it was possible, but I had my doubts. Unless, of course, somebody had put him up to it and made it fiscally worth his while. Then he could brag to his
Nash’s MO was to get cops investigating bogus leads and then, while they ran in circles, solve the case himself. That’s exactly what had happened in Atlanta, and my gut told me that’s what he was trying to do here.
All things considered, I was very unhappy with our case against the Sanchezes.
I was also worried about the smells we’d noticed when we arrived in Lita’s stuffy house. Both Hitch and I had smelled garlic, and the ME’s report said Lita had a partially digested dinner of beef enchiladas and beans in her stomach but that there was no trace of garlic in the stomach contents.
I’d been kidding Hitch about missing the boat with his guess that it was Bolognese sauce, but Hitch really is a Class A chef. Alexa and I had been up to his house many times and he’d cooked some of the best gourmet food I’ve ever tasted. He knew his stuff, and he’d said he smelled garlic, onions, and bay leaf or sage.
I went on the computer and found a few recipes for enchiladas online. Most of them contained garlic. I shut off the computer and sat there thinking. I get hung up on stuff like this. Little details that fight the pattern. How could Hitch and I have both smelled garlic if she didn’t have garlic in her stomach?
I opened my notebook and made a note to try to find out why. It might be nothing, but either way, I knew it would pester me until I found the answer.
Then I closed my crime book and sat back, planning tomorrow’s moves. I had a lot of people to talk to, including a bunch of cops who would become pissed the minute I suggested they might be suspects.
At the top of my interview list was a name that threatened my future like the swine flu.
First thing tomorrow, Hitch and I had to go talk to the Dark Queen of Internal Affairs.
CHAPTER 13
The new Police Administration Building had replaced Parker Center, built in the seventies and known as the Glass House. The new PAB was a mammoth ten-story, steel and glass rectangle in downtown L.A., located right across from City Hall.
With an open atrium, a one-acre park, and an artfully designed east face to protect the offices on that side from sniper fire, it has yet to be christened with a new name, official or otherwise. I hope we’ve not become so politically correct that we just take to calling it the PAB or name it after the mayor. I’d prefer something more appropriately flamboyant like “The House of Mirrors” or “The Puzzle Palace.” Hitch jokingly wants to call it the “Porcelain Throne” because it’s where busted dirtbags get flushed into the criminal justice system.
Whatever we end up calling it, the building is a state-of-the-art police facility, six years in the making. It also houses a new computer COMSTAT center for our huge City Crime Stat Board, a 450-seat auditorium for news events, and a 200-seat first-floor cafe. It’s been advertised as an environmentally correct green building, whatever that means.
The old Glass House was like a crumbling tenement in the projects, with broken elevators and a circulating air system designed in the dark ages.
Our new space for Homicide Special was on the sixth floor. It was well designed, with big double-desk cubicles and spacious glass windows with views of City Hall. As with all new buildings, there were stringent housekeeping considerations put in place by our uber-proud city managers. No wanted posters, fliers, or taped material of any kind could be displayed on the walls. No personal paraphernalia or pictures allowed on desks, filing cabinets, or attendant work surfaces. All furniture must be kept in the areas designated for its initial use, et cetera, et cetera.
Hitch and I happened to pull into the seven-hundred-car belowground garage at exactly 8:00 A.M. He parked his Porsche Carrera just as I was locking my Acura. He looked great, as always. Purple shirt, white collar, black tie, and a charcoal gray suit with a wide pinstripe. I’m feeling more and more like the filthy Persian rug next to this guy.
We’d already talked by phone and knew that Stephanie Madrid was on the agenda for this morning. Neither of us was looking forward to that interview.
“Listen, Hitch,” I said, biting the bullet as we headed to the elevator. “I think I should take the interview with Captain Madrid alone.” He looked over, surprised. “One of the perks with Alexa being Chief of D’s is assholes like Captain Madrid don’t quite know how to deal with me.”
“Good point, but I’ve thought it over too. I can’t let you do this by yourself.” He smiled at me. “You can be on point if you want and receive the preliminary pleasuring and first round of oral stimulation, but I’ll be there to watch your back and cover the retreat.”
“They’re giving blow jobs at IAG now?” I said in mock surprise.
We rode up in the new steel elevator, got to the sixth floor, and headed to our assigned cubicle. People were still a little subdued in this building. The old Glass House was noisy, but the new shop still felt a little like church.
“You guys got a real doozie,” Lincoln Fellows called softly from his desk as we passed.
“We’re movie producers,” Hitch said. “Our jobs here are of little import.”
That begat a moderate chorus of catcalls and insults.
“Wonder if the CSI report came back,” I said as we sat at our desks. I turned on my computer and found it had been e-mailed over to us at seven this morning.
“Got it,” I said. Hitch came around to read over my shoulder.
The DNA on the coffee cup we’d found in Lita’s driveway did not match either of the samples we’d taken from Carla or Julio Sanchez.
“That’s disappointing,” Hitch said.
“We’re gonna have to cut ’em loose,” I told him. “We got nothing on these two.”
Hitch looked skeptical. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Once we turn them loose, we’re never gonna see them again. Maybe it’s just with Nix Nash hovering I hate to give up such an easy slam dunk.”
“Okay, we’ll keep them until tonight. But then they’re outta here.”
I scrolled down to the coffee content analysis. The lab had managed to isolate the blend.
“It’s something called Brazilian Honey Nut,” I said. “Never heard of it. Sounds expensive.”
“You never heard of it ’cause all you drink is Folgers. These better Brazilian blends aren’t in many of the standard vending machines. What’s your plan with this? Find a machine that dispenses this stuff, then arrest everybody in the closest coffee room?”
“Brilliant. One day you’re gonna be a total superstar.”
“Guess we can’t put this off any longer,” I groaned, and pulled out the department directory, looked up the extension for Capt. Stephanie Madrid, and dialed.
“Captain Madrid’s office,” a man whined in a very tight, humorless voice. He sounded like his tail was stuck between the cheeks of his ass.
“This is Detective Scully. I’m over at the PAB in Homicide Special. My partner and I are investigating Lolita Mendez’s murder. We’d like to book an interview appointment with Captain Madrid as soon as possible.”
“How ’bout ten minutes? Can you get here by then?”
“Ten minutes?” I said, looking at Hitch, who frowned. Generally, we don’t get such prompt service from our division commanders.
“Captain Madrid has been expecting your call,” the man continued. “She said she would make herself available anytime this morning, the sooner the better.”
“On our way,” I said, and hung up.
“I don’t like it,” Hitch said. “Something’s burning.”
We rode down in the elevator and took my car over to the Bradbury Building, parking in the police lot next door. We went in through the back patio, past the sculptured wall titled “Passage of Time,” depicting the history of Biddy Mason, a former slave who became one of L.A.’s pioneering philanthropists. Then we headed across the
