City of Saviors, page 10
Charity also reminded me of my sister—that is, if Tori had grown up and married a preacher. A wild child with a sweet heart.
“Could you give us Ike’s number?” Colin asked.
Bishop Tate pulled his phone from his pocket and read off Isaac Underwood’s contact information.
“Have you been out to Mr. Washington’s house recently?” I asked, writing in my pad.
The minister grimaced, then shook his head.
“What’s wrong with the house?” Charity asked.
Bishop Tate’s throat reddened. “It’s . . . in shambles some.”
“Some?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.
“It’s in shambles a lot.” He swirled the melting Frap around the cup. “Ike and the men’s group tried to address that situation. Went to clean it up a few times. Found Gene a therapist and . . .” He crossed, then uncrossed, his legs. “And we prayed for him. Nonstop. Covered all the bases. There wasn’t anything else we could do.”
“What happens to the house now?” Charity asked.
The minister took a sip from his beverage, then said, “He probably left it to Ike or Oz.”
“I believe we have a call out to Oz,” Colin said, looking at me to confirm.
I nodded. “Do you know if Mr. Washington had an insurance policy?”
The couple shrugged, but Charity’s eyes darted to the table.
My gaze lingered on her as I said, “We heard that the seniors of the church were forced to draw up their wills.”
Charity and Bishop Tate laughed. She poked her tongue against her cheek. “Not forced,” she said. “Strongly recommended.”
“Because?”
“Because people are messy,” she said. “And when death is involved, they’re really messy. Then, the probate courts get involved and the . . . mess hits the fan.”
“Sweetheart,” Bishop Tate chided. The vein in the middle of his forehead hardened.
“I said ‘mess,’ Solomon,” Charity said.
He can’t control his wife. One of the so-called witches had mentioned that yesterday.
She plucked the Frap from his hands. “Anyway, we brought in planned giving people and encouraged everyone to get their houses in order. ‘To Heal and to Help.’ ”
“That’s our vision statement,” Bishop Tate said.
“Mr. Washington have any family?” Colin asked.
The pastor shook his head. “Not that I know.”
“So then the funeral.” Charity pumped the drink’s straw up and down, then sipped.
“We’ll handle it,” her husband said, taking back his drink. “And I’ll contact the VA since he was a vet.”
Charity peeped at her wristwatch—the ring she wore on her left hand caught the light and temporarily blinded me. “Honey, it’s almost time.”
“Right, I know.” He stood, then offered me his cold hand. “I have an important teleconference with our councilwoman.” After apologies and more apologies, he walked us to the door.
“We’ll probably have more questions,” I said.
Charity was already bustling around the desk and the telephone.
“You know where we are,” he said, warm smile in place. “We’re here to help.”
As we trotted down the stairs, I grinned at my partner, and whisper-sang, “Colin and Charity sittin’ in a tree—”
He blushed. “Leave me alone.”
“P-r-a-y-i-n-g.”
“You’re going to hell.”
“And you’re gonna need a better job. You see her ring? It was as big as the moon.”
He didn’t respond.
“And talk about May-December romances. More like—” I elbowed him. “Why so serious?”
“They didn’t seem too broken up about Washington dying. And you notice how they didn’t know who the hell he was, and then, all of a sudden, he’s the greatest soldier since General Patton?”
“I noticed that. And she looked weird when I asked about an insurance policy.”
We stepped out into the hot air. My eyes burned, no longer soothed by the HEPA-filtered environment of the church. My radio chirped from my hip.
“Lou, you copy?” Pepe asked.
“Yep,” I said, radio to my mouth. “I’m here.”
“One of Washington’s neighbors wants to talk to you,” he said. “Something about a church van coming to the house on the night before Washington died.”
14
EVEN AFTER DEATH, EUGENE WASHINGTON KEPT THE CITY OF LOS ANGELES BUSY. Zucca’s enormous Yukon hogged any driveway space left over from the dead man’s rust bucket and mounds of junk. Cats, stationed on the porch, in boxes, and in the magnolia tree, watched us with the detached disdain that only cats possessed. On the sidewalk, an old woman wearing a fuchsia tracksuit yelled at Pepe and Fitzgerald. A jackass misogynist to me, Fitzgerald displayed patience and understanding with cranky old people. His dark face showed concern as he listened to the old lady rant. She spat one last thing at him, then stomped back to the white-and-blue Spanish-style home on the right side of Washington’s house. The two men snickered, then shrugged.
An animal control truck was parked at the curb, and two workers were unloading carriers from the bed of the truck.
“Can’t go in yet,” I called out to the cat catchers. “We’re still processing the scene.”
Zucca, with his Tyvek suit pushed down to his waist, walked out from the house to stand on the porch as visual confirmation.
The chubby cat catcher pointed to the old lady’s white-and-blue Spanish-style. “Tell her, then. She’s called, like, thirty times since yesterday.”
“I’ll go talk to Hot Pink,” Colin said to me with a grin. “This should be good.”
“Bring any pastries?” Zucca asked as I approached the steps to Washington’s house.
“You find my soup pennies?” I asked in turn.
“Lou, we need to talk,” he said. “You’ve been neglecting me recently.”
“Blame technology. I don’t have to visit the labs in person as much now, with all the Skyping and FaceTiming and whatnot.”
“Delivery works.”
“Tell me something good, then. Like, ‘Yes, Lou, I found gold bullion in the bathtub,’ or ‘Hey, Lou, I know whose fingerprint that is on the cobbler dish.’ You do that, and you’ll immediately receive a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes.”
A gray minivan rattled down the block and parked across the street. The three prophetesses climbed out of the van and drifted to the perimeter tape surrounding the yellow Craftsman. Once they took their positions, they stretched their arms, closed their eyes, and began to pray.
I tore my eyes away from the trio and said to Zucca, “Where were we?”
“At chocolate marshmallow cupcakes.”
“You mean, at gold bullion.”
He zipped up the Tyvek suit, then said, “I’m looking, I’m looking, all right?” Then, he retreated into the house.
Time to join Colin and Hot Pink.
The old lady liked wrought iron—and there wasn’t a bar or a fleur-de-lis spear she hadn’t chosen from the catalog. The crowned bars surrounded her house like Pinkerton guards. As she actively ignored Colin, she held a garden hose to water her white roses. Gelled chignon. Pink Chanel slip-ons. Giant diamond studs in her ears. She belonged in this neighborhood as much as a tarantula belonged on the 405. Definitely not holding that water hose. And definitely not living beside a man who sheltered more vermin than all of Santa Monica. She told me that her name was Judith Ainsley, and that she now had roaches because of the filthy hoarder next door.
“I know that sounds awful,” she said, hazel eyes hard, “and I typically don’t speak ill of the dead, but he was filthy and he let that beautiful house go to hell—excuse my French. You smell it. I know you do. In the cold. In the heat. In the morning, evening, all day, every day. It stinks to high hell— excuse my French—and I don’t pay eight thousand a year in property taxes to serve as a hostel to cats, rats, and roaches. Lord, forgive me, but I’m sick and tired of smelling that stink.”
“I understand, Ms. Ainsley,” I said, my own stomach queasy from the smell. “We’re trying our—”
“Really? Are you?” She squinted at me. “People coming and going, everybody got a badge but it still stinks to high hell, and you all got me cursing and my pressure’s up.”
Mine, too, lady, and you ain’t helping.
“We’re here today,” I said, “to try and finish. Then, we’ll allow a cleaning crew to come in and . . .” I waved to the Washington property. “Do what needs to be done.”
She harrumphed and now aimed the water hose at the gray rosebushes.
“Anything you see or happen in the last few days that you haven’t seen before?” I asked.
“We had a blackout Monday night,” she offered. “Around seven. Lasted about an hour.”
According to his liver’s temperature, Eugene Washington had still been alive during the blackout.
Colin motioned toward the house. “Has it always been this way?”
“It’s always been messy,” she said, “but not always uncontrollable.” She pointed at the tower of milk crates and recyclables. “Most of that wasn’t there when we moved in. It started getting ridiculous around the time Katrina hit. Like all that trash from New Orleans washed up in his yard.”
“So August-September 2005,” Colin said, “that’s when—”
“That’s when he started building the Great Wall of China’s Trash over there.” She sucked her teeth, then shook her head. “Reminds me of that TV show. You know, with the hoarding people? Wouldn’t be surprised if he was crushed under some trash. Is that what finally did it? A tower of trash?”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “He have any visitors over the last couple of days?”
“His girlfriend or whoever she is came over last weekend. And she came by yesterday morning like she do every Tuesday. Glad she found him before he added to the stink.” She squinted at me again. “Especially since the city wasn’t coming out here with us just complaining. Somebody had to die first; then they sent you two.”
“Well, that’s the only time we get sent places,” I said. “When folks die.”
She harrumphed again, then switched her watering hand. “Some folks from his church came to visit him on Monday night, around—No!” She aimed the hose at a rangy gray cat that had wandered over from Washington’s property to drink fresh hose water. “Y’all gon’ get this?” Judith Ainsley shouted at the animal control workers.
The two men shrugged and eyed me. We gon’ get that?
I nodded, and the animal control workers scooped up the gray cat with a butterfly net.
“One down, thirty million to go,” Judith shouted.
I turned back to Judith. “How’d you know that the people visiting Monday night were from his church?”
“Because they drove up in a blue van that said Blessed Mission,” she recalled.
“Were the visitors—?” Colin pointed to the trio still praying at the tape.
“No, but I’m glad somebody over there praying. The couple I saw . . . He was tall. And there was a woman, but I couldn’t really see their faces because it was dark. The van, though. The van definitely said Blessed Mission. And I know he attends Blessed Mission because he’d always hand me flyers about their events. Like to the church picnic on Sunday.”
“Did you go?” Colin asked.
She grimaced. “If they can’t help him, then they can’t do a damned thing for me. Excuse my French.”
“Anybody else visit over the last few days?” Colin asked.
Judith scratched her arm as she thought. “Sometimes, the girlfriend would bring a big guy—bald, dark-skinned, scary-looking fella—with her. Sometimes, he’d go in the house with her. Other times, he’d sit in his silver thug-mobile.”
Joe Rice and his silver Chrysler 300.
A black Volvo pulled into the driveway of the dusty pink bungalow on the other side of Washington’s property. A tall white woman climbed from behind the steering wheel. Back in the day, my grandmother would’ve called her “handsome” because of the Katharine Hepburn jaw and top-heavy, dark blond bun. Unlike Hepburn, this woman carried a giant container of roach spray. She wore tight jeans and a gold T-shirt that read THICK CHICKS.
“Hey, Nina,” Judith shouted at the woman. “Come on over here.” To us, she said, “That’s Nina. We call her ‘Tiny.’ ”
“Did you know Mr. Washington?” I asked Nina.
The woman laughed and rolled her eyes. “Gene hated me more than he hated anybody else on the block. Probably because I called the city on him two times—”
“Four times,” Judith corrected. “You called four times. That giant possum was three, and the bees, that was four.”
Nina scowled. “And I love bees but having a hive as big as a piñata was not safe. After my second call, the city came out. That’s when they threatened to tear the house down. And that’s when he cleaned up some. It’s been this way since.”
“This is cleaned up?” Colin asked.
“Uh huh. So the rest of us just have to deal with the smell, the cats, and the bugs. And giant possums. And raccoons. A lot of raccoons.” She held up the container of pesticide. “This is my second container in two weeks. I’m thinking we need to hire professionals to do the job right, but they’re not my bugs so why should I pay? Judy, we should sue his estate and recoup some of our costs.”
“Emotional and physical distress,” Judith said, nodding. “I’m sure my asthma is worse now.”
“I’m just guessing here,” Colin said, his skin flushed, “but neither of you are sad he’s dead.”
Nina sat the pesticide on the sidewalk. “I mean, yes, it’s awful when people die. But one, Gene was old, and two, Gene was disgusting. The way he lived . . . I mean, how can you not die after living in all that?” She shivered and goose bumps rose on her pink skin.
Judith tossed the garden hose into the lavender. “My asthma is just ridiculous now. I run through two, three, four inhalers a month.”
“They’ll have to knock that house down,” Nina said. “Salt it, turn the ground, then drop an A-bomb to kill all of those roaches.”
Colin clenched, and the nerves all over his face twitched.
“Is that how he died?” Judith asked us. “Poisoned from all that . . . everything? His lungs must’ve been petrified. Is that why you all were wearing those alien suits yesterday?”
“The conditions are . . .” Colin swallowed. “They’re a little . . .”
“Dangerous?” Nina completed. “Toxic? Radioactive?”
“It was just best to wear the protective gear,” Colin explained.
“They’re gonna find Tupac and Jimmy Hoffa playing spades up in the attic,” Nina said. “With Amelia Earhart making waffles in the kitchen.”
Judith cackled, then slapped her knees. “Tiny, girl, you are crazy.”
“Judy tell you about the woman who was always coming and going?” Nina asked.
I nodded. “His girlfriend Bernice?”
Nina frowned. “Girlfriend? Are we talking about the one with the three different hairstyles all on one head?”
“Yeah, that’s Bernice,” I said.
“If Mr. Washington was her boyfriend,” Nina asked, “then who’s the man always feeling up on her?”
“I told them about him,” Judith said. “I was about to get to that part.”
“When did you see him feeling up Bernice?” I asked.
“Back on Saturday night,” Nina said. “They were parked in the Chrysler in front of my house, making out like teenagers. I was just about to call the police—really, hand on the phone—when they stopped.”
“Because Gene came out,” Judith added.
“He started yelling at her,” Nina continued, “saying that she was nothing but a whore and how she only wanted his money, that she didn’t love him, that nobody loved him. And then he started crying and . . .” The woman blushed, then shook her large head. “And now I feel like crap. That poor old, nasty-ass, roach-loving man.”
Judith grunted. “Well, now he’s out of his misery. And maybe the city will now do something about all that mess.” She smiled, and her hazel eyes brightened. “Ooh. Maybe some of the new techie people will buy the land and build a new house.”
“You mean more white people?” Nina asked, winking.
“You know it,” Judith said, “and you know what that means?”
Better breakfast spots. Starbucks returning. A place where salads meant more than iceberg lettuce and cherry tomatoes. Increased property values. And much, much more. Judith talked about potential white neighbors like the Munchkins talked about the Wizard of Oz.
Anger simmered in my blood—I hated these women. “Is it possible that either of you helped Mr. Washington meet his end? I mean, he was bringing down your property values.”
Both Nina’s and Judith’s eyes bugged. Their mouths moved, sputtered words like “what,” “ridiculous,” and “excuse my French.”
Colin hid a smile behind his hand.
I squinted at the two women. “The motive is there. Get rid of the nasty old man and—”
Over at the prayer line, the tambourine started jangling as Idell shouted, “Yes, yes, now, Lord.” Ebony swayed as her lips moved. Dorothea waved her lace hankie in the sky and chanted, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“What the hell’s gotten into them?” Nina asked.
“Lou!” Zucca called from the front porch.
“What’s up?” I shouted back.
He smiled. “I think you can go get me those cupcakes now.”
15
“SO . . . WE’RE GOING IN?”
I zipped the front of the Tyvek suit without answering Colin’s question.
“I didn’t plan to . . .” Pepe held out his arms. “This is my nice suit. It cost over—”
“It look like I give a fuck?” I asked. “Or that I have time to give said fuck?”
Colin and Pepe grumbled as they snatched biohazard suits out of the supply box.
“So lemme get this right,” I said, my face hot. “Two grown-ass male detectives who get paid to solve crimes are giving me grief over getting their girdles soiled? Is that an accurate assessment?”
