Chapter Seventeen

 

Hollenbeck Station, Los Angeles…December 5, 1:00pm

 

          Rebecca leaned way back in her chair raising both arms high above her head in an over the top big girl stretch. Yawning audibly she shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her weary brain. She wasn’t tired just fatigued. Clenching her hands into tiny fists she rubbed her eyes and prepared to get up and go to the loo to wash her face with some cold water. Suddenly she was startled by a loud familiar noise. Flinching she looked up from her reading and watched her partner flop down into his chair at the desk directly across from her. “Darn it Iggie, can’t you see I’m working here?”

“So am I detective,” he replied taking a loud bite from the Fuji apple he had just polished to a shiny red/orange hue on the lapel of his sport coat.

“By the way, here’s your corned beef on rye. Hope you like extra mustard and pickles. Oh, and I may have taken a bite too,” Iggie said tossing a brown sack onto her desk.

“HEY! Boundaries Iggie, geeze, and thank you.”   What an ass she thought. Becca noticed that he always seemed so out of place in a coat and tie. She suspected that off the job he wandered around Hermosa Beach hitting his favorite watering holes like The Mermaid near the pier, a dive bar frequented primarily by old dudes who sat at the windows facing the beach to watch bikini clad women jumping and diving on the tournament style volleyball courts. She pictured him sitting there in a pair of board shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops, swilling pitcher after pitcher of Budweiser, his favorite brew.

“I see, well can you keep it down for a few minute while I finish what I’m doing?”

Becca lowered her eyes and considered opening the sack and devouring the sandwich, she was famished having worked through lunch. Instead she opted to continue reading her notes and hold her water for a while longer. As quietly as he could, save intermittent bites of his apple, Iggie watched her study her notes. Becca tried her best to tune him out, but it was hard to concentrate with him chewing noisily with his mouth open. He really was a piggy. She wished that she had gone to the library at lunch instead of staying in to gather her thoughts. Fueled only by some awful station house coffee and some saltine crackers her stomach growled. She could feel Iggie watching her, evaluating her and braced herself for the inevitable interruption. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Iggie finally uttered.

“Cost you more than that buddy, I ain’t cheap,” Becca quipped halfheartedly.

“Har-de-har-har, good one. Really, what are you working on?”

“Just going over my case notes,” she replied.

“The Mallory case?”

“Yes.” Iggie tossed the apple core into the circular file under his desk. He reached into his coat and retrieved his own steno pad from the inside pocket. In a quick movement he flipped it open. Thumbing through it, he stopping on a dog-eared page.

“Okay newbie let’s compare notes. What’s your theory so far?”

Becca wasn’t really prepared to share her thoughts yet, but even though she found her partner crude and a bit misogynistic, he was also a seasoned professional. Not to mention being her training officer.  She decided to throw caution to the wind and brainstorm with the man. After all, he had proved himself worthy of her respect on the last case that they worked together. The Mei Li Teng (a.k.a. Sally November) murder. They had teamed up with former LAPD detective turned private investigator, Whitey Roode to track down what turned out to be a serial killer. It was her first major case and it ended in a shootout at a Las Vegas police station. Exciting times and it was Becca who took down the killer herself while she was stuffed into an airshaft. She remembered laying prone in that small space, sweating profusely while she waited for the perp to literally crawl right into her line of fire. She winced, the memory still fresh in her mind’s eye. Her ears had rung painfully for weeks afterward. Becca set down her notebook and looked up. “You first,” she said.

Iggie chuckled, “Okay, age before beauty, I can live with that,” he replied.

He licked his thumb and peeled back a few pages in his note pad. Clearing his throat he began to share his thoughts so far.

“So, I’m wondering what would drive a mother, a very young mother that, to choose such an awful fate. What sort of desperation could have pushed her into so dark a corner? Choosing to end not only for her own life but the life of her innocent child as well. What was she afraid of? Who was she afraid of? Murder/suicide makes quite a statement, what was she trying to say? I think we need to start with who was closest to her in the days before her decision. Start with the priest, Father Quinn, and work our way backwards and build a timeline. Textbook investigating, detective 101 sort of. Are you with me so far? What do you think?”

“Yeah I think so, but you’re just scratching the surface. Do you have a working theory to build on?”

“Patience young-un,” Iggie said in a fatherly tone. Becca rolled her eyes.

“Remember, multiple witnesses said that they heard the mother yell before lighting the match, ‘father, I love you!’  So, who was she talking about? The priest, Father Quinn? Her own father? The father of her child, whoever that might be? My theory is that one of those fellas is likely the lynchpin in this tragedy, savvy,” explained Iggie.

Becca rolled her eyes again. She hated it when Iggie would mansplain everything like she was clueless. She thought that she had earned a little more respect after Vegas. Guess as far as her Iggie was concerned she was still a work in progress.

Iggie continued, “So consider this, what if they are all the same person?”

Becca snorted audibly and stifled a laugh. “That’s your theory? Are you suggesting that Father Quinn is all three, priest, daddy, and father of her kid? Is that what you are thinking?” she asked frowning,

“What, no good? Why not, it’s not impossible,” he replied.

“Might be possible biologically, but highly improbable. I can’t see it. My early research into Father Quinn is preliminary but so far he’s a well-respected member of the clergy and the community. People like him, they say he’s a good egg to quote one parishioner.”

Iggie leaned back in his chair and spoke over his hands laced together in front of his face. His mood had shifted slightly and he did not try to mask his annoyance with his rookie charge. “It’s a theory Rebecca, maybe not a good one in your opinion, but it is meant to be a starting point. A disciplined investigator never throws the baby out with the bathwater. As unlikely as it might seem, it is where we are going to start our investigation. My call, I am the lead on this case, don’t make the mistake of forgetting that. Are we clear?”

Becca resisted the urge to challenge or contradict her training officer and nodded submissively but with an unmistakable defiant look in her dark black eyes. Nothing to be gained here by escalating this beyond the nickel lecture he had laid on her. In this case silence was golden. She knew that her silent rebellion had not gone unnoticed either. Actually Iggie looked pleased to see it. She was pretty sure that he would attribute it to his stern yet magnanimous supervision. What a goofball.

Iggie continued, interrupting the uncomfortable silence. “Look I realize it’s a longshot, a stretch, but that’s how ya do it. Think of every possibility, every angle. Approach this like a sculptor approaches a block of clay. You start pecking away, piece by piece you eliminate the noise until you get to the hidden art, in our case the truth. That’s the way I look at it anyway,” he said with a smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

Becca was taken aback. That really made sense. That was almost profound and completely unexpected. She felt a little guilty judging him so shallowly. Clearly there was more to this man than she had unfairly led herself to believe. Never judge a book by its cover. She had read that somewhere. Becca decided an apology was in order.

“Huh, I see what you mean Iggie. I’m sorry for throwing rocks so quickly. I spoke too soon, my bad, rookie mistake boss,” she offered with a sheepish grin.

“No harm no foul Becca. Olay, time to get to work. First up we roll through the five W’s. Who, what, when, where, and why. We start with what and who we know, specifically the principle players in this sad story, Megan Mallory, her child name unknown, and Father Nicholas Quinn. Let’s go to the conference room, break out the dry erase markers and post-it notes and start mapping the timeline and connect the personal histories.”

This was the fun part as far as Iggie was concerned. He beamed slightly, pleased with how Rebecca Tran was progressing, convinced that he was the main reason. The kid had guts, she proved that in Vegas when she gunned down that serial killer Jai Lai. Sure, she was a brat, but she was a cute brat and she made Iggie smile.

“Okay Detective Tran, grab your stuff and follow me to conference room B. Let’s kick this pig,” Iggie said as he gathered his own stuff, turned and led the way.

THE GUMSHOE DIARIES

Father Hollyweird 

Chapter Sixteen

Hollenbeck Station, Los Angeles…December 5, 11:30am 

            Becca Tran sat at her gray metal desk across from her partner Detective 1^st grade Bob Ingram, affectionately known around the stationhouse as ‘Iggie’. Secretly she referred to him as ‘piggy’ for reasons one could easily understand if one had ever spent any time confined with the man in a plain wrap car on stakeout. Given his steady diet of chilidogs and Fritos it was no wonder. They had come back to the house around 11am after wasting the morning running around town looking for Father Nicholas Quinn, hoping to pick his brain about the Malloy murder/suicide. Becca wanted to explore a possible connection to the murder in Echo Park the other night. She had a hunch that Father Quinn and Megan Malloy might somehow be linked to the victim, one Alex Whembly. It was a longshot, there wasn’t any obvious connection between them other than both Megan and Alex were parishioners of the good Father’s Church. But as they had nothing so far it was worth a look she thought. Becca hadn’t mentioned this to Iggie yet because she knew that he would just whine that she was too green to have hunches and that still had a lot to learn. “Well Iggie can go ’f’ himself,” Becca mumbled to herself as she thumbed through pages in her steno pad. She doodled in the margins as she studied her notes, a habit she started in High School. Suddenly she was startled by a loud thump from the desk across from hers. It was Iggie returning from his pre-lunch dump, the oaf was nothing if not regular. Becca glanced up and gave him the stink eye.

“Nice look doll-face, did I scare you junior?” Iggie said as he flopped into is squeaky chair spilling a little coffee onto his desk, which he wiped up with his tie.

“Really Iggie? Do you have to be an ass all of the time?” Becca said rolling her eyes as she returned to studying her notes.

Ignoring her sarcastic jab Iggie shuffled through some paperwork in front of him, then looked at his desk phone to see if the message light was on, it wasn’t. Leaning back he stretched and surveyed the squad room. Not much activity at the moment, just a few detectives eating sack lunches at their desks. A couple uniforms he knew were leading someone in cuffs to a small holding cell near the interrogation room. He gave them a head nod then knocked lightly on his desk to get Becca’s attention as he stood up and grabbed his coat. Uncharacteristically, Iggie decided to take the high road and invite Becca to lunch. “So me and Bax are going to ‘Show-Him-You like Him’ for some mile high pastrami. You wanna tag along?” he asked.

“No thanks, enjoy.” Becca declined quickly.

“Suit yourself. You want me to bring you back anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Well alright then. Bax is gonna be sorry he missed you. I think he’s interested partner if you get my drift.” Iggie replied as he turned to leave, a wry grin on his face.

Hitting a nerve with the Bax revelation, Becca suddenly put down her pen and looked up. Not wanting to appear too obvious she quickly thought of a safe way to change her mind.

“Wait a sec Iggie, I thought that place closed down after the queer owners’ murder suicide. I mean they’ve been lights out for over a year.”

Iggie stopped and turned around. “It did but the innocent half of that couple, ‘Uncle Lou’ gave the restaurant and his estate including the swank penthouse apartment over the business to his nephew in his will. This guy is a real character, way over the top. Everyone calls him ‘Lil Steve-O’, it’s an oxymoron because little he ain’t,” Iggie replied grinning.

“The innocent half?” asked Becca.

“Yeah, if you recall the other half, Uncle Jai, was shot and killed by half naked you in the airshaft upstairs.” Iggie answered rolling his eyes.

Blushing in humiliation she replayed the incident in her minds’ eye, remembering the entire scene with LA private investigator Whitey Roode and then detective Sgt. Wally Price out of Las Vegas. It was a painful memory she had buried, it was the first and only time she had ever puller her weapon as well as the first and only time she had taken a life. Didn’t matter that it was a righteous shoot as the Department determined, it didn’t matter that the perp was a dangerous serial killer, the man was a human being and she killed him. Her ears rang for weeks after the shooting and she hid from everyone that she was still trying to wash the blood off her hands. Of course the Bax comment didn’t help either as the attraction there was mutual. That part was none of Iggie’s business so she ignored and it.   

Hoping that she didn’t reveal anything she replied quickly. “Of course I remember Iggie, don’t read anything into that, my mind was elsewhere. We’re working a pretty big case right now, remember!”

Iggie raised his arms in a mocked surrender, “Alright partner, nuff said, everyone reacts differently to their first time. So you coming or not?”

Becca replied, relieved that her partner had not pressed her further about that day or about Officer Bax, “No I’m; going to work through lunch, I’ve got some thoughts about the case that I want to explore. You go ahead and give my apologies to Bax and his partner. And if it’s not too much trouble bring me back a corned beef on rye.”

“Okay young-un I’ll comp you a sandwich, but you owe me one. And as for Bax the rookie, for what it’s worth he seems like a good guy. Hell. I’d date him if I swung that way,” Iggie replied chuckling as he exited the squad room.

            Becca went back to work with a secret sigh. So, she had caught the rookie’s eye. She had suspected that all along. A girl can tell these things, it’s their DNA. She went back to work with a renewed enthusiasm. She continued reviewing her notes, cross checking with data from the Echo Park murder book. There weren’t any obvious connections between Megan Mallory and the victim, Alex Whembley. She kept digging adding the priest, Father Quinn into her calculus. Slowly her thought bubbles started to overlap. While there was no threads directly linking the three individuals, there was a foundation for potential coincidences. That foundation was the church. That’s where Becca would start tomorrow, after she presented her train of thought to her partner. Whether she liked it or not, Iggie was the ranking team member and she had to get him on board before explored the church angle. She knew it would be a difficult sell, but she had strong hunch. All she needed to do now was convince Iggie it was a good hunch. That meant she had to cleverly lead him down a path that allowed him to draw the same conclusions.

She figured that if she approached this like building a puzzle it would be easier to draw Iggie into her way of thinking. Basically seasoned puzzle builders knew that the best way to start was to connect together all of the boarder pieces. And the most important pieces were the four corners. All she had to do was convince her partner that Megan, Alex, and Father Quinn were three of the four corners. And that the missing fourth corner might be found by exploring a potential connection at the church. Becca laced her fingers behind her head and leaned back in her chair. She stared up at the ceiling and counted the tiles. She multiplied the number of tiles in the length and width of the room to arrive at a base number. Then applied some algebra to factor the several tile abutments to arrive at a credible estimate of how many tiles were used to complete the room. To her mind math and detective work relied on the same basic principle, logic. Unfortunately, Detective Ingram was not Mr. Spock, so the logic angle was going to be a hard sell. Shit!

"Obvious conclusions are only obvious after you've tripped over them"...Nicholas Sheridan Stanton - author...

For my family

THE GUMSHOE DIARIES

Father Hollyweird

Chapter Fifteen

McArthur Park, Los Angeles…December 5, 8:00am 

            December in Los Angeles means warm sunshine and cool crisp air courtesy the Pacific Ocean which loomed large just a few miles to the west. Father Quinn enjoyed early morning walks like this, which he did daily except for when a film project forced a change in his routine. He walked down the stairs leading into McArthur Park, LA’s version of NYC’s Central Park. The air was cold enough this morning to leave a vapor trail as he walked along the pathway. Each exhale revealed by a tiny cloud of carbon dioxide. Still it was a far cry from the constant rainfall this time of year back in Ireland where the man spent the first half of his life as a footballer prior to entering the priesthood. Word is he was a pretty good midfielder back in the day actually. I watched him as he entered the park and strolled the path near the small man-made lake. Perhaps he was reminiscing, it was possible. He definitely looked like he was mulling something over by the look on his face.

            Even though early morning constitutionals like this were part of his daily routine, today Father Quinn had an ulterior motive for being in the park. He was here to meet with me to compare notes on the Alex Whembley angle. If he was right this young man could be the alibi that exonerates him, and the Church for that matter where Megan Malloy and her baby were concerned. The priest had mentioned a letter sent to a nun at The Immaculate Heart of Mary by the young man. Sister Patricia Cromwell, Sister Pat to anyone who knew her longer than fifteen minutes. She was very popular among the congregation. The Sister was soft hearted with a warm and pleasant demeanor. And apparently this nun had been a confidant of Alex and, by that association, with Megan Mallory as well. An interesting revelation that motivated me to skip my breakfast and get here early. 

I watched the Priest make his way along the footpath to where we agreed to meet. I kept out of sight for the moment and studied him as he got closer. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see, maybe nothing, but after 25 years on the job I’d learned that it really was better to be safe than sorry. He stopped about 50 yards from where I was standing and exhaled deeply. The man appeared a little winded from the long walk from the Church and I sympathized immediately as age was creeping up on me as well. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a timepiece. By my Timex he was a little early which explained why he started looking all around trying to spot me. That was when I stepped out into the open and strolled over to a bench on the pathway. I waived at the Priest as I reached the bench and waited for him. He nodded in acknowledgement picked up the pace. I think it surprised him that I arrived before he did. Pretty sure he expected me to be a slacker. Well, like they say, “don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Top of the morning you’re Grace,” I said with only a hint of sarcasm.

“Father Quinn will do detective,” the Priest replied extending his hand.

I reached out and we shook hands gently, then I reached into the paper sack I was holding and offered him coffee in a paper cup. “It’s black, I assumed you took your coffee like a man,” I said.

“I do, what gave me away?” he replied.

“I have to be honest, you were drinking coffee when we first met at one of your shoots downtown and I have a eidetic memory, sort of.”

“Really? Well I rather doubt that but I’m impressed nonetheless.” He said accepting the coffee and removing the lid to blow across the top. We sat beside each other and sipped at our coffee quietly for a couple of minutes. Of course, not having the patience God gave a tse tse fly I broke the silence straight away. 

“Looks like it’ll be a warm one today.” I said clumsily, never being one for small talk.

“I suppose,” replied the Priest.

I got right to the point, “So did you bring the letter Father?”

“I did.”

I waited a nanosecond, “Okay well you know something about football Padre, pass it!” 

       Father Quinn grinned, apparently amused by my street humor. He opened the folder under his arm, removed an envelope and handed it to me. I grabbed it quickly and removed the one page handwritten letter, unfolded it and began to scan it. Uncomfortably I reached into my jacket for my reading glasses. “Huh, must be the glare.” I said sheepishly as I put them onto my face and started to read.

“Positively blinding I must agree,” Father Quinn replied sarcastically as he mockingly shielded his eyes from the sun. We sat together in silence while I read through the letter from Alex Whembley to Sister Pat. I took my time, read it twice pausing a couple of times to chew on bits and pieces of what Alex shared with the elderly nun. Without commenting I removed my glasses and returned them to my jacket pocket and then refolded the letter. put it back into the envelope and handed it back to the priest. He waited a moment before speaking. “Your thoughts detective?”

“Well if the letter is legit you and the Church can breathe easy because this gets you both off of the hot seat. No pun intended.”

“None taken. How exactly would this exonerate us?” asked the Priest.

I turned in my seat to face him and replied, “Well for one thing it adds two new suspects to the line-up, Mr. Ipso and Mr. Facto, i.e. Alex and his obliging Dad. Which sort of overshadows your working relationship with Megan.”

“You’re implying that Alex was the father of Megan’s child? You think that he somehow provoked Megan’s suicide?”

“Possibly, actually it’s highly likely. But my gumshoe intuition is telling me to be careful not to jump at the first theory. I want to dive a little deeper into this and see what’s lurking beneath the obvious.” 

“I believe that Alex was the father of the child alright, but I’m less sure that it was Alex that drove Megan to suicide.”

Father Quinn rubbed at his chin and thought a moment. “I see, but why on Earth would you suspect the boy’s father?” asked the Priest.

“It was Alex who put that pebble in my shoe when he revealed that he told his Dad about Megan’s situation. And I got the impression that he didn’t like Daddy-O’s reaction to the news. It wasn’t what he wrote so much but what he didn’t write. I’m reading between the lines here and I need to use my gumshoes instincts now.”

“So you plan to interview Mr. Whembley now?”

“Nope. I’d like to talk to Sister Pat first. If that’s jake with you of course Father.”

“If you’re asking my permission you needn’t. That’ll be up to Sister Pat but I see no reason for her to object. What exactly does ‘jake’ mean anyway?”

“It’s just a bygone slang term we used back in the old neighborhood, same as okay.”

“Oh, well then it’s jake with me if you speak with Sister Patricia. I assume you’ll want to talk with her as soon as possible.”

“Natch, that’s short for naturally. Can you arrange that Padre?”

“Natch, I’ll see if she can make time for you later this afternoon.”

          Tossing what was left of my coffee onto the grass behind me I looked around for the nearest rubbish bin to deposit the Styrofoam cup into. I spotted one a few yards away and excused myself. “Just a sec Padre, let me toss this empty cup and I’ll be right back. I have one more question for ya.” 

The priest nodded an acknowledgement as he stood up to stretch his legs. I tossed the empty cup in the bin and walked back slowly, giving the priest a once over. You never know about people, they can surprise you if you let your guard down. This letter would get him and the Church out of a jam, if it’s legit that is. First thing they teach you in detective school is the five “whys,” who, what, when, where, and why. The tricky one is always “why.” I needed to talk with Sister Pat and drill into why this letter surfaced now. Why hadn’t she showed this to Father Quinn sooner? Why indeed.

“One last question Father, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, what is it my son?”

I grinned at the ‘my son’ reference. I haven’t been called that since my mother died, God rest her soul. “Has anyone else seen this letter? I mean besides you and Sister Pat.”

The priest rubbed at his chin, “to my knowledge no, but you’d best ask Sister Patricia that question, she would know best I expect.”

“Why do you ask?” added Father Quinn.

       It was my turn to rub at my chin, “Well to be honest I’m not exactly on good terms with the LAPD and as you may know they are investigating Alex Whembly’s murder. Looking into this letter will likely find me crossing paths with them. They take a dim view of outsiders interfering with their business. They call it obstruction of justice, and I don’t want to wind up in the pokey if you get my drift. That won’t do either of us any good, you or me.”

“Indeed. I had not considered that, but surely they would welcome any help that you could provide, wouldn’t they?” asked the priest naively.

“You’d think so wouldn’t you! But no, those guys are territorial and I need to stay out of the way or at least out of sight. My job is to quietly clear you. I’ll figure out how to leave an easy trail for the cops to follow once I figure out what’s what. This letter puts me a step ahead of them, that’s why it’s important to know who else may have seen it.”

“Understood. How can I assist you?”

“Just keep your trap shut about this Padre, and make sure Sister Pat does likewise. Remember, loose lips sink ships. Go about your business as you normally would and as far as anyone, and I mean anyone, is concerned this meeting never happened. Understand?”

“Of course, you’ll keep me informed of your progress I expect?”

“I’ll let you know what you need to know when you need to know it Father.”

Father Quinn studied me pensively for a moment and then nodded an acknowledgement. I could see the wheels turning in his expression, he wasn’t accustomed to being talked to in such a manner but he held his tongue and swallowed his pride. That was a good sign, the last thing I needed was any amateur kibitzing that might tip off the cops to the trail I was on. I gave the priest a pat on the shoulder and we walked out of the park in opposite directions.

You only live once...but if you do it right, once is enough!.... Mae West

For my family

THE GUMSHOE DIARIES

Father Hollyweird

Chapter Fourteen

Baxter Stairway, Los Angeles…December 4

        Officers Perez and Kingman climbed back into their black and white. It was 7:15am and their shift would end on the drive back to the stationhouse. Neither was looking forward to the hour or so of paperwork required before clocking out, a part of the job that was a universal drag among the rank and file. Officer Bix Kingman yawned as he strapped himself into the passenger seat. Rubbing his eyes with one hand he reached over and grabbed the radio mic with the other and informed dispatch that they were on the move.

“Man, I’m beat!” exclaimed Sgt. Perez through a yawn of his own.

        Ray Perez put the Crown Royal into gear and sped off down Avon toward Ward and Hollenbeck Station. He covered his face to mask another deep yawn. It had been a long night of mostly just standing around while the detectives and the CSI techs did their thing at the murder scene. Ray was looking forward to a hot cup of bad coffee back at the house. He glanced over at Bix who had returned the mic to the radio and slumped back into his seat. The big rookie leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Did you ever think about going for a gold shield and becoming a detective?” he asked Ray out of the blue.

Ray thought about that and rubbed and at his five o’clock shadow before answering. “Once or twice I guess. I’m pretty sure that most patrol officers wonder about it off and on,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Yeah well you know what usually happens to curious cats don’t you,” Ray replied making a slashing motion across his throat.

Bix chuckled, “Okay, ‘nuff’ said I guess,” he replied.

        They drove in silence until they hopped on the 10 Freeway for the last leg home. Bix was resting his eyes but still alert, he hadn’t dozed off yet. Keeping his eyes closed he broke the silence, “I think I’d like to be a detective one day,” he announced nonchalantly.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into that have you rookie?” Ray asked sarcastically.

“Actually I have,” Bix answered opening his eyes and sitting up straight. “My whole family is in law enforcement in one way or another. Mom and Pop want me to follow my older brother’s lead and go to law school and work for the District Attorney’s Office. ‘It’s safer baby my Mom says,’ she’s always worrying about me being out here in the shit.”

“Yep, Moms are like that,” Ray replied as he changed lanes to come alongside a young lady talking on her cell phone. He gave her a warning stare and she tossed her phone into the back seat and gave Ray a guilt ridden smile.

“Why haven’t you gone for a Detective shield? I mean what keeps you on the streets anyway?” Bix asked.

Ray didn’t hesitate to answer, “The action rookie, I’m an adrenalin junkie. Detectives do way too much paperwork to suit me, and from what I’ve seen sit on their asses too long yacking on the phone,” he answered with a big grin.

Bix snorted a reply with a not so subtle warning, “Yeah well most junkies OD eventually, I’m just saying.”

“I already have a mother thank you very much!” snapped Ray Perez, his mood changing quickly.

Bix held up his hands as if to surrender, “Sorry, not my business,” he replied, turning in his seat to look out his window and avoid exacerbating whatever had set off his training officer.

“You’re goddamn right it’s not! So let’s just drop it and relax the rest of the way back to the house. That okay with you?” Ray said through clenched teeth.

“Roger that boss, this is me zipping my lip,” replied Bix quickly.

“GOOD!”

        The two officers drove the rest of the way in dead silence, each of them secretly wishing they could take back that last few minutes. Partners are like that, especially police officers. No relationship is ‘spat free’, people are people eventually they say or do the wrong thing. Cops see each other at their best and at their worst, often times in extremely tense situations. And because they place their very lives in the hands of the person riding next to them there has to be a bond of trust that goes beyond that of even a marriage. Any less than that could prove fatal.

Hollenbeck Station, Los Angeles…December 4…8:00am

        Wally Price stood near the rear entrance of the squad room sipping on a mug of coffee that had already began to cool. He had been waiting impatiently for Ray and Bix to return from their shift. He checked his Timex, it was after eight o’clock and they should have been back by now. He was about to get dispatch to contact them when he spotted the two officers appeared through the wired glass of the heavy door.  They barged into the room and were met with an icy stare that neither of them was expecting this early in the morning.

“Long night fellas?” Lt. Price asked sarcastically.

”Something wrong LT?” Ray Perez answered, visibly startled by Lieutenant’s presence.

Lt. Wally Price glared at them without responding, it was making Bix sweat nervously. Ray just sighed and waited, he was used to the new Lieutenant’s mannerisms. Actually he was a pretty good leader, his bark worse than his bite. Ray was just tired and he hated it when a boss dragged out an ass chewing. After an uncomfortable minute Lt. Price moved away from the counter and stood toe to toe with Sgt. Ray Perez, towering over him with his six foot four inch frame.

“What I want to know officers is which one of you two is feeding Whitey Roode information about the crispy kiddies’ case,” he asked, his gaze alternating between the two officers.

“What are you talking about? Neither one of us is talking to that PI. Hell, Bix here hasn’t been here long enough even know who Whitey is anyway,” Ray answered, his tone slightly defiant.

“Look LT, if you think there’s a leak you should hit up Detective Ingram, I hear he and Roode go way back,” Ray added, not bothering to hide his irritation.

        Price relaxed a bit and considered Ray’s response. That did make more sense and nobody at this precinct knew of his own connection to Whitey Roode and Iggie Ingram for that matter. For now he’d play it cool as he stepped back to give Sgt. Price his personal space back. He held out his thick paw and offered to shake Ray Perez’ hand, he accepted.

“Sorry Sargent, chalk it up to an especially shitty morning. As soon as I walked in the door at 7am I started taking crap, first from the Mayor’s office and then from the Arch Diocese. Both of them up demanding status reports on our investigation of that murder suicide of the young mother and child burned alive outside the Egyptian Theater,” Price explained apologetically.

“So what’s the PI have to do with all of this?” Bix asked, relaxing.

Lt. Price answered with a frown, “His Honor the Mayor hates that guy! He’s been the butt of many a joke around town about being made a fool of by an ex-cop turned gumshoe who seems to be one step ahead of the LAPD on several high profile cases since he was kicked off the force. He called Chief Celeya who also loathes the rat bastard and wanted to know why Roode was poking his big nose in LAPD business, who he was talking to him from inside, and what we were going to do about it short of shooting him.”

Ray grinned and spoke up quickly, “Say the word LT and we’ll haul him in directly. You can quiz him yourself.”

Price snickered as he conjured up an image of Whitey getting grilled in the interrogation room by the Chief and the Mayor. Now that would be a hoot, he’d even buy a ticket for that show. Why not he thought. “Good idea Perez, consider yourself approved for a little OT. Take your partner there and bring me a gumshoe for breakfast.”

Ray rolled his eyes, he was tired and just wanted to go home to his wife and kids. “Seriously LT, can’t you send another unit, Bix and I have already pulled a double shift,” he whined.

“This won’t take long men, Whitey is a creature of habit. It’s Friday, that means he’s at the Nickel Diner downtown on 5^th Street. He’ll be pigging out on bacon donuts and coffee until 9 or 10, so you’ll have no trouble picking him up. Tell him I sent you,” Lt Price said reassuringly.

“What makes you so sure about that LT?” Ray asked.

“Just bring him in and I’ll tell you all about it later,” Price snapped as he brushed past Sgt. Perez and headed back to his office.

“Weird,” Bix said, watching the lieutenant turn the corner and disappear.

“I’ll say,” replied Ray Perez. He pulled out the car keys and tossed them to his partner. “Let’s go rookie, you drive.”

“Really?”

“First time for everything son. Try not to kill us on the way,” Ray answered, walking past Bix and out the door to the motor pool.

"Faithless love will find you and the misery entwine you. Faithless love, where did I go wrong..."

For my family

THE GUMSHOE DIARIES

Father Hollyweird

Chapter Thirteen

Los Angeles Mission, East 5^th Street…Dec 4, 1:30pm

             Patricia Cromwell, Sister Pat, dried her soapy hands with a gingham dishtowel in the kitchen. She had just finished the dishes from the lunch rush and it was time to take her own meal with the other volunteers in the dining hall. There were only a handful of people sharing the large room as only the faithful dared chow down on leftovers here. Most of the crew and that included members of the clergy preferred to venture out into the city rather than take their chances on these table scraps. She couldn’t blame them, the vow of poverty didn’t mean that one had to risk their lives for goodness sake. The nun pieced together a modest and healthy lunch consisting largely of salad greens and veggies and piled it onto a clean white Corel dish. She placed the dish and a cup of hot tea onto a heavy plastic tray and walked out into the hall to find an empty table. She was feeling a tad pensive today and preferred to eat alone in silence with her thoughts.

            Sister Pat liked coming here, it gave her a chance to get out of her routines at the Church as well as at the mother’s shelter and still serve God. She had been volunteering at the mission since the early 80’s, back when the LA Mission was over on Los Angeles Street. She enjoyed working with the wide variety of volunteers from all walks of life, especially the young people. They helped to keep her young at heart and she liked hearing their unique and individual perspectives about the world and their neighborhoods. Truth be told she enjoyed seeing the secular world through their eyes and unbeknownst to them existed vicariously alongside them through their stories and experiences. She had no regrets about her choice to serve God and the Holy Church, but once in a while she enjoyed stepping outside of herself and indulge her imagination. Even Nuns and Priests were susceptible to playing the ‘what if’ game sometimes, after all they were humans as well.

            Sister Pat sat in silence and picked at her food. Her stomach was still tied in knots and her mind spinning from the letter she received yesterday. It was waiting for her in the office and she had retrieved it after evening prayers. She remembered how strange it felt to receive an actual letter in the era of emails and texts. It was rare to receive anything but bills and junk mail. Yes, nuns have lives too, nobody is safe from spam and the government. Curious though, she had no family and her small circle of friends lived with her at the convent. So outside of an occasional Christmas or Easter card the only mail she received were a few bills, notices from the government at tax time and communiques from the Diocese Personnel Office. So this letter intrigued her and she was hesitant to open it straight away. She knew it was silly, she had nothing to be nervous or afraid of, her mundane life revolved around her devotion to her faith. Still there was something foreboding about the mysterious letter. Perhaps the absence of a return address had something to do with it, curious. So summoning her courage and calming herself she finally opened envelope and removed the one page letter.

            Sitting on the edge of the twin bed in her small room she opened the letter finally. It was from a young man whom she had counseled not so very long ago. The letter was handwritten in a pleasant cursive style which she thought unusual for a man. His name was Alex, a parishioner she recognized as the only son of a wealthy family from Bel Air. Sister Pat tried to visualize the parents but they were shadows in her memory, only the boy stood out. She had seen so many children over the years at the Church but this one had one of those faces that you never forget. He was cute as a button as a toddler with a head full of white blonde hair fashioned in a Dutch Boy style, with eyes of a crystal blue. She had watched him grow up over the years as the family regularly attended Sunday Mass. He had come to her suffering from a broken heart.

Apparently a girl had left him for reasons that she never gave. Sister Pat recalled that he had been nearly inconsolable and she felt frightened as well for some reason. It didn’t take long for Sister Pat to connect him to the subject of Father Quinn’s documentary film, Megan Mallory, a fact that she never shared with the priest. She had wanted to but Alex had begged her to keep it secret until he had time to think, time to get over her. When she eventually asked him if he were the father of Megan’s baby he went pale. Sullenly he had claimed that he didn’t even know that Megan was with child and then suddenly stormed out of the session without an explanation. That was their last session together, Sister Pat never saw him again, neither at the clinic nor at the Church. Now this letter so many months later. Sister Pat took the spectacles hanging from a chain around her neck and placed them onto the bridge of her sharp Roman nose. The letter was short:

“Sister please forgive my childish behavior at our last session and my absence since then. I had much to deal with and much to investigate. You should know that I loved Megan dearly and that I was under the impression that she felt likewise. Her rejection and the news of her pregnancy was a shock to say the least. Nothing she did coincided with everything that she had said to me and her condition was a complete blow to me as well as we had never engaged in relations together, even though the likelihood of that was how we met, she being a come of age gift from my father. Megan’s senseless death and the horrific details compelled me to ferret out the circumstances that led her to her tragic decision. I went to my father and confronted him about what I had come to suspect was the cause of her depression and guilt. Naturally he was upset but more than that he was, I don’t know, cold is the best term for his reaction. It scared me. I need to talk to you about this, can we meet? I need help deciding what to do next. Call the cell number below as soon as you can. Thanks…Alex”

She had read the letter several times before falling asleep. In the morning after Mass she had gone to the office and called the number. At first there was no answer and a computer voice explained that the user’s voice mailbox was full. Frustrated she tried again only this time someone picked up on the other end only it wasn’t Alex, it was the police. Sister Pat had hung up without answering and started to worry. That was the inspiration for the pensive mood she’s been in all day, the mood she continued to be in now. Staring past her lunch she continued time traveling in a reflective state as she pondered Alex’s whereabouts. Suddenly her pensive trance was broken.

“Good day Sister,” spoke the soft familiar voice.

Startled Sister Pat involuntarily pushed her lunch tray away and sat up straight as if she were caught cheating on a quiz in school. It was a reflex action but she recovered her composure and slowly turned her head to confirm her recognition of the voice. She smiled when she saw Father Quinn’s face, things would be alright now she thought.

“Hello Father,” she replied as the priest joined her taking a seat across from her at the otherwise empty lunch table. Father Quinn folded his hands on the tabletop, glanced at the full tray of food and studied the nun’s face for a moment. Her expression was more than meek, she had the look of someone who had left the confessional with unfinished business.

“You’ve hardly touched your meal Sister, what’s troubling you my dear?”

Sister Pat fidgeted nervously and answered the priest in a small voice, “I’m frightened Father,” she replied.

“I can see that you’re troubled about something, how might I help you?”

“I’m not frightened for myself Father, you see I am afraid for someone else. It’s a little hard to explain.”

“I see. Well now, try taking a breath and give it a go. An act of contrition can heal most pensive moods.”

“Perhaps Father, but I must admit that there a matter of a small confession involved.”

“How fortunate you are that I happened by then,” Father Quinn replied with a reassuring smile.

“I suppose so Father, by the way why are you here anyway?”

“I was meeting with the Mission Director about increasing the donation from the Diocese next year.”

“Oh alright, anyway, what I have to confess involves the Mallory girl and her child you see,” said Sister Pat.

Father Quinn willed himself to remain calm and nonplussed by her comment, “I see, go on dear,” he said evenly.

The nun leaned forward slightly as if what she were about to say was not to be overheard by anyone, “Father there is something that I never shared with you about the girl. Something that I know now that I should have,” she said in a hushed voice.

The priest’s face revealed none of the inner turmoil he was experiencing at the moment. More surprises regarding Megan Mallory was the last thing he wanted to deal with, “Alright then, so what is it you have to share about that poor child?”

“As you recall Megan refused to reveal the identity of the father of her baby.”

“Yes, I am aware of that, why is that a concern to you now?”

“I may know who that person is, or rather I may know someone who can tell us who that person is.”

“And how did you come to know this mysterious someone?”

“That is my confession Father. You see while you were tending to Megan and making your film I was counseling a young man who may have been an intimate acquaintance of the girl.”

“You mean the father of her child?”

“No Father, not intimate in that way, at the time they were together they remained pure.”

Father Quinn chortled involuntarily, “So this child she carried was an immaculate conception? Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“No, of course not Father, I’m merely saying that the two of them were apparently an item up until the time that she abruptly left him and subsequently arrived at our doorstep in dire straits.”

Father Quinn pondered this a moment, this revelation would certainly eliminate him as a suspect in the girl’s demise, he should feel relieved but he did not and that concerned him. There must be more to this, he pressed the nun further, “Why are you only now coming forward with this information Sister?”

Sister Pat paused a second or two and bit at her lips like a nervous child before answering. “I received a disturbing letter from the young man yesterday, he wants to meet with me and talk. He left a phone number for me to contact him but when I called the police answered,” Sister Pat explained.

“The police?” replied Father Quinn.

“Yes father, the police. I don’t know how else to reach this boy without going to his family, and the letter left me with the impression that that may not be a good idea.”

“Do you know them personally?”

“Not exactly, I know who they are. They are not actually parishioners but they attend Mass from time to time.”

“Odd, what did the letter say that would leave you with that impression?”

“Nothing specific, it’s just that the young man stated that he confronted his father and that statement made me uncomfortable.”

“I see, what is the boy’s name?”

“Alex Father, Alex Whembly,” answered Sister Pat. Father Quinn flinched and it did not go unnoticed by the nun.

“I know that name, Detective Roode mentioned him the other day,” the priest said as he searched his memory of that conversation.

“Who is Detective Roode?” asked the nun.

“Nobody you need to concern yourself with Sister. Do you have that letter with you?”

“No Father, it is back at the convent.”

“May I have a look at it?

“Why? Do you think that it’s important?”

“I’m not sure but I’d like to share it with this detective, it may help him to close out this suspicion of me by the police and frankly the Church as well.”

“Of course Father. Do you think this detective can find out where young Alex has gone to? I’d feel so much better to know that he is safe and sound.”

“Quite possibly Sister, quite possibly. Let’s pop over to the convent and retrieve that letter and I’ll contact Mr. Roode.” The nun stood and grabbed her untouched lunch, “Roode, that’s an odd name don’t you think,” remarked Sister Pat.

“Not once you’ve the man Sister,” Father Quinn replied chuckling.

“Dear me,” said Sister Pat.

“Quite,” replied Father Quinn.

"The more I know, the less I understand. All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again..."

For my family

THE GUMSHOE DIARIES

Father Hollyweird

Chapter Twelve

The Alexandria Hotel, Los Angeles…Dec 4, 6:30am

                                                                                   

            I’ve been an early riser ever since I can remember. Must be in my genes because as soon as the sun rises so do I. My old man was like that so I guess he passed the trait down to me as well. Having just finished my morning routine in the can (shower, shave, and the other ‘s’) I walked over to what served as a kitchen in my tiny studio apartment nestled on the second floor of the infamous Alexandria Hotel to consider breakfast options. One can only do so much with a hot plate, a microwave, and a small fridge (all of which were technically tenant violations). The fridge though was usually well stocked with appropriate bachelor essentials (PBR or Budweiser or Coors, basically whatever was on sale and some eggs, butter and milk). The drawer below my socks and underwear substituted as a pantry where I stored my staples (bread, peanut butter, instant coffee, and Oreo’s). I settled on toast with butter and a cup of Irish coffee made with Nescafe for now, I’ll stop by Nick’s Café down the street or The Nickel Diner over on Main Street for a proper breakfast a little later.

            After I’d wolfed down my meager meal I went and sat down at the small desk under the only window in my flat. I was in the far corner of the room overlooking the intersection of 5^th and Spring Street with the hotel’s neon sign just to the right, or at least the letters E & L anyway, the signage ran vertically up the corner of the building. I started sorting through the mail setting the bills aside, dumping the spam, and opened an envelope postmarked LA from the Diocese of Los Angeles with a very sharp K-Bar, an overkill I know but it was handy. Nobody writes letters anymore, opting to email or text. But as I have neither a computer at home, nor a cell phone I relied on snail mail and the newspaper to correspond and stay informed. I refuse to join the 21^st century where these points are concerned. I realize that you can’t avoid progress forever, sooner or later I’ll have to confirm, but until that day I’ll be a dedicated hold out! Besides the electronic age is too impersonal and too imposing. It used to that someone had to do was wear a mask and tote a gun to rob you. Now all they need is your password and an internet café to steal you blind. That’s progress for you. YOU CAN HAVE IT! I’ll keep my freedom and peace of mind. I’m not a total caveman though, I do have a telephone AND an answering machine. Granted the phone is a rotary phone, for you youngsters that means I dial a number not punch digits, and the answering machine is big and bulky and has a cassette tape and not a microprocessor. Speaking of which the red light was flashing on the contraption. I hadn’t noticed it when I came home last night or rather early this morning having closed down my favorite Irish pub, The Cottage, and getting in around 3am. I had spent the evening and most of the night organizing notes and thoughts around this job the Bishop had given me. I had poured over all the stuff that Bradley, my butterball contact at the Times, gave to me the other night on the way to the airport along with every published word about Megan Malloy’s murder/suicide looking for a motive for her insanity.   

            I reached over and pressed the play butter while I pulled out the letter inside the envelope for the church. Lo and behold it was one of God’s minions leaving me a message while I was reading a letter from His Eminence himself, talk about a co-winkie-dink! The voice message was less formal than the letter which essentially just asked me to call at my earliest convenience. The voice on the answering machine spoke as I read, “Mr. Roode, forgive me I mean Whitey, this is Father Quinn. When last we spoke in the confessional as I recall, by the way let’s not do that again, I told you that we could meet more formally soon. Would tomorrow at 12:30 be soon enough? You can reach me at the church anytime in the morning to confirm. I’ll be busy from 2pm until quite late so please call as soon as you can. Thank you…”

            The machine turned itself off and the blinking red light stopped blinking turning green in the process. It was my only message which was par for the course, I don’t have all that many friends one of which lets me use the phone in the bar downstairs as my business number. It works well for me and is a great dodge where bill collectors are concerned. Be that as it may I wondered if Father Quinn and His Eminence were aware that they were in competition for my time. I decided to keep them both in the dark on that point and see if there was anything worth wondering about. Opening one of the desk drawers I pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked up the number to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, then dialed the seven digits. I like the sound the rotary phones make when I call out, they have more character then the little beep tones in your ear that the more modern phones make. I left Father Quinn a message that I would be there around noon as I had a busy morning. That was a lie, my first sin of the day as I had nothing planned. I hung up and redialed the number and left a message for the Bishop telling him that I would stop by his office around 10am deciding to see him first as I expected that rank had its privileges even in the clergy.

            I chugged the rest of my coffee, stood up and walked over to my Murphy bed and returned it to its hiding place in the wall, unmade of course. I walked the four and a half steps to an armoire next to the bathroom which was my closet, fished out the day’s accoutrements and got dressed. If I hurried I could get over to the DMV and sweet talk Lois Butler, a sixty something clerk who had her eyes on yours truly to ferret out the address and phone number of Alexander Whembly, who according to Bradley’s intelligence was the father of Megan Malloy’s baby. I definitely wanted to interview that guy as soon as possible but I had to locate him first. I also wanted to stop by Hollingbeck Station and pick my old pal Iggie Ingram’s brain. A little bird had told me that he and Rebecca Tran had pulled the Malloy/Quinn case as it was known around the precinct. They might be able to save me some leg work, always a plus in my book. I grabbed my trusty trench coat, gave the room a quick survey which all of two seconds. I loved this coat, it made me feel like Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe. I turned out the lights as I reached the door, turned the knob and started to walk out into the hall.

“Hey, well look who we have here. LA’s favorite gumshoe,” exclaimed Iggie standing in my doorway close enough to smell the Beechnut chewing gum he was gnawing on. I grunted and gave him an icy stare.

“What are you doing here flatfoot?”

“We were hoping to catch you at home buddy.”

“We?”

Rebecca Tran leaned out from Iggie’s shadow and waived timidly at me. I waived back and gave her a wry smile. “Detective Tran, always a pleasure. I see that Wally Price still has you leashed to this dinosaur, my condolences,” I said, gesturing toward Iggie with my hitchhiking thumb.

“Yeah, well Iggie’s not so bad, I’m learning a few things from him, he’s just an acquired taste, sort of,” she replied.

Iggie interrupted, “I hate to bust up this little reunion but we came here for a specific reason partner.”

            I stepped out into the hall closing the door and locking it behind me. I didn’t want to have this conversation inside where Becca might catch a whiff and see how I really lived. Truth was she kind of looked up to me after working together a while back chasing a serial killer named Jai Li who had murdered a couple of my friends as well as my ex-wife, the once lovely and former female, Rhonda Roode. There’s a lot more to that story but you’ll have to catch me another day to hear it. “Alright, talk to me while we walk, I’m in a hurry right now, I want to get to the DMV before the lines get too long,” I said brushing by the two of them as I quick marched toward the staircase. The elevator at this place was chronically in a state of repair.

“What’s at the DMV?” Iggie asked catching up to me.

“What’s it to you?” I replied as I took the stairs two at a time.

“Slow down Whitey,” Iggie pleaded as we reached the lobby. Becca caught up to us and we walked together through the hotel lobby to the hotel bar, The Down & Out, located at the front of the building. A voice from behind the mahogany bar hollered out to us, “We ain’t open yet Mack!”

“It’s me Sal,” I replied.

A burly, barrel chested Polynesian man popped up from behind the bar, “Oh hi Whitey. Kia Ora brah, is that Iggie with you?” the thickly built man said, greeting me in Maori, his mother tongue. Iggie waived at Sal as the three of us settled into a corner booth near the window in the empty bar. Becca scooted in first while Iggie and I boxed her in climbing in after on either side.

            Salvatore Tonka (as in the toy trucks) was a fifty something Maori native from Auckland, New Zealand. He stood five feet seven inches tall and was solidly built, with shoulders nearly as wide as he was tall it seemed. He wasn’t shaped like a body builder, he was just rock solid like a permanently flexed bicep. Not someone you would want to tangle with. And if his physical stature weren’t intimidating enough his face was completely tattooed as was the custom of the Maori people. They came off as a pretty scary bunch until you got to know them. When they make friends it’s for life. Same goes for when they make enemies.

“How’s it?” Sal asked as he set three shot glasses on the bar and filled them with Jameson.

“It’s all good Sal, it’s all good. You cleaning the keg lines?” I said answering a question with a question.

“Every day pal, it’s why we have the coldest beer in LA,” Sal replied setting the shots on a small tray and walking over to us. He set the drinks on the table and grunted a hello to Iggie.

“Who’s the wahine?” he asked referring to Becca.

Iggie picked up his shot and downed it quickly, “That’s my partner, Detective Tran,” he answered setting his glass back on the table upside down.

“Um, Iggie, we’re kinda still on the job dude,” scolded Becca as she pushed her glass away from her.

“No we’re not, not officially anyway. We just stopped to see an old friend on the way home,” Iggie replied.

Sal picked up Becca’s glass and clinked against mine, “Cheers!” he said downing the shot quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and walking back to continue his work behind the bar. I reached for my own drink and watched Becca remove something from her coat pocket. It was a small white business card that I recognized straight away. I played dumb though and asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s your business card genius,” quipped Iggie.

“I know that numb-nuts. Why are you returning it to me?”

Becca jumped into the fray, “We found this at crime scene early this morning,” she said watching my face for a flinch.

“A homicide?”

“As a matter of fact yes, over at the Baxter steps, you know the place?” asked Becca probing further.

“Yeah I know the place. Anyone who’s lived in LA a year or more knows the place. It’s a scary place. What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”

There was a pregnant pause while Iggie and Becca studied my face. It made uncomfortable so I spoke up quickly. “So was my card on the stiff or what?”

“Not exactly, it was on the ground further up the staircase where the victim was likely popped,” answered Becca.

“So you found my card on the ground in a park, so what? A lot of my cards end up on the ground or worse. Outside of the Yellow Pages it’s my only form of advertising.”

“Really? You don’t have a website?” Becca replied.

“Whitey’s a dinosaur Tran, he doesn’t believe in modern technology,” Iggie said, answering for me.

Becca rolled her eyes at her partner then focused on me, “I see, well be that as it may what we want to know is if there is any connection to the victim and yourself.”

“Fine, so who’s the victim?”

“Alexander Whembly, does that name mean anything to you?” asked Becca.

            I gave her my best poker face trying not to tip my hand and the fact that I not only knew the name but knew of him. I gleaned from Becca’s expression that I had failed to do so, which explains why I’m such a lousy gambler. It was too early in the morning for me to think of a clever lie so I decided on the truth. I would have had to ask for their help sooner or later anyway to gain access to G2 from the LAPD and run down this angle on Megan’s case. So where was the harm in choosing sooner over later?

“I know the name, in fact he was the reason for my DMV trip. I was going there to track him down.”

“Why?” Becca asked pressing me.

I paused a moment and finished my drink while I quickly pondered how much to share. Too little and they would become pests surveilling me and too much they would likely get in my way. I knew who this guy was relative to Megan Malloy and clearly they did not. I considered the two of them in nanoseconds, Iggie was a loyal friend but a chatterbox when he was boozing. But I knew how to handle him and his flaws. Becca on the other hand was a wild card. I was going to have to go with my gut where she was concerned. I set my empty glass upside down on top of Iggie’s.

“A source of mine showed me evidence that identified Alexander Whembly as the father of Megan Malloy’s child.”

“You’re shitting me!” Iggie exclaimed.

Becca gave Iggie the stink eye and replied, “If that’s true then it means we have another suspect besides the priest.”

“Maybe, but why would someone murder Whembly? Did Father Quinn know this guy as well?” Becca asked.

“I don’t know, I don’t think the priest knew about him,” I lied.

“Could be just a coincidence,” Iggie said scratching his head.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Becca and I said in unison.

I grinned at her and she snorted a giggle involuntarily, a trait I’ve noticed in a lot of attractive women. “Maybe we can work together unofficially on this case,” I suggested.

“Not if His Honor has anything to say about it,” replied Iggie referring to our scene stealing/publicity hound Mayor, Anthony Valenzuela. My old nemesis, Oscar Celaya who had catapulted over Captain to Chief of Police owed his stellar rise to the Mayor and considering our hate-hate relationship Iggie and Becca would be risking their careers teaming up with me, even on the QT. I couldn’t let them take that risk.

“Listen you’re right about that, scratch my stupid idea. Just do me one small favor. Sit on this information for a couple of days and let me see where this leads. I promise to share whatever I find out with you.”

Iggie started to reply when Becca cut him off, “We’ll give you twenty-four hours, that’s the best we can do. You know Lt. Price is no dummy and patience is not a virtue of his. We can probably feign incompetence for that long but any more than that and Iggie and I will both be looking for a new job.”

“Noted, Wally and I go way back. Let’s meet here tomorrow night around last call and I’ll share what I know.”

“Deal, 2am tomorrow right here,” Becca said extending her small hand for me to shake.

“Make it 3am, I’ll ask Sal stay over and leave the lobby entrance open for us,” I replied shaking her hand before she could protest. I got up quickly to leave before Becca thought of any more questions.

“See ya later Sal,” I said over my shoulder as I passed him on my way to the street side exit.

Becca shouted at me as I reached the doorway, “Don’t break any laws!”

I replied as I disappeared out of the building and into the LA sunshine, “No promises!”