City of Saviors, page 16
Lena told me that my job depressed her, then said, “Fortunately, the two minutes you had are up. Adieu.”
Pepe found me sitting on the veranda’s banister, still taking my much-needed breather. His hair lay mussed and limp against his scalp after being trapped in the Tyvek hoodie. He sat next to me, then asked, “Why is Z. wrapping the fridge with red tape?”
“This is between us. I’ll tell Luke later.” And then, I told him about Eugene Washington’s last supper.
Pepe’s craggy face crumpled as he listened to my story. Shoulders stooped and glassy-eyed, he whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.”
I squinted at him. “Are you aware that you’ve been a tremendous asshole lately?”
He grunted, then folded his arms.
“And until you’re up and out of Homicide, you can’t ignore your duties, nor can you disregard my orders. Understand?”
He snorted, and stared at the floorboards.
“That’s a ridiculous request to you?” Anger seeped through my pores like beads of sweat. “I can tell Luke that he was a homophobic jerk when you came out to him back in March and he rejected you, but I can’t tell you to stop being an old-fashioned jerk toward me? I threw my power behind you, and yet—”
He held out his hands. “Okay, okay. I get it.”
I squinted at him. “I don’t think you do.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“You do know . . .” I stood from the banister and squared my shoulders. “No one’s talked to me yet about your IAB application.”
His eyes glazed, and the vein over his left temple jumped.
“Nope. What’s his face had to cancel last week. But we rescheduled for Tuesday.”
Pepe’s eyebrows raised, then scrunched.
I folded my arms. “Oh, so now you care.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just . . . I can’t do this . . .” He waved at the house and the yard. “I’m tired of dead bodies and cannibals and fucked-up families and secrets and roaches in my car. I will never be you—Lockjaw Norton who always gets her man. I don’t care enough, all right? Not anymore. I give zero fucks about this weird fucker in this weird hoarded house who’s now eating people. Screw him, all right?”
I studied him, his slumped shoulders, his pursed lips. “I’m not going to give this conversation too much weight—we’ve been at it all day in the worst conditions. Exhaustion is making you say these things—”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m burned out on being murder police. Give me crooked cops and a cubicle and I’m good.”
I squinted at him again. “What if you don’t get this position with IAB?”
He took in a deep breath and slowly released it. He pulled on his hood, then said, “Then, I’m telling this job . . . Banghaehaji mala. I’m ghost.”
24
BANGHAEHAJI MALA. TRANSLATION FROM KOREAN TO AMERICAN ENGLISH: FUCK off. That’s what Pepe planned to tell us if he didn’t get the position with the Internal Affairs Bureau.
And there was nothing I could say to him at that moment except, “Good luck.”
Alone again on the veranda, I tried to take deep cleansing breaths—but the air was crunchy with cancer-causing dust, amping my anxiety into the red. I pulled my phone from my pocket and found Fireman Dominic’s last text and picture. I flushed—biology.
“I am only a woman,” I muttered as I sent him a one-word reply. Impressive.
Over on the sidewalk, the PIO had stepped into the spotlight to offer the official LAPD statement. A bunch of words that meant nothing to the team of forensic anthropologists who’d also arrived to strategize the search for a body.
Back in the parking lot at Southwest Division, my Porsche was where I’d left it nearly fourteen hours before. Since then, my desk phone had been stuffed with voice-mail messages.
This is Solomon Tate. Charity said you needed to talk to me . . .
Hi, Sergeant Norton. My name is Mira Roberson, and I’m with Farmers Insurance. I have questions about a claim . . .
This is Bernice. When can I get my coins?
It was almost eight o’clock. End of watch. I wasn’t answering jack. Done for the day.
Really: there was nothing else hard and sure I could do about those hands until the print team came back with results from AFIS. The Automated Fingerprint Identification System stored and analyzed millions of fingerprints taken from millions of people across the country. Hopefully, this database contained just one more hit for the hands.
Bishop Solomon Tate did not pick up when I called back. And my linen pants—so lemony-crisp that morning— couldn’t wrinkle any more than they had. So I did as most Americans after working my ass off all day: ordered a dozen marshmallow and chocolate cupcakes to be delivered to my favorite criminalist. Then, I stopped at Trader Joe’s for bottles of Orangina and two bags of cinnamon-sugar pita chips.
My next-door neighbor Misty sat on her porch and watched as I trudged from the driveway to my front door. She pulled her long auburn hair into a ponytail and then continued to lace her Rollerblades. “You’re late,” she said.
“If you watched the news tonight,” I said, “you’d know why.”
“Guess you can’t come out again and skate?”
I shook my head. “Catch me next week. I’m taking some time off.” Ha. Some time.
“It’s a date, then.” She slipped a pair of headphones over her ears, then tapped the volume on her iPod. “Dancing Queen” drifted past the ear pads as she rolled toward the bike path.
Perfect weather for skating—marine layer was now drizzling the parched earth. The moon offered no heat but plenty of light, and the slight chill motivated muscles to burn. Across the street at the lagoon, lovers walked arm in arm, enjoying air that no longer hurt.
Inside, hundreds of untouched vials of pain meds crowded the coffee table, and the basket of cinnamon rolls still sat on the breakfast counter. I placed the Trader Joe’s bag next to the pastries just as my phone chattered with Ewoks.
A text from my ex-husband, Greg. You home?
I texted back—Yeah. Just got here—then, scratched my head. Sticky dampness made me yank away my hand. But it was too late. Bright red blood glistened beneath my fingernails. Damn it, Lou.
After undressing and stowing the baby Glock in its case and its big sister on the nightstand, I dragged myself to the bathroom. Avoided my reflection as steam from the shower clouded the mirror. Each thought I had lasted no longer than ten seconds—brain in hummingbird mode. Clean and dry, I rolled Icy Hot over my arm and shoulders, then pulled on shorts and a tank top. I considered the blood pressure machine on its shelf—nope, not today—then dabbed Neosporin on my head wound.
My phone chimed—a text from Dominic. I’m on tonite but if u ask nicely, I’ll make a special house call just 4u. My heart thudded so hard that I coughed. Before I could text back something hopelessly unoriginal like Put out my fire or It’s so hot, you wanna touch it—the doorbell rang.
Greg Norton, my forever-love and ass of an ex-husband, held a bag of Korean fried chicken in one hand and a six-pack of Limonata in the other. “You. Have. Mail.” He smiled, but his lovely teeth and beautiful brown eyes no longer made me tingly.
I stuck my head into the Kyochon bag. “Doesn’t smell like mail. Smells like kimchi wings.”
“Mail’s back here.” He twisted so that I could see envelopes shoved into the back pocket of his cargo shorts. “May I come in?”
He’d gotten a tattoo on his left bicep—it was peeking from beneath the cuff of his T-shirt. It was tribal-looking, and sexy enough that I would’ve licked it if I still liked poison. He was still muscular, but now clean-shaven—no more five o’clock shadow. He also wore a new woodsy cologne, and that new scent enveloped me as he wandered from the foyer over to the patio door. “Really nice place,” he said.
“Yep.”
“Eli Moss’s attorney called. He wants to know more about our bitter divorce and your substance abuse problem.”
Eli Moss had burned homes all around Baldwin Hills. We thought that he had also set fire to the home of Christopher and Juliet Chatman—a fire that took the lives of Juliet and her two children, Chloe and Cody. He hadn’t set that fire, but Eli Moss had set fire to my condo, and that night I ran after him. Just as I had with Max Crase, I sent my fist flying into his face. He didn’t appreciate that and was suing me for excessive force.
I rolled my eyes. “Did you tell him just how bitterly we’re divorced? Substance abuse problem—you’re kidding, right?”
Greg shook his head. “He asked if you being an angry, bitter drunk contributed to our demise. Then he asked if you being an angry, bitter drunk led you to breaking that fire-starter prick’s nose, and if I’m gonna let you—”
“An angry, bitter drunk—”
“If I’m gonna let you take me down.”
“And you said?”
Greg smiled. “I told him to get the hell off my phone. And then I sicced the Terminator on him.”
The Terminator aka our attorney, Wesley Ibarra.
Greg stepped out onto the deck. “Great view. This a condo or an apartment? How much you paying?”
“You with the IRS and Zillow now?”
His phone rang from his front pocket. “Just looking for somewhere else to live.”
“You don’t like Santa Monica?”
“Too crowded. Too many people who don’t believe in vaccinations or meat or plastic bags. I can take two of those things, but all three?” He stepped back into the living room. “I still like this area. The beach but not a lot of tourists.” His phone continued to ring.
I held up the Kyochon bag. “Thanks for dinner. Off to a late-night meeting now?”
He cocked his head. “Nope. You gotta go step in somebody’s brains now?”
I tugged the belt loops on my shorts. “Not dressed for that—Glocks are already asleep.”
“I didn’t have a chance to congratulate you,” he said. “A medal and a promotion. Just had to crash into shit and nearly die for them to give you props. Bastards.” His phone rang . . . rang . . . vibrated . . .
“Yeah, but they’re my bastards.” I pointed to his pocket. “Are you gonna talk to her or are you just gonna keep being annoying?”
He pulled out the phone, then pressed the power button.
“Uh oh. She’s gonna be pissed. Whose credit card will she use now to rent The Maze Runner?”
“Ha ha. So you’re doing okay?”
“I’m great. I’d ask you to stay—”
“I was hoping you would—”
“But I don’t want your company.”
He offered a crooked smile. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
A nerve twitched above my left eye. “No, we’re not. By the way: how’s Michiko doing? And the one with the cheek fillers. Willow. That’s her name, right?”
He closed his eyes. “C’mon, Lou.”
“We’re not friends, Greg. Let us not define that, you and me. Or maybe we should, but not tonight since that would require you staying, and, again, I don’t want you to stay.”
My phone now acted out, playing the Star Wars theme from the breakfast bar. The selfie Sam had taken on our first rainy-day lunch at Johnny’s Pastrami back in March brightened the phone’s screen.
Greg stared at my ringing device. “Listen Lou, I . . .” He dropped his head, then crossed his arms. “I really don’t know how to say this . . .”
My stomach growled—those peppery wings were waiting. I plucked from his back pocket the mail he’d brought: Cheryl’s baked goods catalog, a credit card offer from Discover, and the Dream House raffle circular. “This is my mail you carried all the way from Santa Monica?”
“Elouise, listen.” He came to stand close to me. Heat rolled off his body and crashed against mine. But he didn’t touch me—he knew better than to touch me.
I cocked my head. “Did someone ask you to come over here tonight?”
He squinted at me. “And who would that be? Sy and Lena hate me.”
“My mother, then. Did she ask you to come?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, she did,” I said, “and she asked that you bring me something to drink that didn’t contain alcohol, right?”
“I love you, Lou.”
Quiet filled the condo. Not even the faint roar of the ocean penetrated the silence.
Spots of red brightened Greg’s cheeks. “I’m not asking you for anything, but you should know that. How I feel about you. Still.”
After my accident, Greg had visited me in the hospital twice a day. He’d brought Mom, Lena, and Syeeda food and sat with them, even hugged them as they cried. He read to me and paid for care that my insurance wouldn’t. I thought he’d done all of that out of guilt—for cheating on me during the last two years of our marriage. I thought he’d done all of that out of fear—I’d been so close to death, by my own actions and by Zach Fletcher’s design. I thought he’d done all of that out of loneliness—his twenty-two-year-old girlfriends were too young to appreciate old-school hip hop, Los Angeles in the eighties, and Frogger. That’s what I thought.
“Remember when you called my mom the other day?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. No big deal.”
“She didn’t tell you,” he whispered. “She’s sick. Like, really sick.” He scratched his chin. “This is all so very fucked up.”
Angry tears burned in my eyes. Now, the condo was too loud. My heart beat. Greg’s shallow breathing. Whale songs. Abba. The moon. The wound scabbing over in my head.
I sighed, then grabbed the six-pack of Limonata from the breakfast bar. “You get glasses and some ice, and I’ll get two plates.”
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
25
MY PHONE VIBRATED FROM THE NIGHTSTAND AND PULLED ME FROM SLEEP.
It was a little after seven o’clock on Friday morning, and the dim bedroom glowed with soft light. Beyond the sheer cream curtains was a blue sky and the blur of seagulls soaring and diving for breakfast in the Pacific Ocean.
I lifted my head, then froze—brown spots of blood speckled my pillowcase. Beneath my fingernails, more crusted blood. My tear ducts burned, but I refused to cry so early in the morning and in my bed. I did whisper “not a good start” as I grabbed my phone and then retreated back beneath the warm comforter.
The early e-mail sender was Alexander Levitt, Eli Moss’s civil attorney. Moss had already pleaded no contest to setting at least six fires around Baldwin Hills, including his attempts to burn down my condo in Playa Vista.
Levitt had included an attachment with his message.
I advise that your lawyers contact me to discuss possibilities that will not take us into court—and embarrass you any further.
There was one picture of me standing out on the deck with a pill vial in my hand. Another picture, out on the deck again, showed a bottle of wine on the table. The last picture captured me with my right hand to my mouth and my left hand holding the wine bottle.
My anger made me push off the comforter and sit up in bed.
The first and second pictures: Lena had visited that morning only two months after my accident—she had successfully cooked omelets, then failed at making mimosas since I only had white wine in the fridge. I’d gone out to the deck to call in a refill when I spotted the bottle of wine on the table. I had lifted that bottle to show her—it’s wine, not champagne—and not to guzzle.
For a moment, I stopped breathing as a more insidious realization dawned on me: Levitt had a private investigator watching me. He was attempting to further his portrayal of me as a pill-popping, excessive-force-using, angry drunk.
I forwarded Levitt’s e-mail to the Terminator with a simple message: Happy Friday. Help me.
At least my morning’s blood pressure hovered at 132/90. Not great, but better.
After applying Neosporin to my head wound and pulling on jeans and an LAPD T-shirt, I stepped into the living room. It was still dark, and the curtains were still closed.
In the sofa bed, Greg stirred beneath the blankets, then slowly sat up with a yawn. After dinner, he had hooked up my Xbox One, and we had played soccer until I fell asleep with the controller in my hands. I didn’t invite him back to my bedroom, but he did show up in my nightmares—he stood in front of my sister Victoria on a hill, looking down at me. I tried to scramble toward him as that man in the golden mask grabbed at my feet. Greg did nothing except watch me struggle.
And now my ex-husband’s eyebrows crumpled and worry darkened his pecan eyes.
I considered my blue jeans, T-shirt and Doc Martens boots. “No fur and sequins today. We’re digging for a body.”
“It’s not your outfit.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I came in a few times last night and had to shake you awake. Are you okay?”
My empty stomach dropped. “Sorry about . . . the . . . and the . . . Lately, my sleeping gets a little . . . imaginative. I apologize for scaring you.”
Greg bit his upper lip, then said, “It’s okay. Glad I was here. It’s just . . . Is it a new thing?”
“It is a new thing.” I had never nightmared like this during our marriage. Even after investigating brutal murders with body parts, buckets of blood and evil everywhere, I’d never suffered “wake up sweating, almost shooting people, scratch myself to death” nightmares. In some ways, Greg kept me sane and slumbering even as he banged purse designers and marketing managers from sea to shining sea.
Hunh.
I retreated to the kitchen, where the breakfast counter now served as a buffet for Victor Starr’s cinnamon rolls and Greg’s kimchi wings.
Men—always trying to shove something in your mouth.
“Coffee?” I asked Greg.
“Sure.” He pulled his cargo shorts over his boxers, then joined me in the kitchen. He poked at the basket of cinnamon rolls. “Can I heat these up?”
