Unpaid Dues (21 page)

The criminalists focused their attention on latent
impressions created with blood, particularly footprints left on the
hall carpet. St. John found several photographs showing the variety
of shoe sizes, ranging from a man's size twelve to one that was much
smaller.

At autopsy all three bodies were discovered to have
V's carved into their chests—V-13 had been written on the walls in
blood.

Given the atmosphere of the time, the police would
have assumed that the murderers were gangbangers, but there were a
few problems with that theory. Why come into the middle of the
Oakwood Projects to establish turf? And why sign a murder scene? It
didn't make sense unless the purpose was to mislead investigators. Or
could V stand for Viking? Was McCarthy that fucking ballsy?

One of the few witnesses who came forth was a
ten-year-old girl named Donzetta Williams. Donzetta told police that
she saw a big black car parked in front of the building at the time
of the murders. She also saw three white people come out of the
building and get in that car. Two white "hippie dudes,"
according to her statement, and a "white chick."

When investigators tried to reach her again, they
were told by her mother that Donzetta had nothing more to say and did
not have her permission to get involved. Now that ten years had
passed, Donzetta would be a young woman. Parental consent was no
longer needed.

"Can I use your phone?" St. John asked.

"Help yourself."

St. John called the phone number listed for Donzetta
and got a recording that the number was no longer in service.

Becker watched him hang up the phone. "Like I
said, you should get with Chac6n."

"Where is he?"

"He had some personal business to take care of.
He'll be in."

St. John went over to Chac6n's work space. He grabbed
a pen from the mug on the corner and bent over to write a note.
Chac6n's desktop had the look of a working detective's. There were
stacks of files, some of them dated, newspaper clippings turned brown
with age, black-and-white mug shots. On a telephone message pad, the
name D. Williams was written in pencil followed by two phone numbers
with local prefixes. One of the numbers was denoted G, the other W.

St. John called the W number and found it connected
him to B&B Hardware. He asked how late they stayed open and then
hung up. Next he called the G number. A woman answered the phone.

"
Is Donzetta Williams there?"

"No. What you want with her?"

"Are you a relative?"

"Maybe. Who's this?"

"
I'm a detective with the Los Angeles Police
Department."

"Another one?"

"
Yeah, but I'm better-1ooking."

Becker glanced up in surprise. The woman on the phone
responded with a throaty laugh. "Then she's gonna want to see
you, baby."

"Is she home now? I can be there in fifteen
minutes."

"
You know where B&B Hardware is?"

"
On Washington?"

"
Yeah, she's over there. She works in the tool
section."

St. John thanked the woman and hung up.

Becker held up Stacy Lansford's letter. "Pretty
thin. We haven't even been able to contact this woman for
verification."

"
I'm working on it, though I'm sure she lacks
faith in the system."

"Assuming she's still alive."

"
Right, assuming that."

"
Have you located Cyrill McCarthy?" Becker
asked.

"
Not yet. I've put out a want on him, and
searched custody records, but nothing so far."

"I'll give this to
Chacón and tell him you want to talk to him."

* * *

St. John left the Pacific station and drove the few
long blocks on surface streets to B&B Hardware. He parked in the
lot in the back, pushed through the turnstiles by the cash register,
and followed the overhead signs to the tool section.

A dark-skinned young black woman in a red shirt was
extolling the numerous features of a cordless drills that was on sale
to an enthralled thirty-something white guy in a polo shirt. St. John
stepped close enough to glance at the woman's name tag and confirm
her identity He waited until the sale was complete before introducing
himself.

Her smile was warm and open even after she learned he
was a cop. He found that refreshing. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking into the triple homicide that
happened ten years ago, in April of 1975. You made a statement to
officers that you noticed a carful of individuals that seemed out of
place?"

"
Yeah, they was white," Donzetta said with
a laugh. The plain gold crucifix resting on her throat took a few
bounces. "That's why I noticed them in the first place; then I
heard about those murders, and thought it might mean something. I
called the police myself. My mama like to have a fit."

"Why?"

"She said good riddance to them people, they was
dope dealers. My mama said their kind ruined the neighborhood, made
the people slaves."

"Do you think they got what they deserved?"

"
I don't know about that."

"Can you give me a more detailed description of
the people you saw?"

"It's been a long time, but I still remember.
Like I told the other detective, one was a big white man with
reddish-blond hair, the other might have been a Mexican; he had long
hair too, a goatee, looked like the devil or a pirate or somethin'."

"
Anything unusual about the woman with them?"

"
She had what my grandmama would call a hitch in
her get along."

"
You mean like a limp? Can you show me?"

Donzetta took a few steps across the floor. As she
moved she went down on one side and swung the other leg to catch up.

"You know," she said, "that's how
those Crips took their name; they used to walk like that, all tilted,
swinging their arms wide like they were some kind of cool. "

"So Crips came from Cripples?"

"
Yeah, ain't that the most ridiculous thing you
ever heard?"

"
Comes close," St. John admitted. "Was
that your mother I spoke to at the eight-eight-oh-one number?"

"No, sir, that was my grandmama. My mama
passed."

"
I'm sorr'y."

"
Cancer," Donzetta added, her hand going to
her crucifix.

"
Your grandmama said you had another detective
speak to you recently?"

"Detective Chacón. Mexican guy"

"
Yeah, I know him." St. John wondered when
Chacón was going to get around to adding his notes to the report.

"Is he, uh, you know, like, married?"

St. John stared at her a moment, but Donzetta didn't
back down.

"
I'm going to put together some pictures I'd
like you to look at. I'll bring them by this afternoon if that's all
right"

"
More pictures?" She chuckled. "Sure,
why not? I'm not going anywhere."

St. John returned to the police station to assemble a
six-pack. Two, actually One of Jane Ferrar and five additional women,
the other would be of old mug shots of Cyrill McCarthy and five
different similar-looking white guys. If Donzetta could pick Cyrill
McCarthy and Jane Ferrar out of those two photo lineups, he was well
on his way to establishing motive for Jane's murder, not to mention
solving the triple.

He didn't know yet which
event triggered which. Did the reopening of the investigation of the
old homicide prompt Jane's murder or was it the other way around?

* * *

The last block manufacturing company on Cassiletti's
list was the Cascade Block Company It was located in Santa Fe Springs
in between a junkyard specializing in Cadillacs and a piano
manufacturer. He parked beside a pink mock piano tagged with black
spray paint. Its condition advertised more than the company probably
meant to reveal.

Cassiletti removed a large white handkerchief from
his pocket and draped it loosely over his left hand. Keys in his
right hand, he opened the trunk of his Oldsmobile and removed the
block with his protected left. He had repeated this gesture fifteen
times already since last Monday Lifting the thirty-two-pound block in
and out of his trunk had given him new respect for construction
workers. But he was no nearer to finding the block's source.

His left eye watered, as it always did when he came
to the eastern industrial section of Los Angeles. The sky overhead
had the consistency of dishwater. Grit darkened the green leaves of
the dandelions growing between the chain-link fences and turned the
normally bright yellow flowers a poisonous shade of mustard.

He entered the yard. Beige dust covered everything,
including a seemingly deaf rottweiler that trotted across the open
ground. Steel racks held rows of drying brick. A large water hose was
tapped into a fire hydrant. Mexicans wearing red ear plugs and
working the silos and stamping equipment eyed him warily He heard the
word "
migra
"
spread across the work platform.

The trailer office was next to a pair of Porta
Potties and a dust-covered Coca-Cola vending machine that was out of
all six choices. He tried the dark screen door at the top of the
corrugated steel stairs but found it locked. There was no bell to
ring.

"
Hello?" Cassiletti called out. He checked
his notes. "Fred Wood?"

"
That's me." A squat man with a cigar
clamped between his teeth emerged from the trailer and blocked the
doorway

Cassiletti handed the man one of his coveted business
cards. Wood looked at the card and yelled over Cassiletti's shoulder,
"He's all right. Get back to work." He extended a stubby
hand to Cassiletti. "Call me Woody"

Cassiletti had to duck his head as he entered the
small trailer. The cigar smoke made him long for smog.

"
Let's see what you got. Set her up here."

Cassiletti lifted the block to the top of Fred Wood's
desk next to the photograph of two big-toothed blond children. The
drawers were open and sagging with the weight of invoices. Woody
peered at the block under his desk lamp.

"Yep, that's one of mine."

"Are you sure?"

"
Yeah, custom job, had to mix the color special.
They were getting the block from a company in Yuma, but the company
folded and the contractor needed a match."

"Can you give me the name of the contractor?"

"Sure, I even have the address of the job site."

"
That would be even better, Woody"

The address for Cascade Block had a Brentwood zip
code. The street was called Pinehurst. Cassiletti had to get out a
Thomas Guide map to find it. It was only a block long and off
Mandeville Canyon.

He contacted dispatch and
asked them to locate St. John.

* * *

Cassiletti drove, while St. John wrote his notes
about the Donzetta Williams interview. They shot across Sepulveda to
Sunset, and then turned toward Brentwood. Both men craned their necks
as they passed Munch's gas station. lf she was there, she wasn't in
sight.

The large home on Pinehurst was getting a new
swimming pool and cabana. A backhoe had turned the backyard into a
crater. Pallets stamped CASCADE BLOCK were piled high with
distinctively hued concrete blocks. Next to the pallets were piles of
rebar, sacks of concrete protected by blue tarp, and white PVC pipe.

They parked behind a white Ford truck with a utility
bed. There was an overturned wheelbarrow in the back, loose shovels
lying beside it, and a stack of two-by-fours. Ladders were tied to
the top rack. A bumper sticker read HIGHER POWER.

Cassiletti hung back to study the white rope binding
the ladders to the steel hooks welded to the bed, while St. John
looked for the foreman.

A crew of five men was laying rebar in the pit.

Tattoos rippled on straining biceps. Another four
men, with tool belts strapped to their waists, were assembling the
framing of the pool house. St. John studied the faces, then the arms,
looking for Viking horns. A white guy in a hard hat approached St.
John.

"
Can I help you?"

"Are you the boss?"

"I'm the contractor." He extended a hand.
"Mike Peyovich, Big Mike."

St. John shook hands. "Detective St. John, and
this is my partner, Detective Cassiletti. We're investigating the
homicide of a woman whose body was found about a mile from here."

"
I think I read about that. In the storm drain?"

"Yes, sir. "

"That was wrong."

"Yes, sir," St. John said, having nothing
to add to that brilliant assessment. "Her body was weighted with
a concrete block. We believe it came from this site."

"No."

"
No, it didn't?"