City of Saviors, page 19
“So this is a Blacks-only kinda thing?” Colin asked, then slurped the last of his Diet Coke.
“Yep, cuz, you know, slaves and descendants of slaves weren’t allowed to join George Washington’s masons.” I tapped his shoulder. “I know that’s hard to believe since racism is over.”
“Exactly. So why is this still around?” Colin asked, nodding toward the building.
I blinked at him. “That was sarcasm. Racism isn’t over.”
He chuckled. “Right. I know.”
Developers had yet to gentrify this part of Figueroa. Just a few miles from Watts and almost twenty miles from the airport, forced improvements seemed far off—Chicano lesbian president of the United States far off. Instead of Trader Joe’s, megachurches, and a BevMo, residents would have to get by with the Numero Uno Mercado, modest houses of worship, and liquor stores.
At the entrance, Colin whispered, “Can we go in?”
I knocked on the door, then rang the doorbell. “We’re the police. We can go wherever the hell we wanna go.”
“We’re a little underdressed,” Colin said, looking down at his jeans and T-shirt.
“Do you wanna go wait in the car?” I asked.
Too late.
A Lurch of a man opened the door. He had stooped shoulders and a caved-in torso and stood at least forty-nine feet tall. His name was Dr. Rodney Riley, and, as the lodge’s grand secretary, he didn’t give a damn who we were—we weren’t moving beyond the lobby without a warrant. “Members only,” he boomed. Behind the closed double doors of that members-only section, chairs scraped against the floor. “I can answer your questions out here.”
Out here was a black-and-white tiled lobby with bright white walls and oak and glass cabinetry filled with fancy plaques and mystical-looking scrolls. Framed pictures of men wearing black suits, white aprons, and top hats hung on the walls alongside banners of the lodge name and the square-and-compasses symbol.
“We’re looking for Oswald Little,” Colin said. “We know that he’s a part of this lodge.”
“Well, when you find him,” Rodney Riley said, “tell him that we miss him.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Little?” I asked.
“It’s been about five years,” Rodney Riley said. “We gave him a retirement party, and a few months after that, he stopped coming to meetings. I can check our attendance records and give you a better date.”
He led us to an office that smelled of cigars and fresh-brewed coffee. He sat at the computer and moved the mouse with his massive right hand. He wore a ring similar to Oswald Little’s.
“Does every member of the lodge get a ring like yours?” I asked.
“They may order one if they so desire,” he said.
“Would you give something like that away?” I asked. “Like, as a gift or . . . ?”
Riley gave a curt shake of his head. “Never. I will be buried with mine.” He double-clicked on a record, and Little’s picture—balding, mustache, beard—blinked onto the monitor.
“Was he an active member?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. One of our most committed. He’d made plans to run for grand secretary. Sometimes, brothers are so gung ho when they join, and then they just lose interest. Find other things to do, especially after retiring.” He scrolled down Oswald Little’s member page. “Looks like he stopped coming to meetings back in . . . October 2010.”
“And he didn’t tell anyone why?” I asked.
“I only know that he didn’t tell any of the officers. Unusual only because of the type of man he is.”
“And what type of man is Mr. Little?” I asked.
Riley leaned back in the chair, then templed his fingers. “He was a banker before he retired. Smart with money. Generous, almost to a fault. Always buying luxury items—not just for him, though. He doesn’t have a wife or kids, so he spoiled the brothers all the time. For Christmas one year, he dropped almost two thou on a prime-rib dinner for all of us at Lawry’s. He likes eating and drinking with friends. He travels all the time—flies home to Belize a lot, but he also goes to France and Spain, parts of the Orient every year. Nice guy—never brags about his wealth. He’ll talk your ear off, though. That man can talk the dead back to life.”
“I have a weird question,” Colin said. “Do you know if he’s ever been in any accidents?”
The giant mason stared at the ceiling as he thought. “He got banged up pretty bad in a four-car pileup on the Grapevine right before he retired. That didn’t stop him from his duties here or at work, though. And he still kept spending money on us. But he was definitely slower after that accident.”
“Did he like . . . ?” Colin paused, then said, “Did that accident cause him to lose limbs or anything?”
Rodney Riley eyed him. “I don’t know about all that, but he did hit his head pretty hard. It’s a miracle he survived.”
“Did you send any notices to him at the house on Corning?” I asked.
“We did.” Riley gripped the mouse again, then clicked into “Address.” “Everything we sent came back marked ‘return to sender.’ A few of us stopped by the house, but no one answered. And he didn’t return our phone calls, so, you know, we stopped trying.”
“What about the house on Garth just a few blocks over?” I asked. “You send mail there or stop by?”
Rodney Riley clicked around the address history. “We don’t have an address on Garth. I do know that a few of our brothers attend the same church as Oz.”
“Eugene Washington?” I asked. “Or Isaac Underwood?”
“I don’t know those names,” Riley said, shaking his head. “But Oz’s pastor—Bishop Tate—belongs to our lodge.”
“So Oz is a member of Blessed Mission?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He gives a lot of money to that church.”
Blood filled my ears. “You asked Bishop Tate about Oz?”
Riley nodded. “Of course.”
“And what did he say?”
“He’d heard that Oz went back to Belize to take care of his mother.” The man cocked his head. “What’s this all about again?”
Colin told him that a friend who’d just passed had listed Oz as beneficiary of the policy as well as property. “It’s a nice amount: two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and I’m sure the house will be worth a good amount. The car, not so much.”
The tall man checked his watch, then pulled his large body from the chair. “Well, again: when you find Oz, tell him that I said it’s bad form to drop off the face of the earth and not tell anybody.”
Bad form, indeed.
30
THE CURRENT SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT OF EXCELSIOR BANK OF CALIFORNIA, A woman named Lisa Greene, hadn’t seen Oswald Little since his retirement in 2010. The car accident on the Grapevine had hastened his departure. “That head injury destroyed his gift of running numbers,” Greene told me over the phone. But neither she nor anyone else at the bank remembered Oz Little losing his hands. “I’m sure I’d recall that,” Greene said.
Next, Colin called Bishop Solomon Tate.
“I’m about to board the plane,” the minister said over the speakerphone.
In the background, I heard the roar of jet engines, people talking, traffic-cop whistles, and blaring car horns.
“Well, we really need to talk to you, sir,” Colin said.
Bishop Tate said, “Could you stop by the church in the morning? My wife mentioned that you wanted our fingerprints for some reason?”
“Correct,” Colin said. “Just as part of the investigation.”
“Oh, well that’s fine, but it will have to be tomorrow,” he said. “I have to hang up now—FAA regulations.” He chuckled, then said, “Have a blessed evening.”
Colin tossed his phone on the dashboard.
I grinned. “Was that awkward? Talking to the minister whose wife you wanna bone?”
Colin squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It was easier than you’d think, boss.”
Back at Southwest Division, men—free and in custody—shuffled between interview rooms and restrooms. Despite the efforts of those ten overworked fans, the mingled stink of sweat and a backed-up toilet clobbered my senses. All afternoon, I had lucked out—whatever nerves the ibuprofen had been engineered to target had been successfully hit. No pain today, not really, and despite searching for a man with no hands and not finding him, today had been a decent day. At almost five o’clock, though, my boss was trying to change that.
We had all congregated in conference room Freedom for a final Friday check-in. I opened the murder book to the first page, and to the eight-by-ten photograph of Eugene Washington, alive, smiling wide, freckles dancing across his skin like fireflies.
“This Little guy,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said. “He been reported missing?”
Colin cut a look at me. “He hasn’t, sir.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez grunted, then sipped from his RC Cola can.
“The city of Los Angeles says he’s alive,” Colin continued. “He’s still getting Social Security checks each month and lives over on Garth in Ladera Heights.”
“No one’s actually seen Oswald Little, though,” I pointed out. “His neighbor described him as looking like someone else. Someone completely different from the pictures we’ve seen. His lodge brother and former coworkers haven’t seen him since September 2010.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez rolled his eyes. “You do know that adults can disappear if they so desire. As long as we don’t want ’em, nobody says they gotta stick around.”
My cheeks burned, but I squared my shoulders. “I understand that, sir. And believe me: I know that firsthand, sir. But this is not that.”
“So the summons you want,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said, “it’s for . . . ?”
“For Oswald Little to show up,” Colin said. “To show up and claim his hands and his bequeathed property.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez sat back in his chair. “What if he’s seen that house and doesn’t want that piece of shit? And what if he’s over his hands? Doesn’t care about those hands? Has new hands? Better hands?”
I sighed. “I have to do something, sir.”
“Does he have Alzheimer’s?” Pepe asked. “Is he mentally . . . you know, slow? Impaired in any way?”
Colin flipped through his notes, then said, “He was in a bad car accident. Had some type of head trauma.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez pointed at me. “So was she—bad accident, head trauma—and she’s not impaired.”
I cracked a smile, and wanted to say, Are you kidding me? Why are you forcing me to take some time off, then? Instead, I said, “Argumentative.”
My boss chuckled.
“We’re not missing persons, guys,” Pepe complained. “We got enough crap on our plate with dead people.”
“Eugene ‘Lechter’ Washington,” Luke added, “we know that fucker’s dead.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez pointed to the warrants we’d prepared. “The end game for these is what, exactly?”
“To confirm that Oswald Little is either dead or alive,” I said.
“And to do all that,” I continued, “we need to access Ike Underwood’s finances as well as Oswald Little’s finances and phone records.” I darted to the whiteboard and wrote a schematic that started with Eugene Washington, then added arrows pointing to Ike Underwood and Oswald Little. “It’s all connected to our victim. Little’s hands were discovered in Washington’s house. Ike’s DMV records say that he lives at Little’s house. Eugene Washington has an account at Little’s bank. Little is the beneficiary on Washington’s insurance policy and will. And each man attends Blessed Mission Ministries.”
“So,” Colin said, “we wanna grab any documents that have signatures that we can compare—”
My phone rang. I said, “Gotta get this,” then put the phone on speaker. “Dr. Goldberg, how goes the dig? We’re all here, listening and hoping you have news for us.”
“We’ve identified four sites now,” the forensic archaeologist said. “The back fence, both side yards, and the garage. Just because it may be easier—and more discreet a location—I plan to start concrete removal in the garage sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Yes.” I pumped my fist. “Do you need me to call the medical examiner or . . . ?”
“I’ve already done that, and someone will attend. Maybe Dr. Brooks, depending on his schedule.”
After I ended the call, Lieutenant Rodriguez said, “That’s good news.”
“Hope he finds something after all this,” Pepe said.
I dropped back into my chair. “Back to Ike and Oz.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez stretched his arms and the conference room shuddered. “Maybe they lived together. Ike and the hands guy.”
“Yeah,” Luke said. “Maybe they’re boyfriends.”
Pepe blushed, probably waiting for the rib, or the entendre.
“Maybe they are,” I said. “We’re talking to Ike any minute now so I’ll ask. Still: why would Eugene Washington have Little’s hands in his house?”
“A weird Ripley’s Believe It or Not! souvenir,” Lieutenant Rodriguez suggested. “Little didn’t want ’em, but he didn’t wanna throw ’em away, either. Looks like Washington collected all kinds of shit in that house.”
“He’s one tipo loco,” Luke said.
“When do you plan to walk into that house on Garth?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.
“After we get a better lay of the financial land,” I said. “We’ll ask Ike to invite us over for coffee or something. If he refuses, then I’ll escalate it with the second warrant.”
Lieutenant Rodriguez’s cold gray eyes stayed on me as he tapped his pen against the battered table. He read the warrants again, then cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll okay this warrant for Judge Keener to sign—to go into the house as well as the warrants for Ike’s finances and Oz Little’s phone. But the summons for Little to claim his hands? Nope.” He scribbled his signature on the requests. “Time for you to take the bar again and do the lawyer thing, Norton.”
I took the signed papers and slipped them into my binder. “And leave all of this?”
Lieutenant Rodriguez laughed. “Talk to Zapata about maybe putting out a bulletin for Little.” Then, as we gathered our things to leave the room, he pointed at Colin. “Stay back.”
Colin sank back in his chair.
A flare shot in my chest. “Is everything okay? Do I need to stay?”
“Not necessary,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said, his heavy gaze on my partner. “You should fax over those warrant requests before she leaves for the weekend.”
My heart pounded in my ears. “May I ask what’s going on?”
Both men turned to me with hot eyes, but only Lieutenant Rodriguez spoke. “You should send over the warrant requests now.”
What was going on?
Were they going to talk about me?
My gut, once again, told me that they were and that I should be concerned. My gut could be wrong, but again, on Fridays . . .
Back at my desk, I reached for the trio of envelopes that had been placed in my mail tray. The first had come from Frank Webber at Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino. I tore open the flap to find a gift certificate for a week’s stay that included breakfast and transportation courtesy of . . . V-Starr Cars.
French breakfast three times a week, and now an all-paid vacation? Victor Starr really thought he could buy my love. What would he send next? A seat on the Virgin Galactic space flight? A bathtub encrusted with hand-applied Swarovski crystals?
After ten minutes alone with our boss, Colin returned to his desk. He thumped into his chair and logged on to his computer.
“I ordered Thai for dinner,” I said.
“Thanks.” His eyes stayed on the computer screen.
“Wanna talk about it?” I asked.
A flash of a smile hit his lips. “Nope. I’m good.”
We worked in silence until Jimmy the Thai guy dropped off our meal. Before the late-night drunken brawls and drive-by shootings, we all enjoyed regular conversation.
Who you got for the Stanley?
. . . and she was wearing this thong, I kid you not . . .
And that son-of-a-bitch pulled beside me and just . . . Boom!
As I dug into my carton of pad Thai noodles, sharp pain shot from my shoulder to the back of my head. The sudden spark made me gasp and drop my chopsticks. I blinked and spots swirled before me. The pain paralyzed me for a second.
“You okay?” Colin asked.
I nodded, then took a long pull of Diet Coke. “Don’t know what that was.”
Luke banged into the squad room. “Hey, Lou. You got a special guest.”
I thanked Luke, then smiled at Colin. “Let’s go see who’s downstairs.”
Colin wouldn’t look away from me. He now knew for sure that I wasn’t 100 percent.
And now, I knew that it was possible that my thirty days could stretch into forever. And I could almost smell those Wetzel’s pretzels baking.
31
FOR THE SIXTH TIME IN TWO MINUTES, IKE UNDERWOOD SHIFTED IN THE METAL chair—its cold hardness was getting to him. He had worn suit pants and a sports coat, dressed for throwing back Old Fashioneds at Musso and Frank’s with a buxom brunette named Roz instead of fidgeting in a cold room with shedding foam walls, jaundiced fluorescent lights, and hooks in the table to attach handcuffs.
From the AV room, Colin and I watched our guest fidget.
“We can’t keep him,” Colin said.
I crossed my arms. “Have I said anything about arresting him?”
“I know—I’m just saying that we really don’t have—”
Anger hurtled up my spine and fired from my mouth. “Colin, dude. We have more than you think.”
He nodded. “I just want us to be careful, is all.”
Seated across from our guest, we all talked about traffic and the heat, weekend plans, and the heat again. And then it was time to start.
I flipped to the beginning of my notepad, then said, “Ike, I just realized something. You never asked us how Gene died.”
