Kind of Blue (17 page)

As the sky lightened, other surfers joined us, but because the south swell was a surprise in the spring, the outer reef was not as crowded as the usual Southern California surf spot. After another fast rumbling ride, I paddled back out, feeling a world away from the L.A. sprawl. Steep rocky cliffs, studded with thick stands of eucalyptus, banked the shore. Looming in the distance were the Santa Monica Mountains, the escarpment purple in the morning light. A sea lion barked in the distance.

I straddled my board and stared at the sharp horizon line, the water cobalt, the sky the palest blue, with just the single brushstroke of a ragged cloud. A faint wind began to blow in from the west, rocking the red bell buoy off Zuma, the clanging echoing out at sea. The water was so clear I could see the underwater kelp beds and tiny schools of fish swim past my toes.

The sun was rising over the mountains and beams of light dappled the water, still roiling and flecked with foam after the last set. I studied a patch of water for a moment, transfixed: a clean square of foam outside a smooth square of water. The water like the Mexican tiles on Relovich’s kitchen floor. The foam like the grouting.

I whipped around and furiously padded toward shore.

“Too early to book,” Razor called out.

“Just thought of something. Got to go.”

• • •

I snaked back down the Pacific Coast Highway, crossed town on the Santa Monica Freeway in rush hour traffic, showered at home, changed, and headed south on the Harbor Freeway. I went straight to Relovich’s kitchen and studied the grouting around a corner tile.

Relovich’s daughter had taken a picture of her father picking up a piece of French toast that he had dropped on the floor by the corner tile. Initially, I had not noticed the tile, but as I sat on my board, studying the play of light on the ocean and the foam, I recalled the photograph and realized in a flash of insight that the floor looked different. The grouting around one of the tiles appeared new in the photograph, whiter than the grouting around the other tiles. Now it was the same beige color as the rest of the grouting. I figured that at the time the picture was taken, Relovich must have just installed a new tile.

Crouching on my hands and knees, I rapped on several tiles with my knuckles. A dull thud. Then I rapped on the new tile. It echoed like a ripe watermelon. I removed a screwdriver and a small hammer from the trunk of my car and carefully chiseled out the grouting until I popped out the tile.

In the hollowed-out space beneath the tile, I pulled out a ragged green towel, wrapped around a metal box. Inside was a wad of dusty cash—$4,800 in hundreds—a .38-caliber snub-nosed revolver, and a small felt jewelry bag secured with a drawstring. There were two small objects inside the jewelry bag. I emptied them onto my palm. The larger one—about the size of my badge—was an intricately carved ivory figure of a fierce-looking man with a flowing beard, dressed in a billowing robe, clutching a sword. The smaller one—about the size of my thumbnail—was also a carved ivory figure and had horns, yellow fangs, and bulging red eyes. Muscular, clad only in a loincloth, with pointed ears and long claws, it looked like a demon or a monster.

I had no idea what the objects represented. But because they were so beautifully carved and seemed to represent mythological figures of some sort, I figured they were old, from some country in Asia, and valuable.

Driving back to PAB, I considered who might know something about the ivory figures and immediately thought of Dave Papazian, who had been the art cop for the past nine years. He had the reputation of being knowledgeable and having good contacts in the art world. Papazian worked in Commercial Crimes, which was on the same floor as Felony Special. I had chatted with Papazian a few times in the hallway and at retirement parties at the academy, but never talked with him about a case.

I double-parked near the back entrance, took the elevator to the fifth floor, walked over to the west wing of the building, and past the Cold Case Unit. I was relieved to see Papazian at his desk. He was a man in his forties who had a narrow face composed of mismatched angles—sharp cheekbones, high forehead, long, spindly nose, razor lips, jutting jaw. I always thought he looked like one of those angular, abstract Picasso portraits—all slashes and sharp corners. A perfect look for an art cop.

Papazian was talking on the phone, but when he spotted me lingering in the doorway, he covered the receiver and whispered, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

I remained standing and surveyed the office. One wall was lined with posters from recent shows at Los Angeles’s Museum of Contemporary Art. Another featured an abstract painting by Laddie Dill—a series of intersecting trapezoids—and one by Ed Moses, which resembled a Navajo weaving.

When Papazian hung up the phone, he said, “What do you think?”

“Contemporary art doesn’t really appeal to me. I heard it once described as imagination without skill. But I got to like Dill, Moses, and a bunch of other Venice artists. I used to check out the galleries there on slow afternoons when I worked Pacific Division.”

“I was fortunate enough to begin collecting their works while they were still affordable.” Papazian smiled and nodded. “It’s nice to talk to that rare cop who knows the L.A. art scene.”

“A lot of artists live in my building.”

“Don’t you live downtown?” Papazian asked.

“Yeah. I can walk to MOCA and the Geffen.”

“My wife’s a patron at both museums.”

Years ago I had heard that she was a high-powered real estate agent and had made such a killing selling high-end properties on the westside that Papazian could afford to start his own collection.

In a department where many cops’ passions were limited to their motorcycles, their NRA memberships, and their hunting trips, it was not easy to be different. Papazian was an aesthete, passionate about art and California cabernets, which he collected and stored in a temperature-controlled storage unit. He never tried to fit in. I respected that.

Papazian waved me to a chair next to his desk. “So what’s up? You probably didn’t come here to talk about art.”

I sat down and said, “Actually I did.” I briefly told him about the murder, and explained how I found the objects underneath a tile at Relovich’s. “I thought maybe you could help me out and tell me what they are.”

I emptied the jewelry bag into my palm and placed the figures on the desk. Papazian picked them up and studied them. He tapped the larger figure and said, “This is a
netsuke
. Japanese. It’s a decorative piece used to attach a pouch to the sash of the kimono. It’s very collectible.” He rolled the smaller object between his thumb and forefinger. “This little one I’ve never seen before. I can’t tell you what it is.”

“How old is the
netsuke
?”

“Could be a few hundred years. I learned about them a few years ago when a collector who lived up on Laurel Canyon had a bunch of them stolen. I arrested his gardener when he tried to pawn them.”

“I don’t even know if these figures mean anything,” I said. “They might have no connection whatsoever to Relovich’s murder. But the way they were hidden interests me. And I don’t have a hell of a lot at this stage of the investigation. So I might as well track them. Any way to find out where they came from? Any way to see if they were stolen?”

Papazian swiveled around, hunched over his computer for a few minutes—typing with two fingers—printed out a half dozen pages and handed them to me. “I’ve listed a few databases for stolen art and some
netsuke
associations I worked with on my case. You can search their Web sites and see if there’s any record of them.”

“Thanks for the help,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“Before you go, let me mention something to you. Since you live around a lot of painters, let me know if you come across any promising ones who’re still flying under the radar. I’m always looking to pick up pieces by artists before they’re discovered by those westside collectors who drive the prices out of sight.”

“Will do. And thanks again.”

I cut through the squad room to Felony Special. There was a note on my desk from Duffy: “Wegland called. He wants you to stop by his office.”

I took the elevator to the sixth floor and stood in the doorway of the anteroom adjacent to Wegland’s office. The commander’s adjutant, Conrad Patowski, was staring at his computer screen.

I knocked on the open door. Patowski jerked around, surprised, and looked up at me.

“Yes, Ash,” he said, sounding irritated.

“Is Wegland free?”

Patowski frowned as he perused a daybook.

“You really should call ahead for an appointment,” Patowski said, frowning.

“Wegland wants to see me.”

Patowski rubbed his palms together. “That’s different.”

He slipped into Wegland’s office, returned a minute later, and intoned somberly, “The commander will see you now.”

Wegland must have had a busy morning because his comb-over, usually carefully sprayed into place, was disheveled and peaked at the top of his head like the wick on a candle. “So how’s the investigation coming?”

I explained how I found the Japanese figures underneath the tile at Relovich’s. “I just talked to Papazian. I’m trying to figure out where they came from. If they were stolen, that might be a lead.”

“Pete Relovich was no thief,” Wegland said indignantly.

“I’m not saying he was. Maybe someone else hid them. Maybe Pete didn’t know they were there.”

“Fair enough.”

“Before you go, I want to talk to you about something. I’m not your commanding officer and you’re not working for me, so I can’t tell you how to conduct this investigation. But I know from a friend of mine at Internal Affairs that they’re not happy about you nosing around there.”

“I’m not nosing around,” I said, irritated. “I’m conducting a murder investigation.”

“Well, the Internal Affairs people think you’re pursuing this angle because you’re pissed that they nailed you with that suspension Duffy recommended. They think you’re following this lead so you can dig up something on
them
. Some sort of vendetta.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” I snapped.

“You do what you have to do. I’m just giving you a heads-up.” He lightly touched his hair with his palms. “Something else I wanted to mention. I heard about what happened the other morning with Graup-mann. You can scrap on the squad room floor with anyone you want. I don’t really care. But that kind of thing’s going to hurt your credibility. It’ll hurt this investigation. And that’s something I
do
care about. So let me give you some free advice—”

“Save it,” I said as I walked to the door. “You heard about my desk?”

“I did. But how do you know it was Graupmann?”

“It’s pretty damn obvious.”

Wegland walked over and slapped me on the shoulder. “Good work finding that stuff beneath the tiles. Bottom line is we’re both on the same side; we both want the same thing. I care about this investigation—just as much as you—and I just don’t want anything hindering it.”

When I returned to the squad room, I flipped on the computer. As I searched art theft and
netsuke
sites, I heard Graupmann tell his partner how much he missed the LAPD’s good old days. “We used to be a
real
police department. Now we’re just a division of the fucking ACLU. The guys on the street are castrated. They pull over some asshole and say, ‘Excuse me sir, would you please put your hands behind your back.’ If the guy doesn’t comply, they don’t know what to do. They call their sergeant,
their lieutenant, their captain, like they’re running to their mommy for help.

“When I came up we
asked
them to put their hands behind their backs. If they didn’t, we
told
them. Then we
showed
them. Then we
beat
them. Then we
choke
d them. And if they still hadn’t complied, we
shot
them.”

A few detectives chuckled. But I had spent so much time around badge-heavy cops that I was bored by the macho rap.

Graupmann then launched into a disquisition on his number one travel rule when he visited other cities to search for a fleeing suspect. “I immediately check out the maps and find out where Martin Luther King Street is. Every city has one. Then I make a point to avoid it. Because there’s one thing I know—that it’ll be one of the most high-crime streets in the city, where people are peddling drugs on every other corner, where the odds are you’ll be carjacked, ripped off, robbed, or beaten, before you go a dozen blocks.”

While I was trying to tune out Graupmann, Papazian stopped by my desk. “I thought of something else that might help you.” He handed me a piece of paper with some names and phone numbers scrawled at the top. “Here are two gallery dealers. They’re both knowledgeable about Asian art. They’ll be able to help you out with those objects you found. I gave them both a heads-up that you might be calling. One of ’em is an old fag who’s got a gallery in Westwood. The other one’s a babe who’s got one in Venice. Either one should be able to fill you in. If you need anything else, I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

I thanked him, and returned to my computer. I finished searching the Web sites, but could not trace the
netsuke
. After studying the names on the piece of paper Papazian had given me, I called the woman in Venice and set up an appointment with her in the late afternoon. Then I called the old guy, but a woman at the gallery who answered the phone told me he was out of the country until the end of the month. I asked if there was anyone else at the gallery who was knowledgeable about Japanese art.

“There is not,” she said curtly, and hung up.

As I walked out the door, Duffy waved me into his office. “I hear you had a cordial visit with Commander Wegland.”

“I couldn’t believe it. He was giving me a hard time about visiting
Internal Affairs and about my fight with Graupmann. He’s got his head up his ass.”

“It’s good to keep him on our side.”

“Doesn’t seem like he is.”