Not bothering to write it down because the answer was straightforward: Deputies Henry Wallace Nebe and Wilhemina Waters Nebe were both assigned to the day shift five days a week.
I said, “Someone has to stay home with Rambla.”
He wiped his lips. “Kill Auntie, kill Mommy, kill Possible Daddy One, go after Possible Daddy Two, meanwhile the kid’s handed over to Scheming Niece? Now, how do I get into that house to verify Rambla’s presence?”
“Watch and hope for an opening. Maybe she’ll take the kid out for a walk.”
“What’s the layout for a watch?”
“Quiet, residential, no cover. But you could take advantage of it being predominantly Latino.”
He smiled. “Use Raul, again? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
I said, “Actually, he might appreciate the opportunity. Redemption and all that.”
A call to Biro’s captain at Hollywood produced a turndown. Raul was busy with a fresh shooting, couldn’t be spared.
I said, “You could try Millie Rivera.”
Milo said, “I could try a lot of people, the department’s a multicultural haven.”
But he phoned Rivera, switching to speaker. “Millie? Milo. You in the mood to be a star?”
She said, “At what?”
He told her.
“Just watching? Any chance of bang-bang?”
“Not that I see.”
“Not that you see,” said Rivera, “or definitely no?”
“All I need is for you to observe a house. If we’re lucky and you spot the baby, we move in and you don’t need to be part of it.”
“Too bad,” she said. “I like action.”
Milo said, “So you’re in?”
Rivera said, “There is a complication. But you know, it could work out okay.”
The brown van with the grimy stick-on sign reading Ramirez Tile over a 213 number was in place at five twenty a.m. The number traced to an actual side business run by two Central detectives, brothers who did home renovation on weekends.
Mike Ramirez had agreed to lend the van, laughing. “Sure, maybe we’ll get some customers.”
Steve Ramirez said, “Economy the way it is, we’ll take criminals as customers.”
Milo and I hunkered down behind tinted windows drinking bad coffee and avoiding the donuts he’d picked up an hour ago.
At six fifty-four, Deputy Hank Nebe left his house in full uniform, motoring slowly in the Focus, which turned out to be light gray. Making the same full stop and heading for the 101.
At seven oh two, wearing street clothes, Deputy Willa Nebe drove off in the dark gray Toyota.
Same destination, same schedule, perfect opportunity for a car pool. Maybe after all these years the Nebes no longer desired each other’s company. Maybe, like millions of Californians, they equated being behind the wheel with personal freedom.
The third compact, an older white Nissan, remained in the driveway, nosing the aluminum door of a single garage. Registered to Desiree Kiara Fallows, at an address in Oxnard where Fallows hadn’t resided for years.
The landlord there remembered her. Loner, total slob, always late with the rent, vacated with no notice, good riddance.
The view from the dash-mounted cameras in the van was narrowly focused on the front of the beige house but managed to capture a sliver of the vehicle.
No movement by eight thirty. The donuts were gone. The two I’d eaten felt like cement in my gut.
At eight forty-five a.m., Milo made a call and Millie Rivera, hair tied in a bun, wearing green leggings and a baggy white blouse that concealed her Glock, wheeled a stroller east on Haynes Street.
Belted comfortably into the pram was Rivera’s five-month-old son, Jorge. The picture she’d passed around at last night’s planning meeting showed a smiley baby with sharp black eyes and chubby mocha cheeks. Rivera’s estranged husband, the Van Nuys arson detective, was also a major in the National Guard, currently working as an MP in Basra.
When Millie was on duty, her mother took care of the baby. “She loves it and Jorge’s fine with it but I’m always feeling guilty, that’s why I took a couple of unpaid days.”
Milo said, “Appreciate the flexibility, kiddo.”
“Hey,” said Rivera, “spend time with my angel and get a paycheck? I love to multi-task.”
Fifteen minutes into Millie’s slow-stroll surveillance up Haynes, Jorge’s whimpering filtered through the mike in the van. Millie braked the stroller, unbelted him, peeled off a blue blanket, and took him out.
Hugging and kissing him, she spoke into the tiny clip-on mike affixed to the inner seam of the baggy blouse’s front yoke.
“Hey you cutie, yeah yeah, mijo. What a good boy.” Soft laughter. “Best assignment I ever got, El Tee.”
By nine forty-five, still no movement from the beige house. Rivera had covered half a mile of working-class Van Nuys streets, stopping to give Jorge a bottle. “Rather do it the old-fashioned way, El Tee, but this blouse would mean a striptease and my gun would show.”
Milo said, “There’s a mixed metaphor for you, kid.”
She laughed again. “Superwoman on duty. When do you want me to circle back?”
“Go another half block, then turn around.”
“You got it — oops, I’m smelling something. Oh, Jor-ge, you did a big one — yeah, El Tee, definitely, got to find a spot — okay, okay, calm down mijo—El Tee, there’s a little park up ahead. Don’t see any junkies so I’m gonna use the bench to take care of this toxic waste situation.”
Milo said, “Nothing happening here, anyway.”
He yawned. Ninety seconds later, the front door opened and Kiara Fallows stepped out wearing a black blouse over blue jeans, dark hair tied back in a pony.
Better looking than her photos would lead one to believe. A seriously pretty young woman, swinging a purse, walking with a jaunty step, the trace of a smirk curling glossed lips.
Alone.
We watched her get in the Nissan. Gunning the engine, she shot out to the street in reverse, oblivious to cross-traffic. Speeding west, she neared the stop sign Hank Nebe respected.
She didn’t.
Moe Reed, stationed near the 101 on-ramp, called in. “She just got on, east, same as the other two, maybe she’s also heading to court.”
Milo said, “Follow her, Moses. And keep me posted.”
Ten minutes later, Reed made contact again. “She got off in Burbank, riding stable near Griffith, looks like … yup, she’s pulling in … paying.”
“Girls and horses,” said Milo. “You in the mood to play cowboy?”
“Tried it last year with Liz, made me sore and bowlegged for a week. How about I watch from a distance, El Tee? There’s a good spot.”
“Sure.” Humming “Home on the Range,” Milo phoned Rivera.
She said, “One sec, got my hands full … stop squirming, mijo … sorry, El Tee, he got a little … productive, take me a sec to finish up here … hold still … sorry. Time for another pass?”
“Don’t bother, your gig’s over.”
“You’re … kidding … ecch, mijo—El Tee, it’s a little intense here … I hear you right, I’m done?”
Milo explained.
She said, “I could still do another pass, maybe she’ll come back and we will get a glimpse of the kid. That happens, I could try to make contact, be friendly, everyone loves Jorge, he’s a good icebreaker.”
“She went horseback riding, Millie.”
“Oh. Can’t remember the last time I did that. Oh, yeah I do. Never. So, that’s it?”