Private Dublin

Chapter 9

Ahmed Subry lived in a small house on Hill Street, a blue-collar neighborhood on the outskirts of Ladera Heights, touching the edges of Inglewood. We caught the start of the evening rush hour as we went south on the 405, and I watched light from the setting sun touch the cars ahead, making them glow brightly like colorful lanterns strung in an endless line. The sky turned copper and by the time we reached Subry’s house, the first stars had pierced the deepening purple of the night.

I followed Sal along a path that bisected a small, well-kept yard. A Honda Prius was parked on a short driveway to our left. The front door stood behind a metal security grille and Sal rapped the frame so it clattered loudly.

“Go away,” a man yelled from inside.

“Los Angeles Police Department, Mr. Subry,” Sal said. “Open up.”

I waited a couple of steps back. A woman spoke sharp words in Arabic, and moments later the door opened and Ahmed Subry, thirty-something, peered through the gap hesitantly. He wore a traditional galabaya, a long tunic commonly worn in the Middle East instead of comfortable lounge wear or pajamas. Behind him a woman held a girl of about eight close to her.

“Identification,” Subry said.

Sal produced his shield. “My name is Detective Mattera. This is Jack Morgan. He is a private investigator who is helping us with our inquiries.”

“Inquiries into?” Subry asked, his concern palpable.

“You hear about the shooting at the Motion Picture Academy last night?” Sal asked, and Subry looked blank.

“The Star Wars movie,” I suggested, and saw realization dawn.

“Yes, of course. Those poor people,” he said somberly. “What does that have to do with me?”

“We believe you might have given the suspect a ride yesterday. Taken him to a bus stop near Temescal Canyon,” I responded.

Subry’s eyes widened. “The Irishman?”

“Irish?” Sal asked.

Subry nodded. “Yes, I think so. Irish. I know the accent because it sounds like people are singing when they talk.”

“Where did you pick him up?” I asked.

Subry thought for a moment. “The Hyland Inn, in Van Nuys.”

“I know it,” Sal said. “You run a dashcam?”

Subry shook his head. “I had one, but someone stole it. Crime in this city...” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to and trailed off.

“It’s okay, Mr. Subry,” Sal assured him. “I believe crime in this city sucks too.”

“You think this Irishman was a guest at the Hyland?” I asked.

“I think so,” Subry said. “He came out of room 205.”

“Let’s go,” Sal said, heading for his car. “Thank you, Mr. Subry. I’m going to arrange for an artist to visit and work on a composite of the man you saw.”

“I start work in an hour,” Subry protested.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Sal said. “Don’t go anywhere, please, sir. Not until one of my colleagues has given you the okay.”

Subry looked crestfallen as he watched us head for the Lincoln.

Sal was already on his phone. “Do you mind driving?” he asked as he unlocked the car. “I need to make some calls.”

“Sure,” I replied.

I got behind the wheel, pressed the start button and the engine came to life.

Salvatore got in beside me, giving instructions to one of his team as I put the car in drive and started for Van Nuys.