Valley of Vice Page 2

  “Accident or arson?”

  “Nothing yet, but they want a whole team there and we get to be the detectives.”

  “Oh, goody.” Reyes checked the clock on the wall as he hustled through the crowd to Coombs. 20:20. Hardly worth coming. Siley was standing and speaking with someone else. Reyes leaned on the table and looked at Coombs. “Me tengo que ir,” he said. “That means, ‘I have to go.’”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a possible arson, with at least one fatality.”

  “Hmm. I hope this isn’t an excuse to get out of helping me with Spanish.”

  “I’ll call you if it turns out to be nothing.” Reyes hurried toward the door. He waved at Willy T. “Save me some wings.”

  2

  “Damn,” Wallace said. “Look at all the gawkers.” She parked the car down the street, out of the way of the fire engines, and grabbed the radio. “This is Adam Six Nineteen. We’re Code Six at the Green Cheese fire.”

  “Roger, Adam Six Nineteen.”

  “I guess we should be grateful the fire wasn’t at one of the big studios. We’d be there for a month trying to get through the crowd.” They got out of the car and made their way toward the scene. The air was heavy with smoke and filled with the clanking and whirring noises from the fire trucks and the steady hiss of water being sprayed on the last areas of the blaze. Wallace paused and checked what remained of the structure. Steel beams jutted like broken ribs through the charred carcass. The roof had apparently collapsed into the building, blowing out portions of the side walls. There was a peculiar aluminum-looking crane-like arm poking up higher than everything else. Not part of the building. Something they had brought in? At some point, maybe when the windows shattered or the roof came down, some of the building’s contents were scattered into the street. Most of it was typical stuff—papers, broken furniture and such, but this fire had something a little different in the debris field. Costumes. There were hats, dresses, wigs, and God knows what else. It made it appear as though dozens of people had simply been vaporized.

  “Have it figured out yet?” Reyes asked.

  “I’m going to go with a fire,” Phil replied.

  “Good one. How do you do it?”

  “Years of practice.”

  The detectives eased their way through the people who had gathered to watch the fire. When they reached the barricades, Wallace greeted the uniform on crowd control. “Hi, Forston.”

  “Hi. So you guys get this one, huh? Good luck. Barclay-Jones is over with the others.”

  “The assistant DA?” Reyes asked. “Why would the DA’s office send someone to a fire, even if it is arson?”

  “Election time,” Forston said. “Fires bring out the media. Free coverage.”

  Reyes looked around. “There’s no TV here.”

  “Come and gone. They stayed long enough to get the good stuff, then beat it back to make the evening news.”

  “Who are the first responders?” Wallace asked.

  “These guys.” Forston gestured toward the onlookers. “Like the proverbial moths to a flame, huh? Geez, does a fire ever draw them out of the woodwork.” He turned and scanned the scene. “You want Hastings and Marcell. There’s Hastings.” He pointed to a small group gathered near a fire truck. “I think you guys are the last two members of the team to arrive.”

  “We like to be fashionably late,” Wallace said. She and Reyes took a few steps toward the distant fire truck and stopped. “Hold it a minute.” Wallace stared at the smoldering rubble that had been, a few hours earlier, the home of Green Cheese Entertainment. “There’s not much left of the place but smoke.” She pointed at a set of spotlights at the back of the scene. “CSI must be here.”

  They stepped over puddles, hoses, chunks of rubble, and a wig or two as they made their way past the firefighters, who continued to pour water on to a couple of hotspots. Reyes tapped one firefighter on the back. “Can’t get it out?”

  “Little pockets of fire under the collapsed walls and debris piles. Hard to get water in there,” the firefighter said. “We’re going to go in and move that shit around. It won’t be long and we’ll be done. Then you can start.”

  “Not exactly what I had planned for tonight.”

  “Tell me about it. I was cooking up my mother’s chili for the firehouse.”

  “You should have brought it along and cooked it on the fire.”

  “Wouldn’t have worked. It’s a five-alarm chili so it’s even hotter than this.”

  Reyes chuckled. “I’ll have to try it sometime.”

  Wallace eyed the investigation team as she approached. Marcell was okay. Hastings seemed a bit weird at times. He named his shotgun Tulip, but his performance was always top notch. Assistant DA Barclay-Jones. Straitlaced professional. Sometimes rode cops a bit hard. Ed Withingham from crime scene investigation. Nerdy kind of guy, okay to work with. A bit slow but that was because he was methodical and careful. Lewis Drake the photographer. All in all, not a bad group.

  “Hi,” Wallace said to the Assistant DA. “You all know my partner, Sal Reyes?”

  “I don’t think I do,” Barclay-Jones said. She shook hands with Reyes, who smiled and nodded. The others nodded or muttered greetings.

  Wallace looked around. “Where’s the ME?”

  “Doc Hackett’s at the back of the structure. By our spotlights.” Withingham gestured toward the glare. “We didn’t find the body until a short while ago, so he hasn’t had a lot of time to look things over. Withingham looked down at the small burn on the side of his left shoe. “Look at that. A brand-new pair, ruined.”

  “Too bad,” Wallace said. “I guess that’s part of the cost of doing business. So, who found the body?”

  “We did. My team,” Withingham said. “The entire back corner of the building collapsed. We were raking the debris. When we pulled down a stack about a yard high, we discovered a metal desk and a metal cabinet that had fallen over. There was a body partially concealed under all of that.”

  “Were you able to determine anything from your initial exam?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Withingham adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses and stared at his notepad. “The body was pretty badly charred. Before we dug around too much we figured we should get Doctor Hackett over here. While we were waiting on him, I was able to determine that victim was a male. Under six foot tall. My assistants are back there giving Doctor Hackett a hand.”

  “I guess we should head back there then and see what the Doc has found,” Wallace said. “Hastings. Got anything to add?”

  “Not much,” Hastings said. “When we got here the building was fully engaged. We checked to see if entering the building was possible or even a good idea. There was no way. I mean, smoke was belching from every window and we could hear that groaning sound that you hear right before the whole mess comes down. We decided the best thing—hell, the only thing—we could do was get the people in the street back and out of the way. That’s what we did. Then, let’s see, the fire department arrived. A short while later, the roof caved in. I think that’s about, right, Marcell?”

  “We did check with the gathered masses,” Marcell said. “Nothing much. They said there’s been a lot of construction work going on. An old hotel on the lot next to Green Cheese was torn down for a new building, but mostly there’s been a lot of renovation. It’s driving some of the homeless from their cubby holes in some of these buildings. We were thinking maybe one of the displaced homeless guys accidentally set it on fire or, a second guess, one of the construction workers left a torch on.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Wallace said. The last thing she needed for her quarterly stats was another unsolved homicide. “Has the owner of the building been contacted?”

  “Yup,” Hastings said. “His name is Johnny Jin Moon and he said he was on his way.”

  “Anything else?” Wallace looked back toward the bright lights and spotted the shadowy figure of D
r. Hackett. She had worked for him a long time ago. He was thorough, but wasted no time. Get in, do your job, get the hell out of the way. That’s what he used to tell her. It was a good policy.

  “Not really,” Marcell said. “The rest of the gawkers offered nothing. They saw nothing. They didn’t know if anyone was inside. Typical stuff.”

  “Thanks. Mr. Withingham,” Wallace said. “What are your thoughts about the fire’s origin?”

  “If you ask me to make a guess, I suspect the fire started across the way from the room where we found the body. I can’t prove it yet. That’s simply experience talking. There was flammable stuff all over the place. We won’t know until we can rake the coals back.”

  “Thanks, everybody. We’re going to head back and see Doctor Hackett.” Wallace and Reyes started walking along the street. A few of the fire crews were beginning to clean up, pack their equipment, and take a breather. One hose crew continued to pour water on a steaming pile of wreckage. Most of the onlookers were gone, some likely hurrying to a computer to upload their pictures to CNN for an iReport.

  “You know, Sal, I think Marcell was right.” Her eyes continued to take in the scene as they walked. “They’re going to find that the guy was homeless and broke into the building for a nap and accidentally set the fire. There’s usually a boatload of accelerants at construction sites. The bum flips his cigarette into some plastic drop cloth. It catches fire and wham, bam, it ignites the turpentine and bye-bye building, bye-bye bum.”

  As they rounded the corner Reyes pointed toward the ruins, where a jutting piece of metal was poking up like the arm of a fallen robot. “What in the hell do you think that crane-like thing is? It’s got to be twenty feet long…”

  “I don’t know. It is a movie studio. Maybe it’s a prop.” She stopped in front of a chain-link fence. Small signs wired to the fence read MAC Construction. Keep Out.

  “We can cut through here,” Reyes said. “Ready to climb?”

  “Climb? Isn’t there an easier way? How the hell did old Doctor Hackett get back there with all those lights? They didn’t crawl over this damn fence, did they?”

  Reyes was already over. “Come on. It’s shorter this way.”

  “Shorter than what?” Wallace asked as she climbed the shaky chain-link fence. “Sal. Shorter than what?” She jumped down and landed on a rock, slightly twisting her right ankle and stumbled forward. Not again. It was getting to be her Achilles’ heel. “Damn it. I’m too old to be hopping over fences. This better be necessary.”

  “Well, it does look like there might be a back way in,” Reyes said. “Probably for deliveries, but we’d have to go all the way around the block. This is shorter and faster.”

  Wallace muttered as they crossed the lot. Water from fighting the fire had spilled into the site and now it was not only full of holes and clods, but it was also muddy. She stumbled a few times but avoided falling.

  The pair reached Doctor Hackett and Withingham’s crew. “Hi, Doc. So, what have you been able to find out?” Reyes asked. “Was he a resident of the sidewalk?”

  “Could be, but I doubt it,” Doctor Hackett replied. He stood with his gloved hands away from his chest to keep the ashes from touching his shirt. “I say that because the deceased wore jewelry and a watch. No wallet though. He also has a bullet wound in his head.”

  “Shit,” Reyes said. “There goes my evening.”

  Wallace looked at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Reyes said. “It’s nothing.”

  “Can we see the victim?” Wallace stepped carefully as she moved closer. All she needed to do now was to twist her already sore ankle to put a capper on the evening.

  Dr. Hackett squatted, grabbed the corner of a sheet, and pulled it back to uncover a badly charred body that lay facedown, arms by its side. The shirt had been burned off his back, as had the top part of his jeans. The skin where the rubble pile or the cabinet fell on him was less damaged but it was still bad. The hair and ears were gone. He had the remnants of a watch strapped on to his wrist bone and a gold ring on his index finger.

  “He died somewhere else,” said Dr. Hackett. “There was no blood under his body. The bullet cracked his skull right there. He used his pen as a pointer, indicating a bulge in the top left back of the head of the dead man, suggesting that was where the bullet almost exited his skull. “The entry wound is here,” he said, pointing to the man’s right temple. Because of the angle, the man was probably leaning slightly away from whoever shot him. The bullet travelled up, not across.”

  “Did you determine if the fire was intentionally set?”

  Withingham’s assistants stepped closer. Both young. Both blond. Both enthusiastic. A few more years at this job would drain that from their souls, Wallace thought.

  Hackett signaled the female aide. “Molly, what did you find so far?”

  “There were cans that we suspect held gasoline. Several were found near paint cans. It’s unlikely that a construction site would allow gas to be put into cans. It’s illegal.” Molly looked at her partner. “There’s a possibility it was arson.”

  A shrug of Jason’s shoulders brought her quick disclaimer. “Mr. Withingham has the final word, of course.”

  “While we’re waiting for Withingham and the others to make their way back here,” Dr. Hackett interjected, “let me touch on a few more things.”

  “Go ahead,” said Wallace. She shifted her weight to her left ankle.

  “Since beauty and tattoos are both only skin deep, you can scratch finding anything that might identify him. The fire did a good job but there may still be trace evidence around the breastbone area—if there was anything there before, of course. Determining the time of death won’t be easy either. The only thing we have is that someone reported the fire about two hours ago. Hmm. Getting closer to three hours now. Since the victim was shot elsewhere and then his body burned here, we’re going to struggle with this one a bit.”

  Wallace exhaled. “Keep us in the loop, Doc.”

  “We’ll run dentals, of course, and we’ll get the bullet to ballistics,” Hackett said. “As soon as we get it out of his brain.”

  Hastings and Barclay-Jones walked up the delivery alley. “What did you find, Doctor?” Barclay-Jones asked.

  “Murder and probable arson,” Hackett replied. “We’re waiting for Mr. Withingham to confirm a few things.”

  “Hastings,” said Wallace, “we need you to get your guys on the street. Check with their informants, especially the gangs. This may be nothing but an eye for an eye.”

  “Will do, but don’t count on the gang thing,” Hastings said. “They normally don’t bother to move bodies. They show up shooting and leave the same way. Whatever hits the ground usually stays on the ground.”

  “Detective Wallace,” Barclay-Jones said, “I know you will be relentless in tracking down the perps who did this. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need help.”

  “Thanks,” Wallace said.

  “Absolutely,” Barclay-Jones said. “We are behind you all the way.” She turned and wandered away.

  “What’s with her?” Wallace said. “She running for office or something?”

  “Take a look.” Reyes jerked his thumb to the area behind them.

  Wallace turned to see a TV cameraman from one of the statewide stations filming the scene. She didn’t recognize the female reporter with the mic. “I thought they had all gone home.”

  “They must have got wind of a body, so to speak,” Reyes said.

  “I’m going back to the front of the building—the long way.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  On the slow walk alone, Wallace analyzed the crime. Since the victim died elsewhere, why would someone risk carrying him to the site and then torching the place? Insurance? If the dead man killed himself, his insurance might not pay off. If, on the other hand, he died in a fire, that would be accidental death. If the policy was big enough, tha
t might be worth the risk of being caught carrying a body around LA.

  When she reached the front, Reyes was poking through some debris with a pole. He looked up and smiled. “I told you cutting through the construction site was shorter.”

  “At least I didn’t sprain an ankle on this route—” Her comment was cut short by the roar of an engine and brakes screeching.

  A silver Lexus pulled up to the barricades. A young, angry Asian man leaped from the car. “Shibal!” he screamed as he kicked the air. “Keseki!” His hands clenched into fists as he shook them over his head and glared at the sky. The man stormed over to confront Marcell.

  “Hey. Calm down,” he said.

  “Sheba-nom!”

  “Seriously. You need to calm down.”

  “Wow,” Reyes said. “Is there a full moon out tonight? What’s with him?”

  “I’ll take a wild guess that the owner of this hot pile of rocks has arrived.”

  Hastings and the man talked. While the volume went down, the gestures went up. The man waved his arms and hands as his body shook. After a few moments, Hastings turned and pointed toward Wallace and Reyes.

  “It doesn’t sound like he speaks English and it sure as hell isn’t Spanish, either.”

  The man stomped over to Wallace and Reyes. Reyes greeted him. “Me Detective Reyes. That Detective Wallace.” The young man stared in complete confusion. “You speak English?”

  “Fuckin’ A, man, who in the hell are you, Charlie Chan? Of course I speak English. My name is Jimmy Jin Moon and I own that goddamn building.” He stared into Reyes’s eyes. “And so help me God, if you say ‘Me so solly.’ I’ll pound rice so far up your ass, sake will come out your nose.”

  3

  Willy T. slid a cold beer to Kahn. “Here you go, my friend. How’d that pool go?”

  “Not so hot.” Kahn laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. A hand grabbed his shoulder. Kahn jumped and turned. A well-tanned policeman—Captain, judging by his stripes—about 6ʹ2ʺ, sandy blond hair, blue eyes.