shit out of him. While Ray was sprawled on the lawn, Pete told him the next time he saw him at his house he’d take his gun and jam it up his ass.”
“Do you think Ray killed Pete?”
“Who knows?”
“Do you know what kind of gun Ray was carrying?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about guns.”
I pulled out my Beretta. “This is a semiautomatic. See, the back is smooth, there’s no hammer to cock. A revolver has a hammer and a round cylinder where the bullets are loaded. Was Ray carrying a semiautomatic or a revolver?”
“I think it was a semiautomatic.”
“Did Ray ever threaten him again?”
“No. Ray’s a bully. When he saw that Pete wasn’t afraid of him or his gun, he slinked off.”
“After Pete stopped driving for you, did he get another job?”
“The only thing I knew he did was work on his uncle’s boat.”
“So Pete talked you into leaving the business.”
“Yeah. I went to cosmetology school years ago. He encouraged me to take it up again. I had some money saved. So I went back to the school.”
“So you’re out of the escort business?”
“I was.”
“Was?”
“After Pete was killed, I guess I’ve been really turned around. I lost some of my motivation. I’m kind of hard up for cash. So I’m back with a service.”
“L.A. Elegant Escorts?”
“That dickhead Ray wouldn’t take me back. He’s a grudge-holding scumbag. He threatened to have me blackballed in the business, spread the word that I was a snitch, just because I’d been dating an ex-cop. I hope you throw his ass in jail, and shut down his sleazy operation. I found work with a new service.” She checked her watch. “We better wrap this up pretty soon. I’ve got an early job today. I’m leaving in a half hour.”
“You find a new driver?”
“Life goes on.” She reached down, ran her fingers along the edge of her right high heel and then fiddled with a thin gold anklet. “If you ever need a little off-duty cash, I can always use a good driver.”
Ignoring the offer, I said, “Where can I find Abazeda?”
She grabbed a pen off the coffee table and scrawled on the back of a matchbook. “Here’s his address. But he’s not in town now. He’s got escort services in Phoenix and Tucson. He spends every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday in Arizona, taking care of business. What day is it today?”
“Monday.”
“You can catch him Wednesday night. He always flies in from Arizona on Wednesday night.”
I pulled a card out of my wallet, scrawled down my cell phone number, and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
She dropped it on the coffee table.
“You sure Abazeda will be back on Wednesday?” I asked.
“He’s a creature of habit. He’ll be back.”
CHAPTER 6
A cold, rosy dawn in southern Lebanon. I’m part of a three-man patrol hidden behind a boulder on a rocky promontory. Three Hezbollah guerrillas wearing flowing keffiyehs, aiming Kalachnikovs, pop up on a ridge behind us. A fourth guerrilla is about to pull the plug on a grenade. I swing around. I aim my Gallil at him, but the assault rifle jams. The two other soldiers shout to me: “Esh”! Shoot. But the gun is still jammed. “Esh! Esh! Esh!”
Ring! Ring! Ring! I jumped out of bed and reached for my phone. “Hello,” I said groggily.
“Are you naked?” someone asked in a falsetto voice.
“Who is this?”
“I got a sidewalk hostess for you to meet. She’s even got most of her teeth.”
I recognized the voice. It was Sergeant Walker of the Harbor Division buy team.
“We just rounded up a passel of ho’s, in addition to some crack-heads, junkies, and street-corner dealers. A couple might have something for you.”
“I’m on my way,” I said.
I met Walker in the squad room and shook his hand. “Good work. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Pete was a local boy. Anything I can do to help, you just let me know.”
I asked him if I could run a suspect before the interviews. He rolled a chair over to the computer, and I printed out a DMV picture of Abazeda, jotted down his address, and ran his record. He had one arrest for passing bad checks in San Diego and two others for pandering seven years ago. That must have been when he decided the smart way to go was to set up a phony front and run the operation from the shadows.
I slipped Abazeda’s booking photo into a sheet, along with five other olive-complexioned suspects-a six- pack-and inserted it into my murder book. Maybe I’d get lucky; maybe someone would pick out Abazeda.
I signed off and Walker escorted me through the station, past the dim, dank holding cells to a small, windowless interview room with two padded chairs flanking a metal table. “I’ll have the jailer bring out the ones who are willing to deal.”
I shook his hand. “Good work. I appreciate it.”
A few minutes later, the jailer returned with a skinny, black woman with blotchy skin and impossibly long red fingernails that were chipped at the edges. She wore a ragged sundress, was missing a bottom tooth, and her greasy hair, reddish at the ends, flared out at the sides like the wings on Mercury’s helmet. The gold border around a front tooth winked under the harsh lights.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Sound good to me.”
I brought her a cup of coffee, a packet of creamer, and four sugar cubes-because I knew most junkies liked the sugar more than the coffee. I sat across from her and watched while she dropped all four cubes in the coffee and stirred.
“Tough night?” I asked.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
She sipped her coffee and then leered at me “You cute. You and me could get along just fine.”
I laughed and said, “What do you have for me?”
“What you want, honey?”
“Sergeant Walker told you about a murder late Thursday night. He said you might have heard something on the street.”
“Before I tell you, I want a deal to get my kids back. One of my babies tested positive for cocaine. But other than that he was healthy. He weighed almost nine pounds.”
“The weight’s irrelevant,” I snapped.
“Anyway,” she said, ignoring me, “they took my other two kids away. I want ’em back, too.”
“What did you hear about the murder?”
“I heard whatever you want me to hear,” she said, smiling slyly. “I saw whatever you want me to see. You get me my kids back, and I’ll pick anyone you want out of any lineup. And I’ll go to court for you, too.”
“This interview is now over,” I announced. I walked into the hallway and called for a jailer, who escorted the woman out of the room and returned with an Hispanic teenager wearing a stained wife-beater, black, crepe-soled winos, and black Dickies so oversized they looked like a parachute. His forearms were scrolled with gang tattoos.
“Coffee?” I asked, standing up.
“This is bullshit! I didn’t know about that rock in my pocket.”
