Street Dreams (30 page)

“To find the father, not to solve a six-month-old fantasy crime.”

“Look … sir. I went after Germando because I had heard that he hangs with punks who harass the homeless and jump people in
public bathrooms. I looked Germando up. I knew he had an outstanding warrant. I knew I could pull him in on that. Why would
I bother planting a bag of ecstasy on him?”

“To make the bust look more righteous.”

“The bag has been nothing but a pain in the neck.”

“But you didn’t know that at the time.”

“I know the Department’s attitude toward rogue cops. Give me a lie detector test if you have doubts.”

“What about this guy Germando claims you were with?”

I looked at my hands.

Brill pointed to the mirror. “They don’t like it when you’re not forthcoming. If you lie about this, no one’s going to believe
you about the bag.”

I pursed my lips. “I sent him home.”

“That doesn’t look nice.”

“Why should he get involved?”

“He’s already involved.”

“Ask anyone in the restaurant. We weren’t together more than ten minutes.”

“We did ask people, Decker. And what you said is true. And that in and of itself is suspicious. Ten minutes is more than enough
time to buy a baggie.”

I stared in disbelief. “You think he was a dealer?”

“You tell me.”

“Why?” I snapped. “Because he’s black?”

Brill’s face remained flat. “You tell me.”

“He’s a critical-care nurse at Mid-City Peds. We were arranging a date.”

“That can be done on the phone.”

“He just got off shift. He wanted to see me in person. The poor man had been working for almost four days straight. I took
one look at him and sent him home to get some sleep.”

“Name?”

I sighed heavily. “Yaakov Kutiel. He was the same guy I was with when I witnessed the hit-and-run.”

Brill was silent.

“He was just walking me to my car.”

“So he’s your boyfriend?”

Not anymore,
I thought to myself. “We’ve dated.” I was losing patience. I took a couple of deep breaths. “I didn’t plant the pills. End
of story.”

Again he was silent.

“If I were you,” I said, “I’d start thinking about how I could use this boon.”

Brill looked at me.

“Like using the pills to get him to talk about Sarah Sanders’s rape.”

“If it wasn’t fiction.”

“Can’t we at least find out?”

“We?”

It was time to show them I had an ego. “I made the bust. My presence in the room will make him nervous. But you can do all
the talking.”

“Gee, thanks, Decker.”

“If he wasn’t the point man in the rape, maybe you can use the pills to get him to flip and tell us who it was.”

“What makes you think he wasn’t the point man?”

I shrugged. “Sarah described the meanest guy as being a white guy with a shaved head. Let’s just put him on the griddle and
see how high he jumps.”

Brill got a call on his cell. He stood up, spoke a second, then hung up. “Excuse me.”

I shrugged.

He left the room. I knew they were conferring on the other side of the mirror. Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Mack Stone from
Hollywood Detectives came into the room with Brill. Stone was in his mid-fifties, around six-two, with a thick build, fleshy
features, and a head of dark, curly hair. He sat across from me, giving me one of those intense looks.

“How’s your arm?”

“My arm?”

“Connor says you have quite an arm.”

“Oh.” He was referring to my position on the LAPD Hollywood Bowling League—women’s division. We made first last year. “Ready
to do it again, sir.” After my awful rookie year, I was determined to be ever the good sport.

Stone frowned, the creases on his forehead like wrinkles on a bulldog. Stubby fingers raked through his hair. “Germando El
Paso. What do you want with him specifically?”

“I want to see if he was involved in the gang rape.”

“Where’d you get your information about his involvement?”

“A street person.”

“Who?”

I shrugged. “A bag lady, sir.”

“A bag lady?”

“Yes. But before I went after him, I looked him up and made sure I’d have something to hold him on if I caught him. The last
thing I wanted was to be hung out to dry. The baggie was a bonus, sir. And it sure as hell explains why he ran from me.”

“He looks like a fast little mother. How’d you run him down?”

“I’m very quick, sir.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t have pulled a gun on him for a traffic warrant.”

“I would never point my weapon at a fleeing traffic violator. That is flagrant misuse of a firearm.”

“How’d you get him down without your gun?”

“I caught up with him and whacked him on the back. He tripped and fell.”

Stone studied my face. “Ever made the list of forty-four?”

I laughed. The list of forty-four was reserved for those officers with the worst civilian complaint records. “Uh, no.”

“Charges against you?”

“None.” I looked at him. “Why? Is El Paso thinking of throwing a brutality charge at me?”

He smiled. “Not by the time we’re done with him.”

“You’re in deep turd,
mi amigo,
” Brill said. “You’re looking at a felony drug conviction: possession with intent to sell. That’s a lot of jail time. Then,
when you combine it with your traffic warrant and your prior drug conviction, I think a case could be made for three strikes.”

El Paso’s pitted, thin face lost color, his ashen cheeks in stark contrast to the black shirt he wore. His legs were housed
in a pair of baggy, saggy jeans. His nose and forehead were scraped from his fall, adding more markings to his punk visage.
He had tattoos on his hands, tattoos on the back of his neck. I’m sure if he took his shirt off, he’d be a gallery of blue
ink.

Three strikes meant a mandatory life term in prison. Germando’s charges didn’t qualify, but he didn’t know that.

“She plant them,” he shouted out.

“No, she didn’t plant them,” Brill said. “You know how we know that?”

Germando didn’t speak.

“We found a witness who was with her.”

“See, I tell you she was with someone. A black man. A dealer—”

“No, he isn’t a dealer,” Brill explained, “but he is her boyfriend.”

“Her boyfriend is a dealer?”

“No, Germando, he’s not a dealer. But being as they’re close, when we get him on the witness stand, whose side do you think
he’s going to be on, hmmm?”

Germando grew sullen. “I wan’ my lawyer.”

“Sure,” Brill said. “But before you make the call, I want to tell you a little story. It might help you out if you listen.
Might help you out big time.”

El Paso raised his brown eyes to my face, then to Brill.

Justice said, “This story goes back maybe six months ago. A rape,
amigo,
and not
just
a rape. This is a gang rape in the men’s bathroom at MacFerren Park. And not just any gang rape, it’s the gang rape of a
retarded girl who was fooling around with her retarded boyfriend. Someone beat the crap out of him, then threw him in the
trash can. He was left for dead. Sound familiar?”

His eyes got wide, but he shook his head. “No. I never hurt no one.”

“Nothing like that.”

“I don’t hurt no one.”

“I’m not saying you did. Just that you might have been there.”

“Nah … I no there.”

I said, “We put you in a lineup, Germando. We bring the girl in.” I pointed to his neck. “That tiger on your throat is a pretty
obvious calling card.”

“You say she’s retarded.” El Paso rubbed his watery nose. “No one will believe her.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” I told him. “I think lots of people will believe her.” I leaned across the table and poured
him another glass of water. “The point is … are you sure enough to take a chance in front of twelve people who’d love to give
a banger twenty to life?”

Brill said, “You want to call your lawyer now?”

Stark silence. We both waited him out.

El Paso said, “Wha’ happens when I call my lawyer?”

“Then we stop talking and you’re charged with felony drug possession,” I told him.

His eyes darted back and forth. “And if I no call him?”

“Then we keep talking,” Brill told him.

“We talk about the story Detective Brill just told you,” I added.

“I never touch that kind of girl. She no right in the head.”

“But you know who we’re talking about,” I said.

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Maybe isn’t a good answer,” Brill told him. “Maybe makes us think you’d say anything to avoid a drug conviction.”

“I hear about it,” El Paso said. “I hear that they do a re-tard. Me? I no interested in the girl. Too ugly.”

“Who did her?” Brill asked.

“Wha’ you give me if I remember good?”

“Up to our lawyers,” Brill said. “I’ve got to present the situation to them. But I can’t present the situation if I don’t
know it. That means you have to tell it to me.”

“But once I tell, I have nothin’.”

“You have to trust us,” I said.

El Paso laughed.

“That hurts my feelings,” I said.

“Not as much as you’ dealer boyfrien’ hurt my back.”

“Bah humbug!” I lit a cigarette for him. He took it.

Brill said, “Start talking, Germando. I’m tired.”

“I know. You look like shit.” El Paso gave me a lecherous smile. “Now, you, mama, you look
good.
”

I took his cigarette away. “Germando … if
I
can take you down like I did, those gorillas inside will have you touching your toes in an eye blink. Now be polite and start
talking.” I stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, then sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.

Brill’s eyes went from my face to El Paso’s ugly mug.

“I don’ do nothin’ to her,” he reiterated. “I just wait at the door till they done.”

“Who did something to her?”

“Maybe Juice Fedek … Pepe Renaldes maybe. I don’ remember. Long time ago.”

I said, “The boy you beat up—”

“I don’ beat up no one,” El Paso stated.

“Someone beat him up,” I said.

“Not me. Maybe the others.”

“Was he alive when you left?”

El Paso shrugged. “I jus’ wait at the door.”

“Where’d you get the bag from?” Brill asked.

“What?”

“The bag of X,” Brill said. “Who’d you buy it from?”

Again El Paso asked for his lawyer. This time, he was adamant. The door to discussion was officially closed and dead-bolted.

J
uice Fedek
was Joseph Nicholas Fedek: twenty-one years of age, a young man with a seasoned record—two breaking-and-entering charges,
one assault, two misdemeanor drug possessions, two DUIs with a suspended license for a year. Eight months in county, bumped
into early parole due to overcrowding. Then he was picked up on a DUI, served an additional four months, another early release,
same reason. Where he parked himself was anyone’s guess and Germando claimed he hadn’t seen him since his last tour in the
cellar.

Pepe Renaldes was gainfully employed by Do-Rite Construction—bonded and licensed. The company’s claim to fame was custom-built
homes in Brentwood, a liberal, ritzy white area in the West Side of Los Angeles, a neighborhood I knew intimately because
my mother and stepfather lived there. They had their book clubs, their wine-and-cheese parties, and their endless discussions
on the state of the world. I loved my mother dearly. As my father admitted, she had not been given a fair shake in her first
marriage. She was happy now, and that was good. But I could take the intellectualizing only in small doses. Their lifestyle
had all the pitfalls of backbiting academia without the college credits.

Since both lads were lacking outstanding warrants, I had no choice but to wait until a game plan was formulated between El
Paso’s lawyer and the DA. I had wanted to show their mugs to Sarah Sanders, see if she could pick them out of a six-pack,
but I was told to hold off. With my hands figuratively bound, I went on my shift and worked a solid eight hours, getting home
around twelve, exhausted and depleted.

Lots of phone messages, but none from Koby. No e-mails from him, either.

Why wasn’t I surprised?

Saturday was devoted to finding David Tyler. That meant phone calls to homeless shelters, halfway houses, and other community
centers for the developmentally disabled. Then there was my “sacrosanct” lunch with Mom. As I traveled around Brentwood, I
looked for houses going up and Do-Rite Construction signs, but was out of luck.

There were still no messages from Koby when I got home. That would die unless I got things going again. So on Sunday, I swallowed
my pride. I went shopping and bought him an orange shirt—on sale and nonreturnable. Afterward, I wondered why in the hell
I did it, because who was this guy to me.

I should have dusted him, except I was lonely. Over the past year, I couldn’t find the energy to attend parties or barhop,
so where was I going to meet guys except at work and that was
O-U-T
—out. There had been chemistry between us and I was loath to give that up. Still, I waged an internal debate.