It was Detective Sergeant Matt Strickland’s night off. He’d had Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner, watered the 57 succulents he kept on the screened-in little terrace of his ground-floor one-bedroom Hollywood apartment, watched the nine o’clock news then taken four herbal sleep aids. He woke up fast when his cell phone buzzed. When he heard Rhea’s familiar cadence, “Hey Strickland–” he was fully awake.
“Detective– ” he automatically responded, “Are you ok? Where are you?”
“Fine. Cesar Chavez, a half block up from Pleasant. Place called Domingos.” She said no more. She didn’t need to.
He already had one leg in his pants. He ended the call, stuck his other leg in, gave his balls a sprinkle with Gold Bond, swished a mouthful of Listerine, shrugged on a worn-out short-sleeved shirt, grabbed his badge and gun and was out the door.
Nineteen minutes later he was inside Domingos, standing next to Rhea, looking down at the three small bodies. He took out his phone and called it in. Rhea hung close, listening as he asked dispatch who was available to partner.
“Who’s coming in?” she asked him after he hung up. He ignored her and looked back at the dead.
He knelt down and looked closely at the girls’ sooty mouths. “Smoke.”
He looked around “But no fire called in.”
“Probably a grease fire.” she suggested. “They choke you fast.”
He agreed with the probability. He looked around the room. There were no other exits— “Just these two doors. Locked.” He looked at her. She nodded, pointing to the kitchen door. “I busted that one down.”
“Three girls. Locked in.” he continued his early questions, adding, “Mexican?”
Rhea looked back at them. “I’d say so.”
He looked around the room again; he peered into empty cupboards and into the empty pantry.
“Place has been closed for awhile.” she offered.
He nodded. “Stash joint.”
“Yep.”
He went over to the stove, he studied the burned food that had exploded against the wall, looked again at the bolted door. “No way out.”
Rhea nodded, “So we find who locked them in.”
“We? Have you even gone to therapy?” Strickland asked.
“Yes.” Rhea answered but didn’t elaborate. Something bright pink caught her eye, lying on top of a little trash can, on top of burned, sooty trash and three charred, melted plactic spoons: a burned ice cream cup.
“What?” Strickland asked.
“Baskin Robbins.”
“Yeah?” Strickland asked.
“Yeah. They had some ice cream. There’s one up on Sunset, in that strip mall by Michelotorenia.”
“I’ll tell Dawson when he gets here–“
“Dawson.” Rhea shook her head.
“Dawson is a good cop–” he cut her off.
Rhea looked back at the bodies on the floor; studying them. Powerless.
Outside, across the river the photographer stood on the bank, searching the skyline. Her blonde hair hung down her back. Her t-shirt said “Endeavour”. Her eyes searched the skyline. The moon was full and rising. She held the old zoom on her Pentax and moved it until it reflected caught a beam of moonlight then bounced it over the river bed, pooling its way across the crack in Domingos’ bolted back door.
Inside Domingos’, that reflected moonlight found its way through that crack and crossed over the dead girls like a soft laser. It hit something purple. It shimmered, catching Rhea’s eye. She looked closer. Then closer. Transfixed. A gasp caught in her throat. Strickland turned, followed her gaze, saw what she was looking at. On one of the dead girl’s wrists – barely visible but now glinting in the sliver of reflected moonlight – was a plastic bracelet with a purple tin charm on it that advertised “Boom Boom Carneceria. Ensenada. Mexico.”
