Vigilante

CHAPTER 30

Hitch really is a gourmet cook. For the past several years he has used his two-week vacation time to study at the Cordon Bleu in Paris. His multi-millionaire status has also given him a lot of celebrity friends and he travels in a high social orbit.

At five o’clock he told me that he was invited to a private cooking demonstration being given by Wolfgang Puck at Hollywood mega-producer Neal Moritz’s Beverly Hills home. Very exclusive. Hitch wanted to duck out a little early to catch it.

As he started gathering up his things I said, “I’d like to get some of Captain Madrid’s DNA so we could see if it matches the DNA on that coffee cup we found in Lita’s driveway. She said she hadn’t been near that house for days before the murder, so if it’s a match, it turns that time line she gave us into a work of fiction. Got any ideas how to do it?”

“She’s never going to agree to give us DNA swabs,” Hitch said. “You saw how she was about the poly. Since we don’t have enough evidence yet to get a judge to write a body warrant, we can pretty much forget that.”

“See ya tomorrow,” I said.

After he left I went back to work piecing together Hannah Trumbull’s murder book. I also made an attempt to locate her friend Linda Baxter through Good Samaritan Hospital. They said they would see if they could find her and have her call me back. I left my number.

After about an hour I needed a break from Hannah Trumbull, so I switched cases. There were still a lot of loose ends on Lita’s preliminary evidence pull and street canvas, so I turned back to the list of patrol officer interview notes taken after talking to Lita’s neighbors. Despite the fact that Nash said he’d found her in less than an hour and that she lived right down the street from Lita, nowhere could I find a mention of Janice Santiago being interviewed.

I also checked with the courthouse, got a number for Edwin Chavaria’s parole agent, and called him up. He told me Chava had gone off state paper a few days ago and changed addresses immediately. It looked like Chava had scooped up his TV money and split. Probably wouldn’t be seeing that calabazo again.

My next call was to a friend of mine named Sue Shepherd, who was currently working as an investigating officer at Internal Affairs. After a minute of small talk I asked her, “Listen, do you ever eat in that cafeteria downstairs at the Bradbury?”

“All the time. It’s convenient and the food’s pretty good,” she said. “On nice days people like to eat outside in the patio by the Biddy Mason wall.”

“Do Lester Madrid or his wife ever eat there?”

“Sure do. He and Captain Madrid are fixtures there at least three times a week. What is this?”

“Listen, Sue. I could use a heads-up the next time you see them eating down there. I can’t tell you exactly what’s up, but I can promise you I won’t burn you. How ’bout it?”

She agreed to help me, so I left her my cell number and hung up. About an hour later, my desk phone rang.

“Is this Detective Scully?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s Linda Baxter. I understand you were trying to reach me.”

“Yes, Ms. Baxter, I was. I’ve recently been given the Hannah Trumbull cold case to reinvestigate. I was wondering if we could meet.”

“I’m on duty now,” she said. “I could meet you at eight, when I get off.”

“That would be great.”

We agreed to meet in a restaurant called the Short Stop Grill, located just across the street from the Good Samaritan Hospital.

By seven thirty it was time to get going.

I closed up shop and took the elevator down to the garage, got in my Acura and pulled out onto First Street, turned left on Lucas Avenue on my way to the meeting.

I hadn’t driven five blocks when I noticed a white V-TV station wagon tailing me about three cars back. These guys weren’t anything if not persistent. I had no intention of leading them to my witness, so I picked up the dashboard mike and called the Communications Division.

“This is Delta-Fifteen. I need a traffic stop on a new white Ford station wagon heading south on Lucas Avenue at West Third. I don’t have a plate, but the vehicle has a V-TV Productions logo on the side door.”

“Roger, Delta-Fifteen. What is the nature of the problem?”

“It’s a press vehicle and I’m being followed. My case is extremely confidential. Have any available unit pull the wagon over for a vehicle check so I can ditch them.”

“Roger,” the RTO said. “One-Adam-Forty-Five, Delta-Fifteen requests a traffic stop on Lucas near West Third. Vehicle is a late-model white Ford station wagon with a V-TV logo on the door. No available plate number. Detain briefly for vehicle check, then release.”

“One-Adam-Forty-Five roger. ETA that location three minutes.”

I watched my rearview mirror and a few blocks farther on saw a squad car pull in behind the white wagon and light it up. As soon as the V-TV mobile unit pulled over, I turned right and quickly found my way to Wilshire Boulevard.

The Short Stop Grill was right across the street from the Good Samaritan Hospital but didn’t have a baseball theme, which I’d been expecting. Once inside, I realized the name referred to the length of time it took to get served. A lot of doctors who were on short breaks and were tired of hospital food ate there.

Linda Baxter had told me she would be in her uniform, carrying a large red leather bag. I spotted her sitting in a booth at the back of the crowded bar.

“Ms. Baxter?” I asked.

She looked up and smiled. She was a pretty brunette in her early thirties with a full-bodied, vivacious quality. She’d probably had to chase off half a dozen requests to buy her drinks before I arrived.

“Detective Scully?” she asked.

“Yes.” We shook hands as I slid into the booth.

“Glad you got here. It’s been a hard day and I could really use a drink, but I don’t drink alone.”

We waved over a waiter. Linda ordered a Manhattan. I had a Corona with lime.

“You’re still investigating Hannah’s murder? I thought they had that solved. They even have a picture of the guy.”

“I’m starting from scratch, going over the whole case again.”

“God … poor Hannah. That was so awful,” Linda said with a shudder as the drinks were delivered. “When it happened, I was numb for a week.”

“I just got assigned the case,” I said. “I think you spoke to Detectives Monroe and Hall a few years back.”

“I only talked to Hall. Monroe seemed to always be in court.”

“They’re no longer on the case. Detective Hall was killed in a car accident and Detective Monroe retired.”

I worked my way into it slowly, talking about her friendship with Hannah and their trips to Las Vegas.

“It was fun traveling with her. We both loved to play blackjack, so we’d hit Vegas about three times a year. She was one of those people who didn’t judge you. She saw things for what they were, if you know what I mean. No bullshit.”

“I understand she worked in the ER.”

“She liked it there. She had nerves of steel, that one. Didn’t rattle. Hannah was very passionate about her work. A special girl in all ways.”

We talked for a few more minutes about Hannah and her work at the hospital and then I segued into the threat against her life that occurred two days before the murder.

“She mentioned that, but she never really told me who had screamed at her,” Baxter answered. “A woman. That’s all she’d say. It bothered her, but there’s so much going on in the ER, she didn’t have a whole lot of time to remain focused on it.”

“Was she also dating a police officer?” I asked.

The minute I said that, Linda recoiled as if I’d just touched her with a live wire.

“Who told you that?” she demanded sharply.

“Her parents. Were they wrong?”

She was looking around the bar as if someone might overhear us.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess.”

“Listen, Linda. You were her friend. Somebody killed her. I don’t think it was the black guy who robbed that house across the street. I think that theory just let Hall and Monroe file the case. I want to find out who really killed her. To do that, I need your help.”

“We’re not all as brave as Hannah,” she said softly.

“What are you afraid of?”

She fidgeted but didn’t speak.

“Okay, look … you tell me and I promise I won’t reveal where I got the information. Fair enough?”

“If you catch the killer, once it’s in court, won’t they make me testify?”

“We’re a long way from court. Please, help me help Hannah. She can’t speak for herself any longer. It’s up to us to do that for her.”

Linda sat for a long time, trying to come to grips with it.

“You promise?” she finally said.

“Promise.”

A moment later, she began, haltingly at first, but then she picked up speed. “Okay, you’re right. Hannah was dating a cop.… He was more than just a regular cop. One of those officers who keep getting in gun battles and killing people. He was huge-almost six-five-and scary looking. I told her what I thought of him. I told her she should give that guy a wide berth. But, as I just said, Hannah was strong willed. She told me he wasn’t anything like I thought. She said she cared for him and underneath he was very sweet.”

“Do you remember his name?” I asked, but I already knew who it was.

“His name was Lester Madrid.”