She could have said a lot of things. But when the chief repeated the question and asked her why Higgins was so pissed off, she said, “Because Dean Tremell made a contribution to his campaign and this is strike three.”
The chief’s compact body tightened up. She had struck a nerve and could see his wheels turning. Her answer had been the obvious one. Dean Tremell was using his political muscle in an attempt to protect his rotten son. And the DA was in a jam.
“When does Stan Rhodes get back?” the chief asked finally.
“Tomorrow.”
“Did either one of you bother to find out exactly who Dean Tremell is?”
“His son’s name came up on Saturday afternoon,” she said. “Yesterday the crime scene was located. Today that’s been confirmed.”
“I understand that you’ve been busy. But that’s no excuse for fucking up.”
Lena glanced at Barrera standing by the window. Then the chief leaned over his desk.
“Stop looking at your supervisor, Detective. He can’t help you now.”
She turned back, the chief glaring at her. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s better,” he said. “You fucked up. You didn’t do your homework, so now I have to do it for you. Anders Dahl Pharmaceuticals employs thousands of people in this city. There are more full-time employees working at Anders Dahl than any two movie studios combined. The company is an important part of our city’s economy. You’re right, Dean Tremell is one of the district attorney’s biggest contributors. If you had bothered to check, you would have learned that he’s also made contributions to every member of the city council. It’s business, Gamble. And he’s a player. A mover and a shaker. Do you understand what I’m saying? The man counts.”
She didn’t respond. She tried to let the words sink in, but couldn’t. Even the concept felt dirty.
“You got a problem, Gamble?”
“I thought everybody counted,” she said.
“Stop feeding me your bullshit. The man deserves your respect. I deserve your respect.”
The chief finally took his eyes off her and leaned back in his chair. She could see where the conversation was headed. It was in her best interest to keep quiet-in her best interest to take the blows and walk out in one piece. And she probably would have followed her own advice if her eyes hadn’t come to rest on the chief’s telephone. The intercom light was on. Klinger was listening. The high-octane pervert who installed the camera in her bathroom and just bought a new laptop computer was listening to her take the chief’s verbal beating.
“This isn’t about Dean Tremell,” she said. “This is about his son. He was the last person seen with the victim before she was murdered.”
“You haven’t been listening,” the chief said. “You’re not hearing me.”
“Justin Tremell lied about being there. He’s more than a person of interest.”
“What are you trying to do? Fuck me up so that I can be like you? I don’t want to be like you, Gamble. You should have checked with me before you barged in on them Saturday. And you should have had more than the word of a part-time prostitute working at a whorehouse off the one-oh-five fucking freeway. This isn’t a drunk-driver case. This is a homicide investigation. What if you got it wrong? What if your asshole friend over at The Times printed your fuck-up in his newspaper? You could have ruined Justin Tremell’s life. And the story would have followed him around forever. Zero plus zero equals zero, Gamble. And this is the Los Angeles Police Department. We work with evidence here. Not hopes and dreams. Empirical evidence. Quantifiable evidence. You don’t walk in on people like this half-cocked and try to wing it. You’re not ready for prime time. You’re a fucking disgrace.”
Lena tried not to show any emotion. Tried to find her game face. She remembered what Ramira had said to her less than a week ago when the reporter followed her into the Blackbird Cafe. You’re in a rough business, he said. And you need friends. Everybody knows that you’re on the outs with the chief and his band of self-righteous boy scouts. It’s all about your last case. You were right and he was wrong and everything went down in public. I know that you didn’t mean to embarrass him, but you did. The bottom line is that no matter how much he’d like to, he can’t transfer you to the Valley and he can’t fire your ass to oblivion. His hands are tied, and he can’t get rid of you. But I’ll bet he thinks about it. I’d bet the city he spends a lot of time thinking about it. And that’s why you need friends. You’re in a rough business, Lena. Shit happens. .
The chief banged his fist on the desk. “Are you still with us, Gamble? Or are you dreaming about the way things could have been?”
“I’m still here.”
She tried to pull herself together. Her voice was breaking up, her cadence shaky. Like all of sudden she was a boot just out of the academy. As she thought it over, she couldn’t believe how easy it had been for the chief to peel the years away and knock her down. And she could still imagine Klinger at his desk, reveling in her jagged fall. She remembered Barrera’s initial call on Thursday afternoon. She remembered him saying that Chief Logan had specifically asked for her to investigate the case. Now she knew why. And now she understood why they had wired her house for video and sound. Another reason more insidious than just keeping tabs on her. Ramira had been right. They were trying to distract her. Trying to break her. They were hoping that she would fuck up. They wanted her to quit and run away.
And if she didn’t?
Then what Ramira had been inferring might be more right than she had first thought possible. She was caught in a dangerous business. Shit happens.
Her gaze returned to the photographs on the wall. The chief in Vietnam with his machine gun. She was thinking about statistics now, feeling the beads of sweat begin to percolate on her forehead. A cop goes down in the line of duty every two days in this country. If a cop wanted to get rid of another cop and ran out of options-the possibility, the horror-all of it was there. If they couldn’t push her out, then they might be looking for the opportunity to take her-
She couldn’t face it. Couldn’t think it.
The chief cleared his throat again, his sniper eyes sharp as glass. “I’ve lost my confidence in you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Gamble. Things just don’t seem to be going right. Lieutenant Barrera gave me an update while we waited for you. There seem to be a number of loose ends. Have you located the victim’s car?”
“It’s a black Toyota Matrix,” she said.
He reached for a pen, then glanced at a list jotted down on his legal pad. “Lieutenant Barrera told me what kind of car it is. I asked you if you located it.”
“Not yet.”
“Then it was probably stolen on the night of the murder?”
“If it’s on the road and the plates haven’t been changed, we’ll find it. The bulletin went out as soon as we heard back from the DMV.”
“What about the part-time prostitute you interviewed? Did you run a background check?”
A moment went by as she thought it over. The chief was doing everything he possibly could to make things difficult for her. Keying in on the minutia. Standing in her way.
“Which is it, Gamble? The girl pointed her dirty finger at Justin Tremell. For all you know she hates rich people. Did you run a background check or didn’t you?”