Kind of Blue (26 page)

When we finished our breakfast, Ortiz said, “So, one case down. What’s next?”

“It’s not exactly down. I’ve still got some follow-up to do.”

Ortiz laughed. “You say that about every case. They should put that on your tombstone.”

As I walked through the squad room, Duffy craned his head out of his office and motioned for me to step inside. “Again, great work, Ash,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Just got calls from the chief, Assistant Chief Grazzo, and Commander Wegland. They loved the press conference.
Great for the department. They all send their congratulations. And their thanks.”

I sat down and said, “It isn’t over yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“According to two witnesses, Fuqua had a partner.”

“Witnesses?” Duffy lowered his chin and raised an eyebrow. “More like a crackhead and a dumb-shit broad.”

“I’d still like to find Fuqua’s partner.”

“The only way you’re going to find the partner,
if
there’s a partner, is after the prelim when Fuqua realizes death row’s got a cell with his name on it. Then he’ll give up his mother and his favorite pit bull to save his ass. His P.D. will talk to the D.A. and it’ll be
let’s make a deal time
. You had your chance with Fuqua and he didn’t give you shit.”

“I’d like a little more time on this one.”

“We picked up a triple in Mar Vista a few nights ago. I want you to help the primaries.”

“There’s something about this case that still bothers me.”

Duffy smacked his forehead and said, “Oh, no! Here we go again. Do you always have to pick, pick, pick?”

“You sound like the department shrink.”

“You
need
a shrink. Can’t you just be happy that you cleared the case and move on?”

“It’s just that there’s a few things—”

“Okay, okay,” With a look of weary forbearance, Duffy asked, “What is it?”

“I’m still bothered with the setup in the living room. I can’t see Relovich sitting on the sofa across from Fuqua. A veteran cop would never allow himself to be maneuvered into that kind of setup.”

“If Fuqua’s pointing a nine at him, he’ll sit wherever the hell he’s told to sit. What else?”

“A week before Relovich was killed he called Internal Affairs.”

“It’s not so unusual for a retired cop to call I.A.”

“But he’s killed before he ever gets to talk to them. I don’t like the timing.”

Duffy backhanded the air with a dismissive flick. “He could have been seeing I.A. about
any
thing.”

“Fuqua just spent a nickel in Folsom. The blacks and Mexicans are at war in there. A black wouldn’t partner up with a Mexican after hitting the streets.”

“But it looks like Fuqua did.”

“Maybe.”

What else?”

“A few other things that you’ll just blow off. Why don’t you cut me some slack. I think I’ve earned a second look at this case.”

“Every time we clear a case in here, there’re always a few things that don’t add up. Fuqua’s our guy. He had the motive. And you can’t argue with DNA. All this shit you’re laying on me, you knew about it from the get go, but you still chased Fuqua and jacked him up.”

“When that DNA matched Fuqua, the case came together so well, I just rode the momentum. But now—”

“Now that the momentum’s run out, you’re suffering from the paralysis of analysis.”

“I’m not saying Fuqua didn’t do it. I’m just saying I want to find the partner.”

“You think that pimp Abazeda who ran those escort girls was involved?”

“No. I don’t think he’s got the balls for it. He’s just an asshole with a big mouth.”

Duffy crossed and uncrossed his arms. “Damn it, you’re a pain in the ass. Sometimes you’re like the cow that gives the farmer a bucket of milk. Then kicks it over. Then pisses on it.”

“I resent—”

“Let me lay it out for you. Pete Relovich’s murder is cleared. Fuqua’s in custody. Fuqua had a motive. Fuqua was tied to the crime scene. So the chief is happy. The assistant chief is happy. Commander Wegland is happy. Captain Paganos is happy. And I’m happy.”

Duffy began pacing in his small office. “Remember what your old guru, Bud Carducci, used to say?” Duffy asked.

“Yeah. When you hear hoofbeats—don’t think zebra.”

“Well? Why ignore the obvious explanation and go looking for some far-fetched one?”

“Carducci’s saying doesn’t apply here.”

“I think it does. You should be proud that you got that gangster off
the streets. If you start all over on this one, you know what that means for me? I’ll be pestered again with phone calls from the brass all fucking day. I’ll be badgered by reporters, asking why this case isn’t wrapped up. I’ll be hassled by the other detectives who want to know why they keep getting paged at three in the morning for new cases, while I refuse to put
you
back on the on-call board.”

“I think it would be worthwhile—”

Duffy held up both palms. “Ash, you know I respect your instincts. But frankly, you have a tendency to overthink a case. I think you’re doing it on this one. Still, I asked you to come back and solve the homicide. And you did. So I’ll give you one more week. I owe you that much.”

I shook my head. “I need a month to put this case together properly.”

“A week,” Duffy said. “You’re back on call next Monday.”

“Three weeks.”

“Ash, I’m not going to haggle with you. You get a week.”

“I need three weeks.”

Duffy narrowed his eyes. “One week. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it.”

“But after your week,” Duffy said, pointing to the on-call board posted on a wall, “you’re going back up there.”

The next morning, I opened up the Relovich murder book, but couldn’t concentrate as I flipped through the pages. I grabbed my cup from my bottom drawer, walked across the squad room, filled it with coffee, returned to my desk, and tried again.

Finally, I snapped the murder book shut and called the LAPD’s Behavior Science unit. In a hushed voice so no one in the squad room could hear me, I asked a secretary if Blau could squeeze me in today. She told me he just had a cancellation and could see me in a half hour.

I drove over to the bank building in Chinatown, sat in the waiting room for a few minutes, until the receptionist buzzed me in. I eased into a chair across from Blau.

“How are those stress headaches you were telling me about last time?”

“Better,” I lied.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m glad I’m back on the job,” I said, trying to change the subject.

“That’s good to hear.”

“I probably never should have left.”

“It seems you’ve adjusted pretty quickly to being back.”

I listened to his fountain burble for a moment and then I said, “I think I have. But I’m still having a problem with something. Remember we talked about that case—the murder of Bae Soo Sung, the Korean market owner? And I mentioned that a witness to the shooting, a woman named Latisha Patton, was killed?”

Blau nodded.

“Well, I’m still having a lot of trouble dealing with it.”

“Why is that?”

I thought about Latisha and felt queasy. The room began to blur. I
filled my cheeks with air and slowly exhaled. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Like I told you, my partner and I pick up the case from the South Bureau Homicide. A few days into it, his back goes out and he’s off for two weeks. So I’m working it solo. But I don’t have shit. The case looks like a dead end. There’re a few wits around, but all they see is a guy in a Shrek mask run out of the store with a gun in his hand. He jumps into a car parked across the street and speeds off.

“Patrol found the car later that day, but it wasn’t much help. Car was stolen and the shooter was wearing gloves, so we got no prints. After a few days, the case is really getting to me.” I pounded my chest with a fist. “Every other day the wife calls me and asks in fractured English, ‘You find who kill my husband?’ And then she breaks down sobbing. She’s a widow with three young children. She’s working the store alone now, scared out of her fucking mind that the shooter will come back and finish her off. But she’s got no choice. She’s got no other way to support her family.

“I really feel for this lady and her kids. And I’m very, very pissed off. Sung cooperated completely. Yet asshole killed him anyway. For no reason. And destroyed four lives. I figure it’s only a matter of time until he does it again and shatters another family. So I vow to myself that I’m going to nail this guy. The first week I’m working fourteen, sixteen hours a day, rousting and questioning crackheads, gangbangers, bag men, and strawberries.”

“Strawberries?” Blau asked.

“A woman who exchanges sex for crack. I interview probably fifty people in the ‘hood. But I’m not getting shit. Every day, I’m looking for a revelation, I retrace the shooter’s steps, from the time he parked his car, walked down the street into the store, pulled out the gun, grabbed the cash, shot Sung, ran across the street, and drove off.

“The car was parked in front of a thrift shop run by a church. There was a woman who worked there by the name of Latisha Patton. When the South Bureau Homicide detectives first interviewed her, she told them she hadn’t seen anything. When I interviewed her, she told me the same thing. But, running out of leads, I went back to talk to her again. I press her and, bluffing, I tell her that I know she was lying, that I know she’d heard the gunshots across the street and ran to her front window and got a good look at the shooter.

“We go back and forth, but I keep pressing and she keeps lying and denying. Finally, she admits that she saw a guy in a Shrek mask park the car and walk across the street. A few minutes later she heard a shot and saw him run back to his car and speed off. She insisted she never got a look at his face.

“But I know there’s one thing wrong with her story. No armed robber would pull up to the scene wearing a mask. That would draw too much attention. He’d only slip the mask on right before the heist. She realizes that I had caught her in a lie. Finally, she admits that she did get a look at him when he first pulled up.

“But she’s still too scared to cooperate with me. She’s got a daughter. Doesn’t want her involved in all this. Says she won’t look at any pictures I want to show her. So I tell her all about Sung’s kids, how they’re crying for their daddy every night, how tormented his widow is. I lay it on thick. Latisha knew the family, had frequently shopped at the market, and they were always nice to her. She finally breaks down. Says she’ll cooperate. She can’t ID the shooter, had never seen him before, but says she can definitely pick him out if she saw him again. But she knows that in her ‘hood, if word gets around that she’s cooperating with a detective, it’ll be a death sentence. She’s scared as hell now.

“But I tell her that I’ll move her and her daughter. I tell her I’ll protect her, I’ll keep her safe. So she agrees to look at stacks of pictures of local gangbangers and guys with armed robbery in their jacket that I want to show her.”

I closed my eyes and massaged them with my palms. “Three days later, she’s dead.”

“Why do you think you were responsible for her murder?” Blau asked.

“I know that just cooperating with me, agreeing to look at pictures, trying to pick someone out, puts her life in danger. So I go to the DA, submit my request for witness relocation funds, and request to move her. I want her out of the ‘hood. But without a positive ID on the shooter, their regulations won’t let me relocate her.

“She hasn’t IDed anyone yet, but I feel she’s still at risk. And she’s spooked, too, afraid to go home, but she doesn’t have the money to pay for the move herself. I promise to keep her identity secret. I meet with her at Felony Special—downtown—not at South Bureau where someone
in the neighborhood could see her. Still, I know word sometimes has a way of getting out when a witness cooperates with the police. I go to the DA’s office again, really press the witness relocation coordinator, but he nixes the move. He says they can’t come up with money for people who
might
be able to ID shooters, who
might
someday be threatened. And LAPD regulations won’t let me relocate her without the DA paperwork.

“So I say ‘fuck it,’ find her an apartment in the West Valley myself. She sends her daughter to live with an aunt in Fresno. I pay first and last and security deposit out of my own pocket. I tell her to grab a few things, give the rest of her stuff to her mother, meet me out there, and not tell
anyone
where she’s gone. I tell her that within a few weeks, after I had shown her the picture of every gangbanger and armed robber in her neighborhood—and some surrounding ones—I’m confident we’ll have the shooter IDed. I’m sure asshole is a local boy who’s been collared before. I’d track him down, lock him up, and she’d pick him out of a live lineup—to really nail the case down. Then I could go through the DA’s office, get her and her daughter some funds for long-term relocation and maybe some job training. The Sung family would have justice. The wife wouldn’t have to worry about the killer coming back. And Latisha and her daughter could start a new life.”

I stood up and stared out the window, watching the cars stutter down Broadway. “Two weeks after I move her, someone kills her—I still don’t know where or how—and then dumps her body at Fifty-fourth and Figueroa—a block from the Sung’s market. Probably as a warning to anyone else who might have seen something the day he was killed.”

I fell back onto my chair and tried to stretch my neck, which was so tight I could barely move it.

“Why did the department come down on you?”

“Her family sued the LAPD. Because I’d given her the money for the move and found her the apartment, the LAPD, Latisha’s lawyers claimed, assumed responsibility for her safety. It was a liability issue. The city attorney settled before trial and paid Latisha’s family a nice chunk of change. The department was pissed. I got investigated by I.A. and Duffy hung me out to dry. Instead of arguing to the brass that I was just trying to protect a wit, Duffy suspended me. I was on my own.”

“I’ve heard of detectives doing things a lot worse, without being
disciplined or having I.A. on their backs. All you did was come up with some money for her apartment.” Blau inched forward on the sofa. “So why do you blame yourself?”