Glass Houses (4 page)

nine

Mayo read the morning
newspaper article about bad cops and quickly became engrossed in the story.

FORMER LAPD COMMANDER SUSPECTED
OF RUNNING A RING OF ROBBERS

By Elizabeth Keane

Special to The Times
Part 1 of 2

Federal authorities believe a former LAPD commander organized a band of police officers into a network of thieves who engaged in armed robbery, extortion, and blackmail, according to law enforcement and people with knowledge of the investigation.

The gang, calling themselves the Blue Bandits, came to the attention of authorities when an associate, Gerard Keane, Captain of Hollywood Division [the writer's father], dispatched—via a lawyer—affidavits, supporting documents, and depositions to the District Attorney's office. Also included was a ledger of misdemeanors going back twelve years.

Keane sent a duplicate set of the material to his daughter. The documents named many current and former LAPD officers as associates.

According to the DA's office there have been rumors for years regarding the Blue Bandits, but no viable evidence to support an investigation. The LAPD and the FBI have joined forces in a taskforce to investigate all claims made by Keane.

The alleged head of the gang and founding member was Ralph Soto, a retired commander of Central Bureau. The co-leader was West Bureau Deputy Chief, Theodore Rankin. They both died on February 7th.

In an excerpt from a letter that accompanied the documentation Keane sent to his daughter, he wrote, “It was well past time for the madness to end. I asked Soto and Rankin to join me in retiring from our life of crime. Disband the Blue Bandits. Disappear into oblivion. Rankin was willing. Soto was not. So I finished it. I shot and killed Soto with my service weapon. It was the only time it had ever been fired outside the range. After informing Rankin of the package I sent to the DA he took his own life … and I'll meet my end soon enough. This crime drama will end badly.”

Keane's life ended shortly after mailing the letter. He led Indio police and the California Highway Patrol on a high-speed chase. According to a CHP spokesperson, when Keane finally stopped and exited the vehicle he fired a gun and was fatally shot in return fire. This is commonly referred to as suicide by cop.

Authorities close to the investigation wonder how a cop gang could go undetected for so long. The answer might lie at the beginning with Dr. Glen Soto, Ralph Soto's son.

According to a federal agent close to the investigation, Dr. Soto is cooperating with the investigation and has corroborated much of Keane's information.

Dr. Glen Soto was a successful psychiatrist who specialized in marital counseling. He ran his practice out of the Janko Medical Center, a drop-in, pay-as-you-go clinic for non-emergencies. He was a pioneer in unorthodox therapies. One of those utilized MDMA, a drug in the amphetamine family.

Its chemical composition releases massive levels of norepinephrine in the brain. Couples found the resulting feeling of empathy and sense of euphoria helpful as they talked through their issues.

Once MDMA made the transition from therapy drug to a popular, feel-good party drug of choice, the Federal Drug Administration reclassified it as a Schedule I drug. Even after it became illegal, Dr. Soto continued to use it and his practice flourished. Appointments were booked months in advance.

He found himself focusing less on patients as his dispensing profits grew. Fearing a supply problem, he funded a laboratory in Oregon to manufacture the drug.

In a statement to police, Dr. Soto said, “One day I realized I was nothing more than a drug dealer. But I continued because the money was so good.”

Dr. Soto's worst fears were realized when the Oregon laboratory was raided by federal authorities. Only three days later, Soto's in-house pharmacy was robbed. In a brazen attack, three armed men stormed the facility in broad daylight and stole all of Janko's MDMA stores.

“That's when I called my dad,” Soto stated to authorities. “I couldn't call nine-one-one and report a robbery. I'd be arrested. I did the next best thing. At first, all I wanted was my product back. Then I began to hatch a plan. Why not have the protection of the police on my side?”

According to Dr. Soto, his father was initially angry when he learned of his son's dealing, but with a little convincing he saw the earning potential.

Thus, a drug enterprise was born. One sanctioned and operated by a well-respected cop known as a hardliner …

_____

Mayo shivered with exhilaration. Wait until Tuesday to get the rest of the story? Impossible. It was too good. Drug dealing. Robbery. Murder. By cops! How exciting. Mayo visualized how the Blue Bandits interacted. The planning. The scheming. The late night rendezvous in dark places.

Mayo reread a part about Ralph Soto …
his seduction into a double life came on quick. Like a sudden fever … Soto became de facto president of Janko and in the first two years, he made eight years' worth of departmental salary.

That kind of money is a great motivator, thought Mayo. Peanuts compared to what I'm gonna get. When this is done I'll take my own money and do whatever I want. Buy my own island like that rich guy, the one with the planes. Planes. Yes. I'll need one of those to get to my island. I'll need a boat, too. And a staff I can boss around.

The article went on about something called the Paige Street murder. It was very long and Mayo got distracted by another thought and made a phone call.

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen the morning paper?”

“Are you shitting me? Did you forget what I'm doing?”

“This reporter wrote an article about her dad. Ratted him out. Okay, he's dead. But still … her own father!”

“And this should interest me why?”

“I'm going to call her. Her email address is at the bottom of the article. That means she has an extension, too. I'll call information to get the number for the
Los Angeles Times
.”

“Don't be stupid! You're not calling the newspaper.”

“Why not? This is the break we've been looking for. She can help us.”

“We got our break when you killed the high-profile fish. Now the cops will get their shit together and figure it out.”

“It's taking too long!”

“What got you wound up?”

“I like this murder thing. It was fun. I want more.”

“There might be another chance. Be patient.”

“You had more than me.”

“I killed four. You killed four. We're even.”

“When you put it like that …”

“We have to stay focused on the next phase. Are you ready?”

“I want my money.”

“Be patient, my love. We're almost there. Remember how we worked it out? The killing was the easy part. We still have roles to play.”

“I can't call the reporter and play with her?”

“No.”

“Just one call?”

“NO. Listen to me, I'll be over soon and rub your feet the way you like.”

“Will you … you know … lick me? I like that, too.”

“It will be a reward for not calling the reporter.”

“Okay, okay. I won't call.”

“I have to go now. I'll see you soon.”

It'll be a secret, thought Mayo, and I'll still get my reward. Mayo called 4-1-1.

ten

The locked room was
not a torture chamber. Nor a den of child pornography. It was a home office. Beyond anticlimactic.

Thom had hoped for some big-ass clue pointing them in a solid direction. Instead he found a flat screen set on a mainstream news channel and a desktop computer with bookmarked cooking and craft websites. Two over-filled shelves of books were devoted to child rearing. Thom browsed the topics. Discipline, psychology, family health, drug abuse, sex education, spiritual philosophies. The books were bursting with Post-it page markers. It was apparent that Dominic and Rachel Lawrence took their roles as foster parents seriously.

A locked file drawer caught Thom's interest. He searched the office until he found the key inside a box of paper clips. The drawer was devoted to folders for every girl. They were in descending order. Amy and Amber's file up front. The Lawrence's didn't foster just any kids. They fostered at-risk kids. On the inside flap of each folder was a photo of the child and a ten set. Inside were psychological reports, compilations of troubled histories, observations made by child care professionals, logs of doctor's visits. Most importantly, detailed reportage written by Dominic or Rachel logging the daily care and schedule of the children. And the cost. Each file had an accounting of every penny spent.

Thom scanned the files for indications of troubled or mentally unstable kids. There were difficulties, but nothing out of the ordinary considering the demographic. He reached the end of the files before realizing that Jelena's wasn't there. He went through the files again thinking it had been misfiled.

Still no Jelena.

George stuck his head into the office, fresh from examining the rest of the house and eyeing the bodies. Thom noted the shell shock still on his face. It took a while to wipe away the image of death that seemed to etch itself onto the observer. Longtime homicide detectives seemed to wear it permanently, giving them a tough veneer. George had yet to grow his.

“A retreat from the mundane,” said George.

“Not really,” said Thom. “This is a work room.” He handed George the twin's folder. “Each kid has one. A complete history. Amy and Amber were born in Cleveland, Ohio. Their parents came over from China on a tourist visa. Stayed long enough to give birth to the kids and knew enough English to ask for social security cards. A few weeks later they abandoned the babies at a fire station, their birth records and other documentation attached to their swaddling blankets. Then they returned to China and disappeared.”

George shook his head in disgust.

“What does Lena's say?” he said.

“
Jelena's
file is missing.”

“A big clue.”

“Indeed. Could she have done it?”

“She made it clear she didn't like the twins. I've upgraded her to a person of interest. I inspected her car, then kicked her loose. It was squeaky clean. No murder implements. No visible evidence of you there.”

“I'm pretty good at picking up my trash.”

“You might be her alibi once TOD is established. Do you know what time you left her?”

Thom pinched his temples. “I've no idea. I don't even remember driving to Bird's. The good news is that she has an upgraded security system. The key log would've recorded when I arrived. We'll call her later. But I can't think about that now. Did you notice the decimated princess pillow? Five shots, close range. Foam everywhere. All that splatter.”

“Serology lit up the hallway,” said George. “Blood drops lead from the kids' room into the master. No doubt, they were killed first. Perhaps they were the target?”

“That'd mean the bloody mirror and Dominic's dick is window dressing. Maybe to throw us off. Too early to say. What we know for sure is that this homicide was committed by an organized killer.”

“They're the hardest to catch.”

“Usually. But this one wants attention. It's how we're going to get his sorry ass. Did you inspect the garages?”

“Yeah. The one on the far left is an enclosed one-car used for storage. Bicycles. Kid toys. Clothing boxed by size. The other two doors open into an oversized two-car. A Toyota sedan had Dominic's swipe ID in the passenger seat. I bagged it. A minivan had the usual stuff you'd expect to find when one ferries kids around. Snacks, books, games, bottles of water, like that.”

“Find a briefcase or a laptop?”

“No.”

Thom held up the end of a cord with an adapter on the end.
“Here's
the power for a laptop. Maybe Dominic left it and the brie
fcase at the office for the weekend.”

“Yeah, with Jelena's missing file.”

“Like we ever get that lucky.”

Crime scene tech, Spenser, stepped inside the office. “I have something to show you.” He held up a succession of clear evidence envelopes with strands of hair. “Got these off the hardwood. Medium, straight, black—Amy and Amber. Long, auburn, wavy—Rachel. Short, ash—Dominic. Long, straight, blond—probably the PR's. Of course these are preliminary findings. I'll get exemplars after the CI arrives.”

“I'm not feeling hopeful on finding evidence of our murder suspect,” said George.

“This will cheer you up,” said Spenser, grinning at him like a proud puppy. He held up a piece of foil that had vague etched lines in a random pattern. “A footprint.”

“That the hydro-stat image?” said Thom. “Looks like crumpled paper.”

“Close. It's fabric from cloth booties. Like the ones we're wearing.”

“A clean executioner,” said George.

“Yes, but he left us a tell. Here, in the middle, the pattern is denser. It indicates more weight. More pressure.”

“Meaning?” said George.

“The killer wore shoes that were too big,” said Thom.

“Right-o,” said Spenser. “Your killer thought he was being clever.”

eleven

Birdie shut herself into
the Manor's time-out room. Outfitted with a porthole window, it allowed the offender to look down at the backyard pool to witness the fun being missed by bad behavior. The room was tiny—about the size of a public bathroom stall—and bare except for a box of tissues on the floor. As the kids grew, the time-out room morphed into a place to make out or talk on the phone without the threat of eavesdropping ears. Right now, it served as Birdie's retreat. A private place where she could snatch a moment to ease her anxiety.

A weepy gloom had settled over her. Drying out hadn't come easy. Every day a struggle. Yes, a year sober is a milestone worth acknowledgment. But the celebration downstairs where her family toasted her success with champagne was over the top.

Birdie couldn't fault them for needing an excuse to party. Life for the Keanes had become hard since Gerard's death. The pall of grief and disbelief hung heavy over the family. And it was going to get worse. Once today's installment of the newspaper article made its rounds there'd be unwanted attention—to what degree and end yet to be determined. Only one thing was certain. On Tuesday, her cousin, Arthur, would finally be exonerated from suspicion. Sixteen years past due. But even he wasn't happy. The cost to the family was too high and he was used to shouldering the responsibility.

Stress squeezed Birdie's neck. She had to figure out a way to tell Thom about his wife, Anne. But that could wait. Right now she focused on the news Anne had shared about a city attorney named Lawrence who had been murdered. She knew a Dominic Lawrence and wondered if he was Thom's victim. She hoped not. The Lawrence she knew was one of the good guys.

Years ago she was desperate to get help for a parentless kid named Huck who called the L.A. River home. Birdie wrote an article about him and people came forward wanting to provide a home. But it wasn't that easy. Huck felt comfortable on the streets. A bedroom of his own confined his sense of safety and he began acting out. Enter white-knight Lawrence. He had the knowledge to recognize Huck's special needs and the resources to get him the right kind of care.

Birdie sat on her hands. A year sober and they still shook from withdrawals. Cravings. Nerves. Right now they were shaking because she was on edge, a current-state normal caused by downtime, which gave her an opportunity to think. Not a good thing. Too much time allowed her to dwell on the one aspect of her life where she had no control: Matt Whelan—missing in the larger world.

In her struggle to find a solution to a very unwanted problem, she pursued what she could control: exercise, food, work, and research. The problem was that Birdie had an addictive personality. No debate. She knew she headed deeper into the rabbit hole of hyperactivity and dependency. She could not sit still. Reflect. Pray. Meditate. The constant busywork was like a narcotic. Obsessive. Bad for well-being. Bad for the soul. She desperately needed to find balance. She was a smart, young woman. So why had the simple parts of life become so hard?

Impatient as always, Birdie called Thom to ask about Lawrence.

“Hey,” he answered, “I'm at a scene.”

“Was it Dominic?”

“Yeah. I'm going to put you on hold. Change locations.”

Birdie deflated with sadness.

Thom came back on speaker. “George is here. We can speak freely.”

“Hi, George.”

“Hi, Birdie. Congratulations on a year of sobriety.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you know something about Lawrence?” said Thom.

“I knew what kind of work he did. It'd give you a head start on background.”

“Go,” said Thom.

“He's a staff lawyer in the city attorney's civil division.”

“He work cases?”

“The city office does prosecute misdemeanor crimes and defends the city against lawsuits, but Lawrence worked in the municipal counsel branch.”

“What exactly is that?”

“Think of it as general counsel to city departments. Lawrence specifically worked with the city council and the housing authority.”

“How do you know him?”

“Through his advocacy for at-risk kids. He and his wife were fostering kids for decades.”

“We've seen files on the kids. Have you met any?”

“One. A Russian girl named Jelena. A clerk in the office. He introduced her as one of his girls. At the time, I was focused on getting assistance for a homeless boy, but later I profiled her and Dominic for a Column One feature. I'll retrieve it from archives and shoot you a copy.”

“Thanks, but we'll do it from our end.”

Birdie paused. Thom had never turned down help before. “What's going on?”

“It's complicated,” said George.

“What were your impressions of her?” said Thom.

“I'm not sure if Dominic wanted to keep an eye on her or if he was extremely proud.”

“Explain.”

“First you have to understand that Dominic and his wife ran a kind of halfway house that served as a transition between the orphanage and a permanent foster family. Most kids stayed with them about a year while they learned to trust. Learn boundaries. Assimilate into family life. But Jelena was a hard case. Very angry. Kleptomaniac. She'd been with them for years.”

“Do you think she was capable of killing?”

Ah, now she understood. The girl was a suspect. Birdie must be careful with her response. She didn't want to prejudice the process. “My impression of Dominic was that he had savvy instincts. If he thought one of his kids were capable of extreme violence, I'd wager that he'd get rid of them, hard case or not.”

“Work-wise who'd want him dead?”

“No one I can think of since he doesn't deal directly with the criminally minded.”

“Do you know why he fostered only girls?”

“Oh, boy. Well … he didn't impress me like a creep, if that's what you're thinking. I think you'll find the answer is a simple one. Like streamlining. Making things easy by staying with one gender. You know, you wouldn't have to change out decorating themes. Clothes could be handed down. Besides, girls are easier.”

Thom laughed. “Trust me, girls are harder.”

“That's because you have twins,” said Birdie. “Rose and Nora were born a team. Two for one. There's built-in comfort and camaraderie which make them natural conspirators.”

“You have a gift of putting things into perspective.”

Birdie wished that were true in her own life. It was easier to aim an eye outward.

“Did Dominic suffer?” she said.

“No. He was executed in his sleep. So were his wife and twin girls.”

“What kind of sicko would kill sleeping children?”

“The worst kind,” said Thom.

“Hey, Birdie,” interjected George, “Can you tell us when Thom got to your house this morning?”

“Sure, but I have to be in my office. Is it relevant to your investigation?”

“Unfortunately.”

“In that case I'll print a hard copy and burn a disc.”

“Thanks,” said Thom. “And for the insights. But we've got to go now.”

Birdie got a sense that she'd helped; this made her happy. And now time-out needed to end before her overprotective boyfriend, Ron, put out a BOLO.