An LA Crime Story

Tag: lapd

  • Marigold Walls

    The marigold colored walls of the main dining room at Barragan’s on Sunset screamed “sunshine!” Rhea hurried through it and headed for the darkness of the bar. It was “Two Buck Taco Tuesday” – her choice for her first review. The tacos were OK – somewhere between the soulful carne asada ones at the Saturday night pop-ups on York and the fast food addictions of Taco Bell. At two bucks a piece she could meet Manny’s ten buck limit.

    Rhea sat at the end of the bar, near a window where she had a sliver of a view of the street outside. The bartender smiled at her, “San Miguel dark, right?” She smiled back, “Yeah Ernie, thanks. And five tacos. Mixed.” He slid her the beer and wrote up her order. She took a swig and took out her phone. She opened her notepad app and wrote a few words: “2 dollar tacos. back room. chorizo. Cacique. poblano.” She looked out the window, straining to see the boys on the street. It was a good spot to check them out – and maybe she’d find one to share a few tacos with. Several potentials strutted up the street, fit, strutting, cocky… but the hair was too wavy, the teeth too white, the vibe too sharp.

    A waiter brought Rhea her tacos. She looked back out the window. A scruffy girl about sixteen came into view, carrying an overstuffed blue IKEA bag. Rhea drained half her beer in a single gulp, wrapped the tacos in a few napkins, slapped twenty dollars on the counter, took the tacos and left.

    Outside, Rhea looked for the girl. She spotted her at a stoplight half a block up. She approached.

    “Sheena?” Rhea said, close now. The girl turned.

    “Officer Porter!” she cried out, recognizing Rhea.

    Are you OK?” Rhea asked her. The girl seemed shaky.

    “Yeah. Yeah…” Sheena answered, unconvincingly then looked at the wrapped tacos.

    Rhea offered them to her, “One is oxtail.”

    Sheena flashed a brief smile as she took four of the little tacos, leaving the oxtail one. “I was looking for you. Where’ve you been?”

    “Sorta on a break.” Rhea admitted then asked again, “Everything OK?”

    Sheena, who’d devoured one taco already, shook her head.

    “What happened?” Rhea asked, concerned.

    “Nothing happened really, it’s just… There’s this smell…”

    “Where?” Rhea asked.

    “Down by camp.”

    Rhea looked at Sheena’s IKEA bag, “So you’re moving?”

    She nodded “Just until it goes away… “

    “It’s that bad?”

    “Yeah.” Sheena confirmed.

    Rhea tried to offer an explanation, “It’s probably just all the trash down there. Or maybe all the piss, soaking the ground.”

    “No…” Sheena said, thinking about it. Something was bothering her.

    “Could be the muck in the L.A. River.” was Rhea’s next idea.

    Sheena looked her in the eye, “It’s kind of a scary smell.”

  • Remains

    Rhea followed Sheena along the top rim of the cement embankment that cradled the LA river. It was a little after nine, daylight was almost gone. As they neared the Chavez Bridge, Sheena hesitated above a clutter of debris lumped under the bridge. Sheena’s camp.

    “Stay here.” Rhea told Sheena as she scrambled down the bank where the trickle of river water ambled under the bridge. She walked a few yards to the camp remains: a moldy sleeping bag, some squishy old sweat pants, three empty Cheetos bags and an empty can of Progresso Light Pot Pie soup.

    A sudden whoosh of air brushed down on her – a Santa Ana gust – that carried on it the smell. Unmistakable. She looked around for a body but she knew it would be a little farther away. She took another whiff then looked up the opposite embankment toward where it came from. A skinny coyote sauntered across the bridge just above. A woman in her twenties followed it, stopping mid-bridge to gaze out and around. It was the same woman who sat on the stone wall overlooking the reservoir. She was still barefoot. Noticing her, Was she homeless? Rhea wondered. Maybe not… she carried an old 35mm camera and an air of cool. The woman looked back at a building just behind her. Then she looked down at Rhea. A look came over her – a hesitant half-smile that pulled Rhea in like a memory.

    “Find anything?” Sheena’s voice broke the spell.

    Rhea turned. Sheena was about to skitter down the embankment.

    “Stay there!” Rhea called up to her. Rhea glanced back up at the woman on the bridge. She was moving on… just another hipster photog, Rhea figured, looking for a moody downtown LA pic.

    Rhea scrambled back up the embankment to where Sheena was waiting. “You have somewhere you can stay for a few nights?” she asked her.

    “What is it?” Sheena asked, unsure if she wanted to know.

    “Probably just a dead dog or racoon. I’ll get animal control to pick it up in the morning. Is there somewhere else you can crash-“

    “I’ll find somewhere–“

    “Try the shelter on San Pedro–“

    Sheena shook her head. Hard.

    “They’ve got better security now–” Rhea half-heartedly tried to convince her but Sheena wasn’t having it. Rhea understood – it would take an army of security and the compassion of masses to stem the violence and troubles of the homeless in LA. Rhea dug around in her pockets and gave Sheena all she had, almost seventeen dollars.

    “Get some food. And be careful–“

    Sheena took the money. Suddenly she grabbed Rhea and hugged her. “You too.” she cautioned then hurried across the street and headed downtown.

    Rhea walked across the Chavez Bridge. Below her was the homeless camp. Behind her was the city skyline. A few yards from the boulevard on the northeast side of the bridge was a sagging, shuttered old bar called Domingos. She went around to the back. She checked in trash cans and knee high weeds, sniffing and honing in on a spot behind an old tire.There it was: a rotting dead possum. She backed away then turned around. She was facing the back of the bar. She sniffed; smelling something else. She walked to the bolted back door and put her nose to the edge of it. She sniffed again. She went around to the front. That door was jammed tight with twenty years of grime and a ten dollar lock. Deciding the smell gave her cause, she jimmied it open. The whiff of charred beans kissed her as it escaped the place. She went inside.

    The light of an LA night bled through three small curtained windows. Her eyes adjusted to a hazy dimness. There was a bar against one wall, a pool table in the middle of the small room and a closed door in the back. A page of smoke slid out from under it. The door was locked. Three kicks knocked it open. Smoke veiled the room. Rhea walked through it. A blackened stove stood against a burned wall, splattered with the scorched remains of a pot of food that had exploded.

    Rhea slid a finger through a layer of wet soot, pitted by drops of water from the ceiling sprinklers that had put out the fire. But they hadn’t put it out fast enough. There was a spent extinguisher on the floor, still in the hand of a dead girl lying there. The girl looked around eleven. Her other arm reached out to two more dead girls, huddled together by the bolted back door. They looked about six and seven. Their arms were around each other. Their eyes were open. Their bodies were splattered with extinguisher foam. Their nostrils were blackened with smoke.

    Rhea checked them for a pulse. The youngest girl was still warm.

    She pressed the sides of the girl’s mouth open. Her blue lips puckered like a snapdragon. A poof of air slipped out, shimmered, then fluttered away, as though she’d exhaled one last dream.

    It made Rhea jump.

    Outside, on the cement bank across the river from Domingos, the young photographer dropped to one knee. She braced her elbow on her thigh to steady her lens and snapped off a half dozen pictures of a faint little puff of shimmering light as it rose up into the night sky just above Domingos.

    In the blackened kitchen, Rhea checked again for a pulse on the little girl. Nothing. The girl was dead. Rhea took out her phone and snapped a few pics of the three bodies. Then she called the boss.

  • Ice Cream

    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.”

  • Cold Tacos by the 101 Freeway

    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. I’m not stupid.” 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. Yeah, the kid was eighteen and she hadn’t paid him or officially broken the law but the image of her in the back seat of her car with him was seared to his retina. And it pissed him off. It hurt, too. Yeah that hurt was his; he wished it was hers, too. She had to 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, two dollars.

    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.

  • Peanut Butter Cups

    Fifty-four year old Leland Hays felt like he was aging well. After twenty two years of Juvederm, Sculptra, botox, two peels, an eyelid lift and a chin implant, he looked about forty four – still hot enough to get cool girls. Right then on the showroom floor of his furniture warehouse, he was bending a boyish young Thai waitress over the end of an antique platform bed he’d just imported from Mongolia and slamming her from behind. Next he bent her over an Indonesian loveseat, then a Moroccan chaise until he finally came in her over an oversized ottoman sadly re-upholstered in a purple and gold polyester damask. Not his best piece. He loved antiques and though these pieces were almost-antiques, they were mostly still beautiful and people in LA paid a decent price for them.

    Hays liked just hearing the sound of his own self at play so he’d told the waitress to keep quiet, if she did, he’d give her a present. She did make some noise unwrapping a peanut butter cup and eating it when she was bent over the chaise but other than that, she was good. He let her pick out a small punched tin Mexican lamp for her apartment before kicking her out.

    Rhea was parked outside, across the loading dock, watching a little green door under a nondescript sign that read: H&H Imports. The door opened. A young woman hurried out, carrying a Mexican lamp. She got in her Kia and drove away. Rhea opened her glove box and took out her badge, figuring she had only a few minutes until Strickland and Dawson showed up.

    Hays was in his office doing some inventory when someone started banging on the street door. Thinking maybe the waitress had forgotten something, he opened his door, still wearing his bathrobe. A woman cop named Porter who smelled like cilantro thrust a badge in his face and wanted to know if he owned a place called Domingos on Cesar Chavez.

    He knew she knew the answer so he told her he did. “Why?” he asked her, “What’s going on?”

    Before Rhea could answer, Strickland was beside her. Dawson was right behind.

    “There was a fire in the kitchen at Domingos.” Strickland stepped up, shooting Rhea a look and moving in front of her.

    Rhea bristled when Dawson added, “We found three bodies. Girls. They died trying to get out.”

    Hays froze, mind racing. A few microbladed eyebrow hairs twitched.

    “Know anything about them?” Dawson continued, showing Hays a picture of the dead girls. Hays looked quickly and shoved it away.

    “No. No – it’s a bar. We don’t let kids in there. Besides, it’s been closed for a couple weeks now–“

    “Why’s that?” Strickland asked.

    “Business dried up. I opened on weekends for awhile but not recently. I was really never there and frankly, I haven’t even driven by in over a week.” He waved his hand over the warehouse, “Furniture is my main business.”

    He stepped aside, allowing them a glance into the warehouse. It was cursory but something caught Rhea’s eye.

    “Anyone else have access to Domingo’s, Mr. Hays? A manager, bartender, friend?” Strickland continued.

    “I had a bartender but I laid her off when I closed the place. She gave her key back.” Hays told him.

    “What’s her name?”

    “Ahhh…” he thought for a moment, “Myrna.”

    “Last name?”

    Hays ran his hand through a shock of sandy blond hair plugs. “I really can’t remember.”

    “Want to check your records for us? Give us a name?” Dawson asked. Hays was quiet. “No records?” Dawson pressed.

    “She came in, asked for a job. She said she’d work for tips.” Hays smiled, “I’m sure she reported them all. I trust people, Detective… it’s the only way to get through life.”

    “Where do you get your furniture from?” Rhea asked, casually.

    “China, Indonesia, Thailand, a little from India, even a little from France.” Hays answered, always the salesman. “You looking for something in particular? We have good price on beds right now.”

    Rhea ignored him. She pointed to a spot inside, where a rustic Mexican desk stood. “That. What’s that? Indian?”

    “Ahh… Mexican.” Hays answered as Strickland looked back at Rhea. “We get a little of that but not much. Hard to compete with La Fuente and Direct From Mexico. I can give you a police discount. Five percent.”

    “Thanks. Let me think about it.” Rhea said, then added “You mind if I take a quick picture?”

    Hays stepped aside, gesturing for her to go ahead. As Rhea took her phone out and snapped a picture of the desk, Strickland followed her lead and asked:

    “How long have you been in the furniture business, Mr. Hays?”

    “Too long” Hays laughed, “A little over thirty years.”

    Dawson gave Hays his card and told him to call if he remembered anything.

    Hays had one last question, “Let me ask you– do you get rid of the bodies or–“

    Dawson explained that they’d handle it and let him know when he could have access back to Domingos. “Might be a week. Maybe less.” He told him. Hays nodded.

    As the detectives started to leave, Strickland turned back. “One last thing,” he asked, “You have insurance on the bar, right?”

    Hays nodded, “As basic as it gets. I’ll be lucky if they pay for a coat of paint. Believe me, I’m the one losing out here.”

    “And the dead girls.” Strickland reminded him.

    A smile slid onto Hays’s face like a cat’s second eyelid. “Of course, Detective; it’s very sad.” He closed the door.

    Rhea held back as Strickand and Dawson walked away.

    The two men reached Dawson’s car. It was parked next to Rhea’s. They waited for her to catch up.

    “That wasn’t cool, Porter.” Dawson started in on her.

    Rhea walked to her car, opened her car door, “Say hi to Stacey for me.”

    Dawson nodded.

    “You’ve been together a long time, yeah?” she asked, lingering; waiting for Strickland to get closer, within earshot.

    “Ten years.” Dawson admitted, curious–

    “What is she now, almost twenty-six?” Rhea commented. She looked at Strickland, got in her car and drove away.

  • Impossible

    In a Little Tokyo office, just 2 blocks from LAPD Headquarters, Dr. Elena Gallows was blending a kale and banana smoothie after a morning kickboxing workout. She stayed fit. She had to. Being a cop therapist wasn’t physical, but it may as well have been. Feeling strong, she was ready to take on the day, even ready to take on the surprise of Detective Rhea Porter knocking on her door. Their first and last session nearly two months ago was testy and when Rhea cut it short and left, Gallows didn’t really expect her back. Rhea looked good, though. Calmer.

    “No I don’t. I look like crap.” Rhea answered the shrink’s compliment.

    “Here we go.” Gallows thought but Rhea softened.

    “Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. Do you have time for me?”

    Gallows checked the clock. “I have a hazing-damaged rookie in twenty minutes.” she said then added. “You can have the twenty but it’s not going to be any easier than it was.”

    “I don’t care. I just need it to be fast.” Rhea informed her.

    “That’s up to you.” Gallows slammed back.

    The Doctor gestured to a seat next to a potted orchid. Rhea sat, the orchid caught her eye. It was fake. Gallows prided herself on being healthy and all-natural, yet here she was with a fake orchid. This made the doctor somehow flawed in Rhea’s eyes. It made her opinion matter less. Still, she needed the doctor on her side. She needed the doctor to tell Strickland that she was cured of her need for young men so he’d put her back on the squad.

    “Nice orchid.” Rhea smiled.

    “Thank you.” Gallows responded. “Ready?”

    “Ready.” she told the shrink.

    “Let’s start with your sister.” Gallows dove in.

    “OK.”

    “Do you feel responsible?”

    “Oh… we’re starting there.”

    “Yep. You want fast. Let’s do it.”

    “Ok…” Rhea let out a breath, “Yes.”

    “You feel responsible.”

    “I am responsible.”

    “So you seek out men… young men… who cannot love you to punish yourself.”

    “I seek out men who can fuck a lot for a long time because it stops me from thinking about dead kids, missing kids, abducted kids, homeless kids and how there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

    “You could start with yourself.”

    “No comparison. He wasn’t a kid. He was legal age and I don’t do that anymore, doctor.” Rhea lied, “Not in awhile.

    Gallows checked Rhea’s file. “The one you were caught with – Kevin?”

    Rhea nodded and pointed out, “”Caught” is a strong word.”

    Gallows leaned back. “Correct me Miss Porter.”

    Rhea copied her; leaned back too, “… Glimpsed. Noticed.”

    “You were suspended. Detective Sergeant Strickland recommended suspending you because… you were noticed?”

    “He said it looked bad. To the division.”

    “The Exploited Kids Division.” Gallows said, emphasizing “kids”.

    “He was eighteen.” Rhea repeated.

    “And a pro.” Gallows added.

    Rhea opened her hands, gesturing that either she didn’t know or it didn’t matter, then added, “That’s on him.”

    Gallows let it go. She had another direction to explore: “Maybe Detective Strickland was also concerned about you.” She told Rhea.

    There was no way Rhea was gonna tell a shrink who worked for the force that maybe Strickland had a thing for her; that maybe he was jealous; that maybe he was inappropriately using authority to punish her for his desire. Rhea couldn’t prove any of it and Gallows would take months delving into it. Gallows was a shrink. And shrinks loved shrinking. Better to give her less to shrink about.

    “Maybe…” Rhea answered.

    “Do you like being a cop?” Gallows asked, changing direction again.

    “Yes.” Rhea answered.

    “Why?”

    “I like busting bad guys.”

    “You feel like you’re making a difference?”

    “No. I’ve busted forty-two preds in seventeen years. Each time I thought it was going to change things– well, at least slow down the horror. It did not make one bit of difference. Kid trafficking”, she answered, emphasizing ‘kid’, — is a booming business.”

    “So… forty-two days out of seventeen years you liked your job?”

    “No. I like going to work. I like chasing some bastard down. I like thinking it might be the one who took Aggie. I still like thinking I might find her.”

    Gallows checked her file again, “It’s been how long–?”

    “Twenty two years. She was five.” they were both quiet for awhile. “There’s a chance.” Rhea affirmed.

    “OK. Look, Detective–” Gallows sounded blunt–

    “I’m done with them. With younger men.” Rhea interrupted.

    Gallows ignored her, “You are not going to get your job back if you don’t stop–“

    “I have stopped–” Rhea interrupted.

    Gallows carried on, “–if you don’t sop with the boys–“

    “Young men.” Rhea corrected her.

    Gallows continued, “And you can’t stop until you stop the need to destroy yourself.”

    “No–” Rhea shook her head.

    “I know this is tough–“

    “No no no–” Rhea went on.

    “But to do that, we have to get you to a place where you can feel good about yourself and to do that–“

    “Don’t say it–” Rhea kept on.

    “–like I told you before, you will have to forgive yourself for what happened to your sister.”

    Without hesitation, Rhea affirmed, “Not gonna happen.”

    “Forgiveness can be powerful.”

    Rhea matched her, “My power is guilt.”

    Gallows looked at the clock. Time was up. She stood up. So did Rhea. Rhea stuck out her hand, hoping. Gallows hesitated, then shook it. Then she held on and looked Rhea in the eye. “Fridays are good. Before nine or after four thirty. When you’re ready.” Gallows smiled and let go.

    Rhea left.

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