Vigilante

“I want to see my union rep,” the captain replied.

“You don’t want to make a statement to me and just clear this up for us?” Alexa asked.

“Clear what up? You saw what happened. I pulled up to discuss the case and Mendez verbally assaulted me. I gently pushed her out of my space, and then she attacked me. I didn’t like her, but I sure didn’t kill her. As far as I’m concerned, we’re through talking until I get some professional advice.”

“Okay,” Alexa said. “That’s it, then.”

“Are you planning on holding me here?” Captain Madrid asked. “Because as I see this, all you have is a potential administrative offense. You can’t connect me to the death of Lita Mendez. I have an alibi and I’ve already given Detectives Scully and Hitchens my verifiable time line.”

“Are we finally at that point where you would be willing to submit to a lie detector test?” I asked, trying to keep from sounding pissy.

“What do you think, Detective?” Captain Madrid snapped.

“My intention is to OR you, Captain.” Alexa was referring to a release on Madrid’s Own Recognizance. “However, I’d like you to remain here until you talk to your union rep in case he advises you to cooperate more fully.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Stephanie Madrid met with her rep from the Police Officers Association. Her POA rep was a retired lieutenant named Beau Butler. After they spoke, she refused to give further statements, on his advice. She agreed to a set of restrictions, including the promise that she remain in Los Angeles unless notifying us first. Since she would be tried at IA, Alexa agreed that Captain Madrid could retain the use of her office in the Bradbury Building and the use of her adjutant in the preparation of her defense. Then, escorted by her POA rep, Captain Madrid left the Police Administration Building.

Hitch and I stood in the lobby and watched as she crossed the quad with Lieutenant Butler. They made their way across a wide setback, which separated the PAB from the street barricades designed to prevent a car bomb from taking out the mirrored front walls of our new monument to twenty-first-century policing.

Captain Madrid got into her POA rep’s Lincoln Town Car, leaving her sedan in the parking garage. We watched as they drove up First Street until the car disappeared.

CHAPTER 30

Hitch really is a gourmet cook. For the past several years he has used his two-week vacation time to study at the Cordon Bleu in Paris. His multi-millionaire status has also given him a lot of celebrity friends and he travels in a high social orbit.

At five o’clock he told me that he was invited to a private cooking demonstration being given by Wolfgang Puck at Hollywood mega-producer Neal Moritz’s Beverly Hills home. Very exclusive. Hitch wanted to duck out a little early to catch it.

As he started gathering up his things I said, “I’d like to get some of Captain Madrid’s DNA so we could see if it matches the DNA on that coffee cup we found in Lita’s driveway. She said she hadn’t been near that house for days before the murder, so if it’s a match, it turns that time line she gave us into a work of fiction. Got any ideas how to do it?”

“She’s never going to agree to give us DNA swabs,” Hitch said. “You saw how she was about the poly. Since we don’t have enough evidence yet to get a judge to write a body warrant, we can pretty much forget that.”

“See ya tomorrow,” I said.

After he left I went back to work piecing together Hannah Trumbull’s murder book. I also made an attempt to locate her friend Linda Baxter through Good Samaritan Hospital. They said they would see if they could find her and have her call me back. I left my number.

After about an hour I needed a break from Hannah Trumbull, so I switched cases. There were still a lot of loose ends on Lita’s preliminary evidence pull and street canvas, so I turned back to the list of patrol officer interview notes taken after talking to Lita’s neighbors. Despite the fact that Nash said he’d found her in less than an hour and that she lived right down the street from Lita, nowhere could I find a mention of Janice Santiago being interviewed.

I also checked with the courthouse, got a number for Edwin Chavaria’s parole agent, and called him up. He told me Chava had gone off state paper a few days ago and changed addresses immediately. It looked like Chava had scooped up his TV money and split. Probably wouldn’t be seeing that calabazo again.

My next call was to a friend of mine named Sue Shepherd, who was currently working as an investigating officer at Internal Affairs. After a minute of small talk I asked her, “Listen, do you ever eat in that cafeteria downstairs at the Bradbury?”

“All the time. It’s convenient and the food’s pretty good,” she said. “On nice days people like to eat outside in the patio by the Biddy Mason wall.”

“Do Lester Madrid or his wife ever eat there?”

“Sure do. He and Captain Madrid are fixtures there at least three times a week. What is this?”

“Listen, Sue. I could use a heads-up the next time you see them eating down there. I can’t tell you exactly what’s up, but I can promise you I won’t burn you. How ’bout it?”

She agreed to help me, so I left her my cell number and hung up. About an hour later, my desk phone rang.

“Is this Detective Scully?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s Linda Baxter. I understand you were trying to reach me.”

“Yes, Ms. Baxter, I was. I’ve recently been given the Hannah Trumbull cold case to reinvestigate. I was wondering if we could meet.”

“I’m on duty now,” she said. “I could meet you at eight, when I get off.”

“That would be great.”

We agreed to meet in a restaurant called the Short Stop Grill, located just across the street from the Good Samaritan Hospital.

By seven thirty it was time to get going.

I closed up shop and took the elevator down to the garage, got in my Acura and pulled out onto First Street, turned left on Lucas Avenue on my way to the meeting.

I hadn’t driven five blocks when I noticed a white V-TV station wagon tailing me about three cars back. These guys weren’t anything if not persistent. I had no intention of leading them to my witness, so I picked up the dashboard mike and called the Communications Division.

“This is Delta-Fifteen. I need a traffic stop on a new white Ford station wagon heading south on Lucas Avenue at West Third. I don’t have a plate, but the vehicle has a V-TV Productions logo on the side door.”

“Roger, Delta-Fifteen. What is the nature of the problem?”

“It’s a press vehicle and I’m being followed. My case is extremely confidential. Have any available unit pull the wagon over for a vehicle check so I can ditch them.”

“Roger,” the RTO said. “One-Adam-Forty-Five, Delta-Fifteen requests a traffic stop on Lucas near West Third. Vehicle is a late-model white Ford station wagon with a V-TV logo on the door. No available plate number. Detain briefly for vehicle check, then release.”

“One-Adam-Forty-Five roger. ETA that location three minutes.”

I watched my rearview mirror and a few blocks farther on saw a squad car pull in behind the white wagon and light it up. As soon as the V-TV mobile unit pulled over, I turned right and quickly found my way to Wilshire Boulevard.

The Short Stop Grill was right across the street from the Good Samaritan Hospital but didn’t have a baseball theme, which I’d been expecting. Once inside, I realized the name referred to the length of time it took to get served. A lot of doctors who were on short breaks and were tired of hospital food ate there.

Linda Baxter had told me she would be in her uniform, carrying a large red leather bag. I spotted her sitting in a booth at the back of the crowded bar.