She ground her teeth. The fist on her thigh gathered fabric and maybe some skin. “Not that we routinely take the word of people like your prize patient. But we needed Guzman totally submissive and Effo had him over-the-top terrified. Genuine fear, Ramon’s too stupid to put on a convincing performance. But stupid can cause problems so everything needs to be kept strictly under wraps.”
I said, “After Sykes threatened me, I warned Judge Maestro.”
Rivera frowned. “You did that because …”
“She wrote the order dismissing Connie Sykes’s suit. I figured she might be in jeopardy.”
“You informed her, but not the police.”
“It didn’t seem to reach the level of—”
“It reached a level where you warned a judge.”
“I played it as I saw it, Detective.”
“And the judge’s response was …”
“I spoke to her bailiff. He said he’d handle it.”
“Well,” said Rivera, “right now you’re the prime target so let’s take care of your situation and everyone else will benefit.”
I said, “Effo wires up, meets with Sykes, you’re listening in?”
Rivera slashed air with one hand. “Effo meets with no one. His participation is officially over, no way we’ll get that cozy with him, last thing we need is he goes to trial and his lawyer tries to cash in big-time brownie points for heroic law enforcement cooperation.”
She scooted forward on her chair. “You need to be clear about this, Doctor: Your situation has created an inconvenience for us but no matter what he’s done for you, we will get him.”
Milo said, “Yeah, we’re stinging her, but using our own. I borrowed Raul Biro from Hollywood.”
I said, “Raul doesn’t come across gangster.”
“Give him credit, Alex. He’s quick on his feet and he can play cold-blooded.”
“When’s it happening?”
Rivera said, “When we’re ready.”
“I want to be there.”
Rivera laughed.
Milo didn’t.
She said, “El Tee?”
I said, “This woman tried to kill me. I want to watch her go down.”
Milo said, “Nice to know you’ve got the revenge gene like the rest of us.”
Rivera said, “Well, I need to talk to my lieutenant.”
“Bill White’s a good man, Millie. I’ll handle it.”
“Fine, your responsibility.” She stood. “Nice meeting you, Doctor. Try to stay healthy.”
Milo got up, as well, but he left the attaché case on the floor and he didn’t follow Rivera.
She stopped. “Something else, El Tee?”
“Gonna stick around a bit. Educate the doctor a little more.”
“Ah … good luck with that.”
We walked Rivera out, remained on the terrace, watched as she sped away.
Milo said, “You’re gonna have to chauffeur me back to the station.”
“After you educate me?”
He laughed. “Like Millie said, good luck.”
I said, “You think I screwed up by not reporting it?”
“My protective instincts say yeah, it’s more of your usual denial. But the truth is, she really didn’t threaten you, she just acted nasty. So there’s nothing I could’ve done other than to warn her away. And I don’t know her well enough to predict how that would turn out.”
“I thought about telling you, figured if you did step in and she complained it could get sticky department-wise.”
“No doubt.” He smiled. “What a pal.”
“So what’s Rivera’s problem? I got on her bad side without really trying.”
“It ain’t you, Alex. She’s going through a rough patch.”
“Gang work burnout?”
“Probably that, too,” he said. “But the main thing is an ugly divorce. Her ex is an arson D from Van Nuys. Not a bad guy but he and Millie are going at it. One kid and they’re ripping at each other. So Millie’s not too high on men, nowadays.”
“She told you about it?”
“I have my sources.”
Returning to the house, he headed for the kitchen.
Two roast-beef-and-coleslaw sandwiches and half a pint of milk later, he said, “How you doing with it?”
“With what?” Stupidest answer in the world but I couldn’t find anything else to say.
“With the pollen count — what do you think?”
I shrugged.
He washed his dish and his glass, returned to the table. “You were pretty much Dr. Sphinx with ol’ Millie and I’m sure you had your reasons. But now it’s just us Boy Scouts, so feel free to emote.”
“I’m all right.”
He let that ride. Returned to the fridge and scrounged for dessert.
I repeated that to myself: I’m all right. Punishment for the lie arrived a split second later in the form of a wave of nausea that surged below my sternum and scuttled up to my gullet. My breathing caught, my vision fogged, nausea switched to vertigo, and I braced myself with two hands on the table.
That didn’t work, so lowering my head to my arms I closed my eyes, worked at slowing my breathing.
I heard Milo say, “Alex?” As if from far, far away.
My skin turned clammy. My pulse clanged in my ears. My head felt like a chunk of pig iron, barely secured by a rubber spine.
I needed to settle down before the next challenge: updating Robin.
The fridge closed. Heavy footsteps grew louder. I got my pulse down to a fast trot but the vertigo lingered and I kept my head down.
Milo and I have been friends for a long time and all those cases we’ve worked have probably shaped the way we think because sometimes we seem to be sharing the same brain.
This was one of those moments.
He said, “She back there, working? You sit and relax, I’ll deal with it.”
A big hand patted my back. Heavy footsteps diminished. The kitchen door closed softly.
CHAPTER
12
Six p.m., the commodious parking lot behind Rubin Rojo’s Mexican Hacienda, Lankershim Boulevard, North Hollywood.
Fifty-two hours after Milo and Millie Rivera’s visit. My new way of keeping time.
Robin and I had spent most of that period in Santa Barbara, bunking down in a bed-and-breakfast off upper State Street, filling our days with enforced recreation: leisurely mountain walks, strolls along the beach, ocean kayaking off Stearns Wharf, even a spin on the carousel on Cabrillo Boulevard.
Just another couple apparently enjoying one of the loveliest places on the globe.
Robin had taken the news well, though she was quieter than usual. I felt guilty about the whole mess and said so and, of course, she reassured me and moved us on to the next distraction. Sleeping for more than a couple of hours in a row would’ve been nice, but I made do with minutes at a time.
Now we were back in L.A., Robin visiting a friend in Echo Park, me sitting in the back of Milo’s unmarked, with him at the wheel, Rivera riding shotgun.
The restaurant was one of those oversized stucco rhomboids erected decades ago when land was cheap and signage despised subtlety. A proprietor smart enough to own, not rent, had helped it avoid the wrecking ball.
Now ninety years old, Rubin keeps the place for fun, using reasonable prices and mammoth portions to surround himself with smiling people.
Six p.m. is midway through the restaurant’s Happy Hour. Tall, overly sweet Margaritas for four bucks. The big parking lot is three-quarters full.
Warm L.A. evening. Gray skies, poor air quality, so what else is new?
The cream-colored Lexus arrives first, driving through the aisles and selecting one of the remaining slots.