LAPD, did you ever have sex in public?” I shook my head, but recalling that barren stretch of self-imposed exile since Robin left, I wanted to say that I wished that I had the opportunity.
Shortly before four, I returned to PAB to meet with Commander Wally Wegland. In the anteroom adjacent to his office, Wegland’s adjutant, Conrad Patowski, extended both his hands, wrapped them around my right hand and shook it. “It’s been too long, Ash,” he said. “ Too long.”
We were classmates at the academy and had crossed paths over the years, although I usually tried to avoid him. I didn’t like adjutants. Most were sycophantic strivers, desperate to ride in the slipstreams of their powerful bosses. In the army we called them jobniks. And I found Patowski particularly smarmy. Although he was my age, his face was pale and unlined and there was a boyish, unformed quality to him, as if he had managed, somehow, to avoid life experience. His shoes were buffed to a gleam, his shirt was heavily starched, and his pants had razor- sharp creases. His outfit looked more like a military uniform than a business suit.
“We only work a few floors from each other,” Patowski said. “Let’s get lunch one of these days.”
“Sure, Conrad,” I said without enthusiasm.
“I meant to call you, during this past year, Ash,” Patowski said in a hushed tone, rubbing his palms together. “So glad you managed to work it all out and come back. I’ve always admired you, and the remarkable way you clear your cases. We can’t afford to lose good people like you. And I want you to know that my heart really went out to you. I know it was a difficult time.”
Patowski nodded sympathetically and then picked up the phone and whispered into the receiver. Opening the office door he said, “Okay, Ash, the commander will see you now.”
Wegland came around his desk, tightening his tie. He was an unlikely looking cop, I thought. Skinny and sallow, with an aquiline nose, and nervous, twitchy gestures, there was something birdlike about him. Even his bad comb-over, which swirled atop his balding pate, looked like a nest.
“Thank you for stopping by, Ash,” he said, extending a hand.
I shook his hand while surveying the office. On one wall were two shadow boxes filled with patches from police departments from throughout the country. On another wall, a dozen midnight blue LAPD coffee mugs stamped with various unit insignias were lined up on a shelf. After Wegland pulled a chair from the corner of the room for me, he walked back around his desk, sat down, and placed his hands primly on his lap.
At Pacific, I had been struck by how Wegland, grim-faced and humorless, always went about his job with a robotic efficiency. Later, Wegland began quickly climbing the LAPD ladder. He was one of those LAPD officials who rose through the ranks, not because he was a good patrol officer or skilled investigator, but because he studied like a fiend, tested well, and never took any chances on the street that could precipitate a complaint.
Wegland cleared his throat, poured himself a half glass of water from the pitcher on his desk, and took a few gulps. “I wanted you on this case because I know your track record. I know you can do the job.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But I have a question for you. Because of the, the-” he paused, searching for the right word, “calamity you were involved in last year, well, I wondered. Do you think because of the questions you might be asked by other detectives and maybe even witnesses, because of the questions you might even be asking yourself, and because of the fact that your judgment might be challenged, well, will all that hinder your investigation? In other words, do you think you can become a highly effective detective again?”
“I think I’m a highly effective detective right now,” I said sharply.
“I think so, too,” Wegland said, lifting his hands from his lap and clasping them on his desk. “So that’s settled.” Wegland turned and studied a shadow box for a moment. “I knew Relovich’s father. When he retired he asked me to keep an eye out for his son. I don’t take a request like that lightly. So I just want to stay in touch with you, make sure you’ve got everything you need, insure that Felony Special is doing right by old man Relovich’s son. That’s the least I can do for my late friend. So you’ll keep me apprised of the investigation, I’d appreciate it.”
I stood up and said, “I’ll keep you posted.”
I returned to the squad room and began plotting my next moves. I was frustrated that I couldn’t question Abazeda right now. I had stumbled on a good lead and I wanted to run it down.
I had to be patient, but tomorrow night I planned to find out if Abazeda had dropped by Relovich’s house, pulled out a. 40-caliber semiautomatic, and shot him in the face.
CHAPTER 7
Early the next morning, I arrived at the squad room before most of the detectives had started work. Oscar Ortiz rushed up to me and said, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
“What’s that shit on my desk?”
Ortiz stood in front of me to block my view. “I just called maintenance. They’re on their way to clean it up.”
I craned my neck for a better look. “What is it?”
Ortiz grabbed my arm and tried to lead me out the door. “You don’t want to see it.”
I pushed past Ortiz, and when I reached my desk I dropped the murder book on the floor, the photographs scattering on the linoleum. Someone had crudely slashed red paint in the shape of a swastika. Next to it, taped to the desk, were a picture of Hitler and a magazine photograph of the liberated survivors of Buchenwald, walking skeletons streaming through the barbwire fences.
I felt as if I’d been slugged in the gut. Just then Graupmann ambled by, glanced at the desk and asked, “Fan mail?”
Swinging from the heels. I landed a right cross flush on Graupmann’s jaw, hitting the sweet spot like a batter pounding a fastball on the meat of the bat. Graupmann wobbled to his knees.
“You crazy motherfucker,” Graupmann shouted. He grabbed the side of a desk and was pulling himself to his feet when he dove for me. I sidestepped him, but Graupmann reached out, clutched a pant leg and tugged. I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. Graupmann, straddling me, tried to punch me in the face, but I jerked my head to the side and he only grazed my cheek. I reached around and, in a windmill motion, slammed him flush on the ear with the heel of my hand. I heard him yelp with pain.
I pushed myself up with one hand and with the other punched him in the Adam’s apple. With a strangled cry, he fell on top of me.
Duffy, who was just coming into work and still clutching his briefcase, separated us with a couple of swift kicks, as if he were breaking up a dogfight in an alley. He grabbed my shirt with a meaty hand, jerked me to my feet with ease, and dragged me into his office, slamming the door shut.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Duffy shouted, stabbing a finger in my face.
“Did you see my desk?” I rasped, trying to catch my breath.
“I caught a quick look at it. But how do you know Graupmann did it?”
“Who else? I worked in this unit six years and never had a problem. All of a sudden he’s here and my desk looks like a Nuremberg war crimes museum.”
“Got any proof it was him?”
I flashed him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.
“What’s the proof?”
“It’s circumstantial.”
“Then let it go,” Duffy said.
After I stomped out of his office, I spotted a janitor scrubbing my desk with paint remover. I knew I was too pissed off to get any work done, so I snatched the murder book from under my desk and took off.
Ortiz stopped me at the elevator, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Ride it out, Ash. Just chill for the next few months. Then, when you’re back in the groove here and they can’t fuck with you, take care of your business with Graupmann.”
I was still so enraged I was unable to speak. I just nodded and slammed my palm on the elevator’s down button.
I had an appointment with a department psychologist this morning, and I had about ninety minutes to kill. So I drove aimlessly around downtown, swearing to myself, envisioning a number of scenarios where I could drive my
