Scavenger Hunt (14 page)

Chapter 21

Helen Katz rapped on the front door of the Cortez home, a firm knock but not her usual triple-bang that sent the residents scrambling to answer. Deaf, dumb, and blind, you knew that there was a cop at the door when Katz came calling. Right now though, she was feeling kindly toward Mrs. Cortez and didn’t feel the need to jump-start her heart. The woman had been through enough, and it was only going to get worse.

“Sí?” Mrs. Cortez peered through the steel webbing of the security screen, a short, stocky woman with neatly pinned gray hair and a long-sleeved black dress—mourning clothes for her younger son. Katz’s first partner had told her that if she ever wanted to get rich, she should go into business selling funeral dresses to the barrio
mamacitas.
The paunchy twenty-year vet had looked over at her, grinning. Even fresh out of the Academy and needing a good report, she had looked right through him until he turned away, muttering.

“I’m Detective Katz,
señora. Hablas inglés?
”

Mrs. Cortez turned away, said something to someone inside, and a teenage girl joined her at the door. Her daughter—Katz recognized her from the drive-by crime scene of Luis Cortez last week. She had been wearing bright orange soccer shorts at the time. This morning she wore a more subdued beaded peasant dress with a black woven choker around her slender brown neck. Her dark eyes were older than her years. “May I help you?” Her voice was soft as flowers.

“I’m Detective Katz. I was the officer—”

“I know who you are,” said the girl, opening the door. “Please come in. My name is Estella.” She nodded as Katz stepped inside. “Mama!” She conferred with her mother for a moment, then Mrs. Cortez smiled at Katz and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Please, detective, make yourself comfortable.” Estella indicated a worn blue-leather sofa, then waited until Katz had sat down before sitting down herself, smoothing her dress as she did so. “We are very glad to see you.”

Katz looked around, confused, but the house was quiet—only the sound of water running in the kitchen disturbed the silence. The living room was clean and organized, with a sofa and two matching leather chairs that faced the television, a new thirty-one-inch Panasonic. An ornate wooden crucifix hung on one wall, next to a velvet painting of Cesar Chavez waving in triumph. On the opposite wall was a velvet painting of a muscular Aztec warrior holding an obsidian lance, his expression proud and threatening. In the far corner of the room was a small round table with a framed photograph of Luis Cortez flanked by two flickering votive candles. Luis was thirteen when he was murdered—the photo was recent, his seventh-grade portrait probably, Luis at his desk, hands folded, a mischievous smile on his face, his eyes silky.

“He was a beautiful boy, yes?”

“Yes,” said Katz.

“Yes.” Estella nodded. “We thank you for coming to the funeral.”

“I’m sorry.” Katz felt tongue-tied in the girl’s presence, wishing that the mother would return. “I’m looking for Paulo.”

“Paulo is here last night,” Mrs. Cortez said from the doorway, a tray of cookies in her hands.
“Toda la noche.”

“Mrs. Cortez . . .” Katz turned to Estella. “I didn’t mention anything about last night. Your mother is giving him an alibi before I even asked for one.”

“Paulo here
toda la noche,
” Mrs. Cortez repeated, setting the cookies on the coffee table in front of Katz.

“Last night three Latin Princes were shot to death while sitting in their car outside a
taquería
in East Anaheim. These men—we believe they were the ones who killed Luis.”

Mrs. Cortez crossed herself as she walked back into the kitchen.

Katz took a bite of a cookie. It was a plain biscuit covered with colored sugar. “The man who killed the three Latin Princes . . .” She wiped crumbs off her lips, remembering the last time she had seen Luis’s older brother, Paulo, a huge nineteen-year-old in knee-length cutoffs and Pendleton. He had glowered at her from across the street at the crime scene, arms folded across his chest, his powerful neck and forearms laced with tattoos. “This man—his description fits Paulo.”

“As my mother said, detective, Paulo was home all last night.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Katz finished the cookie, reached for another. “It was a nasty shooting. The Princes were drinking beer in their Buick when someone pulled up, leaned out the driver’s side, and emptied the clip on an AK-47.” She chewed with her mouth open. “Armor-piercing rounds. Swiss-cheesed the Buick something awful.”

“I am sorry for their families,” said Estella.

“
Qué
lástima,
” agreed Mrs. Cortez, setting a tray on the table. She poured red hibiscus tea into a cup, dropped in a couple of sugar cubes without asking, and handed it to Katz.

Katz put the cup down without tasting it and reached for another cookie. “You say Paulo stayed home last. That’s good to hear.” She took a bite. “So . . . where is he?”

Mrs. Cortez sipped her tea, then spoke to her daughter, who translated.

“My mother says Paulo left early this morning. She does not know where he went. To look for work, perhaps.”

“I don’t think so.” Katz licked her lips, sugar granules drifting onto her lap. “After the shoot-up at the
taquería,
I had a unit parked down the street watching this house. They were there all night, and they didn’t see anyone leave.”

Estella listened to her mother. “Paulo sometimes sneaks out the back. He is worried about being”—she searched for the word—“am-bushed by the Latin Princes. He must have gone out through the back alley.”

“I had the alley watched too.”

Mrs. Cortez spoke again. She didn’t raise her voice, but her eyes watching Katz were small and hard.

“My mother says your fine police officers must have fallen asleep and missed seeing him. She hopes you are not too harsh with them. It was a warm night.”

Katz brushed crumbs off her lap. “It would be better for Paulo if the police found him before the Latin Princes.”

Mrs. Cortez spoke rapidly as she stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the cup.

Estella blushed. “My mother—she thanks you for your concern. She will tell Paulo that you wish to speak with him.”

Katz stared at the photograph of Luis Cortez and wondered where that shy knowing smile had come from. “Estella, you know what’s going to happen to your brother if he doesn’t turn himself in. Make your mother understand that you two could also be in danger.”

“God will provide.”

“What happens if the Latin Princes don’t believe in God?”

“
Everyone
believes in God, detective.”

Katz shook her head, then laid her business card on the table. “Call me if you change your mind. My pager is always on.” She grabbed a couple more cookies as she stood up.

Mrs. Cortez stood up too and spoke to Estella.

“My mother thanks you very much for sending Señor Jaime to talk with us. It—it was a very rare occasion for us.”

Mrs. Cortez took Katz’s hand and squeezed it between her two palms, ignoring the cookies crumbling onto the carpet.
“Gracias.”

“I don’t understand,” said Katz, feeling the heat of Mrs. Cortez’s hands.

“Muchas gracias.”
Mrs. Cortez let her go.

“Mr. Jaime—he said you sent him. He asked about Luis. He wanted to know everything. We spent the whole afternoon together. All of us cried. Me, my mother, Mr. Jaime. Even Paulo, who pretended it was the dust in the air making his eyes water.”

“I didn’t send anyone to talk with you.”

“Mr. Jaime said he was a writer for a magazine—”

“SLAP.” Mrs. Cortez acted like it was funny. She lightly slapped her own cheek. “SLAP.”

“Jimmy’s writing about Luis?”

Estella nodded. “He said he wanted people to know who Luis was. To put a face on the killing, to show what the world had lost.” She was crying again. “He said he wanted everyone who read about Luis—he wanted them to feel what we feel—to feel the weight of a stone in their heart.”

Mrs. Cortez nodded, her eyes ferocious. She had cried herself dry. Katz might as well take her card back—no way they were going to turn in Paulo.

“Mr. Jaime—we can trust him, yes?” asked Estella.

Katz turned over the idea of Jimmy tracking down the Cortez family, facing off against a desperate and grieving Paulo to write a story about a boy who was just a statistic, a kid whose death didn’t even make the local TV news. “Yes, you can trust him.”

Chapter 22

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“First door on the left,” said Brimley, pointing. “And it’s called the head.”

“Aye-aye, captain.” Jimmy was still unsteady on his feet, but he made it into the narrow corridor, one hand on the wall, closing the door behind him. There was no lock. He ran cold water in the small sink and gingerly splashed his face. His reflection wasn’t pretty—his right eye was swollen and purple, and dried blood was crusted over his eyebrow. He rinsed his mouth out and spat into the basin. He hadn’t come in here to wash his face or use the toilet, though; he was interested in what Sugar’s bathroom looked like. Private zones revealed more than a mirror.

Brimley said he had been greeted at the door of the cottage by a disoriented Garrett Walsh. The director had been wearing an open purple robe and was clutching a gold statuette caked with blood. Brimley hadn’t even recognized the statue as an Oscar. He had quietly taken it away from Walsh, peeling away the man’s fingers while Walsh mumbled apologies. Jimmy had already read that in the official transcript, but a few minutes ago Brimley had added that Walsh had wiped his hands on his robe and offered to do a PSA warning kids against using drugs. Brimley had shaken his head when he told Jimmy, still amazed after all these years.

The room was small and wood-lined, just a sink and commode, a stall shower with a bathing-beauties curtain. A single rectangular window was slightly propped open, looking out at the furled sails of the boat next door. The rack next to the commode contained recent issues of
Deep Sea Fishing, Power Boating, Travel and Leisure, Play-boy,
and
Gourmet.
He glanced at the door, then carefully opened the medicine cabinet, coughing to cover the squeak. Colgate toothpaste, a toothbrush with wild boar bristles, mint-flavored dental floss, aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, eyedrops, a double-edged razor, and Aqua Velva after shave. No hair dye. No denture cream. No prescription bottles. Nothing that would indicate high blood pressure, ulcers, colitis, diabetes, rickets, or scurvy. Sugar was healthy as a bull elk.

He checked the window again—it was small, but there was room enough to wiggle through. He instinctively checked for ways in and out of places, marked exits and unmarked ones. His first job in journalism had been at a free rock magazine; without press credentials or credibility, Jimmy had learned how to bypass concert security, regularly sneaking backstage, sitting in on closed soundchecks. A conservative three-piece suit and a briefcase allowed him to blow past rent-a-cops; Jimmy simply declared himself the band’s attorney and kept walking. He enjoyed the subterfuge more than the music. Jimmy flushed the toilet and opened the door. He smelled coffee.

“Thought you could use this,” said Brimley, handing him a mug. “You look like a black coffee type to me.”

“Good guess.” Jimmy blew steam off and took a sip, favoring his lip.

“My personal blend—half Hawaiian, half French roast.” Brimley drank from his own mug. “You talked to anybody else about the case?”

“Not yet.”

“The assistant DA could probably tell you more than I can. He was looking over my shoulder before I even finished my report. Can’t blame him; from an investigative standpoint, it was pretty open and shut.”

“I’m more interested in the crime scene itself—what you saw, what you did. Even though it was open and shut, forensics still got a workout, right?”

Brimley stared at him. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just asking questions, Sugar, trying to get a sense of things— an immediacy that was missing from most of the newspaper accounts. You were hardly quoted at all.”

Brimley leaned against the counter. Backlit from the window behind him, tiny red hairs were visible at the edges of his ear canal. “I was under orders to run all requests through the public information officer and the DA’s office. Bosses were afraid I was getting too much attention, and to tell you the truth, that was fine with me. I was never a glory hog.”

Jimmy sat down, dizzy again. “The man who called in the noise complaint that night—the screams—I was hoping to interview him, but I couldn’t find his name in any of the news accounts.”

“You find him, let me know—I’d like to buy him a prime rib dinner.”

“He never came forward?”

Brimley shook his head. “Sometimes an anonymous tip wants to remain anonymous. The tabloids put out a reward for him to come forward and tell his story, but all they got was crackpots and phonies.”

“Hermosa Beach has Caller ID on their 911 system, don’t they?”

“Call came in from a pay phone a couple blocks away. We figured it was somebody out walking their dog—jogging or roller-skating maybe.” Sugar eyed the apple pie on the counter. “I canvased the area, but nothing came of it.”

“Interesting that a jogger heard screams from the house but not the neighbors.”

“You did your homework, I like that. Neighbor on one side was out of town, people on the other side had their air-conditioning turned up. I never cared much for air-conditioning myself. Not natural. Besides, a little sweat never hurt anybody.”

Jimmy carefully sipped his coffee, biding his time. Getting beaten up had given him an advantage; there was no way Brimley was going to rush him now, and Jimmy had learned that letting someone help you was one of the best ways to ensure their cooperation. He often started difficult interviews with a simple request: a glass of water, an aspirin, a pen to use in place of his own, which had “suddenly” gone dry. Brimley was easy; he was helpful by nature. Jimmy crossed his legs, winced.

“You all right?”

“I’m not going to be dancing the tango for a few days, but I’m fine.”

“Tango—that’s the national dance of Brazil. Gosh, I’d love to see Rio.”

“Argentina,” Jimmy corrected him. “Brazil is more like the samba, bossa nova.”

“ ‘Blame it on the bossa nova,’” Brimley singsonged, snapping his fingers, his voice light as he danced around the kitchen, holding an invisible partner around the waist.

Jimmy had to laugh at the big man’s smooth moves and his self-assurance in showing them off, not caring what anyone thought. It made him like the old cop. “You should take a trip to Brazil. A friend of mine was born and raised in Rio—she’s a travel agent. I could put you in touch with her. She’ll get you there cheap, find you a hotel on the water, and line you up with some great fishing. She knows everybody.”

“I might just take you up on that. Brazil. They have fish down there I’ve only read about, game fish that put my marlin to shame.” Brimley sat down, beaming now. “What’s your name again? Jimmy who?”

“Gage.”

“Jimmy Gage. I know that name. You did something a while ago— I remember seeing you on TV.” Brimley stared at Jimmy, nodded. “You saved a cop’s life. That was it. I don’t remember what you did exactly, but it was a big deal.”

“Right place, right time, that’s all.”

“That’s plenty.” Brimley patted Jimmy’s knee. “Sorry you had to take your lumps, but meeting you sure turned out lucky for me. I don’t usually get to meet a genuine hero.”

Jimmy let the hero crap pass. “You must have been born under a good sign, Sugar. ‘One Lucky Cop’—that was the headline in the
News-Herald
the next day. They said you were on your way home after your shift change when the call came.”

“We still used two-way radios back then. Now calls come in to squad cars on the computer. Whole new world.”

“I just thought it was strange for a detective to follow up on a noise complaint himself.”

“Hermosa is a small department; we covered for each other whenever we could, and I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony. The nearest squad car that evening was investigating a report of gunshots fired, and I was in the area.” Brimley shrugged. “Don’t think those two uniforms didn’t rub it in; they should have been the one getting the commendation and their picture in the paper, not me. ‘One Lucky Cop’—gee whiz, I thought I’d never live it down.”

Jimmy laughed along with him, but not too hard. His head
did
hurt.

“Maybe I should take you home. We can get together when you’re feeling better.”

“Just let me sit here a few more minutes.”

“Stay as long as you want.”

“One thing I never understood. Was what Heather Grimm was doing in Hermosa, anyway? She lived in Whittier. Why didn’t she go to Huntington? It’s closer, and it’s a better beach too.”

“If you want help figuring out the mind of a fifteen-year-old girl, you’re on your own.”

“That’s what I mean, she was fifteen. She wouldn’t go to the beach by herself. She was too young to drive. So who drove her there?”

“I asked her mother the same thing myself. She said Heather drove herself to Hermosa Beach that day. It wasn’t legal, but neither is tossing a gum wrapper on the sidewalk. Mrs. Grimm was raising Heather on her own, working double shifts as a waitress, doing her best. Heather used to drop her mama off at the restaurant around eleven, then pick her up again at ten that evening. Mrs. Grimm said most days Heather went to the beach, she took a girlfriend or two along for company. No boys, Mama was adamant about that—no boys in the house when she wasn’t there, no boys in the car.”

“Did you talk to any of her girlfriends?”

“Mrs. Grimm is dead now. Less than a year after Heather was killed. Officially she overdosed on her prescription medicine, but if you ask me, she died of a broken heart. That girl was her whole world.”

Jimmy remembered the crime scene photos of Heather Grimm, her skull shattered, bone and brain matter on the carpet. Mrs. Grimm would have had to identify the body too.
Yes, that’s my daughter.

“You okay, Jimmy? You don’t look so good again.”

Jimmy cleared his throat. “You said forensics gave the scene the full treatment.”

“We’re back to forensics?” Brimley chuckled. “I need a scorecard with you.”

Jimmy put the ice pack against his face again. “Did they find any prints that didn’t belong to either Walsh or Heather Grimm?”

“Plenty. Cleaning lady, furniture movers—some of the actors working on that film of his, the last one, whatever it was called. I guess they had a party one time. The crime scene detail said they hoovered enough cocaine out of the rugs to—”

“What about Mick Packard? Did you find his prints there?”

Brimley did a mock karate chop. “Marvelous Mick? I don’t remember. I like that guy’s movies. Whatever happened to him?”

“I may be seeing him in a few days. If you want, I’ll get his autograph for you. He’d probably be thrilled.”

“That’s all right. After the Heather Grimm case . . . let’s just say I lost my respect for Hollywood. All those pretty faces getting interviewed, talking about what a talent Walsh was—it made me sick.”

“The crime scene report just said the prints of ‘persons known and unknown’ had been found in the cottage.”

“You say you’re writing a story about Walsh, but you keep asking questions about fingerprints and Mick Packard, and did I do this and did I do that.” Brimley scratched his head. “I guess I’m confused. What’s going on?”

Jimmy loved the head-scratching routine, the prelude to the amiable old cop asking for help. “I know I’m not making a lot of sense.” He shifted the ice pack slightly. “Maybe we can talk more when I’m feeling better. We could get together at Walsh’s beach house. You could take me on a walkaround. I’d really appreciate—”

“I’d like to help, but I got no special pull with the new owners. A few years ago one of those
True Police Stories
TV shows was going to do a reenactment, but they couldn’t get permission to film inside the cottage. Not for love or money. The people who owned it said any kind of publicity just drove down their property value. Can’t blame them—no one wants to be reminded that they’re living in a slaughterhouse.”

“We could do it
outside
then. Just being there with you, talking about what happened that night—you’ve got a perspective that no one else does.”

Brimley was looking out the window again, lost in thought.

“I want people to know what you saw when Walsh opened the door, what you saw when you walked inside.”

Brimley turned to face him, and Jimmy glimpsed the other side of the sweetness, the weight and power held in check. “It’s all in my report. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

“I trust a cop’s memory more than any report he wrote for the brass. The question is, Sugar, do you trust
me
? Do you trust me to do right by you? And do right by Heather Grimm too? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I’m sure you’ve been burned by reporters before— everybody has. I could sit here trying to convince you that I’m worth your time and your trust, but I’m going to go home, lie down on the couch, and watch a ball game. When we get together again, I hope we can do it at the beach house.”

Brimley chewed it over and finally nodded. “Don’t pin me down on a time and date, though. The bluefin are running off San Luis Obispo, and I promised myself I’d get me one.”

“You call the shots. Oh yeah, one more thing.”

Brimley’s eyes narrowed, his instincts sharp enough to know he wasn’t going to like it.

“When we do the walkaround at the beach house, would you mind bringing your notes?”

“You can get them from legal affairs. Just put in a written request.”

“I meant your field notes.”

Sugar laughed. “You want to see my tax returns and high-school transcript too?”

“I’m trying to get it right, Sugar. You don’t have to show me the notes. Having them along might help put you back to what you saw, what you
felt
that night, the little details that didn’t make it into the official report. You don’t have to commit yourself now. Just bring them along. You can decide then if you trust me with them.”

“I bet most folks have a hard time telling you no.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Brimley shared a tiny smile with him. “I’ll give you a call in a week or so, but don’t get your hopes up about the notes. Hero or no hero.”

Jimmy left his card on the coffee table and stood up. “Call me anytime, day or night.” They shook hands, Jimmy feeling lost in Brimley’s grip.

“Let me give you a ride home.”