toasted like a marshmallow.”
I checked my reflection in the glass: my face was soot stained and my eyebrows were singed. I bought a package of wipes and, in the parking lot, cleaned my face and hands and then gulped down the water. For a few minutes I leaned against my car, staring into the middle distance, brushing ashes and soot off my suit.
I bought another water for the road and headed back to PAB. I had an idea of who might have gone after me, but I wanted to do a little research, including a DMV check, first. I wanted to be sure.
When I returned to the squad room, I noticed that someone had scattered the items on my desk and jimmied open the bottom drawer, busting the lock. The murder book was still there. Why would someone want to break into my desk and riffle through my murder book? I could see the picture of Latisha Patton under the plastic sheeting on my blotter,
“NO!” I shouted. I won’t lose another witness. My chest was so tight it felt like my lungs were exploding. I tried to stand up, but my legs started to buckle. Gripping the edges of my desk, I pushed myself to my feet, and ran down the stairs, across the street, and into the parking lot.
I careened down the city streets, screeching around corners, until I hit the onramp for the Harbor Freeway, already doing sixty. I flicked on my dashboard light, punched my siren, and slammed down the gas pedal until I hit a hundred. I shimmied off the freeway at a San Pedro exit and slammed on my brakes in front of Theresa Martinez’s apartment complex.
I sprinted past the pool and took the stairs three at a time. Sweat dribbling from my hair into my eyes, coughing and trying to catch my breath, I pounded on her door. A moment later I heard a muffled cry.
After ripping my Beretta out of my shoulder holster, I leaned back and kicked out her front window.
As I jumped inside, slicing my thigh on the jagged glass, I saw a shadow dart to my left. Gripping the Beretta with two hands, elbows flush to my sides, I swiveled around.
“Drop the gun real slow and kick it over here,” said Conrad Patowski, Wegland’s adjutant. He stood behind Theresa Martinez, gripping her neck, pointing his Glock at her temple.
“Drop it!” Patowski shouted. “Or I’ll blow her head off.”
Tears streamed down Martinez’s face and her chest heaved with convulsive sobs.
I knew if I gave up the gun, she’d be dead. And so would I.
“I said drop it!” Patowski said.
I slowly lowered the gun a few inches. I could feel the blood sluicing down my thigh and soaking my sock.
“That’s a good boy,” Patowski said.
I won’t lose another witness. I took a step forward, raised the barrel an inch, and fired.
The boom echoed in the small room.
Martinez fell to the ground with a thud.
CHAPTER 32
I was in a fog of anguish and anger.
Then I heard the scream.
Patowski fell against the door jam and slowly slid to the ground, the blood streaking the wall in a wide, wavy swath. He had dropped the gun after my shot had blasted his shoulder, just missing Martinez. She had fainted, and was now coming to. With one arm, I cradled her; with the other, I punched in the number for Communications Division.
About ten minutes later two ambulances arrived. A crew strapped Patowski, who suffered a through-and- through shot to the shoulder, on one metal gurney and me on another. We both headed for the Little Company of Mary Hospital in San Pedro.
After two detectives from the Force Investigation Division-who investigate every incident in which a cop fires his gun-questioned me, the ER doctor who’d stitched me up stopped by the examination room and handed me a prescription for Vicodin.
“A couple of inches lower, detective, and that broken glass might have severed your femoral artery,” he said, as Ortiz entered the room. “That’s an unpleasant way to go. Fortunately we got you here in time.” He patted my thigh. “Twenty-five stitches and you’re good to go.”
“Shouldn’t you keep him overnight, just to make sure?” Ortiz asked.
“He can go home,” the doctor said. “The Vicodin will help with the pain.” I lifted myself off the table.
“I feel like kicking your ass,” Ortiz said.
I limped around the room, testing my leg.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there without calling for backup,” he said. “You’re a fucking hardhead.”
“I didn’t have time.”
Ortiz shook his head with disgust.
“Before I leave,” I said, “I’d like to question Patowski.”
“That ain’t gonna happen. While you were going through triage, I tried to get a statement, but he dummied up. Said the only person he’s talking to is his lawyer. So let me give you a ride home. Maybe I can knock some sense into you along the way.”
Ortiz drove through the deserted streets and parked at a Denny’s.
“I know this doesn’t meet your high culinary standards,” Ortiz said, scanning the menu, “but there’s not much open at this hour. And you should have something in your stomach for the pain pills.”
Wincing as I reached for a glass of water, I dug the Vicodin vial out of my pocket and popped one. “How’d you know I was at the hospital?”
“I’d just come from a call-out, and one of the guys at the station heard about the shooting in Pedro,” Ortiz said.
I told him how Patowski had tried to barbecue me at the storage facility.
“How’d you know it was Patowski.”
“When I climbed out of that bonfire and I saw asshole shine the flashlight at me, I knew he was a cop. Nobody else holds a flashlight like that.” With my right hand, I gripped my fork, knuckles up, and raised it above my shoulder, forearm parallel to my ribs. I dropped the fork and said, “I suspected it was Patowski, but I didn’t know for sure-until I saw his car parked down the street from Martinez’s apartment. His rear right taillight was broken. I’d shot it out as he was burning rubber at Pomona Storage.”
“Good shooting.”
“If it was good shooting, I’d have hit him, not his taillight.”
“So how’d you know Theresa Martinez would be in trouble?”
“I figured that whoever had peeked at my murder book was looking for wits. One of them is in jail. Since Martinez was the only other wit who really saw anything the night Relovich was killed, I figured she was the most vulnerable target.”
“No surprise Patowski was dirty.”
“I should have figured it out earlier,” I said, picking at my scrambled eggs and hashed browns. “Adjutants are usually aware of everything their bosses are doing. What promotions they’re angling for. How they fudge their expense reports. Who they’re screwing. Since Wegland was dirty, I should have known that, at the very least, Patowski would be aware of it.”
“He must have emptied out that warehouse,” Ortiz said. “Grazzo told me a few dicks with a warrant are at Patowski’s place right now, and they found antiques, jewelry, stacks of cash, paintings, and a bunch of other artistic shit in a back bedroom.”
“I’m sure he was in on it up to his ass,” I said.
“Why’d Wegland rent space in a dumpy storage unit?” Ortiz asked. “He must have had some valuable things in there.”
“He probably had that place for years and years,” I said. “Probably had stashed stuff he’d lifted over the years. That’s why the writing on that key was so worn down. He was smart. It was far enough from L.A., so nobody would recognize him there. The drive was long enough so he’d be able to pick up a tail.”
