Kind of Blue (12 page)

“He was a buddy of Relovich’s old man. It’s just a courtesy. Tell him what you’ve got and update him every so often. It’s good politics. Felony Special may need his support on something down the line. Paganos told me to give Wegland what he wants.”

Captain Paganos headed RHD. I wondered why he wasn’t nosing around this case. “Where’s Paganos?”

“He’s in Greece scoping out some island where he wants to retire. He checked in this morning and I filled him in.”

“If I was in Greece, I’d have better things to do.”

“You know Wegland?” Duffy asked.

“Yeah. When I worked patrol at Pacific, he was a detective. Kind of a plodder. Everything by the book.”

Duffy motioned toward me with his glasses and said, “After he okayed you, Grazzo, apparently, had some second thoughts. But Wegland had your back. He told Grazzo you were the right detective for the case. That’s another reason to play the game and be nice to him.”

“I see my desk is empty,” I said.

Duffy grinned. “I was always lookin’ for an angle to bring you back.”

I walked back to my desk. Some of the detectives shook my hand and clapped me on the back. But a few did not leave their desks. I could tell by the way they wouldn’t look at me that they were uncertain about why I had returned and not all that happy about it. Everyone knew that Duffy had been my mentor, had recruited me to South Bureau Homicide and then to Felony Special, had often cut me more slack than the others. I knew that kind of favored-son status engendered resentment.

At crime scenes—sharing insights, tracking trace evidence, plotting strategy—I felt a bond with the other detectives. But I had been unable to overcome the ill will and jealousy in the squad room because I did not have much in common with the detectives, other than the job. Most were married with kids; I lived alone. Most lived far from Los Angeles,
in suburbs at the edges of the county, or in distant counties; I lived downtown. Most were Catholics or WASPS; I was a Jew. Most were hunters or fishermen; I surfed. Most rode Harley-Davidsons on weekends; I drove a Saturn. Most ate lunch together and socialized after work and on weekends; I had only one friend—Oscar Ortiz.

And then there were the dinosaurs like Graupmann. For too long, guys like him survived and thrived in the LAPD, which was one reason the department had been reviled in black and Latino neighborhoods. During the last decade, the LAPD changed dramatically, with an increasing number of women and minorities, but Felony Special was still a holdout, primarily a redoubt for middle-aged white guys, and Graupmann fit right in. An ex-Marine who had been stationed at Pendleton, he was raised in Texas. It was widely known in the 77th that Graupmann was a racist and had been written up a few times for slapping around black and Hispanic suspects and calling them niggers or spics. It was aggravating to see that a cop like Graupmann, whose package was filled with personnel complaints, had been promoted to an elite unit like Felony Special.

For the rest of the morning, I hunched over my desk, arranging my murder book, summarizing the interview tapes on LAPD statement forms, and putting together my own case chronology. I was interrupted by Detective Robert “Bible Bob” Grigsby, who stopped by my desk and asked if I wanted to grab a cup of coffee. Grigsby was a fundamentalist Christian, a deacon at his church, and a tireless proselytizer. He’d approached me in the past.

I was wary about joining Grigsby for coffee, but on my first day back I did not want to alienate another detective. I followed him to the break room, he poured us two cups of coffee, and we rode down the elevator in silence. We walked outside and stood at the edge of a patch of grass, across from City Hall.

Grigsby placed a hand on my shoulder, stared intently at me and asked somberly, “How are you doing, Ash?”

“Okay.”

“Not here,” Grigsby said, tapping his head. “But
here
,” he said, placing his hand over his heart.

“Okay,” I said warily.

“I know those difficulties you endured last year were trying. And I
know you tried to handle it alone. But there
is
another way. And if you embrace His way, you’ll never be alone again.”

Grigsby’s eyes had a feverish sheen. I took a step back and gulped my coffee, hoping to quickly finish the cup and get back to the fifth floor.

“Have you ever considered accepting Jesus as your personal lord and savior?”

“Not really.”

Grigsby jabbed at me with his Styrofoam cup, spilling coffee on his shoes. “Consider it!”

“Look. I’m a Jew. I’m happy being a Jew. I have no intention of changing religions.”

Grigsby raised a forefinger and said, “Christ is the
only
path to salvation. God Almighty does
not
hear the prayers of the chosen people.”

“Who says?”

“The leader of our Southern Baptist Convention told the faithful that some years ago. He was criticized mightily for that heartfelt statement, but I, frankly, agree with him. I stand by his statement.”

I tossed my coffee cup in the trash and said, “Thanks for the sermon, Ron, but I’ll stick with the religion Jesus was born with.”

“Jesus loves me and he loves—”

“
Jesus
might love you,” I said. “But everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.”

When I returned to my desk, Oscar Ortiz strolled through the door, spotted me, stopped theatrically, threw out his hands, and called out, “Ash Levine, my hero. Took the longest vacation in the history of the LAPD—eleven months.”

He pulled up a chair beside my desk and said softly, “Glad you’re back, homeboy. How’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

During the past year, Ortiz was the only detective I’d stayed in touch with. He’d call me occasionally to see how I was doing, and ask me to meet him for a beer. I always found some excuse not to go. Quitting was painful enough; I didn’t want any reminders of what I’d lost.

I noticed that Ortiz, an aggressively bad dresser who refused to purchase suits at the fashion district wholesalers, had not shopped for clothes during the past year. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, brown
corduroy sports coat, and a Yosemite Sam tie. Short and stocky, with a Zapata mustache that was so luxuriant it violated several department guidelines, Ortiz bore such a striking resemblance to the cartoon figure that the other detectives in the unit called him Sam.

“I just got back from coffee with Grigsby,” I said. “He tried to convert me again.”

Ortiz laughed. “Bible Bob’s gone after me a few times, too. I think he gets bonus points for converting a Mexican Catholic to a born-again Christian. But you’re the big prize. He gets a double bonus for bagging a Jew. Now if we had a Muslim detective, Grigsby would drop you in a hot minute. That would be his ultimate prize.”

Ortiz hung up his suit coat and dropped his briefcase at his desk. “So Duffy talked you into coming back.”

“Something like that.”

“He’s one persuasive motherfucker. He could have been a hell of a detective. But as long as I’ve known him, he’s been a lieutenant. Didn’t you work with him when he was still a detective?”

“Yeah. At Pacific. I was a uniform at the time, but I’d help out on some of his cases. He was devious as hell, just like now.”

“I know he wasn’t a detective long.”

“Only a few years. He knew that wasn’t his future. He was sharp, but he was drinking too much, staying out late, chasing women, dragging into the squad room every morning with the Irish flu. So he got sloppy.”

“If you’re sloppy as a lieutenant, you misfile a report,” Ortiz said. “If you’re sloppy on the streets, you can get someone killed.”

When Ortiz saw me tense, he gripped my forearm. “I’m not talking about your situation. You know that.”

I nodded.

“I think that’s why Duffy never made captain,” Ortiz said.

“I agree.”

“But he’s more capable than most of those pencil pushers with stars on their collars.”

“He’s damn smart, but when he goes on one of his binges—stand by,” I said. “Don’t think the brass hasn’t noticed that. But they know he delivers. And as long as his detectives are clearing cases, they’re not going to move him out.”

“Hey, for your first day back, let me take you to lunch.”

“Don’t have time. Since I came back in a rush, I’ve got to take care of all the LAPD bureaucratic bullshit. Let’s do it another day this week.”

“All right, brother. I heard you’re flying solo on this case. If you need some backup, I’m there.”

For the next hour, I worked on the murder book and dashed off the required letter to the chief, listing a few cursory reasons why I had decided to return. I visited the city doctor for a quick physical, and in the mid-afternoon I met with a dour LAPD background investigator from personnel division who asked me a number of bizarre questions, including: “During your eleven months away from the LAPD, did you ever have sex with animals?”

“Only when I was drunk,” I said, staring at him poker-faced.

The man looked through me, checked the “No” box and asked, “During your eleven months away from the LAPD, did you ever have sex in public?” I shook my head, but recalling that barren stretch of self-imposed exile since Robin left, I wanted to say that I wished that I had the opportunity.

Shortly before four, I returned to PAB to meet with Commander Wally Wegland. In the anteroom adjacent to his office, Wegland’s adjutant, Conrad Patowski, extended both his hands, wrapped them around my right hand and shook it. “It’s been too long, Ash,” he said. “
Too
long.”

We were classmates at the academy and had crossed paths over the years, although I usually tried to avoid him. I didn’t like adjutants. Most were sycophantic strivers, desperate to ride in the slipstreams of their powerful bosses. In the army we called them jobniks. And I found Patowski particularly smarmy. Although he was my age, his face was pale and unlined and there was a boyish, unformed quality to him, as if he had managed, somehow, to avoid life experience. His shoes were buffed to a gleam, his shirt was heavily starched, and his pants had razor-sharp creases. His outfit looked more like a military uniform than a business suit.

“We only work a few floors from each other,” Patowski said. “Let’s get lunch one of these days.”

“Sure, Conrad,” I said without enthusiasm.

“I meant to call you, during this past year, Ash,” Patowski said in a hushed tone, rubbing his palms together. “So glad you managed to work
it all out and come back. I’ve always admired you, and the remarkable way you clear your cases. We can’t afford to lose good people like you. And I want you to know that my heart really went out to you. I know it was a difficult time.”

Patowski nodded sympathetically and then picked up the phone and whispered into the receiver. Opening the office door he said, “Okay, Ash, the commander will see you now.”

Wegland came around his desk, tightening his tie. He was an unlikely looking cop, I thought. Skinny and sallow, with an aquiline nose, and nervous, twitchy gestures, there was something birdlike about him. Even his bad comb-over, which swirled atop his balding pate, looked like a nest.

“Thank you for stopping by, Ash,” he said, extending a hand.

I shook his hand while surveying the office. On one wall were two shadow boxes filled with patches from police departments from throughout the country. On another wall, a dozen midnight blue LAPD coffee mugs stamped with various unit insignias were lined up on a shelf. After Wegland pulled a chair from the corner of the room for me, he walked back around his desk, sat down, and placed his hands primly on his lap.

At Pacific, I had been struck by how Wegland, grim-faced and humorless, always went about his job with a robotic efficiency. Later, Wegland began quickly climbing the LAPD ladder. He was one of those LAPD officials who rose through the ranks, not because he was a good patrol officer or skilled investigator, but because he studied like a fiend, tested well, and never took any chances on the street that could precipitate a complaint.

Wegland cleared his throat, poured himself a half glass of water from the pitcher on his desk, and took a few gulps. “I wanted you on this case because I know your track record. I know you can do the job.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But I have a question for you. Because of the, the—” he paused, searching for the right word, “calamity you were involved in last year, well, I wondered. Do you think because of the questions you might be asked by other detectives and maybe even witnesses, because of the questions you might even be asking yourself, and because of the fact that your judgment might be challenged, well, will all that hinder your
investigation? In other words, do you think you can become a highly effective detective again?”

“I think I’m a highly effective detective right now,” I said sharply.

“I think so, too,” Wegland said, lifting his hands from his lap and clasping them on his desk. “So that’s settled.” Wegland turned and studied a shadow box for a moment. “I knew Relovich’s father. When he retired he asked me to keep an eye out for his son. I don’t take a request like that lightly. So I just want to stay in touch with you, make sure you’ve got everything you need, insure that Felony Special is doing right by old man Relovich’s son. That’s the least I can do for my late friend. So you’ll keep me apprised of the investigation, I’d appreciate it.”

I stood up and said, “I’ll keep you posted.”

I returned to the squad room and began plotting my next moves. I was frustrated that I couldn’t question Abazeda right now. I had stumbled on a good lead and I wanted to run it down.

I had to be patient, but tomorrow night I planned to find out if Abazeda had dropped by Relovich’s house, pulled out a .40-caliber semiautomatic, and shot him in the face.

Early the next morning, I arrived at the squad room before most of the detectives had started work. Oscar Ortiz rushed up to me and said, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

“What’s that shit on my desk?”

Ortiz stood in front of me to block my view. “I just called maintenance. They’re on their way to clean it up.”