“That’s bullshit,” Grazzo barked.
I pulled out of my back pocket a folded up sheet of paper. “I brought this with me in case I needed it. I’m sure you’re familiar with Special Order Number Eight.” I smoothed out the paper on the door and read the first sentence: “Every employee of the Los Angeles Police Department has the right to work in a professional atmosphere and without fear of retaliation that may result from bringing a formal or informal complaint alleging any type of misconduct.”
I folded the paper back up and stuffed it into my pocket and said, “I think pulling me off my case and suspending me could be construed as retaliation for the informal complaint I just filed with you. So let me work my investigation without interference and I’ll forget we ever had this conversation. But if you don’t, I’ll go after you for both neglect of duty and violation of Special Order Number Eight.”
I slammed the door, jogged down the stairwell, and paced on the grass outside PAB, muttering to myself and cursing under my breath. When I calmed down, I returned to the squad room.
Duffy intercepted me. “You must have been pretty persuasive in there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just got off the phone with Grazzo. He wants you to know that after considering all the variables of the situation, and taking into account the stress you were under after being exposed to that little Teutonic display, he decided that you can carry on. No suspension will be forthcoming.” Duffy grinned. “You must have pictures of Grazzo screwing farm animals.”
When I returned to my desk, I spotted my red message light blinking. It was Relovich’s ex-wife.
“You find out who threatened Pete with the gun?” she asked.
“I’ve got a lead I’m tracking down.”
“Will you let me know when you put the SOB away?”
“Sure.” I heard what sounded like her opening the pop-top of a beer. “How you holding up?”
“Since Pete’s death I’ve been so wasted every day, I haven’t been able to string together two coherent thoughts. I guess I haven’t wanted to. But I’ve got to be there for Lindsey.”
She paused for several seconds. I waited for her to continue.
“Remember you told me if I thought of something to call you? When you asked me that, I was in kind of a fog. But after Lindsey told you about the guy who came to Pete’s door with a gun and threatened him, well that gave me a jolt. I’d never heard that before. To think that Lindsey was there when that happened-that scares the hell out of me. Anyway, this morning I remembered something. It might be something you can use. It might not. But I thought I’d pass it along anyway. A few weeks ago, I was talking on the phone with Pete. We were making weekend plans for the upcoming month about how our daughter would get from Lancaster to Pete’s place in Pedro. He mentioned in a kind of casual way that he wouldn’t be able to pick her up on one of those Fridays because he’d made an appointment with Internal Affairs. Said he couldn’t come and get her until Saturday. I don’t know if it means anything, but I thought I’d tell you.”
“Which Friday was it that he had the appointment?” I asked.
“Can’t remember. I should have written it down. But it was within a few weeks of the call.”
I thanked her and hung up. I was reluctant to stop by Internal Affairs because of my brush with the investigators after the Latisha Patton murder. Still, I knew I had to suck it up and check out Relovich’s appointment.
Because Parker Center was such an outdated, overcrowded structure, a number of LAPD units were scattered in office buildings throughout downtown L.A. After PAB opened, a few of them remained in their buildings, including Internal Affairs.
The unit is now officially known as The Professional Standards Bureau, but most cops still call it by the old name. When I first got my shield, Internal Affairs moved to the Bradbury Building-a landmark structure built in the 1890s-an anomalous place for an LAPD squad room.
I walked down Broadway, spotted the unremarkable, boxy, brown brick building in the distance, and entered through the archway squeezed between a Subway shop and a telephone company. But once inside I was dazzled, as I am every time I linger in the elegant interior courtyard, a breathtaking five-story vault of open space flooded with sunlight from the massive glass roof. I admired the glazed brick walls, the marble stairs, the filigreed wrought- iron railings that look like hanging vines, the ornate birdcage elevators. I’d seen a magazine article recently and learned that a young draftsman had designed the building after he read a science fiction story describing the typical office building in a city of the future as a “vast hall of light received not alone by the windows, but from a dome overhead.” A perfect building for this city of dreams, I thought, a city in the thrall of the movie business, where fantasy often dictates reality.
After wandering around the courtyard for a few minutes, I walked up to the third floor and, trying to appear casual and unconcerned, walked through the Internal Affairs squad room. It seemed like all the investigators in the room froze and cast suspicious looks my way; it was probably my imagination, but I definitely felt a hostile vibe. Maybe they heard about my return to Major Crimes and weren’t happy about it. I recognized several detectives who had questioned me about the Patton case. I avoided them and approached a young Asian detective who had probably been hired by I.A. after I’d quit. When I asked him if he knew anything about Relovich’s appointment, he jerked his thumb toward a desk in the corner and said, “Saucedo took the guy’s call.”
I stopped by Detective Virginia Saucedo’s desk, and she stood up and shook my hand. I had met her years ago on a case when she was working the robbery table at Hollywood Division. Saucedo was slender with a long, graceful neck and shimmering black hair that she wore in a French braid pinned under the nape of her neck. Her top was cut a little lower than LAPD regulations allowed. Drawing attention to the cleavage was a moonstone cross on a silver chain. She rolled a chair over for me from another desk. Unlike the others in the office, Saucedo was amiable and cooperative.
I sat down, briefly told her about the case, and asked about Relovich’s appointment.
“Not much to tell, really,” she said. “He just called, wanted to set up an appointment, and they put me on the phone.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
She shook her head. “I asked him, but he said he’d prefer to talk about it in person.”
“Did he sound upset? Stressed? Depressed?”
“Couldn’t really tell. We just had a very brief conversation.”
“When was his appointment?”
She sifted through her desk calendar and pointed to the entry: Det. Pete Relovich. Retired. Wants to talk. About-??? The date was for this Friday-a week after his death.
“You think there’s any connection between the appointment and what happened to him?”
“Not sure,” I said.
Staring at the calendar, she said softly, “I hope I’m not out of line, but I want to tell you that I really felt bad for you last year. I know that was a very painful thing to go through.”
I nodded, feeling uncomfortable, unsure of what to say.
She gazed into my eyes for a moment with a look of pity and concern, an almost maternal expression. “Coming back, I know, can’t be easy. If you ever want someone to talk to, call me.” She scrawled her home number on the back of her business card and deftly slipped it to me, so the other detectives wouldn’t see.
She was a pretty girl, with lustrous black eyes and a nice body. I took the card and slipped it into my pocket. But when I thought about the way she had looked at me, I didn’t know whether I would call her.
I walked back to PAB, climbed into my car, drove down to San Pedro, and parked in front of Relovich’s house. I lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, enjoying the sunshine and looking out at the sea, the white-caps iridescent in the bright light. For the next few hours I walked up and down the street interviewing neighbors, but it was a fruitless afternoon. No one had heard anything; no one had seen anything; no one provided any useful information about Relovich.
When I returned to the house, I noticed that the living room walls were streaked purple-the color of the jacaranda blossoms that I could see outside the front window. The fingerprint technicians had dabbed the walls with ninhydrin, which reacts to the amino acids in the fingers’ sweat patterns, leaving a purple residue.
Sitting in my car outside Relovich’s house, staring at the sea, I reached for my cell. I called a clerk at the Harbor Division jail and discovered that Theresa Martinez, the young Hispanic woman who dressed like a preppy, had made bail a few hours after she’d been busted and I had questioned her. The clerk gave me her address and I
