any?’
The man in the blue uniform nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke up over both our heads. ‘One.’ He produced a small notepad, fanned through its pages until he found the one he needed. ‘Some user and abuser named Darrel Eastman, E-A-S-T-M-A-N. Black, twenty-five years of age, no distinguishing physical characteristics. They say he left a thumbprint on the dash of the car Burrow was found in.’
‘“User and abuser.” I take it that means he’s a crackhead?’
‘Crack, crank, heroin. You name the fruit of the tree, he’s had a taste of it.’
‘He ever do any dealing?’
‘A couple ounces here or there. Nothing major.’
‘Any history of violent crime prior to this?’
‘Just the thirty-one flavors of assault all junkies dabble in, includin’ a few involving a firearm. But no, no homicides, if that was gonna be your next question.’
‘What about ’jacking cars?’
‘He might’ve had an auto beef or two in his jacket. Why?’
‘I understand the car R.J. died in was stolen, and the police say he’s the one who stole it. But if this guy Eastman knew how to boost a ride, why couldn’t he have done it?’
Fine showed me a little shrug to cast the idea off. ‘Maybe ’cause he would’ve had to leave more than a thumbprint in the car if he had,’ he said.
I could have disputed that, but I let it go. ‘Speaking of which – your friends have anything besides the print to connect Eastman and R.J.?’
Fine checked his notes, shook his head. ‘Not that my guy mentioned.’
‘And the murder weapon?’
‘What about it?’
‘Have they found it yet?’
‘No.’
‘Then they can’t tie that to Eastman either.’
Fine shrugged again, took another hard drag off his cigarette.
‘Do they at least know what it was?’
‘Nine-millimeter semi-auto, possibly a Glock.’
I finally started taking notes of my own on a legal pad I’d brought along for the purpose. ‘Tell me about the car.’
He read from his notebook. ‘Ninety-eight Buick LeSabre four door, dark blue, license number 5TNC641. Registered owner one Irene Duffy, D-U-F-F-Y, of Los Angeles. You want the address?’
I jotted it down. ‘Where is that, exactly? Hollywood?’
‘Hollywood or Los Feliz. Sounds more like Los Feliz.’
‘And that’s where the car was stolen?’
‘According to the owner’s statement, yeah. What’s the problem?’
‘He stole a car in Los Feliz to make a drug connection twenty miles away in Santa Monica?’
Fine gave me a blank look, unmoved by the discrepancy.
‘Had Ms Duffy reported the car stolen prior to it being found out at the pier?’
‘No. She said she didn’t even know it was gone till the detectives called to question her about it.’
‘And did she know either R.J. or Eastman?’
‘Uh-uh.’ Fine shook his head, ground his spent cigarette into the stone surface of the picnic table, and expelled one last lungful of smoke through the side of his mouth.
‘Besides Eastman. Are they looking at anybody else?’
‘Like who?’
‘Like somebody with a motive other than the coke in the car. R.J. must have had an enemy or two somewhere. At work, at church . . .’
‘My guy said, according to everybody he and his partner talked to, your boy Burrow was a very nice man who got along well with everybody. Bein’ on the pipe was apparently the only vice he had worth mentioning.’
Fine turned his head to watch a young blonde in workout togs and running shoes do her pre-jog stretching nearby. He would have recalled I was still sitting there eventually, but I decided not to wait. I capped my pen and stood up.
‘You’ve been very helpful, Sergeant. I appreciate your time.’
He turned around to face me, gave me that poker liar’s grin I found so unsettling again. ‘Hey, no problem. Any friend of the mayor’s is a friend of mine.’
There were other questions I could have asked him, of course. Like how a uniformed cop could be in so good with the plain-clothes detectives of
The man in the blue uniform nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke up over both our heads. ‘One.’ He produced a small notepad, fanned through its pages until he found the one he needed. ‘Some user and abuser named Darrel Eastman, E-A-S-T-M-A-N. Black, twenty-five years of age, no distinguishing physical characteristics. They say he left a thumbprint on the dash of the car Burrow was found in.’
‘“User and abuser.” I take it that means he’s a crackhead?’
‘Crack, crank, heroin. You name the fruit of the tree, he’s had a taste of it.’
‘He ever do any dealing?’
‘A couple ounces here or there. Nothing major.’
‘Any history of violent crime prior to this?’
‘Just the thirty-one flavors of assault all junkies dabble in, includin’ a few involving a firearm. But no, no homicides, if that was gonna be your next question.’
‘What about ’jacking cars?’
‘He might’ve had an auto beef or two in his jacket. Why?’
‘I understand the car R.J. died in was stolen, and the police say he’s the one who stole it. But if this guy Eastman knew how to boost a ride, why couldn’t he have done it?’
Fine showed me a little shrug to cast the idea off. ‘Maybe ’cause he would’ve had to leave more than a thumbprint in the car if he had,’ he said.
I could have disputed that, but I let it go. ‘Speaking of which – your friends have anything besides the print to connect Eastman and R.J.?’
Fine checked his notes, shook his head. ‘Not that my guy mentioned.’
‘And the murder weapon?’
‘What about it?’
‘Have they found it yet?’
‘No.’
‘Then they can’t tie that to Eastman either.’
Fine shrugged again, took another hard drag off his cigarette.
‘Do they at least know what it was?’
‘Nine-millimeter semi-auto, possibly a Glock.’
I finally started taking notes of my own on a legal pad I’d brought along for the purpose. ‘Tell me about the car.’
He read from his notebook. ‘Ninety-eight Buick LeSabre four door, dark blue, license number 5TNC641. Registered owner one Irene Duffy, D-U-F-F-Y, of Los Angeles. You want the address?’
I jotted it down. ‘Where is that, exactly? Hollywood?’
‘Hollywood or Los Feliz. Sounds more like Los Feliz.’
‘And that’s where the car was stolen?’
‘According to the owner’s statement, yeah. What’s the problem?’
‘He stole a car in Los Feliz to make a drug connection twenty miles away in Santa Monica?’
Fine gave me a blank look, unmoved by the discrepancy.
‘Had Ms Duffy reported the car stolen prior to it being found out at the pier?’
‘No. She said she didn’t even know it was gone till the detectives called to question her about it.’
‘And did she know either R.J. or Eastman?’
‘Uh-uh.’ Fine shook his head, ground his spent cigarette into the stone surface of the picnic table, and expelled one last lungful of smoke through the side of his mouth.
‘Besides Eastman. Are they looking at anybody else?’
‘Like who?’
‘Like somebody with a motive other than the coke in the car. R.J. must have had an enemy or two somewhere. At work, at church . . .’
‘My guy said, according to everybody he and his partner talked to, your boy Burrow was a very nice man who got along well with everybody. Bein’ on the pipe was apparently the only vice he had worth mentioning.’
Fine turned his head to watch a young blonde in workout togs and running shoes do her pre-jog stretching nearby. He would have recalled I was still sitting there eventually, but I decided not to wait. I capped my pen and stood up.
‘You’ve been very helpful, Sergeant. I appreciate your time.’
He turned around to face me, gave me that poker liar’s grin I found so unsettling again. ‘Hey, no problem. Any friend of the mayor’s is a friend of mine.’
There were other questions I could have asked him, of course. Like how a uniformed cop could be in so good with the plain-clothes detectives of
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