RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (4 page)

As check-cashing
places go, it was relatively discreet. Just a cursive neon sign in the window to let people know they could get fleeced in exchange for a fast return. We entered the small store and walked up to the counter, where an older Asian man with wire-rimmed glasses and a few strands of comb-over hair sat on a high stool behind a cash register.

Bailey flashed her badge. “LAPD, homicide investigation. I’d like to speak to the manager.”

He calmly inspected the badge and glanced at Bailey to match the photograph, then sat back. “First time I see detective as good-looking as you,” he said, his speech accented but very intelligible. He seemed appreciative in a completely nonlascivious way. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“Does your surveillance camera pick up a view of the street?” Bailey asked.

“Of course,” the man replied. “You talking about the day that homeless guy died?”

We both nodded.

“I hear he lay there long time before someone call,” the man said, shaking his head. “Sad business, very sad.”

I was glad to find someone who seemed to get that.

“You have exact date when it happened?” he asked. “Camera record on a loop. After so long, record over itself.”

“It was twelve days ago,” I said.
Please don’t let it be a ten-day loop.

He smiled. “You in luck. It’s fourteen-day loop.”

He called out, and an older woman in thick-soled rubber shoes and polyester pants and blouse shuffled out from the back of the store.

“Show them tape for twelve days ago,” he ordered her.

The man let us behind the counter, and we entered a back room so cluttered it looked like it was occupied by hoarders. Literally every single square inch of space was covered with layers of paper of all kinds: invoices, newspapers, dry-cleaner trade magazines. The woman gestured for us to follow her to a tiny office at the back. It had only a computer and monitor on a small desk, which was handy because that’s all there was room for.

She punched some keys and asked us for the date and time. We gave it to her, and then she punched some more keys and sat back to let us watch.

The black-and-white images didn’t allow us to discern any details, only gross movements. But we could clearly see John Doe reach for a woman in dark sunglasses who was walking in front of him. She spun toward him at first, then recoiled and tried to pull away. Seconds later, John Doe’s arm fell, and the woman broke free. John Doe watched her for a moment, then sank down and dropped out of the frame. By that time, the woman was out of sight.

“So that’s when he got stabbed,” I said. “But it doesn’t show the stabber.”

“Because our John Doe’s body was blocking him from view—at least from the angle this camera had.”

“And I couldn’t see what that woman did just before he went down, could you?”

“No,” Bailey replied. She tapped the screen. “Would you mind replaying it for us?”

We watched again. “Look,” I said, pointing to the monitor. “He grabs her, she stops, then somehow she gets free and turns away. But he’s still standing.”

“Right,” Bailey agreed. “So he got stabbed after he let go of her.”

“Could you please rewind a little and freeze it?” I asked.

She nodded.

I watched again as the homeless man grabbed the woman’s forearm. At the moment the woman pulled away, I told the shopkeeper to freeze the picture.

I pointed to the screen, which showed John Doe still on his feet. “Makes it hard to believe that the stabber was just trying to protect her,” I remarked.

“Though not impossible,” Bailey said. “We need to find some surveillance footage from another angle.”

“Ideally, one that shows the stabber,” I agreed. “And it’d be good to find this woman. She had to have seen something.”

“Right,” Bailey replied.

“So why’d she split without reporting?” I asked.

Bailey shook her head.

We continued watching. Our John Doe dropped out of frame. Pedestrians walked by. Eventually a man stopped and looked down at the spot where John Doe had fallen, then walked on. Some minutes later, a young girl aimed her iPhone at the same spot, then continued down the street. Other passersby parted around an unseen obstacle, then rejoined and kept moving. I winced as, one by one, each of them walked right past my John Doe, most without so much as a second glance.

According to the time counter, John Doe lay on the ground for two and a half hours before the police arrived.

Chase sauntered
into her office and dropped the flash drive on her desk with fake nonchalance. “We’ve got him,” he said with a superior smile.

Sabrina flashed him a skeptical look. “We’ll see,” she replied. She didn’t really doubt him, though. Chase wasn’t a braggart. Tenacious and whip-smart, he had an almost perfect track record. Which was why she’d brought him in as her right-hand man. Well, that, and the fact that she’d always trusted him more than anyone else in the world. Though what that meant was somewhat murky, since she trusted no one else at all. Sabrina waited as Chase flopped down into the cushy sofa to the right of her desk and pulled off his “cover”—a wig and fake glasses. Sabrina wasn’t usually a fan of disguises. Too often, they screamed “costume,” which only managed to draw more attention. But she was forced to admit that for Chase, there was no other option. His long nose, piercing black eyes fringed by insanely long lashes, and thick curling brown hair presented a combination distinctive enough to make an impression on even a marginally observant witness.

“I take it my intel was good, then?” she asked.

“I don’t know how you do it, but it’s the best.”

Sabrina plugged in the flash drive, then picked up the remote and pressed a button. The floor-to-
ceiling
metallic shades moved quietly across the wall of windows and shut out the afternoon sun. Now the only light in the cavernous office came from the glow of the cobalt-blue buttons on the
remote
in her hand.

She swiveled her chair to face the wall on the right and pressed another button. A flat screen descended and locked into place at eye level. Sabrina hit play, and the image of an empty bedroom filled the screen in gray scale. The colors were so muted, it was difficult to make out what was in the room. She adjusted the contrast for maximum definition, and the outline of a bed, a dresser with a television set, and two nightstands—typical hotel furniture—came into view. Seconds later, a man in his sixties—in slacks and shirtsleeves, his expensive suit jacket slung over one shoulder—entered, loosening his tie. He tossed his jacket onto a chair in the corner, lumbered over to the king-size bed, and sat down heavily, hands hanging loosely between his thighs. Sabrina smirked. The man was obviously more than a few drinks into his good time. He rubbed his face, then looked around the room. Sabrina hit pause and peered over at Chase.

“Can you enhance this? I don’t want there to be any doubt.”

“Yeah, of course. But, trust me, there won’t be.”

Sabrina turned back to the screen and continued the footage. The man went over to the minibar and pulled out two small bottles of champagne and two flutes. The door of the mini-fridge closed with a thunk, and when he set down the glasses, the clink gave a clear treble tinkle. Sabrina noted the clarity of the sound, pleased. A knock came at the door, and the man went to answer it. The visitor moved past him into the room and stopped dramatically at the foot of the bed.

She was tall and slender, with waist-length blond hair, and dressed in a classic trench coat cinched with a knotted belt. When she spoke, her words nearly boomed from the speakers in the silent room. “Pour the champagne, darling. We don’t have all day.”

The man obeyed, and the visitor undid the belt and dropped the coat to the floor to reveal a black sequined bustier and black fishnet stockings. She strutted over to the man. They clinked glasses and drank, and the man reached out with one hand and began to caress her breasts.

She drained her glass, sat down on the bed, and leaned back on her elbows, letting her hair cascade down her back. “Bring me any prezzies?”

“Just this,” the man said, brandishing a clear baggie holding what looked like three grams of white powder.

“For the girl who has everything.” She took the bag, dipped in a long plastic fingernail, and scooped out a nice little mound.

Sabrina hit pause, freezing the image of the woman holding a healthy snort of cocaine on her nail.

“Congressman Rankin, you dog,” Sabrina said to the screen. “Or should I say
bitch?
” She gave a low chuckle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was fake.”

“I couldn’t fake it, man. Who could ever dream up stuff
this
crazy?”

There was that. A transvestite
and
a coker.
And
married with children. The rank, arrogant stupidity of it all was incredible, almost laughable. “Bless their pointed little heads—and Adam’s apples,” Sabrina remarked with a smirk.

“It was touch and go for a minute there. I lost him after the lunch break—somehow he melted into the crowd and got away from me. I panicked at first, but then I spotted his boyfriend there”—Chase gestured to the man on the screen—“the one you singled out in Miami. He was leaving the restaurant, so I followed him.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history.”

Chase gave a modest shrug.

Sabrina paused, then frowned. “How’d you get the camera in?”

“My old standby, the maintenance-man rig. Told the front desk I had to inspect the wiring and suggested they could give him a drink while he waited. They’ll never check the maintenance logs. I mean, who’s gonna complain?” Chase snickered.

Sabrina gestured to the flat screen. “I assume our lovebirds ‘get down’ after this?”

Chase’s features twisted sourly. “You don’t want to see it.” He turned to the screen. “But the picture’s good enough, right? And the sound. Couldn’t be better, right?”

Sabrina nodded. “We got him.”

“So when do we get paid?”

By the
time Bailey and I thanked our store manager for his help and stepped out onto the sidewalk, lacy cirrus clouds had spread across the sky, covering the sun and causing the temperature to drop. I shivered inside my peacoat and looked longingly across the street at the Subway sandwich shop.

“You hungry?” Bailey asked, seeing the focus of my gaze.

“Kinda, yeah,” I said, though I knew it wasn’t just because my stomach was empty. I needed some comfort food. This case was making me feel sad and lonely.

“I’m with you,” she said.

We headed back across the street and walked in. I’d just begun to read the menu on the wall behind the counter when I saw a familiar face.

I nudged Bailey. “That’s the eyewit, the guy who pissed backward on the stand today,” I whispered. His long, stringy hair was thankfully imprisoned by a hairnet, but there was no mistaking the face with that scraggly soul patch.

Bailey smiled. “Some things were meant to be, weren’t they?” she whispered back. “What’s the name again?”

I told her.

Bailey moved up to the counter and smoothly whipped out her badge. “Charlie Fern? We need to take a few moments of your time. If you don’t mind.”

Not that we cared if he did mind. It just sounded more genteel to say it like that.

“Oh!” he said, his eyes widening at the sight of the shield. “Uh, okay. Uh, sure. I’ve got a break coming up in about five minutes. That okay?”

“That’ll be just fine,” Bailey replied. “We’ll be right over there.” She pointed to a table against the wall.

Charlie nodded. We ordered our sandwiches from the young Latina standing next to him—a pastrami six-inch for Bailey, and a vegetarian six-inch, no mayo, for me. I vowed that after a couple of weeks at the gym, I’d be back to answer the siren song of the meatball and cheese.

I was about two surprisingly tasty bites into my sandwich when I saw Charlie lean in and say something to the woman at the register. She nodded, and he waved to Bailey and me and signaled that he’d be right out. He began to untie his apron as he turned and moved toward the kitchen.

I set down my sandwich and saw Bailey do the same. There was no need for discussion. Bailey and I jumped out of our seats and ran. Seconds later, we screeched to a halt at the side of the building—just as Charlie Fern burst through the back door. Bailey reached out, swiftly snatched a fistful of his T-shirt collar, and gave it a firm backward yank.

She held on to his shirt and shook her head. “Dumb, really dumb.” She looked at him with annoyance. “You made me leave my sandwich.”

I contributed a tsk-tsk of disapproval. “You know, Charlie, it really hurts our feelings when witnesses dodge us like that.”

Charlie’s eyes darted between me and Bailey so rapidly I thought he was going to give himself a seizure. His voice came out in a squeak. “Look, man, I told the cops I din’t see who stabbed the dude!”

“That’s not how the cop remembered it,” I said. “So let’s hear the whole truth and nothing but. Did Yamaguchi do the stabbing or not?”

Charlie was breathing hard, and I could see he was facing a personal conundrum. Though I had a pretty good idea what it was, I decided to wait and see if he’d pop it out himself. We all stood there in silence for a few moments as Charlie weighed his options.

Finally he gave up, and his whole body drooped. Unfortunately, since Bailey still had a firm grip on his collar, this meant that the neck of his shirt dug into his throat, slightly strangling him.

Alarmed, he squeaked, “Okay! Let go and I’ll explain.”

Bailey looked at him impassively and didn’t move.

“Please,” he said beseechingly. “I promise I won’t run.”

Bailey gave him a stern look as she moved her hand from his collar to his forearm.

“Ever had a broken arm?” she asked.

“N-no.” Charlie looked at her warily.

“Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “I’m on probation for receiving stolen property,” Charlie said. “But I wasn’t guilty. I tol’ my public defender, man. That stereo receiver was mine. That ass…uh…guy, stiffed me, so I just went and took it back. My dump truck of a PD said to just take the deal. I was scared of going to jail, so I did. I never shoulda listened.” Charlie still looked aggrieved.

I wasn’t buying the dump-truck story. My experience with public defenders, which was considerable, was that they’d happily fight a case that had any shot at all of winning. I’d bet good money our little Charlie was a thief. But I did buy the part about him being on probation.

“You’re dealing out of here, and you got nervous about the cops watching your action, so you told them what you thought they wanted to hear,” I said flatly.

Charlie gave me a wounded look. “No!”

Which meant yes.

“And you’re in trouble with your PO,” I said, sounding as bored as I felt.

I hate the predictable. Which, I guess, is one of the reasons I love my job.

Charlie sniffed. “It was a bullshit deal. I got caught with a little weed. But my PO said if I screwed up again, he’d violate me.”

“So you figured you’d earn brownie points with the cops. That way, they’d leave you alone and maybe even help you out with your PO if you just happened to get unlucky enough to get busted again,” I said.

Charlie nodded glumly. “I’m totally screwed now, aren’t I? You’re gonna bust me for lyin’.”

Bailey sighed. “Just give us the truth, Charlie. No more bullshit. What’d you really see?”

“I really did see that dude—whasisname? Yamashiro or something—”

“That’s a restaurant, Charlie,” I corrected with a sigh. “I take it you mean the defendant who was in court?”

“Yeah, him. He
was
there just before the homeless dude went down.”

“You mean the victim?” I couldn’t stand hearing one more person call him the
homeless guy.

“Yuh, uh, yeah, the victim,” Charlie said nervously.

“How close was Yamaguchi to the victim when you saw him?”

“Real close, like from me to her,” he said, gesturing to Bailey, who was about seven inches away and still holding his arm.

He looked from his limb to Bailey, who ignored his silent entreaty and held fast.

“Was he still that close when the victim went down?” I asked.

“That’s the part I don’t know,” Charlie replied, shaking his head.

Of course he didn’t. That was the part that mattered most. “Try to picture how it happened,” I said.

Charlie stared at a spot on the pavement and played out the images in his memory. “I seen the victim reach for that lady, then I saw the Yamashiro dude there—”

I didn’t want to, but I had to stop him and ask, “And at that point, what was the lady doing?”

“I think she was moving away—”

“Are you sure?” Bailey asked.

“Yeah, pretty sure,” Charlie replied, forehead wrinkled with the effort of replaying the incident.

“So the victim wasn’t holding on to her anymore,” I said.

“No, couldn’ta been,” he answered, nodding to himself. “’Cuz she was moving, and the homeless—uh, I mean the victim was still standing there. That, I’m sure about.”

“And did you notice where the Yamashiro guy was at that point?” I asked. Having scored a major victory with
victim
instead of
homeless guy,
I decided to give up on the defendant’s name.

“No. He mighta still been there, but I just din’t see. Next time I saw him was after the cops came. He was standing with all the looky-loos, watching ’em do their thing.”

“Can you describe the lady?” I asked.

“About so high.” Charlie put his hand at chin level.

I estimated that would mean she was about five feet seven without factoring in what kind of heels she’d been wearing. So I guessed maybe five feet five or less.

“All I could see was long black hair, big sunglasses.” Charlie paused and frowned, then shrugged. “It happened really fast, you know?”

Unfortunately, we really did. Bailey took his contact information and we thanked him for his time and generous cooperation. The sarcasm was wasted on our little doper buddy, who rubbed his arm, cast a wary glance at Bailey, and said, “You’re welcome, man.”

We’d turned and gone just five steps when Charlie called out to us. “Hey, wait! If that dude Yamashiro gets out, can I get some protection or something?”

“What for?” Bailey asked. “He’s going to know you’re the one who told us you never saw him do it. He’ll probably send you roses. Besides, he’s no gangbanger, Charlie. If he skates, the only one he’s liable to go after is the city of Los Angeles. Make himself some money,” Bailey said flatly.

Charlie stroked his chin. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

He waved, we waved, and he walked back inside the sandwich shop.