“That’s good, Marv, because I’m going to be tied up for a while on Sykes, was going to beg off.”
His eyes wandered to the revolving door. Outside, Jeannie Applebaum smoked a cigarette. “Well then everyone’s happy. Ciao.”
CHAPTER 46
Three months after the liberation of Ree and Rambla Sykes, Detective Millie Rivera called and asked to speak with me. Remembering she had a small child — Jorge — I figured she had a developmental question or two.
“Sure. When did you have in mind?”
“Actually,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’m right outside your gate.”
She came in dressed for detective work: brown pantsuit, hair pinned tight, open jacket revealing her sidearm.
In my office, she said, “Nice place. Okay, no way to soften this. Efren Casagrande’s dead. Murdered. I didn’t want you to find out indirectly and think I didn’t respect your situation. ’Cause I do. Not just for what you did for that woman. For your overall demeanor that I kept giving you grief about. He was your patient, I had no right.”
I thought: What the hell happened. My mouth wouldn’t go along with asking.
Rivera said, “And now he’s gone and I’m feeling kind of like a nasty bitch. Even though everything I said about him was true, I know you liked him, Doc, but trust me, he did a lot of terrible things.”
“I know he did.”
“He told you about it?”
“No,” I said. “But I kind of figured it out.”
“Yeah. Guess you did. Anyway, sorry for the attitude. My line of work, you kind of fluctuate between victory and frustration, know what I mean?”
I nodded.
“I mean it’s not like your situation, Doc. Working with basically good people, trying to make them better. What I do — to catch rats you have to crawl into sewers. So it changes you. Not that I’m calling Effo a rat. Truth is, he was honorable. For his situation. An intelligent individual. In a different family, who knows what he would’ve been able to accomplish?”
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t say that about all of them, Doc. Most of them are morons. And cowards. Needing the gang because they can’t live competently as individuals. Like Ramon Guzman.”
“He killed Efren?”
“That’s the word out,” said Rivera. “Not that I can prove it. Or do anything about it because he’s dead, too. One hour and fifty-three minutes after Efren’s murder, drive-by in front of his house. Has to be some sort of payback record.”
“What happened to Efren?”
“He was at an after-hours club, Cesar Chavez Avenue, what my folks called Brooklyn Avenue back when they and the Jews were living there, tell the truth they miss the bagels. I mean it’s not like they socialized with the Jews but the Jews didn’t shoot anyone and there were great delis — whatever.”
She picked at a cuticle. “Efren was at this club. Along with his posse, partying. And then Efren doesn’t look so good, says he has to go to the bathroom, give himself a shot, and his homeboys say we’ll go with you, Jefe. Because that’s the way it always is, he was like gang royalty. But this time Efren says no, I’m fine, and leaves by himself. When he doesn’t come back for a while, they go looking for him. He’s not in the bathroom, they can’t figure out where he is, keep looking and finally go out the club’s rear door and he’s lying there in the alley, got a syringe and a vial next to him, they assume he O.D.’d on his insulin. Which is a big surprise because Efren was always careful with his dosage. Then they take a closer look and there’s blood underneath him and they turn him over. Two holes to the back of his head.”
“Ambushed and executed,” I said. “You’re pretty sure Guzman did it?”
“Yeah, because Guzman got beat down bad by Efren and then he got shot right after Efren. It’s all in-house, Doc, the typical craziness I deal with day in and day out.”
“Makes sense, Millie.”
“I’ll be investigating,” she said. “I probably won’t learn anything.”
She got up. “I probably won’t care, either.” Laughing. “If I do care and I get all depressed, can I come by for an appointment?”
I said, “Have your people call my people.”
She laughed harder. “Your people, huh? Not sure I want to know too much about them. Anyway, I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You liked him.”
“He was my patient,” I said.
Then I walked her to her car.
DEDICATION
Special thanks to Vicki Greene, Esq.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JONATHAN KELLERMAN is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of three dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, and True Detectives. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored Double Homicide and Capital Crimes. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children and With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York.
jonathankellerman.com
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