likely by the fact he was
going to a lot of trouble to see that Jade was protected. That, on the other
hand, could be mere subterfuge.
I set the alarm and had barely hit the sidewalk
when two LAPD detectives closed in.
“Nick Crane?”
I knew from their fine sense of dress they were
dicks. “Who wants to know?” They pulled back their jackets revealing shields
and guns. I grinned. “In that case, yes.”
Officer Sanchez, all shaved head and glaring eyes,
didn’t like my sense of humor. He slammed me up against the side of their
cruiser and snapped the cuffs on me. “Lemme know if they’re too tight,” he
snarled.
He turned me around and his partner, Officer
Tomito, yanked my Colt Commander. “Nice artillery.”
“It does the job.”
“You got a backup?”
“Right ankle.”
He pulled up my trouser leg and took my Walther
P22. Fortunately, I wasn’t carrying lock picks or anything else that might be
viewed as compromising. They opened the back door of the cruiser and shoved me
inside. Sanchez sat next to me.
Tomito climbed behind the wheel.
The cop riding shotgun, who was casually dressed
in street clothes, gave me a look that was seven-eighths contempt and
one-eighth sympathy. I seriously doubted that Tarkanian would have had either
the courage or just plain bad sense to lodge a complaint, which meant I had no
idea what this was about.
“I’m Detective Jansen. You’ve already met Officers
Sanchez and Tomito.”
“Let’s get this over with. I’ve got an appointment
in 30.”
Sanchez jabbed me hard in the ribs. “Shut the fuck
up.”
I grimaced, gritted my teeth and locked eyes with
him. “You’re real tough when I’m cuffed.”
Sanchez opened his mouth to reply, but Jansen cut
him off. “Tony Bott speaks highly of you. Says you’re good people. Nonetheless,
we’ve got us a little problem.” He fixed me with a dead eye cop stare. “Murder
One.”
“I’m outta the hit business.”
“Glad to hear that. Try to keep it that way.”
“I will. Trust me.”
“Never trust anyone who says ‘trust me,’” added
Officer Tomito.
This brought a round of laughter.
Detective Jansen looked at my .45, flexed his jaw
muscles and said to Tomito, “Let’s ride.”
We pulled away from the curb, turned left on
Central and right on 5th. When we got to Towne Street, we parked and got out.
Jansen looked at Sanchez. “Uncuff him.”
I rubbed my wrists to get my circulation
back. For years, Towne Street was
the center of the Skid Row open air crack market, but in recent years it’s
moved down to 5th and San Carlos, near the missions. That way a basehead can
get a fix on his way into rehab, and on his way out, without ever leaving the
block.
Towne, between 5th and 6th was completely cordoned
off. The only officials on the scene were the investigator, the coroner’s
investigator and the photographer. A few rubberneckers watched from behind
sawhorses, as we ducked under the tape and headed down the block. The victim
came gradually into focus: flat on its back, feet almost touching the
rust-colored brick wall of what had once been a foundry. The body was nude and
bloated and had been decapitated. The severed head rested on one cheek, facing
north along the sidewalk. Its eyes stared lifelessly and what should have been
hair was blood-smeared skull.
“At least the perp didn’t cut his dick off,” said
Officer Tomito.
The cops wouldn’t have brought me here unless they
somehow connected me to the victim, which meant I must know him. It hit me like
a sledgehammer. Ron Cera. My head started pounding. I turned and started
walking back toward 5th Street. Officer Sanchez followed me and threw up just
before we reached the sawhorses, thick gray bile that splattered across the
already stained sidewalk. Tomito joined Jansen who yanked Sanchez to his feet.
We walked back to the cruiser in silence.
When we got to the stationhouse, Sanchez and
Tomito dispersed. Jansen ushered me into his office,
going to a lot of trouble to see that Jade was protected. That, on the other
hand, could be mere subterfuge.
I set the alarm and had barely hit the sidewalk
when two LAPD detectives closed in.
“Nick Crane?”
I knew from their fine sense of dress they were
dicks. “Who wants to know?” They pulled back their jackets revealing shields
and guns. I grinned. “In that case, yes.”
Officer Sanchez, all shaved head and glaring eyes,
didn’t like my sense of humor. He slammed me up against the side of their
cruiser and snapped the cuffs on me. “Lemme know if they’re too tight,” he
snarled.
He turned me around and his partner, Officer
Tomito, yanked my Colt Commander. “Nice artillery.”
“It does the job.”
“You got a backup?”
“Right ankle.”
He pulled up my trouser leg and took my Walther
P22. Fortunately, I wasn’t carrying lock picks or anything else that might be
viewed as compromising. They opened the back door of the cruiser and shoved me
inside. Sanchez sat next to me.
Tomito climbed behind the wheel.
The cop riding shotgun, who was casually dressed
in street clothes, gave me a look that was seven-eighths contempt and
one-eighth sympathy. I seriously doubted that Tarkanian would have had either
the courage or just plain bad sense to lodge a complaint, which meant I had no
idea what this was about.
“I’m Detective Jansen. You’ve already met Officers
Sanchez and Tomito.”
“Let’s get this over with. I’ve got an appointment
in 30.”
Sanchez jabbed me hard in the ribs. “Shut the fuck
up.”
I grimaced, gritted my teeth and locked eyes with
him. “You’re real tough when I’m cuffed.”
Sanchez opened his mouth to reply, but Jansen cut
him off. “Tony Bott speaks highly of you. Says you’re good people. Nonetheless,
we’ve got us a little problem.” He fixed me with a dead eye cop stare. “Murder
One.”
“I’m outta the hit business.”
“Glad to hear that. Try to keep it that way.”
“I will. Trust me.”
“Never trust anyone who says ‘trust me,’” added
Officer Tomito.
This brought a round of laughter.
Detective Jansen looked at my .45, flexed his jaw
muscles and said to Tomito, “Let’s ride.”
We pulled away from the curb, turned left on
Central and right on 5th. When we got to Towne Street, we parked and got out.
Jansen looked at Sanchez. “Uncuff him.”
I rubbed my wrists to get my circulation
back. For years, Towne Street was
the center of the Skid Row open air crack market, but in recent years it’s
moved down to 5th and San Carlos, near the missions. That way a basehead can
get a fix on his way into rehab, and on his way out, without ever leaving the
block.
Towne, between 5th and 6th was completely cordoned
off. The only officials on the scene were the investigator, the coroner’s
investigator and the photographer. A few rubberneckers watched from behind
sawhorses, as we ducked under the tape and headed down the block. The victim
came gradually into focus: flat on its back, feet almost touching the
rust-colored brick wall of what had once been a foundry. The body was nude and
bloated and had been decapitated. The severed head rested on one cheek, facing
north along the sidewalk. Its eyes stared lifelessly and what should have been
hair was blood-smeared skull.
“At least the perp didn’t cut his dick off,” said
Officer Tomito.
The cops wouldn’t have brought me here unless they
somehow connected me to the victim, which meant I must know him. It hit me like
a sledgehammer. Ron Cera. My head started pounding. I turned and started
walking back toward 5th Street. Officer Sanchez followed me and threw up just
before we reached the sawhorses, thick gray bile that splattered across the
already stained sidewalk. Tomito joined Jansen who yanked Sanchez to his feet.
We walked back to the cruiser in silence.
When we got to the stationhouse, Sanchez and
Tomito dispersed. Jansen ushered me into his office,
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