walk back down the fifty-one steps and drive off.
I didn’t know if Silver was lying; I didn’t know if the Freitas homicide and the jewelry heist were connected to the Relovich and Mitchell murders. Still, I was suspicious of Silver for reasons I couldn’t articulate. Maybe it was because Silver’s business had a Japanese connection; maybe it was because he was so testy. The murder also bothered me. Why would Freitas’s partner shoot him during the heist? Why attract all that attention? Why not just wait and plug him later?
I inched closer on the sofa to Silver. “Let me break it down for you. If you don’t level with me right now, I’m going to do two things. First, I’m going to obtain your insurance records and examine the jewelry purchases you made and confirm that they were truly worth three hundred thousand. If they weren’t, I’m going to go after you for insurance fraud. The second thing I’m going to do is talk to the supervising detective at Hollywood Homicide and ask him to reopen the Jack Freitas murder case. If he finds you’ve withheld any information, I’m going to request that he prosecute you for conspiracy,” I said, bluffing. “And conspiracy in a murder can get you locked up for a very long time.”
I knew immediately that I had hit pay dirt. Silver blinked hard. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You’ve got no proof,” he said weakly.
“You continue jacking me around, and I’ll make sure I get the proof. But if you level with me right now and tell me everything that happened, I’ll forget about the insurance company. I’ll forget about talking to Hollywood Homicide.”
I checked my watch. “I’ll give you one minute to decide. Then I’m leaving. By tomorrow, you won’t even recognize your life anymore.”
Silver gazed out at the smog, a thousand-yard stare. Dropping his chin to his chest, he said softly, “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“There were some other things stolen.” He sighed wistfully. “I had some very nice works.”
“All Japanese?”
“Yes. A hanging scroll from the sixteen hundreds. An eighteenth-century two-panel screen-ink and color on silk. Some exquisite splashed ink landscapes, and a few erotic woodcut prints-all hundreds of years old.”
“Any netsukes?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, pained. “ Netsukes, iron tea kettles, iron sword guards, ojimes, lacquered boxes.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police or the insurance company about these items? They weren’t listed on the property report.”
Silver reached around and tugged on his ponytail again. “You sure if I tell you the truth, you’re not going to go after me for this?”
“I’m not interested in insurance fraud, art theft, or income tax evasion,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “All I care about is the murder I’m working. I just want to see if it’s connected to what happened at your house.”
“Okay,” Silver said softly, more to himself than to me. “I couldn’t talk about these items because I wasn’t supposed to have them.”
“Why not?”
“A few Japanese art dealers were ripped off. Some very old and very valuable items were stolen. It was too risky to fence them in Japan. So the thieves sold them to an American. The Japanese would not be too happy to see these treasures leaving their country. But if the American had an import business, he would know how to slip these items in through customs. Back in the States, he could have kept some of the items and sold some of the others.”
“Just so I’m clear, this person you’re talking about is you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And it was hard to launder the profits, so you kept a lot of cash in your home safe.”
“How’d you find out?”
Ignoring him, I asked, “How much?”
“About two hundred thousand.”
“So you inflated the amount of your wife’s jewelry-which was never stolen-to, at least, cover your cash loss and some of the art. The rest, you just had to write off.”
“That’s pretty close to it.”
“Why’d you take the chance of displaying this stuff on your walls?”
“I didn’t keep them out here,” he said, pointing to the living room walls. “They were in our bedroom and my home office, where guests aren’t permitted.” He stared out the window again. “What’s the use of risking so much to secure magnificent works of art if you can’t see them?”
“Any idea who ripped you off?”
“I still don’t have a clue.”
“Any idea why Freitas was killed?”
“Whoa,” he said, waving his palms. “I had nothing to do with that. That’s your area of expertise. Certainly not mine.”
It was so dark when I drove back down the canyon-the moon was obscured by high clouds-that I had trouble negotiating the hairpin turns, but I relaxed when I finally hit Sunset and headed east. As I approached downtown, I decided I was too energized to go home, so I pulled into the parking garage, walked to PAB, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. I pulled the tape recorder out of my briefcase with the microphone in the corner, listened to Silver’s interview again, and summarized it on a statement form for my murder book.
CHAPTER 26
Galvanized by the break in the case, I spent a restless evening at home. I tried to sleep, but kept squirming in bed, thinking about the interview with Silver. At three thirty, I finally crawled out of bed, showered, and dressed; I knew I was too charged up to get much sleep. Driving north on Broadway, I flicked on my windshield wipers. It was a typical foggy June morning, socked in from the beaches to the valleys. As I stopped at an intersection, the slick street reflecting red from the signal overhead, I decided to splurge on an expensive breakfast.
I drove a few blocks west of downtown and parked in front of the Pacific Dining Car, located on a bleak intersection, across the street from a gas station and a liquor store with a rusty metal security gate in front. I liked the restaurant even though, like so many L.A. institutions, it was more facade than reality. Built in the 1920s as a replica of a railroad dining car, steel wheels were bolted on and the structure was rolled to an empty lot. Still, the atmosphere was comfortable and clubby and it served some of the best-and most expensive-steaks in the city.
The twenty-four-hour restaurant, with gleaming wood paneling and polished brass lamps, was quiet and desolate. I settled in at a corner booth and ordered the breakfast filet and scrambled eggs, a short stack of blueberry pancakes, and a carafe of coffee. I ate slowly, savoring the meal. When I heard the first wave of delivery trucks grinding their gears as they rumbled down West 6th Street, I bought a paper and lingered over my coffee.
When I returned to the squad room, Duffy intercepted me. “So where are we on the case? What now?”
I decided not to brief him about my interview with Silver. I didn’t want to tell him anything yet that might attract attention from the brass, who might waste my time by calling me in for meetings and updates.
“I’ve got a few things I’m chasing,” I said.
“Well, don’t do anything too crazy over the next few days, because I won’t be around to run interference for you with Grazzo. We’ve got a department retreat for homicide supervisors this weekend in San Diego. I’m heading down this afternoon.”
I left Duffy’s office and Ortiz grabbed my arm and led me toward the break room. He poured us two cups of coffee and said, “Let’s go outside.” We took the elevator down the ground floor and sat on a stone bench in front of the building.
“So what’s happening with your gallery owner?”
“She wants to see me when her boyfriend’s not around.”
