It was a cheap little tin charm and Strickland knew exactly what it could mean. Everything.
Or… “It could be nothing.” He reminded Rhea.
“Boom Boom is two doors down from Joe’s–!” Rhea let loose, hating the escaped emotion.
“I know where it is.” Strickland reminded her. “But not every kid that goes missing near Boom Boom was snatched—”
“One was.” She reminded him back.
“We’ll follow the evidence.”
“Yes. We.”
“As soon as you’re cleared.”
“Eighteen, Strickland. The guy was eighteen–!”
“He’d been eighteen for four days.”
“Still… Legal.” She pointed out, calming herself. “And this is my case.”
“It’s the Department’s.” he corrected her.
“I’ll stay on unpaid leave and just work this-” Rhea gestured toward the dead girls.
Strickland knew she’d be an asset. He knew he probably should let her back on the squad. But she’d messed up. Finding her in the back seat of her car with that kid pissed him off. It hurt, too. Yeah the kid was eighteen and she’d hadn’t paid him – yet – or officially broken the law but Strickland wanted to make her pay.
They heard cars drive up.
“Go home.” he told her, ushering her out of the room.
“Don’t do this to me. I’ve stopped. OK? I promise.”
“Go home.” He held the door open for her to leave. He meant it. She left.
Outside, Rhea crossed over Chavez and sat on a cement bridge railing.
She watched as three of her colleagues walked into Domingos: The CSI tech, the ME and Detective Dawson. It was hard being outside. This was her case. Man she was hungry. She wondered if nearby Guisados was open. She wondered what young men were hanging out at Tommy’s or Torung or Alegria, eating Dim Sum and Phad Thai and Chili Fries and how nice it would be to eat an onion ring off of one of them. She shook her head to get those thoughts out of it. She forced her mind back to the scene and waited. She looked over the bridge, below it the 101 and the 10 freeways converged. She watched the streaks of red tail lights pouring into LA. This was nearly the exact same spot she was at on her first night in LA., completely alone at seventeen. Twenty plus years later and here she was again, still looking for her sister. What a fucking failure.
She sniffed the air, then sniffed her clothes. She pulled the lone Barragan’s taco out of her pocket. The napkins it was wrapped in were blotched with grease. She ate it. It was cold and flattened but still pretty good. She opened her phone notepad. She typed a few words: beefy, ancho, warm night, dollar.
Half an hour later, the ME carted three small body bags out. He glanced across the street as he closed the back of the morgue van. He saw Rhea. He raised one hand in a small, inconspicuous wave. She did the same, acknowledging the solidarity. He was the only one who contacted her after her back-seat bust by Vice nine and a half weeks ago and her subsequent temporary expulsion for “indecent behavior”.
Another twenty minutes later, Strickland and Detective Dawson left Domingos and headed four and a half blocks to Headquarters.
Rhea got in her car and followed. She parked her LeBaron outside and waited for Strickland and Dawson to come out. She was impatient. She took out her phone. Using her favorite INFO app, she looked up Domingos’ data, got the name of an owner and found out he also owned a furniture warehouse on Palmetto near Fourth. Just under twelve blocks away. She started her car and took off, heading south, toward Fourth Street.
Inside Headquarters, on the sixth floor, Strickland was online, also finding out who owned Domingos.
Four minutes into his search, he had a name: Leland Hays.
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