Both men knew that whatever the nature of their relationship, friendship was not the word for it.
Levine waited as Dodge removed a slip of paper and unfolded it. He slid it across the table, holding the corner between two fingers. Levine took a long look.
'This is from Grandy’s medical file,' Levine said.
'That’s right. Bullet trajectory analysis. Want me to translate the medicalese into plain language?'
'I can read it.' Levine spent another minute poring over the document. 'They’re saying the bullet passed through the fleshy part of his left hand before entering his collarbone. So what?'
'Look at the entrance and exit wounds on the hand.'
Levine looked. He got it. 'His palm was facing out.' He glanced up at Dodge and pantomimed raising both hands in front of him, palms forward.
'Not exactly an offensive posture, is it?' Dodge said.
'He was holding up his hands when Perkins capped him.'
'Bingo. Still think I’m spinning?'
'No, I don’t.' Levine started to pull the paper toward him. Dodge yanked it back.
'Sorry, Myron. You can look, but you can’t have.'
'Why not? Is this the original?'
'It’s a Xerox I ran off when nobody was looking. But if anybody finds this on you, it’ll be traced back to me, and my ass is grass. In case you’ve forgotten, leaking grand jury info is still considered a criminal act. We’re talking contempt of court, mandatory prison term, good-bye career, good-bye pension.'
'They’ll never find it on me. I won’t burn you, Jim.'
'I know you won’t, Myron. Because I won’t give you the chance.' Dodge folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. 'Anyway, you don’t need the paper. You know what it says. Now go home and write up a story. Make it a good one. Maybe this is the year you’ll cop that Golden Mike.'
He waved over the waitress and ordered a slice of apple pie.
Levine stood up. 'I’d better get out of here. Hey, didn’t you say you have a crime scene to go to?'
'I’ll get there when I get there. What the fuck, Bradley’s probably on the scene by now. He’ll handle the preliminaries. He’s good at that routine interview bullshit. Makes him feel like a real cop.'
He saw the question that flickered in Levine’s eyes: When was the last time you felt that way?
But all Levine said was, 'Take care of yourself, Jim.'
Dodge smiled and patted the side pocket of his windbreaker, where the money was. 'What do you think I’m doing?'
Dodge finished his pie and left a nice chunk of change for the waitress, a pretty little thing with a Jennifer Lopez ass. He glanced around as he rose from his seat, pleased to see that no one was looking at him.
He wasn’t really worried about being recognized. The coffee shop was in the heart of Hollywood, far afield from West LA Division, and even the Hollywood cops didn’t come here, preferring dives with more atmosphere and a less seedy clientele.
A low profile was critical in his dealings with Levine. If word ever got out that he was selling police secrets, he would be in very deep shit.
The legal consequences were the least of it. Most likely he wouldn’t live long enough to stand trial. He would be fucking crucified by his fellow officers-and crucified was not necessarily a figure of speech. Dodge had once seen a suspect handcuffed to the bars of a holding cell with his arms above his head, almost exactly in the pose of the crucified Jesus. The asshole had been left that way till his shoulders separated and he passed out from the pain. Dodge never did learn what exactly the guy had done, but it was pretty clear he’d pissed off the boys in uniform.
He was taking a hell of a risk for a couple of grand here and there. Except that the money added up, especially since none of it was reported to the government. At the rate he was going, he could retire in five years on a full pension and have a tidy nest egg on the side. No second career as a security consultant, no part-time work to raise extra cash, no money worries at all. Maybe he would even relocate to an island somewhere-the Bahamas, Cozumel, whatever. Someplace tropical, with lots of jiggly island women who’d be impressed by an ex-cop from LA with money to throw around.
He left the coffee shop. Outside, a stream of traffic was cruising past on Hollywood Boulevard. Rap and hip- hop blared from every second or third passing car. It was a Friday night-well, early Saturday by now-and everybody was out having fun.
Except him. It pissed him off that he was stuck catching calls on a weekend. Especially now that he and Bradley were stuck with a piece-of-shit stabbing case. Some nigger with a knife in his gut-nobody was going to lose sleep over that, except maybe the punk’s mother, who was probably a fat whore living on blow jobs and AFDC money.
The Robertson cases were the downside of working West LA. Nothing that happened in that neighborhood was important. None of it was worth selling. It was strictly spade versus spade, or spic against spic. Not even worth a mention on the local news, unless a baby got hit, in which case Levine might be able to milk it for a little sentimental appeal.
But let some guns go off a mile or two to the west-in Westwood Village, say-and let a college kid get caught in the cross fire, and bam, it was the lead story on every newscast. Levine would pay good money for info on a story like that.
See, the victim had to be 'affluent.' That was the magic word. A gang shootout on Robertson Boulevard, or in Inglewood or South Central or Watts, wasn’t news. At most it was an interesting statistic-'This weekend, a record fourteen homicides were recorded in Los Angeles County. Now here’s Phil with the weather.'
On the other hand, a shooting in an 'affluent' neighborhood was gold. And most of West LA was affluent as hell, at least by the conveniently elastic standards of the news media. Dodge had seen TV reporters who pulled down two hundred Gs a year doing live remotes in Culver City, in a cul-de-sac where people had their cars up on blocks in their driveways, and talking about the shock of crime in this 'affluent, exclusive' neighborhood.
What a crock. But they got away with it, either because the public was too fucking dumb to see they were getting yanked, or because they just didn’t give a shit. And why should they? It was only entertainment, after all- something to watch in the dead zone between Oprah and Dateline.
Dodge shook his head, wearied by the stupidity and pointlessness of the world.
He headed down a dark side street toward his car, parked at the curb alongside a yellow no-parking stripe. As he neared the car, he saw movement in the shadows near the driver’s-side door.
It looked like he might have a situation here. Someone trying to boost his car. Not even his personal car-this was his department wheels, a black-and-white Caprice. A new policy required most detective vehicles to be painted like patrol cars.
Dodge kept walking, not altering his stride, while he drew his Smith amp; Wesson 9mm from its shoulder holster. He passed the car, then pivoted and stepped into the street, training the gun on a teenager who knelt by the door, working the lock with a pick.
'Hey,' Dodge said. 'Pancho.'
The punk looked up and saw the gun. He was some Mexican kid. Well, maybe Guatemalan or El Salvadoran, but to Dodge they were all Mexicans, and they were all named Pancho.
'That car’s the property of the motherfucking LAPD,' Dodge informed him. 'Didn’t you see the goddamned DARE sticker, for Christ’s sake?'
Pancho stared up at him from his crouch and said something in Spanish. Dodge knew a little Spanish, but he didn’t feel like getting into a conversation with some amateur car thief. Didn’t feel like booking him either. For one thing, it was a bullshit collar. Pancho would get only a reprimand or, at most, some time in a juvey camp. The paperwork and the court appearance would be more trouble than the bust was worth. Besides, Dodge didn’t want to advertise his presence in Hollywood. He didn’t want people asking what he’d been doing here when he should have been working with his partner at the crime scene.
Goddamn wetback needed to be taught a lesson, though.
Dodge gestured with his gun. 'Get up.'
Pancho stood, his slight body trembling even while his pockmarked face remained impassive.
'The thing is, Pancho,' Dodge said, 'I’m a little overprotective when it comes to my vehicle.'
He punctuated this point by delivering a kick to Pancho’s crotch. The kid doubled over, and instantly Dodge
