deeply. It had been a long time since I had slept without waking up in a cold sweat, without a nightmare, without tossing and turning, without having to pop three Tylenol in the morning for a stress headache.
The next morning, lying in bed, I decided to work from home. Normally, Duffy would squawk about me being away from the squad room. But there wasn’t much he could say now. And I just couldn’t deal with him today. If Duffy would’ve simply leveled with me last year, owned up to what he’d done, instead of letting me take the fall, everything I had gone through the past year would have been-
“Damn,” I shouted, jumping out of bed. If I continue to go down that road, I’ll be too pissed off to get any work done today. And I might be too pissed off to return to Felony Special and work for Duffy. I didn’t want to leave the unit. This was the best job in the department. If I wanted to stay at Felony Special, I had better learn to let it go; I had better learn to live with it and tolerate Duffy. Could I? If I continued to use my leverage against him to get what I wanted, maybe I could.
I showered, dressed, ate a bowl of cereal, and made a cup of coffee. Sipping my coffee, I read my synopses from the interviews with Theresa Martinez and the San Pedro crackhead. Since they were my only eye wits of Wegland’s ghost partner, I decided to interview them again.
I walked to PAB, picked up my car from the lot, drove up Interstate 5 and arrived at the Pitchess Detention Center in the early afternoon. After dropping my Beretta in the metal locker, I waited in the interview room for a few minutes. When the deputies brought the junkie out, he wearily walked across the room, hunched over, hands slightly in front of him, like he was an old man pushing a walker.
He plopped down on a chair with a grunt. “I’m tired, youngblood. Too tired to do long time.”
“Then you better give up the pipe.”
“Soon as I get out, I gonna clean up my own self.”
“Look, I appreciate you talking to me, helping me out with this case.”
“Ain’t no thang.”
“I just have a few more questions.”
He nodded.
“When I talked to you in the Harbor Division jail, right after you got popped, you told me you spotted two guys at the bottom of the hill, walking toward their car, looking around.”
“Aiight. I remember that.”
“Can you describe the guy who got into the passenger side?”
“Looked kinda Mez-can. Skinny and taller than the other dude. I tol’ you that already.”
“I know that. Anything else you remember?”
“I just seen that Mez-can for a second before I was on my way.”
“I’m trying to get a little better description.”
“Gonna be tough. That junk ride I was on that night done wrecked my memory. And both fools wearing those lids that sailors wear. Made it hard to see their faces.”
“Watch caps?”
“Thas right.”
“Anything else you remember about this Mexican guy? Think about it. Take your time.”
He rubbed his palms together. A few seconds later he said, “Dang. Just can’t think of nothin’ else. Wish I could help you. And help myself. I’m sorry ‘bout that.”
“So am I.”
When I returned to my car, I opened my briefcase and searched for the address of Theresa Martinez’s sister. Martinez was spooked after the shooting and decided to stay with her sister down in Santa Ana. I had a drive ahead of me, but fortunately the traffic was light. I hit ninety on the 5 all the way down to Santa Ana. I parked on a cul- de-sac lined with modest ranch-style homes, many with RVs and boats in the driveway, that all looked alike. After ringing the doorbell, I could see Martinez peeking through the front window blinds. She opened the door and let me in.
She grabbed the remote and flipped off the television, which was playing a soap opera.
“Can I get you anything to drink. Coffee or soda?”
Still standing in the foyer, I shook my head.
She motioned toward the sofa. “Please come in.” I sat at one end and she sat on the other.
“I been watching a lot of trash TV lately,” she said, looking embarrassed. “Can’t really concentrate.”
“You’ve got to give yourself some time. You went through a traumatic experience.”
I pulled a card out of my wallet, jotted a number on the other side, and handed it to her. “This is the phone number for one of the city’s victim’s assistance coordinators. Tell her I told you to call. She’ll set you up with some counseling. It won’t cost you anything.”
“I appreciate it. I keep thinking of that man holding the gun to my head.” She hugged herself and said, “I should talk to somebody.”
“I promise you, it’ll help.”
“I never got a chance to thank you. If you hadn’t shown up at my apartment, I hate to think-”
“I’m just glad I made it there in time.”
She reached up, wrapped a tendril of hair around an index finger and stared at the wall.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
She continued staring blankly at the wall.
“Remember when you told me that you saw two people coming down the street that night you were arrested.”
She nodded, still avoiding my eyes.
“You said you couldn’t see the driver, but you got a better look at the other guy. You said you thought he was Mexican.”
“That’s what I saw,” she said in a soft monotone.
“I just want to make sure you’re not holding out on me. Because I got the sense that maybe you saw something else, something you haven’t told me. And it’s very important that you tell me everything.”
“Why’s it important?” she asked, finally turning toward me. “You already arrested the guy who killed the cop. Why do you need to keep talking to me?”
“The killer, I believe, was the driver of the car you spotted. I’m still looking for his partner. The passenger. The Mexican.”
She looked up at me, eyes wide, and said, panic in her voice, “You still think I’m in danger?”
“Yes,” I said, unsure if I believed it. But if I had to put the fear of God into her, so be it. “The only way I can get you out of danger is to find this guy and lock him up. So if there’s something you know that might help me find him, please tell me now.”
She dropped her chin to her chest and cried softly, wiping away the tears with her thumbs. I grabbed a Kleenex off an end table and handed it to her.
“I was able to save you at your apartment in San Pedro. If it happens again, I may not be able to get there in time.”
Crying and sniffling, she leaned across the sofa and said, “The night I was busted, I knew some pipehead was talking to you. There was some chatter around the jail that night about it. I knew he’d seen two guys with watch caps by the car at the bottom of the hill near where I was busted. I knew the guy in the driver’s side was a Mexican.”
“So you just parroted what he said.”
“I added a little of what I’d seen that night. But it was basically a variation of what he told me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. “I was hoping you’d help me out when my case came to court. Then you pressured me at work. I didn’t want to lose my job. And I figured if I told you the same story as the pipehead, I’d be safe.”
“Safe how?”
She balled up the Kleenex and gripped it tightly. “If someone had to testify, I wanted it to be him. Since we told you the same story, I hoped he’d be the one to tell it in court. I didn’t want to be a target. I didn’t want these people coming after me.” She shook her head. “But they came after me anyway.”
“And the composite you worked on with the police artist?”
“Bogus,” she said softly.
