story brown structure with smoked-glass windows and a modest sign tagged with BPS and crossed-out 40NHC.
Colin had remained at his desk—I needed to handle Syeeda alone. And, now, I climbed out of the Crown Vic, the headache still thriving despite Advil chased by Diet Coke. The woody aroma of barbecue from the joint across the street rode atop the drizzle from gathering storm clouds. The cold air helped ease the headache, but the respite would be very temporary.
Because Mike Summit, OurTimes’s assistant editor in chief, all fake spray-tan and preternatural black hair, met me in the lobby.
“Speak of the devil,” he said.
“That’s Detective Devil,” I corrected.
Mike and I had met many lives ago: I was a uniform, and he worked Metro. He was a poseur even then. Too scared to lift the city’s skirt and gape at the ugly, the scary, the what-the-fuckery that existed there. He didn’t like me much, although we hadn’t hung out together long enough for him to make a proper assessment. Ten minutes together, and I had assessed him plenty: dull, stupid, and humorless on his best days. The waxed Vandyke beard, the silver wire-rimmed glasses, the snakeskin boots, the lisp … His affectations grew like eyelashes—one flitting away only to be replaced by a thicker, shinier one.
“I’m here to serve and protect,” I announced. “And you do what again?”
Mike rolled his eyes. “You haven’t changed, I see. This way.”
We didn’t speak again until we had reached a cold, dark cubicle next to a roaring copier. He pointed to the dank space. “Syeeda’s on a conference call. You can hang here for now.”
I placed my bag on the desk. “Something wrong, Mike Summit?”
His cheeks colored. “Other than the fact that you’re a power-hungry, badged thug in jack boots? Other than the fact that you beat Eli Moss—?”
“Are we talking about the same asshole who tried to burn down my house with me in it?”
“Other than the fact that you beat him to a pulp and got away with it?” he continued. “Other than the fact that the missing-girls story is my story and that I’m the one who initially reported on it months ago?”
I glanced at the flickering light above me—the fluorescent tube was filled with fly and termite corpses. “Yeah. Other than that.”
“Other than the fact that you are here right now because you’re friends with Syeeda?”
I smiled. “Other than that, too.”
“Narcissism, pure and simple,” Mike lisped. “I’m not gonna pretend otherwise. You know, Syeeda treats you with kid gloves. I had my own ideas—in particular, the lack of interest of law enforcement in this case, but did she want to hear them? Hell no. She had already decided to be sympathetic to you and your crew, who just stand around and sip coffee all day and let girls go dead and missing for days and weeks and months at a time.”
I shrugged. “You got me. Girls are dead when I’m standing anywhere near them.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” he continued, “this is my assignment. I won’t say that this is reverse-discrimination, but I strongly suspect that it is.”
“Get off the cross, Mike. People need the wood. And also? It’s nepotism, not ‘narcissism.’ And your way with words is probably why Syeeda is handling this story. That and the fact that you came to the Jungle that one time when we found the blue-haired hooker in the alley? It was in the middle of the day on a Monday and you stayed in your car with the doors locked. Remember that?”
Mike grayed.
I plopped into the chair, then plucked my cell phone from my bag.
“Are there any suspects?” Mike asked.
“Can’t say.” I checked e-mail: a forwarded prayer from Mom, a bookstore coupon for 30 percent off all fiction, and a new friend request from Facebook. Colin had also texted me: Ontrel just gave DNA. &u got something from Sam. Oowee!
The telephone on the desk chirped.
I grabbed the handset before Mike could. “OurTimes. How may I direct your inquiry?”
Mike muttered something, then wandered down the corridor.
Syeeda laughed. “You don’t have to be so formal on internal calls.”
“Just being a bitch.”
“You? No way.”
“Mike was keeping me company.”
“Where is he now?”
“Hopefully, playing in traffic.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Come over and try not to shoot anybody.”
Syeeda’s large office, fly-free and bright with light, inhabited some other corner of the universe. A framed photograph of Syeeda standing with Walter Cronkite hung on the wall alongside her degree from UC Santa Cruz. The journalist sat at her desk, mock-ups in neat stacks near her keyboard. Her brown eyes were bloodshot, and her butterscotch complexion was losing the Pimple Blitzkrieg. No sleep. Too many french fries. She wore her usual outfit of gray slacks and a white button-down shirt, but with a variation: a red cashmere sweater instead of a gray one. She had captured her long hair into a ponytail. “Save the Paper” mode.
“I’m guessing Mike whined to you about the story,” she said.
“Of course. And if I do this with you, I want control.”
Syeeda crossed her arms. “Umm …”
“We want the same thing, Sy. Tell the world, find the killer, get justice. But we need to handle it—”
“Your way?”
“And with much discretion. Mike Summit will not have a big role in this. He’s nothing but a fame-chasing he-whore.”
Syeeda stood from the desk and wandered to the window. “It’s raining again. Traffic’s gonna be crazy tonight, and if it rains on Saturday, when the city’s rolling Fortier’s coffin down Crenshaw …”
I glanced out the window—so much water that I couldn’t see the funeral home across the street. News vans had parked there—pretaping segments before Fortier’s jazz funeral. “We both have a connection with the people there,” I said, “with that neighborhood. They’ll talk to you before they talk to Mike or to any other Times snot who grew up in Palisades or Brentwood.” I grinned. “Although they’d jump Mike. That man needs a good mugging.”
Syeeda readjusted her ponytail. “He does, but not while on assignment. That’s all you or I need right now. Innocent white man attacked by black youths. Story at eleven.”
“I can’t really tell you much,” I said. “Friends or not, this is a delicate one.”
She nodded. “I want to make her real.”
“I know, but I can’t promise you a lot.”
“Okay, okay.”
“First, though. Chanita lived in my old apartment complex.”
“Small world.”
“And the woman who lives in her apartment lived there when we were kids. And she’s Chanita’s grandmother.”
Syeeda’s jaw dropped. “Get the hell out.”
“Crazy, right? And I had a crush on one of her sons.”
She smirked. “Let me guess: he had nice eyes.”
I smiled and nodded. “And he had a wavy shag and his name was Paul and last time I saw him was in the backseat of a black and white. We caught him hot-wiring an IROC.”
Syeeda tucked her knees beneath her. “So your childhood crush is Chanita’s uncle.”
“And who says Los Angeles is a big city? It’s practically Mayberry.”
“Since we’re Mayberry, then,” she said, “is Chanita’s case related to Trina Porter’s case?”
“Off the record?”
Syeeda nodded.
“Maybe.”
“And is she related to the other girls who disappeared back in November?”
“Maybe. Same age, same neighborhood.”
Syeeda closed her eyes, then rested her forehead against the window. “This is bad, huh?”
“Bad times two.”
She reached beneath her desk and pulled out a white mixing bowl. “Spencer wouldn’t even talk to me about it. He kept saying, ‘It’s fucked up, Sy. It’s fucked up.’”
I pointed at her. “Which is why I can’t trust Mike with this.”
She wrinkled her nose. “He complained to my boss about this already. He’s accusing me of reverse racism. I may have to throw him a bone.”
My chest tightened. “Fine. Finger and toe bones, then. Nothing else or I’m ghost.”
“So what else can you tell me? That no one else knows? On the record.” She placed the bowl on the floor behind her chair. Plop … plop … plop …
And as raindrops fell into the bowl, I told her that Chanita’s left foot had been broken and that she had been sexually assaulted.
“Any suspects?” she asked, writing on the closest legal pad.
“No,” I said, “but we may have a person of interest. And please use that phrase. Not ‘suspect.’ No arrests are being planned for now, all right?”
She nodded, still writing.
Syeeda was one of my best friends—but she was also a reporter.
I couldn’t trust her, either.