On Monday morning, I called Pete’s uncle and he agreed to meet me at his boat. I wanted to do a little research on Pete’s driving job before I door-knocked Jane Granger.
When Goran Relovich saw me walking down the dock, he climbed down below and emerged carrying two cups of coffee. We eased into our deck chairs and I said, “Did you know Pete was driving girls for an escort service?”
Relovich blew on his coffee. “Yeah, I knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“’Cause it’s none of your damn business.”
“Everything Pete was involved in is my business. How the hell can I find who killed him if the people close to him aren’t honest with me?”
He set his coffee cup on the deck. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want the newspapers to get ahold of it. I don’t want that to be the last thing written about my nephew. He wasn’t proud of it.”
“How did an ex-cop get involved in a sleazy deal like that?”
“Ever since he left the force he’s been hurting for money. He had a few security jobs early on, but he was drinking so much back then he ended up getting bounced. I put him to work when I could, but most of my favorite spots are fished out, and I’m getting too old to make a lot of long runs. The last year or two, Pete was having trouble making his child support payments. When he missed two months in a row, it hurt him real bad. He vowed it wouldn’t happen again. He loved his little girl, loved her more than anything in the world, knew he hadn’t been a good father. Figured the least he could do was send that check and provide for her.”
He stared morosely out at sea, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin.
“So how did Pete get involved with that escort outfit?”
“He met one of these gals. I don’t know where he met her, or if he was putting the wood to her, or how she got him to drive for her.”
“You sure there isn’t anything else you haven’t told me, anything else about Pete that might be embarrassing?”
“That’s it. But you don’t have to spread it around the station house, do you? I’d hate to have everyone at the LAPD know about this.”
I opened my briefcase and tapped the murder book. “It stays inside here.”
“You think driving those gals around could have got Pete killed?” he asked.
“At this point, Mr. Relovich, I have no idea.”
Walking down the dock toward my car, I checked my watch: it was a few minutes after eleven. If I stopped for lunch, by the time I was through I could head up to the desert. School would be out by then, and I might have a chance to interview Relovich’s daughter. Sandy had refused to let me talk to the girl the last time I was there. But maybe if I ambushed Sandy, I might catch her in a vulnerable moment and persuade her to change her mind. I still hadn’t ruled her out as a suspect; the daughter might know something that could prove useful.
The first time I interviewed Relovich’s uncle, he had told me Sandy was extremely jealous-it almost sounded like she’d been stalking him-and Pete had walked out on her. But when I interviewed her, she told me she had left him. Lies always merit a follow-up.
I walked down the dock to Canetti’s, ate lunch, and flipped through the paper, but there was nothing on the Relovich murder. Then I sped off to Lancaster.
When I descended into the desert, a harsh wind blew in from the west, kicking up clouds of topsoil, sandblasting my windshield, and bending the cottonwoods that fringed Sandy Relovich’s house. I rang the doorbell and watched the cottonwood bloom swirl down the furrows of the onion fields while I waited on the porch. Finally, Sandy came to the door and I followed her into the kitchen. She grabbed a can of Bud from the refrigerator and a pitcher of iced tea. Her eyes were glazed and her hands trembled-sloshing the iced tea in the pitcher-so I figured this wasn’t her first beer of the day. She opened the can, took a swig, and set the pitcher on the table. She filled a glass and handed it to me.
My mouth felt dry and gritty from the dust, and I took a few long swigs. “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I said, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table, “but I need to talk to you about a few more things.”
“Okay,” she said warily.
“Did Pete have any problem making his child support payments?”
She nodded. “A few times he was short, but he made it up within a few weeks. Two or three times, he missed payments altogether and couldn’t get the checks to me for months. That really hurt him. He felt like he was letting his daughter down. Once, about a year and a half ago, he drove out here to tell me he couldn’t come up with the cash. Second time I ever saw him cry. First time was when he told me he was leaving the LAPD.”
“Why’d he say he was leaving.”
“Said I wouldn’t understand. We were separated by then, so I couldn’t get much out of him about anything. Anyway, after he missed that payment, he vowed he’d never be late with child support again. And he wasn’t.”
“Did he have a new source of income?”
“Don’t know. All I know is that he was working on his uncle’s boat.”
“You ever hear of him driving for an escort service.”
“I don’t know where you heard that, but it’s bullshit,” she said angrily. “Pete was a straight arrow. He wouldn’t sink that low.”
She finished her beer in a long swallow and, reaching under the sink, stuffed the can in a paper bag.
“Anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”
“If I do, I have your card and I’ll let you know.”
“You know, I’m talking to everyone connected to Pete. I really think it would be helpful if I talked to your daughter, too.”
“I told you last time you were here: no,” she snapped.
“I wouldn’t press you if I didn’t think it was important,” I said softly. “But you’re a cop’s wife. You know it’s important that I speak to all the family members. When Pete was on the job, he had to interview the children of crime victims. He probably didn’t like doing it, probably thought of his own daughter. But he knew it was important, so he did it. And he did it because he was a good cop and that was part of his job. Well, I’m trying to be a good cop, too. And I’m just trying to do my job.”
“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “You have kids?”
“No,” I said, embarrassed. There aren’t many bachelor cops my age at the LAPD, and when anyone asks me about kids, I always feel uncomfortable, as if I’m still a boy, unwilling to take on an adult’s responsibility.
“I have a nephew I’m very close to. I promise, I’ll be as careful with your daughter as I would be with my nephew.”
“It always really got to Pete.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“When a parent was murdered. When he was on the job and we were still together, he’d come home at night and talk to me about it how bad he felt for the kids. Said that was the saddest thing in the world. Now it’s happened to our daughter.
Her eyes welled up and she began sniffling. She grabbed a Kleenex off the kitchen counter, blew her nose, and threw open the back door.
“Lindsey,” she shouted. “Come on in.”
I looked out the kitchen window and saw a girl sitting on a swing hung from the branch of a sycamore. Slowly shambling to the door, she plopped into a chair and stared at her shoes. She was a skinny girl with freckles on her nose and a long blonde braid that reached the middle of her back.
“This man wants to ask you a few questions about Daddy. You up for that?”
“I guess so.”
“Hello Lindsey,” I said. “My name is Ash. I’m a policeman, just like your father was.”
She continued to stare at her shoes.
“Did you ever see your father’s badge?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Do you want to see mine?”
She looked up for the first time. “I guess so.”
I unclipped my badge from my belt and held it out. I pointed to the top and said, “Can you read this
