Authors: Dianne Emley
She responded: On my way.
In the kitchen, she retrieved her Glock .40 service revolver from where she put it to bed at night in an empty box of Count Chocula cereal in a cabinet. Magazines were in a kitchen drawer behind tea towels. She loaded the gun and slipped it into her belt holster.
Her cell phone pinged again, signaling another text message. She groaned with irritation.
On her way to the garage, she childishly kicked the paper bag that had held the bloody shirt. Kissick had taken the shirt with him.
She got in the department-assigned navy blue Crown Victoria she’d parked in front of her house, and headed off to investigate yet another pointless murder.
FIVE
B
Y THE TIME VINING ARRIVED AT THE SCENE IN OLD PASADENA, IT
was nearly midnight.
The neighborhood straddling Colorado Boulevard from Pasadena Avenue to Marengo had been the city’s first commercial district. The city was established in 1886, but the buildings in Old Town mostly dated from the twenties and thirties. By the seventies, the area had gone to seed and the grand buildings were home to cheap bars, flophouses, and pawnshops. A community revitalization effort restored the historic buildings. Old Pasadena became a model for other cities with decaying urban cores. The formula had worked almost too well. High rents were forcing out the eclectic shops and quirky restaurants that had been the first to move in, taking much of the charm of the area with them as luxury retailers and trendy chain restaurants took their place.
Construction of condos and apartments wasn’t far behind, as well-heeled yuppies sought to live in the newly chic area. Historic buildings were gutted, only their distinctive shells left intact as new construction melded original design elements with cutting-edge architecture.
What weren’t melding well were the new, pampered residents enjoying their nouveau urban lifestyle, walking their fashionable rat-size dogs, and the established street gangs previously engaged in a decades-long turf battle.
The Hollenbeck Paper building was near the corner of Jacaranda and DeLacey. The incident commander had set a wide outside perimeter for the crime scene, cordoning off the entire block and stopping traffic on DeLacey in both directions. It was a weeknight. The shops were closed and the last diners were straggling from restaurants, but the police activity had still created a traffic jam and had lured gawking pedestrians. People gathered outside the yellow crime-scene tape were badgering the uniformed officers posted there for information about what had happened. A rumor that the shooting was gang-related sent a chill through the good citizens who had flocked to Old Pasadena for good, clean fun.
The public generally saw murder discordant with Pasadena’s genteel image of stately homes on tree-canopied streets, with croquet on the lawn and Tom Collins cocktails on the patio. Pasadena was home to the Rose Parade on New Year’s Day, to Caltech, to pricey, private grade schools, to old money, to Greene and Greene-designed Craftsman houses, to exclusive private clubs and golf courses. It hosted the occasional murder as well.
The twenty-three-square-mile city of about 150,000 residents shared its western border with Los Angeles. The Southland’s car culture guaranteed that there was no immunity from that megalopolis’s problems. The Pasadena Police Department’s 240 sworn officers worked in the shadow of two behemoth law-enforcement agencies: the LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department.
Elected officials worked to preserve the uniqueness of Pasadena, its small-town feel with big city features. The PPD borrowed the best tactics from the big guys, and scuttled the worst— the corruption, secrecy, and adversarial relationships with citizens. The PPD operated under the “Pasadena Way,” a philosophy of proactiveness, transparency, community involvement, and being fair but firm.
After many years of relative calm, incidents of gang-related violence had skyrocketed over the past twelve months, showing that the giant was merely sleeping. The dozen or so active gangs in Pasadena were either African-American or Hispanic. Other race-based gangs had never taken hold. Historically, gang violence had been black-on-black or brown-on-brown. This new incarnation was race versus race.
Evidence suggested that former rival gangs were joining forces along racial lines.
An increase in graffiti and new and unusual graffiti characteristics supported this. The PPD didn’t have a handle on why the gangs were shifting. Could be a turf war over narcotics trafficking ordered by “shot callers” in prison. Maybe the mayhem had been kicked off because a gangbanger thought a banger from another neighborhood had disrespected him. Or the increased violence might be a symptom of a deeper issue based in the changing demographics of Northwest Pasadena, which thirty years ago was predominantly African-American and now had a Latino majority.
This new street battle started with a flurry of attacks on older Latino immigrants. The men had been assaulted by groups of young African-Americans when walking alone late at night, going home from work. The police learned this was a gang initiation ritual called SOM, for “Sock on Mexicans.” The victims, fearing retribution against their families, had been reluctant to report the incidents to the police.
One night, an assault turned deadly. A young Latino immigrant tried to intervene in an attack against an older man and had been shot in the face and killed. Retribution followed. Two black gang members were shot dead in a liquor-store parking lot in the neighboring city of Altadena.
A month later, a group of Latinos standing on the front lawn at a house in Northwest Pasadena during a party were sprayed with bullets from a passing car, hitting six people from the same family. Four escaped with minor injuries. One boy was paralyzed; another died in his father’s arms.
Within a week, Titus Clifford, a long-retired member of the Crooked Lane Crips, was shot in the head while leaving a convenience store on East Colorado Boulevard after buying a gallon of milk and a wild cherry Slurpee. Witnesses saw a Latino man shooting from the passenger window of a black Toyota Camry. Darkly tinted windows prevented witnesses from seeing the driver. The shooter and driver were later arrested. The shooter said he and his homey had been driving around looking for a black gang member, any gang member, to kill in retribution for the shooting at the front-lawn party.
And so it went.
The PPD implemented Operation Safe Streets, focusing resources and maintaining a highly visible police presence with black-and-whites and uniforms on the street in Northwest Pasadena. The chief’s goal was simple: Keep the streets safe so that citizens can go to the store or to work without the threat of violence. The message was clear: This kind of violent activity will not be tolerated in Pasadena. The community rallied to support the police.
Arrests came swiftly. The shootings abated. Tense weeks passed without incident. The PPD did not release its iron grip on the streets and the gangs. The citizens of Northwest Pasadena did not exhale. They avoided the streets at night, kept their children inside, and kept their eyes averted when they saw a crime, lest they become targets.
The majority of Pasadena’s residents, especially in the affluent neighborhoods in the southwest and western sections, were not affected by the violence beyond uttering a disheartened “tsk-tsk” when reading about the latest gang-related shooting in the
Pasadena Star News.
They could keep their distance no longer. Gang violence had landed smack in Old Pasadena, at a construction site where condominiums that would sell for over a million dollars were being built.
Vining nudged the Crown Vic through the crowd, the light bar inside flashing. She drove past the officer who was directing traffic away from the area and parked near Kissick’s pickup truck, close to the ribbon of yellow barrier tape. On the other side was the black Chevy Tahoe where the command post was set up. Lieutenant Karen Garner was the incident commander and was working out of the back of the Tahoe, which opened to create a desk.
Vining grabbed her flashlight and a pair of latex gloves and pressed through the crowd. She eyeballed the bystanders as she made her way, wondering if T B. Mann would show up, guessing that she would be here. She walked with purpose, head high, movements sharp. If he was here, she wanted him to know that she was out in the open, not cowering at home.
A young man in the crowd shouted, “Detective Vining, show us your tits!”
She didn’t turn, but out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a couple of guys laughing and high-fiving. She recognized one as a particularly belligerent witness she’d interviewed in relation to the Titus Clifford shooting.
Two uniformed officers, young guys whom Vining knew only by sight, were maintaining the perimeter. They didn’t openly smile, but both gave in to a break in the façade, a tiny twitch at the corners of their mouths combined with a quick exchange of glances as Vining ducked beneath the tape.
Vining was not amused, nor was she surprised that her fellow officers were condoning her humiliation. She’d made enemies at the PPD. Many on the force thought she was aloof and ambitious. She had climbed the ladder, but only because she’d focused on doing a good job. When an opportunity presented itself, she took it. Promotions meant more money in her and Em’s pockets. Working as a detective gave her more autonomy. Sure, she was distant. She didn’t hang out with a clique or join the gang at happy hour to gossip. She was a single mom. When she wasn’t working, she had other responsibilities. Still, seeing her subordinates smirk at her didn’t give her a warm feeling. If they didn’t like her, would they be less likely to go through a door with her?
Out of nowhere, Kissick sprinted down the street, plunged under the yellow barrier tape, and dodged into the crowd. Still wearing the latex gloves he’d donned to examine the crime scene, he grabbed by the collar the guy who had insulted Vining.
“What the fuck, asshole?” the stellar citizen complained.
Kissick clinched the guy’s collar tighter and got close to his face. “You talk to your mother that way?”
“You can’t put your hands on me like that.”
Kissick released the guy with a shove, sending him colliding into his friends. “I just did.”
Vining slowed as she continued toward the command post. Beyond it, floodlights run by generators illuminated the street and interior of the hollowed-out building.
Behind her she heard Kissick reprimand the two officers who had smirked. “You find that funny, Brewer? What about you, Kling?”
Chastened, they both muttered, “No, Corporal.”
Kissick caught up with Vining.
Out of the corner of her mouth, she chided him. “My knight in shining armor.”
“You can’t let that stand, Nan.”
She felt the hair at the back of her neck bristle. She stopped and peered into his face. The yearning she’d felt a few hours ago for his strong, comforting presence had dissipated as quickly as the last spasms of their sexual encounter. She chafed at him trying to manage her affairs. She’d given up control once before when she’d married Wes, her high school sweetheart, and that had turned out miserably, except for having had Emily, of course.
“I appreciate your effort and the sentiment behind it, Jim, but I’ll pick my battles.”
He reared his head back as if he’d been slapped. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”
“Not to mention the rumors we’re confirming for everyone with you running out there like that. Your little show of force. Not exactly subtle.”
“One, my actions were not inappropriate. Two, I don’t care.”
The officer who was acting as the scribe, maintaining the log sheet of who entered and left the crime scene, moved toward them. He thought better of it and returned to where the incident commander was using an oil pen to update the status on “the board,” a glass-topped counter on the open rear of the Tahoe.
Vining and Kissick walked a few feet away. She lowered her voice further. “Well,
I
care. I told you, relationships between cops on the force always make the woman look like she’s sleeping around. Like she has bad character and judgment.” She responded to his eye-rolling. “That Victorian crap still exists, whether you believe it or not. What if we’re found out or we go public, do you think Sarge will let us continue to be partners?”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with our job performance—”
“Bull. One of us will be transferred out and I can tell you right now, it won’t be you. I’m the damaged one, remember?”
His jaw became rigid.
She went on. “Could work to your advantage. Then you’d feel free to take the sergeant’s test. I know you’ve set that aside because of me.”
“Nan, not everything’s gloom and doom. It wouldn’t hurt you to lighten up a little.”
“Lighten up?”
She gaped at him, unable to think of a rejoinder.
He placed his hand against the back of her arm and began walking. “Come on. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
She stepped out of his grasp. “Please don’t be so familiar with me in public.”
He gave her a sour look. “I’m just guiding you down the street, like I would my grandmother.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Would you put your hand on Sergeant Early like this? Think about it. I can feel eyes on us.”
He quickly looked around. Turning back, he said, “Nobody’s watching us. The ell-tee’s busy and Brewer and Kling are flirting with a couple of girls.”
“Okay, I’m paranoid. But still …”
He raised his hands and stepped away from her. “Whatever you want, Nan.”
She moved toward the command post. “Let me check in and see what’s on the board.”
She and the lieutenant greeted each other. Vining said, “I understand that Scrappy Espinoza’s ticket got punched.”
“Shot execution-style through the back of the head apparently while he was tagging a wall.” Lieutenant Garner was a trim and youthful-looking forty-five. She wore her sandy hair in a short bob favored by most of the female officers because they didn’t want the hassle of tightly pinning up their hair so that bad guys couldn’t grab ahold of it.