Kind of Blue (29 page)

While the chances now of successfully lifting prints were remote, I knew it was not impossible. I had known of cases in which people wore latex gloves long enough so that their hands perspired, and when they touched smooth, solid objects, their fingerprints seeped through the rubber. Technicians using traditional methods had been unable to lift the faint prints, but lab workers using a high-tech process called vacuum metal deposition had been successful.

A few weeks before I had quit, I had investigated a four-year-old murder and was dazzled by the results of the process. My partner at the time had recovered a rusty Coke can from a backyard pond. A technician using VMD applied a thin layer of gold to the surface and dropped it into a vacuum chamber. Microscopic specks of oil from the fingerprint absorbed gold fragments. The technician then spread zinc over the can. The zinc and gold evaporated into vapors when they were heated in the chamber. The zinc coated the entire can, except for a single fingerprint on the side, which became visible as a contrasting image. That did not lead to the killer, but it made an impression on me.

Maybe VMD would yield results in the Relovich murder. I still suspected the shooter had a partner. So if both of them were wearing latex gloves and were in the house long enough to chat with Relovich and then rob him, I figured their hands might have perspired. And if they had ripped off Relovich’s laptop, they probably had rummaged through
his desk as well, which meant that to open the drawers one of them had grasped the shiny metal handles—ideal surfaces for VMD.

As I pulled off the Harbor Freeway, I rolled down the window and enjoyed the ocean air, a bracing contrast to the fetid smog of the central city. The morning had been overcast again, but the sun had eventually burned off the fog and the sky was clear. From Relovich’s front porch, I could see boats drifting by in the channel, their white sails vivid against the blue-gray sea. The faint offshore breeze ruffled the flags at the edge of the harbor.

I returned to my car and pulled a toolbox and a bag of latex gloves out of my trunk. After opening the front door, I slipped on two pairs of gloves and, using a Phillips screwdriver, removed the three metal handles from the desk drawers. I dropped them into separate Baggies.

The LAPD crime lab did not have VMD equipment, so the desk handles would have to be sent to an independent lab in Orange County. Because LAPD supervisors always are confronted with budget shortfalls they usually try to discourage detectives from using outside labs unless it is absolutely crucial. And, unfortunately, VMD is an expensive process. But because an outside lab—and not the notoriously slow LAPD facility—does the test, the turnaround time is quick.

When I returned to the squad room, I told Duffy I wanted to VMD the metal handles.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Duffy grumbled. “If I authorize it, I’ve got to deal with all that LAPD red tape. I’ve got to go to SID, convince a supervisor that we need the test, that it’s worth spending the dough on. After all that, the
supervisor
has to authorize it.”

Duffy glumly stared at the phone, as if he hoped it would ring so he could delay making a decision.

“VMD is amazing because—”

“I know all about vacuum metal deposition,” Duffy said. “I’ve heard all the stories. But I’ve never heard of them getting prints through latex gloves.”

“It’s happened.”

“In for a fucking dime, in for a fucking dollar,” Duffy muttered. “Just to get you out of my hair, I’ll authorize it.”

• • •

I headed out to the mid-Wilshire area in the late afternoon to question Mitchell’s daughter. Rather than calling first, I decided to door-knock her, just in case she was reluctant to talk. Since Laura Mitchell was an elementary school teacher, I figured she would be home by now.

I drove west on Beverly, south on Rossmore, pulled down a side street, and parked in front of Mitchell’s drab, blocky apartment building. I watched the breeze rustle a lush jacaranda that shaded the house next door, the blooms drifting down from the branches like a purple snowfall. I climbed the steps to the top unit, but before I could ring the doorbell, Mitchell, who had been peering out the front window, opened the door. I introduced myself.

“My brother told me you’d be coming by,” she said, eyeing me coldly.

Mitchell, who was heavy and fair, wore beige cords and a brown round-neck sweater. Her hair was cut short in a matronly style, stiff with spray.

Standing in the doorway, she asked, “How can I help you?”

“Would you mind if we talked inside?”

“Yes, I’d mind. But I know from my father that you cops can make things unpleasant for people who don’t cooperate.”

The sofa in the living room was a jumble of torn pantyhose, blouses, skirts, nail polish bottles, emery boards, and cotton balls. The coffee table was dusted with corn flakes; in the corner was a half-eaten bowl of cereal that I figured had been there since breakfast. The apartment smelled of cat urine. I pushed aside a pile of blouses and squeezed onto the sofa. Mitchell dragged a chair over from the dining room.

“My brother told me all about his conversation with you,” she said. “I don’t think I have anything else to add. But I will tell you that I didn’t get along with my father, and I don’t particularly like cops.”

She stared sullenly at me, crossing her arms and legs. I knew I wouldn’t get much out of her if I began firing questions about her father. So I decided to chat casually with her and then stun her with news she hadn’t expected, like a boxer throwing a few tentative jabs and then unleashing a short left hook—the knockout punch.

“What grade do you teach?”

“Third.”

I smiled. “I think that was when my parents realized, after getting my report card, that I’d never be a neurosurgeon.”

Mitchell picked at a cuticle, looking bored.

“Did you visit your father much up in Idaho?”

“No. I hate Idaho.”

“Guess you don’t like to fish?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Doesn’t sound like your brother was close with your father.”

“Nobody was close with my father.”

“Did you talk with him much?”

“He’d call every once in a while. He’d visit L.A. every once in a while.”

I stared out the window and watched jacaranda petals scatter in the breeze. “Did you know your father was murdered?”

Mitchell looked as if she had been jolted with a cattle prod.

Now that I had her attention, I decided to wait for her to ask the questions.

“Nobody said anything about this before.”

I nodded.

Mitchell slumped onto the sofa. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?”

“Because nobody knew about this before.”

She looked confused. “Who found out he was murdered?”

“Me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“How come, months later, I’m just finding this out.”

“I was recently assigned to investigate the murder of a retired police officer by the name of Pete Relovich. During the course of that investigation, I was looking into some of his former partners. Your father worked with Pete for a few years. I checked out the circumstances of his death. I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a suicide.”

“What do you base that on?”

“I’d rather not get into the details now. I will tell you, though, that I’m basing my conclusion on solid information. Somewhere down the line, I’ll be able to explain everything.”

Mitchell went slack and began to cry softly. I grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table and handed it to her.

She dried her eyes and coughed. “When my father walked out on us,
it hit me a lot harder than my brother. Maybe because he was younger, he grew up used to not having a father. I was devastated. My mom lost it. I had to head the family for a while.” She dried her eyes again. “I hated my father after he left. On weekends, when he’d come by to pick up my brother and me, I’d lock myself in my room. I never wanted to see him again. Now this news of yours makes me look at things differently.”

“Why?”

Sniffling, she fiddled with a strand of hair. “About a year ago, I kind of lowered my defenses. I let him back into my life a little bit. Seemed like he was trying to repair our relationship, make up for the past. Then, without a word to me, or any warning, he kills himself. I thought, ‘What a jerk. Isn’t that just like him. He’s done it again.’” She grabbed a balled up Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “When I heard he shot himself, I felt like he just abandoned me all over again. If he was murdered, I might feel different. Like maybe he didn’t just walk out of my life a second time.”

“Had he seemed depressed shortly before his death?”

“I know my brother told you it was hard to tell. But I could tell. And he didn’t seem depressed at all. He liked living up there, where he could fly fish in the summer and hunt in the fall.”

“Did your father have any buddies from the LAPD who he stayed in touch with?”

“He was kind of a loner type guy.”

“Any ex-partners he kept contact with?”

She tapped a finger on her knee. “I think there was one guy. Randy Fringa. Years ago, they worked together in East L.A. At Hollenbeck. Before my dad moved to Idaho, they used to take fishing trips up near Bishop.”

“Fringa still with the department?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have his phone number or know where he lives. But I remember my dad saying that after he retired, he got a job working security at some big mall in Glendale.”

“Do you remember your father coming into a substantial amount of money when he was a cop?”

“I don’t know much about his finances. I just know he made his child support payments on time.”

“Your brother said you got some of his personal items from the house.”

She nodded.

“Can I see them?”

She walked into the bedroom, returned with a small suitcase, and handed it to me. I set it on the coffee table. Inside were a few photographs of her father and mother, probably when they were dating; his army dog tags; mementos from his years with the LAPD, including promotion certificates, an LAPD silver eagle cap pin, and a plaque for ten years of safe driving; a few fishing and hunting licenses; and a brown leather man’s jewelry box.

I opened it up. Inside, on a felt base, were his wedding ring, a silver cross on a chain, a gold Rolex watch, another less expensive watch, a gold money clip, and several tie tacks. Taking them out, I set them on the sofa beside me. I shook the box, but nothing rattled. With a sharp tug, I removed the felt base—which was a false bottom.

In a compartment below, in two corners of the box, secured with strips of tape, were a carved ivory
netsuke
and an
ojime
: a demon and a demon queller. They were similar, but not identical to the ones I had found at Relovich’s house.

She looked confused. “What are they?”

“The Japanese wear them on their kimono sashes. You’ve never seen them?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I had no idea they were there—until now.”

I drove out to the mall in Glendale, parked in front of a department store, and found my way to the security office. I asked a young woman manning the counter if Randy Fringa was working today. She held up an index finger, mumbled into an old-fashioned two-way radio, and said, “He’ll be back in five.”

When Fringa arrived, he studied me with a sour expression and said, “Do I know you?” He was a skinny man with a bobbing Adam’s apple, who wore a wrinkled short-sleeved white shirt and a stained red polyester tie.

I handed him my card and told him I wanted to talk about Avery Mitchell. He led me to a small, windowless office, sat behind a desk, and crossed him arms over his chest.

I opened a battered metal folding chair leaning against a wall. “So I understand you worked at Hollenbeck. My first training officer ended up as a lieutenant there. That guy was—”

“What do you want to know?”

Most retired cops miss the camaraderie of the station and enjoy swapping news and gossip. I was surprised that Fringa was so hostile.

“I’m looking into Avery Mitchell’s death.”

“I heard it was a suicide.”

“I have reason to believe it wasn’t.”

He tapped my card on his desk. “To tell you the truth, I’m pretty damn pissed off at the LAPD. If I could’ve stayed for thirty, or at least twenty-five, I would’ve have had a decent pension. Something I could’ve lived off of. I might have joined Avery up in Idaho. and spent my days fishing, instead of humping my butt at this chickenshit job.”

“What happened?”

“I took a poke at a some spic who was fat mouthing me.”

“How’d they find out?”

“He was cuffed to a detention bench and this boot with a stick up his ass ratted me out. When I was coming up, boots kept their mouths shut or they wouldn’t last a month in the department. It’s a different fucking world today.”

I nodded and tried to appear sympathetic.

“My captain cut a deal with me. Retire and he wouldn’t write it up. I knew that poke, in today’s LAPD where the politicians run the department, could get me fired. I had twenty years and change, so I pulled the pin.”

“When did you work with Mitchell?”

He studied my card. “I still got buddies in the department. Before I say anything, I’m going to ask them about you. When I’m ready to talk,
if
I’m ready to talk, I’ll give you a call.”

I knew there was no point in trying to pressure a bitter ex-cop. All I could do was hope I passed muster with his buddies.

I paced on the roof of my apartment after the interview with Fringa. Red-rimmed clouds massed behind the San Gabriels, purple in the waning light. A lost seagull squawked overhead, skimming the rooftops, searching for food. Watching the first stars prick through the sky, I considered the links between Mitchell and Relovich: they were partners when Relovich hit the $60,000 jackpot; they had similar
netsukes
and
ojimes
; they had hidden the figures; they had both been murdered.

I knew that when retired or off-duty cops were killed, detectives invariably assumed the homicides were connected to their police work. Often they were wrong. As a result, the detectives frequently ignored key elements of their personal lives that could have led them to the killer. But these two homicides, I suspected, were connected to their days on the street when they were patrol partners. I just didn’t know how.