In Cold Blonde (3 page)

“Good,” Hanrahan said, turning back to Ryan.  “Because fucking your
partner always ends the same way.  You end up fucking yourself.” 

Syd was excited.  She just had a feeling.  Not about the
security camera.  7-Eleven’s have their cameras inside, trained on the
aisles and cash register, not on the parking lot.  There was probably no
way there was a security camera to help in their murder investigation. 
No, she was excited about Ryan’s lottery ticket.  She just had this
feeling.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked as Syd approached the counter.  He
was smiling, but he didn’t mean it.  Syd could just tell.  He was
Middle Eastern, of course, late thirties to early forties, and he just oozed
resentment.  He was probably a doctor or an engineer in his native country
but in America he’s stuck behind a sticky, slurpee-stained counter.

“Yes,” Syd said, handing him Ryan’s Lotto ticket, beaming him her
brightest smile.  “Could you check this for me, tell me if I’ve won
anything?”

“Certainly,” he said, perking up.  No man, no matter where he is
from, can resist a pretty girl.  He tried to put it in the Lotto reader,
but it was so wrinkled the machine rejected it.   

“Sorry,” Syd said.  “It was sort of forgotten about, stuffed in a glove
compartment.”

“No problem,” he said, smoothing it out.  “You’d be surprised how
many millions of dollars go unclaimed because people forgot about their
tickets.”  He carefully placed the ticket in the machine and, with a
mechanical whir, the machine sucked it in.   

Syd couldn’t see the screen from her angle so she watched the clerk’s
face.  He stared at the screen, expressionless, and then shook his
head.  “Sorry, miss, no luck today.”  He hit a button, the machine
spit the ticket out and the clerk threw it into the trashcan behind the
counter.

“Can I have my ticket?” Syd asked.

“No need, miss, it’s a loser.  I’ve thrown it away for you.”

Syd pulled her .9mm Glock and stuck it in his face.

“Shit,” he gasped, raising his hands.  “Take whatever you
want.  But, please, don’t shoot.”

“I’m a cop, you jackass, and all I want is my Lotto ticket.”

Looking even more worried than when Syd pulled the gun, the clerk leaned
down, plucked the ticket out of the trash and handed it to her.

“You lied to me,” Syd said.  “I could see it in your eyes. 
What came up on the screen?”

“Nothing, I swear.  It was like I said, the screen said, no winner.”

Syd walked behind the counter, stopped in front of the Lotto
machine.  “Let’s just double check, shall we?”  Syd smoothed the
edges and slipped it into the machine.  The screen flashed:  CALL 800
465-9586.

“What’s that mean?” Syd asked.

The clerk hesitated, then, “It means you’ve won a very large
jackpot.  The 800 number comes up whenever the ticket is worth more than
fifty thousand dollars.”

“And if I’d left after you threw my ‘losing’ ticket away, you were going
to take it out of the trash and claim it yourself?”

He just stared at her, sullenly silent.

“One final question,” Syd said, writing down the 800 number.  “Do
any of your security cameras point toward the parking lot across the street?”

The question was so out of left field, confusion filled his face. 
“What?”

“Look there,” Syd said pointing out the window, losing patience. 
“See all the police cars?  That’s a crime scene.  Do any of your
security cameras point toward that parking lot?”

“No, they only point inside.”

“At you, ripping off your customers?”

“It was an honest mistake, I swear.”

“Yeah, right,” Syd said.  She was tempted to arrest him for attempted
robbery or fraud, or whatever the hell you call trying to fuck someone out of
their Lotto winnings.  But deep down she understood the clerk’s survival
instinct.  He was a cliché stuck in a xenophobic wasteland, a Middle
Eastern man running a 7-Eleven.  He’s mocked in pop culture in everything
from
The Simpsons
to
South Park.
  And in return for his
humiliation he makes minimum wage.  So he plays a few angles and, if the
locals are dumb enough to fall for his act, more power to him.  So Syd
simply withered him with a look, holstered her weapon and left.  

Syd was used to guys trying to take advantage of her.  She had such
a sweet, girl-next- door look that most guys thought she was naïve, or worse,
nice.  At her core, Syd was neither. She outgrew naïve when her stepfather
raped her on her fourteenth birthday.  She outgrew nice when she killed
him two years later after countless molestations.  Well, that’s not
exactly true, it was one hundred and thirty-eight molestations.  Syd kept
count.

Ryan didn’t know about the rapes or the murder.  No one did. 
In fact, no one even knew Syd’s real background.  She lied to everyone.

Syd walked out of the 7-Eleven, pulled out her cell phone and called the Lotto
800 number.  A woman answered on the third ring.  “California Lottery.”

“Yes, hi, I hope you can help me.  I’ve got a Lotto ticket and when
I checked to see if it was a winner, a screen came up telling me to call this
number.”

“There is a serial number on the ticket, just below the date.  Do
you see it?”  Syd could hear a change in the woman’s voice, a thrum of
excitement.

“Yes.”

“Read the number to me please.”

“193-036806682-086035.” Syd heard her type the numbers into a keyboard.

“Oh my God, congratulations, you have a winner with a capital W!” 
The thrum had turned into a marching band.  “Where are you calling from?”

“Hollywood.”

“There’s a Lotto office in Van Nuys.  Bring the ticket, answer a couple
of questions and we can begin to process your check.  But you better
hurry.  The jackpot must be picked up within one hundred and eighty days
of the drawing date; you’ve only got two days left.  The ticket expires on
the twenty-sixth, that’s Thursday, the day after tomorrow.”

Thank God I found it when I did, thought Syd.  “Actually, I’m
calling for a friend, it’s his ticket,” she said.

“Well, you got a very lucky friend.”

“How lucky, how much has he won?”

The woman laughed.  “Oh, of course, sorry; the jackpot is forty
seven million dollars.”

Syd walked in Havoc with a big smile on her face.  Ryan was at a
corner table conducting an interview with the bartender. 

Syd loved Ryan’s looks.  He was tall, six-two to be exact, with jet-black
hair, straight nose and strong chin.  But what sent her heart a thumping
were his dimples, one in each cheek, and his boyish, self-deprecating
style.  Like he had no idea how cute he was. 

And Ryan loved his work.  He practically oozed enthusiasm.  His
hazel eyes looked almost incandescent as he asked questions, made notes.  He
was one of the few truly happy people she’d ever met. 

“Okay,” Ryan said joining Syd in the doorway of Havoc.  “The victim
met a beautiful blonde somewhere around one-thirty.  The bartender knew Colin
Wood, knew his face at least, not so much his name.  He’d come in every so
often looking for a hook-up.  He’d never seen the woman before.  He’d
remember, he said.”

“Did the blonde and the victim know each other?” Syd asked.

“The bartender wasn’t sure.  When she came in, everyone noticed
her.  Even the ladies; she was that hot.  The bartender saw her look
around for a beat then head in Mr. Wood’s direction.  But she was alone
and he was the only guy without a girl at that point.”

“So she might have been looking for any single guy or him specifically.”

“Exactly,” Ryan said.

“Did she have a drink, any chance for a fingerprint?”

Ryan shook his head.  “She didn’t order anything.  How about
you, any luck at the 7-Eleven?”

A mischievous smile tugged her lips.  “No security camera aimed in
this direction.  But as for luck…” Syd handed him the piece of
paper.  “Call this number.”

“Forty-seven million dollars!” Ryan said into the cell phone after
reciting the serial number on the Lotto ticket.

“That’s right, sir,” the Lotto operator told him.  “But you chose
cash value, so after taxes you’ll only net about thirty-four million.”

“Only…” Ryan laughed.  A few cops still working the crime scene began
to gather as word spread.   “So how do I get the money?”

“Just come down to the office, answer a few questions to verify it’s your
ticket, and we’ll issue a check.”

Warning bells went off in Ryan’s head.  “What do you mean verify
it’s mine?”

“Just answer a couple of questions.  Where you bought the ticket,
was it a quick pick or did you choose the numbers?  We often check the
store’s video tape to see you buying it, but with a ticket this old, I doubt
there would be a tape.”

“Probably not,” Ryan said, praying there wouldn’t be.

“And like I told your friend, you need to hurry.  This ticket
expires on Thursday.  It’s only good for one hundred and eighty days after
the drawing so you’ve only got two days left.  After close of business
Thursday, that’s 6:00 p.m., it’ll be worthless.”

“Thursday, got it,” Ryan said. 

In point of fact, Ryan hadn’t bought the ticket at all.  Someone
else did, a guy wearing grease-stained coveralls.  He was in front of Ryan
at the 7-Eleven; bought a six-pack of Bud light, a beef jerky and a pack of
Marlboros.  When he got his change, he had a buck left so he bought a Lotto
ticket.  He asked for a quick pick, cash value ticket, got it and
left. 

Ryan remembered because he was late for a court hearing but desperately
needed some Rolaids for an excruciating attack of heartburn.  The
counterman and the guy in the coveralls took forever, talking about the Lakers,
the Dodgers and even the fucking Angels while a volcano burbled in Ryan’s
stomach.   

Finally, after the guy left, Ryan bought the antacids and headed out the
door.  He saw the guy in overalls climb into a tow truck.  Ryan also
noticed a Lotto ticket fluttering on the ground.  He picked it up as the
guy started his tow truck.  Ryan thought about calling out to him, telling
him he dropped his Lotto ticket, but Ryan was so annoyed that the jerk had
taken so long at the counter that he just let him drive off. 

Ryan had no idea who he was, didn’t bother looking at the license plate,
so had no way of tracking him down.  And why would he bother?  What
were the odds a lottery ticket was actually worth anything?  A hundred
million to one odds, more?  Fuck it, Ryan thought as he climbed into his Mustang. 
He shoved the ticket in his glove box and forgot about it.

Now the goddamn thing was worth millions and Ryan wasn’t sure what he
should do.  File it under finders/keepers and claim the prize, or be
honest and try and track down the guy in overalls.  He needed time to
think.  “Look,” he said to the Lotto lady, “I’m a police officer in the
middle of a murder investigation.  I’m not sure when I’ll be able to stop
by.”

“Just get here by close of business Thursday or you can kiss your
millions goodbye.  Oh, and have you signed the ticket?”

“No.”

“Nobody does.  But do it, right now.  That way no one can steal
it from you.”

“Okay,” Ryan said, pulling out his pen, signing the back of the
ticket.  “Done.”

“Great.  Be sure to call and let us know when you’re coming in. 
I’m sure some of the press will want to cover it.  And be sure to keep the
ticket someplace safe.  Be a shame if you lost it.”

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said.  “I won’t lose it.  Thank you.” 
Ryan hung up as Lieutenant Hanrahan and a couple of uniforms entered the
bar.    

“Is it true?” Hanrahan asked.  “You just won the Lotto?”

“He sure did, Chief,” Syd said.  “Forty-seven million cash dollars!”

“Actually, just thirty-four million after taxes,” Ryan said. 

“Hot damn!” Hanrahan said, high fiving a less than enthusiastic
Ryan.  “You going to clear this case for me before you quit?”

“I’m not going to quit.”

“You’re rich, Ryan.  Why would you want to be a cop?”

“I love being a cop, Lieutenant.  I don’t give a shit about the
money.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true.”

Hanrahan reached out and grabbed the ticket.  “Then give me it me.”

Ryan grabbed it back.  “No fucking way!”

“You see,” Hanrahan said, laughing.  “Money changes everything, take
my word for it.  Everything.”  A buzz rippled through the assembled
cops agreeing with Hanrahan.

“Well, I don’t have the money yet,” Ryan said, carefully folding the Lotto
ticket in half and slipping it into his wallet.  “But I do have a murder
to solve.  Syd, you have the victim’s address?”

She held up the paper Ramirez gave her.  “He lives a couple of miles
away, on Crescent.” 

“Let’s go,” Ryan said, heading for the door.

“There’s a Bentley dealership on your way, Ryan,” Hanrahan called after
him.  “You should stop by.”

Ryan held up his hand, flipped Hanrahan the bird and walked out the door.