academic scholarship to UCLA.
“What happened to you, sugar?” she said, holding both my hands and staring into my face. I must have looked worse than I thought.
“Just caught a depressing glimpse of my future,” I told her.
Hitch joined us with the lagers and handed me a foaming mug. “You looked so bad, I dropped a scotch shooter in there to add a little kick,” he said. “Don’t swallow the glass.”
I drained half of the beer and scotch as the three of us sat at a table on the edge of his deck, which commanded a spectacular view of Hollywood. The carpet of lights below his house twinkled like a jewelry store showcase.
I told them in detail about Nix Nash’s first show from Los Angeles and handed Hitch the Janice Santiago cell- phone video. He brought out his laptop and watched it.
“So we got totally schmucked by Chavaria and that bullshit story about the ceiling fan,” Hitch said after the video ended.
I nodded. “That whole ugly daisy chain was a setup. Worst thing is, we can’t prove anything against any of them.”
“Are you saying Nix Nash paid all these people to lie to you about a first-degree murder?” Crystal said, appalled.
I nodded.
“But why?”
“It’s good TV. It makes Hitch and me look like cowboys so it helps Nash sell his general premise that all cops are corrupt. He’ll spin it that we don’t give a damn who really killed Lita Mendez as long as we can hang it on somebody quick. Carla and Julio are minorities and were handy. That’s probably going to be his theme for show two.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes as I finished my beer.
“You guys aren’t going to take this lying down, I hope,” Crystal said.
“Hitch should probably resign. That would be my advice,” I said. “He should go into the movie business full- time like he wants.”
“Listen, dawg, not for nothing, but I’m just horsing around with you when I say stuff like that. Every time I hint that I’m gonna bail, your ears turn red. I gotta have a few yucks on a boring shift.”
“That’s very sweet,” I said ruefully. “I’m deeply touched.”
“Besides, this guy Nash is starting to give me a bad case of blood fever, which is what the head wraps on my old block in Watts called the need to bleed.”
Then I told him about the cold-case segment of the show and how Nash made a big deal out of voting by secret ballot when he selected the Hannah Trumbull murder as a second case to work.
“How’s that matter?” Hitch wondered.
“I ran into Hannah’s parents in the parking lot right after the show. They show up twenty minutes after Nash decided to work on their daughter’s murder.”
“I’m not getting it,” Crystal said. “How’s that change the Mendez case?”
“It doesn’t,” Hitch explained. “But it strikes to methodology. Nash already picked that case in advance, but he lied about it on the air.”
“Exactly,” I confirmed.
“I still don’t see how it matters,” Crystal persisted.
“It matters because it proves that almost everything on that show is managed content,” I said. “The whole Edwin Chavaria thing, the Sanchez bust, the ceiling fan. It was all scripted, just like the vote on the Hannah Trumbull case. My guess is it’s going to become a pattern with us, just like it was in Atlanta.”
It was getting cold, so Crystal went inside, but Hitch and I stayed on the deck and had another German lager. This time I declined the scotch shooter. I didn’t want to drive home drunk.
The drinks began to calm me, and the city view provided some needed perspective, spreading out below us, each twinkling point of light displaying another home full of dreams and fears.
After a minute Hitch looked at me and said, “What do you think we should do?”
“I don’t know.”
“We gotta pick our next move carefully,” he cautioned.
“I don’t know about you,” I replied. “But when I’m on a dangerous, tricky course, I like to find someone who’s seen the road up ahead.”
“Like?”
“Those two cops who got smoked last year in Atlanta.”
I looked at my watch. With the time difference, it was too late to call, so we decided to do it first thing in the morning.
As I was leaving, we agreed that with the arrival of the Janice Santiago video we had no case left against Carla and Julio Sanchez.
We called the jail. It was too late to get the release papers drawn up tonight, but we made arrangements to have the Sanchezes cut loose first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 24
At eight thirty the next morning, Hitch and I sat across the table from Carla and Julio Sanchez and their young attorney, Alfredo Zelaya, in an I-room at the Hollenbeck Station. Zelaya should have been clocking high-dollar hours as a GUESS model. He had a swarthy complexion, wavy black hair, and two perfect rows of sparkling teeth. He was tricked out in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and maroon tie.
Carla squatted uncomfortably on a metal chair, overhanging the seat dangerously on both sides while complaining. “We didn’t do nothing and still we hadda spend two days in this fuckin’ shit hole.”
“You and your husband were being held as material witnesses,” I said. “In our opinion, you’ve also chosen to insert yourselves into Lita Mendez’s murder investigation by making false statements. If we can prove collusion or obstruction of justice, we’re gonna file it.”
“Is this going to take much longer?” Zelaya said, sounding way too tired and bored for such a snazzy-looking guy. “We don’t need to hear any more threats. I was told you were going to cut my clients loose, so let’s sign the forms and get out of here.”
Hitch slid the release forms across the table. As Zelaya was reading, Hitch turned to Carla and said, “We know you have some kind of deal with Nix Nash and
“Prove it!” Julio injected angrily.
“Was there anything else?” Zelaya had finished scanning the document. “Or can we please sign these and go?”
“You’re released,” I said.
All the way back to the PAB, Hitch and I were both still burning over our time-wasting runaround with the Sanchezes. We’d been set up and then stuffed like amateurs.
It was around ten thirty when we took the elevator up to Homicide Special. I dialed the Atlanta PD to get contact numbers for the two detectives who had worked the Piedmont Park murders. I’d seen half the shows and remembered one of the detectives was named Caleb Cole. I couldn’t remember his partner’s name.
The sergeant I spoke with in Atlanta PD’s Human Resources Department gave me Cole’s phone number and current address. He’d retired and was now living in Mission Viejo, near San Diego. The sergeant said that Cole’s partner was named Ronald Baron, but that after he’d resigned, he dropped off the radar and Atlanta PD didn’t have any current information on him. They were holding his pension checks.
Hitch and I called Caleb Cole on the speakerphone. He answered on the first ring. A bad connection full of static filled the line, sounding like bacon frying. After we identified ourselves and gave him a quick rundown on what was happening and why we wanted to talk to him and his partner, Cole told us in his slow southern drawl that he’d also lost track of Ron Baron. Apparently, after leaving Atlanta, Ron had started drinking and the last Cole had heard, he’d gone to Mississippi to work construction. Caleb Cole came west and was now aboard his cousin’s lobster boat,
