Grave on Grand Avenue (18 page)

I offer him some beer, wine, coffee or water. He goes with the beer, which makes me happy that I just stocked my refrigerator with a selection of local craft beers from Eagle Rock. I give him a Manifesto, while I opt for the low-alcohol one, Solidarity. I still want to be able to think straight.

He sits on my couch and pops open the cap with a bottle opener on the table. He takes a swig from his bottle, and I take one from mine. This feels chill, perfectly natural. An evening after work. Then Cortez explains why he’s here. “It’s the Old Lady Bandit case. She hit another bank today, around closing time.”

“Oh.” I feel like an idiot for not paying more attention to
what’s been going on. But in my own defense, I’ve been at the hospital, where it feels like the whole world sits still.

“Your aunt had a lead for us. A guy called Puddy Fernandes. Do you know who he is?”

“Ah. Well.” I totally don’t know what to say. Aunt Cheryl obviously didn’t bother to reveal that Puddy is, well, kind of, sort of, family.

I’ve lied—well, withheld the truth—from Cortez before, and that’s what almost led to our relationship getting wrecked forever. I don’t want to risk it again, even at the expense of airing our dirty laundry.

“He’s kind of . . . my grandfather.”

“What?!” Cortez puts his beer bottle on my coffee table. I’ve definitely got his attention. He’s shocked but also a little amused.

“Look, he’s basically just a sperm donor, more than anything else. Until the other day, I’d never even heard his name, let alone met him before in my life. Neither had my dad, for that matter.” I tighten my grip on my beer. It’s already almost room temperature. “He’s the one who took my car. Was the original owner from the sixties. He still had a key.”

“So Chief Cheryl Toma has some skeletons in her closet.” Cortez is just enjoying this way too much. “No wonder she hasn’t been revealing how she came up with him. I guess she doesn’t want it coming out that she’s related to a convict.”

“Well, he’s not one of her blood relatives.” I rush to Aunt Cheryl’s defense. “He’s not even technically related to her by marriage, since he never married my grandmother.” While I, on the other hand, have a good dose of Puddy Fernandes in my DNA.

“He was a bank robber. Saw his record.”

I frown. “Listen, the guy did his time. He’s just trying to help.”

“Ellie, in my experience, no one ‘just wants to help.’ I’ve learned that everyone who comes forward has an agenda, an angle. You have to consider what he’ll get out of informing on another person.”

Cortez is usually more upbeat than most other homicide detectives I’ve met, so I’m surprised that he sounds so jaded, and I resent that he’s talking to me like I’m completely green. Sure, I’ve recently come off probation, but still.

“You can’t tell anyone else about Aunt Cheryl’s connection to Fernandes. Especially Garibaldi,” I tell Cortez.

“No, I wouldn’t tell him anything like this,” he agrees. “I’m the lead on the Bandit case, anyway, so no worries.”

“Did you find any information on Ronald Sullivan?”

Cortez shakes his head. “Last thing on record was that he was working for a casino in Reno. But that was about ten years ago. It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the planet.”

“No wife or kids?”

“Not on record. There’s a nephew, though, with a record of his own.”

“How old is he?”

Cortez narrows his eyes. “Ellie, your information about Pascoal Fernandes is enough. You don’t need to get involved.”

You had literally nothing until I got involved,
I think to myself
.
Why don’t I get the props that I deserve?

“That’s interesting about your aunt, though.” Cortez takes another swig of his beer, while I have long since abandoned mine. It’s started to taste bitter from the content of our conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe what they are saying is true.”

“What are they saying?”

“That she’s getting pretty cozy with Councilman Beachum.”

My worst fear realized.

“You know that he’s planning to run for mayor, right? It would be a good alliance for your aunt.”

“What, do you think that she’d prostitute herself to become police chief?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Maybe you should be out there catching the Old Lady Bandit instead of talking smack about your superiors, who, by the way, seem to be out getting more leads than you detectives are.” I’m not sure why I’m being so defensive. It’s not like Aunt Cheryl needs defenders, especially not a peon like me. But I’m pissed.

“Whoa, whoa, I’m not saying
I
started those rumors.”

“No, but you actively listened to it and are now spreading stories about what you heard.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Really I am.”

“Is that it? Is that all you came for? To pump me for information about my aunt?” My emotions rush out of me before I can really think. “Well, mission accomplished. I think that you better leave now.” I immediately regret what I’ve said, but there’s no taking it back. Cortez is already heading for the
door.

NINE

I feel raw and vulnerable after Cortez leaves. Shippo senses my mood, and doesn’t beg for any extra late-night treats. He gets in a tight circle inside his doggy bed, his snout hidden from view. His eyes remain on me. Waiting for what, I don’t know.

When I’ve worked with neighborhood associations, some person—usually someone pretty old or pretty young—inevitably asks me, “Why are you cops such assholes?”

It’s a no-win question. If I explain what kind of pressure we are under, it’s like I’m admitting that we are jerks. If I get defensive, I’m just living proof of their accusations.

I do ask myself another question, however: Why do we police officers turn on one another? And why is someone like my aunt Cheryl such a threat to other cops? I want to work here at the LAPD for a very long time, and to see how my aunt is treated gives me a clue about how I might be received as a supervisor in the future.

At the next morning’s roll call, Sergeant Jorge Mendez, our bicycle liaison, is there to discuss the Cyclists/LAPD Task Force’s efforts to reduce bike thefts. Jorge, who pronounces his first name the
gabacho
way—“George”—is really all-American. He’s born and raised in East LA. When I was going through my bicycle training, he took me riding down Whittier Boulevard, the heart of the barrio. He has a squeaky-clean look; even his forehead is shiny. I try not to fixate on that as he talks about the latest crime statistics affecting bike riders.

While most other crimes rates in LA have gone down, bicycle thefts have gone up—in some areas, as much as a crazy two hundred percent. We are supposed to distribute community alert flyers at neighborhood meetings, as well as give workshops on how to properly lock up bicycles. There are even DIY tips for those who don’t have much cash for pricey bike locks: wrap an old bike chain in an inner tube and lock that to the bike frame. Or even place a business card inside the frame or write your name and contact info on the rim strip. Bikes can be someone’s sole mode of transportation. I understand how desirable a sturdy bike can be.

“You doing any bike baits?” someone asks.

Apparently the San Francisco Police Department has a devoted anti–bike theft unit. They have special bikes with GPS tracking units that are used in sting operations. The officer in charge even has an active Twitter feed where he sometimes posts mug shots of criminals caught in the act. That’s a good use of social media, I guess. It’s hard to figure out how and when to employ things like Twitter in law enforcement.

Jorge either doesn’t hear or chooses not to answer the question about bike baits. Traffic enforcement is what the
department is working on, so it’s more about giving citations to both drivers and bicyclists for reckless traffic offenses. This doesn’t make us very popular with anybody, but what can I say—it’s our job.

After Jorge’s presentation, we are given our assignments. I’m with Mac today and we’re assigned to patrol PPW. I’m surprised. Mac and I are rarely paired together, which has been fine with me. Mac gets on my nerves, and vice versa. What lessens the blow is that I’ll be at my alma mater. Patrolling PPW always soothes me, and I could use a big dose of calm right now.

Graduation is coming up in a few weeks, and it’s good for the students to know that there’s a police presence on campus, just in case they’re thinking about any protests or stunts that would put PPW in a bad light. The graduation speaker whom the administration has selected is a cable television executive (actually I think he produces that
Real Divorcées
show), so I’ve heard from Rickie that the female graduates plan to wear sashes that read,
REAL WOMYN, NOT REALITY WOMEN
, and turn their backs to him as he speaks. Pretty nonviolent.

While we’re on patrol, I pray that Mac doesn’t mention anything about my aunt. She is his Public Enemy Number One, and I’m ready to bite his head off if he disses her.

We ride down Figueroa Street. Mac’s riding as fast as he can, as if he’s trying to lose me. But no such luck. I’m at least ten years younger than him, and can match him pedal to pedal.

Once we arrive at the corner of campus, Mac abruptly stops. I come close to crashing into him, but am able to swerve to the side into some grass. Thank God there are no students walking near us.

“You cover the north; I’ll do the south. Meet up at twelve hundred,” he says. In other words, noon.

Normally, I wouldn’t passively go along with what Mac says. He’s been with the department much longer than me, and he likes to throw his weight around, but technically we are both P2s. Today is different, though. “Okay,” I say and take off. North is where the student center and services are located. Like the
Citrus Squeeze
newsroom.

I tell myself that going to the newspaper is part of our patrol, because who knows what could be happening at the student center, right?

I take my bike into the
Citrus Squeeze
offices. In front of the reception desk are stacks of today’s issue, unwanted like wilting lettuce. It’s amazing that the
Squeeze
, which does have a digital edition, still comes out in print, while a lot of “real” newspapers don’t. The only reason students even pick it up is to have something to sit on so they don’t get grass stains from the lawn.

“Hey, Ellie. How are you?” Stanford Botifoll is one of those nerdy short guys whose brain is so big it’s probably the heaviest part of his body. He wears gigantic black-rimmed glasses that shouldn’t work, but actually make him look cool, since they’re totally in style these days. When I was a senior and he was a freshman, we were in the same political science class and we had to debate different sides of getting involved in the Gulf War. I’m not too proud to admit that he beat me hands down.

“Hey, Stanford.” I slip off my helmet and hang it by its straps on my bike handle. “Last issues of the year, yeah?”

“It’s been a madhouse,” he says, although the newsroom is completely empty. “We’re just putting today’s issue to bed.”

“So, where’s Nay?” I say as casually as possible.

“She’s out on assignment.”

“Since when do you have assignments? You’re a school newspaper that ranks the best earbuds and delivery pizza.”

“Don’t be that way.” Stanford actually looks hurt. “The local public radio station is actually considering her for a summer internship.”

Really? I’m shocked. Shocked that Nay’s journalistic star has risen so fast and shocked that she hasn’t told me anything about it.

“You know, we’ve wanted to do a story on you. ‘PPW Student Goes Jump Street.’”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the articles you’ve done on the LAPD.” Recently there was a series of Instagram photos showing police brutality with the hashtag #mylapd on the
Squeeze
’s online edition.

“What did the LAPD expect when they went on social media? Photos of cops helping old ladies across the street?”

“Listen, the NYPD started that Twitter stuff, not us. I don’t even have a Twitter account.”

“Noticed that. I tried to friend you on Facebook, but couldn’t find you.”

Another reason not to have a Facebook account, I say to myself. I sure don’t need the editor of the
Citrus Squeeze
following my every move.

“We always want to get the other side, too.”

Yeah, right. I must be wearing my skepticism on my face, because Stanford then adds, “You know, we’re up for a National Pacemaker Award for our series on student debt after graduation.”

Uh,
I think,
am I supposed to be impressed?
I know, I
shouldn’t be so cynical, but now that I’m on the other side of law enforcement, I see how many times the media gets stuff all wrong.

He notices that I look completely unimpressed. I notice a smear on his right lens.

“The Pacemaker is the Pulitzer Prize of student journalism.”

The newspaper’s phone rings and there’s no one else to answer the call. Stanford is only too happy to end our conversation to attend to it. He sits at a desk with his back turned to me, so I lean my bike against a cubicle and quickly look at the large computer screen display with a full-page layout for today’s issues.

“China Nabs Another in Graft Scandal,” the headline on page two reads. The
Squeeze
usually places world news on the second page. It’s almost always stories from wire services like the Associated Press. But this article has an actual
Squeeze
byline from Nay Pram.

There’s no dateline identifying where the writer is reporting from for the story, so I’m assuming that Nay’s not actually in China. But how can she report on such a story here in Los Angeles? Maybe Washington Jeung has become an important news source.

“Can I help you with anything else?” Stanford is apparently done with his call and stares at me looking at his page in progress. His chin rests on his folded arms as he leans over the four-foot-high cubicle wall.

My face flushes pink. Caught in the act! “Ah, no,” I say. I quickly walk around to my bike and guide it forward, as if there’s something pressing I need to respond to.