"H" Is for Homicide (10 page)

I stretched out on my side, my head propped up on my hand. Bibianna had her back against the wall, her arms crossed for warmth. "What a crock of shit. People out there killing each other and they arrest someone like her. I don't get it. Call her old man and have him come get her out of here. He's going to call anyway once he figures out she's not home."

"How come you're so down on the police?" I asked.

Bibianna ran a hand through her hair, giving it a toss. "They killed my pop. My mom's Anglo. He was Latino. They met in high school and she was crazy about him. She gets knocked up and they got married, but it worked out okay."

"Why'd the cops kill him?"

"It was just something dumb. He was in a little market and lifted something minor – a package of meat and some chewing gum. The store manager caught him and they got into a tussle. Some off-duty cop pulled his gun out and fired. All for a pack of ground beef and some Chiclets for me. What a waste. My mother never got over it. God, it was awful to watch. She married some guy six months later and he turned out to be a real shit, knockin' her around. Talk about bad karma – the cops killed him, too. She'd kick him out. He'd disappear and then show up again, all contrite. Move in, take her money, beat the crap out of us. He's drunk half the time, doing 'ludes and coke, anything else he could get his hands on, I guess. If he wasn't pawing at her, he was pawing at me. I cut him once, right across the face – nearly took his eye out. One night, he got caught breaking into an apartment building two doors away from us. He barricaded himself in the place with a twelve-gauge. The cops swarmed all over the neighborhood. Television crews. SWAT teams and tear gas. Cops shot him down like a dog. I was eight. It's like how many times I gotta go through this, you know?"

"Sounds like they did you a service on that one," I said.

Her smile was bitter, but she made no response.

"Your mother still alive?"

"Down in Los Angeles," Bibianna said. "What about you? You got family somewhere?"

"Not anymore. I've been on my own for years. I thought you were going to do my numbers," I said.

"Oh, yeah. What's your birthday?"

The date I was using on the fake ID was a match for mine. "May fifth," I said, and gave her the year.

"And me without a pencil. Hey, Nettie? You got something to write with?"

Nettie shook her head. "Not unless you count Chap-Stick."

Bibianna shrugged. "What the hell. Look here." She licked her finger and drew a big tic-tac-toe grid on the floor. She wrote the number 5 in the center and raised it to the third power. The lights in the cell were dim, but the floor was so grimy I could read the spit graph without squinting. She said, "This is great. See that? Five is the number of change and movement. You got three of them. That's hot. You know, travel and like that. Growth. You're the kind of person has to be out there doing things, moving. The zero out here means you don't have any limits. You can do anything. Like whatever you tried, you'd be good at, you know? But it can scatter you. Especially with all these fives here. Makes it tough to pick the thing you want to do. You'd need to have the kind of job that would never be the same. Know what I mean? You have to be in the middle of the action… "

She looked at me for confirmation.

"Weird," I said, for lack of anything better.

Nettie shot us a look. She had one arm around Heather, who had leaned against her for warmth. "We're trying to get some sleep here. Could you keep it down?"

"Sorry," Bibianna said. She abandoned the reading and stretched out on the mattress, making herself comfortable. The gridwork she'd drawn seemed to glow in the half-light. The bulb in the cell remained bright, but we were reasonably warm. There was the sense of ongoing activity in the corridors beyond: a phone ringing, footsteps, the murmuring of voices, a cell door clanging shut. At intervals, the smell of cigarette smoke seemed to drift through the vents. Somewhere on the floor below us were the dormitory rooms that housed the fifty to sixty women doing county time in any given period. I could feel myself begin to drift. At least we were out of the rain and the bad guys couldn't get us. Unless "they" were somebody locked in the cell with us. Now, there was a thought.

"One good thing," Bibianna murmured drowsily.

"What's that?"

"They didn't find that joint…"

"You are one lucky chick."

After that, there was quiet except for the occasional rustling of clothes as one of us turned on the mattress. The skinny white woman began to snore softly. I lay entertaining warm thoughts about Bibianna, realizing that from here on out, I'd remember her as the person I first got jailed with, a form of female bonding not commonly recognized. I'd have felt a lot better if Jimmy Tate had come to our rescue, but I really wasn't sure what he could have done to help. Right now, he was probably sitting in a cell over on the men's side in roughly the same fix. Crazy Jimmy Tate and Bibianna Diaz, what a pair they made…

THE NEXT THING I knew, there was a jingling of keys. My eyes popped open. One of the female jail officers was unlocking the door. She was short and solid, built like she spent a lot of time at the gym. The other four women in the cell were still asleep. The jail officer pointed at me. Bleary-eyed, I propped myself up on one elbow, pushing the hair out of my face. I pointed at myself – did she want me? Impatiently, she motioned me over to the door. I curled forward, rising to my feet as quietly as I could. There was no way to judge what time it was or how long I'd been asleep. I felt groggy and disoriented. Without a word, she opened the door and I passed through. I followed her down the corridor in my sock feet, wishing with all my heart that I could brush my teeth.

I once dated a cop who had an eight-by-eleven-foot desk built for himself, boasting that the surface was the same size as the two-man cells in Folsom prison. The room I was ushered into was about that size, furnished with a plain wood table, three straight-backed wooden chairs, and a bulb covered with a milky globe. I would have bet money there was recording equipment in there somewhere. I peered under the table. No sign of a wire. I sat down on one of the chairs, wondering how best to comport myself. I knew I was a mess. My hair felt matted, probably sticking straight up in places. I was sure my mascara and eyeliner now circled my eyes in that raccoon effect women so admire in themselves. The trampy outfit I'd concocted was not only wrinkled, but still felt faintly damp. Ah, well. At least if I were subjected to police brutality, I wouldn't mind bleeding on myself.

The door opened and Lieutenant Dolan appeared in company with another (I was guessing) plainclothes detective. I felt a spurt of fear for the first time since this ghastly ordeal had begun. Dolan was the last man I wanted to have as a witness to my current state. I could feel a blush of embarrassment rise up my neck to my face. Dolan's companion was in his sixties, with a thick shock of silver hair brushed away from a square face, deep-set eyes, and a mouth that pulled down at the corners. He was taller than Dolan and in much better shape, substantially built with wide shoulders and heavy-looking thighs. He wore a three-piece suit in a muted glen plaid with a denim blue shirt and a wide maroon tie with a floral pattern more fitting for a couch cover. He wore a gold ring on his right hand, a watch with a heavy gold band on his left. He made no particular attempt to be polite. If he had an opinion of me, nothing registered on his face. Together, the two men seemed to fill the room.

Dolan leaned out into the hall and said something to someone, then closed the door and pulled a chair up, straddling it. The other man sat down at the same time and crossed his legs at the knee with a slight adjustment of his trousers. He held his big hands loosely in his lap and made no eye contact.

Dolan seemed positively perky by comparison. "I'm having some coffee brought in. You look like you could use some."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"One of the deputies recognized you when you were booked in and called me," he said.

"Who's this?" I asked with a glance at the other man. I didn't think he should have the advantage of anonymity. He clearly knew who I was and enough about me to adopt an attitude of disinterest.

"Lieutenant Santos," Dolan said. Santos made no move. What was this, my week to meet hostile men?

I got up and leaned across the table with my hand held out. "Kinsey Millhone," I said. "Nice to meet you."

His reaction was slow and I wondered briefly just how rude he intended to be. We shook hands and his eyes met mine just long enough to register a stony neutrality. I had thought at first he disliked me, but I was forced to amend that assessment. He didn't have an opinion of me at all. I might be useful to him. He hadn't decided yet.

There was a rap at the door. Dolan leaned over and opened it. One of the deputies passed him a tray with three Styrofoam cups of coffee, a carton of milk, and a few loose packets of sugar. Dolan thanked him and closed the door again. He set the tray on the table and passed a cup to me. Santos reached forward and took his. I poured some milk in mine and added two packs of sugar, hoping to jump-start myself for the questions coming up. The coffee wasn't hot, but the flavor was exquisite, as soft and sweet as caramel.

"What happened to Jimmy Tate?" I asked.

"Right now, he's looking at homicide, murder two. A good attorney might get it knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, but I wouldn't count on it, given his history," Dolan said. "You want to fill us in on the shooting?"

"Sure," I said glibly, knowing I'd have to stretch the truth a bit. "California Fidelity asked me to investigate Bibianna Diaz for possible fraud in a claim she filed. I've been trying to get close enough to pick up concrete evidence, but so far all I've netted are some fashion tips. The dead man's name is Chago. He's the brother of Raymond Something-or-other, who's an old flame of Bibianna's. I gather Raymond sent Chago and his wife, Dawna, up here to abduct Bibianna for reasons unknown. I can't get Bibianna to tell me what's going on, but they're clearly pissed…"

Santos spoke up. "She and Raymond Maldonado were supposed to get married. She backed out. He doesn't take kindly to that sort of thing."

"I believe it," I said. "He apparently gave Chago instructions to 'smoke' her if she didn't cooperate."

Santos shifted in his chair, his voice flat. "That's all bluff. Raymond wants her back."

I looked from one to the other. "If you already know all this stuff, why ask me?"

Both men ignored me. I could see there wasn't going to be any point in getting crabby about the situation.

Dolan consulted a small spiral-bound notebook, leafing back a page. "What's the story on Jimmy Tate? How'd he get involved?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "I gather he and Bibianna have been embroiled in some kind of heavy-duty sexual relationship for the past couple of months. It seems to be serious – for the moment, at any rate." I went on, detailing the day's work, filling in as much as I knew about the dead man, which wasn't much, and about Jimmy Tate, which was considerable. As fond as I was of Tate, I couldn't see any reason to shield him from police scrutiny when it came to the shooting. There were other witnesses at the scene, and for all I knew, Dolan had already talked to them.

When I finished, there was a silence. I looked down at my hands, realizing that I'd systematically destroyed my now empty cup in the course of my narrative. I placed fragments on the table.

"And Tate did the shooting," Dolan said at length.

"Well, I didn't actually see that, but it's a fair assumption. He fired twice at the car, and after I hit the pavement, there were several more shots fired. I don't think Bibianna was armed."

"What about the other woman, Dawna? She have a gun?"

"Not that I saw, at least not in the restaurant. She could have had one stashed in the car, I suppose. Hasn't she turned up?" I didn't think Dolan was going to answer, but I liked pretending we were equals. Just us law enforcement types having a friendly little tete-a-tete here at the county jail.

Dolan surprised me with a response. "She took a hit. Nothing serious. Looks like a bullet ricocheted off something and grazed her collarbone. We picked her up in a phone booth a few blocks away. Probably interrupted a call to Raymond, though she wouldn't admit it."

"She's in the hospital?"

"For the time being. We'll hang on to her if we can, just to see what she has to tell us."

"About what?"

Dolan slid a look to Santos, like he was checking his hole card in a game of poker. I had the feeling Santos was making a decision. His expression didn't seem to change, but something must have been communicated between the two of them.

"I guess we better tell you what's happening," he said. His voice was rumbling and his delivery methodical. "You've stumbled into a bit of a sticky situation here."

"Oh, yeah, tell me about it."

Santos tipped his chair back against the wall and laced his hands across his head. "I head a task force made up of a number of agencies working to uncover what we believe is one of the biggest auto insurance fraud operations ever mounted in Southern California. You've worked in this business long enough to know what I'm talking about. Los Angeles County is the nation's automobile insurance fraud capital. Now it's spreading through Ventura and Santa Teresa counties. This particular ring is only one of dozens that generate an estimated five hundred million to a billion in phony claims every year. In this case, we're looking at fifteen lawyers, two dozen medical doctors, half a dozen chiropractors. On top of that, a rotating pool of some fifty to sixty individuals recruited to participate in the trumped-up incidents that comprise the claims." He pushed away from the wall, sitting upright, the front legs of the chair hitting the floor with a chirp. "You with me so far?"

"Oh, I'm here," I said.

He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table. I noticed his manner toward me was warming somewhat. He was a man animated by his work. I had no idea where he was going with the explanation, but it was clear he hadn't driven all the way up from Los Angeles in the dead of night just to deliver this deadpan rendition of his professional concerns.

"We've put this case together bit by bit, piece by piece, over the last two years, and we're still not in a position to shut them down."

"I don't see the connection," I said. "Bibianna isn't part of the ring, is she?"

"She was. Raymond Maldonado started out as a 'capper'. At this point, we believe he's one of the kingpins, but we can't prove it yet. You know how these rings operate?"

"Not really," I said. "The people I'm used to dealing with are strictly amateurs."

"Well, the methods probably overlap to some extent," he said. "These days, the pros tend to avoid the big kill in favor of submitting fairly innocuous small claims that can be converted into large sums of money. They collect compensation for hard-to-disprove injuries like whiplash and lower back pain… you know the MO on that." He didn't really seem to require a response. "It's the capper's job to recruit the owner of a vehicle, usually someone unemployed who's hard up for cash. They take out an assigned-risk insurance policy on the car through the ring's agent. The capper then gives the car owner the names of two 'passengers' – totally fictitious – who 'ride' with the owner. He also comes up with names of people allegedly in the second car. We're talking about six or seven claims per incident. There's a variation on that one called 'bulls and cows,' where both cars are part of the scam. The 'bull' – the car with insurance – rams into the 'cow,' which is the uninsured car filled with passengers, all of whom suffer fictitious injuries. Most of the time the insured vehicle is some junker that's been insured without being examined."

"I've handled some claims where it's all faked – where there's not even a staged accident," I said. "Oh, we got those, too. In Maldonado's case, some are paper accidents and some are staged. We got a line on this ring in the first place because the same set of names kept cropping up on supposedly unrelated claims. Same insurance agent, same attorney. The investigator finally had the names ran through the computer and found links to twenty-five previous cases. Most of those were fictitious. One claimant's address turned out to be the La Brea tar pits. Another was an abandoned bus depot."

"What's their setup?" I asked.

"The ploy is called a 'swoop and squat,' which requires the use of two cars. They pull this maneuver out on one of the surface roads, probably five or six times a week… "

"I'm surprised they don't try the freeways," I remarked.

He shook his head. "Too dangerous. These guys aren't interested in getting killed. What they do is choose a 'mark' – usually someone in an expensive vehicle or a commercial van – anything with a likelihood of being well insured. A vehicle they call the 'squat' car positions itself in front of the mark. These drivers are tooling down the road at thirty-five miles an hour, everybody minding his own business. At a signal, a second car, called a 'swoop', cuts in front of the squat car, which brakes sharply, forcing the mark to rear-end it. The swoop car takes off. The squat and the mark pull over to the side like good citizens and exchange license numbers. At this point, the mark is usually pretty upset. Here, he's rear-ended another vehicle and he knows the responsibility is his. The driver in the squat car is full of sympathy – hell, he can afford to be – confirming just what the mark wants to believe, that it wasn't his fault."

"But his insurance company pays anyway," I said.

"Has to. You rear-end somebody, you're liable in this state. Turns out the squat's got all these 'problems' resulting from the accident. He sees a lawyer, who tells him he better see a doctor. Or he might be referred to a chiropractor…"

"All of them in cahoots… "

"All in cahoots," Lieutenant Santos said. "And Bibianna got involved in the ring through Raymond?"

"It looks that way. From the information we've pieced together, Raymond recruited her two years ago, though he's known her much longer. They were all set to get married about a year ago, but for some reason she pulled out. March, she did a disappearing act and a short time later surfaced in Santa Teresa. It looks, on the face of it, like she meant to go straight, but she had a hell of a time finding work. She finally picked up a job with a dry cleaning establishment, but it doesn't pay much, and in the end, I guess she couldn't resist trying a little scam or two of her own."

I was beginning to see how it all fit together. "And now my investigation has jeopardized yours."

"Not yet, but it looks like you're getting close. We can't afford to have you blundering in unawares, which is not the only problem we face. It looks like we've got a leak somewhere, critical information spilling through the pipeline into Raymond's ear. On at least three occasions, we've had raids set up… most recently on an auto body shop he owns in El Segundo. We have arrest and search warrants up the yin-yang. By the time we get there, the whole operation's been shut down and we walk into an empty facility – nothing left on the premises but a tire iron and a Pepsi can."