“Not yet, sir.”
The chief glanced back at his legal pad as if he knew the answers before he asked the questions. “What about the lost witness?”
“He’s still lost,” she said.
“Is that a crack?”
“No, sir. It’s a statement of fact. The witness is still missing.”
Somehow her voice had returned. Her cadence, steady as a west wind. Everything fueled by an intense anger burning in her gut.
“The department released the witness’s photograph to the press on Saturday,” the chief said. “I understand that he’s hit several ATMs and stolen money from the victim’s account. What else are you doing to find him?”
“If we locate the victim’s car, we think we’ll find the witness. He has the keys and everything else that was in her purse.”
“Is that it?”
“No, sir. We’re working with the bank as well.”
“What can they do that we can’t?”
“Monitor hundreds of ATMs.”
“You mean you didn’t close the account, Detective?”
She hesitated a moment. The chief should have known better. She was surprised that he didn’t.
“No, sir,” she said. “The number on the card has been restricted and won’t work in any ATM that isn’t owned by the bank. The cash limit has been cut in half and the account can’t be accessed except during normal business hours. If he tries to use the card, every bank in the city has his photograph and knows what to do.”
“Who made the call? You or them?”
Lena ignored the sarcasm in his voice. The decision had been made before she left the bank on Saturday. Steve Avadar wanted the witness as much as they did.
“Both,” she said. “We share the same interest. They’re tracking her credit card as well.”
The chief gave her a hard look. “What about this doctor in Beverly Hills? Joseph Fontaine.”
“What about him?”
“What did you do to piss him off?”
The question was insane, and she didn’t know how to respond. As she gazed back at the chief, she realized that the anger coursing through her veins had nothing to do with his rank or position. Like Klinger, something was off. Something about the moment was wrong.
“What did you do to piss the doctor off?” the chief repeated. “Is he a legitimate person of interest or not?”
Before she could respond, Barrera broke in.
“While Detectives Gamble and Rhodes were processing the crime scene at the Cock-a-doodle-do on Saturday, we made an attempt to reach him. He refused.”
“Who made contact?” the chief asked.
“Tito Sanchez,” Barrera said. “He was canvassing the neighborhood and learned that Fontaine had hired a pair of bodyguards. We thought there might be a chance he’d want to talk about it. He didn’t.”
The chief took a moment to think it over.
“He’s involved in the murder,” Lena said. “We just don’t know how yet.”
“Well, until you do, leave him alone. His attorney sent a letter over by messenger this morning. I don’t want to get another.”
The chief reached for a file. As he pulled out a sheet of paper, Lena risked a quick glance at Barrera, who didn’t appear to be having a good day, either. When she turned back, the chief was holding the sketch they had worked up with the Andolinis of the man calling himself Nathan Good.
“Is this the most up-to-date version?” he asked.
Lena nodded. “It was released to the press last night.”
The chief returned the sketch to his file, grabbed his legal pad, and slipped everything into his briefcase. “Okay,” he said. “Lieutenant Klinger and I have a meeting at USC Medical Center this morning. We’ll pass the sketch around and see what happens. If he received his training in the trauma unit before shipping overseas, then we’ve lucked out. If he didn’t and no one can identify him, then we’ll regroup. But until this plays out, Gamble, until further notice from this office, your job is to clean up the loose ends we just spoke about. That means crossing Justin Tremell off your list. That means leaving the kid alone. And it means any contact with Fontaine is prohibited without my okay as well. Just the loose ends, Gamble. You think you can handle that?”
She was speechless. The case was almost a week old. In the past few days they’d made up a lot of ground and now the chief wanted to shut them down. But Dean Tremell had pressed the right buttons. He had the ability and resources to protect his son. Like the chief said, the man counted.
She watched the chief close his briefcase, then glance at the door indicating that the meeting was over.
“I’m no counselor,” he said in a lower voice. “But I think you should start thinking about your future here, Gamble. And talking about department business with a reporter like Denny Ramira probably isn’t going to help your cause. Now get out of my office. Get out and do your job. And if you come up with a lead on that witness, you better make sure that I’m your first call.”
26
Keep cool. Trouble ahead.
She lit a cigarette and cracked the window open. The radio was tuned to KFWB, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she was staring through the windshield, her car idling in the rusted out garage across the street from Parker Center. She took another drag on the smoke, hoping that the nicotine would settle her nerves. But it wasn’t enough-not near enough. She could see Chief Logan exiting the building with Klinger, his car and driver waiting for them in the VIP lot by the door. She could see both men laughing.
Keep cool. Trouble ahead.
Lena watched them drive off, thinking about the number of blows she had taken. Most of them felt like head shots, her mind still numb. Her career, dead on arrival.
She tapped the ash out the window, then focused on a Lincoln pulling into the lot and parking in a space reserved for members of the police commission. Senator Alan West got out from behind the wheel and walked over to the cop in the guard shack. It looked like the senator was showing him the pin he wore on his lapel. The gold fire engine he had received from the LAFD after 9/11. As she watched, she remembered what he had said to her less than a week ago when they met and he showed her the same pin.
This is Los Angeles. Chiefs come and go. If I can do anything for you, I’ll try my best.
She reached inside her pocket. West’s business card was still there and she gazed at it. Looking back, she followed his progress across the lot until he reached the door and vanished inside the building.
Lena knew with absolute certainty that going to West was not an option. Not if she still hoped to remain a detective anywhere near Los Angeles. Any contact with West would be suicide. He might be one of the good ones. There was even something reassuring about the fact that he drove his own car. But like every other commissioner, he wasn’t a member of the club. No one would ever trust her if she went outside the blue curtain. No one would ever work with her again. Being right had about as much relevance and worth as half a dollar bill. She couldn’t buy anything with it. And she couldn’t save it for a rainy day no matter how big the storm.
Her cell started vibrating. Glancing at the display, she saw Lieutenant Barrera’s name and flipped it open.
“You okay, Lena?”
“Since when did we stop following leads,” she said. “It must have been in a department bulletin I missed.”
Barrera didn’t say anything right away. From the lack of background noise, she guessed that he was in the captain’s office with the door closed.
“Something’s up,” he said finally. “I told you that last week. I wish I could tell you what it was.”
“What’s up is easy,” she said. “They’re looking for a way to give Tremell’s kid a pass. How did the chief put it? The girl pointed her dirty finger at him. Her finger isn’t dirty, Frank. And we didn’t move with just one eyewitness. Four people put him with the victim that night.”