I had jotted down the storage location numbers for the half dozen cases I wanted to study further. After handing the numbers to a clerk, I wandered over to a glass case in the corner that displayed the original yellowed map—almost 100 years old—for the “Venice of America” subdivision. I hunched over, studied the layout, and located the plot for Nicole Haddad’s house.
When the clerk returned with the boxes, I lugged them to my car, returned to PAB, and quickly riffled through the files. One case immediately intrigued me. Relovich and Mitchell had responded to a 911 call from a neighbor who spotted a man climbing into the back window of a house in Hollywood, a few blocks north of Franklin Avenue. The officers responded, but just missed the burglar.
I put the case at the top of my priority list when I read the property report. An officer had written that in addition to some electronic equipment, a dozen pieces of “Oriental art” also were stolen. Those pieces might have included
netsukes
and
ojimes
, I figured. The man’s name was Richard Quan, which sounded Chinese, but that did not preclude him from collecting Japanese art.
I headed out to Hollywood to interview Quan. He lived in a 1930’s Spanish-style house with a red tile roof and a courtyard with a bubbling fountain shaded by bottlebrush trees, the bristly red blooms dappling
the water and carpeting the lawn. Quan, fortunately, was home. He invited me inside and we sat around a dining room table. A half dozen antique ginger jars, with delicate rose patterns and gold edging, were lined atop a gleaming Chinese rosewood cabinet set against a dining room wall.
I explained that I was following up on a robbery. Quan’s wife briefly interrupted us and asked if I preferred tea or coffee. I told her tea would be fine; she returned a few minutes later with a pot of oolong tea and two cups on a serving tray. She set it on the coffee table and quietly returned to the kitchen.
Quan filled the cups, handed me one, and asked, “Why are you interested in a case this old?”
“It might be connected to another case I’m tracking. I was interested in the Asian art that was stolen. Any of it Japanese?”
“No,” Quan said stiffly. “You know, there
is
a difference between the many cultures in Asia.”
Trying to placate Quan, I said, “The only reason I ask is because the property report was not specific. It just stated that ‘Oriental art’ was stolen.”
“I find the term
Oriental
offensive,” he said, frowning at me.
“I’m sorry to offend you, but I was just quoting the report. I would have written it up differently.”
“I accept your apology.”
I took a sip of tea. “I would appreciate it if you’d tell me what, specifically, was stolen?”
“Some things of little value; some of great value, including pieces that have been in my family for a long time—hanging scrolls on rice paper, woven silk tapestries, enamel incense burners, and some painted porcelain and carved jade pieces.”
“Did you ever recover them?”
“Yes,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
“I noticed from the arrest report that the two policemen on the scene—Officers Relovich and Mitchell—made an arrest later that week. They pulled over a bunch of kids who had some Asian art in their trunk—”
“Junk,” Quan said contemptuously. “They showed me the items.
They weren’t mine. It turned out these kids had broken into a Chinese restaurant and stole some decorative items that were on the shelves.”
“How’d you recover your items?”
Quan pursed his lips and stared at his tea. “Can we talk confidentially?”
“Certainly. I’m only interested to see if there are any links with my
other
case. If what you tell me doesn’t connect, it’ll go no further than you and me.”
Quan finished his tea and said, “The person who broke into my house and stole these things—it turned out I knew him.”
I waited for him to continue. After a minute of silence, I asked, “Who was he?”
“He was my daughter’s boyfriend at the time. A very bad boy. Associated with a Chinese gang in Monterey Park. My wife and I forbid her to see him. A friend of our daughter confided to us that this boy had sold our things. My wife and I made a deal with my daughter: If she never saw him again, we would not go to the police. She agreed. Detectives later recovered the items from a pawnshop. And that was the end of it. Until now.”
I believed Quan. “Did your daughter keep her word?”
Quan beamed. He opened his wallet and showed me a picture of a young couple with a baby boy. “She married a fine young man a few years ago. This is my first grandchild.”
When I returned to the squad room, I picked up the ringing phone.
“Ash Levine here.”
“I read something in the
Hadassah News
that was very disturbing.”
I sighed. “Hello, Mom.”
“The article said that mixed marriages fail at twice the rate as the national average. Just imagine what the statistics would be if they studied Jewish-
Arab
marriages.”
“Mom, I have no intention of marrying
any
one now.”
“Things can change.”
“Not with me.”
“Are you still dating that Iraqi girl?”
“Lebanese.”
“I can’t keep those countries straight. Are you still dating that
Muslim
?”
“She’s not a Muslim. She’s Christian.”
“Are you still dating her?”
“It’s too complicated to explain. Let’s talk another time.”
“Will you be coming by for Shabes dinner on Friday night?”
“Sorry. I can’t make it.”
“I think you should. Uncle Benny met a nice girl in his building. Single. Very attractive. From a nice family. He wants to bring her along.”
“Forget it. Tell Uncle Benny I appreciate his efforts, but to hold off.”
She did not respond.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently.
“Look. I’m just too busy this week. Please pass that along to Uncle Benny. Tell him
not
to bring the girl.”
“Oh, your job is
so
important. God forbid, another
shvartzeh
gets murdered in South Central and you don’t show up. That would be such a tragedy—”
“I don’t work South Central anymore, Mom.”
“Wherever you work, I think it’s important that you have dinner with us on Friday because—”
“Got to go Mom,” I interrupted.
I hung up, and returned to the files I had recovered from the archives. A homicide in the Hollywood Hills looked faintly promising. The victim was a small-time burglar named Jack Freitas who had clipped the wires to the alarm system at the home he was robbing. The owner, Lloyd Silver, was vacationing in Italy with his family when Freitas broke in. The case was a curious one because someone shot Freitas in the temple, but the killer was never caught.
Relovich and Mitchell had been on patrol in the area, heard the gunshot, and sped to the scene. They found the body and arrested a homeless man wandering down a nearby street, who, they later discovered, had no connection to the case. Homicide detectives theorized at the time, according to the files, that Freitas’ partner double-crossed and killed him because he didn’t want to share the loot.
What interested me was the name of the firm Silver owned—Kyoto
Import-Export. Since Kyoto was a city in Japan, it followed that Silver might have collected some
netsukes
and
ojimes
. The property report, however, did not list any stolen objects d’art. The thieves had blasted open a bedroom safe and stole Silver’s wife’s diamond and emerald jewelry, valued at more than $300,000.
I decided to stop by the Lloyd Silver’s house in the Hollywood Hills.
I headed west on Sunset at dusk and cut north on a canyon road, past hills cloaked in chaparral, studded with yucca and stunted fan palms. Cruising beneath a canopy of live oaks, I pulled onto a narrow, winding street, the homes bordered by oleander with pink and red blossoms, thick stands of bamboo, and cactus gardens, the prickly pears starred with pale orange blooms.
Silver’s house was easy to spot, a dramatic, modern structure, all sharp angles, built of glass and steel, teetering on a hillside. After climbing fifty-one steep steps, I rang the front bell. While I waited for someone to answer, I realized how quiet it was in the hills compared to my loft. The only sounds were the breeze rattling the bamboo and the cars whirring through the canyon.
A man looked through a peephole and shouted, “Who is it?”
“Detective Ash Levine. LAPD.”
“ID?”
I covered the peephole with my badge.
The door opened, revealing a short, skinny man with thinning gray hair and a little ponytail. He wore shorts, sandals, and a short-sleeved yellow silk shirt. “What’s the problem, detective?”
“No real problem. Just checking out some old cases. I wanted to talk to you about that burglar who was killed at your house about ten years ago.”
Silver sighed, absentmindedly fingering his ponytail.
“Can I come inside?” I asked.
“Of course.”
I followed Silver into the living room, which had a sweeping view of the city, sheathed in a film of smog. The room was spare, almost monastic, with hardwood floors and a scattering of black leather and chrome furniture. The white walls were bare.
I joined Silver on the sofa and asked, “When it’s clear, can you see the ocean from here?”
“A few times a year,” Silver said, looking distracted. “So what’s this about? Did you finally find out who killed that thief in my living room?”
“We haven’t.”
“Well, he was no great loss. But that means the shooter is still out there victimizing other home owners.”
“With your cooperation, we might be able to get him behind bars.”
“And recover my property?”
“Maybe.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Not exactly. I’m working on another homicide case and I’m trying to determine if it’s related to that murder at your house.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was,” I said. “But just to cover all my bases, I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Shoot.”
“I noticed from the crime report that three hundred thousand dollars worth of jewelry was stolen from your safe.”
“That’s right,” Silver said.
“That’s a lot of jewelry.”
Silver flashed me a forced smile. “My wife has expensive taste.”
“What kind of business are you in?”
“What does
that
have to do with anything?” he asked, sounding defensive.
“Just background.”
“Okay. I’m in the import-export business.”
“From what country?”
“Japan.”
“What do you import?”
Silver nervously tugged on his ponytail. “Is all this necessary?”
“Got anything to hide?” I said, smiling.
“Of course not. We import Japanese electronic equipment.”
“And what do you export?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You said your business was import-export.”
“It’s just an expression.”
I sensed Silver’s growing irritation, so I shifted the interview in another direction. “Anything else stolen from your house?”
Silver lightly brushed his forefinger across his lips and said “Just the jewelry. I told the officers that at the time.”
“You
sure
nothing else was stolen?” I asked.
“I’m sure.”
“How about any art work or art objects?”
He shook his head.
“You sure no small Japanese figurines were stolen, or things like that?”
Silver glowered at me. “You calling me a liar, detective?”
I knew this was a critical juncture in the interview. If I was too belligerent, too combative, Silver might refuse to answer the questions and tell me to pound sand or call his attorney. I had no leverage. I would simply have to walk back down the fifty-one steps and drive off.
I didn’t know if Silver was lying; I didn’t know if the Freitas homicide and the jewelry heist were connected to the Relovich and Mitchell murders. Still, I was suspicious of Silver for reasons I couldn’t articulate. Maybe it was because Silver’s business had a Japanese connection; maybe it was because he was so testy. The murder also bothered me. Why would Freitas’s partner shoot him during the heist? Why attract all that attention? Why not just wait and plug him later?
I inched closer on the sofa to Silver. “Let me break it down for you. If you don’t level with me right now, I’m going to do two things. First, I’m going to obtain your insurance records and examine the jewelry purchases you made and confirm that they were truly worth three hundred thousand. If they weren’t, I’m going to go after you for insurance fraud. The second thing I’m going to do is talk to the supervising detective at Hollywood Homicide and ask him to reopen the Jack Freitas murder case. If he finds you’ve withheld any information, I’m going to request that he prosecute you for conspiracy,” I said, bluffing. “And conspiracy in a murder can get you locked up for a very long time.”
I knew immediately that I had hit pay dirt. Silver blinked hard. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You’ve got no proof,” he said weakly.
“You continue jacking me around, and I’ll make sure I get the proof.
But if you level with me right now and tell me everything that happened, I’ll forget about the insurance company. I’ll forget about talking to Hollywood Homicide.”
I checked my watch. “I’ll give you one minute to decide. Then I’m leaving. By tomorrow, you won’t even recognize your life anymore.”
Silver gazed out at the smog, a thousand-yard stare. Dropping his chin to his chest, he said softly, “Okay.”
“Okay,
what
?”
“There
were
some other things stolen.” He sighed wistfully. “I had some very nice works.”
“All Japanese?”
“Yes. A hanging scroll from the sixteen hundreds. An eighteenth-century two-panel screen—ink and color on silk. Some exquisite splashed ink landscapes, and a few erotic woodcut prints—all hundreds of years old.”
“Any
netsukes
?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, pained. “
Netsukes
, iron tea kettles, iron sword guards,
ojimes
, lacquered boxes.”