Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (26 page)

“When we had coffee, you weren’t inclined toward conversation either. So why did you meet with me?”

“You asked for the meeting.”

“I asked for a talk. We never talked. You came with your piece of paper and your four points. Who dictated them to you?”

“No one dictated anything. I had a discussion that helped me to formulate my thoughts. The purpose of our meeting was to establish boundaries. I wanted to achieve closure. Your presence here is a clear violation of the boundaries I tried to establish.”

“So what you’re telling me is that Dr. Barron is the man behind the curtain?”

“He’s my therapist. He cares about my well-being.”

“That’s right. You’re one of his charity cases, aren’t you?”

Judging by his bodily reactions, Emilio again had to rein in his temper and then weigh his words: “He chooses to work with me at a reduced rate.”

One of Emilio’s coworkers came over to join us. He was carrying a wrench, which might have been a tool of his trade, or it might have been a warning to me.

“Everything all right here?” he asked.

“I’m just leaving,” I said. “I’m glad we were able to dialogue this, Emilio, but I’m afraid our time is up.”

CHAPTER 36

BOOS AND BOOHOOS

When I left the body shop, my first call was to Dr. Barron’s office. I waited five rings before hearing a recording telling me to please hold and that the call would be answered in the order of those waiting. I wondered if Emilio Cruz had called in immediately after I left, and if I was holding because of him.

After two minutes, a voice came on the line and said, “Dr. Barron’s office.”

“Are you the receptionist,” I asked, “or are you Dr. Barron’s answering service?”

“I work for Dr. Barron,” she said, evading the question. “How might I help you?”

“This is Detective Michael Gideon of the Los Angeles Police Department,” I said. “I need to speak to Dr. Barron.”

“I am afraid that Dr. Barron isn’t in today. May I take a message?”

“I need to talk to him directly.”

“He’s speaking at a conference in Sacramento, and I’m afraid he’s unreachable.”

“There has to be an emergency number.”

“Dr. Strum is handling his emergency calls. Would you like her number?”

“What I want is Dr. Barron’s number. This involves police business.”

“I am afraid this is just a phone service, Detective,” she said.

It had been a roundabout conversation to finally get my first question answered.

“So you’re not actually at his office?”

“No, I am not.”

“When is Dr. Barron supposed to return?”

“He will be back at work tomorrow morning. We do expect him to be calling for messages today if you’d like to leave one.”

I repeated my name, and told her my cell-phone number.

“And your message?”

“Please have him call me when he gets this. It doesn’t matter whether it’s day or night.”

“Anything else?”

I decided to offer up a commentary on therapists: “Samuel Goldwyn once said, ‘Anyone who goes to a psychiatrist should have his head examined.’”

“How do you spell that name?”

My next call was to Dr. Green. Angie, she told me, was “much improved.”

“Does that mean the patient is ready to leave today?”

“It does,” she said. “What time will you be here?”

“What’s the latest I can pick her up?”

“Dr. Avalos is scheduled to work until eight o’clock tonight.”

I told her I would be there before eight, and Dr. Green said she would leave word with Dr. Avalos.

With the rest of my day cleared, I decided to spend time with Langston Walker’s notes. I drove back home and found Sirius waiting for me at the front door at the same spot where I’d left him that morning.

“You can’t fool me,” I told him. “You were probably sleeping on the sofa, and when you heard me pull into the driveway, you ran to the door to make it look as if you’d been pining for me all morning.”

Even if that were true—and I knew it wasn’t—I was glad to be on the receiving end of an enthusiastically wagging tail.

Unlike Langston Walker, I’ve never had a space set aside solely as my office. Although I have a cubicle at Central, since becoming a detective, my dining room table has pretty much served as my office. Unless I need to use a terminal to tap into police records, I prefer working at home. My method is to fill the table with paperwork, and keep moving things around until a semblance of order is achieved.

I brought my laptop over to the table, piled up the paperwork next to it, and opened my notepad. Then I reached for the 187 Club folder. The day before I had put aside the Ceballos case; there were still four other cases Walker had chosen to single out.

The first case I looked at was the murder of DeShawn Adams, a transgender woman who went by the name of Dawn. The case notes alternately referred to Dawn as both “he” and “she,” as well as Dawn and DeShawn, but I wasn’t concerned with Dawn’s name as much as I was her lover’s: Nate “Casper” Johnson was a member of the 187 Club. The name Casper is certainly not common. I had only heard it a few times in my life. My association, and I assume that of most people, was through the cartoons and movies starring Casper the Friendly Ghost. I wondered if this Casper was the ghost that had haunted Walker.

J. R. Farley had been convicted of Dawn’s homicide, but it had been ruled voluntary manslaughter. Farley was currently serving a sentence of twelve years. According to Farley, he and Dawn had been friends. The two of them had been drinking, he said, when Dawn began making sexual advances toward him. Farley said he warned Dawn not to touch him, but that didn’t dissuade her. Dawn, he said, told him that the difference between a straight man and a gay man was “a few drinks.” Farley said he “freaked out” when she came on to him, and that he physically beat Dawn, but insisted she was still alive when he left her apartment.

Farley’s public defender had tried to paint Nate “Casper” Johnson as the more likely suspect in the homicide. It was Johnson who came upon Dawn’s body. The lawyer said Johnson had exhibited a history of jealousy when it came to Dawn’s behavior. He said a tipsy Dawn had probably told him what she’d done, prompting him to strike her with a blunt object. The murder weapon was never discovered.

There must have been enough questions in the prosecutor’s mind for him to pursue a sentence of manslaughter instead of murder. That meant the prosecutor either hadn’t believed there was the “malice aforethought” necessary to get a first-degree murder conviction, or had known it would be difficult to prove sufficient premeditation, deliberation, or planning with intent to kill.

The reports, case notes, and
L.A. Times
article didn’t give me a good picture of Johnson. Could he have murdered Dawn? Was he Casper the Unfriendly Ghost? I found two phone numbers associated with his name, and called what was supposed to be his home number. Casper picked up on the second ring. After identifying myself, I asked him if he would be willing to answer a few questions pertaining to the Dawn Adams homicide.

Without any hesitation, he agreed to talk to me.

“I assume you’ve heard about Detective Walker’s death?” I asked.

“I was sickened by the news,” he said, his voice soft and concerned.

“I’m wondering if we’ve met, Nate,” I said. “I was this month’s speaker at the 187 Club.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I missed that meeting.”

“Could we have met at the memorial service?”

“I missed that as well,” he said. “I know myself; I don’t do well at funeral services.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “Anyway, it’s sort of fallen on me to put Langston’s paperwork in order, and that’s the purpose of my call. I found case notes that pertained to the homicide of Dawn Adams. Was there any reason for Langston to be looking at her case?”

The silence built, and then I heard sounds that at first I couldn’t identify, then realized were breathy sobs.

“Are you okay, Mr. Johnson?”

“Give me—a minute,” he said, and the sobbing gradually stopped. When he regained control of himself, he spoke again. “I asked Langston to look into Dawn’s murder. He was doing me a favor. I wanted to see if there were any grounds to retry J. R. Farley.”

“Why would you want that? Farley was found guilty.”

“But only of manslaughter,” he said. “I’m told in all likelihood he’ll be out of prison in three or four years. That’s not right. He murdered Dawn in cold blood, and he needs to pay for that.”

“It might not seem like it to you,” I said, “but he already is paying. I’ve seen murderers walk on cases that I thought were prosecutorial slam dunks, so I seriously doubt the DA would ever retry his case even if they had the grounds to do so.”

“That’s what Langston said. But he told me he would look at the case and do whatever he could to make sure Farley served his full sentence.”

“I see,” I said. Johnson was sounding credible, but I wanted him to keep talking.

“Farley told all sorts of lies. He claimed Dawn came on to him. Dawn would never have done that. She never threw herself on anyone. And she especially didn’t do that after we began our relationship.”

“Were she and Farley friends?” I asked.

“Dawn knew him,” he admitted, “but they weren’t friends. It was Farley who came over to her apartment with a bottle of Scotch. It was Farley who plied Dawn with drinks.”

“Why?”

“Dawn had been saving up money for her sexual-reassignment surgery. I told the detectives that, and I told the prosecutor that. I also told them that I’d contributed almost three thousand dollars to Dawn’s fund, and that she had saved up even more than that.”

“What did they say about that?”

“They said there were no bank records showing that money, or any money. I said that of course there were no bank records. Dawn didn’t trust banks. She had the money hidden in her apartment. That’s why she usually locked up her place like it was Fort Knox.”

“And you think Farley knew about the money?”

“He knew about how we were saving for her surgery; all her friends knew. Farley stole that money. If the police and the DA had done their jobs, they would have heard the same thing I did: on the night of Dawn’s murder, Farley bought all the crack and smack in the neighborhood that he could lay his hands on. He was partying for days before he was finally arrested.”

“Did Langston corroborate that information?”

“He did. Last month he even wrote me a letter with his findings. According to Detective Walker, Farley spent thousands of dollars on the drugs, and wasn’t able to account for how he got the money. Walker said I could read his letter at future parole hearings.”

“Could you make me a copy of that letter?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“One more thing,” I said. Johnson’s claims sounded on the up-and-up, but L.A. has some world-class liars.

Speaking fast, trying not to allow him time to think, I asked, “How did you get the nickname Casper?”

In his calm, soft voice he answered, “I have vitiligo.”

“I’m not sure what that is.”

“It’s a skin condition. If we were talking face-to-face, you’d see where I’m missing the pigment in parts of my skin. Michael Jackson claimed he had vitiligo, even though it didn’t look like any vitiligo I ever saw. Most of my depigmentation is in the upper half of my body, especially my face. Even though I’m black, my face is white. In fact, it’s close to being snow-white, almost the white of an albino. Because of that, everyone called me Casper when I was growing up. Some people still do.”

“Some people are assholes,” I said.

Nate Johnson agreed with me. I had found Casper, but I didn’t think I’d found Walker’s ghost. I thanked Johnson for talking to me.

The rest of my day was spent pursuing ghosts, most notably a stabbing in Hawthorne. The stabbing homicide had resulted in an arrest warrant being issued for Pablo “Diablo” Nuñoz for the murder of Juan Cuellar. It was Cuellar’s widow, Ava, who’d been working with Walker. Word on the street was that Nuñoz had “gone ghost.” That phrase had been written into the police reports, and the same words had been offered up by several of Nuñoz’s friends. “He went ghost” was a street expression that had found its way into rap songs and gang slang. “Going ghost” meant going underground, or disappearing. In Nuñoz’s case, it was thought that he’d made his way across the border and returned to his home state of Oaxaca in Mexico. As much as I tweaked that information, I still didn’t think this case was Walker’s ghost.

Including the Ceballos case, there were now three “boos!” And I had three boohoos.

I got up out of my seat and stretched. Sometimes the only way to work a case is to Super Glue your butt to a chair. The sun was already setting; another day was lost. I thought about calling Sergeant Reyes, but I knew if he’d turned up anything on Heather Moreland, he would have called. The last time we’d talked, he’d said he would be going door-to-door to see if any home surveillance systems had picked up anything around the time she was believed to have disappeared.

My cell phone rang, and I looked at the readout. Arthur Epstein was calling. My workday had dulled my senses, and it took me a moment to make the connection: Art Epstein, father of Joel, husband of Suzanne, whom Ellis Haines had murdered. The Weatherman, also known as the Santa Ana Strangler, was my tar baby. Even when I was away from him, his pitch couldn’t be cleaned off.