“Really?”
“Over his last years with the department, it was alleged he stole narcotics, used excessive force and beat suspects.”
“Bet he didn’t get a medal for that. Was he ever charged?”
“No. He went before a Board of Rights, at least four times. He was written up, given temporary desk duty, never charged or threatened with termination. They never had enough evidence. After he clocked in twenty years, he hung it up, took his pension.”
“Where is he?”
“He runs his own detective agency in downtown L.A.”
“Can you give me the address?”
“I’ve got it right here.”
DAY 3
21
Gannon’s motel was on West Olympic Boulevard, at the edge of Koreatown, a mile from the Staples Center.
It was just after midnight when he arrived in L.A.
“You gotta be real careful down here this time of night, man,” his airport shuttle driver, who was missing a front tooth, warned while unloading Gannon’s bag in the lot.
Sirens echoed and a police helicopter whomped above while raking its light over the next block. The noise faded by the time Gannon had checked in to his ninety dollar a night “suite.” The stained carpet was damp and smelled of disinfectant and foot odor.
He didn’t care.
He’d stayed in worse. This was his life: hotels, motels, airplanes, fast food and deadlines. He strained to remember the past few days. He’d lost track of time after being in Mexico that morning, before returning to Phoenix. Then, once he felt he was armed enough with information on Ivan Peck, he flew to Los Angeles. Before he’d left, he told Cora what he was doing. She seemed anxious.
Gannon would find out soon enough.
He was only going to be in the city a few hours and needed a room near downtown, something cheap because he was paying for this trip. It was easier to do that than try to explain why he had to fly to California to pursue a long shot lead on Tilly’s father.
Gannon tossed his bag on the bed, fired up his laptop to check for emails and consulted his BlackBerry for texts. Something new had come through from Adell, more information on the two guys murdered in the desert.
Jack,
Got this on John Walker Johnson: Ex U.S. Customs, alleged but never proven that he stole seized property while working the border at Juarez. Suspended, resigned.
On Octavio Sergio Salazar: Ex LAPD, left the job after being on leave for psychological problems after shooting a suspect.
On Ivan Peck: Additional info on one of his alleged offenses before the Board of Rights. Accused of planting drug evidence against an LA gang member with ties to Mexican cartel. Complaint dead-ended. No evidence.
More when I have it- Adell.
Gannon sat on the bed and closed his eyes to concentrate on the latest intel, especially the data on Peck. It could be relevant. It could be useless. Nothing was simple when something like this was unfolding. It was never tied together neatly like in books and movies. Gannon didn’t know what fit, what to ignore or what he should follow. All he knew was that he had to do everything he could to find his niece.
That was all he thought of until he fell asleep.
Peck’s agency was called Ivan Private Investigations.
It was tucked in a warren amid a low brick building downtown in L.A.’s fashion district.
To get to it, Gannon had to navigate the vendors hustling knockoff sunglasses, shoes and handbags to the throb of loud rap. Then he bypassed a homeless man camped out on a bench and a few weirdos left behind by the mother ship.
The sign at the door directed Gannon to ascend the narrow stairwell above the tattoo shop and “…ffel’s Canteen”-letters were missing-to the second-floor office.
Before flying to Los Angeles, Gannon had gone to Ivan’s website. He’d sent an email from an anonymous online account WPA used to confirm Ivan Peck would be in his office the next morning to meet a potential client who wanted to check on someone’s past.
Will be in from 9 am to 1 pm – IP, was the response.
The creaking door announced Gannon’s arrival in the dimly lit office. The musty air was in keeping with the pale walls and scuffed hardwood floor. A woman in her thirties sat at a standard police-issue steel desk and looked up from her
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Ivan Peck.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Her eyes flicked to the half-opened door of a small room. “No.”
“Hang on,” a male voice said over the rush of water in a sink. It came from the small room. A large man emerged, holding a glass coffee decanter. He positioned it into the dual coffeemaker on the credenza, pressed a switch then poured a mug of black coffee from another near-empty decanter.
“I’m Ivan Peck. And you are?”
“Jack Gannon.”
“Want a coffee?”
“No, thanks, I’m good. I was hoping to talk to you.”
“I got some time.”
Peck led Gannon to a large office where Venetian blinds filtered the morning sunlight on the drab walls. Olive file cabinets were secured with large padlocks. Gannon smelled onions and bacon wafting up from the canteen below as Peck hooked his foot around a visitor’s chair, offering it to Gannon. The chair was before the large dark wood desk. On the desk were a pack of Marlboro Reds, a file folder, a legal pad, a pen and a holstered pistol.
Peck wore a powder-blue dress shirt, the collar button undone. His navy tie was loosened and shirtsleeves were rolled to the forearms. He filled out the shirt as if he were made of stone. He stood about six four, had a few days’ salt-and-pepper growth and short, silver cop hair.
His face was void of emotion as he lowered himself into his high-back swivel chair and took a hit of coffee. Then he shook out a cigarette and, without consideration for Gannon, lit it with a match and took a long pull.
“Gannon? The name’s familiar. What can I do for you?”
“I want to look into someone’s background.”
“Who?”
Gannon set a recent photo on the desk for Peck to see.
“That’s my sister. Cora.”
Peck picked it up, held it before him. Then Gannon set another photo on the desk.
“That’s her daughter, Tilly.”
