Suspect (19 page)

32.

Scott found Amelia Goyta’s prewar apartment house on a shabby run-down street north of the freeway in Echo Park. The old building had three floors, four units per floor, an interior central stair, no air-conditioning, and was pretty much identical to every building on the block except for the Crying Virgin. A towering Virgin Mary crying tears of blood was painted on the front of her building. Marshall told Scott the painting looked more like an anorexic Smurf, but he couldn’t miss it. Marshall had told it true. The Virgin Smurf was three stories tall.

Marshall didn’t remember which was Amelia’s apartment, so Scott checked with the manager. Wearing his uniform helped. Top floor in back, 304.

Scott wondered if news of Daryl’s death had reached Amelia. When he and Maggie reached the third floor, he heard crying and knew it had. He paused outside her door to listen, and Maggie sniffed at the floor jamb. Inside, a child wailed between whooping breaths, as a sobbing woman alternated pleas to stop crying with reassurances they were going to be okay.

Scott rapped on the door.

The child kept wailing, but the sobbing stopped. A moment later, the wailing stopped, too, but no one came to the door.

Scott rapped again, and gave her his patrol officer’s voice.

“Police officer. Please open the door.”

Twenty seconds passed without a response, so Scott knocked again.

“Police officer. Open the door or I’ll have the manager let me in.”

The wailing began again, and now the woman’s sob came from the other side of the door.

“Go away. Go AWAY! You’re not the police.”

She sounded afraid, so Scott softened his voice.

“Amelia? I’m a police officer. I’m here about Daryl Ishi.”

“What’s your name? WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

“Scott James.”

Her voice rose to a frantic scream.

“TELL ME YOUR NAME.”

“Scott. James. My name is SCOTT. Police officer. Open the door, Amelia. Is Gina safe? I’m not leaving until I see that she’s safe.”

When he finally heard the deadbolt slide, Scott stepped away to appear less threatening. Maggie automatically stood by his left leg as she’d been trained, and faced the door.

A girl not more than twenty peeked out when the door opened. She had long, straw-colored hair and pale, freckled skin. Her eyes and nose were red, and her lips quivered between gasps, but nothing about her expression suggested a broken heart or mourning.

Scott had seen her expression on the faces of women who were punching bags for their husbands, hookers on the run from pimps out to cut them, and the shell-shocked faces of rape victims. He had seen it on mothers with missing children—an expectation that something worse was coming. Scott knew the face of fear. He saw it on Amelia Goyta, and instantly knew Daryl had witnessed the shooting, and told her he would be killed if the shooters found out.

She wiped away snot, and asked him again.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Scott. This is Maggie. Are you and Gina okay?”

She glanced at Maggie.

“I gotta pack. We’re leaving.”

“Can I see the baby, please? I want to see she’s okay.”

Amelia glanced toward the stairs as if someone might be hiding, then threw open the door and hurried to her child. Gina was in a playpen, her face pinched and smeared with snot. She had dark hair, but looked nothing like Daryl. Amelia lifted her, jiggled her, and put her back in the playpen.

“Here, you see? She’s fine. Now I gotta pack, I got a friend coming. Rachel.”

A faded blue wheelie carry-on was waiting by the door. A Samsonite suitcase older than Scott was open like a giant clam on the floor, half-filled with toys and baby supplies. She ran into the bedroom, and returned dragging a brown garbage bag fat with clothes.

Scott said, “Did Daryl say they would kill you?”

Amelia dropped the bag by the door, and ran back to the bedroom.

“Yes! That dumbass piece of shit. He said they’d kill us, and I ain’t waiting.”

“Who killed him?”

“The fuckin’ killers. You’re the policeman. Don’t you know?”

She ran back with a wastebasket filled with combs, brushes, hair spray, and toiletries. She upended it into the Samsonite, tossed the basket aside, and pushed a small velvet pouch into Scott’s hands.

“Here. Take’m. I told the dumb fuck he was an idiot.”

Scott caught her arm as she turned for the bedroom.

“Slow down. Listen to me, Amelia. Nine months ago. What did Daryl tell you?”

She sobbed, and rubbed her eye.

“He saw these masked dudes shoot up a car.”

“Tell me exactly what he said.”

“He said if they knew he saw, they’d fuckin’ kill us and the baby, too. I want to pack.”

She tried to twist away, but Scott held her. Maggie edged closer and growled.

“I’m here to stop them, okay? That’s why I’m here. So help me. Tell me what Daryl said.”

She stopped fighting him, and gazed down at Maggie.

“Is that a guard dog?”

“Yes. A guard dog. What did Daryl tell you?”

Scott felt her relax as she considered the guard dog, and turned loose her arms.

“He was on some building somewhere, and heard a crash. Stupid Daryl went to see, and here’s this truck and the cops and these men were around this Rolls-Royce, shooting the shit out of it.”

Scott didn’t bother to correct her.

“He said it was crazy. He was, like, fuck, it was Tarantino, these masked guys shootin’ the cops and the Rolls. Daryl freaked, and slammed down off the roof, but it was all quiet when he hit the ground, and they were yellin’ at each other, so idiot fuckass Daryl goes to see.”

“Did he tell you what they were saying?”

“Just bullshit, hurry up, find the damned thing, whatever. They were scared of the sirens. The sirens were coming.”

Scott realized he had stopped breathing. His pulse had grown loud in his ears.

“Did Daryl say what they found?”

“This one dude gets in the Rolls, and jumps out with a briefcase. They piled into this car and tore out of there, and stupid Daryl, he’s thinking, rich people in this Rolls, he might get a ring or a watch, so he runs to the car.”

Scott thought Daryl had embellished his story.

“With the sirens getting closer?”

“Is that fuckin’ damaged? These two people are shot to shit, blood everywhere, and my moron boyfriend risks his life for eight hundred dollars and this—”

She slapped the velvet pouch.

“I said, you stupid shit, are you crazy? The money had blood on it. Idiot Daryl had blood all over, and he’s freaking. He made me promise, we can’t tell, we can’t even hint, ’cause these maniacs would kill us.”

“Did he see their faces?”

“You didn’t hear what I just said? They had masks.”

“Maybe one of them took off his mask.”

“He didn’t say.”

“How about a tattoo, hair color, a ring or a watch? Did he describe them in any way?”

“All I remember is masks, like ski masks.”

Scott thought harder.

“You kept asking my name. Why were you asking my name?”

“I thought you were them.”

“Meaning what? He heard their names?”

“Snell. He heard this one guy say, ‘Snell, c’mon.’ If your name was Snell, I wasn’t going to let you in. Listen, man, I gotta pack. Please. Rachel is coming.”

Scott looked at the pouch. It was lavender velvet, closed by a drawstring, with a dark discoloration. Scott opened it, and poured seven gray rocks into his palm. Maggie raised her nose, curious about the pouch because Scott was curious. This was something he had learned about her. If he focused on something, she was interested. Scott poured the stones back into the pouch, and slipped the pouch into his pocket.

“When will Rachel be here?”

“Now. Any second.”

“Pack. I’ll help carry your stuff.”

She was ready to go when Rachel arrived. Scott carried the Samsonite and the garbage bag stuffed with clothes. Amelia carried the little girl and a pillow, and Rachel carried everything else. Scott unclipped Maggie, and let her follow off-leash. At Scott’s request, Amelia left her apartment unlocked.

When everything was in the car, Scott asked for her and Rachel’s cell numbers, and took Amelia aside.

“Don’t tell anyone you’re with Rachel. Don’t tell anyone what you think happened to Daryl, or what Daryl saw that night.”

“Can’t a policeman stay with me? Like in witness protection?”

Scott ignored the question.

“You hear about Marshall? He’s in Men’s Central Jail?”

“Uh-uh. I didn’t know.”

Scott repeated it.

“Men’s Central Jail. I’m going to call you in two days, okay? But if you don’t hear from me, on the third day, I want you to go see Marshall. Tell him what you told me.”

“Marshall don’t like me.”

“Bring Gina. Tell him what Daryl saw. Tell him everything just like you told me.”

She was scared and confused, and Scott thought she might get in the car and tell Rachel to never stop driving, but she looked at Maggie.

“I get a big enough place, I want a dog.”

Then she got into Rachel’s car and they left.

Scott let Maggie pee, then picked up his dive bag, and lugged it up to Amelia’s apartment. He found a large pot in the kitchen, filled it with water, and set the pot on the floor.

“This is yours. We may be here a few days.”

Maggie sniffed at the water, and walked away to explore the apartment.

Scott sat with the dive bag on Amelia’s couch in Amelia’s living room in Amelia’s apartment, and stared at the wall. He felt tired, and wished he were living on the far side of the world under an assumed name, with a head that wasn’t filled with anger and fear.

Scott opened the velvet pouch and poured out the pebbles. He was pretty sure the seven little rocks were uncut diamonds. Each was about the size of his fingernail, translucent, and gray. They looked like crystal meth, and the irony made him smile.

He poured them back into the pouch, and the smile went with them.

Interpol had supposedly connected Beloit to a French diamond fence, which led Melon and Stengler to speculate that Beloit had smuggled diamonds into the country for delivery, or had come to the U.S. to pick up diamonds the fence purchased. Either way, the bandits learned of the plan, followed Beloit’s movements, and murdered Beloit and Pahlasian during the robbery. Melon and Stengler used these assumptions to drive the case until the same person who tipped them to Beloit’s diamond connection later told them Beloit had no such involvement.

The I-Man. Ian Mills.

Scott thought it through. Melon and Stengler knew nothing of Beloit’s diamond connection until Mills brought it to their attention. Why bring it up, and later discredit it? Either Mills had bad information when he cleared Beloit and made an honest mistake, or he lied to turn the investigation. Scott wondered how Mills knew about the connection, and why he later changed his mind.

Scott searched his dive bag for the clippings he collected during the early weeks of the investigation. Melon still ran the case at that time, and had given Scott a card with his home phone and cell number written on the back, saying Scott could call him anytime. That was before they reached the point Melon stopped returning his calls.

Scott stared at Melon’s number, trying to figure out what to say. Some calls were more difficult than others.

Maggie came out of the bedroom. She studied Scott for a moment, then went to the open window. He figured she was charting the scents of their new world.

Scott dialed the number. If his call went to Melon’s voice mail, he planned to hang up, but Melon answered on the fourth ring.

“Detective Melon, this is Scott James. I hope you don’t mind I called.”

There was a long silence before Melon answered.

“Guess it depends. How’re you doing?”

“I’d like to come see you, if it’s okay?”

“Uh-huh. And why is that?”

“I want to apologize. Face-to-face.”

Melon chuckled, and Scott felt a wave of relief.

“I’m retired, partner. If you want to drive all the way out here, come ahead.”

Scott copied Melon’s address, clipped Maggie’s lead, and drove up to the Simi Valley.

33.

Melon tipped his lawn chair back, and gazed up into the leaves.

“You see this tree? This tree wasn’t eight feet tall when my wife and I bought this place.”

Scott and Melon sat beneath the broad spread of an avocado tree in Melon’s backyard, sipping Diet Cokes with lemon wedges. Rotting avocados dotted the ground like poop, drawing clouds of swirling gnats. A few gnats circled Maggie, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Scott admired the tree.

“All the guac you can eat, forever. I love it.”

“I’ll tell you, some years, the best avocados you could want. Other years, they have these little threads all through them. I have to figure that out.”

Melon was a big fleshy man with thinning gray hair and wrinkled, sun-dark skin. He and his wife owned a small ranch house on an acre of land in the Santa Susana foothills, so far from Los Angeles they were west of the San Fernando Valley. It was a long commute to downtown L.A., but the affordable home prices and small-town lifestyle more than made up for the drive. A lot of police officers lived there.

Melon had answered the door wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He was friendly, and told Scott to take Maggie around the side of the house, and he would meet them in back. When Melon joined them a few minutes later, he brought Diet Cokes and a tennis ball. He showed Scott to the chairs, waved the ball in Maggie’s face, and sidearmed it across his yard.

Maggie ignored it.

Scott said, “She doesn’t chase balls.”

Melon looked disappointed.

“That’s a shame. I had a Lab, man, she’d chase balls all day. You like K-9?”

“I like it a lot.”

“Good. I know you had your heart set on SWAT. It’s good you found something else.”

As they settled under the tree, Scott remembered a joke Leland loved to tell.

“There’s only one difference between SWAT and K-9. Dogs don’t negotiate.”

Melon burst out laughing. When his laughter faded, Scott faced him.

“Listen, Detective Melon—”

Melon stopped him.

“I’m retired. Call me Chris or Bwana.”

“I was an asshole. I was rude and abusive, and wrong. I’m ashamed of the way I acted. I apologize.”

Melon stared for a moment, and tipped his glass.

“Unnecessary, but thank you.”

Scott clinked his glass to Melon’s, and Melon settled back.

“Just so you know, you were all that and then some, but, hell, man, I get it. Damn, but I wanted to close that case. Despite what you may think, I broke my ass, me and Stengler, shit, everyone involved.”

“I know you did. I’m reading the file.”

“Bud let you in?”

Scott nodded, and Melon tipped his glass again.

“Bud’s a good man.”

“I was blown away when I saw all the paperwork you guys generated.”

“Too many late nights. I’m surprised I’m still married.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Whatever you like.”

“I met Ian Mills—”

Melon’s laughter interrupted him.

“The I-Man! Bud tell you why they call him the I-Man?”

Scott found himself enjoying Melon’s company. On the job, he had been humorless and distant.

“Because his name is Ian?”

“Not even close, though that’s what everyone says to his face. Now don’t get me wrong, the man is a fine detective. He truly is, and he’s had a scrapbook career, but every time Ian is interviewed, it’s always,
I
discovered,
I
located,
I
apprehended,
I
take all the credit. Jesus, the I-Man? The ego.”

Melon laughed again, and Scott felt encouraged. Melon enjoyed talking about the I-Man and seemed willing to discuss the case, but Scott cautioned himself to tread carefully.

“Were you pissed at him?”

Melon appeared surprised.

“For what?”

“The business with Beloit. Chasing the diamond connection.”

“Him being hooked up with Arnaud Clouzot, the fence? Nah, Ian’s the guy who straightened it out. Interpol had a list of Clouzot associates, and Beloit was on the list. It was bogus. Clouzot’s business manager invested in a couple of Beloit’s projects along with a hundred fifty other people. That’s not a connection.”

“That’s what I mean. Seems he should’ve checked it out first. Save everyone the trouble.”

“Nah, he had to bring it. He had Danzer.”

Scott thought for a moment, but didn’t recognize the name.

“I don’t know it. What’s Danzer?”

“You know it. Danzer Armored Cars. Three or four weeks before Pahlasian, a Danzer car on its way from LAX to Beverly Hills was hit. The driver and two guards were killed. Bad guys got twenty-eight million in uncut diamonds, though you didn’t hear it on the news. Remember now?”

Scott was quiet for a long time. Pressure built in his temples as he thought about the velvet pouch in his pocket.

“Yeah, vaguely.”

“These big heists always end up with Special. Ian heard the rocks were going to France, so he asked Interpol for likely buyers. This was all weeks before Beloit was murdered, so his name meant nothing. But once he gets blown up, if you put Danzer in a world where Beloit is connected to Clouzot, you have to go with it. When you find out they’re not connected, Beloit’s just another Frenchman who got off the plane that night.”

Scott watched gnats circling the avocados. The I-Man was like a gnat circling Beloit. Scott felt the pouch through his pants, and ran his finger over the stones.

Melon swatted the air at a gnat. He checked his hand to see if he had the gnat.

“I hate these damned things.”

Scott wanted to ask Melon about the missing disc, but knew he had to be careful. Melon seemed fine with shooting the shit, but if he sensed Scott was investigating the investigation, he might pick up the phone.

“I get it, but I’m curious about something.”

“Don’t blame you. So am I.”

Scott smiled.

“You guys tracked Pahlasian and Beloit from LAX pretty much all the way to the kill zone. Where’d he pick up the diamonds?”

“He didn’t.”

“I meant before you cleared him. Where did you think he picked them up?”

“I knew what you meant. He didn’t. You know what happens when people steal diamonds?”

Melon didn’t wait for Scott to answer.

“They find a buyer. Sometimes it’s an insurance company, sometimes a fence like Clouzot. If a fence buys them, you know what the fence has to do? He has to find a buyer, too. We believed Clouzot bought the diamonds earlier, had them in France, and resold them to a buyer here in L.A.”

“Meaning Beloit was his delivery boy.”

“We had LAX video, baggage claim, parking structure, the restaurant, the bar. Unless somebody tossed him the rocks at a red light—which I considered—it was more likely he carried them in. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t in business with Clouzot, so the whole diamond thing was a mirage. You watch. Bud’s going to find out one or both of these people borrowed from the wrong guy and couldn’t hide behind Chapter Eleven.”

Scott felt he had pushed enough. He wanted to learn about Danzer, and decided to wind up his visit with Melon.

“Listen, Chris, thanks for letting me visit. Reading the file is an eye-opener. You did a great job.”

Melon nodded, and gave Scott a tiny smile.

“Appreciate it, but all I can say is, if you’re reading that file, you must be getting a lot of sleep.”

Melon laughed, and Scott laughed with him, but then Melon sobered and leaned toward him.

“Why are you here?”

Maggie looked up.

Melon’s eyes were webbed with lines, but clear and thoughtful. Melon had retired with thirty-four years on the job, and almost twenty in Robbery-Homicide. He had probably interviewed two thousand suspects, and put most of them in prison.

Scott knew he had crossed the line, but he wondered what Melon was thinking.

“What if Beloit had diamonds?”

“I’d find that interesting.”

“Danzer unsolved?”

Melon’s clear eyes never moved.

“Solved. Case closed.”

Scott was surprised, but read nothing in Melon’s eyes other than a thoughtful detachment.

“Did you talk to them?”

“Too late.”

Scott read something in the unmoving eyes.

“Why?”

“They were found shot to death in Fawnskin thirty-two days after you were shot. They’d been dead at least ten days.”

Fawnskin was a small resort town in the San Bernardino Mountains, two hours east of L.A.

“The crew who took Danzer? Positive IDs?”

“Positive. Professional takeover bandits. Long records.”

“That isn’t positive.”

“A gun matching the weapon used to kill the Danzer driver was found. Two uncut rocks were also found. Insurance company confirmed the rocks were part of the Danzer shipment. Positive enough?”

Scott slowly nodded.

“I guess it’s supposed to be.”

“Regardless, if I had to bet, I would bet they did it.”

“Were the diamonds recovered?”

“Not so far as I know.”

Scott found this an odd comment.

“Who killed them?”

“They were in a crappy cabin on the side of a mountain with no other cabins near by. The theory is, they hid out up there after the robbery, shopped for a buyer, and got ripped off.”

“Two months after the robbery?”

“Two months after the robbery.”

“You buy it?”

“Not sure. I’m trying to decide.”

Scott searched Melon’s eyes, and wondered if the man was giving him permission to ask more.

“Thirty-two days. You blew off Beloit before they were found.”

“This is true, but closing Danzer was a nice capper. It put the knife in any lingering doubts.”

“Who closed it?”

“San Bernardino Sheriffs.”

“Danzer was our case. Who closed it for us?”

“Ian.”

Melon pushed slowly to his feet, groaning like an old man.

“Sitting makes me stiff. C’mon, let’s get you on your way. It’s a longer drive than you think.”

Scott once more debated showing the diamonds to Melon as they walked to his car. Melon had obviously been thinking about these things, but only offered cryptic answers requiring Scott to read between the lines. This meant Melon was still on the fence, afraid, or playing Scott to learn what he knew. Scott decided the diamonds would stay in his pocket. He could not reveal the diamonds or Amelia to anyone he didn’t trust.

Scott let Maggie hop into the car, and turned back to Melon when a last question occurred to him.

“Did you watch the videos yourself?”

“Ha. Maybe Ian does everything himself, but I’m not the I-Man. A case this size, you delegate.”

“Meaning someone else checked them.”

“You trust what your people tell you.”

“Who checked them?”

“Different people. You might find something in the file or the evidence log.”

Scott expected this answer, but Melon also appeared to be giving him a direction. Then Melon added more.

“The I-Man makes out he’s a one-man show, but don’t you believe it. He has help. And you can bet they are people he trusts.”

Scott searched the clear, thoughtful eyes, and realized he would find only what Melon allowed him to find.

“Thanks for letting me come out. The apology was overdue.”

Scott slid in behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled down the window. Melon looked past him to Maggie, who was already perched on the console.

“She doesn’t get in your way, riding like that?”

“I’m used to it.”

Melon shifted his gaze to Scott.

“I may be retired, but I’d still like to see this case closed. Take your time driving home. Stay safe.”

Scott backed out the long drive, and turned toward the freeway, wondering if Melon meant this as a warning or a threat.

Scott adjusted the mirror until he saw Melon, still on his driveway, watching.