JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (7 page)

“I'd like you to keep that to yourself for now, if you can,” Daryl said.

“Of course."

“Has anybody asked you about Javier?"

Danny shrugged. “Not really. His wife thinks he skipped town. She thinks there's a warrant out on his ass or something. I don't think any of the other homies think it's him.

Javier hadn't been hanging with the younger set lately. They don't know him that well. So they don't know he's even missing."

“Okay, “Daryl said. “Have you tried to tell them to keep the peace?"

“Of course,” Danny said. “But you know them, they're stubborn. They're convinced it's Los Compadres, or Boyle Heights. I even tried to talk sense into them, said,

‘man, those
hotos
wouldn't know one thing about carving a man up the way this guy was.

He was cut to pieces, literally. Cut his arms, legs and head off and everything.’ But they won't listen."

“Well, rest assured,” Daryl said, heading toward the door as Danny followed him.

“It's not the work of another gang member."

“You think it's like, a serial killer or something? Like Jeffrey Dahmer?"

Like Jeffrey Dahmer
. Why was it that today's society equaled serial killers with Jeffrey Dahmer, as if Dahmer was the only one that had ever existed? If mass America knew that worse human monsters than Dahmer had existed, they would be less relaxed about their everyday activities. Ted Bundy was a perfect example. “I'm afraid so,” he said, answering Danny's question. “You read what the
LA Times
has called this guy, right?"

“The East Side Butcher or some shit like that."

“That's right."

Danny appeared to shiver. His skinny, tattooed chest glistened in the slowly cooling evening. “I hope you guys catch this nut quick."

Daryl opened the front door and looked out at the rapidly fading daylight. “So do I, Danny."

Chapter 4

Ten days after a big meeting at Parker Center, in which a special task force was formed to work exclusively on the Butcher case, Detective Daryl Garcia was sitting at his desk taking a break from filling out some paperwork when his phone rang. It was a transfer call from the receptionist. He picked it up on the third ring. “Garcia here."

“Detective Garcia, it's Rachael Pearce from the Times again,” the female receptionist announced.

“Damn!” Rachael Pearce had been pestering him the past four days for an interview. She was doing a retrospective piece on the Butcher murders for the
LA Times
, and was becoming more persistent in her attempts to gain an interview with him when it was announced last week that he had been appointed to head the Butcher investigation.

The appointment had come as a surprise to Daryl. It had come the day after the big meeting at Parker Center when the detectives on the case, along with the brass and the FBI, brainstormed tactics. The meeting had been beneficial to both organizations, and Daryl's work on the murder of Javier Ramirez had gained the attention of one of the lead FBI Agents, a man by the name of Bernie Haskins. He felt both proud and honored to have been recognized for his work. He had accepted the task force position readily, but the fanfare faded a few hours later when he realized what the job would entail: supervising over twenty detectives, coordinating their efforts, assisting in tracking down leads, interviewing suspects, overseeing all the paperwork, and reporting everything to Bernie Haskins, who was officially leading the investigation. He was stuck in the middle of a bureaucracy sandwich; God help him if the egos took control and politics were thrown into the fray. If that happened nothing would get done.

“Should I put her through, Detective Garcia?” The receptionist asked calmly.

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Might as well get this over with
.

There was a click and then Rachael was on the line. “Detective Garcia, so glad I could talk to you."

“I've only got a few minutes, Miss..."

“Pearce,” Rachael said. He could picture her sitting in front of her desk, a mass of notes piled in front of her. He had never met Rachael Pearce, but he was already picturing her as being a pushy, overweight, middle aged woman married to her job. “But you can call me Rachael."

“Well, Rachael Pearce, I am a very busy man. I've got a shit load of things to do today so I can't talk long. What can I do for you?"

“All I want is a bit of your time,” Rachael said. “If you aren't too busy, perhaps after work we could meet someplace—"

“I'm afraid not,” he said, cutting her off. “I've got plans."

“Well, I can come to the station,” she blurted.

“Won't do much good,” he said.

“Really?” There was a weird tone in the sound of her voice, coupled with a tinny whine in the background. He winced. This was the third time he'd talked to her this week and she was proving to be a real pest. He had tried pawning her off to Paul Johnson in Public Relations, but she had sailed over his head and back into his turf. He'd tried sending her back again, even tried getting Steve Howe to tell her to fuck off. That hadn't budged her, and now she was on his ass again.

“Yes, really,” he said, now growing a little more annoyed with her. “Unlike you, Miss Pearce, I've got work to do. I don't have time to waste talking to you or any other member of the press."

“You don't look so busy to me,” she said, and now he was hearing her voice from two different perspectives; from the earpiece of the phone, and from directly in front of him. “In the last few minutes you've been hunched over your desk staring at the piles of paperwork stacked on it. Surely you can spare five minutes for a quick interview if you can sit at your desk for several minutes doing nothing."

He looked up at the source of the voice and felt a twinge of embarrassment. A tall, woman with a caramel complexion and shoulder length black hair stood in front of his desk holding a cellular phone to her ear. She was wearing a tasteful, but alluring, navy blue business suit, black high heel shoes, and a white blouse, the top three buttons undone. Gold earrings dangled from her ears. Her skirt was cut at mid thigh, showing off a pair of long shapely legs that ended at hips that could only be described as seductively curvy. Her body was shapely in all the right spots. Her face was regal looking with high cheekbones, makeup tastefully and artfully applied accenting her green eyes and red lips.

Her was black and lushly thick. Her features were exotic, lending her a sense of mystery.

She was gorgeous, and Daryl felt a flush of embarrassment rise in him. She smiled at him as she spoke. “I see it's close to lunch time. What do you say? I'm buying."

Daryl Garcia hung up the phone, blushing. “I told you I—"

“—was busy, I know,” Rachael said. She closed her cellular phone and leaned over the desk in front of him, giving him a view of her cleavage. “But it's still lunchtime and you must be hungry. Come on. I'm serious about buying."

Daryl caught a quick eye-view of her cleavage and averted his gaze. He fumbled at his desk, his mind racing for a quick escape. There was nothing he could think of; he
was
hungry, he
did
need to escape from the office, and Rachael Pearce was
damned
attractive!

She stood up to her full height. Her eyes locked with his. He couldn't tear his gaze away.

“I suppose I could take forty-five minutes off for lunch,” he said automatically.

“Good.” She smiled, her green eyes twinkling. “I know a good burger joint on Grand and Central."

“Phil's Burger's and Sandwiches?"

“Yep."

“Great.” Daryl rose from behind his desk and threw his jacket on. “I love a woman who recommends a good old fashioned healthy dose of cholesterol and fat in her diet."

As he left the station in the accompaniment of Rachael Pearce, who was a good three inches taller than his five foot eight frame, he felt the envious eyes of his co-workers on his back.
Eat your heart out, guys
!

Daryl knew that he was being led by his carnal desires for Rachael Pearce, but he didn't care. As they sat in a corner booth of Phil's Burgers, the bustle of the noon time lunch crowd from downtown's business district just beginning to filter in, he couldn't help but kick himself mentally for allowing himself to be so led. But then he couldn't help
that
.

Rachael was a goddess. Everything about her radiated pure sexual tension; the way she walked, the way she looked at him, the way she sat, her style of dress. She was alluring, and her exotic looks, which appeared to go beyond the normal WASP/Caucasian gene pool, gave her an air of mysteriousness. Therefore he didn't feel too forward in asking her nationality.

“Actually my mother is of Spanish and Italian extraction and my father's family hails from the Middle East; he's also part black,” she said, sipping at her coke. Both of them had trays with French fries and identical double cheeseburgers in front of them. She ran a hand through her thick black hair. “My hair and complexion usually gives people the impression that I'm Hispanic, but I can't speak a word of Spanish.” She smiled.

“Either way, I've never really thought much about it. It doesn't get in the way of who I am."

“What about when you were growing up?” Daryl asked.

Rachael sipped her coke and looked up, pursing her lips. “It was tough in some respects. I was never really accepted as being white, to tell you the truth. I don't have the typical WASPish looks. I'm not exactly white, I'm not exactly Arab, and I'm not really black, so I've sort of been fucked since day one when it comes to racial profiling.” She laughed. “But I've also benefited from it.” She raised a French fry to her mouth and bit it in half, grinning. “I took advantage of the affirmative action programs in high school and got a scholarship to UCLA. It felt like I was giving my critics a great big ‘fuck you'."

Daryl laughed, digging into his food. He liked Rachael already, and not because he was entranced by her beauty. She was willful, headstrong, and sharp. He had read her features in the paper and was familiar with her journalism. Meeting her put the icing on the cake.

“I bet your.... ah, muli-cultural background gives you more of an edge in your work,” he said.

She chewed her food thoughtfully before answering. “It does. I covered the LA Riots and was able to write about it from both sides. Won an award for it, too."

“I read that article. Nice work."

“Thanks.” She smiled, her eyes meeting his.

“Do you normally cover crime stories?” Daryl asked.

She shook her head, dipped her fries in a paper cup of ketchup. “In the early part of my career I wrote everything. I covered the normal crime beats, police reports, neighborhood and community activities. But then I did a piece on East Los Angeles Street Gangs in 1990; it was a four part series. My piece got some attention from my editor, and he gave me a few human-interest stories to cover. My breakthrough was my coverage of the riots. Most of my material made it into a book about the riots that was published."

Daryl was nodding, growing more impressed as she rattled off her achievements.

“That sounds very impressive."

“After the riots my editor made me the human interest editor.” She took another bite of her burger and chewed, chasing it down with coke. Daryl plowed into his food, paying attention to her as he ate. “I've been covering human interest stories ever since; people affected by the recession, the Malibu fires and floods, the Northridge Earthquake, victims of police brutality, gang warfare, city life in general. I've also covered stories about people overcoming impossible odds, succeeding in their dreams, in their lives.” She smiled. “It isn't always human misery and death."

“But the story you're working on now obviously is,” Daryl said.

Rachael ate a few more French fries. “Unfortunately duty calls,” she said. She took a sip of coke then pushed her tray back; she had finished her burger and only a dozen fries remained on her tray. “The reaction of the gangs in the area the killer is striking is what affected me about doing this story. Especially the reaction of those unfortunate enough to live in the area. I did some research, checked with my editor, and he gave the green light for a feature. I've already talked to some of the locals in the area, friends and relatives of the last few victims that were found, talked to a couple of people who knew the victims, a few beat cops that regularly patrol the area, and now I want to talk to you to get your perspective on the case."

“That's all you want?” He asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Just my perspective?"

“Well,” she said, breaking into a smile. She leaned forward and Daryl noticed for the first time that despite the fact that she had the body of a fashion model and was very feminine, she was also surprisingly muscular. Her biceps were well defined, but not overly buff; she looked like she could take care of herself if push came to shove. “I was hoping you could set me up with a drive-through in the area. You know, take me into the jungle, the hub of the barrio where the victims actually lived and hung out. Maybe even to the Eighty-First Street bridge where one of the victims was found."

Damn, but this chick had balls. She obviously knew that the Eighty-First Street bridge was a place that no sane person dared venture. The place was inhabited by hardcore gang members who would kill you if you weren't a familiar face. Usually the gang members that hung out there sold drugs, and it was pretty much in a day's work when a couple of squad cars were called there to quell a disturbance or cart away a body.

Rachael had obviously heard the stories through the grapevine. “You sure you want to go there?” he asked. “Shit, even
I
hate going there, and the only time I've been there I've had a dozen cops with me. And it
still
scared the shit out of me."

Her eyes were blazing with excitement. “That would be my number one priority, Daryl. To go there with my photographer, perhaps talk to a couple of the gang members in person, get their perspective on the killings."

The woman was obviously serious. Daryl admired this. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I'll see if I can set something up. It might be tough, though. A normal ride-along in a squad car is a lot different than what you're asking me to do. It's risky."