Poulsenn, L.L. Veteran LAPD detective found murdered in Watts.
The
The
The date was January 5. Fourteen days after Caroline Cossack had checked out of- or had been taken from- Achievement House.
I did an instant photocopy on the machine, then read the text.
(AP) Los Angeles police are investigating the shooting death of one of their own, in what appears to be a homicide and attempted cover-up by arson. The body of Lester Louis Poulsenn, formerly a detective with the department's Internal Affairs Unit and recently appointed to the Metro Major Crimes Unit, was found inside a burning house in Watts. Poulsenn, 39, a thirteen-year LAPD veteran, was discovered by firefighters dispatched to put out a blaze at the private residence on West 156th Street. A police spokesman said Poulsenn had been shot twice in the head in what appeared to be an execution-style killing.
'This is a rough neighborhood, with lots of gang activity,' said the source, who neither confirmed nor denied reports that Poul-senn had been in Watts on official business. The structure, a single-family dwelling that had been vacant for some time, was described as a total loss.
I kept spooling, in search of a follow-up. Nothing.
Which was crazy; nothing mobilizes a police department faster than a cop's murder. Yet local press coverage of Poulsenn's death had been suppressed, and no further official statements had been issued.
Twenty years ago, a pair of IA men had interrogated Milo. One had merited success, the other was dead seven months later.
A white man shot to death in a black neighborhood, just like Boris Nemerov. Dispatched execution-style, just like Boris Nemerov.
Arson cover-up. Milo had wondered out loud about fire. Beleaguered or not, he had perfect pitch.
I called him, got no answer at any of his numbers, thought about what to do.
Nice mild morning. Time to wash the car.
Two hours later, the Seville was as shiny as a '79 Seville could be, and I was hurtling over the Glen to the Valley. Mere cleanliness hadn't satisfied me. I'd waxed and hand-buffed the chesterfield green paint, added detail spray, scrubbed the tires, the hubcaps, the beige vinyl top and matching upholstery, wiped down those crafty little simulated wood insets, vacuumed and shampooed the rugs. I bought the car fifteen years ago from the proverbial little old lady (a heavy-footed retired schoolteacher from Burbank, not Pasadena) and had pampered it since. Still, 105,000 miles had taken its toll, and one day I'd be forced to decide between an engine rebuild or something new.
No decision at all. No more changes of heart.
Concourse Auto Restorers was one of the many car-oriented businesses lining Van Nuys Boulevard between Riverside and Oxnard. Modest setup- not much more than a double, tin-roofed garage behind an open lot filled with chrome and lacquer. A sign above the garage, done up in red Day-Glo Gothic lettering, advertised 'CUSTOM PAINT, PLATING, AND BODY-OFF RESTORATION' above a cartoonish rendering of an equally red, priapic Ferrari coupe. I parked on the street and made my way among muscle cars, hot rods, and one very white stretch Mercedes with its roof hacked off and a blue tarp spread across its interior. Years ago the state had passed laws restricting outdoor spray painting, but the air above Concourse Auto was chemically ripe.
Midway up the lot, two men in greasy T-shirts and baggy cutoffs were inspecting the doors of a seventies Stutz Blackhawk done up in the same copper finish as a gourmet frypan. Both were young and husky and Hispanic, with shaved heads and mustaches. Face masks hung around their necks. Their arms and the back of their necks were brocaded with tattoos. The inkwork was dusky blue, square-edged and crude- prison handiwork. They barely raised their eyes as I passed, but both were paying attention. My nod evoked squints.
'Vance Coury?' I said.
'In there,' said the heavier of the two, curling a thumb toward the garage. His voice was high-pitched, and a teardrop tattoo dripped under one eye. That's supposed to mean you've murdered someone, but some people brag. This fellow had a hunched posture and flat eyes, and boasting didn't seem his style.
I moved on.
As I got closer to the garage, I saw that my first impression of a small lot had been wrong. A driveway ran to the left of the building, and it led to a rear half acre of chain-linked dirt piled high with tires and fenders, bumpers and broken headlights and random garbage. Two spray booths were affixed to the rear outer wall of the garage, and a few intact cars were parked in the dirt, but most of the land was dumping ground.
I returned to the front of the structure. The garage door to the left was shut and bolted, a wall of corrugated iron. In the open right-hand bay sat a red, white, and blue Corvette Stingray. The 'Vette's windows were tinted amethyst, its nose had been lengthened a foot, a rear spoiler arced over the trunk, and twenty-inch, chrome- reversed wheels extended several inches wider than the body. Primer spots blemished the passenger side, and another shaved-head Latino crouched at one of them, hand-sanding. Yet another tattoo-boy sat at a workbench to the rear of the bay, arc-welding. The decor was raw walls, cement floor, bare bulbs, gasoline reek. Tacked to the wall beams were auto-parts calendars and foldouts of naked women with an emphasis upon luxuriant pubic hair and angles that bespoke an interest in amateur gynecology. A scattering of hard-core shots was dispersed among the collection; someone had a thing for skinny, crouching, supplicant blondes with dope-eyes performing oral sex.
The sander ignored me as I edged behind the 'Vette, avoided the sparks from the welding gun, and stepped into the sealed section of the garage. Half a black Porsche roadster occupied this bay- a racer sliced neatly in half so that the number 8 on the door had been bisected and turned into a 3. At the rear of the room, behind the truncated torso, a broad-shouldered man sat at a metal desk, phone nestled under his chin, fingers busy at a calculator.
Fortyish, he had long, thick silver hair slicked straight back and tucked behind his ears, incongruous too-black eyebrows, and an equally inky goatee. The bulb hanging above the desk greened an already olive complexion. Dark, brooding eyes were bottomed by pouches, his neck was creased and soft, and his face had long surrendered to flab. Remnants of the good-looking high school kid were hard to find, and I didn't want to stare. Because Vance Coury had his eyes on me, as he continued talking and calculating.
I walked over to the desk. Coury gave off a strong whiff of musky aftershave. His shirt was black silk crepe with blousy sleeves rolled to the elbows and a high, stiff collar that nearly reached his earlobes. A gold chain flashed around his neck. A gold Rolex the size of a pizza banded a thick, hirsute wrist.
He studied me without acknowledging my presence. Stayed on the phone, listening, talking, listening some more, adjusting the instrument in the crook of his neck. Never ceasing the tapping of the calculator keys. The desk top was littered with papers. A half-empty bottle of Corona served as a paperweight.
I left him and strolled over to the demi-Porsche. The car retained no internal organs, was just half a shell. The edges had been smoothed and painted. Finished product; no one was intending to put this one back together again.
All the king's horses…
'Hey,' said a raspy voice behind me.
I turned. Coury said, 'What do you want?' Alert, yet disinterested. One hand rested on the calculator. The other was cupped and aimed at me, as if ready to collect something.
'I'm thinking of some custom work.'
'What kind of car?'
'Seville. Seventy-nine. Are you Mr. Coury?'
He looked me over. 'Who referred you?'
'Read your name in an auto magazine,' I said. 'From what I could tell you seem to work on a lot of contest winners.'
'It happens,' he said. 'Seventy-nine Seville? A box. They built ' em on Chevy Two Nova chassis.'
