Kind of Blue (32 page)

“Why didn’t you tell the police or the insurance company about these items? They weren’t listed on the property report.”

Silver reached around and tugged on his ponytail again. “You sure if I tell you the truth, you’re not going to go after me for this?”

“I’m not interested in insurance fraud, art theft, or income tax evasion,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “All I care about is the murder I’m working. I just want to see if it’s connected to what happened at your house.”

“Okay,” Silver said softly, more to himself than to me. “I couldn’t talk about these items because I wasn’t supposed to have them.”

“Why not?”

“A few Japanese art dealers were ripped off. Some very old and very valuable items were stolen. It was too risky to fence them in Japan. So the thieves sold them to an American. The Japanese would not be too happy to see these treasures leaving their country. But if the American had an import business, he would know how to slip these items in through customs. Back in the States, he could have kept some of the items and sold some of the others.”

“Just so I’m clear, this person you’re talking about is you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And it was hard to launder the profits, so you kept a lot of cash in your home safe.”

“How’d you find out?”

Ignoring him, I asked, “How much?”

“About two hundred thousand.”

“So you inflated the amount of your wife’s jewelry—which was never stolen—to, at least, cover your cash loss and some of the art. The rest, you just had to write off.”

“That’s pretty close to it.”

“Why’d you take the chance of displaying this stuff on your walls?”

“I didn’t keep them out here,” he said, pointing to the living room walls. “They were in our bedroom and my home office, where guests aren’t permitted.” He stared out the window again. “What’s the use of risking so much to secure magnificent works of art if you can’t see them?”

“Any idea who ripped you off?”

“I still don’t have a clue.”

“Any idea why Freitas was killed?”

“Whoa,” he said, waving his palms. “I had nothing to do with that. That’s your area of expertise. Certainly not mine.”

It was so dark when I drove back down the canyon—the moon was obscured by high clouds—that I had trouble negotiating the hairpin turns, but I relaxed when I finally hit Sunset and headed east. As I approached downtown, I decided I was too energized to go home, so I pulled into the parking garage, walked to PAB, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. I pulled the tape recorder out of my briefcase with the microphone in the corner, listened to Silver’s interview again, and summarized it on a statement form for my murder book.

Galvanized by the break in the case, I spent a restless evening at home. I tried to sleep, but kept squirming in bed, thinking about the interview with Silver. At three thirty, I finally crawled out of bed, showered, and dressed; I knew I was too charged up to get much sleep. Driving north on Broadway, I flicked on my windshield wipers. It was a typical foggy June morning, socked in from the beaches to the valleys. As I stopped at an intersection, the slick street reflecting red from the signal overhead, I decided to splurge on an expensive breakfast.

I drove a few blocks west of downtown and parked in front of the Pacific Dining Car, located on a bleak intersection, across the street from a gas station and a liquor store with a rusty metal security gate in front. I liked the restaurant even though, like so many L.A. institutions, it was more façade than reality. Built in the 1920s as a replica of a railroad dining car, steel wheels were bolted on and the structure was rolled to an empty lot. Still, the atmosphere was comfortable and clubby and it served some of the best—and most expensive—steaks in the city.

The twenty-four-hour restaurant, with gleaming wood paneling and polished brass lamps, was quiet and desolate. I settled in at a corner booth and ordered the breakfast filet and scrambled eggs, a short stack of blueberry pancakes, and a carafe of coffee. I ate slowly, savoring the meal. When I heard the first wave of delivery trucks grinding their gears as they rumbled down West 6th Street, I bought a paper and lingered over my coffee.

When I returned to the squad room, Duffy intercepted me. “So where are we on the case? What now?”

I decided not to brief him about my interview with Silver. I didn’t want to tell him anything yet that might attract attention from the brass, who might waste my time by calling me in for meetings and updates.

“I’ve got a few things I’m chasing,” I said.

“Well, don’t do anything too crazy over the next few days, because I won’t be around to run interference for you with Grazzo. We’ve got a department retreat for homicide supervisors this weekend in San Diego. I’m heading down this afternoon.”

I left Duffy’s office and Ortiz grabbed my arm and led me toward the break room. He poured us two cups of coffee and said, “Let’s go outside.” We took the elevator down the ground floor and sat on a stone bench in front of the building.

“So what’s happening with your gallery owner?”

“She wants to see me when her boyfriend’s not around.”

Ortiz clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t be so gloomy. Could be the ideal relationship. You don’t have to waste any time and money on going to movies, dinner, or, with this babe, boring art gallery openings. You can just nail her when her boyfriend’s not around and have plenty of time left over to play golf with me.”

“I don’t play golf.”

Ortiz swung an imaginary club. “Now’s the perfect time to start.”

When we returned to the squad room, I grabbed the Freitas homicide file, leafed through it, and jotted down the names of the two Hollywood Homicide detectives who investigated the murder. Relovich and Mitchell were the patrol officers who responded to the scene; I wanted to see what the investigators had to say. Searching the LAPD’s Alpha roster, I discovered that one of the detectives was still with the department—he now worked as a lieutenant in Northeast. I called him and asked about the case. But he didn’t remember much and he told me the case wasn’t worth pursuing.

“Just one less scumbag on the street now,” he said.

I asked about his former partner, and the lieutenant provided the phone number of a private investigation firm in San Jose. The former partner, however, recalled even less about the case.

I cut across the squad room to Commercial Crimes and wandered into the office of Dave Papazian, the art cop. I told Papazian about the robbery at Silver’s house, his import-export business, and the man’s art collection. “You ever come across this guy?” I asked.

Papazian shook his head.

“You ever hear of that heist at his house?”

“When was it?”

“About eleven years ago.”

Papazian stroked his chin. “That’s before my time, before I got this gig. But just to be safe, I’ll check my records. If he’s filed any theft reports since then, I’ll let you know.”

I returned to my desk, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. The interview with Silver was definitely a break. The problem was I didn’t know how to follow up on it, how to create a progression to the next clue, and the next, and the next. After talking to Silver, I assumed Relovich and Mitchell were dirty; I assumed they had stumbled onto the crime scene while on patrol and pocketed the cash from the safe before the homicide detectives arrived.

If Relovich and Mitchell were dirty, I didn’t relish the prospect of documenting it. I knew the revelation would be devastating to their families. When Relovich’s daughter was old enough to learn the truth, she’d be crushed. But the shooter, I suspected, was still out there. He’d already killed two ex-cops. He might kill another.

I thought about Terrell Fuqua, who was facing San Quentin’s gas chamber. I didn’t believe he killed Relovich. Even if he was a scumbag, I couldn’t let him go down for a crime he didn’t commit. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. If Fuqua didn’t kill Relovich, who would want to set him up? And why?

I decided to listen to Silver’s interview again. I slipped my head-phones on and pressed play. Was Silver more culpable than he acknowledged? I wondered. Was Silver telling everything he knew? Probably not. Everyone who confesses always leaves something out. I pressed the pause button. Would it be worth my while to question Silver again? What points should I follow up on? I realized that another interview with Silver was pointless. I pounded my palm on my desk in frustration.

“What the hell’s wrong with you,” Ortiz shouted across the squad room.

I tossed the tape recorder and headphones into my bottom drawer. “I can’t think.”

“Remember that psycho who was doing his Benihana routine on those downtown transients? Sliced and diced about six of them.”

“The Spring Street Slasher,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s the one. What did you do when you hit a dead end on the case?” One day, you were sitting here agonizing just like this. Couldn’t figure what he was using for a weapon. Then the next day you knew it was a … a … What the hell was it?”

“A ceramic dimpled meat slicer,” I said. “Made in Germany. Went to a kitchen supply store. Looked at about a hundred knives. Saw that one. It matched the wound pattern on the body. Started interviewing chefs downtown until I found one who—”

“So how’d you get that burst of inspiration?”

“I got away from the case for an afternoon and cleared my head.”

“Why don’t you do that now?”

“Good idea,” I said.

A cruise down to the harbor and a walk along the water might do me some good. I wanted to talk to Relovich’s uncle anyway, so I called him and arranged to meet him at his boat.

The sky at the harbor was so overcast that the horizon line was obscured and the sky and ocean melded in a sweep of sidewalk gray. The oil tankers steaming north were just faint one-dimensional silhouettes drifting in and out of the fog.

I climbed aboard the
Anna Marie
and sat on a deck chair beside Relovich.

“Want some coffee?”

Before I could respond, Relovich bounded below deck and returned with two metal cups, sloshing coffee on the deck.

“Never got a chance to say thanks for doing right by Pete,” Relovich said. “I read about you arresting that no good son of a bitch.”

In order to avoid a complicated explanation, I said, “There might have been an accomplice. So I’ve still got some work to do on the case. Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”

Relovich shook his head.

“I want to ask you about one of Pete’s ex-partners, a guy named Avery Mitchell. What do you know about him?”

“Met him once. Long time ago. Maybe more than ten years ago. They were down here one afternoon and I took ’em to lunch. I didn’t care for this Mitchell character. He had this thin, greasy little mustache. I don’t trust a man who can’t grow a decent mustache.”

“Anything else about him you remember?”

“Not really. Just that he seemed kind of shifty looking. And I don’t think Pete liked him.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just a feeling I had when I saw the two of them together. Pete seemed to just tolerate the guy.”

“Did Pete ever talk about Mitchell, ever say anything about him to you?”

He shook his head.

“Did Pete have any artwork around his house?”

Relovich looked confused. “Artwork? What do you mean?”

“You know, like paintings or pieces of carved wood or ivory. Maybe art objects. Maybe Japanese-type artwork.”

“You gotta be kidding me. Pete? Not a chance. He wouldn’t know Japanese artwork if he chipped a tooth on it.” Relovich swatted the air. “I was talking to Pete’s ex-wife the other day. She wanted me to ask you something. I’ve been meaning to call you. Since her daughter inherited the house, she wants to know when the LAPD will release it. She wants to rent it out.”

“Why didn’t she call me herself?”

“She’s a touchy bitch,” he said. “She’s tired of you going out there and asking her questions. But I understand. You’re just doing your job.”

“Did Pete seem worried about anything these last few months?”

Relovich blew on his coffee a few times, before taking a sip. “One thing.”

“What was that?”

“He worried that he hadn’t been a good enough father to his little girl. ’Cause of his drinking. During the past few months he tried to change that. But Pete didn’t talk much about it. He was a pretty closed-mouthed guy. These Americans, all they do is gab, gab, gab about their
feelings
,” he said, as if he found the word distasteful. “Pete was more like his pop and me. More Old Country. Kept things to himself.”

I questioned the old man for a few more minutes, but learned nothing useful. As I climbed down from the ship, Relovich called out, “Don’t stop until you find that accomplice. He deserves to pay for what he did.”

I returned to my car, removed the tape recorder from my briefcase, and walked down the dock alongside the channel, dodging bird droppings.
When I found a bench on an isolated stretch, I plugged in my earphones and listened again to the interview with Silver.

As I was finishing the interview, the sun pierced a slit in the fog, streaking the shimmering water with specks of honeyed light. Looking out at sea, I felt disheartened. I had no idea how I would identify the shooter.

I drove back downtown in a sour mood. I could feel the case stalling out, heading for unsolved purgatory. I was close to the truth, but I had no idea what to do next, how to take that final step to IDing the shooter. It was Friday evening, I was at a dead end, and I had only a few days left to work on the case. On Monday, Duffy would put me back on call, and I would soon be jammed up with another case, another cluster of characters to interview, another set of priorities and pressures, another mystery to unravel.

I pulled into the parking garage, walked to PAB, and took the elevator to the squad room. At my desk, I opened the murder book, but immediately shut it. I felt exhausted and couldn’t concentrate. If I could sleep for a few hours, maybe I would have the energy to return to the squad room and have another go at the case tonight. I locked the murder book up in the bottom drawer and returned to my loft. After undressing, I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. I tried to relax, but the horns, the squealing tires, the hydraulic hiss from the buses, the music blaring from passing cars kept me awake. I grabbed a pair of earplugs from the end table and slipped them in. But disconnected images from the case continued to flash in my mind: Relovich on the autopsy table; the crime scene photos; the blood splatter pattern on the wall; the
netsukes
and
ojimes
, their eyes glowing like coals.