H is for Homicide

10

THE NEXT THING I knew, there was a jingling of keys. My eyes popped open. One of the female jail officers was unlocking the door. She was short and solid, built like she spent a lot of time at the gym. The other four women in the cell were still asleep. The jail officer pointed at me. Bleary-eyed, I propped myself up on one elbow, pushing the hair out of my face. I pointed at myself – did she want me? Impatiently, she motioned me over to the door. I curled forward, rising to my feet as quietly as I could. There was no way to judge what time it was or how long I'd been asleep. I felt groggy and disoriented. Without a word, she opened the door and I passed through. I followed her down the corridor in my sock feet, wishing with all my heart that I could brush my teeth.

I once dated a cop who had an eight-by-eleven-foot desk built for himself, boasting that the surface was the same size as the two-man cells in Folsom prison. The room I was ushered into was about that size, furnished with a plain wood table, three straight-backed wooden chairs, and a bulb covered with a milky globe. I would have bet money there was recording equipment in there somewhere. I peered under the table. No sign of a wire. I sat down on one of the chairs, wondering how best to comport myself. I knew I was a mess. My hair felt matted, probably sticking straight up in places. I was sure my mascara and eyeliner now circled my eyes in that raccoon effect women so admire in themselves. The trampy outfit I'd concocted was not only wrinkled, but still felt faintly damp. Ah, well. At least if I were subjected to police brutality, I wouldn't mind bleeding on myself.

The door opened and Lieutenant Dolan appeared in company with another (I was guessing) plainclothes detective. I felt a spurt of fear for the first time since this ghastly ordeal had begun. Dolan was the last man I wanted to have as a witness to my current state. I could feel a blush of embarrassment rise up my neck to my face. Dolan's companion was in his sixties, with a thick shock of silver hair brushed away from a square face, deep-set eyes, and a mouth that pulled down at the corners. He was taller than Dolan and in much better shape, substantially built with wide shoulders and heavy-looking thighs. He wore a three-piece suit in a muted glen plaid with a denim blue shirt and a wide maroon tie with a floral pattern more fitting for a couch cover. He wore a gold ring on his right hand, a watch with a heavy gold band on his left. He made no particular attempt to be polite. If he had an opinion of me, nothing registered on his face. Together, the two men seemed to fill the room.

Dolan leaned out into the hall and said something to someone, then closed the door and pulled a chair up, straddling it. The other man sat down at the same time and crossed his legs at the knee with a slight adjustment of his trousers. He held his big hands loosely in his lap and made no eye contact.

Dolan seemed positively perky by comparison. "I'm having some coffee brought in. You look like you could use some."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"One of the deputies recognized you when you were booked in and called me," he said.

"Who's this?" I asked with a glance at the other man. I didn't think he should have the advantage of anonymity. He clearly knew who I was and enough about me to adopt an attitude of disinterest.

"Lieutenant Santos," Dolan said. Santos made no move. What was this, my week to meet hostile men?

I got up and leaned across the table with my hand held out. "Kinsey Millhone," I said. "Nice to meet you."

His reaction was slow and I wondered briefly just how rude he intended to be. We shook hands and his eyes met mine just long enough to register a stony neutrality. I had thought at first he disliked me, but I was forced to amend that assessment. He didn't have an opinion of me at all. I might be useful to him. He hadn't decided yet.

There was a rap at the door. Dolan leaned over and opened it. One of the deputies passed him a tray with three Styrofoam cups of coffee, a carton of milk, and a few loose packets of sugar. Dolan thanked him and closed the door again. He set the tray on the table and passed a cup to me. Santos reached forward and took his. I poured some milk in mine and added two packs of sugar, hoping to jump-start myself for the questions coming up. The coffee wasn't hot, but the flavor was exquisite, as soft and sweet as caramel.

"What happened to Jimmy Tate?" I asked.

"Right now, he's looking at homicide, murder two. A good attorney might get it knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, but I wouldn't count on it, given his history," Dolan said. "You want to fill us in on the shooting?"

"Sure," I said glibly, knowing I'd have to stretch the truth a bit. "California Fidelity asked me to investigate Bibianna Diaz for possible fraud in a claim she filed. I've been trying to get close enough to pick up concrete evidence, but so far all I've netted are some fashion tips. The dead man's name is Chago. He's the brother of Raymond Something-or-other, who's an old flame of Bibianna's. I gather Raymond sent Chago and his wife, Dawna, up here to abduct Bibianna for reasons unknown. I can't get Bibianna to tell me what's going on, but they're clearly pissed…"

Santos spoke up. "She and Raymond Maldonado were supposed to get married. She backed out. He doesn't take kindly to that sort of thing."

"I believe it," I said. "He apparently gave Chago instructions to 'smoke' her if she didn't cooperate."

Santos shifted in his chair, his voice flat. "That's all bluff. Raymond wants her back."

I looked from one to the other. "If you already know all this stuff, why ask me?"

Both men ignored me. I could see there wasn't going to be any point in getting crabby about the situation.

Dolan consulted a small spiral-bound notebook, leafing back a page. "What's the story on Jimmy Tate? How'd he get involved?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "I gather he and Bibianna have been embroiled in some kind of heavy-duty sexual relationship for the past couple of months. It seems to be serious – for the moment, at any rate." I went on, detailing the day's work, filling in as much as I knew about the dead man, which wasn't much, and about Jimmy Tate, which was considerable. As fond as I was of Tate, I couldn't see any reason to shield him from police scrutiny when it came to the shooting. There were other witnesses at the scene, and for all I knew, Dolan had already talked to them.

When I finished, there was a silence. I looked down at my hands, realizing that I'd systematically destroyed my now empty cup in the course of my narrative. I placed fragments on the table.

"And Tate did the shooting," Dolan said at length.

"Well, I didn't actually see that, but it's a fair assumption. He fired twice at the car, and after I hit the pavement, there were several more shots fired. I don't think Bibianna was armed."

"What about the other woman, Dawna? She have a gun?"

"Not that I saw, at least not in the restaurant. She could have had one stashed in the car, I suppose. Hasn't she turned up?" I didn't think Dolan was going to answer, but I liked pretending we were equals. Just us law enforcement types having a friendly little tete-a-tete here at the county jail.

Dolan surprised me with a response. "She took a hit. Nothing serious. Looks like a bullet ricocheted off something and grazed her collarbone. We picked her up in a phone booth a few blocks away. Probably interrupted a call to Raymond, though she wouldn't admit it."

"She's in the hospital?"

"For the time being. We'll hang on to her if we can, just to see what she has to tell us."

"About what?"

Dolan slid a look to Santos, like he was checking his hole card in a game of poker. I had the feeling Santos was making a decision. His expression didn't seem to change, but something must have been communicated between the two of them.

"I guess we better tell you what's happening," he said. His voice was rumbling and his delivery methodical. "You've stumbled into a bit of a sticky situation here."

"Oh, yeah, tell me about it."

Santos tipped his chair back against the wall and laced his hands across his head. "I head a task force made up of a number of agencies working to uncover what we believe is one of the biggest auto insurance fraud operations ever mounted in Southern California. You've worked in this business long enough to know what I'm talking about. Los Angeles County is the nation's automobile insurance fraud capital. Now it's spreading through Ventura and Santa Teresa counties. This particular ring is only one of dozens that generate an estimated five hundred million to a billion in phony claims every year. In this case, we're looking at fifteen lawyers, two dozen medical doctors, half a dozen chiropractors. On top of that, a rotating pool of some fifty to sixty individuals recruited to participate in the trumped-up incidents that comprise the claims." He pushed away from the wall, sitting upright, the front legs of the chair hitting the floor with a chirp. "You with me so far?"

"Oh, I'm here," I said.

He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table. I noticed his manner toward me was warming somewhat. He was a man animated by his work. I had no idea where he was going with the explanation, but it was clear he hadn't driven all the way up from Los Angeles in the dead of night just to deliver this deadpan rendition of his professional concerns.

"We've put this case together bit by bit, piece by piece, over the last two years, and we're still not in a position to shut them down."

"I don't see the connection," I said. "Bibianna isn't part of the ring, is she?"

"She was. Raymond Maldonado started out as a 'capper'. At this point, we believe he's one of the kingpins, but we can't prove it yet. You know how these rings operate?"

"Not really," I said. "The people I'm used to dealing with are strictly amateurs."

"Well, the methods probably overlap to some extent," he said. "These days, the pros tend to avoid the big kill in favor of submitting fairly innocuous small claims that can be converted into large sums of money. They collect compensation for hard-to-disprove injuries like whiplash and lower back pain… you know the MO on that." He didn't really seem to require a response. "It's the capper's job to recruit the owner of a vehicle, usually someone unemployed who's hard up for cash. They take out an assigned-risk insurance policy on the car through the ring's agent. The capper then gives the car owner the names of two 'passengers' – totally fictitious – who 'ride' with the owner. He also comes up with names of people allegedly in the second car. We're talking about six or seven claims per incident. There's a variation on that one called 'bulls and cows,' where both cars are part of the scam. The 'bull' – the car with insurance – rams into the 'cow,' which is the uninsured car filled with passengers, all of whom suffer fictitious injuries. Most of the time the insured vehicle is some junker that's been insured without being examined."

"I've handled some claims where it's all faked – where there's not even a staged accident," I said. "Oh, we got those, too. In Maldonado's case, some are paper accidents and some are staged. We got a line on this ring in the first place because the same set of names kept cropping up on supposedly unrelated claims. Same insurance agent, same attorney. The investigator finally had the names ran through the computer and found links to twenty-five previous cases. Most of those were fictitious. One claimant's address turned out to be the La Brea tar pits. Another was an abandoned bus depot."

"What's their setup?" I asked.

"The ploy is called a 'swoop and squat,' which requires the use of two cars. They pull this maneuver out on one of the surface roads, probably five or six times a week… "

"I'm surprised they don't try the freeways," I remarked.

He shook his head. "Too dangerous. These guys aren't interested in getting killed. What they do is choose a 'mark' – usually someone in an expensive vehicle or a commercial van – anything with a likelihood of being well insured. A vehicle they call the 'squat' car positions itself in front of the mark. These drivers are tooling down the road at thirty-five miles an hour, everybody minding his own business. At a signal, a second car, called a 'swoop', cuts in front of the squat car, which brakes sharply, forcing the mark to rear-end it. The swoop car takes off. The squat and the mark pull over to the side like good citizens and exchange license numbers. At this point, the mark is usually pretty upset. Here, he's rear-ended another vehicle and he knows the responsibility is his. The driver in the squat car is full of sympathy – hell, he can afford to be – confirming just what the mark wants to believe, that it wasn't his fault."

"But his insurance company pays anyway," I said.

"Has to. You rear-end somebody, you're liable in this state. Turns out the squat's got all these 'problems' resulting from the accident. He sees a lawyer, who tells him he better see a doctor. Or he might be referred to a chiropractor…"

"All of them in cahoots… "

"All in cahoots," Lieutenant Santos said. "And Bibianna got involved in the ring through Raymond?"

"It looks that way. From the information we've pieced together, Raymond recruited her two years ago, though he's known her much longer. They were all set to get married about a year ago, but for some reason she pulled out. March, she did a disappearing act and a short time later surfaced in Santa Teresa. It looks, on the face of it, like she meant to go straight, but she had a hell of a time finding work. She finally picked up a job with a dry cleaning establishment, but it doesn't pay much, and in the end, I guess she couldn't resist trying a little scam or two of her own."

I was beginning to see how it all fit together. "And now my investigation has jeopardized yours."

"Not yet, but it looks like you're getting close. We can't afford to have you blundering in unawares, which is not the only problem we face. It looks like we've got a leak somewhere, critical information spilling through the pipeline into Raymond's ear. On at least three occasions, we've had raids set up… most recently on an auto body shop he owns in El Segundo. We have arrest and search warrants up the yin-yang. By the time we get there, the whole operation's been shut down and we walk into an empty facility – nothing left on the premises but a tire iron and a Pepsi can."

"I don't get it. What are you looking for?"

Lieutenant Santos paused to clear his throat. "Files, records. You follow the paper and it leads right to Raymond. We can pick him up, but by then the evidence has either been moved or destroyed and the DA throws the case out."

"So it was all for nothing, this raid you talked about?"

"Not quite. We took out the guy at the top, plus half a dozen other players – couple of attorneys and some MD's, two chiropractors. Raymond just turned around and expanded his piece of the operation. He used the bust to move himself up into the slot we cleared for him. We're going after him again, of course, but we have to track down this snitch first or it's the same story all over. In the meantime, we're trying another angle we think might work. The problem is, since we don't know where the leak is, it's hard to know who we can trust."

Dolan stirred restlessly, speaking up for the first time since Santos had started filling me in. "As much as I hate to say this, the breach might originate in one of the departments up here. We think that's how Raymond found out Bibianna was in Santa Teresa. She got arrested here a month ago and somebody dimed her out."

I could feel a quick spark of recollection. "Oh, yeah. I remember now she mentioned that. She's worried sick about Raymond finding her."

"She's got reason to worry. The man's got serious problems," Santos remarked. "I've seen the results of some of his handiwork."

"I still don't quite understand why you're telling me this stuff."

There was a brief silence and then Dolan spoke up. "If we can move you into position with these people, we might have another shot at them."

I stared at him blankly. "Oh, come on. You're not serious."

I looked from one to the other, but neither of them said a word. "How do you propose to do that?"

Dolan smiled with no particular mirth. "You've already done the hard part. You've established a relationship with Bibianna, which is something we can't do."

"What good is that? I thought you said she was finished with Raymond."

Dolan shrugged. "But he's not done with her. If Dawna managed to get word through to him, he's probably on his way up. Just stick with Bibianna, especially if he wants to take her back to L.A. with him. We want you on the inside."

"Wait a minute. I ran into Dawna over at the CF offices. What if she remembers me?"

"Don't worry about Dawna. We'll keep her out of circulation."

I ran a hand through my hair, which was so tricked out with hairspray, it felt like a wig. "Oh, man, you guys are really nuts," I said. "I don't know beans about undercover work."

"We're not asking you to go in there cold…"

"Oh, that really sets my mind at rest."

He ignored that. "You'd be thoroughly briefed. We'd have backup in place, somebody who'd know where you were at all times."

I found myself looking from one to the other. I didn't trust them. I kept thinking there was a missing piece in here somewhere, something they were holding back. "Somehow I'm assuming you've tried it before."

"Without much luck," Santos said. "In this situation, we think a female could be effective. These guys don't credit women with much intelligence. You'd have some protective coloring despite the fact that you're not Hispanic yourself. Are you interested?"

"No."

Dolan put a hand behind his ear as if he hadn't heard right.

"I'm not going to do it, Lieutenant Dolan. It's been ten years since I was a police officer, and even then, I never did undercover work. Forget it. I'm not trained for that stuff and it's too damn dangerous."

"Sometimes it's the only option," Santos said.

"It might be your only option, but it's not mine."

Santos broke off eye contact. "You're looking at a year of county jail time on this battery. Assaulting a police officer is a felony. We can have your license pulled."

I stared at him. "So now you're going to threaten me? Oh, great. I love that. Well, guess what? I'm not going to do your dirty work. I don't give a shit about Raymond Maldonado." I could feel the heat flash through my frame. "I hate to be bullied and I don't relish being beaten with a stick as the motivation for my behavior. You want a performance out of me, you better start someplace else."

Santos apparently intended to pursue the point, but Dolan made an impatient gesture, silencing him. "Let's just discuss it before you say anything."

"The answer's no."

Again, the two men exchanged a look I couldn't quite read. It seemed clear they were working every angle in the book, which was laughable in my view because I wasn't going to yield.

Dolan sat forward in his chair and his voice dropped a notch. "One more thing you should know and then you can do anything you want. Your friend Parnell Perkins was one of Raymond's employees. We think Raymond killed him, but we don't have any proof."

"I don't believe it."

"Perkins's real name was Darryl Weaver. He was working for an insurance company down in Compton. Raymond was running all his claims through Weaver until the two had a falling-out. Weaver left Los Angeles and moved up here, changed his name, and went to work for California Fidelity."

Suddenly I understood why he'd passed Bibianna's file on to Mary Bellflower. He probably assumed that Raymond and Bibianna were back together, that Raymond would be on his trail if he didn't do something quick. The sight of Bibianna's name must have made his heart stop…

Santos came to life again, taking up the thread. "He came to us about a month ago and offered to cooperate. After he was killed, Santa Teresa Police Department ran the prints and notified us, which is why I'm here."

"That's why you buried the homicide investigation," I said, "to protect the larger one."

"That's right," Dolan replied. "We can't afford to have Raymond find out what we're up to. We haven't dropped the investigation, we're just pursuing it quietly."

The room was suddenly still. They let the silence accumulate. I took my time, stalling long enough to consider the implications. A little voice inside sang, Don't do it. Don't do it. "What's the timetable?" I said cautiously. I was hooked and they knew it.

Dolan looked at Santos. "Tight. Half a day at best."

"What are you really asking me to do?"

"Three things. Find the leak. Find out where the files are, and find us proof that Raymond killed your buddy."

Santos chimed in again, the two of them working me like sheepdogs. "You just tell us what you need. We'll give you anything you want."

Dolan said, "The object is to get yourself recruited. You can take it from there, with or without Bibianna's cooperation."

I thought it over briefly, all the time wondering at the wisdom of my consenting. I could feel my mental processes kick in despite the lingering misgivings. "If you're talking about staged accidents… it seems like it'd be smart to have a dummy policy in the name of Hannah Moore."

"Could you arrange that through CF?" Dolan asked.

"I could, but it'd be better if it came from you. You'd have to clear it with Mac Voorhies and it'd probably still have to go through channels."

"The fewer people who know the better, and we have to work fast," Dolan said.

"Is that going to present a problem?" Santos asked me.

I said, "I think CF would be willing to cooperate."

"We'll ask you to wear a wire," Santos said. "We can get a tech here by nine this morning and get a unit on you then."

"Won't Raymond and his cronies search me?"

Santos said, "I doubt it, but if they do, we'll be in earshot, don't forget."

Dolan seemed to sense I wasn't comforted. "If you're wired, we can have a car full of plainclothes parked half a block away. We want you to have all the protection you can get. This may be the best opportunity we have to get at these folks and we don't want to blow it. Any questions?"

"I'm sure I'll think of some."

Santos said, "We'll have another chance to brief you. Right now, we're going to put you back in with Bibianna. Morning comes, we'll get the two of you bailed out. Take the credit yourself. It's good to have the woman in your debt. We'll delay your release until the wire tech comes in."

"Won't she be suspicious if she's out and I'm not?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way to cover," Dolan said dryly. "In the meantime, make arrangements to connect with her later in the day."

"What if Raymond shows up before then?"

"We'll think of something else. Oh, and while we're on the subject…" Dolan jotted down a special telephone number where he could be reached at any hour. I tucked the slip of paper in my sock. He glanced at his watch and then got up as a signal to end the meeting.

I got to my feet. Santos and I shook hands. "What time is it?" I asked.

"Two minutes after four."

"I'm too old to be up at this hour," I said, and then glanced at Dolan. "Can you do me a favor? I left my black leather jacket in the restaurant and my VW's still parked in the Meat Locker side lot. I probably can't get over there until this afternoon. Could you ask about the jacket and warn the meter maid? I don't want to get towed or ticketed."

"Will do. You don't want to screw around with those meter gals," Dolan said. He flashed a smile and then held out his hand to me. "Thanks."

"I haven't done anything yet."

The female corrections officer took me back to the drunk tank and locked me in. I felt nearly sick with fatigue, my brain buzzing from the coffee, body dragging from the lack of sleep. I moved over to my mattress and sank down gratefully, curling up on my side with my face turned toward the others. Bibianna was awake, her eyes pinned on me suspiciously. "Where have you been?"

"The homicide detective had some questions about the shooting."

"Has Dawna been picked up?"

"She's in the hospital at the moment with superficial injuries. Tale's here on the men's side. They're talking about charging him with murder, but I don't see how they can. Manslaughter's more like it."

"Bastards."

"He'll survive."

"Yeah, I suppose." Bibianna seemed on the verge of drifting back to sleep.

I hesitated briefly, then held my nose and plunged right in. "By the way, while I was out there I put a call through to my bail bondsman, who's posting bail for both of us. He'll be over here at eight."

Her eyes flew open. "You're bailing me out, too? Why would you do that? I don't have no kind of money like that. You're talkin' five hundred bucks!"

"So you can owe me. Don't sweat it."

Her look was puzzled. "But why now? How come you didn't do that in the first place?"

"I just remembered I had money in a savings account. My car's in the shop. I was saving to get the tranny fixed. What the hell. Let it sit. It's not doing me any good here."

She hadn't bought my story yet. "I can't believe you'd do that."

The skinny woman piped up from the mattress in an aggravated tone of voice. "What's the matter with you, crazy? Take the money and shut your mouth."

Bibianna flicked a look at the woman and smiled in spite of herself. She studied me for a moment and then murmured a "Thank you." Her eyes closed again. She turned over on her stomach and tucked her arms under her for warmth. Within minutes, she'd dozed off.

The air in the cell was permeated with the scent of sleeping bodies: damp socks, stale breath, unwashed hair. I had thought my cellmates might waken with my return, but no one else stirred. The light in the corridor shone dimly. The quiet became absolute. On the floor, I could still see the numerology grid Bibianna'd drawn for me with spit. Movement and change. Well, now wasn't that the truth?