City of Fire (38 page)

“It’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Sit down or get the fuck out.”

Berrera’s words bounced off the windows and echoed about the glass room. After a moment, Lena finally spoke.

“I’d like to see Holt’s journals.”

“Why?” Barrera snapped back at her. “It’s over. It’s done.”

“I want to see them. All of them. Everything up to the day he died.”

Rhodes’s eyes slowly rose from the table. He was staring at her now. She had followed their outrageous request with one of her own. A request that seemed righteous. It occurred to her last night when she returned home that if Holt was investigating her brother’s murder, there was a good chance he wrote things down.

“His journals aren’t here,” Rhodes said in a low voice. “But I’ve read them. They’re irrelevant to what you might be thinking.”

“How would you know what I’m thinking?”

Barrera broke in. “Forget about the lousy journals. You’ve got one hour to memorize your statement and get downstairs. And it’s not a request, Detective. It’s an order. A direct order.”

He slid a sheet of paper across the table. Her statement had been written by the brass on the sixth floor. It was short, only two paragraphs long, thanking the department for finally solving the crime and giving her closure on her brother’s murder. While the outcome would be difficult to endure, it would deepen her resolve and make her a better police officer….

She looked up and saw Novak’s eyes locked on the statement that had been prepared for her. She caught the burn, the grimace—her mind rolling at a hundred miles an hour. She thought about what he’d said just fifteen minutes ago in the car.

Someone in their own house was pushing a lot of buttons.

And they wanted her to feel the pain. They wanted her in the wind.

She kept quiet, weighing the danger. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she slipped the paper into her briefcase, met Barrera’s eyes, and walked out.

SHE hit the 101 with her foot on the floor, bulldozing cars out of her way into the center lane. When she checked the speedometer and realized she was doing a hot ninety, she backed off the gas some and lowered her windows. She could feel the wind pulling her hair and chopping against her face. The sound of Eddie Vedder on the radio with those haunting guitars raging behind him.

Nothing is as it seems.
Nothing is as it seems.

She hit the brakes, lost in the music and almost missing her exit. Gliding off the freeway, she made a left on Franklin and another left at the light. Ten minutes later, she was walking out of the Starbucks across the street from Gower Studios with a cup of coffee in her hand. She got back in the car, made a left on Hollywood, and tooled down the street until she hit Vista Del Mar. Easing around the corner, she rolled past the auto body shop and switched the radio back on. She would listen to the press conference here, she decided. At the spot where she’d found her brother’s body. The place where he was murdered.

She found KFWB on the radio, then took a first sip of coffee and lit a cigarette. When her cell phone rang, she glanced at the LCD screen but didn’t take the call. It was Lieutenant Barrera, probably wondering where the fuck she was.

She thought about the statement they wanted her to recite to the press. The work of fiction written by some drone taking up space on the sixth floor. Her decision had been instantaneous, but difficult just the same. She was out on a limb
and she knew it—not a single piece of physical evidence to back her up. They had the DNA results and the gun. When Barrera got his copy of Madina’s autopsy report, he would probably think her reasoning was certifiable and recommend her transfer out of the unit. Or even worse, he might tag her with an involuntary stress leave and boot her down to the “Fifty-One-Fifty” building in Chinatown so the department shrinks could take another six-week look under the hood.

Nothing much would be left after that, she figured. Just the brand on her forehead that told everyone she was crazy and couldn’t hack it.

She shook it off with another sip of hot coffee, listening to the headlines over the radio, the live press conference due to begin at any moment from Parker Center. According to the news broadcaster, a wind advisory remained in effect for the next three days. The Santa Anas were back, diminishing this afternoon, then increasing again tonight. Local gusts could exceed 65 mph. A fire had already broken out just north of the city in La Crescenta. Two teenagers had been spotted running from the scene. Although twenty-five homes were endangered, firefighters believed they had the blaze 75 percent contained.

And then it began. She could hear the new chief talking about her brother’s murder, his pride in the detectives who solved the case, and a department that remained underpaid and understaffed but worked tirelessly and never gave up. When she heard Rhodes begin talking about Holt’s gun and the match they’d made at the lab, her gaze lost its focus, wandering across the sidewalk, taking in the empty parking lot, the Capitol Records building, and the abandoned one-room chapel set behind a fence with all those spent needles littering the ground.

She flipped the radio off, took a last drag on the cigarette, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Then she tightened her grip on the wheel and made the short drive home. As she pulled up to the house and got out, she checked the northeast sky and spotted the plume of smoke in the distance. The fire looked bigger than what was reported on the radio. And as she
grabbed her briefcase and unlocked the front door, she wondered if they would get it out before the winds returned.

She stepped inside and turned the dead bolt, suddenly aware that someone was leaving a message on her answering machine. She listened to the voice, trying to place it. It was a male voice frothing with anger. “I’m watching this thing on TV,” the caller was saying. “And there’s no way Holt killed David. No fucking way Holt even owned a gun or would know how to use one. I knew them, Lena. These guys were my friends. Why are the cops doing this? How much shit do they expect me to take?”

It was Warren Okolski, Holt’s producer. Even though she agreed with what he was saying, she didn’t want to take the call right now. By the time she crossed the living room, he’d hung up and the message light started blinking.

Her eyes moved to the phone. The wireless handset wasn’t in the cradle, which struck her as odd. After making a call, she usually returned the handset to the charger. She checked the counter, thinking about this morning. When she made that call to the coroner’s office, she was sitting here with the
Thomas Guide
, mapping their morning route so she and Novak could get their interviews in before the autopsies. The handset wasn’t here or in the kitchen.

The phone started ringing. Listening for the handset, she followed the sound into her bedroom and spotted it on the bed by her pillow.

Maybe the brand really fit. Maybe Barrera would be right sending her back to Chinatown.

She let the thought go, then picked up the handset, saw Novak’s name on the LCD, and switched on the phone.

“Rhodes is trying to get you thrown off the case,” he said.

A moment passed before the words registered. Rhodes was trying to get rid of her. She walked into the living room and sat down at the table by the window. The plume of smoke was moving south, hovering over the city on its way to Long Beach.

“You there, Lena? I’m on my cell and it’s breaking up.”

“I’m here,” she said. “What happened?”

“I’m still at Parker. Everybody’s pissed off that you were a no-show except me, I guess. Rhodes wants you off the case.”

“What about Barrera?”

“His tail’s up. He keeps talking about following orders. But given what just went down with your brother’s case, I think he knows how firing you would play on TV. For what it’s worth, I would’ve done what you did. I would’ve done it twice. These guys are assholes. It was all about getting your face on TV.”

“You went to the press conference,” she said.

“Yeah. And it looks like I’m stuck down here for the rest of the day. The chief wants a briefing on Romeo.”

“I’ve got the murder book,” she said.

“I don’t need it. What about callbacks from Burell’s list?”

“We didn’t get any. I’m gonna try again.”

“If you connect, give me a call, but don’t wait on me. Do the interviews on your own.”

She glanced at her watch: 4:15 p.m. “I’ll call you back either way.”

“And I’ll let you know what’s up,” he said.

She switched the phone off, her mind going. The map she’d made of Romeo’s comfort zone was still on the table. As her eyes flicked from one victim to the next, she pulled the murder book out of her briefcase, along with her case files. February remained blank. And two of the three women from Burell’s list lived within Romeo’s comfort zone.

She found the phone numbers in her file, using her cell to make the calls so her number would be recorded on their phones. She hit three blank walls and left three more messages, keeping her eyes off the map and trying not to think about the month of February and what it might imply. She pursed her lips, deciding to give them another try around six. Then she opened the murder book and started reading from page one.

In spite of the circumstances, she was grateful to be out of Parker Center. Grateful for the peace and quiet of home. Ever since Holt was murdered, ever since Rhodes turned on
her, she had the feeling that things were moving too fast. That the case had a track of its own and they were missing something. Too many loose ends were turning up, and none of them had been written down.

As she read through the Chronological Record and checked it against the SID reports, she grabbed a pad and began to make a list. Jane Doe looked like the kind of woman someone would miss. Why was it so difficult to ID her? And why was the break-in at Holt’s house so needlessly crude? She drew a line beneath the last question because it still troubled her. And what about Rhodes? He was keeping Holt’s journals at his house. Was he altering them? Was he cleaning them up for some horrible, though unverified, purpose? And why did he ask her about the gold pick her brother received? He tried to make it sound like a throwaway question, but as she mulled it over, she could see through it now. Rhodes asked her about the guitar pick because he thought it was important. He was trying to deceive her.

She glanced at her watch. Two hours had flown by and it was dark outside. As she got up and made a fresh pot of coffee, she considered ways, both legal and otherwise, of getting her hands on those journals. Although Rhodes’s girlfriend had been there the other night, Lena knew she didn’t live in Hollywood and kept her own place somewhere down near the marina.

She let the thought of committing a burglary go—at least for the night. After trying to reach the three remaining women again and leaving a second set of messages, she turned back to the murder book. The questions were eating at her, fed by her growing concern for the three models, and she grabbed her pen. If something or someone on Charles Burell’s Web site set off Romeo, how did he pick his actual victims? And why, if he defined a comfort zone, was his first homicide outside that zone? As she thought it over, it didn’t make sense that Teresa Lopez wasn’t close to Romeo in some fundamental way. And what about Burell’s genitals? Why had Romeo removed them? Was it really a double dose of jealousy and rage, or was it something else? Even more
grisly, why couldn’t Burell’s genitals be found when they tore the plumbing apart? What had Romeo done with them?

Her mind surfaced and she flinched. The house was shaking, the windows rattling as if a freight train were rumbling by. Her eyes shot through the room. When nothing moved yet the house wouldn’t settle, she knew it wasn’t an earthquake. It was the wind.

She opened the slider and stepped outside, the violent gusts swirling around her. She saw the debris floating in the pool and could smell the scent of something burning in the blast of bone-dry air. The shutters were beating against the house. She could hear the palm trees flapping in the wind and mimicking the sound of a hundred kites flying in the darkness. It was 10:00 p.m. and the Santa Anas had arrived—the Devil Winds—and she could taste the grit in her mouth.

She checked the yard, then cast her eyes over the hill to the lights below. A dust cloud was rolling west, consuming buildings a block at a time and shrouding the city in gray. As she watched a car slide down Hollywood Boulevard and vanish in the haze, she thought about the list she’d made and was struck by an uncomfortable feeling.

Nikki Brant had been murdered one week ago on this very night. And the train she and Novak had been waiting for had most likely hit the station and passed them by.