Street Dreams (42 page)

“Ah.” I finished my eggs. “So how easy is it to get drugs?”

He looked at me. “Pardon?”

“Like hard drugs. How easy would it be to filch them?”

“With the classified narcotics, everything is kept under lock and we all know who has the keys. It is not simple. I don’t
do drugs, I’ve never done drugs, but those at the hospital who do usually suck nitrous oxide because it is very accessible
and usually wears off immediately. It is stupid. Every year we have at least one of our own staff unconscious because of improper
mix of oxygen and nitrogen. Why do you ask about drugs?”

“Cop’s curiosity. You can get the pill so easily. I just wondered.”

“I cannot easily get narcotics from lockup, but if I was desperate enough, I would know ways. Almost anything else—antibiotics;
cold medicines; antihistamines; analgesics, both OTC and some low-dose prescription pain medications like Percocet; even Percodan
or Vicodin, which have codeine in them. The hospital has closets filled with samples from the drug companies. It’s a perk
of the job … like free coffee for you.”

“I don’t get free coffee.”

“Well, here you do.” He picked up part of the paper and handed it to me. “So let’s enjoy our time together before reality
intrudes.”

I scanned the front page of the Arts and Entertainment section— vintage ’50s musicals on stage, movie remakes, TV reunion
specials. Didn’t anyone have an original thought anymore? I looked at Koby’s face, his eyes focused on the morning news, his
brow furrowed with tension as he read the articles about our troops overseas. He was much more familiar with that region than
average Joe American. I wondered how much he identified with our soldiers.

Bad news wasn’t good for either of us. We were both highly intense people, and even though I had a
strong
feeling that he often used sex like an opiate, as long as he wasn’t pushy and he was faithful, what did it matter? He had
been shot at two days ago, his car had been totaled, and still he cooked me breakfast.

This was a wonderful man.

“Kiss me,” I told him.

He put down the paper. “That’s a nice invitation.” He leaned over, took my face in his hands, and brought my mouth to his—a
slow and passionate and edible kiss.

“Now that was
so
good,” he told me.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled his lips to mine, my fingers massaging the back of his scalp as our tongues did
a slow dance.

We became more and more amorous.

A few minutes later, we got up and headed for the bedroom.

I wiped foam from my lips with the back of my hand. The beer was ice cold, in contrast to the hot, smoky room. Seven in the
evening and Bellini’s was thick with cigarette carcinogens. It was a step up from the usual cop’s bar, offering a pretty good
selection for dinner—nothing fancy, but good and filling. Hayley and I had often gone there after shift when we still did
Day watch. The place was small in size, dimly lit with background jazz: This time, it was Miles Davis doing the honors. Baseball
was on the big screen— Dodgers versus the Diamondbacks in Arizona.

Brill found us a booth in the back. By choosing Bellini’s, making us visible, he was making some sort of a statement, though
I wasn’t clear on the message. I did know it wasn’t pure altruism. Not with the way he was sipping his beer and eyeing me
with those baby blues. I nursed my drink and I let him do it. He looked sharp— shadow pinstripe suit, white shirt, red-and-gold
tie. Big gold ring on his left finger. Gold watch on his wrist.

“Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m fine.” I added, “I had a big lunch.”

“With the boyfriend?”

“Exactly.” I could see the TV from where we were sitting. Shawn Green just got a stand-up double. Randy Johnson looked pissed.

“What’s his name?” Brill asked.

He knew the answer to the question. He had interviewed Koby for over an hour. “Yaakov Kutiel.”

“Seemed like a good guy,” Brill said. “Especially considering the circumstances. Does he have insurance for his car?”

“Yes, but you know how that works. Blue book on it isn’t going to be much.”

“Lucky for him he found a girl with a Lexus.”

“You’ve noticed.”

“Only the best for Daddy’s little princess.”

“Now you’re getting nasty.”

Brill smiled, signaled over the waitress. “Wanna clarify something for me?”

“If I can.”

“You have any idea where that phone call came from?”

“Not a clue.”

“For something to go through the grapevine that fast”—he gave me the “cop stare”—“it defies logic.”

I didn’t deny it. On the TV, the throw to the plate was too late. Green scored on McGriff’s perfect, long single. Fred McGriff
had advanced to second. One out, Dodgers up by three at the top of the third. A close-up of a disgusted Johnson. The waitress
came over. Brill ordered lamb chops with roasted potatoes; I settled for another beer.

“Any ideas?”

I thought long and hard. Anything I’d say could be used against me. “No.”

Brill smiled. “All right. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Let’s.”

“Prints—we found a lot of those. Stop me when you’re interested.”

“I’m interested in whatever you have to tell me.”

He pulled out his notebook. “Here goes: Bobby Cantrell, Mohammed Nelson, Benny Rodriguez, Tomas Marin, Mabibi Ralson, Joseph
Fedek—”

“Stop.”

“Yeah, I thought so. Let me finish with the rest: Leonard Chatlin, Mike Robinson, Cristofer Anez, and Ted Bass. Now, Cantrell,
Rodriguez, and Anez have been officially logged into our penal system. Tomas Marin lives out of state, but that don’t mean
he can’t travel. Mabibi Ralson is dead. So that leaves Joseph Fedek, Mohammed Nelson, Leonard Chatlin, Robinson, and Bass.
The good news is, there are addresses for Mohammed Nelson, Mike Robinson, and Ted Bass. The bad news? None for Chatlin and
Fedek. Since a cop discharged her weapon, it’s a serious offense. Stone gave the case to me. So I gotta check out all these
dudes. I’m not pleased.”

Pepe Renaldes hadn’t made the list. That made me feel a little better. I said, “What can I help you with, Justice?”

“You’re not allowed to help me. Conflict of interest.”

McGriff had scored on another double by Brian Jordan. There was action in the Arizona bull pen. I said, “What would it hurt
if I made a couple of phone calls?”

“A lot if Stone found out.”

“I can be discreet.”

“In that case, you can check out
everyone
on the list, including our prison buddies, except for Chatlin and Fedek—especially not Fedek. I’ll take the heavy stuff.
You just verify the obvious. I repeat, don’t you dare go after Fedek.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to find him.”

“Yeah, just like you wouldn’t know how to find the car.”

“You give me an awful lot of credit.”

“I give your father a lot of credit.”

My beer came. I thanked the waitress. Brill gave the server a wink and me a wry smile. “You go back on active duty tomorrow.
How long do you think it’s going to take you to realistically check out the names?”

There were seven names, including the cons, but not including the dead guy. “I could probably do it in a couple of days. But
I want to be careful. How about a week?”

“Sounds good. We’ll meet next Tuesday and you can give me an update.”

“What time and where?”

“Somewhere private. How about your place?”

“What time and where?” I repeated without expression.

Brill frowned. “Are you comfortable here?”

“Sure. Bellini’s opens at twelve,” I told him. “Is that good for you?”

“We’ll meet at one.”

“Done. Now can we talk about Sarah Sanders?”

“Why? Do you have anything new?”

“Since Joseph Fedek made the fingerprint list, I’m assuming the attack wasn’t random. Maybe El Paso contacted Fedek from prison
and said something to him about my investigation of Sarah Sanders. Maybe Fedek got scared.”

“Cindy, how would he know where to find you? You weren’t even driving your car.”

I thought a moment. “El Paso could have seen Koby’s car when he drove away.”

“Koby?”

“Yaakov. My boyfriend.”

“You call him Koby?”

“He calls himself Koby. It’s an Israeli nickname for Yaakov.”

“He’s
Israeli?
”

Here we go again. “Yes. He’s black and he’s Jewish. Hollywood’s our area, Justice. We both work there, and since we’re both
night owls, we play there as well. Maybe Fedek was hanging around the streets, just waiting for our paths to cross.”

“Could be you’re right. But we can’t do a damn thing with Sarah Sanders until Fedek’s in custody. Right now, that’s the big
problem.”

His food came. He rubbed his hands together. “Looks good.” Slowly, his eyes rose from his plate to my face. We regarded each
other for a few moments. “Sure I can’t
tempt
you?”

He was pointing with his knife to his food, but the implication was obvious. I sipped my second beer. “Justice, I’m really
not
hungry. But I thank you for the offer.” I stood up and left thirty bucks on the table. “My treat.”

Brill smiled. “You got class.”

“We’ll talk later.” I started to walk away.

“I hear you applied to Detectives,” Brill said.

I turned around. My face got warm. “Yeah, I know it’s a little early, but I did well on the exams. I figure, what do I have
to lose?”

“Yeah, I was talking to Stone about you. For what it’s worth, I told him I think you’d season well.”

“That was very nice of you.” I smiled as the heat under my cheeks spread across my face. “Really. Thanks a lot.”

“Course you’d need the right rabbi.”

“Of course.” Was Justice setting me up to be his partner? I didn’t dare dream that high. Then he winked at me. “Thanks for
dinner. Lunch’ll be on me.”

“Great.”

Sharing the tab … that was good.

A
s predicted,
it took me a week to check out the names on Brill’s fingerprint hit list. At the time a bronze Nova was gunning me down,
Bobby Cantrell was in Folsom Penitentiary, and Benny Rodriguez and Cristofer Anez were in Lompoc Federal Prison. Tomas Marin
had moved to Texas, where he worked construction in Houston, and Mabibi Ralson was indeed dead.

Mike Robinson was thirty-eight years old and employed with an insurance firm. He was the original owner of the Nova and traded
it in for a new GM Saturn in 1996. Ted Bass worked as a film editor and had
no idea
how his prints were found in the Nova or even
why
his prints were in the police system. He lived in West Hollywood and was with his lover at a dinner party the night in question.

Mohammed Nelson developed pictures in a MotoPhoto lab in South Central. He was six-four and hostile and claimed he didn’t
remember where he had been the night that someone tried to take me out—very reasonable because several days had passed since
the shooting. I could have prodded him with cop attitude, but since I was on my own, I chose to be a nuisance instead. Guys
will do anything to get rid of a nagging woman. He finally figured out that during the time period in question, he had been
at a party where black-market pharmaceuticals had been passed freely from person to person. I was able to confirm his presence
at the party.

I presented the list to Justice complete with times, dates, and alibis. He was thrilled, suggesting that we should talk about
the case one more time, just to nail down all the details. There was no mention of my apartment as the meeting place. It was
Bellini’s for lunch—safe, appropriate, and in the open.

Since my suspects had checked out clean, our biggest hope lay in snagging Joseph Fedek and Leonard Chatlin, both with records
of misdemeanor possessions and drunk-and-disorderlies. At the time of the mug shots, Fedek had a shaved head and an eyebrow
pierce. Leonard Chatlin was clean shaven and very pimply. Sarah had had pretty decent recall for something that had happened
so long ago.

The problem lay in LAPD’s inability to locate Fedek and Chatlin. But because both were scumbags, and in general, scumbags
didn’t learn from experience, I knew that there was a very good chance that they’d be picked up again on another offense
if
they still were in L.A.

I also made a call to County Jail. After being transferred from one extension to another, one department to another, I finally
was able to confirm, by checking the visitors’ list, that Joseph Fedek had paid a call to his stepbrother Germando El Paso
a week before my shooting. Nothing but circumstantial evidence, but it told me what I suspected. El Paso had offered me up
to Fedek.

Using Justice Brill as the contact name, I put out the word with other LAPD substations and West Hollywood Sheriff. If anything
comes in—even something as meager as loitering or a DUI—on Joseph “Juice” Fedek or Leonard Chatlin,
please
don’t let him go without contacting Detective Brill or—in an emergency—Officer Cynthia Decker. I figured I’d go round-robin,
calling each division about once a week. Any more than that and I’d be considered a pest.