do whatever it took to clear the case.
I remembered that Martinez worked as a secretary for a large engineering firm in Torrance. I figured that she hadn’t told her employers about her arrest and her involvement as a witness in a homicide investigation. In the past, I’d persuaded a few witnesses to talk to me simply by showing up at their jobs. They’d agreed to cooperate just to get rid of me before their employers discovered who I was. I thought this might work with Martinez.
I drove down to Torrance, parked in a lot a few blocks from the 405 Freeway, and waited for the receptionist to finish a call. When she hung up the phone, I asked for Theresa Martinez.
“And who should I say is here to see her?”
I made it a point not to identify myself as a detective. I would hold that out as a threat if she wouldn’t agree to talk. “Just tell her it’s Ash Levine.”
The receptionist punched a few numbers on the switchboard, muttered into the phone, paused, and said, “Ms. Martinez says she doesn’t know any Ash Levine.”
“Tell her I want to talk to her briefly about a purchase she made in San Pedro last week.”
The receptionist repeated the message, looked up at me and said, “She’ll be right down.”
About twenty seconds later, Martinez entered the lobby, cast a nervous glance at me, and motioned to follow her out the front door into the parking lot.
“That’s not right to bust in on me at my job like this,” she said. She was still dressed like a preppy, wearing khakis and a pale blue short-sleeved Polo shirt. She looked very young and very nervous and very vulnerable. Just like Latisha had looked when I interviewed her the first time. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
I leaned against a car in the parking lot and took a deep breath. “If you cooperate, agree to meet me at the station, and tell me everything you saw that night, I’ll walk straight through the parking lot to my car, and I won’t bother you at work again.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I don’t think you want your boss to know why I’m here.”
“ Christ.”
“So you’ll cooperate?”
“I got no choice.”
“What time you get off?” I asked.
“I’m working part-time. I’m off at one.”
I remembered she attended community college. “You have class this afternoon?”
“No. Tonight.”
I told her to stop by PAB after work. I gave her directions and I walked across the lot to my car.
At two, Martinez arrived, and I ushered her into an interview room. “You want coffee or a soda?”
She shook her head. “Look, I’ve still got that drug case pending. If I can help your case, can you help mine?”
“If you give me information that leads to an arrest, I’ll talk to the DA before your sentencing. I’ll also write a letter to the presiding judge. I’ll push hard for leniency. I’ll go to the wall for you.”
“Promise?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“I promise to do what I can for you.”
“Okay. I think I might of seen something that could help you.”
“What?”
“I saw two guys on the street.”
“When?”
“A Thursday night. A few days before I was arrested.”
“Why do you think that could help me?”
“Because the next day I read in the San Pedro paper where that excop was killed. I remembered seeing these two guys that night right down the hill from where he lived.”
“Why’d you think they might be involved?”
“Something about the way they were moving. They weren’t exactly running, but they were really hustling down that hill. And they were checking out their surroundings, suspicious like.”
“What time was this?”
“Almost midnight.”
The coroner estimated the time of death at approximately eleven p.m. So these two fit the profile. “Can you tell me exactly where you spotted them?”
“Across the street from where the guy was selling drugs. They were getting into a parked car.”
I pulled a yellow legal pad out of my briefcase and drew a diagram of the streets where Relovich lived, winding down to the bottom of the hill, and the corners where I had watched the dealers. “Show me where the car was parked?”
She tapped a fingernail on the spot where the trail had ended for the bloodhound.
“What happened next?”
She gripped her right index figure and nervously tugged at it. “I brought this up last time. The first time I was ever in a police station was the night you saw me. I’ve never been a witness before. I’m very scared of these kinds of people. Will they come after me if I help you?”
For a moment I just stared at her, stunned. I didn’t know if I could protect her. And I couldn’t lie to her. I tightly clasped my hands on my lap. I thought of what Blau had told me to do if I started to lose it with a witness. Take a break. Go to the bathroom. Breathe deeply -
“That’s something I can definitely address.” I tapped my cell phone and said, “But let me make a call first. It’s kind of an emergency. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I hustled through the squad room, into the bathroom, and clutched a sink for support. To do this job, I’ve got to be able to handle witnesses. Without losing it. I took ten slow, deep breaths. Then I turned on the faucet, leaned over the sink, and splashed water on my face for about thirty seconds.
When I returned to the interview room, I eased into a chair and said slowly, trying to sound reassuring, “I’m a very experienced detective. I’ve been at this a long time. I’ve dealt with hundreds of witnesses, witnesses who’ve been in very dangerous situations, situations much more dangerous than yours. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”
I pulled a card out of my wallet and scribbled a number across the top. “My work phone number is on this card. I just wrote down my cell number. If you ever feel in danger, call me. I promise I’ll get back to you immediately. I’ll send a unit over or come by myself to take care of you.”
She bit her lower lip and stared at me across the metal table, eyes wide. “I’m scared.”
“A good man has been killed. He was a retired police officer. He’s got a little girl. She’s crying herself to sleep every night. She’s scared, just like you. And she’ll never feel safe until I catch the man who killed her father.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled, making a whistling sound. “Okay. It was real dark that night. I was on the street, kind of hesitating about approaching the dealer selling at the corner. That’s when I saw these two guys coming down the hill. I couldn’t really see the guy who crawled into the driver’s side of the car. But I got a better look at the other one. I saw him climb into the car.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Jeans and a stocking cap. A dark one.”
“What was his nationality?”
“I think he was Mexican.”
“Could you ID him if you saw him again?”
“Maybe.”
I opened my briefcase, pulled out the six-pack with Abazeda’s photo in the bottom right hand corner, and handed it to her. She studied each photo.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t recognize anybody.”
I leaned across the table and said softly, “There’s something you can do that’s important and might help me solve this case. I’d like you to work with an LAPD sketch artist and try to put together a portrait of this guy. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded.
“How about in a few minutes, when we’re done talking?”
