Ortiz clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t be so gloomy. Could be the ideal relationship. You don’t have to waste any time and money on going to movies, dinner, or, with this babe, boring art gallery openings. You can just nail her when her boyfriend’s not around and have plenty of time left over to play golf with me.”
“I don’t play golf.”
Ortiz swung an imaginary club. “Now’s the perfect time to start.”
When we returned to the squad room, I grabbed the Freitas homicide file, leafed through it, and jotted down the names of the two Hollywood Homicide detectives who investigated the murder. Relovich and Mitchell were the patrol officers who responded to the scene; I wanted to see what the investigators had to say. Searching the LAPD’s Alpha roster, I discovered that one of the detectives was still with the department-he now worked as a lieutenant in Northeast. I called him and asked about the case. But he didn’t remember much and he told me the case wasn’t worth pursuing.
“Just one less scumbag on the street now,” he said.
I asked about his former partner, and the lieutenant provided the phone number of a private investigation firm in San Jose. The former partner, however, recalled even less about the case.
I cut across the squad room to Commercial Crimes and wandered into the office of Dave Papazian, the art cop. I told Papazian about the robbery at Silver’s house, his import-export business, and the man’s art collection. “You ever come across this guy?” I asked.
Papazian shook his head.
“You ever hear of that heist at his house?”
“When was it?”
“About eleven years ago.”
Papazian stroked his chin. “That’s before my time, before I got this gig. But just to be safe, I’ll check my records. If he’s filed any theft reports since then, I’ll let you know.”
I returned to my desk, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. The interview with Silver was definitely a break. The problem was I didn’t know how to follow up on it, how to create a progression to the next clue, and the next, and the next. After talking to Silver, I assumed Relovich and Mitchell were dirty; I assumed they had stumbled onto the crime scene while on patrol and pocketed the cash from the safe before the homicide detectives arrived.
If Relovich and Mitchell were dirty, I didn’t relish the prospect of documenting it. I knew the revelation would be devastating to their families. When Relovich’s daughter was old enough to learn the truth, she’d be crushed. But the shooter, I suspected, was still out there. He’d already killed two ex-cops. He might kill another.
I thought about Terrell Fuqua, who was facing San Quentin’s gas chamber. I didn’t believe he killed Relovich. Even if he was a scumbag, I couldn’t let him go down for a crime he didn’t commit. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. If Fuqua didn’t kill Relovich, who would want to set him up? And why?
I decided to listen to Silver’s interview again. I slipped my head-phones on and pressed play. Was Silver more culpable than he acknowledged? I wondered. Was Silver telling everything he knew? Probably not. Everyone who confesses always leaves something out. I pressed the pause button. Would it be worth my while to question Silver again? What points should I follow up on? I realized that another interview with Silver was pointless. I pounded my palm on my desk in frustration.
“What the hell’s wrong with you,” Ortiz shouted across the squad room.
I tossed the tape recorder and headphones into my bottom drawer. “I can’t think.”
“Remember that psycho who was doing his Benihana routine on those downtown transients? Sliced and diced about six of them.”
“The Spring Street Slasher,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s the one. What did you do when you hit a dead end on the case?” One day, you were sitting here agonizing just like this. Couldn’t figure what he was using for a weapon. Then the next day you knew it was a… a… What the hell was it?”
“A ceramic dimpled meat slicer,” I said. “Made in Germany. Went to a kitchen supply store. Looked at about a hundred knives. Saw that one. It matched the wound pattern on the body. Started interviewing chefs downtown until I found one who-”
“So how’d you get that burst of inspiration?”
“I got away from the case for an afternoon and cleared my head.”
“Why don’t you do that now?”
“Good idea,” I said.
A cruise down to the harbor and a walk along the water might do me some good. I wanted to talk to Relovich’s uncle anyway, so I called him and arranged to meet him at his boat.
The sky at the harbor was so overcast that the horizon line was obscured and the sky and ocean melded in a sweep of sidewalk gray. The oil tankers steaming north were just faint one-dimensional silhouettes drifting in and out of the fog.
I climbed aboard the Anna Marie and sat on a deck chair beside Relovich.
“Want some coffee?”
Before I could respond, Relovich bounded below deck and returned with two metal cups, sloshing coffee on the deck.
“Never got a chance to say thanks for doing right by Pete,” Relovich said. “I read about you arresting that no good son of a bitch.”
In order to avoid a complicated explanation, I said, “There might have been an accomplice. So I’ve still got some work to do on the case. Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”
Relovich shook his head.
“I want to ask you about one of Pete’s ex-partners, a guy named Avery Mitchell. What do you know about him?”
“Met him once. Long time ago. Maybe more than ten years ago. They were down here one afternoon and I took ’em to lunch. I didn’t care for this Mitchell character. He had this thin, greasy little mustache. I don’t trust a man who can’t grow a decent mustache.”
“Anything else about him you remember?”
“Not really. Just that he seemed kind of shifty looking. And I don’t think Pete liked him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just a feeling I had when I saw the two of them together. Pete seemed to just tolerate the guy.”
“Did Pete ever talk about Mitchell, ever say anything about him to you?”
He shook his head.
“Did Pete have any artwork around his house?”
Relovich looked confused. “Artwork? What do you mean?”
“You know, like paintings or pieces of carved wood or ivory. Maybe art objects. Maybe Japanese-type artwork.”
“You gotta be kidding me. Pete? Not a chance. He wouldn’t know Japanese artwork if he chipped a tooth on it.” Relovich swatted the air. “I was talking to Pete’s ex-wife the other day. She wanted me to ask you something. I’ve been meaning to call you. Since her daughter inherited the house, she wants to know when the LAPD will release it. She wants to rent it out.”
“Why didn’t she call me herself?”
“She’s a touchy bitch,” he said. “She’s tired of you going out there and asking her questions. But I understand. You’re just doing your job.”
“Did Pete seem worried about anything these last few months?”
Relovich blew on his coffee a few times, before taking a sip. “One thing.”
“What was that?”
“He worried that he hadn’t been a good enough father to his little girl. ’Cause of his drinking. During the past few months he tried to change that. But Pete didn’t talk much about it. He was a pretty closed-mouthed guy. These Americans, all they do is gab, gab, gab about their feelings,” he said, as if he found the word distasteful. “Pete was more like his pop and me. More Old Country. Kept things to himself.”
I questioned the old man for a few more minutes, but learned nothing useful. As I climbed down from the ship, Relovich called out, “Don’t stop until you find that accomplice. He deserves to pay for what he did.”
