“Third.”
I smiled. “I think that was when my parents realized, after getting my report card, that I’d never be a neurosurgeon.”
Mitchell picked at a cuticle, looking bored.
“Did you visit your father much up in Idaho?”
“No. I hate Idaho.”
“Guess you don’t like to fish?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Doesn’t sound like your brother was close with your father.”
“Nobody was close with my father.”
“Did you talk with him much?”
“He’d call every once in a while. He’d visit L.A. every once in a while.”
I stared out the window and watched jacaranda petals scatter in the breeze. “Did you know your father was murdered?”
Mitchell looked as if she had been jolted with a cattle prod.
Now that I had her attention, I decided to wait for her to ask the questions.
“Nobody said anything about this before.”
I nodded.
Mitchell slumped onto the sofa. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?”
“Because nobody knew about this before.”
She looked confused. “Who found out he was murdered?”
“Me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“How come, months later, I’m just finding this out.”
“I was recently assigned to investigate the murder of a retired police officer by the name of Pete Relovich. During the course of that investigation, I was looking into some of his former partners. Your father worked with Pete for a few years. I checked out the circumstances of his death. I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a suicide.”
“What do you base that on?”
“I’d rather not get into the details now. I will tell you, though, that I’m basing my conclusion on solid information. Somewhere down the line, I’ll be able to explain everything.”
Mitchell went slack and began to cry softly. I grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table and handed it to her.
She dried her eyes and coughed. “When my father walked out on us, it hit me a lot harder than my brother. Maybe because he was younger, he grew up used to not having a father. I was devastated. My mom lost it. I had to head the family for a while.” She dried her eyes again. “I hated my father after he left. On weekends, when he’d come by to pick up my brother and me, I’d lock myself in my room. I never wanted to see him again. Now this news of yours makes me look at things differently.”
“Why?”
Sniffling, she fiddled with a strand of hair. “About a year ago, I kind of lowered my defenses. I let him back into my life a little bit. Seemed like he was trying to repair our relationship, make up for the past. Then, without a word to me, or any warning, he kills himself. I thought, ‘What a jerk. Isn’t that just like him. He’s done it again.’” She grabbed a balled up Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “When I heard he shot himself, I felt like he just abandoned me all over again. If he was murdered, I might feel different. Like maybe he didn’t just walk out of my life a second time.”
“Had he seemed depressed shortly before his death?”
“I know my brother told you it was hard to tell. But I could tell. And he didn’t seem depressed at all. He liked living up there, where he could fly fish in the summer and hunt in the fall.”
“Did your father have any buddies from the LAPD who he stayed in touch with?”
“He was kind of a loner type guy.”
“Any ex-partners he kept contact with?”
She tapped a finger on her knee. “I think there was one guy. Randy Fringa. Years ago, they worked together in East L.A. At Hollenbeck. Before my dad moved to Idaho, they used to take fishing trips up near Bishop.”
“Fringa still with the department?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have his phone number or know where he lives. But I remember my dad saying that after he retired, he got a job working security at some big mall in Glendale.”
“Do you remember your father coming into a substantial amount of money when he was a cop?”
“I don’t know much about his finances. I just know he made his child support payments on time.”
“Your brother said you got some of his personal items from the house.”
She nodded.
“Can I see them?”
She walked into the bedroom, returned with a small suitcase, and handed it to me. I set it on the coffee table. Inside were a few photographs of her father and mother, probably when they were dating; his army dog tags; mementos from his years with the LAPD, including promotion certificates, an LAPD silver eagle cap pin, and a plaque for ten years of safe driving; a few fishing and hunting licenses; and a brown leather man’s jewelry box.
I opened it up. Inside, on a felt base, were his wedding ring, a silver cross on a chain, a gold Rolex watch, another less expensive watch, a gold money clip, and several tie tacks. Taking them out, I set them on the sofa beside me. I shook the box, but nothing rattled. With a sharp tug, I removed the felt base-which was a false bottom.
In a compartment below, in two corners of the box, secured with strips of tape, were a carved ivory netsuke and an ojime: a demon and a demon queller. They were similar, but not identical to the ones I had found at Relovich’s house.
She looked confused. “What are they?”
“The Japanese wear them on their kimono sashes. You’ve never seen them?”
She frowned and shook her head. “I had no idea they were there-until now.”
CHAPTER 23
I drove out to the mall in Glendale, parked in front of a department store, and found my way to the security office. I asked a young woman manning the counter if Randy Fringa was working today. She held up an index finger, mumbled into an old-fashioned two-way radio, and said, “He’ll be back in five.”
When Fringa arrived, he studied me with a sour expression and said, “Do I know you?” He was a skinny man with a bobbing Adam’s apple, who wore a wrinkled short-sleeved white shirt and a stained red polyester tie.
I handed him my card and told him I wanted to talk about Avery Mitchell. He led me to a small, windowless office, sat behind a desk, and crossed him arms over his chest.
I opened a battered metal folding chair leaning against a wall. “So I understand you worked at Hollenbeck. My first training officer ended up as a lieutenant there. That guy was-”
“What do you want to know?”
Most retired cops miss the camaraderie of the station and enjoy swapping news and gossip. I was surprised that Fringa was so hostile.
“I’m looking into Avery Mitchell’s death.”
“I heard it was a suicide.”
“I have reason to believe it wasn’t.”
He tapped my card on his desk. “To tell you the truth, I’m pretty damn pissed off at the LAPD. If I could’ve stayed for thirty, or at least twenty-five, I would’ve have had a decent pension. Something I could’ve lived off of. I might have joined Avery up in Idaho. and spent my days fishing, instead of humping my butt at this chickenshit
