“I see my desk is empty,” I said.
Duffy grinned. “I was always lookin’ for an angle to bring you back.”
I walked back to my desk. Some of the detectives shook my hand and clapped me on the back. But a few did not leave their desks. I could tell by the way they wouldn’t look at me that they were uncertain about why I had returned and not all that happy about it. Everyone knew that Duffy had been my mentor, had recruited me to South Bureau Homicide and then to Felony Special, had often cut me more slack than the others. I knew that kind of favored-son status engendered resentment.
At crime scenes-sharing insights, tracking trace evidence, plotting strategy-I felt a bond with the other detectives. But I had been unable to overcome the ill will and jealousy in the squad room because I did not have much in common with the detectives, other than the job. Most were married with kids; I lived alone. Most lived far from Los Angeles, in suburbs at the edges of the county, or in distant counties; I lived downtown. Most were Catholics or WASPS; I was a Jew. Most were hunters or fishermen; I surfed. Most rode Harley-Davidsons on weekends; I drove a Saturn. Most ate lunch together and socialized after work and on weekends; I had only one friend-Oscar Ortiz.
And then there were the dinosaurs like Graupmann. For too long, guys like him survived and thrived in the LAPD, which was one reason the department had been reviled in black and Latino neighborhoods. During the last decade, the LAPD changed dramatically, with an increasing number of women and minorities, but Felony Special was still a holdout, primarily a redoubt for middle-aged white guys, and Graupmann fit right in. An ex-Marine who had been stationed at Pendleton, he was raised in Texas. It was widely known in the 77th that Graupmann was a racist and had been written up a few times for slapping around black and Hispanic suspects and calling them niggers or spics. It was aggravating to see that a cop like Graupmann, whose package was filled with personnel complaints, had been promoted to an elite unit like Felony Special.
For the rest of the morning, I hunched over my desk, arranging my murder book, summarizing the interview tapes on LAPD statement forms, and putting together my own case chronology. I was interrupted by Detective Robert “Bible Bob” Grigsby, who stopped by my desk and asked if I wanted to grab a cup of coffee. Grigsby was a fundamentalist Christian, a deacon at his church, and a tireless proselytizer. He’d approached me in the past.
I was wary about joining Grigsby for coffee, but on my first day back I did not want to alienate another detective. I followed him to the break room, he poured us two cups of coffee, and we rode down the elevator in silence. We walked outside and stood at the edge of a patch of grass, across from City Hall.
Grigsby placed a hand on my shoulder, stared intently at me and asked somberly, “How are you doing, Ash?”
“Okay.”
“Not here,” Grigsby said, tapping his head. “But here,” he said, placing his hand over his heart.
“Okay,” I said warily.
“I know those difficulties you endured last year were trying. And I know you tried to handle it alone. But there is another way. And if you embrace His way, you’ll never be alone again.”
Grigsby’s eyes had a feverish sheen. I took a step back and gulped my coffee, hoping to quickly finish the cup and get back to the fifth floor.
“Have you ever considered accepting Jesus as your personal lord and savior?”
“Not really.”
Grigsby jabbed at me with his Styrofoam cup, spilling coffee on his shoes. “Consider it!”
“Look. I’m a Jew. I’m happy being a Jew. I have no intention of changing religions.”
Grigsby raised a forefinger and said, “Christ is the only path to salvation. God Almighty does not hear the prayers of the chosen people.”
“Who says?”
“The leader of our Southern Baptist Convention told the faithful that some years ago. He was criticized mightily for that heartfelt statement, but I, frankly, agree with him. I stand by his statement.”
I tossed my coffee cup in the trash and said, “Thanks for the sermon, Ron, but I’ll stick with the religion Jesus was born with.”
“Jesus loves me and he loves-”
“ Jesus might love you,” I said. “But everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.”
When I returned to my desk, Oscar Ortiz strolled through the door, spotted me, stopped theatrically, threw out his hands, and called out, “Ash Levine, my hero. Took the longest vacation in the history of the LAPD-eleven months.”
He pulled up a chair beside my desk and said softly, “Glad you’re back, homeboy. How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
During the past year, Ortiz was the only detective I’d stayed in touch with. He’d call me occasionally to see how I was doing, and ask me to meet him for a beer. I always found some excuse not to go. Quitting was painful enough; I didn’t want any reminders of what I’d lost.
I noticed that Ortiz, an aggressively bad dresser who refused to purchase suits at the fashion district wholesalers, had not shopped for clothes during the past year. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, brown corduroy sports coat, and a Yosemite Sam tie. Short and stocky, with a Zapata mustache that was so luxuriant it violated several department guidelines, Ortiz bore such a striking resemblance to the cartoon figure that the other detectives in the unit called him Sam.
“I just got back from coffee with Grigsby,” I said. “He tried to convert me again.”
Ortiz laughed. “Bible Bob’s gone after me a few times, too. I think he gets bonus points for converting a Mexican Catholic to a born-again Christian. But you’re the big prize. He gets a double bonus for bagging a Jew. Now if we had a Muslim detective, Grigsby would drop you in a hot minute. That would be his ultimate prize.”
Ortiz hung up his suit coat and dropped his briefcase at his desk. “So Duffy talked you into coming back.”
“Something like that.”
“He’s one persuasive motherfucker. He could have been a hell of a detective. But as long as I’ve known him, he’s been a lieutenant. Didn’t you work with him when he was still a detective?”
“Yeah. At Pacific. I was a uniform at the time, but I’d help out on some of his cases. He was devious as hell, just like now.”
“I know he wasn’t a detective long.”
“Only a few years. He knew that wasn’t his future. He was sharp, but he was drinking too much, staying out late, chasing women, dragging into the squad room every morning with the Irish flu. So he got sloppy.”
“If you’re sloppy as a lieutenant, you misfile a report,” Ortiz said. “If you’re sloppy on the streets, you can get someone killed.”
When Ortiz saw me tense, he gripped my forearm. “I’m not talking about your situation. You know that.”
I nodded.
“I think that’s why Duffy never made captain,” Ortiz said.
“I agree.”
“But he’s more capable than most of those pencil pushers with stars on their collars.”
“He’s damn smart, but when he goes on one of his binges-stand by,” I said. “Don’t think the brass hasn’t noticed that. But they know he delivers. And as long as his detectives are clearing cases, they’re not going to move him out.”
“Hey, for your first day back, let me take you to lunch.”
“Don’t have time. Since I came back in a rush, I’ve got to take care of all the LAPD bureaucratic bullshit. Let’s do it another day this week.”
“All right, brother. I heard you’re flying solo on this case. If you need some backup, I’m there.”
For the next hour, I worked on the murder book and dashed off the required letter to the chief, listing a few cursory reasons why I had decided to return. I visited the city doctor for a quick physical, and in the mid-afternoon I met with a dour LAPD background investigator from personnel division who asked me a number of bizarre questions, including: “During your eleven months away from the LAPD, did you ever have sex with animals?”
“Only when I was drunk,” I said, staring at him poker-faced.
The man looked through me, checked the “No” box and asked, “During your eleven months away from the
