I wriggled through the opening, landed on the cement floor, and sprinted out the door and toward the street. Blinded temporarily by a bright light, I saw the faint silhouette of a man standing beside his car, holding a flashlight above his shoulder. A moment later I saw the muzzle flash and heard the pop. I hit the ground, ripped the Beretta out of my shoulder holster and, as the shooter hopped into his Jeep Cherokee and careened down the street, squeezed the trigger and kept squeezing, the spent casings tinkling on the cement like a wind chime, until I realized my magazine was empty.
I darted out of the parking lot and into the middle of the street. Crouching, I spotted a half dozen shards of splintered glass. One of my shots had clipped a taillight.
I sat on the curb for several minutes, hacking, spitting, and gulping air, my lungs burning, my chest aching. Easing into my car, my knees bruised and sore, my back aching, I drove a few blocks to a mini-mart, passing a convoy of fire trucks, sirens blazing.
When I paid for a bottle of water, the teenage clerk stared at me and said, “Dude, looks like you been toasted like a marshmallow.”
I checked my reflection in the glass: my face was soot stained and my eyebrows were singed. I bought a package of wipes and, in the parking lot, cleaned my face and hands and then gulped down the water. For a few minutes I leaned against my car, staring into the middle distance, brushing ashes and soot off my suit.
I bought another water for the road and headed back to PAB. I had an idea of who might have gone after me, but I wanted to do a little research, including a DMV check, first. I wanted to be sure.
When I returned to the squad room, I noticed that someone had scattered the items on my desk and jimmied open the bottom drawer, busting the lock. The murder book was still there. Why would someone want to break into my desk and riffle through my murder book? I could see the picture of Latisha Patton under the plastic sheeting on my blotter,
“NO!” I shouted. I won’t lose another witness. My chest was so tight it felt like my lungs were exploding. I tried to stand up, but my legs started to buckle. Gripping the edges of my desk, I pushed myself to my feet, and ran down the stairs, across the street, and into the parking lot.
I careened down the city streets, screeching around corners, until I hit the onramp for the Harbor Freeway, already doing sixty. I flicked on my dashboard light, punched my siren, and slammed down the gas pedal
until I hit a hundred. I shimmied off the freeway at a San Pedro exit and slammed on my brakes in front of Theresa Martinez’s apartment complex.
I sprinted past the pool and took the stairs three at a time. Sweat dribbling from my hair into my eyes, coughing and trying to catch my breath, I pounded on her door. A moment later I heard a muffled cry.
After ripping my Beretta out of my shoulder holster, I leaned back and kicked out her front window.
As I jumped inside, slicing my thigh on the jagged glass, I saw a shadow dart to my left. Gripping the Beretta with two hands, elbows flush to my sides, I swiveled around.
“Drop the gun real slow and kick it over here,” said Conrad Patowski, Wegland’s adjutant. He stood behind Theresa Martinez, gripping her neck, pointing his Glock at her temple.
“Drop it!” Patowski shouted. “Or I’ll blow her head off.”
Tears streamed down Martinez’s face and her chest heaved with convulsive sobs.
I knew if I gave up the gun, she’d be dead. And so would I.
“I said drop it!” Patowski said.
I slowly lowered the gun a few inches. I could feel the blood sluicing down my thigh and soaking my sock.
“That’s a good boy,” Patowski said.
I won’t lose another witness.
I took a step forward, raised the barrel an inch, and fired.
The boom echoed in the small room.
Martinez fell to the ground with a thud.
I was in a fog of anguish and anger.
Then I heard the scream.
Patowski fell against the door jam and slowly slid to the ground, the blood streaking the wall in a wide, wavy swath. He had dropped the gun after my shot had blasted his shoulder, just missing Martinez. She had fainted, and was now coming to. With one arm, I cradled her; with the other, I punched in the number for Communications Division.
About ten minutes later two ambulances arrived. A crew strapped Patowski, who suffered a through-and-through shot to the shoulder, on one metal gurney and me on another. We both headed for the Little Company of Mary Hospital in San Pedro.
After two detectives from the Force Investigation Division—who investigate every incident in which a cop fires his gun—questioned me, the ER doctor who’d stitched me up stopped by the examination room and handed me a prescription for Vicodin.
“A couple of inches lower, detective, and that broken glass might have severed your femoral artery,” he said, as Ortiz entered the room. “That’s an unpleasant way to go. Fortunately we got you here in time.” He patted my thigh. “Twenty-five stitches and you’re good to go.”
“Shouldn’t you keep him overnight, just to make sure?” Ortiz asked.
“He can go home,” the doctor said. “The Vicodin will help with the pain.” I lifted myself off the table.
“I feel like kicking your ass,” Ortiz said.
I limped around the room, testing my leg.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there without calling for backup,” he said. “You’re a fucking hardhead.”
“I didn’t have time.”
Ortiz shook his head with disgust.
“Before I leave,” I said, “I’d like to question Patowski.”
“That ain’t gonna happen. While you were going through triage, I tried to get a statement, but he dummied up. Said the only person he’s talking to is his lawyer. So let me give you a ride home. Maybe I can knock some sense into you along the way.”
Ortiz drove through the deserted streets and parked at a Denny’s.
“I know this doesn’t meet your high culinary standards,” Ortiz said, scanning the menu, “but there’s not much open at this hour. And you should have something in your stomach for the pain pills.”
Wincing as I reached for a glass of water, I dug the Vicodin vial out of my pocket and popped one. “How’d you know I was at the hospital?”
“I’d just come from a call-out, and one of the guys at the station heard about the shooting in Pedro,” Ortiz said.
I told him how Patowski had tried to barbecue me at the storage facility.
“How’d you know it was Patowski.”
“When I climbed out of that bonfire and I saw asshole shine the flashlight at me, I knew he was a cop. Nobody else holds a flashlight like that.” With my right hand, I gripped my fork, knuckles up, and raised it above my shoulder, forearm parallel to my ribs. I dropped the fork and said, “I suspected it was Patowski, but I didn’t know for sure—until I saw his car parked down the street from Martinez’s apartment. His rear right taillight was broken. I’d shot it out as he was burning rubber at Pomona Storage.”
“Good shooting.”
“If it was good shooting, I’d have hit
him
, not his taillight.”
“So how’d you know Theresa Martinez would be in trouble?”
“I figured that whoever had peeked at my murder book was looking for wits. One of them is in jail. Since Martinez was the only other wit who really saw anything the night Relovich was killed, I figured she was the most vulnerable target.”
“No surprise Patowski was dirty.”
“I should have figured it out earlier,” I said, picking at my scrambled eggs and hashed browns. “Adjutants are usually aware of everything their bosses are doing. What promotions they’re angling for. How they fudge
their expense reports. Who they’re screwing. Since Wegland was dirty, I should have known that, at the very least, Patowski would be aware of it.”
“He must have emptied out that warehouse,” Ortiz said. “Grazzo told me a few dicks with a warrant are at Patowski’s place right now, and they found antiques, jewelry, stacks of cash, paintings, and a bunch of other artistic shit in a back bedroom.”
“I’m sure he was in on it up to his ass,” I said.
“Why’d Wegland rent space in a dumpy storage unit?” Ortiz asked. “He must have had some valuable things in there.”
“He probably had that place for years and years,” I said. “Probably had stashed stuff he’d lifted over the years. That’s why the writing on that key was so worn down. He was smart. It was far enough from L.A., so nobody would recognize him there. The drive was long enough so he’d be able to pick up a tail.”
“That’s why he kept the key in his office,” Ortiz said. “He knew that Internal Affairs always tries to take a dirty cop by surprise and searches his house first.” He motioned to the waitress for more coffee. “Why’d Patowski try to torch the storage unit?”
“He’d probably been going in and out of there, helping Wegland for years. He probably figured he’d left so many prints, fibers, and hairs in there, he’d never be able to clean the place up. He might have just emptied it when he saw me roll up. Or he might have even staked the place out, expecting me. Then when I showed, he put together a crude Molotov cocktail, which couldn’t have taken long to make, and figured he’d eliminate two problems at once—the storage unit and me.”
As I limped to the parking lot, I said, “Drop me back at Martinez’s place. I want to pick up my car.”
“I’ll take you home. I’ll have a uniform bring your car back downtown later tonight.” Ortiz jiggled his keys. “Is Martinez going to be okay?”
“She’s pretty spooked. She’s spending a few days at her sister’s place in Orange County.”
Ortiz opened my car door. “I’m worried about you, brother. Everyone’s trying to take a bite out of your ass. You’re not going to pull any more of that Lone Ranger shit tonight?”
I shook my head.
“And if you do anything else on this case, you’ll call me to back you up, right?
“Right.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The Vicodin knocked me out for a few hours, but early the next morning I awoke with a shout, covered in sweat. Now that I didn’t have the Relovich case to distract me, I had my first nightmare about Latisha in weeks. I sat up and massaged my temples for a few minutes. Jumping out of bed, I padded to the bathroom, shook out three Tylenol, filled my palm with water, and swallowed them.
I’d wanted to get back to the investigation for almost a year. When Duffy brought me back, he’d warned me to stay away, that South Bureau Homicide was handling it, that it was no longer a Felony Special case. I figured I would settle in, clear Relovich, earn some points, and then surreptitiously reopen the murder book. Well, as an old NFL coach once said: “The future is now.”
This case was personal for me, more personal than anyone at the LAPD could imagine. I had a responsibility to protect her. I failed. If Latisha’s killer was never found, I knew that this would haunt me until the day I died. I would always feel that I’d failed. Failed Latisha. Failed as a detective.
I still wanted to find Relovich’s partner—if he had a partner. And I was pretty sure he did. Although Conrad Patowski was dirty, I didn’t think he was with Wegland on the night of the Relovich homicide. Wegland, I was certain, drove the car. Both the junkie at the Harbor Division station and Theresa Martinez had described the passenger as dark-skinned, probably Mexican. Patowski was a pasty-faced white boy.
Finding the partner could wait. By nailing Wegland, I had bought myself some time. Duffy wouldn’t return from San Diego until Monday. I had the weekend to freelance—free from his scrutiny. When he returned, I would figure out a way to buy a few more days. At South Bureau, when things were hopping, all I had was a few days to work a
homicide, until my next fresh blood case. So I should be able to make some progress. Now was the time to search for Latisha’s killer.
I was back in the squad room at eight o’clock, searching my computer for the cell phone number of Tommy Pardo, the South Bureau detective who was the primary on the murder of Bae Soo Sung—the Korean market owner—before it was transferred to Felony Special. He was an old-timer who had spent more than twenty years as a homicide dick. When I was working South Bureau, he was at Wilshire Homicide, and I got to know him on a few cases. We were never friends, but we were friendly. I had always considered him a solid detective and a stand-up guy. A few years after I left for Felony Special, he transferred to South Bureau Homicide.
When I took over the Sung homicide, he had a very different attitude than the Pacific Division cops who gave me a hard time after they lost the Relovich case. I had apologized to Pardo for big-footing him, but he just smiled, handed me the murder book, and said, “No problem, Ash. There’s enough damn murders in South Central for all of us.”
After Latisha’s murder and the debacle that followed, the Sung investigation had been transferred back to Pardo. He was also handling Latisha’s case. Before I quit, I had briefed him and returned the murder book. I was grateful that he was so decent to me, telling me that he’d lost witnesses before, that it was an occupational hazard of South Central homicide detectives, and not to blame myself.
I punched in Pardo’s number, and he answered on the first ring. I apologized for calling him on a Saturday morning.
“You’re back on the job less than a month and you’ve already tossed a commander out the window and fired on his adjutant,” he said, chuckling.
“Word travels fast.”
“It’s the blue grapevine, bubba.”
“I was wondering if I could come by your house and talk to you about Latisha.”
“I was coming into town anyway. Caught one two nights ago. The autopsy’s this afternoon. Meet me at the station.”
I asked if I could talk to him away from the station, because I didn’t want it getting back to Duffy that I was asking about his case. He agreed
to bring the murder book and meet me at “the motel.”
The motel was a lot behind a boarded up market on South Hoover. We called it “the motel” when I was at the South Bureau because during a slow p.m. shift, when we needed to coop, we’d park there and grab a quick nap.