Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
“What business are you in, sir?” Bino asked.
“Mostly real estate investment and entertainment,” Markov said. “Why don’t we have a seat in the living room? Can I get you some iced tea?”
Bino shook his head, saying, “No, thanks, I’m fine,” and followed Markov into the living room, thinking, Yeah, rented furniture. He’d seen identical sofa and love-seat combos in other homes in the Hollywood Hills. Bino Villaseñor figured that if he had an Andrew Jackson for every Hollywood player who claimed to be in real estate investment or entertainment, he could afford to retire to that little condo he and the wife dreamed about, down in Seal Beach, only two blocks from the ocean, where he could forget murder and teach the grandkids to build sand castles.
The detective said, “I understand you’re a part owner of Club Samara?”
“I am an investor,” Markov answered reluctantly, never wanting any of his nightclub or massage parlor connections to be publicly known. “I want you to know that I seldom go to the club except on certain occasions when I have to approve a new act, and I have never, to my knowledge, seen the unfortunate dancer you have come about.”
“Her name is Soo Jeong, as far as we know, but around the club she was known as Daisy,” Bino said. “Does that nickname ring a bell?”
Markov shook his head. “I do not think that I have visited that particular investment in nearly two months. I do not know any of the entertainers by name.”
“So, for the record, I guess you wouldn’t know who might’ve killed her and thrown her body in a dumpster?”
“Of course not. Was she perhaps killed by someone who ambushed and raped her?”
“I have no idea,” Bino said. “We’ll wait for the postmortem before learning that sort of thing.”
“I imagine that in the nightclub business the dancers meet a certain element, who seduce them into compromising situations with money offers. And then, who knows what can happen? Am I correct in thinking that?”
Markov used his expressive hands when he spoke, and Bino thought they were graceful, like a dancer’s hands.
The detective said, “You’re the one in the nightclub business, so you tell me.”
That dropped Markov’s hands quietly to his lap and made the Serb remind himself not to talk too much, and only in response. He said, “I guess I watch too much television. I think I am trying to be a detective.”
“Do you know a man named Hector Cozzo?” Bino asked, looking down at the legal pad on which he was making notes. “I believe he works for that particular investment of yours?”
Markov hesitated for just an instant, then decided not to be too clever, saying, “Well, yes, of course. Hector Cozzo is a kind of handyman who runs errands, takes the dancers for fittings, that sort of thing. I am not sure exactly what he does with each of the two business investments I have in Hollywood. I am also invested in Shanghai Massage, but you may have already discovered that.”
“Is Hector Cozzo on your payroll?”
“Heavens, no,” Markov said. “He is the type of person who enjoys to be in the company of beautiful girls. Leonid Alekseev is the manager of Club Samara, and I believe he repays Hector by giving him free meals, or rewards him with an occasional cash payment. Nothing significant, just what you might call a tip for service. I can assure you that if Hector were on the nightclub payroll, he would be given a W-2 and we would report his earnings to the IRS. I am a grateful immigrant to this country and have no wish to cheat my Uncle Sam out of taxes.” He smiled when he said that, as though the detective should be amused.
“Did you know that Leonid Alekseev has a police record?”
“Yes, but a minor one,” Markov said. “He used to manage another nightclub owned by one of his countrymen, and he had to get physical with unruly customers on a few occasions.”
Bino said, “My understanding is that the last time he got physical, the customer ended up in the hospital with two broken arms.”
“Leonid was a lumberman back in Russia,” Markov said, “and does not know his own strength. But he is a splendid maker of drinks. He loves working behind the bar and never flaunts his authority as manager of the club. He makes sure that things run smoothly and that moneys are properly reported to my accountant. That sort of thing.”
“And is there a Korean who does managing duties?”
The hesitation lasted a bit longer before Markov said, “No, we have no Korean employees. There used to be a Mr. William Kim, who was kind of a talent agent. He would bring girls to the club for auditions. I am not sure if he does that anymore. I have not seen him in over a year, but maybe Leonid still deals with him from time to time. I am not certain.”
Bino said, “Did you pay Mr. Kim for his services?”
“No,” Markov said. “We never had to pay him for his service. I believe he received a percentage of his client’s pay, like any talent agent. I believe that Leonid can verify that. Once again, I would not try to escape paying my taxes for any moneys earned at Club Samara or Shanghai Massage.”
“Do you have Mr. Kim’s address and phone number?”
“No, I do not. I doubt that Leonid does, either. These self-styled talent agents who deal with exotic dancers just come and go.”
Bino looked Markov in the eye and said, “What do you know about the Encino house that Hector Cozzo lives in?”
Markov said, “Ah, yes, I neglected to mention that as a further reward for his services as an errand boy and handyman, Hector subleases the Encino property from me at a favorable monthly amount.”
“So you don’t own it?”
“No, I lease it from a gentleman named Garo Seropian, who owns a real estate company in Little Armenia.”
“Do you own this house?”
“No, I lease it. Why do you ask?”
The detective surprised Markov when he said, “You lease your businesses from property owners, as well as this house and Hector Cozzo’s house. You lease everything and own nothing. Is that how it’s done these days? I’m just a midlevel civil servant with little understanding of current business practices.”
“I think the Great Recession has taught us that leasing is the wave of the future,” Markov answered affably. “Easy in, easy out. My cars are also leased. The only thing that I own and can actually sell is the goodwill generated by my customers. I am a kind of modern-day Gypsy traveler.”
“Which means you fold your tents and jump on the caravan and are gone by morning, huh?” Bino said.
Markov tried to chuckle, but it didn’t work. He said, “Have you spoken to Hector Cozzo about this terrible incident?”
“Your Russian manager gave us his home address in Encino and a cell number, but the number’s no longer in service. I told Leonid Alekseev to inform Hector Cozzo that I need to speak with him, but if he doesn’t call soon I’m going to have to drop by his house in Encino. Or should I say
your
house in Encino?”
“In point of fact,” Markov said, trying another chuckle, “the house of Garo Seropian.”
“Yeah, I almost forgot,” Bino said. “You own nothing but goodwill.”
“I see how peculiar our way of doing business must seem to you,” Markov said. “I think it is because we immigrants have trouble adjusting to the meticulous American ways. We come from places where record keeping is . . . slapdash, if that is the correct English word.”
Bino said, “Hector Cozzo is not an immigrant. If he doesn’t contact me soon, I’m going to start wondering about his slapdash ways. And speaking of slapdash, the other investor, Mr. Ramishvili, whose name is on the building’s lease and the liquor license, doesn’t know any more about the managing of the club than I do. So now I’m wondering how handy your handyman Hector Cozzo really is, and exactly what he does to help Leonid Alekseev. You have a lot of people between you and your investments, don’t you?”
Markov again attempted a chuckle; and it came out even worse than last time. He said, “Are you sure I cannot get you something to drink?”
Bino shook his head and said, “About Hector Cozzo: did you know he has a criminal record?
Markov looked up, as though trying to remember. “I may have heard that he had minor skirmishes with the law when he was younger. But I think everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you?”
“Like Charles Manson?” Bino asked.
It was hard to see if the detective was smiling under the bushy white mustache, so Markov opted for ignorance and said, “I am afraid I do not know that person.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bino said. “We’ll be talking to Mr. Cozzo and maybe Mr. Kim if we can, to see what they can tell us about Daisy. But in the meantime, if either of them should call you, give them my number.” Bino dropped a business card on the coffee table and stood up.
Markov hesitated before saying, “Detective, I am very sad about the poor girl, Daisy. If there is anything I can do for her family . . . well, do they live locally?”
Bino answered, “As far as we know, all of her family is in South Korea. We think she was smuggled into this country.”
“I see,” Markov said. “Well, please be assured that I would never have anything to do with an investment if I knew it involved illegal immigrants. As a young man I waited for a long time before I received a visa to come to America, and I have always tried to be grateful for the privilege.”
“I’m sure you’re a real credit to your heritage and to this country,” Bino said, and Markov was frustrated because again he couldn’t see if the detective was grinning at him under that bushy white mustache. And those penetrating brown eyes revealed nothing.
THIRTEEN
S
unday for Lita
Medina at the Babich house had meant food, followed by a stroll through the shops at Ports O’ Call with Dinko, where a mariachi band was playing on a restaurant patio. Then more food, and another stroll with Dinko along the cliffs at Point Fermin Park. Then an evening in front of the television watching
60 Minutes.
This was the first day that Dinko had not pressed Lita about the possibility of a future together. It had been a peaceful day with lots of hand-holding and nuzzling and, a few times, a serious kiss. One of those had taken place on the Point Fermin cliffs with the offshore summer breeze blowing her hair around her face. Dinko had to gently sweep the hair back to find her lips.
After they’d kissed, all he could think of to say was a reprise of what he’d said to her before: “You are loved.”
She’d said nothing in reply but had put her head on his shoulder as they walked across the grass to the car. They saw the feral peacock fan its tail feathers and squawk when a child approached too close.
Both Dinko and Lita had groaned and laughed when Brigita Babich said she was retiring early and wanted to know if they’d like her to make a snack for them while they continued watching TV. She’d glanced at them and knew they were going to make love after she went to bed. And though in past years she’d told Dinko, “Not under my roof,” requiring that Dinko’s occasional overnight girlfriends sleep alone in the guest room, this time Brigita knew things were different. Lita Medina was different. Her son had become astonishingly different since meeting this girl. She could say nothing about where they slept or what they did under her roof.
Brigita Babich had spent the day searching her heart for answers to her deep misgivings. She was ashamed to think it could be because the girl was Mexican. Her husband had always hoped that Dinko would marry a Croatian girl, or at least an all-American hybrid who could produce babies that would look Croatian. What would he say to
this
potential match? That made her shame deepen, and she thought, No, it’s not that the girl is Mexican. It’s her past. A dancer from a strip club in Wilmington? The girl was virtually a prostitute. What had she done in Mexico to make a living? What was she doing in Los Angeles now?
Brigita knew her only child better than he knew himself. She’d been the one who’d spoiled him, especially after her husband died. She knew he was lazy and immature and had never taken advantage of the good job on the docks that nepotism had provided him. Nevertheless, he had a big heart, even as a child, always taking care of stray cats and dogs and, on one occasion, an injured seagull that had lived with them for a month before being set free. She’d wanted a strong woman to take him in hand and make him grow up and be responsible.
And that was the troubling thing about this child, Lita. By virtue of who she was, Lita
was
making Dinko seem more mature, more responsible. This change was in his eyes, in every word he said, in every gesture since he’d met this girl. He’d spoken in front of Lita about taking more shifts on the docks and earning the kind of money a longshoreman should make, the kind of money his father had made. The kind of money that had built their house, which was owned free and clear. In a few short days, this girl had somehow transformed Dinko in the very way Brigita had always hoped a good woman might do it in a few
years
.
But then she thought, No! Not a nineteen-year-old girl from a strip club. Not an illegal immigrant whose story about an ailing mother and younger brothers in Mexico did not ring true. All of that made Brigita Babich fear Lita Medina, for the sake of her son. And yet . . . when Brigita looked into the unsettling amber eyes of this child, she saw goodness there, regardless of the kind of life she’d lived or the doubtful history she’d recounted. Brigita saw an uncomplaining hard worker and a strong, intelligent girl who could make Dinko happy and turn him into a real man, like his father. And Brigita could see a helpful, beautiful daughter who she could grow to love very easily, and who would surely provide Brigita with pretty grandchildren.
All of this soul searching left Brigita Babich bone weary when she retired for the night, leaving Dinko and Lita blissfully alone in the living room with Ollie the cat. Brigita fell sound asleep before 9:00.
When Dinko was sure that his mother was asleep, he kissed Lita and whispered, “Let’s go to my room. I wanna tell you about the house I’m gonna buy for you and how I’m gonna help your family. I’m gonna keep bugging you till you say y-y-yes just to shut me up!”
By midnight, most of the preliminary work was finished at the taped-off crime scene near Hollywood and Vine, and it had drawn a television crew that had slipped Teddy twenty bucks for a ten-word interview, which had made the local news at eleven. Trombone Teddy had also been given ten more by Flotsam and Jetsam, who were back on patrol after their undercover adventure, and who’d stopped by the crime scene to see what was going on. The surfers had known Teddy for a few years and, like the other coppers on Watch 5, were amused by the quickly circulating story of him sleeping with a dead body.
And then, much to Teddy’s delight, Hollywood Nate and Britney Small cruised by out of curiosity, and Nate, also an old acquaintance of Trombone Teddy’s, gave him another ten dollars just for having been through such a grueling ordeal earlier in the evening. A few more black-and-whites drove by to look at him and chuckle.
Teddy couldn’t figure out what the fuss was about and why he was being rewarded. He hadn’t seen the dead girl at all and hadn’t even smelled her; nor had he been able to smell much else in the past ten years. But with forty bucks in his kick, he did the sensible thing as soon as the detectives let him go. He went straight to the nearest liquor store and bought all the 80 proof gin the largesse could buy, and drank much of it before he could begin heading to his favorite doorway, where he kept an old blanket for serious sleeping.
The problem was, he’d gotten hammered in a hurry. He hadn’t guzzled a bottle of gin like that in he didn’t know how long. Teddy was lurching from one side of the sidewalk to the other as he staggered along Hollywood Boulevard. Then he slouched off to a side street and didn’t know where the hell he was.
Both Chester Toles and Marius Tatarescu were off that night, so Sergeant Murillo had teamed up their partners in 6-X-46. At Selma and Las Palmas, Fran Famosa and Sophie Branson had jammed up four young cruisers from a Compton Crips gang, who’d come up on the subway wearing gang colors for a night of hustling and strong-arming the gay men who frequented those streets. They’d already begun harassing gay pedestrians when 6-X-46 spotted them.
Sophie was finishing up field interrogation cards on all four and had run them for wants and warrants with negative results. Their shop was parked fifty feet away on Selma Avenue, with the parking lights on. Fran had left the passenger door hanging open in case she had to run back for assistance.
Sophie finished up the four FIs and said, “Okay, why don’t you head for the subway now and go home. Your Hollywood evening is over.”
The four Crips grinned and whispered to each other, and blew kisses at Fran Famosa while sauntering away singing the theme from the
Cops
television show, changing the “boys” to “girls.”
“Bad girls, bad girls, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”
“Assholes!” Sophie said, but Fran had to laugh.
Sophie headed back to the radio car while Fran stayed put to make sure the Crips kept moving. Sophie opened the driver’s door and sat down, but then she felt peculiar, only she didn’t know why. It was one of those moments where she literally felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck. She turned around and, through the dividing screen, saw a man sitting behind her.
Sophie screamed and leaped from the car, pulling her pistol and yelling, “Get out! Get the fuck outta the car!”
But, of course, he did not have that option, not from the backseat, where prisoners sit. He could get in, but not out. Fran Famosa came running up and jerked open the back door, and Trombone Teddy stared at both of them, thoroughly confused. He staggered out and looked at the car, suddenly aware that it was painted black and white.
Fran said to Sophie, “This is the guy from the dumpster. This is Trombone Teddy!”
“What in the hell are you doing in our car?” Sophie yelled.
“I got lost,” Teddy said. “The other officers made me leave my dumpster and I can’t find my favorite doorway and I saw the car with the door open and I wanted to lay down for a while. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll give you a place to sleep!” Sophie said, still steaming, her heartbeat barely beginning to slow.
“I understand,” Teddy said. “This has not been my day.”
But Fran Famosa said, “Partner, I saw Hollywood Nate handing him money. It’s partly Nate’s fault that Teddy got wrecked like this. And he’s kind of a celebrity tonight. Maybe we can help him find his doorway?”
“It’s on Cherokee,” Teddy said, “right off Hollywood Boulevard. I’m slightly lost at this moment.”
“That’s right around the corner,” Fran said to Sophie.
Sophie Branson reluctantly told Teddy, “Okay, get back in the car and we’ll take you to your doorway.”
A few minutes later, Trombone Teddy was overjoyed to spot his doorway with his blanket folded up where he’d left it.
“That’s it!” he said. “That’s my doorway!”
He got out of the car and said guilelessly to Sophie, “I’m real sorry, Officer, but if I may say, it was charming to hear you scream like a little girl. We sometimes forget that police officers are human beings.”
“Get your ass to bed!” Sophie said as the radio car roared away from the curb.