The Gumshoe Diaries (8 page)

The waitress came and took my order and I
settled on the Kobe beef and Kurobuta pork combo with the usual
sides of veggies. Shabu Shabu isn’t my favorite Asian bill of fare
but it fills an empty hole and right now my stomach was pushing the
red zone on the old tummy scale! The food came quickly and I busied
myself dipping the veggies first and then the meats into the pot of
boiling water. I watched the two men continue their conversation
with one eye and my lunch with the other. I had just dipped my
first mouthful in the sauce when the two of them got up and walked
out of the restaurant. So much for lunch! I pulled a twenty out of
my shirt pocket and stuffed as big a bite as I could into my mouth
before I hurried after the odd couple.

As soon as I stepped outside I saw them get
into Ray-Ray’s unmarked police cruiser. I was screwed! Wherever
they were headed it was going to be without my shadow on their
tails. Whatever they were up to was yet to be discovered. Time for
plan B, back to USC to see what my favorite nut-bar,
Looney
Tunes,
had come up with, although I was pretty sure the blue
fibers would lead me back to Ray-Ray somehow? Anyway, there was no
use wasting a perfectly good meal. I went back into the Shabu Shabu
joint and finished my lunch!

****

(“she put de lime in de coconut, called de doctor,
woke him up”)…Nilsson…1973

Chapter Ten

Ahmanson Bio Research Center, USC…Tuesday,
Feb 17, 2009…6pm

Judy Looney pulled off her specs and tossed
them wearily onto the desk in front of her. Glancing quickly at her
wristwatch she groaned audibly. It was 2am and she couldn’t believe
that she had been working non-stop since lunch,
again!
It
was the third time this week and she was beginning to feel every
one of her forty something years. Thank God for Maxwell House and
Folgers she thought; the lab’s java choices. Choices based entirely
on cost versus taste of course. Lab rats are predominately poorer
than the average rodent, a sad fact of life. But who cares, after
the eighth or ninth cup nobody really tastes anything anyway. Hot,
black and strong are the only criteria for double and triple
shifts.

Sure, the teaching gig paid the rent, but
that only accounted for 6 of the 18 hours she put in most days. It
was her passion for research that kept her in the lab until the wee
hours. Students would come and go but finding a cure for the big
“C” was what she was all about. Being a Fellow at this school was a
big deal. A bigger deal was being a part of the Regenerative
Medicine / Stem Cell Research team at USC; now that was a huge
honor! It was what put the spring in her step and the shit eating
grin on Edward’s face, her traditionalist Scots/Irish old man
(father). He was a tough as nails retired longshoreman who
emigrated from Glasgow to the United States during the cold war,
1962 to be exact. He brought his new bride straight from the Chapel
to the Port of Los Angeles where he put in thirty five years
loading and unloading containers from around the world. The young
couple called San Pedro their home and settled in a small five room
cottage within spitting distance of Ports of Call. It was a little
dicey fitting into their Cabrillo St. neighborhood with its thick
Yugoslavian population. In May of 1968 his wife Trudy bore him a
daughter, the apple of his eye, and his pride and joy. They named
her Judith Theresa Looney, after his great Aunt who had raised him.
His own parents had been killed during the London blitz in 1943.
Tragic really, and tragedy had followed him to the new world as
well. Trudy would later die in child birth, two years after
Judith’s arrival. While that child, also a wee girl whom they
called Cassie (short for Cassandra) would pass at the tender age of
eight after a short and fierce battle with cancer.

That was the defining moment in Judy’s life.
It changed her forever. It drove her to medicine. It was also
responsible for her
Looney Tunes
nickname the one we all
love to tease her about. I should explain that. You see, prior to
Cassie’s death Judy could have been best described as a wallflower,
shy and reserved to the point of appearing autistic. For whatever
reasons, reasons only she could know, the old Judy was buried with
her sister on that day as well. The pre-teen that emerged became a
hellion of legendary proportions. The shy little girl whom Edward
sometimes worried about became a fearless woman child that filled
him with pride one minute and something between terror and anger
the next. Fast forward a few decades and here she sat, thirty miles
from where she grew up, still Daddy’s little girl, when she allowed
it, and working non-stop on the cure that would fulfill a promise
she made to a ten year-old one cold and stormy night in 1978.

Judy punched off her desktop, watched as it
powered down then swiveled around 180 degrees to make her getaway
for home. Standing slowly she yawned and did a big girl stretch,
her arms reaching high for the ceiling as her lungs filled with
air. In mid-exhale the phone rang loudly, startling her into a
freakish leap, like a garden gnome on crack.

“SHIT,” she shrieked, spinning around quickly
to lunge for the offending piece of office equipment! She picked up
the handset and screamed into the receiver.

“
PISS OFF,”
she screamed,
slamming the handset back into the cradle she sat back down to
catch her breath. She waited for the phone to ring again. She knew
it was me; nobody else would be calling at this hour expecting to
get an answer. She also knew that I wouldn’t sleep until she told
me what I needed to know. She watched the phone with an unblinking
stare and drummed her fingers on the desk impatiently. I didn’t
disappoint her, and she picked up a millisecond after the first
ring.

“What Whitey,
WHAT?
”

“Take it easy doll, don’t get your panties in
a bunch,” I replied defensively.

“Hey, leave my underwear out of this DICK,
and why are you bugging me at this hour anyway? Didn’t I tell you
to call me in a day or two just this morning? “

“I just want to go home, feed my cats and
crash for a couple of hours before the freaking alarm screams at me
to get up and do this all over again!”

“Hey, hey, just because you coaxed that
family secret outta me in a weak moment doesn’t mean you can throw
it back at me whenever you please. Besides, you promised never to
call me that Judy. A promise is a promise!”

That felt a little pathetic and I could tell
by the silence on the other end of the line that Judy picked up on
my self loathing. I heard her stifle a giggle and waited for a
sarcastic come-back line. I didn’t have to wait long.

“
Awww
, sorry bout that Nancy, maybe we
can chat about that when you’re done with your period,” she said
with a grin that I could feel through the phone line.

“Funny Judy, you’re a real riot! Look, just
tell me what you know about those threads I left you this morning
and we can both call it a day,” I snapped.

“Alright Whitey, this is getting boring
anyway. So, about the threads, well, you were right. They’re off a
LAPD uniform. Whoever was wearing it was a male with O positive
blood. He is likely over forty and is graying slightly. I can’t
tell you height, weight, or shoe size, but I can tell you that he
smokes and that he likes his sandwiches with brown mustard. How’s
that for a freebie? This is a freebie, right Whitey?”

“Ah, natch on the freebie doll, I’ll have to
owe you for now, you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know, gumshoes don’t make dick, no
pun intended.”

“Okay, I deserved that. But I have to know,
how did you glean all of that from three tiny threads?”

“It’s not rocket science Whitey. The threads
must have been off a shirt sleeve, near the cuff I’m guessing.
Since its December the LAPD is dressing out in their winter gear,
right? I figured near the cuff because the hands are next to almost
every action we take. Like for instance, eating, smoking, drinking,
washing up after you take a leak, or mixing it up on the job with a
feisty perp.
Am I right?
”

“Sounds plausible, I guess that makes
sense?”

“Trust me, it makes perfect sense.”

“Still, humor me,” I pleaded.

“Sheesh Whitey, you’re a piece of work,”
replied Judy! I could hear her reacquiring a comfortable position
in her chair. She yawned deeply and then began her
dissertation.

“Alright gumshoe, by the numbers then. ONE,
three blue cotton fibers, no great stretch, easily traced to the
manufacturer, who by the way has an exclusive contract with the
city for the fabric; which I identified by lot through the dye in
the material. TWO, blood type recognition, also a no brainer. The
fella may have got a paper cut issuing a citation or maybe cut
himself shaving, I don’t know, but the samples tested as O positive
and had traces of testosterone in the sweat also found on the
fibers. THREE, the gray hair was a lucky find as one of the fibers
had a small follicle on it, likely from his arm. That was another
indicator that we are dealing with a male subject here, well that
and the testosterone. FOUR, the age is an educated guess based on
the follicle. FIVE, traces of nicotine were on the follicle as well
as the threads. And finally SIX, the fella must have gone to the
same charm school as you did because this little piggy likes his
deli with spicy brown mustard. Just like you, right Whitey? There,
is that enough detail for you?”

I offered up my praise with a long and low
whistle over the telephone line and I could hear her snicker
tiredly on the other end.

“Very impressive, you’re just too cool for
school Miss Looney, why aren’t we sleeping together anyway?”

“You’re a class act Roode, unfortunately
you’re also an asshole. Besides, I’d rather do the deed with your
ex, you know that.”

“That’s right; you two are still thick as
thieves aren’t you. Thanks for rubbing it in.”

“My pleasure, on both counts,” she replied
softly.

“On that note I’m hanging up and going to
bed,” I said, half hoping she felt like talking more. I always had
a soft spot for Looney Tunes even if she was a rival of sorts.

“Okay, I’m doing the same. G’nite Whitey,
hope that helps you earn a buck or two.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see, g’nite…”

****

(“when it comes to being lucky she’s cursed, when it
comes to loving me she’s worse…”)…Cat Stevens…1967

Chapter Eleven

Alexandria Hotel, Los Angeles…Wednesday, Feb
18, 2009…Noon

Staring out the corner window in my second
floor flat above the bar at this flea bag hotel I recapped the last
couple of days as I watched some of the work-a-day skirts make
their way up 5
^th
Street on their lunch beak. You know,
the worst part of living in the city is you can rarely escape the
noise. Short of a living in a tomb you just had to learn to live
with it! I wish I could say that was the only hardship a
city-dweller dealt with, but that would be wishful thinking. There
were the rats, the roaches, the stench permeating from any alley
courtesy the great unwashed, and a hundred other pick-em
inconveniences. But you know what; despite of all that, one thing
managed to make it all worthwhile. Don’t bother guessing, I’ll just
tell you, OPPORTUNITY. I know what your thinking, WTF right?

It’s not rocket science; the city’s alive
24/7, no matter what time of day all year round. Now, granted, LA
isn’t NYC by any stretch of the imagination, but if you want a
cheeseburger, chili fries and a chocolate shake at 3am, not a
problem, check out Pink’s. You want to catch a first run movie or
off-off Broadway play at 7am on Sunday morning, just crack open
your laptop and surf the web, you’ll find one, guaranteed. You say
that you need a kidney transplant from an AB negative donor? Okay,
that might be a stretch. But short of a kidney or heart transplant,
you had an opportunity to do just about anything in this town. So,
why the philosophical waxing you ask? I don’t know, I think I’m
just getting old. Or it could be that I’m close enough to sixty to
smell the tiger balm, or maybe because I’m still paying spousal
support to my trans-sexual ex who just happens to be screwing
around with the only woman I’ve thought twice about who wasn’t free
lancing near the Inglewood Forum or table dancing at The Body
Shoppe on Sunset.
Whaaaaa
, I’m actually nauseating myself!
Okay back to the case.

I had decided I needed a good meal and took
myself and the facts Judy Looney shared with me to The Pantry on
9
^th
and Figueroa where camped out at the counter and
mulled it all over. If it had been closer to 5 o’clock than noon I
would be doing this at Casey’s with a proper pint Guinness and a
Jameson chaser, but it wasn’t so here I sat. I’ve been coming here
three to four times a week since I started with the LAPD back in
the 1970s. Actually my father had been a regular as well, ever
since they moved into the corner slot in 1950. Before that I think
my grandpa frequented the original diner which had been up the
street from the current location. That old man was a pancake
junkie, God love him. You could always find him there on any Sunday
morning. Comfort food was his religion and The Pantry was his
cathedral.

Okay, enough with the history lessons.
Something Judy said was bothering me. It wasn’t any of the physical
characteristics that she speculated on, let’s face it they could
have fit at least a hundred profiles on the job in LA. There are
what, nine or ten thousand sworn officers to choose from after all.
Nope, it was the brown mustard comment that was rattling around my
melon. Brown mustard,
really,
who eats brown mustard these
days? You’d have to be a mustard
consœur
to willingly spread
that stuff on your baloney sandwich. I hate that stuff and I’m
pretty sure I’m not alone on that. So why was this bothering me? I
had already connected the easy dots; clearly this cop had spent a
fair amount of time at Jai and Lu’s popular deli. That was a no
brainer. There should have been an obvious trail here.