The Lost Witness (26 page)

“No, sir,” she said. “The number on the card has been restricted and won’t work in any ATM that isn’t owned by the bank. The cash limit has been cut in half and the
account can’t be accessed except during normal business hours. If he tries to use the card, every bank in the city has his photograph and knows what to do.”

“Who made the call? You or them?”

Lena ignored the sarcasm in his voice. The decision had been made before she left the bank on Saturday. Steve Avadar wanted the witness as much as they did.

“Both,” she said. “We share the same interest. They’re tracking her credit card as well.”

The chief gave her a hard look. “What about this doctor in Beverly Hills? Joseph Fontaine.”

“What about him?”

“What did you do to piss him off?”

The question was insane, and she didn’t know how to respond. As she gazed back at the chief, she realized that the anger coursing through her veins had nothing to do with his rank or
position. Like Klinger, something was off. Something about the moment was wrong.

“What did you do to piss the doctor off?” the chief repeated. “Is he a legitimate person of interest or not?”

Before she could respond, Barrera broke in.

“While Detectives Gamble and Rhodes were processing the crime scene at the Cock-a-doodle-do on Saturday, we made an attempt to reach him. He refused.”

“Who made contact?” the chief asked.

“Tito Sanchez,” Barrera said. “He was canvassing the neighborhood and learned that Fontaine had hired a pair of bodyguards. We thought there might be a chance he’d want
to talk about it. He didn’t.”

The chief took a moment to think it over.

“He’s involved in the murder,” Lena said. “We just don’t know how yet.”

“Well, until you do, leave him alone. His attorney sent a letter over by messenger this morning. I don’t want to get another.”

The chief reached for a file. As he pulled out a sheet of paper, Lena risked a quick glance at Barrera, who didn’t appear to be having a good day, either. When she turned back, the chief
was holding the sketch they had worked up with the Andolinis of the man calling himself Nathan Good.

“Is this the most up-to-date version?” he asked.

Lena nodded. “It was released to the press last night.”

The chief returned the sketch to his file, grabbed his legal pad, and slipped everything into his briefcase. “Okay,” he said. “Lieutenant Klinger and I have a meeting at USC
Medical Center this morning. We’ll pass the sketch around and see what happens. If he received his training in the trauma unit before shipping overseas, then we’ve lucked out. If he
didn’t and no one can identify him, then we’ll regroup. But until this plays out, Gamble, until further notice from this office, your job is to clean up the loose ends we just spoke
about. That means crossing Justin Tremell off your list. That means leaving the kid alone. And it means any contact with Fontaine is prohibited without my okay as well. Just the loose ends, Gamble.
You think you can handle that?”

She was speechless. The case was almost a week old. In the past few days they’d made up a lot of ground and now the chief wanted to shut them down. But Dean Tremell had pressed the right
buttons. He had the ability and resources to protect his son. Like the chief said, the man counted.

She watched the chief close his briefcase, then glance at the door indicating that the meeting was over.

“I’m no counselor,” he said in a lower voice. “But I think you should start thinking about your future here, Gamble. And talking about department business with a reporter
like Denny Ramira probably isn’t going to help your cause. Now get out of my office. Get out and do your job. And if you come up with a lead on that witness, you better make sure that
I’m your first call.”

K
eep cool. Trouble ahead.

She lit a cigarette and cracked the window open. The radio was tuned to KFWB, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she was staring through the windshield, her car idling in the rusted out
garage across the street from Parker Center. She took another drag on the smoke, hoping that the nicotine would settle her nerves. But it wasn’t enough—not near enough. She could see
Chief Logan exiting the building with Klinger, his car and driver waiting for them in the VIP lot by the door. She could see both men laughing.

Keep cool. Trouble ahead.

Lena watched them drive off, thinking about the number of blows she had taken. Most of them felt like head shots, her mind still numb. Her career, dead on arrival.

She tapped the ash out the window, then focused on a Lincoln pulling into the lot and parking in a space reserved for members of the police commission. Senator Alan West got out from behind the
wheel and walked over to the cop in the guard shack. It looked like the senator was showing him the pin he wore on his lapel. The gold fire engine he had received from the LAFD after 9/11. As she
watched, she remembered what he had said to her less than a week ago when they met and he showed her the same pin.

This is Los Angeles. Chiefs come and go. If I can do anything for you, I’ll try my best.

She reached inside her pocket. West’s business card was still there and she gazed at it. Looking back, she followed his progress across the lot until he reached the door and vanished
inside the building.

Lena knew with absolute certainty that going to West was not an option. Not if she still hoped to remain a detective anywhere near Los Angeles. Any contact with West would be suicide. He might
be one of the good ones. There was even something reassuring about the fact that he drove his own car. But like every other commissioner, he wasn’t a member of the club. No one would ever
trust her if she went outside the blue curtain. No one would ever work with her again. Being right had about as much relevance and worth as half a dollar bill. She couldn’t buy anything with
it. And she couldn’t save it for a rainy day no matter how big the storm.

Her cell started vibrating. Glancing at the display, she saw Lieutenant Barrera’s name and flipped it open.

“You okay, Lena?”

“Since when did we stop following leads,” she said. “It must have been in a department bulletin I missed.”

Barrera didn’t say anything right away. From the lack of background noise, she guessed that he was in the captain’s office with the door closed.

“Something’s up,” he said finally. “I told you that last week. I wish I could tell you what it was.”

“What’s up is easy,” she said. “They’re looking for a way to give Tremell’s kid a pass. How did the chief put it? The girl pointed her dirty finger at him.
Her finger isn’t dirty, Frank. And we didn’t move with just one eyewitness. Four people put him with the victim that night.”

“That’s what you said. What’s so bizarre is that the chief knows it, too. After we talked Saturday night, I called and gave him a complete briefing. It’s a disgrace,
simple as that. He’s fucked up. The whole thing’s fucked up, so don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it get inside you. Don’t let it fuck you up, too.”

“So, what comes next?”

“Fuck him, Lena. That’s what comes next. You’re a cop. Do what you gotta do.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear—Barrera shouting. Switching over to speaker, she turned the volume down. She had never heard him so upset before. It occurred to her that the meeting
must have been just as tough on him. Maybe even worse because he couldn’t say anything, and had to stay after she left. Barrera was a fair-minded man who began his career in a patrol car just
like every other cop. He had risen through the ranks on his own and worked the homicide table long before his promotion to lieutenant. Long before Chief Logan ever dreamed of moving to Los Angeles
and starting at the top. Barrera had the support and respect of every investigator he supervised. And everyone on the floor knew how much he despised department politics. But what the chief was
doing amounted to more than that. He and the DA were breaking a cardinal rule.

“Follow the evidence,” Barrera said in a firm voice. “And I don’t care where it leads or who it fucks up. You know what the Groucho is, right, Lena?”

He was referring to the way SWAT teams entered a hostile location. The way they bent their knees and kept their backs straight so that they could aim their shotguns and rifles, and fire on the
move. Because the posture mimicked the way Groucho Marx often walked in his films, the tactical move was often called the Groucho.

“I’ve heard of it,” she said.

“Then keep it in mind. Stay low and push forward. After what just happened, if you want to take the day off and get drunk, I’ll say okay to that, too. I’ll buy the first and
last round. But I’m hoping you won’t. I’m hoping none of this bullshit really matters to you. Either way, Lena, be careful and keep me in the fucking loop.”

He hung up. Lena stubbed her cigarette out, lighting another and thinking it over. What the chief had done was already inside her. Already fucking her up. She couldn’t help that. But
Barrera didn’t need to buy her a drink, either.

Something clicked and she became aware of the radio. A story on the news.

A dead body had been found in an apartment on Willoughby Avenue early this morning. An old man who once ran a hotdog stand in West Hollywood had been discovered by a maintenance worker.
According to the investigator from the coroner’s office, the old man was found sitting in a chair in his living room. He had been dead for more than a year, his body mummified by the dry air.
When authorities entered the apartment, the TV was still on.

It was another L.A. story. A sad and horrific story. But what resonated for Lena was the fact that the old man had died alone. That no one had checked on him or seemed to care. That he
didn’t have a lifeline—some connection between himself and the outside world.

Chewing it over, she wondered if she had a lifeline. Someone who checked on her and seemed to care.

She pulled out of the garage, the story following her into the bright daylight—that feeling of loneliness lingering in the smoky air as she stubbed out that second cigarette. Winding her
way around Parker Center and through the city, she reached the 10 Freeway and decided to head west. She wanted another look at Jennifer McBride’s apartment on Navy Street. A quiet look on her
own. But she needed to get away, too. She needed a time-out to regroup and put things in perspective.

The freeway was moving, the drive across town taking no more than half an hour. As she found a place to park two doors down from the building and got out, she spotted the patrol car at the end
of the street. Pacific Division was keeping a loose eye on the place just in case the witness showed up. No one thought that he would. Even though the kid had retrieved the victim’s purse and
everything inside it at the Cock-a-doodle-do, the risk of breaking into a murder victim’s apartment seemed over the top. She had forgotten to mention it to the chief. But things had been so
bad, she didn’t think that it would have made a difference if she had.

She let the thought go, fishing through her briefcase for the keys. When she got the lobby door open, Jones was waiting for her.

“Why did you put that stupid lock on the door?” he shouted.

She looked up and saw him glaring at her. The small, troll-like man with the damaged eyes hadn’t bothered to dress. He was standing by his door in his boxer shorts and that old tank top.
Even from a distance, Lena could tell that he still needed a bath.

“It’s a crime scene, Jones. Go back inside.”

“When can I get rid of her shit and rent the place out? She’s dead, isn’t she? What the fuck’s the difference now?”

“Go back inside.”

“But I want my money,” he said. “I need it.”

She started up the steps, then turned back when she remembered what Jones had done to Jennifer McBride’s rental application. That bottle of "Wite-Out he used to erase her security deposit
and pocket the cash.

“You already got the money,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you really think that we wouldn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“Her rental application, Jones. You altered it. You stole her security deposit. Two thousand bucks.”

His face reddened. He didn’t say anything.

“There’s a cop down the street,” she said. “Do you want me to call him? Do you want to spend the next two years in jail? Or, are you gonna go back inside, get your copy
of her application out, and fix what you did?”

“But she’s dead.”

“Your choice, Jones.”

He didn’t spend much time thinking it over. When the door slammed, Lena took a deep breath and trudged up the steps to Jennifer McBride’s apartment. The door had been sealed with
crime scene tape. And Kline had added a hasp and padlock. Just enough to set Jones off.

Lena got inside and closed the door behind her. As she stood in the dark foyer, she took another deep breath and wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here. The place was too quiet. Too
black. And the day had started off with an overdose of the abhorrent. Two experiences with two people so foul that she could taste it in her mouth.

But there was something else here. Something more. As she first entered the apartment, she became aware of the victim’s scent. It only lasted for a split second, dissipating in the air
just as she noticed—but it had been there. And it wasn’t the soap the woman had used, or even the perfume that Lena had smelled twice before. It was her person, lingering behind. Her
body. Her physical being, six days gone.

Lena didn’t know whether she could handle this right now. Like maybe the timing was off and five or six shots of tequila with salt and lime would do her good.

She switched on the lamp and gazed through the French doors into the living room. She had forgotten how barren the place was. Not a single photograph. Not a letter from a friend. Just the
basics. One set of sheets and a pair of bath towels. Enough clothing to pack a suitcase. Enough lingerie to fill a duffel bag so that Jennifer McBride could make a buck.

Lena glanced inside the bedroom, deciding to enter when she spotted the snow globe on the bedside table. She picked it up and gazed at the snow falling over Las Vegas. The Bellagio Hotel and
Caesar’s Palace. All the streets painted a bright gold. Although Barrera had managed to get the story on five stations in Nevada, the response from viewers matched the response here in Los
Angeles.