Killer (12 page)

Six p.m. is midway through the restaurant’s Happy Hour. Tall, overly sweet Margaritas for four bucks. The big parking lot is three-quarters full.

Warm L.A. evening. Gray skies, poor air quality, so what else is new?

The cream-colored Lexus arrives first, driving through the aisles and selecting one of the remaining slots.

Exactly fifteen minutes early.

Six oh three: A gray Ford pickup, rear deck crammed with gardener’s tools and bags of fertilizer, one of the hubcaps missing, drives in, takes no apparent notice of the Lexus, parks well across the lot.

In the truck’s driver’s seat sits North Hollywood plainclothes officer Gil Chavez wearing sweaty work clothes and two days of heavy stubble. Chavez turns off his engine, lights up a cigarette, and trains his camera on the cream-colored Lexus, pushing the zoom function to the max and focusing upon the square-faced middle-aged woman in the car’s driver’s seat, waiting motionless, her window open.

Her first movement comes at six oh six. Checking her watch.

Producing a cell phone, she texts.

After sending her message—later ascertained to be a reminder to her office manager to obtain more Medi-Cal and Medicare billing
forms—she lets out a luxuriant yawn, doesn’t bother to cover her mouth. Returning to the phone, she dials up the Internet and examines something later ascertained to be a CNN news feed. Financials.

Later, Chavez will comment on how cool she appears.

“
Like she’s there for chiles rellenos and a couple frozen Margees.
”

A few other vehicles enter the lot.

The woman in the Lexus watches them with shallow interest. Glances in the vanity mirror on the underside of the driver’s sun visor. Freshens her makeup.

Chavez’s camera clicks away. Captures a smile on her lips.

Her phone drops from view. A magazine takes its place.

The zoom can’t pick up the title.

Small-print index on the cover.

The periodical is later ascertained to be
Modern Pathology
.

Two more vehicles drive in. The woman watches them briefly. Yawns, again. Flicks something out of the corner of her left eye.

Six fourteen p.m.—exactly a minute early—a ten-year-old black Camaro shows up. Stopping, it proceeds slowly, makes a loop of the parking lot, passes the Lexus. Two additional circuits are completed before the Camaro returns to where the Lexus is positioned and slips in next to the luxury sedan.

The new arrival’s passenger window is open, offering a direct view of the Lexus’s driver’s side. But the square-faced woman’s window is closed, wanting to study the Camaro’s driver without being studied herself.

Nevertheless, one of the four video cameras concealed in the Camaro’s black tuck-and-roll kick in. Captures a close-up of mildly tinted glass.

The Camaro’s driver leans toward his open window. A young, slim, handsome Hispanic man with pronounced cheekbones and inquisitive dark eyes, he wears a long-sleeved, plaid Pendleton shirt buttoned to the neck, saggy khakis, and white Nikes. A blue bandanna sheaths his
freshly skinned head. Three hours ago, Detective Raul Biro sported a head of thick black hair so luxuriant you could mistake it for a toupée. Now, freshly cholo-buzzed by his partner, Petra Connor, with some makeup added to blend his sun-deprived scalp with the rest of his coppery dermis, he squints at the Lexus.

Expertly applied temporary tattoos litter the top of Biro’s hands and meander up his neck. The perfect blue-black hue of prison ink, also provided by Petra, a trained artist prior to becoming a cop.

Left side of the neck: a beautifully drawn blossoming rose in the center of an orange crucifix.

A teardrop under the left eye.

A crudely drawn black hand.

That much ink showing in such limited dermal terrain implies an entire body given over to adornment.

No one expects Biro to have to strip down, exposing the illusion.

He continues staring at the Lexus’s driver’s window. As if responding to his energy, the glass slides down and the square-faced woman reveals herself.

Expressionless, she studies Biro.

He returns the favor.

Finally, she says, “Juan?”

Biro says, “George. Don play games, lady.”

The square face tightens, then brightens. Eyelashes bat. “Good to meet you, George. I’m Mary.”

Different voice than I’d heard in my office. Connie Sykes is playing girly-girly with hammy abandon, laying on a Southern Belle drawl that would be comical if I was able to tolerate funny.

Neither Milo nor Millie Rivera has ever heard her real voice. They don’t react.

My stomach crawls.

She’s enjoying this
.

Biro: “Anyone see you?” His voice is different, too. Lower-pitched, East L.A. singsongy, imprecise around the edges.

A refined man of perfect diction slumming for a one-woman audience.

Connie Sykes says, “Of course not.”
Of cowass not
.

“You sure.”

“I am, George.”

Biro says nothing.

“Cross my heart, George. So where do we do this?”

No immediate answer. Biro looks around the parking lot. “Okay, get in.”

“To your car?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Well … I suppose not.”

“So do it.”

Grimacing but bouncing back with a “Shuah, George,” Connie Sykes flips her wavy hair.

The first feminine gesture I’d ever seen her display. Absurd and incongruous. Like a tutu on a rhino.

“George” couldn’t care less about her sex appeal and Connie senses that and frowns again, as she gets out of the Lexus.

Walking to the back of the black Camaro, she sidles around, takes the passenger handle, finds it locked.

Biro unlocks it with a click. No doubt about who’s in charge.

Connie gets in. Fools with her wavy hair. Tries for a warm, flirty smile, comes up with a weirdly repellent twist of freshly painted lips.

Or maybe I’m being too harsh. She does have an X chromosome.

Millie Rivera says, “Creepy bitch.”

Biro lights up a cigarette.

Sykes barks a pretend cough. “That’s not good for you, George.”

Biro blows smoke rings. “Show me the money, lady.”

Sykes pats her bag. Same way she’d implied a gun while sitting on my leather couch. “The money’s all here, George.”

“How much?”

“What we agreed on.”

“Let me see it.”

Connie opens the bag, pulls out a wad of bills.

Biro says, “What you want me to do?”

“What do you mean?” Sykes has dropped her drawl.

“Huh?”

“I thought Ramon worked that out.”

“Yeah, right,” says Biro. “Do a guy.”

“So you do know.”

“That’s nothin’, lady.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do can be anything,” says Biro. “How you want it?”

“By ‘how’ you mean—”

“Shoot, cut, break the fuckin’ head.” He turns to her, exhales a bust of smoke. “They’s all kinda do, Mary.”

Sykes opens a window and breathes in fresh air. “Would you mind putting that out? You’re really asphyxiating me.”

Biro, still puffing: “You gonna tell me or what?”

“I assumed Ramon already discussed—”

“Fuck Ramon, I’m here, you’re here—you sure you got all the money, lady? You only showed me that bunch.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Peeved.

Silence.

Connie says, “I’m a busy person. Why would I bother to come here if I wasn’t serious.” She laughs.

“Something funny, lady?”

“I mean, George, you don’t impress me as the type of guy who does things just for fun. Though I imagine it must be fun for you.”

Biro stares at her. “You talk crazy, lady. Gonna tell me what you want, or what?”

Connie stares back. Her mouth is set hard.

The atmosphere in the Camaro has shifted and all of us know it.

Milo rubs his face, as if washing without water.

Rivera says, “Uh-oh … c’mon, Raul, work it, man.”

Biro says, “What, lady?”

Connie says, “I think you’re being … legalistic, George.”

“Huh?”

“Pressing me for details.”

“It’s your job, lady.”

“But you’re the pro, George.”

“Yeah. So.”

“So you decide.”

“Everything?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Suit yourself, Mary. I just figured you’d wanna—”

Without warning, Connie Sykes pushes the Camaro’s passenger door open and exits the car. Rather than flee to the Lexus, she returns to the rear of the black car, stops for a second. Seems to be studying something.

Milo says, “What the—she’s memorizing the tag?”

Rivera says, “Unbelievable. Ballsy bitch.”

Raul Biro speaks, barely moving his lips. “What now, guys? I go after her?”

His tone says that’s the last thing he wants.

Milo says, “Stay there.”

Connie Sykes walks into the restaurant.

Milo says, “Get out of there.”

Biro complies.

Moments after the Camaro exits the lot, Connie Sykes steps out,
looks around, approaches her Lexus, takes the time for another check of her surroundings before getting into her car.

Cruising slowly, she’s gone.

Millie Rivera curses.

Milo joins her.

My head fills with what-ifs. I keep them to myself.

Driving back to the city via Laurel Canyon, Milo headed for Hollywood Division and the sure-to-be-depressing meet-up with Raul Biro.

Not at the station on Wilcox. Biro, sounding deflated, had no desire to be in the company of Petra or any of his peers.

He directed us to a coffee shop on Sunset near Gower, was already seated at a booth, coffee cup in hand. He’d loosened the top button on the Pendleton, rolled up the sleeves. Clean arms but marked-up hands. Instead of the bandanna he wore a Dodgers cap.

Before Milo, Rivera, and I were sitting, he said, “I know I messed up but I still can’t figure out how.”

He’s an unusually bright and perceptive detective, free of macho self-delusion but confident and self-possessed. Seeing him like this was sad.

Milo said, “That’s ’cause you didn’t screw up, Raul. She’s a paranoid weirdo.”

As if he hadn’t heard, Biro said, “I did the hard-guy because the
department shrink said to.” He looked at me. “I would’ve asked you but they said you were too involved.”

I said, “Understandable.”

“Would you have done it differently?”

“There’s never a cookbook. Milo’s right, there was no way to predict.”

“Oh, man,” said Biro, “what a mess.”

“You poor guy,” said Millie Rivera. “Losing your hair.”

“Don’t care about that, it’ll grow back,” said Biro. “Meanwhile she’s still out there—I’m really sorry, Doc.”

I said, “Don’t worry.”

Biro shook his head. “I used to think actors were idiots. Now I’m thinking I’m the fool, need to appreciate them.”

A waitress came over. The request for three more coffees made her scowl. “That’s it?”

“Nah, that’s the appetizer,” said Milo. “Bring me a chocolate sundae with hot fudge—you got pineapple sauce?”

“Just peaches and cherries.”

“Fine.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“It’s extra.”

“I’m an extra type of guy.”

The waitress left, rolling her eyes.

Biro said, “El Tee, if I eat now, I hurl.”

Rivera said, “Well, I can use a sugar rush—maybe I’ll also get a sundae.”

Milo said, “It’s yours I just ordered,” and stood, nodding at me to do the same. We left the booth. He said, “Don’t sweat it, kids, it’ll work out.”

“You two are going?” said Rivera.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“We’re finished?”

“In terms of official business? For the time being.”

“What do I tell Lieutenant White?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“What about Guzman?”

“Sounds like he’s under control via Effo.”

Rivera thought about that. “Okay, what about Effo?”

“Do your thing, Millie.”

She looked at me. “How do you feel about that, Doc?”

“If you’re asking will I warn him, I won’t. But even if I did, would it make a difference? He’s got to know you’re after him.”

Rivera bared her teeth.

The waitress approached with the sundae.

Milo said, “Sweeten your life, kid,” and tossed a twenty on the table.

The waitress said, “You don’t want this?”

“I like it but it doesn’t like me.” Patting his gut, he handed her a ten. Her mouth dropped open.

Milo winked at her and we left.

As I reached the coffee shop door, I glanced back at the booth. Neither Biro nor Rivera had moved.

Cop tableau.

My best friend had a surplus of personal power, knew how to use it judiciously.

I should’ve found that comforting.

Milo started up the car. “In answer to your first unasked question, I’ll take care of the situation. In answer to the second, why bother yourself with the details?”

I let him drive for a while before speaking. “In response to your first answer, how, when, and where? In terms of the second: because it’s my life and I need to know what’s going on.”

He picked up speed. “Fair enough. I’m figuring on a nice direct confrontation with Crazy Connie.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Hear me out, Alex. I’m going to surprise her at home, let her know we know everything, scare the hell out of her within legal limits, maybe even get her to do something that allows me to arrest her.” Touching his abdomen, again. “I’m not exactly a small target. She makes contact anywhere on this Sahara of Irish dermis, she’s toast.”

“You’ll be—”

“I’m a homicide cop, I get to work any damn homicides or attempted homicides that I choose. Per His Majesty.”

“You asked the chief?”

“I posed a theoretical question to one of the chief’s sycophants.”

“You figured the sting would fail?”

“I figured nothing, Alex. It’s the Boy Scout training. Be prepared.”

“Connie uses the legal system—”

“Yeah, yeah, she’ll get herself a lawyer. But meanwhile, the booking process can go
real
slow, let’s see how snotty she is after a stretch in County with some east side homegirls as roomies.” Big wolfish smile. “She wants to end your life because you wrote a damn
report
?
Fuck
her. Where does she live?”