Harry leaned on his elbows, his fingers folded neatly together like a well-shuffled deck of cards. I thought I saw a spark in his eyes—a tiny spark, but a hint of fire nonetheless.
“So this Montego was the investigating officer fifteen years ago when this Chinese guy got his nuts crushed? And now he’s investigating the murder of the cameraman who caught the incident on videotape, as well as the murder of the editor who later stole the tape? Are we on the same page, Justice?”
“We’re on the same page, Harry.”
“And Fairchild’s name appears at the end of the original police report, fifteen years back, along with Montego’s.”
“There’s another name here, Harry. Charlie Gitt. The other cop who went to the hospital with Montego and took the report.”
Templeton joined in.
“That name means something to you, Justice?”
“Gitt runs a gay sex club in east Hollywood. On the rough side, down and dirty. Most sex clubs like this one have been shut down for zoning or health violations, but Gitt’s has managed to survive. He claims it’s because he’s got good lawyers, but maybe it’s because he’s an ex-cop, although I doubt that gay ex-cops are held in all that high esteem.”
“Maybe it’s that,” Harry said. “Or maybe it’s because somebody in the department owes him favors. The question, of course, would be why.”
Templeton, scribbling notes, asked me how I knew about Charlie Gitt.
“Tommy Callahan interviewed Gitt before he was killed—for the segment I’m writing now for the PBS series. Gitt’s a pretty scary guy.”
“Start looking for the original victim,” Harry said, “this Winston whatever the hell his name is.”
I glanced at the report.
“Tsao-Ping.”
“We find him, convince him to talk on the record, we got ourselves one hell of a story.” Harry stood. “It might even get the attention of some new investors and save this damn paper from going under.”
I rose to my feet, followed by the two women.
“Too late for Katie, unfortunately.”
Templeton slipped an arm around Katie, beaming down at her.
“Oh, I think Katie’s doing just fine. Didn’t you notice her engagement ring, Justice?”
Katie held up her left hand, showing off a small diamond set in gold.
“Congratulations. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“My main squeeze from college. He’s a reporter with the
Chicago Trib
. We’re getting married in June, out here in Little Tokyo. I hope you’ll come to the wedding.”
“With bells on, Katie.” I held up the police report. “Thanks for digging this up. Great job.”
Nakamura went out, and I looked questioningly at Templeton.
“Did she say ‘main squeeze’?”
“It means significant other, Justice. Lover, soulmate.”
“I know what it means, Templeton. I just didn’t figure it to come from the lips of Katie Nakamura.”
“She grew up in the last three years, Justice, since she started interning here. Came out of her shell.”
I smiled sweetly.
“Kind of like you, Alexandra.”
She smiled in return, only not as sweetly. We watched Nakamura cross the newsroom to her reporter’s pod.
“I envy her,” Templeton said. “Starting a new life with someone she loves at her side.”
Harry held out his hankie.
“Thanks, Harry. I think I’m under control now.”
“Could we get back to the subject at hand, then? Namely, Taylor Fairchild, who is now on your front burner big time.”
She poised her pen over her notebook.
“What else do you remember about him, Harry?”
“Fairchild was smart, ambitious, a climber. Seemed to be generally well liked. Top of his class at the academy back in the seventies. One of the bright young stars rising under Daryl Gates. I do recall that he wasn’t a very imposing guy. Not too tall, slightly built, soft-spoken for a cop. More management-oriented than street smart.”
“The kind of guy Daryl Gates would have regarded as a sissy,” I said, noting the irony. “Now, he’s being hailed as the great white hope.”
“By whom, pray tell?”
“From what Templeton tells me, by the white rank and file.”
“And the invisible white power structure that runs this city,” Templeton added. “The men with bottomless pockets, who manage to keep their names out of the papers while creating vast wealth built on political and financial influence. The bank boys, as I like to call them, who pull the strings from here to the White House and beyond.”
“Very erudite, Templeton.”
“Thank you, Justice.”
Harry wasn’t as impressed.
“You have evidence of all this, I guess.”
“That’s the story no one dares to tell, Harry. Especially a newspaper in need of financial investors and capital loans, which pretty much covers the entire fourth estate.”
Harry raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Spare me the conspiracy theories, Templeton, and stick to the facts. Start making some discreet contacts with officers who might have an ax to grind with Fairchild, especially those who’ve known him since way back when. Chase the facts, see where they lead you.”
“Will do, Harry.”
Templeton started out. I reached out to stop her.
“And I’m still waiting for the police and autopsy reports on Callahan and Mittelman.”
“OK, OK. I’ll get on it.”
She was on her way out the door.
“Aren’t you going to thank me for dumping a hot story in your lap?”
“Not until you tell me what you think of my
GQ
piece.”
“Haven’t read it yet.”
“You’re the subject, Justice!”
“What could I possibly learn then that I don’t already know?”
“God, sometimes you make me crazy.”
“Go!” Harry shouted. “Argue later, on your own time.”
She went. Harry’s shouting erupted into a coughing spasm. I slapped him on the back until it passed. “You gotta start taking care of yourself, Harry.”
He stuck the unlit cigarette back between his lips. “I’ll think about it while I’m having a smoke.”
I walked with him in the direction of the elevators, while he patted his pockets for matches. Roger Lawson strode past us down the intersecting corridor, red-faced, huffing and puffing, his glasses riding on his fat cheeks, half his shirttail flapping. He glanced over, but didn’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge Harry.
I punched the elevator’s down button.
“I wonder where Lawson’s going in such a hurry.”
Harry offered a sour smile.
“Probably on his way to stick a knife in somebody’s back.”
He coughed again, and I suggested he think about getting a checkup. The doors opened and the elevator emptied out. Harry stepped in and pressed the button for the ground floor.
“Stop worrying about me, Ben, and help Templeton put a major scoop on the front page. Before Lawson and the other boys upstairs pull the plug on this sinking old ship.”
His smile sagged wearily, like the rest of him, as the doors closed between us.
“Just don’t wait too long. The water’s already tickling my
huevos
.”
I wandered back to Harry’s office, looked up the number for Melissa Zeigler in my notebook, and called her on Harry’s phone. She picked up on the fifth ring, speaking slowly, without energy. She sounded sleepy, maybe even sedated.
I apologized for bothering her at home. She said she didn’t mind, that she was hoping to hear from me again before too much time had passed. I asked her when she had last spoken to Sergeant Felix Montego.
“A few days ago. Monday, I think. He gave me the usual runaround.”
“I want you to call him back, Melissa. Pressure him to meet with you personally. Set up an appointment at a definite time and place. Tell him you’ll be bringing a family friend along.”
“Who’s the family friend?”
“Me. But you don’t need to tell him that.”
“What if he puts me off again?”
“Tears usually work, if you’re willing to go that far.”
“I’ll do anything to bring Byron’s murderer to justice. I don’t even care if it puts me in danger. I really don’t have anything to lose at this point.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Melissa.”
The other end of the line was silent.
“Melissa?”
“I’m here, Ben.”
Zeigler sounded as though she might nod off at any moment.
“Will you call Sergeant Montego?”
“Yes, I’ll call him. If you really think it might help.”
“Can’t hurt to try. We need to pry a few rocks loose. How are you doing, by the way?”
“I’ve been sleeping a lot. You can probably tell.”
“That’s better than not sleeping, I guess.”
“I’ve joined a grief support group. I’m attending my first meeting tonight. I’ll probably be going back to work next week. I have clients who need me.”
“You’re not a social worker by accident, Melissa. Maybe you need your clients as much as they need you.”
“You’re probably right, Ben.”
I gave her Harry’s number at the
Sun
, should she ever need it, and we said goodbye. My next call was to New York University. After the usual delays and transfers, I was put through to the office of admissions and records. I told the woman at the other end that I was Harry Brofsky, news editor at the
Los Angeles Sun
, attempting to verify some information on an employment application filed by a woman named Cecile Chang. She told me it would take some time. I told her I’d hold.
Then, impulsively, I added a second request.
“We have another application here from one of your former students. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
“The second name?”
“Oree Joffriens.”
I spelled it for her, feeling a little sick about it. There was no reason for me to distrust Oree. Yet it also occurred to me, as I sat drumming my fingers on Harry’s desk, how little about him I really knew. Chang was clearly involved in the Callahan matter, if for no other reason than the earring she’d lost in his motel room. She and Oree were tight, which made me want to know more about both of them. Not quite ten minutes later, the administrative assistant came back on the line. She told me that Chang had earned a master’s in film in 1988 and Oree Joffrien had been awarded a Ph.D. in anthropological studies a year later. Both had been graduated with honors.
“And before that? Mr. Joffrien’s undergraduate study?”
“Let’s see. Graduated from high school in Louisiana, accelerated program. Bachelor’s in history from Duke University, master’s from UC Berkeley in poli sci. Very impressive background, this Mr. Joffrien.”
“And Miss Chang? Before she came to NYU?”
Several seconds passed. Then:
“I’m afraid that’s marked confidential.”
“Is that customary?”
“It’s unusual, but not unheard of. It depends on the circumstances.”
“And what might those circumstances be?”
“I’ve really told you all that I can, sir.”
“Thanks for your time.”
“Not at all.”
I rifled the stack of phone books behind Harry’s desk until I found one that included the city of Monterey Park, which was situated a few miles east of downtown L.A. Not surprisingly, the heavily Asian American community had listings for several Tsao-Pings. I didn’t find a Winston Tsao-Ping, but I did locate a number for a Pearl Tsao-Ping. The address and phone number matched those on the police report typed up fifteen years earlier, with the exception of the area code, which had changed. I dialed the number.
A soft-spoken older man answered, speaking Chinese. I asked in English to speak with Pearl Tsao-Ping. A moment later, a sharp-voiced woman came on the line.
“Mrs. Tsao-Ping?”
“Yes?”
“I’m an old friend of your son Winston. I haven’t seen him in many years and wanted to get back in touch.”
“I have no son named Winston.”
“But Mrs. Tsao-Ping, the address and phone number I have for you is the same one Winston had fifteen years ago.”
“No son named Winston! Only one son, Franklin! Do not bother us again!”
As sharply as she had spoken to me, Pearl Tsao-Ping hung up the phone. By then, Harry was back in his office, with coffee for both of us. The phone rang. He took it, spoke a few words, and handed it to me. It was Melissa Zeigler.
“I reached Sergeant Montego, Ben. He says he can meet with us this afternoon, after lunch.”
“Where?”
“Parker Center. I guess that’s downtown?”
“Main police headquarters. First and Los Angeles streets. What time?”
“He said two o’clock.”
“Care to join me for lunch, Melissa? My friend Harry’s paying.”
Harry gave me a look over the rim of his Styrofoam cup.
“I have to shower and dress, Ben. I think I’ll just meet you there.”
“See you at two then.”
I borrowed some cash from Harry, cut across the central city in the Mustang to Little Tokyo, and enjoyed a solitary, leisurely lunch at the Mandarin Deli, jotting down names in my notebook and mulling their relationships to one another. At one forty-five, I paid the bill, and walked three blocks to Parker Center by way of Los Angeles Street, stepping over two or three unconscious drunks along the way.
Melissa Zeigler was waiting for me on the walkway in front of the eight-story LAPD building named in honor of William H. Parker, who had served as chief from 1950 to 1965. She was attired in a two-tone dress and low-heeled pumps, and had washed and brushed her hair and touched up her face a little. We showed our identification and signed in at the security desk just inside the front doors, waited while our appointment was confirmed, then stuck blue-and-white visitor passes to our chests that signified the room number of our destination.
Standing in the middle of the busy lobby was a well-built Hispanic detective about my age with a decent haircut and a decent suit. He had a good face, skin the color of light mahogany, and a thick, dark mustache under bright brown eyes.
Those eyes grew keener as we approached. Melissa, who had met Felix Montego briefly once before, handled the introductions.
“Sergeant Montego, this is Mr. Justice, the friend I mentioned.”
“Friend, or reporter?”
“You seem to know me, Sergeant.”
“Benjamin Justice. With the
L.A. Times
in the eighties. You made quite a splash.”
“So nice of you to remember.”
He half-smiled.
“Should I repeat my question?”
“Can’t a person be both, Sergeant?”
He studied me with his wary, intelligent eyes.
“Let’s talk in my office.” He started walking. “Coffee?”
“I’m full of green tea, thanks.”
Zeigler shook her head.
“Not for me.”
He led us into an elevator, then up to the third floor, where we made our way to a large room filled with a dozen rectangular tables in the manner of a library. Heaps of skin magazines were stacked on one of the tables, with photos of naked, hairless children on the covers, smiling coquettishly for the camera. Three cops sat at the same table, eating pizza and taking notes while they watched a videotape of a little girl and a little boy doing things to each other I didn’t know about until I was at least fourteen.
“Studying the evidence,” Montego said, without a trace of humor. “Justice, you didn’t see the pizza.”
“Do I make you nervous, Sergeant?”
“All reporters make me nervous. Even the ones who got tarred and feathered and run out of town for screwing with the facts.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You working again? In journalism, I mean.”
“On the fringes, you might say.”
“A man’s gotta make a living, I guess.”
“Do you believe in rehabilitation, Sergeant?”
“For a few. Not for the sick pricks who diddle little kids like the ones we saw back there. For reporters who go astray, maybe. You rehabilitated, Justice?”
“The jury’s still out, I guess.”
He nodded as if he almost cared, and turned into a small office with a window that offered a view of Chinatown to the north and the green hills of Echo Park, Mount Washington, and Highland Park beyond. Just east of Chinatown I could see the old railyards, a wide, flat dustbin lined with tracks and trains that were doomed by a high-rise development now at the blueprint stage but quietly moving ahead. One day we would turn our heads, then the next day look back, and another piece of the city would have been lost forever to the invisible movers and shakers Templeton liked to call the bank boys.
Montego motioned us to take two chairs facing his desk, while he took the chair behind it. In back of him, on a credenza up against the window, stood a framed family portrait showing five brown-eyed kids, from tiny to teenage, grouped around Montego and a pretty Hispanic woman I took to be his wife. Individual photos of the children in shiny gold frames were grouped around the larger picture like chicks around a mother hen.
Montego leaned back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head, the way Harry was fond of doing when he wanted to rule a meeting like a grand pooh-bah.
“What exactly is it I can do for you, Miss Zeigler?”
“I want to know who killed Byron.”
“I understand that. As I’ve told you, I’m working on it.”
She glanced over to me, then back at Montego.
“What have you found out? I mean, about the connection between Byron and Mr. Callahan that I told you about. It’s been almost two weeks—”
“It’s my top priority, Miss Zeigler. But it takes time.”
“You didn’t answer her question, Sergeant.”
His eyes cut in my direction while the rest of him remained still. They stayed on me a moment, then slid back to toward Zeigler.
“We’ve confirmed that your fiancé, Mr. Mittelman, worked with Tommy Callahan fifteen years ago, as you suggested. We spoke with the executive producer of the television show, a Mr. Kosterman, who told us he knew nothing about a piece of videotape being stolen, or anything about a videotaped beating incident that took place fifteen years ago the way you described it.”
I sat forward on my chair.
“Did you look for a police report on such an incident?”
“We found no report of a transvestite being beaten by two police officers—not even so much as a complaint. Not on the date or in the location provided by Miss Zeigler.”
“What about the report of an incident involving unknown assailants, taken by two officers interviewing the victim at County Hospital?”
“That would be a very different situation, wouldn’t it? Not the incident Mr. Callahan allegedly described when he called Mr. Mittelman. I should say, ‘allegedly’ called.”
“Back to that videotape, Montego. Did any cassettes turn up among Tommy Callahan’s belongings?”
“Nothing like that.”
“So it must have been stolen by whoever abducted and murdered him.”
“If, in fact, such a videotape ever existed at all.”
Melissa Zeigler crossed her big, soft arms over her large breasts, looking both hurt and angry.
“Are you suggesting that Byron made the story up? Or that I made it up? That this phone conversation never took place?”
“This entire scenario about two police officers beating up a cross-dresser fifteen years ago apparently exists only in that conversation, Miss Zeigler.”
“And I’m telling you, that conversation took place!”
“But only Mr. Callahan or Mr. Mittelman could attest to that, and, unfortunately, both those gentlemen are deceased.”
“There must be records of some kind—”
“We found no phone records of a call being made from Mr. Callahan’s motel room to your fiancé, Miss Zeigler. Or from the pay phone at the motel. I’m sorry.”
She slumped, hanging her head. Montego’s eyes moved my way again, giving away nothing.
“You checked the records for Callahan’s cell phone?”
Montego’s eyes flickered momentarily. Then, just a tad smugly: