“You going to finally listen to me? You going to back off this case now?”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t our case anymore. South Bureau Homicide’s got it. You fuck with me on this again, Ash, and you’re going to regret it. I’ll call I.A. myself and report you for violating department policy. You can’t poach on another division’s case just ’cause you’ve got a beef to settle. You understand me?”
I nodded.
“When you got the lead, you should’ve let the department investigate it. No more flying solo. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“I cut my San Diego trip short. All night I was calling you. Now I see why you didn’t get back to me. I’m putting you back on call tomorrow night. You got too much fucking time on your hands.”
“You promised me I couldn’t go back on call until Monday. I’ve still got a lot of paperwork to finish up.”
Duffy shook his head. “I changed my mind. Tomorrow night. End of discussion. So how’re you feeling?”
“I may be out a Zegna suit. I think that duct tape ruined my pants.”
“Listen, Ash, you got to be careful. That one gangster got away. You want a unit outside your building?”
“I can’t live like that. Anyway, I’m sure this guy’s laying low.”
“So you think Li’l Eight’s your guy?”
“At least I know Rip isn’t.”
“You don’t know for sure that Li’l Eight was involved. Right?”
“Not for sure.”
“He may have just wanted to put the hurt to a cop. And it sounds like that gal you jammed who put you on to Rip and Li’l Eight may’ve been blowing smoke up your ass-just to get you off her back.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Because all you can do is wait for Captain Sippleman to find Li’l Eight. Let him do his job.”
I drove back downtown and returned to my loft. Grabbing a bottle of ale out of the refrigerator, I took a few long pulls and walked to a back window. I could see in the distance a patch of the Los Angeles River, encased in high cement banks, the shallow water slick and black, glimmering under a full moon, trickling to the sea. Pushing myself away from the window, I downed the rest of the ale, hoping it would calm my nerves. It had been a long time since I had felt like this: heart pounding, pulse racing, a quicksilver mood shifting from sudden exultation to anger. Exultation because I had escaped death and was alive. Anger because someone just tried to kill me. This was how I felt when I was a soldier, after a firefight, returning from a night patrol.
I had been shot at numerous times then, and when I was a young patrolman I had a few close calls. But I felt much more rattled now. Maybe it was the humiliation; maybe I’m just getting too old for this shit. After downing my ale, I was still anxious and jittery. I knew another ale would just give me a headache. One of my patrol partners at Pacific called me “The Two Brew Hebrew” because I rarely ordered a third when we went drinking after our shift. Occasionally I did, but I paid for it the next morning. I told him that the stereotype about Jews being unable to tolerate much alcohol was true. My Uncle Benny once quipped that Jews don’t drink because it interferes with their suffering. But I read a more scientific explanation somewhere that Jews have a genetic mutation that increases the levels of a toxic chemical when they drink, which brings on headaches and nausea.
I jogged down the steps, climbed into my car, pulled onto the freeway, and headed toward the ocean. Fifteen minutes later I was crouching beside a window, in a stand of oleander, that offered me a clear view of Nicole reading on her living room sofa. I surveyed the room, decorated in an expensive, eclectic style, with gleaming hardwood floors, an intricately woven Persian rug, hammered-copper wall sconces and Art Nouveau floor lamps flanking the sofa. I circled the house, and when I was sure her boyfriend was not lurking about, I rang the bell.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“I’m collecting money for the Chabad Chanukah fund.”
When she opened the door, she scowled at me, her face set in an expression of tight, pinched disapproval. “I thought I already told you not to come by here, that I’ll contact you when I want to see you.”
She tried to slam the door, but I pushed it open, and edged her out of the way with my shoulder. “I decided I don’t like that plan.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend, remember? So that’s the way it’s got to be.” She leaned toward me and sniffed. “You’re drunk.”
“Not really.”
She pointed to the door. “Get out.”
I gripped her by the shoulders and kissed her hard.
She wriggled free and stepped back. “What’s with you tonight?”
“Two guys just tried to kill me.”
She slumped onto the sofa, looking stunned.
“Well I’m one for two. One down. One to go.”
“What happened?”
Ignoring her question, I fell onto the sofa, kissing her, working my way down her neck to the base of her throat.
She looked up at me, eyes half closed. “I can see I’m not going to have to whup you upside the head tonight.”
“Somebody,” I said, “already did that for you.”
A gust of wind rustling the oleander woke me. I reached for the Beretta. Gripping the gun, I realized where I was. Nicole was asleep, her hair splayed on the pillow as if she was floating underwater. I checked the digital clock on the end table: 7:05.
I dressed quietly and left without waking her.
When I entered the squad room, a half dozen detectives immediately surrounded me and volunteered to search for Li’l Eight. They may not have liked me, but if someone tries to kill a cop, everyone closes ranks.
“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but the Seventy-seventh is all over it. They’re hunting this guy down. But I’ll let you know if I need you.”
When I returned with a cup of coffee, Ortiz strolled over. “You need some backup, homes. Let me ride with you. At least until my partner gets back from vacation.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
Ortiz stood up and straightened his pants. “Let me pass along some advice my grandfather used to give me. It’s an old Mexican saying: All your friends are false; all your enemies are real.”
I fingered Ortiz’s frayed, antiquated corduroy sports coat and said, “Let me pass along some advice my grandfather used to give me: Dress British, think Yiddish.”
When Ortiz walked off, chuckling, I called Captain Sippleman. “Any luck in tracking down Li’l Eight?”
“Jesus, Ash, it’s been less than twenty-four hours. Give us a chance.”
“When you get him into custody, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know as soon as possible.”
“Will do. And don’t worry. We’ll get him. I sent out a state-wide BOLO. And every watch commander on every shift in every division in the city knows we’re looking for this clown. As you know, a lot of these gangsters are too stupid to leave the ’hood. So I also gave an extra heads up to all our South Central patrol captains and Sheriff’s department stations on the southside. They know this guy’s a number one priority target.”
I wanted to track down Li’l Eight myself, stick the barrel of my gun in his face, and pull the fucking trigger. But after my last attempt at going solo and almost getting killed, I decided that the 77th had a better chance of finding him and taking him into custody, than I did. They had the patrol officers scouring South Central, the gang officers with snitches, the vice cops making arrests and picking up scuttlebutt on the street.
Duffy wandered by and sat on the edge of my desk. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”
I shook my head.
“The Times has got a big spread on the Wegland dirty cop story. TV and radio is chasing. I’ve been sending calls all morning to Press Relations.”
“They get any of it right?”
“About half right. Not much more you can do. Let Captain Sippleman do his thing. Fortunately, you’re back on call tonight, so the problem of you fucking around with the Patton case has been solved.”
