City of Fire (3 page)

Her cell phone rang. She looked at it on the table, recognized the caller on the LCD screen, and opened it. It was her partner, Hank Novak, calling at 6:00 a.m. They worked out of the Robbery-Homicide Division. Lena guessed that Novak’s call had nothing to do with an immaculate conception in Santa Monica, or getting laid by Jesus.

“Hope you’re rested,” Novak said.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she said. “What’s up?”

She grabbed her pen. She could tell from the gravelly tone of her partner’s usually smooth voice that he hadn’t been up for long. From the sound of the wind in the background, he was on a freeway somewhere rolling at high speed.

“Nine thirty-eight Oak Tree Lane,” he said. “West L.A. Page forty in my fifteen-year-old
Thomas Guide.
Take Sunset out to Brooktree Road and hang a left. Looks like it’s a block past the entrance to Will Rogers State Park. Oak Tree’s off Brooktree about a quarter mile down on the right.”

“Sounds like a lot of trees,” she said.

“I thought so, too. The house you’re looking for should be the third one on the left. By the time you get there, it’ll probably be easy enough to spot.”

She was writing everything down on the masthead of
The Times
, becoming concerned because Novak was spitting his words out and seemed all tanked up. He’d never acted this way before, but then, they were still getting used to each other.

Lena had worked out of the Hollywood Division until two months ago, when she was promoted to the elite Homicide Special Section under a new mentoring program established by the LAPD. She was the youngest detective at the table, one of only two women in RHD, and had been fast-tracked up the line because there was yet another chief in town and he wanted to change the face of the department
one more time. Although she hadn’t been chosen for her sex, she knew that to some degree her gender would always be in play as long as she remained a cop. But it was her age that had given her the boost this time, and her promotion had been one of many across the board. The average age of the department had slipped to just twenty-five. Everyone knew that cops were leaving the city in droves, headed out of the combat zone for greener pastures, and that those who stayed had their eyes on retiring with a full pension before they left town. The new chief understood that the institutional memory of the department was in serious jeopardy. And he was right. Although Lena had earned praise from her commanding officer and quickly risen as an investigator in Hollywood, her experience was limited to two years working narcotics and burglary, six months ferreting out white-collar deadbeats in bunco forgery, and only another two and a half years at the homicide table. Investigating a murder meant dealing with a lot more pressure. It still felt new. And Novak, due to retire sometime in the next couple of years, had been given the task of trying to bring her along as quickly as he could.

“What’s the name on the mailbox?” she asked.

“Brant,” he said. “Nikki Brant.”

Novak fell silent, and she couldn’t get a read on him. She heard the road noise vanishing in the background and guessed that he was closing the window.

“We’re not alone on this one,” he said after a moment. “Sanchez and Rhodes got the call to assist.”

Novak was worried. She could hear it in his voice. Tito Sanchez and Stan Rhodes were another rookie-veteran team, put together a month before Lena had partnered up with Novak. Because of the heavy workload, RHD teams were budgeted out. For their lieutenant to spend two teams on one case didn’t make any sense, unless—

“How many bodies are there?” she asked.

“Barrera only mentioned one.”

“Was she famous?”

“Not yet, but maybe they’ll make the movie.”

“Then why two teams?”

“It was his idea, not mine,” Novak said. “Maybe it’s got something to do with the high-rent neighborhood.”

She heard the phone drop on the seat, and Novak fumbling with it as he swore. She stepped into her boots, zipping them over her ankles and pulling her jeans down. Then she stood up and started pacing.

“I’m back,” he said. “I’m juggling things.”

“It’s not the neighborhood, is it, Hank. That’s not why we’re doubling up.”

He cleared his throat. “That’s probably only part of it. We’ll see what’s up when we get there.”

Lena’s introduction to RHD had been the Teresa Lopez murder case. If she could handle what happened to Teresa Lopez, then she could deal with this. An image flashed before her eyes. A warning beacon. Her brother, David, slumped across the front seat of his car on a side street off Hollywood Boulevard. It had been so dark that night, so unexpected, that she’d thought and hoped he was only sleeping as she approached the car….

Lena stepped around the pool, gazing at the house at the bottom of the steep hill. Behind the house was another pool, and she could see a middle-aged man with a hairy back and a beer gut taking an early-morning swim. In spite of his physique he seemed to be gliding, his strokes short but easy. Lena gritted her teeth, focusing on the man until the image of her brother finally dissipated.

“You’re the primary on this one,” she heard Novak saying.

She walked back to the table and sat down. “What are you talking about?”

“We’ve been partners for two months, and I think you’re ready. You’ve got what it takes, Lena. It’s time to start alternating cases. This one’s yours. You got the address?”

She felt her stomach begin to churn. She was awake now.

“Got it,” she said.

He repeated it for her anyway, told her to hurry, then hung up.

Lena closed her phone, eyeing the address she’d jotted down on the newspaper and committing it to memory. As she finished her coffee in quick gulps, she looked past the lip of the pool hanging over the city and the round man swimming long laps a hundred feet below. The sun had cleared the horizon, losing its color and taking on the form of a white-hot disk. She turned, glancing at the Westside long enough to see that it was still buried in the gloom.

She was the lead on this one.

She bolted up the steps, crossing the porch into the house and dumping the newspaper on the counter between the kitchen and living room. Hurrying around the counter to the stove, she traded her empty ceramic mug for a battered stainless-steel travel model, already filled with coffee for what she had anticipated would be an uneventful commute downtown.

She was the lead, which meant that she was responsible for solving the murder of someone named Nikki Brant. Lena would be held accountable for the outcome.

Was it dread following her through the house? Or was it that sinking feeling in her gut that maybe she didn’t have the stuff to work a murder case at this level or any level? Homicide Specials were the cream of the crop.

She noticed her hand trembling slightly but ignored it, crossing the living room into her bedroom and the table by the window. A crime scene was just a crime scene, she told herself. Criminal investigations were a team sport. Besides, Novak was a D-3, the highest rank a detective could achieve in the department. Her name might be listed beside the victim’s in the murder book, but Novak would be in charge.

She clipped her badge on her left hip beside her cell phone and handcuffs. Then she grabbed her holster and gun, a Smith & Wesson, .45-caliber semiautomatic, clamping it to her belt on the right. Getting into her blazer, she snatched her briefcase off the chair and headed for the door.

Her Honda Prelude fired up on the first try. As she sped out the drive and raced down the twisting hill, she lowered the windows and let the breeze knock against her face. After
a few moments, she noticed the radio was switched to KROQ. They were playing a song by Nirvana.

“Come As You Are.”

She turned the volume up, glancing at the time: 6:16 a.m. No question about it—that fifteen minutes of paradise only lasted for fifteen minutes. You could set your watch by it. But now it was all used up.

LENA steered into the last curve on Gower, ripping down the steep incline fast and easy like a 737 with its wheels ready to catch some ground. The road finally straightened out as she hit the Pink Castle, a landmark home that no one wanted to live in until it was converted into condos about fifteen years ago. The building had been painted a hot pink and given the nickname by locals for as long as Lena could remember.

She caught the stop sign but didn’t go for the brakes. Instead, she glanced at the Monastery of the Angels on the right, then jammed her foot to the floor all the way down to the red light.

Franklin still looked clear, but so did the Hollywood Freeway.

As she waited for the light to change, she took a moment to consider her route. Oak Tree Lane couldn’t be more than fifteen miles from here. But during rush hour, fifteen miles could easily translate into an hour-and-a-half drive. In Los Angeles, rush hour began at 6:30 a.m. and usually lasted until 8:30 at night. Even if she didn’t get bogged down in traffic, Sunset coiled through the hills like a warped spring and was littered with signal lights. It would take her an hour just to reach the Westside.

She checked the clock on the dash and looked back at the 101. If she jumped on the freeway, the first five or six miles would be spent moving in the wrong direction toward downtown. But if she lucked out, if she reached the city and th e
road remained relatively clear, she could roll out the Santa Monica Freeway and cut her drive time in half.

She mulled it over, struck by a sudden feeling of déjà vu. She had been here before doing this, but when? As she sifted through her memory, the weighty feeling inched away and finally vanished, and she wondered if it wasn’t just a case of the jitters.

The light turned green. Lena crossed Franklin and looped around the freeway, deciding to take a chance. When she reached the entrance ramp, she clicked through the gears and brought the car up to speed in heavy jerks. Easing into traffic, she found the left lane at a smooth 85 mph and settled in behind the wheel.

At least she wasn’t driving a take-home car and could make time. While RHD cars remained unmarked, if you chipped through the paint, you would find a retired black-and-white cruiser hiding underneath. Lena had logged enough miles in uniform to know that even in their prime the cars rolled and pitched around corners. By the time they earned their make over, the cars bobbed down the road like toy boats. Hers had been in the shop for the past three days, and it was a relief to be in her own car again, despite its age.

She grabbed the shift, gearing down as she exited onto the 110.

She was heading south, skirting the city raked in bright sunlight. After a mile, she finally reached the road west and pointed her car toward the dark clouds. The glare lifted away from the windshield and she raised the visor. As she slid into the left lane, she realized that the risk had paid off. The road appeared clear all the way to the ocean. But as she settled into her seat and reached for her coffee, that feeling of déjà vu came back. Heavier this time. Close enough to touch.

Novak said that Oak Tree Lane was off Brooktree. Why did it seem so familiar?

It dawned on her that she already knew the back end of the neighborhood. It had been four years ago. Lena was working narcotics at the time, and a two-strike loser named Rafi Miller had a pound of grade-shit junk to sell. Rafi was
holding a half-price sale because his stash was so dirty that end users were dying before they hit liftoff. Word of mouth wasn’t doing much for the dealer’s reputation. By the time Lena and her partner tracked down Rafi as the source and made an offer to buy him out, he was more than anxious to play
let’s do da deal.

Lena took another sip of coffee as she thought about the bust.

She could remember Rafi picking a remote location and insisting that Lena come alone. Rustic Canyon Park was set in a quiet neighborhood by the ocean and didn’t amount to much more than a public swimming pool and a couple of tennis courts. She could still see Rafi’s face as he climbed out of his yellow Mercedes and winked at her in the darkness. Still remember the strong smell of vinegar permeating the smack as he popped open the trunk, handed her a sample, and gave his personal guarantee that the shit was prime-time.

The south end of Brooktree Road was half a block down from the park. It had been sealed that night as a possible escape route just in case Rafi broke loose and made a run for the bank.

Lena knew the neighborhood after all.

She looked out the window at the ocean as she cruised off the 10 and up Pacific Coast Highway. The sun was gone, lost in a thick, blurry fog spitting against the windshield. Switching her wipers on, she made a right on West Channel and began working her way through the narrow streets into the hills. Within a few minutes, she spotted Rustic Canyon Park in the gloom and made a left onto Brooktree. As she glided down the hill, she caught the flares burning in the street and saw a cop standing before a small wooden bridge. She lowered her window, glancing at the stream as she reached for her badge and flashed it. When he waved her through, she idled over the bridge and down the road as if passing through a gate into the sleepy little neighborhood in the woods.