make the call, anyway.
Gunner hung up, made a fresh pot of coffee for himself and Mickey, and waited around for the phone to ring.
Nearly an hour later, it did.
“I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you,” Danny Kubo said.
“Yeah? How intuitive.”
“Intuition’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just not stupid. I see things, I hear things, I put two and two together. It’s really not that complicated.”
He sounded irritated, but that was to be expected. He was calling under duress. When Gunner had left his third message in two days on Kubo’s voice-mail an hour ago, it hadn’t been just to say yet again that he would appreciate a call back. This time, Kubo’s old friend had issued a thinly disguised threat, in the form of a cheerful announcement: Gunner would be coming to visit him tomorrow. Downtown. He was going to walk into Parker Center, drop Kubo’s name with every high-ranking officer he stumbled into, and generally roam the halls of the LAPD’s inner sanctum in search of Kubo’s office like a tourist traipsing about Disneyland.
Kubo knew better than to think he was bluffing.
“So how are things?” Gunner asked him.
“Things are things. You want to talk small talk, or do you want to talk business?”
“I think you already know the answer to that. Otherwise, you’d have called me before now.”
“Hey. I was busy.”
“Yeah. I can imagine.”
Both men fell silent, listening to the phone line click and hum as they waited for someone to get to the point.
“Look, Aaron. I’ll tell you up front,” Kubo said finally. “I’m not going to be able to help you. It’s just not possible.”
“You don’t think you should maybe hear what kind of help I need before you tell me that?”
“I don’t need to hear. It’s just like you said. I already know. Word is, you’re digging around in the Jack McGovern case, trying to prove he got a raw deal from the department. Isn’t that right?”
“I’m trying to prove the department may have made a mistake when they dismissed him, yes.”
“For the sake of some guy off the street who claims to have witnessed the Lendell Washington shooting.”
“Yes.”
“Eight months after the fact.”
Gunner left that one alone.
“And this guy says the kid fired on McGovern first?”
“Yes.”
“So you figured you’d look me up to ask if I’d care to compare notes, right?”
“Somebody said you were one of the IAD guys who investigated the case. Why shouldn’t I ask you about it?”
“Because I can’t tell you anything, that’s why. The work I do is strictly interdepartmental, I couldn’t talk to you about it if I wanted to.”
“And you don’t want to.”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t. We closed the books on McGovern months ago, and as I’m sure you already know, he closed the book on himself over the weekend. Permanently. What’s the point in second-guessing the fucker’s dismissal now?”
“If he was guilty? Not much. But if he was innocent—if he killed the Washington kid in self-defense, the way he always said …”
“He didn’t. Believe me.”
“I want you to hear my client’s version of things, Danny. Before you make any final judgments.”
“Forget it.”
“It’ll only take five minutes of your time.”
“I said forget it. Aren’t you listening?”
“Okay. See you in the morning, huh?”
Gunner hung up the phone.
He had to wait a solid hour for Kubo to call back, but call back Kubo did. And this time, he was ready to name a time and a place.
They ended up at the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood, the jolly blue and green giant of Los Angeles landmarks that blotted out the sun at the corner of Melrose and San Vicente. Resembling a seven-story construct of giant blue and green building blocks, the center was a glorified shopping mall for licensed interior decorators, where everything from George II mahogany writing desks to wall-sized, marble-encased aquariums could be found at
Gunner hung up, made a fresh pot of coffee for himself and Mickey, and waited around for the phone to ring.
Nearly an hour later, it did.
“I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you,” Danny Kubo said.
“Yeah? How intuitive.”
“Intuition’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just not stupid. I see things, I hear things, I put two and two together. It’s really not that complicated.”
He sounded irritated, but that was to be expected. He was calling under duress. When Gunner had left his third message in two days on Kubo’s voice-mail an hour ago, it hadn’t been just to say yet again that he would appreciate a call back. This time, Kubo’s old friend had issued a thinly disguised threat, in the form of a cheerful announcement: Gunner would be coming to visit him tomorrow. Downtown. He was going to walk into Parker Center, drop Kubo’s name with every high-ranking officer he stumbled into, and generally roam the halls of the LAPD’s inner sanctum in search of Kubo’s office like a tourist traipsing about Disneyland.
Kubo knew better than to think he was bluffing.
“So how are things?” Gunner asked him.
“Things are things. You want to talk small talk, or do you want to talk business?”
“I think you already know the answer to that. Otherwise, you’d have called me before now.”
“Hey. I was busy.”
“Yeah. I can imagine.”
Both men fell silent, listening to the phone line click and hum as they waited for someone to get to the point.
“Look, Aaron. I’ll tell you up front,” Kubo said finally. “I’m not going to be able to help you. It’s just not possible.”
“You don’t think you should maybe hear what kind of help I need before you tell me that?”
“I don’t need to hear. It’s just like you said. I already know. Word is, you’re digging around in the Jack McGovern case, trying to prove he got a raw deal from the department. Isn’t that right?”
“I’m trying to prove the department may have made a mistake when they dismissed him, yes.”
“For the sake of some guy off the street who claims to have witnessed the Lendell Washington shooting.”
“Yes.”
“Eight months after the fact.”
Gunner left that one alone.
“And this guy says the kid fired on McGovern first?”
“Yes.”
“So you figured you’d look me up to ask if I’d care to compare notes, right?”
“Somebody said you were one of the IAD guys who investigated the case. Why shouldn’t I ask you about it?”
“Because I can’t tell you anything, that’s why. The work I do is strictly interdepartmental, I couldn’t talk to you about it if I wanted to.”
“And you don’t want to.”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t. We closed the books on McGovern months ago, and as I’m sure you already know, he closed the book on himself over the weekend. Permanently. What’s the point in second-guessing the fucker’s dismissal now?”
“If he was guilty? Not much. But if he was innocent—if he killed the Washington kid in self-defense, the way he always said …”
“He didn’t. Believe me.”
“I want you to hear my client’s version of things, Danny. Before you make any final judgments.”
“Forget it.”
“It’ll only take five minutes of your time.”
“I said forget it. Aren’t you listening?”
“Okay. See you in the morning, huh?”
Gunner hung up the phone.
He had to wait a solid hour for Kubo to call back, but call back Kubo did. And this time, he was ready to name a time and a place.
They ended up at the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood, the jolly blue and green giant of Los Angeles landmarks that blotted out the sun at the corner of Melrose and San Vicente. Resembling a seven-story construct of giant blue and green building blocks, the center was a glorified shopping mall for licensed interior decorators, where everything from George II mahogany writing desks to wall-sized, marble-encased aquariums could be found at
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