In My Dark Dreams (24 page)

“Hello,” he replies, trying not to sound nervous. But why should he be? “What do you want?” he asks this man, who is crowding his space.

Cordova thinks: the description, although not specific, fits. Dark-colored Japanese truck. Work clothes. And he’s wearing a Dodgers hat. Lots of coincidences.

He flashes his badge. “Police, sir. We’re investigating an incident nearby. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”

Salazar shakes his head. “I haven’t seen anything.”

“May I see your driver’s license, sir?” Cordova holds his hand out, palm up.

Not again. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, sir. I just need to check.”

Salazar sighs. You don’t resist these people, they’ll come down harder on you if you do. “All right.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his billfold, takes the license out, and hands it over. “It’s up to date,” he points out.

“Yes, sir. I can see that.” Cordova glances at the address. East L.A. “Just a minute.”

He walks away ten yards to where two of his men, the ones who spotted Salazar’s truck, are holding down the fort, leaning against the side of their unmarked Chrysler 300 sedan, the model with the big V-8 engine. Cordova hands the senior detective the license. “Run this.”

While the detective gets on his radio, Cordova walks back to the truck. “Won’t take long,” he says affably. Two fellows shooting the breeze. “Whatcha doing ’round here this early in the morning?” The threat is not in his tone of voice, rather in his authority.

“Waiting.”

“What for?”

Salazar cocks a thumb toward the back of his truck, which is loaded with his gardening equipment. “To start work. Can’t cut the lawns until seven o’clock. City rule.”

“Gotcha.” Cordova looks behind him. His man is still checking on the driver’s license. “So how come you’re here so early?”

“Beat the traffic. By six-thirty, the 10 freeway don’t move. I would be late.”

Cordova scrutinizes the man. He doesn’t seem nervous. And his explanation for being here is plausible. He’s sat fuming many a time on the freeways himself.

“Boss.” The detective who is checking Salazar’s ID calls over.

“Be right back,” Cordova tells Salazar.

He joins the other detectives, who look disturbed. “What do you have?” he asks.

“This man was in trial last month. L.A. County Superior Court. Grand theft.”

What the fuck?
“What’s he doing out?”

“He was acquitted.” The detective hands the license back to Cordova, who looks at it more closely.

“Humph.” Acquitted or not, this casts a new light on things. “Stay put,” he instructs his troops, “but stay sharp. If he makes any sudden move …” He doesn’t have to finish the thought; they know.

He walks back to the truck, Salazar’s driver’s license in hand, which he is not ready to give back yet. “I need to ask you some questions, sir,” he says through the open window. “Step out of your truck, please.”

Salazar has a pained expression on his face. “Why?”

The fun and games are over. He will still be courteous, because he always is, but he’ll be firm now. And careful. He has known officers who were careless with suspects and then were shot to death. “Step out, sir.”

Salazar sighs. Slowly, he folds his newspaper and lays it on the passenger’s seat. He gets out and faces Cordova. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I’m going to search your person. Turn around, put your hands on the roof of your vehicle, and spread your legs. Empty your pockets, please.”

Salazar does as he is told. Cordova pats him down. He’s clean.

“You can put your possessions back in your pockets, sir. Just step over there.” He points to the sidewalk. “We need to search your truck.”

There is nothing illegal in his truck this time, only his gardening equipment. But still, Salazar is offended and angry. No wonder there is so much rage and hatred toward the police. And this man is the same as him, Chicano. No pride, he thinks. He has sold his soul.

Cordova motions to the other detectives, who join him. “Search the back. I’ll do the front.” He pulls on a pair of latex gloves. His men do the same.

“Be careful,” Salazar cries out, as the detectives begin taking out his lawnmower, weed whacker, other tools of his trade, and place them on the ground. “That is my livelihood,” he says indignantly.

Methodically, the detectives unload the bed of the pickup truck. They climb up onto it, get on their hands and knees, and look for whatever they can find. “Got some rope,” they call to Cordova, who is checking behind the seats.

Cordova looks at the specimen they show him, then shakes his head no. His men want to solve this so badly they’re not thinking clearly. “Too thick, too coarse,” he explains. That rope is what a tree trimmer would use to secure a branch he was cutting off. If it had been the weapon used to strangle the woman, it would have torn the flesh of her throat. But her throat was not cut, only crushed. The other victim’s necks weren’t ripped either. If a rope had killed them, it would have been a finer weave.

The detectives toss the rope aside, start searching again. Salazar, standing on the sidewalk, watches with growing anger. But they are the police—you don’t mess with the police. You have to wait them out.

Inside the cab, Cordova opens the glove box. It’s crammed full with junk. He pulls items out: tune-up bills from Jiffy Lube, receipts for supplies, other odds and ends. The usual crap you find in a workingman’s car or truck. Methodically, he checks each item out. Nothing here to indicate any contact with this new victim, or any of the previous ones.

Salazar can’t hold off any longer. He needs to get to his first job. If he falls behind, his schedule will be messed up for the entire day. He walks to the front door of the truck.

“I know why you are doing this,” he says to Cordova, who has finished rooting through the glove box and is now rummaging with his hands under the seats.

Cordova looks at him. “Please step back, sir.”

“It’s because of my trial,” Salazar says. He’s growing more and more upset. All of his equipment is out of the truck bed, strewn about the street. These men are pigs, they have no propriety. “Because I was innocent,” Salazar continues. He is whining, and is upset with himself for sounding like a woman, but he can’t help it, his emotions have gotten the better of him. “My lawyer warned me that the police would hassle me. I didn’t believe her, I thought you people did your jobs fair and square.” Bitterly: “But she was right.”

Ms. Thompson had warned him about being on the Westside early in the morning. But if he didn’t leave his house while it was still dark out, he would never get here on time. He had to make his living. It was unfair to stop him from doing that.

But she was right. He should have done what she told him. He could have rearranged his schedule. Now he’s paying for trying too hard.

Cordova doesn’t respond, because he isn’t going to get in a spitting contest with this man, and also because the man is right. They
are
hassling him because of his prior arrest. Not the fact that he wasn’t convicted—some are, some aren’t. Your job is to arrest and gather evidence, the rest of the process is out of your hands.

“How much longer will you be?” Salazar asks, in a voice of mounting impatience. He has taken a step back, but he’s still closer than Cordova wants him to be.

“We’re almost finished,” Cordova answers. He’s pissed off, because this has turned out to be a blind poke, and because this suspect isn’t docile. “Now step back, please. Don’t crowd me.”

Reluctantly, Salazar retreats to the sidewalk. He checks the time on his cell phone. He’s going to be late to his first job. He’ll have to cut corners to catch up, which he hates to do. He prides himself on giving every client a thorough job.

From the back, one of the detectives calls over to Cordova. “Finished here, Lieutenant. It’s clean.”

Cordova grunts. He’s almost finished too. A fast look under the floor mats, and that will do it. “Put his stuff back. Carefully,” he reminds them. Even though the man was recently arrested, which is a cloud on his credibility regardless of the verdict, he is a public citizen. Until proven guilty, he has to be treated properly.

The floor under the driver’s side mat is oily, grimy. A few gum wrappers and other small bits of detritus have been squished into the floorboards. Cordova flops the mat back down and lifts the one on the passenger side.

The floor under the mat on this side is cleaner. He gives the space a cursory look. Then, as he’s about to drop the mat, something catches his eye. He squats down and looks closer. “What is this?” He actually says the words to himself out loud.

He almost missed the small item, because it’s dark under there. Very cautiously, he reaches down, picks it up, and examines it carefully, to make sure it’s what he thinks it is. Holding it by the fingertips of one gloved hand, he reaches into a pocket and takes out a small Ziploc bag. He drops the item into the plastic bag, climbs out of the truck, and walks over to his men, who are almost done putting Salazar’s equipment and tools back into the truck bed. “Look at this,” he says. He raises the bag so they can see the contents.

The two other detectives peer at the bag. One of them swears softly. “Where did you find it?” one of them asks.

“Hidden under a floor mat.” Cordova says. “We have to be super careful. Call for backup.”

He puts the plastic bag in his car, locks it, and returns to Salazar.

“Now can I go?” Salazar asks. “My day is already messed up.” He holds his hand out. “I need my license back.”

Cordova looks at him. This has to be the coolest operator I’ve ever encountered, he thinks, or he’s a true psychopath. Or, God forbid, he’s innocent, and the evidence won’t be what we think it is.

Behind them, three unmarked cars drive up. Six detectives get out and approach the two who are assisting Cordova. One of the detectives whispers something to the new arrivals. They stare at Salazar, stunned.

“I’m going to have to take you in for questioning,” Cordova tells Salazar brusquely; no more Mr. Nice Guy. “Turn around and place your hands behind you.”

Salazar jumps back. “No!”

“It’s a precaution, sir,” Cordova explains, firmly. “We have to question you in a controlled environment.” He doesn’t want a public demonstration, in case this turns out to be a dry well, so he makes an executive decision. “We won’t cuff you if you come with us voluntarily,” he offers.

“Not again!” Salazar wails. “What about my truck? What about my customers?”

“We will make good for you,” Cordova says. A promise that can’t be kept, but he doesn’t want this to get physical. Some asshole secretly filming this on his cell phone puts it on the Internet and it’s Rodney King and MacArthur Park all over again.

“What if I don’t want to talk?” Salazar asks belligerently. “What if I don’t want to come with you?” He is surprised (and frightened) by his belligerence, but enough is enough. He is sick and tired of being a punching bag for the police. “I have a business to run!” he wails. “What have I done wrong?”

Cordova keeps his cool. “Are you going to come with me voluntarily, or not?”

Salazar is shaking. What choice does he have? If he says no, the policeman will pull his gun out, handcuff him, and arrest him. Either way, he’s screwed.

“I will come with you,” he gives in. “You don’t have to arrest me. Whatever it is you think I did, I did not do it.”

T
HE SUN IS SHINING,
the birds are singing. Amazingly, I don’t feel as much pain as I was afraid I would. Yesterday afternoon and evening I gobbled Advil by the handful—that, a deep Swedish massage, and ice bags on my back and thighs knocked the soreness down pretty well. It’s ten in the morning and I’m already on the road, heading home to the accompaniment of Diana Krall on the CD.

My cell phone rings. Jeremy? He didn’t call last night. I was hoping he would so I could cry on his shoulder. Coordinating our schedules with the differences in time zones is difficult—the window when we’re both available is small. I don’t know how many hours apart there are between here and wherever he is, but it would be night, and the concert might be over.

I have to pay attention to traffic, so I don’t check the caller ID—it’s too small to read while driving at seventy miles an hour. “Jeremy?” I answer optimistically.

No such luck. “It’s Joe Blevins, Jessica. Where are you?”

I look at the oncoming freeway sign as I whiz by. “Passing through Oceanside.”

“Oceanside?” he repeats, as if surprised. Then he remembers: “Your marathon was yesterday. How did you do?”

“Great,” I tell him. More and more, that doesn’t feel like a lie. “I called a day off into your voice mail, didn’t you get it? I have weeks of sick leave piled up, Joe.” I’m a workaholic and he knows it; I shouldn’t have to defend myself about taking off one day.

“I know you did. But you need to come in.” He sounds apologetic, almost frightened. “You’re not listening to the news, are you? Any of the talk shows?

“No. I don’t listen to that garbage.”

“Good. Don’t. And don’t stop for lunch. If you’re hungry, we’ll order in.”

“Joe, what—”

He cuts me off. “I’ll explain when you get here. Come straight to our floor.” Joe is a cool customer; he never sounds desperate. But now he does. “Don’t stop to schmooze or get a smoothie or powder your face. Just come see me. I’ll be in Pakula’s office.”

Adrian Pakula is the number-two person in the entire office. Mike Judge is the official head, but he’s appointed by the county board of supervisors. His position is executive and political, rather than administrative. On a practical level, Pakula runs the show. Everyone reports to him through the chain of command. I might go a month without seeing Pakula, unless I bump into him on the elevator. If I’m meeting Joe in his office, something big has come up. My mind immediately goes on speed recall, inventorying everything I’ve been doing to see if I can find something I’ve fucked up. Off the top of my head, I can’t.

“Joe—”

The phone goes dead.

The lemmings are streaming in from their lunch break as I enter our building and pass through employee security. There’s a sense of electricity in the air I don’t usually feel, but my head is in my own space, so I don’t think about what’s causing it. I spot a couple of prosecutors and other court personnel I know, but they barely acknowledge my presence—they’re in their own spaces, as I’m in mine. That’s comforting; whatever Joe’s problem is, I’m not the cause. So why the cloak-and-dagger hush-hush?