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LA | An LA Crime Story - Part 3

Apr 04
0

Two Bits a Word

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Rhea leaned in the doorway of Manny’s office, eating a strawberry swirl ice cream sandwich. She was watching him as he finished reading her Toolong review. She was nervous, hoping he liked it. He blushed as he got to the part where she’d written “… I licked the last bit of peanut sauce off his left ball, trying to cool us both down. The hint of sesame oil in that salty butter eased us into the eve’s last hour. As his hands slipped from my head, I left him there, sated by fat noodles of buckwheat flour.”

“Poetic.” he glanced at her, still blushing. It made her laugh.

“It’s OK?” she needed to know.

“The curry thing was five-ninety-five?” he asked.

Rhea nodded, “Sorry. I’ll try and watch that.”

“OK.” He nodded, “The rest seems OK.”

“Great.” she let out her breath. “So when do I get paid?”

“You like Mexican food–?” he changed the subject.

“Who doesn’t?”

“You like Posole?”

“Of course.”

“You tried the one at Tres Hermanos?”

“Are you kidding?”

“It’s good.”

“They buy their tortillas at Ralph’s.” she informed him.

“Don’t be a snob.”

“On a five buck limit?”

“Ok. OK…” he let it go for now then informed her, “You get paid Thursday, when it prints.”

“OK, I’ll see you Thursday–” she started to leave. He stopped her, “Did you really? In the car… or– ”

“Or?” she asked him.

“Did you make that up?”

“Yes, Manny.” she answered, “I really ate in my car.”

She again started to leave. Manny stacked her notepad pages. “I’ll type this up this time but next time use a word doc and email it to me or use your phone and message it.”

“I always use paper.”

“I am your boss you know.”

“I know.” She nodded. “I know.”

Apr 04
0

Piece of Cake

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Rhea had been using paper to take notes ever since she got her first notepad from Strickland when she was sixteen, a terrified kid looking to him for hope on the darkest night of her life.

“…write down anything you remember.” He’d told her as he wrote his phone number on the pad, “Anything at all, then call me. Anytime.”

She wished she could call him now, she thought as she snuck past his apartment. She wished she could call and tell him how sorry she was for letting him down. He’d tell her “You can do better.” She’d try not to cry. He’d put a hand on her shoulder, careful not to hold her close. Then tomorrow they’d carry on, trying to make a dent in the booming business of child exploitation… and still trying to find who kidnapped her sister 22 years ago.

The door to apartment 112 opened.

“Rent was due yesterday, Rhea.” the 60 year old apartment manager wheezed at her.

“I paid you–” she started.

“Seven hundred. You owe nine fifty.” he finished.

She dug into her purse and gave him all the cash she had: eighty four bucks. “I’ll have the rest on Thursday.”

“plus the late fee.”

“Yes, Cubby, I know.”

She opened the door to 114 and went inside. Her studio was tiny. A sofa bed slammed up against the kitchen counter and a little desk in a corner filled the room. She got a beer out of the little half-fridge and opened a bag of Maui onion potato chips. She turned on her old Sony TV to PBS. A Huell Hauser rerun was on. Porto’s Bakery. An entire show about cake. Mango cheesecake. White chocolate raspberry mousse. Kiwi meringue torte. Grand Mariner with chocolate ganache. Lemon curd pound cake. Vanilla custard cake with pineapple filling… every single one reminded her of her sister.

Apr 04
0

Front seat

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Javier Adelente’s old battered ’79 Toyota truck sat low to the ground. The cab seats were shredded from wear and the front windshield steamed from the breath of Rhea and Javier, locked in the singular passion of young love in a front seat.

“No no no no no… Rhea mumbled as he kissed her over and over… His warm brown skin smelled like Dial soap. His hands slid down her body–

“Oh. Oh. Oh. OK…” she panted as Javier shoved his hands under her ass and lifted her onto him. They’d been there before. He was her first love and she was his. She was sixteen, he was seventeen and it was getting harder and harder to “wait”. She could feel the Christmas lights from the little houses on Normal Road blinking on and off, like some absurdly merry warning.

“No,” she told him again but he kissed her neck and pushed her right knee down so she straddled him. She barely managed to whisper, “We promised we’d wait till Christmas. It’s only a week away”.

“I know…” he agreed. She pulled away.

The birth of Jesus had nothing to do with first time sex but they’d thought it was a good idea; a present to each other. They were teenagers, full of gesture.

“Let me have another.” she asked. he reached down and grabbed a grease-spotted brown paper bag and held it open for her. She took out a handful of fresh fried tortilla strips scattered with sugar and cinnamon. The warm sweetness filled her mouth as she crunched down, still straddling him.

“These are sooo good.” She told him. “Tell your mom thanks.”

He watched her eat it – watched her joy – watched as she spilled cinnamon sugar down her chest. She tried to brush it off.

“I’ll get it.” He said as he started to lick it off. Whatever resistance she’d had disappeared with the feel of his tongue on her skin and the warmth of his breath. She opened her sweater and let the sugar spill further down into her bra. He followed it with his tongue, reaching around with one hand and undoing her bra, freeing her for his mouth.

Feeling him big and warm underneath her, she pulled his mouth to her breast and closed her eyes. As his tongue flicked her nipple, he slipped his hand inside her panties and slid a finger into her. Man it felt good. She moved against him. She pulled off her sweater and pressed closer to him. Then he screamed…

“There’s a spider!” and threw her off of him as he scrambled to get away from it as it crawled across the driver’s side window. She slammed against the steering wheel. The horn honked LOUD.

“Get down!” She grabbed him and they tumbled to the floor and tried not to make a sound; freaking a little as they heard the door of a nearby house creak open.

She sneaked a peek down the street. Three houses down, Steve was looking out her front door. After a moment, he went back inside. She sat back up, but Javier stayed on the floor.

“Is it still there?”

“The spider?”

He nodded. She looked around then saw the spider, still walking across the window. She looked closer. It was kind of wobbling. She looked closer still. It looked just like Tamarind. She let it crawl onto my hand.

“What are you doing!?” He kind of freaked.

“I’m taking it.” She told him. She kissed him with the promise, “I’ll see you Christmas night.” She opened the door and got out. She never saw him again.

Mar 31
0

Exit Strategy

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LAPD Exploited Kids Division was housed at Headquarters, Downtown but Rhea had sometimes worked out of Hollywood division on Wilcox. It was nestled in a homey little block of ’60’s apartments and Jacaranda trees, two blocks south of a Popeye’s Chicken on Sunset Boulevard. The lighting was bad and there was an actors’ union ATM machine in the lobby. Rhea kept a spare notepad in the desk there that she shared with Strickland. It was one of those little rainbow pads that come in a four pack. She went there later that day, after she’d left Dr. Gallows, had some thick French toast at Aloha cafe then walked all over downtown trying to figure out what to do.

She grabbed her notepad out of her desk drawer, turned to leave and faced the two hundred and sixty pound slab of reality that was Detective Matt Strickland. He was just coming in. It was awkward for a few seconds.

“I was just getting my notepad.” she muttered, not wanting to look him in the eye.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“OK… catching up on a lot of tv. I got Netflix. Have you ever seen Breaking–”

“I meant with the therapy–”

“I know.”

“Have you gone?”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Good.” He lingered, wanting to say something; unsure if he should.

“What?” she prompted him.

“Do you want out? Is that why you… did that. “Cause if you want out–”

“No. I don’t want out.”

“Then why–” he started to ask again.

“It’s how I deal, Strickland. That’s all. It’s just how I deal.” she offered.

“The hell’s the matter with booze?” he wanted to know. “Or even pot if you wanted to break the law – Dirkshire and the Lieut would let it slide – but not this, not some–

“I didn’t break the law.” She reminded him. “And pot’s legal now.”

“Yes. OK. But we are supposed to be looking out for kids, here–”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry, OK?” She wanted him to understand, at least a little.

“Look…” she let out a long breath and gave in to some of the truth, “They remind me of when I was happy.”

“They?”

“No– I meant–” she tried to recover but he stopped her.

“Fix it, Rhea. Fix the… ‘need’ and come back.”

She nodded. “I will.”

As he opened the door for her to leave, she looked at the dents in it, kicked in from a thousand angry cops taking out their frustrations. As she walked by him, she paused and asked him, ““How do you deal?”

He looked at her, hard. He’d known her so long; since she was sixteen. He’d seen her scared and he’d seen her brave. He’d seen her fight, learn, cry. He’d seen her chase down a lead with no sleep for three days straight. He’d seen her give up. He’d seen her start over. He’d seen her kill. He’d seen her hate. Lord knows he’d seen her eat. But looking at her now, he realized he’d never seen her love.

“I garden.” he answered, a little annoyed she didn’t remember; she’d seen his garden a thousand times. She’d lived in it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Fix it.” He said again and walked away.

Apr 07
0

A Tremble

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The moment Aggie got taken, Detective Matt Strickland was starting his second cup of coffee after a late lunch at The Pantry – eggs over medium, rye toast, sliced tomatoes. When he set the cup down after a sip, his coffee trembled – rippled like when a small earthquake aftershock rolls through. He looked up. No one else noticed anything. He knew this was internal; an instinct he almost wished he didn’t have – it had happened twice before. He finished the coffee, paid the bill and went back to LAPD Central and waited for the call he knew would come. It did. About seven hours later, a little after nine that night. It was Donnelly, calling about a missing little girl named Aggie Day Porter and a possible abductor who said his destination was a three hour drive from the border at Tecate.

“You call San Diego?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yeah, but… thought we’d better get you in right away. Kid’s American.”

Shit. It didn’t matter what nationality a kid in danger was to Strickland. But it mattered to others. It mattered in the media. An American was a bigger deal.

“Where’re the parents–” he started. “Here.” San Diego Detective Rudy Canon got on the line, letting Strickland know this was not likely a familial abduction. It was the second time that year he’d talked to Strickland. This was the third kid they’d talked about. The other two were Mexican girls – six and nine. Only the six-year-old had been found… decomposing in a trash bin on a construction site near the fourth street bridge on the east side of downtown LA. No leads. No suspects. No hope.

There was a chance the other girl and now Aggie weren’t in LA but there was a good chance they were. It was becoming a popular destination for trafficking as well as the usual runaways and illegals. And at just over five hundred square miles and nine million people, it was easy to disappear there.

“I’ll need pictures.” He told Canon, “Tonight.”

“House is in Norwalk. I can get them there by one.” Canon promised.

Strickland put out a BOLO: five year old female, blond hair, forty pounds, wearing a green jacket, white tutu and jeans. Possible suspect Mexican-American male, approximately eighteen, driving a late model blue VW van. He opened a case, drank two cups of coffee, ate a vending machine Honey Bun then at midnight, he jumped on the five and headed south.

Apr 07
0

Night Train

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Rhea didn’t want Strickland to leave. She needed his power, his confidence, his calm. She willed her mind to remember something, anything – some perfect and stunning tidbit that would lead him straight to Aggie. But nothing came. And he left. She kept staring at the closed door. She was on one side, and Aggie was somewhere outside, lost in the night. She hung on to that unbearable thought as though following it through the dark labyrinth of her imagination would lead her to her sister. But she couldn’t follow the path in her mind. She was tired. She shouldn’t be tired, her sister was missing and it was her fault – she should never ever sleep again until Aggie was home. Her eyes kept closing. What a terrible sister she was.

Stel put her thumb and forefinger on Rhea’s chin and turned her face to her own.

“Are You listening to me?”

Rhea nodded, trying to focus on what her mother was saying.

“I have to stay here, for when Aggie comes home.”

Rhea nodded again, wondering where this was going.

“Your father can’t go, look at him, he can’t even get out of that chair.”

It started to become clear. Yes! Someone in the family needed to go find Aggie because, as Stel pointed out, “That cop doesn’t know Aggie, doesn’t love her like we do. His heart isn’t in it. And she won’t be looking for him, she’ll be looking for one of us.”

“I can go…?” Rhea answered, a little unsure but as Stel firmly nodded while looking into Rhea’s eyes, Rhea became certain. This made sense. All except the details. “How will I–?” Rhea tried to make a plan–

Stel cut her off, she already had this figured out. “Trains run all night. Especially now. Christmas. Go pack a few things and I’ll take you to the Fullerton Station.”

Wow. This was really happening. Rhea felt a jolt of adrenaline and of relief. This was good. This would work. She’d find Aggie like she’d always done and everything would be back like it was.

Rhea jammed a skirt, a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, underwear, toothbrush and a picture of Aggie into her little round black patent leather case with embossed pink ballet shoes on it then zipped it up as Stel hovered, impatiently.

“Ready?”

Rhea nodded. Stel grabbed her keys. As they left, Rhea glanced at her father, searching for something in his eyes – love or at least a goodbye – but there was nothing there. She closed the door behind her.

Stel held the car door open for Rhea, trying to hurry her along. Rhea slid in. Stel hurried into the driver’s side and, not bothering to buckle her seat belt, drove them away.

At one forty nine, the Fullerton train station was still had a few people. Happy people, laughing people, setting down armloads of packages to hug their loved ones who’d come to welcome them home for the holidays.

Stel gave Rhea a ticket and a hundred and seventy-one dollars.

“It’s all I have in the house.” she said as she thrust it at Rhea. “It should be plenty for some food and a motel for a few nights.”

“Thank you.” Rhea told her mom, straining with the sudden uneasy formality.

Stel nodded and turned to leave. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed Rhea and hugged her hard and fast. Rhea hugged back. “I’ll find her, mom. I promise.”

Stel let go. “I have to get back, in case–” Rhea nodded. Stel hurried away. Rhea got on the train alone. No one waved goodbye.

The train slipped past warehouses, trailer parks, freeways and the Firestone tire factory which was built to look like a castle.

“Is she in there?” Rhea wondered as she strained against the dirty train window trying to see a glimpse of Aggie. Or in one of those trailers? Or in that laundromat? Or that Taco Bell? So many places to look…

The magnitude of the task ahead started to creep in. But for now, Rhea just focused on looking out that window. Sometimes she glanced at the blank notepad. In the course of the thirty three minute train ride to LA, all she could think to write was: bluebirds.

Apr 08
0

Rustic Imports

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One hour before Rhea got on the train, twenty-six miles north, in an alley behind Palmetto Street, Leland Hays stood on the loading ramp of his downtown LA furniture warehouse and peeled off three hundred dollars from a roll of bills and handed the money to Panama Jones.

“You told me five or six—“ Panama reminded him.

“I had to take out for gas, insurance, wear and tear—” Leland explained.

Panama wasn’t happy. “I gotta pay for that too?”

Hays went on, “You only got one girl. Don’t get me wrong, one’s OK but—five or six hundred for one? We’re trying to do these girls a favor here, right? Their new… ‘employers’… are paying me a little something but no one’s getting rich, here.”

Panama nodded, he understood. He gestured toward the closed steel door at the top of the ramp. “She still goin’ to Beverly Hills?”

“Yep. To a great family.” Hays assured him, then added, “Remember, no one knows we do this. Government wouldn’t like us not payin’ them their immigration fees–”

“I know.” Panama interrupted–

“We’d all be in deep shit—“ Hays went on, emphasizing “all”.

“I know.”

“Good.” Hays said, like a threat. “Come back by in a few weeks— I’ll have more work.”

Panama nodded and walked away, past the blue van parked in a spot in front of the warehouse, next to an old Mercedes and an ’88 Camry. He headed toward the bus stop on Fourth Street. Something felt weird to him but, he had a few joints in his pocket to smooth it all out.

Back inside his warehouse, Hays went into his office and looked around. “Larry?” he called out.

“Over here.” came a male voice. Hays followed it back outside to the top of the ramp where the furniture that was in the blue van had been unloaded. The door to the rustic cabinet was open. Inside the cabinet, Aggie was sound asleep. A balding man in his thirties, Larry Ozrin, pointed at her, smiling. Hays agreed with a smile. “Blond. Yeah–” He rubbed his fingers against his thumb in the gesture of “money.”

Ozrin nodded, “How much?”

“Extra five grand.” Hays told him. Ozrin reeled, “C’mon, man–”

“Firm.” Hays wasn’t negotiating. After a minute, Ozrin agreed. He handed over a neat stack of cash to which he added five thousand dollars.

“You’ll make that back in a week.”

“Easily.” Ozrin admitted then he lifted Aggie out of the cabinet and carried her, still sleeping, out to his Camry. He put her in the back seat, wrapped in a blanket. He drove off, keeping well within the speed limit.

May 24
0

Paradise Motel

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Almost two hours later and six city blocks away, Rhea’s train slid into Union Station. It was three in the morning and almost busy. She followed fellow travelers through the cavernous hall; hurried past a gloriously huge Christmas tree and slipped through the front doors into the night. It was cool in LA. And misty.

Rhea stopped dead in front of the station, mouth agape at what she saw: Blocks of high rises mixed with Deco buildings, wide streets and Our Lady Queen of Angels church – all asleep for the night. But the streets were alive with cars. The sheer vastness of it stunned her. Scared her. Threatened her. And this was just a corner of it. She couldn’t move – didn’t know which way to go – didn’t know where to start looking.

“Bad place to stop.” A woman snarled at Rhea as she slammed into her on the busy walk outside the station.

Rhea started walking. Then she stopped. She unzipped the patent leather bag, grabbed the photo of Aggie and ran after the woman. “Wait! Wait –” she cried as she caught up to her and grabbed her arm. The woman stopped. Rhea showed her the picture. “Have you seen this girl?” The woman looked at the picture and shook her head, backing away from Rhea’s pain. Rhea shoved the picture into the faces of anyone she could who was leaving the station. She followed them into the parking lot and onto the street. “Have you seen her? Have you seen this girl?” Nineteen, twenty, thirty five times. No one had. A Security Guard finally shooed her away. “Take that business somewhere else.”

Rhea crossed the street and started walking up Cesar Chavez Boulevard. Away from the hub of the train Station, a darker vibe set in. There were few homeless back then but the sight of them huddled in doorways, asleep on cardboard, their arms around the wad of bags and rags that were theirs – shocked Rhea. She hurried past them and crossed the street toward Chinatown. Someone in a car driving by hissed at her, “Tasty Girl…” Another car pulled to the curb a few yards up. As she passed by, a man opened the passenger door, his big dick swinging free at her, the smell of stale piss and cum penetrating the mist. She ran.

At the end of the block, two teens huffing Krylon hung out in a little parking lot. As Rhea stopped on the corner, they checked her out. As she waited for the light to turn green, they moved closer. The light turned. She started to cross. They hurried closer. In the middle of the street she suddenly turned and swung her case at them, smacking the bigger one straight across his jaw, freaking them out. She ran, across the street and up a long block. Ahead she saw the sputtering purple and green neon strips that framed the Paradise Motel. It was open.

A ninety-pound woman with a popcorn ball in one hand and a tv remote in the other waved at a sign that said “NIGHTLY RATES $45.00.” when Rhea asked her how much was a room. Rhea handed over the cash. “Checkout’s at noon.” she informed Rhea and gave her a key.

Inside room 27, Rhea locked the dead bolt. She fell on the bed, holding the picture of Aggie close to her. She fell instantly asleep. She slept for fourteen hours.

Apr 08
0

Frankincense

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Rhea woke up in room twenty-seven at the Paradise Motel, a little before six on that same Christmas Eve. She turned on the tv and watched the news while she peed, washed, brushed her hair and ate the two packs of peanut butter stuffed cheese crackers that were in a little basket on the night stand. There was no news on tv of Aggie. She left her room and went to the payphone. She called home. Stel answered. “Mom!?” Rhea cried, so happy to hear her voice. “Did you find her?” Stel asked, her voice like a raspy knife. “No, but–” Rhea answered. Stel interrupted. “Call back when you do. I have to keep the line open.” She hung up. Rhea put the phone in its cradle and left the booth. She didn’t have a clue what to do or where to go. All she knew was that she was alone and she needed to find her sister. As she started to walk back to her room to get her case, someone shoved her from behind. Hard. She fell.

“Paradise is mine. You got ten seconds to get on outta here.” A girl’s voice spat at her. Rhea looked up at an eighteen-year-old in shorts short enough for half her cooze to squish out. Rhea wondered if she was cold.

“OK.” Rhea answered, not quite understanding, “I just gotta get my suitcase.”

As Rhea got up and headed to her room, the girl followed her, pushing into the room as Rhea opened the door.

The girl spotted the ballet case and tore into it, finding the one hundred and sixty-three dollars that Rhea had left. She took it and leaned against the doorway.

“Now get outta here.”

Rhea zipped up the case. As she walked past the girl, she showed her the picture of Aggie. “Can I ask you something? Have you seen this girl?” The girl looked at the picture. “Who’s that?”

“My sister.” Rhea told her, “She got kidnapped. I gotta find her.”

The hard girl kind of crumbled, “Aw, man… No.” she shook her head and gave Rhea back the money. “That’s bad.”

“Yeah.” Rhea agreed.

It was nearing seven and way past dark. The boulevard got quieter as Christmas Eve moved toward night. Rhea spent the next three hours walking the streets of Chinatown, asking every person who would stop if they’d seen Aggie. No one had. She asked twenty three waitresses in fourteen Chinese restaurants. She asked the night manager at Madam Wu’s. She asked thirty seven store clerks, three bus drivers and sixty four people driving cars who had stopped at the red light On Broadway and Cesar Chavez. She got nothing.

Rhea crossed back over Cesar Chavez and sat on the bus bench at Spring Street. The smell of frankincense floated by, reminding her of church. And God. And how much Aggie liked God. She took the smell as a sign and followed the ancient scent across Alameda street to old Olvera.

May 27
0

Lake Hollywood

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Six miles north across the city and slightly west, Ozrin backed his Camry out of his garage and eased onto Barham Boulevard. Usually the thoroughfare that slices between the valley and the Hollywood hills was busy. But it was late, almost midnight. Ozrin opened his window to a mist that muted the late night sounds of the city’s Christmas Eve. He didn’t mind Christmas. The lights were nice and he had a party to go to tomorrow, an un-Christmas breakfast for those away from their families. He was bringing bagels from Sam’s on Larchmont, and a bottle of Trader Joes champagne.
 
Ozrin eased the Camry up Barham, careful to follow the speed limit.  He stopped at the yellow light, he did not rush it. He waited for the left turn arrow to turn green then turned on Lake Hollywood Drive. He followed it up through the  eclectic Estates to a ridge overlooking the Hollywood reservoir. It was deep blue and as still as glass under the sliver of a moon that barely shone down. There was a walking path around its three mile circumference but it closed at dusk. Now No one was there – not a car, not a soul, not a witness. That was good. Ozrin followed the road down to the reservoir. Three coyotes darted out from the fields on either side and jaunted alongside the Camry before crossing over in front of him, on their way to the woods that surrounded the water and crept up a hill toward the Hollywood sign. He smiled; they were skinny and looked hungry. That was good.
 
About halfway down the half mile stretch of road that ran alongside the water, there was a ramp. It was closed off by the chain link fence that ran around the water but there was enough room for the Camry to pull over. He backed up as close to the fence as he could get. Moving fast for someone out of shape, Ozrin got out, popped the trunk open and lifted out a thirty-five pound bundle wrapped in a dark green towel. He heaved it over that fence into the brush and drove away.

Aggie landed face-up on a bed of leaves and moss. She thought about Poo and the Christmas cookies she hoped to eat soon, as she waited for Rhea to find her. It was cold lying there; wearing only her green jacket with kittens embroidered on the pockets.

Aggie looked up and whispered her prayer, “Please God, help Rhea find me. I want to go home.”

Soon enough, she heard the rustle of footsteps on leaves. “Rhea!” she called out, as loud as she could but she could barely hear her voice, “I’m over here!”

Aggie tried to get up but she couldn’t move. As the footsteps got closer, she looked up to see Rhea’s face through the trees, hoping she’d have something sweet to eat. Instead she saw the glitter of grey eyes. And she knew. Coyotes had come to eat her.

To Be Continued…

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