are you okay?”
“I’m all right.”
“I’ve been working the phones, trying to coordinate as much as I can from down here.”
“What’s Press Relations put out on this thing?” I asked.
“Just the stock release. We haven’t notified Wegland’s next of kin yet, so we just identified the man pancaked on the sidewalk as an LAPD officer. And we didn’t release how the officer fell, just that the incident is under investigation.”
“My surfboard shattered when it hit the sidewalk, so I don’t think anyone could identify exactly what it was,” I said. “Can Press Relations hold off on releasing that tidbit?”
“It’ll come out eventually,” Duffy said. “Hard to keep something like that out of the news.”
“That’s okay. Let’s just keep the details under wraps for a little while.”
“Until when?” Duffy asked.
“Just hold off tonight.”
“That’ll work. The chief and Grazzo are holding a press conference tomorrow morning. I told Grazzo I want to drive up for it and to check on you. But I think he’s afraid I’ll get too much face time on camera and steal some of his glory. He told me to stay in San Diego.”
“Sounds like Grazzo.”
“He’ll probably ID Wegland at the press conference. And once he does, there’ll be a shitstorm of media interest. Who knows what’ll come out. I hear the chief’s really bent out of shape. He’s still trying to figure out how to spin this. A cop as dirty as Wegland makes us all look bad.”
I listened to Duffy’s labored breathing.
“Why the need to keep this quiet tonight?”
“I just want to tie up some loose ends. Easier to do that if the news doesn’t break.”
“Got you.”
“Who’s giving Wegland’s wife the death notification?” I asked.
“Grazzo. He’s just about ready to drive out there. Fortunately, he had no kids.”
“What’s he going to tell her?”
“He’ll probably give her the usual line: It was an off-duty incident; the department has no details yet; and he’ll provide her with more information as the investigation continues.”
Duffy cleared his throat. “Well, I guess you were right. There was a little more to this case than it initially appeared. Which reminds me, I’d better get the paperwork going so I can kick that lowlife Fuqua-as much as I hate to. If you want to say, ‘I told you so,’ go ahead.”
“I’m too fried to say anything.”
“When I heard about what happened, I was worried as hell about you,” Duffy said. “I’m damn relieved you’re okay. You’ve had enough action for one night. You should head home right now, pour yourself a stiff one, and hit the rack.”
“Can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Got to deal with those Homicide Special detectives.”
I followed the two Homicide Special detectives into an interview room. One was a short, bald detective in his late forties; his partner was a tall woman with a heavily lined face and a smoker’s cough.
The bald detective nodded to his partner, indicating that she should ask the questions.
“Hey, can we finish up tomorrow?” I asked. “I’ve got a few things to take care of.”
She shook her head. “No can do. You know that.”
“Let’s get this out of the way.”
“So,” she said with a wry smile, “how does a Felony Special detective end up attacking an LAPD commander with a surfboard and shoving him out the window?”
I gave her a brief recap of the incident. As I answered her questions, I was distracted and kept thinking about the San Pedro crackhead and the young Hispanic woman who had spotted two suspects the night Relovich was murdered. I wanted to track down Wegland’s partner-if he had a partner-tonight, because once his death hit the news, people would scatter like cockroaches under a klieg light.
When the detectives finished their interview, I walked over to Duffy’s office, hoping he’d gone on one of his binges right before he left town and had been careless. But when I turned the knob, I discovered that, unfortunately, he’d remembered to lock his office door. I couldn’t find the Guatamalan cleaning crew, so I started on the ground floor and worked my way up. After traversing the third floor, I found them in the bathroom. I asked one of them to follow me.
Outside Duffy’s office, I rattled the knob and motioned with a phantom key.
“ Eso no es permitido, ” he said.
I opened my wallet and handed him three twenties. He pocketed the money and let me in.
I grabbed a PAB passkey from Duffy’s desk drawer, jogged up the stairs, and unlocked Wegland’s office. After sifting through the crime reports on his desk, the paperwork in his drawers, the files in his tall metal cabinet, and the crumpled papers in the trash, I realized I had no idea what I was looking for. After checking under the rug, I peered inside the dozen LAPD coffee mugs stamped with various unit insignias that were lined up on a shelf. Sinking into Wegland’s chair, I opened the top desk drawer and ran my hands underneath it. I did the same with the underside of the middle drawer. And then the bottom one. In the back, underneath the drawer, I felt something. I pulled the drawer out of the desk, emptied it, and flipped it upside down. Taped to the left corner, was a key with the number 52 and two faint, barely legible words imprinted along the top two lines:
POMONA
RAGE
What the hell did that mean? I examined the paperwork from Wegland’s desk, trash can, and file cabinet again, but saw no reference to Pomona. I decided to drive out to Wegland’s house and see if his wife was in any shape to talk. Maybe she could tell me the significance of pomona rage. If not, it wasn’t a wasted trip because I wanted to interview her anyway.
After calling downtown for Wegland’s home address, I drove out to Monrovia, and down a street, shaded by magnolias, of mostly tidy, single-story homes with clipped front lawns and sculpted shrubbery. Wegland’s was the largest on the block, a white Colonial with a pair of sturdy pillars bracing the portico, a steeply gabled roof, and windows inset with diamond panes. The house looked so absurd in Southern California; I could picture a black lawn jockey in front.
When I rang the bell, I heard the yapping of dogs in the backyard. A thin, severe-looking woman in her late forties with extremely short black hair opened the door.
“Mrs. Wegland?” I said.
“No. I’m her sister. Who are you?”
I handed her my card.
“An assistant chief was just here.”
“I know. But I’m assigned to the investigation and I wanted to ask Mrs. Wegland a few questions.”
“She’s in no condition to talk to anyone right now.”
“I promise it’ll be very brief.”
“Don’t you people have any shame?” she said indignantly. “My brother-in-law sacrificed every thing for his job. He gave his life for your department. Can’t you at least have the decency to let us grieve in peace?”
She slammed the door. I lingered on the porch for a moment, wondering how the woman would react when she discovered the truth. A moment later I heard a faint voice from inside the house: “That’s okay, Bonnie. I’ll come downstairs and talk to him for a minute.”
The sister opened the door, and I followed her into the living room. A gleaming black grand piano covered one corner of the room, wing-backed chairs flanked a marble fireplace, and hung on the opposite wall were several pictures of panting Pomeranians. No kids, but probably a backyard full of dogs.
“I’d ask you to sit, detective, but I can only manage a minute or two.”
Startled, I swiveled around. Grace Wegland was a younger-looking version of her sister. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and she clutched a hankie in her right hand. With her other hand, she dug a pill vial out of her pocket and shook it like a maraca. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said, swaying slightly, carefully enunciating each word.
