Addie Combo (7 page)

front
yard lawn!”
“Y’see? This is why it’s so important to keep your business life and your personal life
separate. You need balance, Addie, we all do. I never should have let myself be so charmed by
you.”
“Charmed by me? You led me around like a dog on a leash!”
“How else does a dog get its master to clean up after it, without even asking -?”
My hand leaps out from my side, acting on its own. The slap is loud and echoes between the
houses, seeming to ring out over the entire city. Randolph stares at me, anger and shock in his
reddening face.
But I don’t wait to see it change colors yet again. My body is coursing with adrenaline and
temper and energy, and I use those things to get me back into Quinton’s car. Because I know
Randolph’s body is coursing with that same powerful energy, which I can already feel is a
terribly destructive influence. I don’t wish to destroy Randolph, despite what he’s done to me.
And even more, I don’t want to be destroyed by him, which I’m beginning to feel is a much
more likely outcome.
We drive on to our next destination, the string of new and used car lots along Brand
Boulevard in Glendale, just east of Los Feliz. We look at several before Quinton allows them to
run my credit. They all want to do that first thing, but he knows how many dings that can put
onto a record like mine.
“My manager insists that we run her credit before we do a test-drive,” we hear from almost
every salesman we meet, even those who say differently after we first approach.
Quinton’s answer is the same. “Your manager’s desires aren’t our concern. Do you think
we’re going around test-driving cars without wanting to buy one? Do you think we’d go onto a
car lot without the credit enough to make a deal?”
“Well, no, sir, but -”
“Then what are you and your manager insinuating?”
“Nothing at all, sir, it’s just ... a matter of policy, for insurance reasons -”
“Lie to me again and you’ll have the Better Business Bureau on your butt so fast they’ll be
repaving this place next week for a new WholeFoods, get me?”
“Okay, okay, let me see what I can do, if you’ll just give me a minute.”
Funny how they all managed to get us a test-drive before running my credit and having me
fill out the loan forms. Unfortunately, that might have saved us all a lot of time. My blood runs
cold when the salesman returns to his desk with a scowl and a manilla folder.
“I’m sorry, but there are some issues with your credit,” the salesman says, “and your
employment history, which we are unable to verify.”
Quinton and I exchange glances that tell the other what we both know happened; Randolph
has denied ever hiring me. Nearby, Emily seems to be flirting with one of the salesmen, or else
she’s letting him flirt with her. Either way, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting a car loan today or
anytime in the near future, perhaps ever.
I say, “My former boss is a bit of a jerk, but my credit is good, and I have enough for a down
payment -”
“Not quite,” the salesman says. “I see that two of your cards are maxed out.”
“Two of the -? But I only have one credit card.”
“Not according to this.”
I rush home and start making some calls. The first thing I discover is that two credit cards
have been taken out in my name, and that while there isn’t much credit on either card, both are
maxed out with cellphone calls to Florida and other locations outside of California, some to
Belgium! The second thing I check into are the buildings, to make sure that whatever identity
thief has apparently struck me hasn’t somehow changed the deeds. But, like the credit cards,
everything is in my name.
This makes me feel better, but not much. I call Quinton. He reassures me that identity theft
happens to a lot of people, and he’s got a buddy who is just starting off on a career handling such
things. He’ll put me in touch and the matter of the cards and the phone will be worked out.
Quinton’s theory is that somebody in Florida has swiped my bankcard pin number from a
machine (something thieves can now do with ease) and did what he could with what he could
get. Judging by the cellphone, Quinton’s guess is that he’s a drug dealer.
A knock at the door startles me. I half-expect it to be Randolph, maybe ready to dish out
more lame excuses about the way he’s mistreated me.
Maybe he wants me back
, I think to
myself on the way to the door.
Ha! Fat chance!
Then I think it might be Emily, with a growing
sense of jealousy and protectiveness over Quinton, who is acting as my
de facto
legal advisor.
But when I close one eye and press the other up against the peephole in the door, my blood
runs cold and my heart skips a beat.
Two uniformed police officers stand on the other side of my front door, and they do not look
happy. I open the door and stand there, innocently and honestly confused.
“Addison Danielle Compo?” one of them asks.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Another beat skipped, my heart goes right to frantic pounding. “Arrest? For what, on what
charges?”
“Distribution, trafficking and manufacturing of a controlled substance.”
“Controlled substance?”
“Heroin,” the other officer says as he turns me around and pulls my hands behind my back.
The cuffs are cold, hard metal as he bangs one lightly against my wrist and it locks tight.
“But those are just the charges we’re bringing you in for,” the other officer says. “The feds
have their own list.”
“The feds?!”
“That’s right. Until then, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will
be used against you in a court of law ... ”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They process me at the local police station, Rampart Division, and I can hardly stay on my
feet throughout the ordeal. I’m put on bench after bench, stand in line after line; being
photographed, fingerprinted, thrown into a holding cell filled with female gang members, crack
addicts and prostitutes. The smell of the cage is beyond my ability to describe, except to say that
the smell of urine, body odor and stale perfume is persistent at the very least.
I’m finally allowed to make a call; and it’s to Quinton, of course. He’s as close to a lawyer
as I’ve got. Unfortunately, Emily answers the phone and she picks this moment to say how sick
and tired she is of me trying to steal her man (which I never tried to do and explain as such with
increasing desperation). Before slamming the phone down, Emily expresses her fondest wish
that I should rot in hell, where she strongly feels I belong.
And they only give a person one phone call. Finally, they pull me in and sit me down and
take my statement.
“I want my lawyer,” I say. “Quinton James, his number is in my phone.”
A plainclothes police detective whose desk nameplate reads Charles Vincent offers me a
reassuring smile. “He’s already contacted us, Miss Compo.”
Thank God,
I hear myself silently
exclaim,
she told Quinton and he’s coming for me after all!
Detective Vincent goes on to say,
“And you
do
have a right for an attorney to be present at all times. If you’d rather wait, we can
make you comfortable here for some time until we can get a proper meeting arranged. Or you
can justtell us what you know and maybe we can get this whole thing sorted out. I wouldn’t
take you for an international drug kingpin, Miss Compo. Won’t you trust me enough to help me
straighten all this out as quickly as possible? Surely, it’s some kind of mistake, right?”
“Yes, exactly, it
is
a mistake.”
“Okay then, why not cooperate and we’ll all work together to get you out of here and back
home where you belong, eh?”
I give it a little thought.
This guy must be playing Good Cop,
I tell myself.
Well, better that
than have to sit here while somebody plays Bad Cop and screams at me that I’m going to be
passed around the federal prison like currency.
I don’t like the idea of saying anything without a lawyer around, but I like the idea of
spending another forty-eight hours here even less. And I truly am innocent, which I feel will
definitely rise to the surface. I’m confident that justice will prevail. So I nod and he leans back,
eyes glancing at my file on the desk.
“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the p
ast year or so, Miss Compo; two properties, one
an apartment building, even have a limited liability corporation. Impressive for a woman your
age. How did you manage the financing?”
“My former boss, Randolph -”
“-MacLeish, indeed. We’ll be speaking to him in greater detail. How long have you known
Mr. MacLeish?”
“Not long, about nine months. He wanted to help me get into my first few properties.”
“And that’s all he wanted?”
“I don’t see how our private affairs are any of your concern.”
He looks back down at the manilla folder in his hand. “I see.”
Around us, telephones ring, conversations are muttered and mumbled, coffee cups clink
against desks, fingers tap on computer keyboards. It’s getting harder to concentrate, but I know
this is no time to let my mind wander.
Oh no,
my little internal skeptic says,
you’ll have thirty years to life to do all the
daydreaming you like!
Stop it, please!
I beg myself.
Not now!
“Look, I don’t know anything about any heroin,” I say. “I just don’t see what this has to do
with me!”
“The property in your name, in Atwater Village; the D.E.A. busted it out this week. It’s one
of the single biggest distribution centers of heroin in the city.”
“Distribution center? It’s just apartments -”
“Over five hundred pounds when the bust went down, half-a-million in cash, four
semiautomatic machine rifles, armor-piercing bullets -”
“I don’t have anything to do with that. I don’t know a thing about it, this is the first I’m
hearing of any of this!”
“You just bought the building,” the detective says, “how should you know what’s going on
inside and around it? You don’t live there.”
“That’s right, I don’t.”
“And nobody ever complained to you about it, neighbors or tenants.”
“No.”
Now he leans forward, toward me on the other sideof his desk. “Well, of course not; since
your tenants are all part of the organization, and your neighbors represent a good part of your
customer base.”
“For whatever reason, I don’t know anything about it!”
“And I’m inclined to believe you, Miss Compo, I really am. Believe me, I’ve seen drug
lords, and you just don’t fit the bill.”
“Um, well, thank you ... and there’s no reason I should!”
“Of course, that could be the very heart of your M.O. Who’d suspect a pretty, pleasant
young woman from Colorado? It’s the perfect front.”
“It’s not a front,” I say, becoming more and more offended and, as I’m sure the detective is
planning, more and more upset. “I don’t think I want to say anymore without a lawyer.”
“Just a few more things to clear up, Miss Compo, you could be out of here within just a
couple of hours.” After a frustrating few more seconds, he smiles and goes on to say, “What
about this property in Ft. Lauderdale?”
“What about it? I bought it, also with Mr. MacLeish’s help. It’s just an income property -”
“It is
not
just an income property, Miss Compo,” the detective says, the snap of his voice
reflecting as much anger and upset as my own. “In fact, it is a depository for the heroin after
being smuggled in by boat, probably after being processed in Brussels with raw ingredients from
Afghanistan. The smack is then smuggled across the country in moving trucks and delivered, by
an amazing coincidence, to your property here in Los Angeles; with both properties in your
name. Then there is the matter of the cellphone charges; the number is in your name, and the
calls go directly to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, Brussels, Belgium, and other places relevant to this
investigation. How would you like to explain that?”
I scramble to put it all together, to solve the crime as an amateur in five seconds when this
dedicated public servant can’t seem to do it at all. Unless ...
“What about Randolph MacLeish? He helped me get into both buildings, he must have
something to do with it.”
“Your name’s on everything, Miss Compo, his name isn’t anywhere near anything
incriminating.”
My heart is pounding as I review the images from the past year; his casual notice of that
house in Florida; the entire trip may well have been a rouse so that we’d drive by it quite
accidentally
. He set up the L.L.C., it was his idea, and now I know why.
That charmer,
I
realize,
all that help and care and even our ... oh no! He seduced me, tricked me, set me up as a
front for some drug smuggling operation.
And I completely fell for it!
Thetrouble I’m in becomes terribly clear.
“I really don’t think I should say anything else until my lawyer arrives.” Detective Vincent
glares at me, but I simply return his hardened stare with one of my own. I’m obviously not
walking out of here anytime soon, so I might as well hold onto whatever rights I still have and
keep my big mouth shut. He smiles and nods and agrees, having another officer escort me back
to the holding cell until I can have a private meeting with Quinton.
Fifteen hours later.
By the time we’re finally in a room together, I throw myself into his arms. It takes all my
strength not to break down sobbing, and his calming whispers of, “It’s okay, take it easy, it’s
gonna be okay,” do help to relieve my overwhelming anxiety.
But they can only do so much.
Quinton says, “Okay, first the bad news; the judge wants to set bail at a million dollars.”
“A million -? But that means I’ll need a hundred thousand deposit, I don’t have that!”
Quinton nods slowly, eyes dipping shut to tell me he understands, to urge me not to panic.
He says, “I think I can bring it down to a lot lower than that. You’re hardly a flight risk. I mean,
they’ve frozen your accounts, taken your passport -”
“You’re kidding? They got to my bank account, and the building accounts?”
“And the buildings! Addie, this is big. The DEA is all over it, FBI, if they can bring a case
before a judge, we could have a real fight on our hands.”
“Quinton?” My voice is frail, quivering and trapped; it sounds precisely how I feel.