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  “White, black, Hispanic, Asian?”

  “White. But his skin was sun tanned.”

  “Do you know the difference between a rifle and a pistol?”

  “A pistol is what my dad carried when he was a policeman. A rifle is what grandpa uses when he goes hunting.”

  “That’s right. Did this man have a rifle or a pistol.”

  “A pistol.”

  I spent the next twenty minutes talking to Lindsey and her mother, but was unable to glean anything else about the man with the gun. As I drove back toward the city, I realized that although I’d just ruled out one suspect, I’d gained another.

  It was late afternoon by the time I reached Jane Granger’s apartment in Redondo Beach. She had to be making good money in the escort business because she lived in a luxury complex only a block from the beach. The property was lushly landscaped with banana plants and giant birds of paradise bordering the front and magenta bougainvillea spilling over the railings.

  I rang the bell, and a few seconds later someone checked me out through the peephole and said, “The sign in lobby says: No Solicitors.”

  “I held up my badge. “I’m an LAPD homicide detective.”

  She opened the door and said, “Is this about Pete?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “There was short story in the Times. A friend of mine saw it and called me. Ann Licata also called. Told me to cooperate with you. Come on in.”

  The living room was tidy and spare, with just a white canvas sofa, a gleaming glass and brass coffee table in front, and, on the opposite wall, a white brick fireplace with an empty mantel. In the corner was a sad-looking ficus tree with withered leaves. The room had the featureless, generic quality of a motel.

  Granger was a tall redhead with tired eyes and too much makeup. She was dressed as if she was about to leave for a date with a client: black Spandex miniskirt, high heels, and pink Angora V-neck sweater revealing the lacy edge of a black push-up bra that showed a lot of cleavage. In her twenties she had probably been beautiful. Now in her mid-thirties, she was still shapely, but the life she’d led was starting to take its toll.

  We sat on opposite ends of the sofa and I asked, “How’d you meet Pete?”

  She reached into her purse, lit a cigarette, crossed her legs, and leaned back. When she caught me checking out her legs, she smiled slyly. “I don’t want to say anything that might get me into trouble. You understand what I’m saying, detective?”

  I gave her the same spiel I gave Licata, assuring her I was not interested in prostitution, only homicide.

  “Pete was a good guy. I’ve been real torn up about this.”

  I studied her for a moment, watching her take languorous drags of her cigarette. She didn’t seem particularly upset.

  “So how’d you meet Pete?”

  “I’m just about to make a stupid mistake,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to be honest with a cop.” She took another long, slow drag of her cigarette and fanned away the smoke. “My girlfriend and I were having drinks one night at a restaurant on the water in San Pedro. Pete was at the bar, drinking a beer. We talked. I found out he was really hurting for money. Said he had to come up with some cash in a few days for his child support. Pete was a big boy. Seemed street smart, like he knew how to handle himself. I told him I needed a driver because my regular driver just moved to Houston, that he could make a few hundred bucks for a couple of hours work. He agreed.” She uncrossed her legs. “I didn’t find out until later that he was an ex-cop.”

  “What, exactly, did he do?”

  “He took me to the date, walked me to the door, checked out the place, made sure it seemed safe. We each had our cells. I’d text him with codes. We had a code for: the call was cancelled; I was in danger; I suspected the client was a cop; the date was over; call the office; send over another girl. All kinds of things.”

  “Wasn’t he worried about getting busted?”

  “Well, he wasn’t doing anything illegal. He just dropped me off, picked me up, and drove me around. He made it a point never to handle any money or negotiate with clients.”

  “How long did he drive for you?”

  “Started about a year ago. Stopped driving a few months ago.”

  “Why’d he stop?”

  “He never felt right about it, him being an ex-cop and all. So when he caught up on his child support, he bailed.”

  “Did he drive for anyone else?”

  “No. Just me and Adriana.” She flashed me a coy look. “I only do doubles.”

  “You’ll have to explain. This isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “That’s two girls and one client. We start with a show. Me and Adriana get it on. Then, when the client’s ready to roll, I retreat to the bathroom and Adriana finishes him off.” She pulled back her shoulders and smoothed her skirt. “I’m not a prostitute. I don’t have sex with clients.”

  I decided not to engage her in a philosophical discussion on what qualified as prostitution. “Was your relationship with Pete strictly business?”

  “It was at first. But we started dating just about the time he stopped driving for me.”

  “Can you think of anyone he might have encountered when he was driving who might have a reason to kill him?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, he had nothing at all to do with the clients.”

  “Did you ever see anyone threaten Pete?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Let me describe a scene to you. It’s a Saturday night. You and Pete are cooking dinner at his house. Pete’s daughter is there. A man comes to the door. He pulls out a gun. He threatens Pete. Does that refresh your memory?”

  She stubbed out her cigarette. “Yeah.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me when I asked you?”

  “Because this whole thing is turning out to be a big fucking mess, and I don’t want to get involved in a murder investigation.”

  “You are involved.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Listen, I understand your concerns. But if you keep things from me, I’ll keep digging and digging. I’ll keep coming back over here. I’ll end up questioning everyone you know. The easiest way for you to do this is to just tell me the truth. Because if you do, I’ll be out of here, I’ll move on to the next step of my investigation, and I won’t come back.”

  She slipped an unlit cigarette in her mouth. “His name is Ray Abazeda. He owns the escort service.”

  “I thought Ann Licata owned the escort service. The business and the phone number are registered in her name.”

  “She’s the front man, the straw man, whatever you call it,” Granger said. “Ray’s the real owner, the one who rakes in the cash. Ann’s just an employee. Ray’s smart. He doesn’t want vice cops or the IRS on his back, so he keeps a low profile and pays other people to take the risk. Fucking camel jockey.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “One of those places back in the Middle East. I can’t remember. But he’s been here for decades.”

  “Why’d he threaten Pete?”

  She sighed theatrically. “I was Ray’s girlfriend. At least one of them. But I got to know Pete pretty well when he was driving me. We started dating. He didn’t want me doing the escort thing anymore. So I left the business. I left Ray. He was jealous, but that wouldn’t have been enough for him to go after Pete. What really pissed him off was he thought that Pete was stealing one of his girls. He thought Pete talked me into leaving Elegant Escorts because he was trying to set up his own escort service—a competing service—and I’d be one of his girls. That really pissed Ray off. Even though I didn’t make it with clients, I was one of his best earners,” she said with a hint of pride. “I really put on a show. I’ve got a lot of repeat clients.”

  “Any truth in what Ray was accusing Pete of?”

  “No way. But Ray’s a crazy motherfucker. He wouldn’t listen. He was afraid that if s
omeone poached one of his girls and went out on his own, he’d be seen as weak. And this is a tough business. He was afraid that other competitors would start poaching his girls and stealing his clients. So he had to show that he was a hard guy. So that night he confronted Pete with the gun. Told him that if he didn’t stay away from his girls and his business, he’d fucking kill him.”

  “What’d Pete do?”

  “Pete just marched to the door, smacked the gun out of his hand, shoved him off the porch, and slapped the shit out of him. While Ray was sprawled on the lawn, Pete told him the next time he saw him at his house he’d take his gun and jam it up his ass.”

  “Do you think Ray killed Pete?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Do you know what kind of gun Ray was carrying?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about guns.”

  I pulled out my Beretta. “This is a semiautomatic. See, the back is smooth, there’s no hammer to cock. A revolver has a hammer and a round cylinder where the bullets are loaded. Was Ray carrying a semiautomatic or a revolver?”

  “I think it was a semiautomatic.”

  “Did Ray ever threaten him again?”

  “No. Ray’s a bully. When he saw that Pete wasn’t afraid of him or his gun, he slinked off.”

  “After Pete stopped driving for you, did he get another job?”

  “The only thing I knew he did was work on his uncle’s boat.”

  “So Pete talked you into leaving the business.”

  “Yeah. I went to cosmetology school years ago. He encouraged me to take it up again. I had some money saved. So I went back to the school.”

  “So you’re out of the escort business?”

  “I was.”

  “Was?”

  “After Pete was killed, I guess I’ve been really turned around. I lost some of my motivation. I’m kind of hard up for cash. So I’m back with a service.”

  “L.A. Elegant Escorts?”

  “That dickhead Ray wouldn’t take me back. He’s a grudge-holding scumbag. He threatened to have me blackballed in the business, spread the word that I was a snitch, just because I’d been dating an ex-cop. I hope you throw his ass in jail, and shut down his sleazy operation. I found work with a new service.” She checked her watch. “We better wrap this up pretty soon. I’ve got an early job today. I’m leaving in a half hour.”

  “You find a new driver?”

  “Life goes on.” She reached down, ran her fingers along the edge of her right high heel and then fiddled with a thin gold anklet. “If you ever need a little off-duty cash, I can always use a good driver.”

  Ignoring the offer, I said, “Where can I find Abazeda?”

  She grabbed a pen off the coffee table and scrawled on the back of a matchbook. “Here’s his address. But he’s not in town now. He’s got escort services in Phoenix and Tucson. He spends every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday in Arizona, taking care of business. What day is it today?”

  “Monday.”

  “You can catch him Wednesday night. He always flies in from Arizona on Wednesday night.”

  I pulled a card out of my wallet, scrawled down my cell phone number, and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  She dropped it on the coffee table.

  “You sure Abazeda will be back on Wednesday?” I asked.

  “He’s a creature of habit. He’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A cold, rosy dawn in southern Lebanon. I’m part of a three-man patrol hidden behind a boulder on a rocky promontory. Three Hezbollah guerrillas wearing flowing keffiyehs, aiming Kalachnikovs, pop up on a ridge behind us. A fourth guerrilla is about to pull the plug on a grenade. I swing around. I aim my Gallil at him, but the assault rifle jams. The two other soldiers shout to me: “Esh”! Shoot. But the gun is still jammed. “Esh! Esh! Esh!”

  Ring! Ring! Ring! I jumped out of bed and reached for my phone. “Hello,” I said groggily.

  “Are you naked?” someone asked in a falsetto voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “I got a sidewalk hostess for you to meet. She’s even got most of her teeth.”

  I recognized the voice. It was Sergeant Walker of the Harbor Division buy team.

  “We just rounded up a passel of ho’s, in addition to some crack-heads, junkies, and street-corner dealers. A couple might have something for you.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  I met Walker in the squad room and shook his hand. “Good work. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Pete was a local boy. Anything I can do to help, you just let me know.”

  I asked him if I could run a suspect before the interviews. He rolled a chair over to the computer, and I printed out a DMV picture of Abazeda, jotted down his address, and ran his record. He had one arrest for passing bad checks in San Diego and two others for pandering seven years ago. That must have been when he decided the smart way to go was to set up a phony front and run the operation from the shadows.

  I slipped Abazeda’s booking photo into a sheet, along with five other olive-complexioned suspects—a six-pack—and inserted it into my murder book. Maybe I’d get lucky; maybe someone would pick out Abazeda.

  I signed off and Walker escorted me through the station, past the dim, dank holding cells to a small, windowless interview room with two padded chairs flanking a metal table. “I’ll have the jailer bring out the ones who are willing to deal.”

  I shook his hand. “Good work. I appreciate it.”

  A few minutes later, the jailer returned with a skinny, black woman with blotchy skin and impossibly long red fingernails that were chipped at the edges. She wore a ragged sundress, was missing a bottom tooth, and her greasy hair, reddish at the ends, flared out at the sides like the wings on Mercury’s helmet. The gold border around a front tooth winked under the harsh lights.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Sound good to me.”

  I brought her a cup of coffee, a packet of creamer, and four sugar cubes—because I knew most junkies liked the sugar more than the coffee. I sat across from her and watched while she dropped all four cubes in the coffee and stirred.

  “Tough night?” I asked.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  She sipped her coffee and then leered at me “You cute. You and me could get along just fine.”

  I laughed and said, “What do you have for me?”

  “What you want, honey?”

  “Sergeant Walker told you about a murder late Thursday night. He said you might have heard something on the street.”

  “Before I tell you, I want a deal to get my kids back. One of my babies tested positive for cocaine. But other than that he was healthy. He weighed almost nine pounds.”

  “The weight’s irrelevant,” I snapped.

  “Anyway,” she said, ignoring me, “they took my other two kids away. I want ’em back, too.”

  “What did you hear about the murder?”

  “I heard whatever you want me to hear,” she said, smiling slyly. “I saw whatever you want me to see. You get me my kids back, and I’ll pick anyone you want out of any lineup. And I’ll go to court for you, too.”

  “This interview is now over,” I announced. I walked into the hallway and called for a jailer, who escorted the woman out of the room and returned with an Hispanic teenager wearing a stained wife-beater, black, crepe-soled winos, and black Dickies so oversized they looked like a parachute. His forearms were scrolled with gang tattoos.

  “Coffee?” I asked, standing up.

  “This is bullshit! I didn’t know about that rock in my pocket.”

  I motioned toward a chair. We both sat down.

  The teenager leaned across the table and said earnestly, “My girlfriend must have been wearing my pants earlier today.”

  “Those pants might be a little big for your girlfriend,” I said.

  “That pinche puta’s fat.”

  “So what do you have for
me.”

  “What do you have for me, ese?”

  “If you’ve got information that helps me solve the murder, I can talk to the DA before the sentencing. I can write a letter to the presiding judge. It all depends on your information.”

  “Check it out. My information’s good. You can take that to the bank and cash it, ’cause it won’t bounce.”

  “You hear about that murder on the hill Thursday night?”

  “The white cop?”

  “Ex-cop.”

  “Yeah. I got a line on who shot him. I heard it was a guy from the Wilmington Insanes. Guy named Spanky. I normally wouldn’t drop a dime on a vato, but Spanky’s a buster, a total fool.” He stared at me for a moment. “Hey, you Mexican? Or half-Mexican? You look a little Mexican.”

  I shook my head. “Who do you claim?”

  “I don’t claim.”

  I flashed him a skeptical look and pointed to the RBZ tattooed on his forearms.

  “Don’t mean shit,” he said without much conviction.

  “But you live in the Rancho Boyz’s ’hood,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And they’re warring with the Wilmington Insanes?”

  “So?”

  “So you might have a reason to want Spanky off the streets. Anyway, is Spanky usually strapped?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does he carry?”

  “A three fifty-seven.”

  I knew Relovich was shot with a forty, so I hustled the kid out of the interview room. The jailer led him down the hallway and returned with a skinny, jittery, black man in his forties wearing shorts, a Clippers T-shirt, and house slippers. He collapsed into a chair.

  “For the last few hours I been thinkin’ on it,” he said. “I need help. I’m a dope fiend. I want rehab, but every time I get picked up they give me county time. Now, I know I’m facing hard time in the joint. They got me red-handed.”

  “What were you holding.”

  The man extended both his arms. “I had me a motherfucking smorgasbord. I had rocks to get my head up and some tar to get down. Gonna make me a speedball. Even had some chronic in my back pocket. So you can see why I’m ready to deal.”

  “You hear about that murder Thursday night?”