I liked to stroll down the aisles after I cleared a case. The end of an investigation often left me-after the initial thrill and sense of accomplishment-drained, empty, and despondent, because I knew that in the next hour or day or week, there would be yet another murder; another grieving wife, child, or mother left behind; another killer to track. At the flower mart, the rush of sweet, heady fragrances; the luxuriant melange of colors, textures and shapes; the earthy scent of freshly cut stalks was a palliative. I felt that it purified me, provided a brief infusion of grace and optimism that enabled me to regain my perspective, to ready myself for the next case.
After an hour of wandering about, I felt my head clear from the long night, the beers, the sustained adrenaline rush of the case, the disappointment about Nicole. I returned home, crawled into bed, and immediately fell asleep.
When I awoke, I checked my digital alarm clock: 6:12, but I had no idea if it was morning or evening. I looked outside and could see shafts of sunlight slanting through the office towers. The sun was setting. I closed my eyes and I began to think of Nicole, those glittering flecks of green in her eyes, the night we spent together, her bizarre needs and, now, her distant manner.
After I showered and dressed, I hopped in my Saturn and sped to Venice. The sky was still overcast and the arched Venetian bridges were cloaked in mist that rose from the canals. When I heard Nicole slam her screen door, I walked up the path and joined her on the porch.
“Do I have a stalking cop on my hands?” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“I had a great time the other night. But the on-again, off-again thing I’ve got with the ex-boyfriend is on- again.”
I shrugged. “The old song.”
“I guess so.” She leaned over and kissed me, then lightly licked me on the neck. “I’d still like to see you sometimes. But not here. The weekends are going to be tough for me. I’ll let you know when.”
“That kind of deal’s not going to work for me. If things change, call me,” I said over my shoulder as I climbed off her porch and walked toward the canal.
When I heard her door close, I stopped and lingered in the pewter light, staring out at the water, feeling hurt and foolish. The last time I had been at her house, when the night was full of promise, the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine filled the air. Now an offshore breeze carried the stench of society garlic-wispy purple flowers that grew in a corner of her yard. The scent of a moldering affair.
CHAPTER 19
When I reached my desk Monday morning, I picked up a note from Duffy: “Hell of a job! Congrats on clearing the case. I knew I could count on you. I’m in meetings this morning. Let’s talk this afternoon.”
As Ortiz sauntered through the squad room door, he called out, in a mock newscaster tone, “Detective Levine, do you feel a sense of closure? Do you feel the unfortunate ghetto youth was compelled to commit murder because of his underprivileged childhood?”
He leaned over my desk, shook my hand, and said softly, “You did Pete Relovich right. He was a good cop. I’m glad you nailed that gangster. And I hope-”
Ortiz paused when he heard Graupmann’s booming voice.
“I softened Fuqua up,” Graupmann boasted to another detective. “I was like the guy at the bullfight who jabs at the snorting bull with one of those spears until he’s covered with blood. You know that guy.”
“The banderillero,” Ortiz called out.
“That’s it,” Graupmann said. “Then when Fuqua was just about ready to give up, the Manischewitz matador stepped up and finished him off.”
Ortiz chuckled and said, “Maybe you just got yourself a new partner.”
“God forbid.”
“I haven’t eaten. Let’s grab some breakfast.”
“I don’t think I-”
Ortiz wagged his finger at me. “You just cleared your case. Duffy’s not here. Face it, you got no excuse this morning. And to celebrate, I’m buying.”
“Okay, I’ll take you up on your offer. A cheap bastard like you will probably never make it again.”
Ortiz drove to his favorite restaurant, Astro’s, a twenty-four-hour coffee shop a few miles north of downtown. As we sipped coffee, waiting for our omelets and toast, he said, “So how’s that hottie that Papazian pimped for you?”
“She was all over me like a cheap suit. Then she dumped me.”
“It’s one thing if your wife walks out on you. That’s normal. Happened to you-happened to half the guys in Felony Special. Christ, that’s what my first and second ex-wives did.” Ortiz sipped his coffee. “When I was at Hollenbeck, the crusty old D-3 who recruited me to work homicide said, ‘Don’t get married. Just find a woman you hate and buy her a house, a car, and give her half your pension. Because after you work homicide for a few years, she’ll divorce your ass and take it all anyway.’”
The waitress brought our breakfast, and as I shook salt on my omelet, I said, “She mentioned something about an old boyfriend coming back on the scene.”
“Sounds like a load of shit. Anyway, if your wife leaves you, it’s nothing personal. That’s the way it goes. But if some broad you nail once dumps you, now that’s a real insult.” Ortiz patted me on the shoulder. “Let me give you some advice, mijo. Next time you want to get your rocks off, don’t go after some classy art gallery bitch. She’s out of your league. You gotta know your limits. You know what they say about boxers: when they move up in weight, they can’t take their punch with them. Well, you just moved up in weight, too, and you never had a chance. Come with me to an academy barbecue. I’ll find you a nice cop groupie who’ll rock your world and come back for seconds.”
When we finished our breakfast, Ortiz said, “So, one case down. What’s next?”
“It’s not exactly down. I’ve still got some follow-up to do.”
Ortiz laughed. “You say that about every case. They should put that on your tombstone.”
As I walked through the squad room, Duffy craned his head out of his office and motioned for me to step inside. “Again, great work, Ash,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Just got calls from the chief, Assistant Chief Grazzo, and Commander Wegland. They loved the press conference. Great for the department. They all send their congratulations. And their thanks.”
I sat down and said, “It isn’t over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to two witnesses, Fuqua had a partner.”
“Witnesses?” Duffy lowered his chin and raised an eyebrow. “More like a crackhead and a dumb-shit broad.”
“I’d still like to find Fuqua’s partner.”
“The only way you’re going to find the partner, if there’s a partner, is after the prelim when Fuqua realizes death row’s got a cell with his name on it. Then he’ll give up his mother and his favorite pit bull to save his ass. His P.D. will talk to the D.A. and it’ll be let’s make a deal time. You had your chance with Fuqua and he didn’t give you shit.”
“I’d like a little more time on this one.”
“We picked up a triple in Mar Vista a few nights ago. I want you to help the primaries.”
“There’s something about this case that still bothers me.”
Duffy smacked his forehead and said, “Oh, no! Here we go again. Do you always have to pick, pick, pick?”
“You sound like the department shrink.”
“You need a shrink. Can’t you just be happy that you cleared the case and move on?”
“It’s just that there’s a few things-”
“Okay, okay,” With a look of weary forbearance, Duffy asked, “What is it?”
