A Forest of Corpses Page 4

  "I was just going back to canvas it."

  "Then let's go do it."

  I drove, leaving Miguel to fill out reports. I don't let other people drive me around. We found the manager of the Milpas market stocking beer in his cooler when we entered the empty store at nine minutes past nine. He stared at the badges we flashed, taking his time, studying each one like he was looking for something to explain why we were in his store. From the broken red veins on his thick nose I figured him for someone who drank his own product.

  Wiping his hands on the front of his gabardine pants held up by a worn belt, he kept piling cans into the cooler. A massive belly protruded over the too-tight belt.

  "Mr. Hardy?" I asked. He nodded. I badged him again.

  That brought on a frown.

  "Ayuh," he said with a heavy New England accent. "Help you?"

  "Yes, you can." Miguel was in his face. "Are you familiar with the homicide that occurred near here nine days ago?"

  When all he got was a blank look for his troubles, he added,

  "The indigent man. On the beach."

  "Ah, that one," Hardy said. "Ayuh."

  "Did Mr. Simpson ever come in here?"

  "Simpson?"

  "The dead man."

  "The colored one? Not in my store. I called the police on that one. Bad smelling man, drive away payin' customers."

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  I had to wonder if it was only his smell that made Hardy so hostile. I looked toward the open door. The phone our 911

  caller had used was barely visible, situated as it was between the parking lot and the stretch of sand bordering the washroom where Simpson had died. I knew if I stepped outside I would be able to see the beach. Children's voices rode on the salty air along with the cries of the gulls Jason loved so much. I couldn't hear them without thinking of him.

  "You ever see anyone around here with a dog?" Miguel asked.

  "Dog? Lots of dogs 'round here," Hardy said. "Too damn many. Dirty, mangy things. Leavin' messes all over the place."

  I didn't know whether he meant the dogs or their owners.

  "Any long-haired white ones?" I asked.

  Hardy looked over my shoulder. I knew the minute he remembered. A light went off behind his eyes. His mouth wrinkled up in distaste.

  "Who is she, sir?"

  "Ayuh, that one. Crazy woman. She'd come in here to get their hootch."

  "Their? Whose hootch? Simpson's? She bought alcohol for both of them?" Was that why she knew him? "Or were there others, too?"

  "Nayuh, just her and that man." He made a face and shook his head.

  "Who is she, Mr. Hardy?"

  "Momo."

  "That's her name?"

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  "Don't know her name. That's all anyone calls her."

  "Momo?" Miguel and I traded glances. For the first time there was no hostility in his eyes. "How often does she come around?"

  "Who knows with that one. Spends all day talkin' to herself and that dog."

  "Why do you let her in here then, sir?" Miguel asked softly.

  "Her cash as good as anyone's," Hardy said, with New England pragmatism.

  "Was she black too, Mr. Hardy?" I asked.

  "Ayuh. Big and black indeed. Midnight black."

  So her color didn't make her unwelcome. I guess pragmatism overcomes bigotry.

  "Do you know where we can find her?" Miguel asked.

  He waved out beyond the doors of his market. "She's out there most days. Hard to miss, her and that dog. Tried to bring it in here, once. I straightened her up on that, pretty quick."

  We thanked the man and stepped outside. Moving from the cool of the icy air-conditioned market to the midday heat of the beach was a hot slap in my face. A cloudless sky overhead beat down on our bare heads as we crossed the nearly empty parking lot toward the restroom where Simpson had been found by Rebecca Long and maybe, just maybe, this Momo had seen something.

  The crime scene tape was long gone. I crossed the threshold into the rank coolness of the cinder block structure that stank of urine and brine. A trio of ragged, overdressed men looked up, startled at our entrance. Before either of us 44

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  could ask what they were doing there, they fled, leaving a reek of booze, human stink and a pile of dirty blankets in their wake. I debated pursuing them, but decided to let them go for the time being. We could round them up later if we needed to ask questions. They weren't going very far; they'd left their property behind.

  Skirting the blankets, we moved through the rest of the washroom, peering into toilet stalls. I had studied the crime scene photos before we'd come out here to refresh my memory. I stood over one urinal looking down at the stained and cracked cement floor. No way to tell if one of those stains was Simpson's life blood, or just the dirt of ages.

  Miguel saw me looking. Shook his head. "Evil men."

  "Yes." What else could I say? I pointed at the pockmarked wall. "A .25. Small thing to do so much damage."

  We left the washroom. Back out in the sun I slipped on a pair of shades and scanned the stretch of boardwalk that ran east and west along the beach. In the parking lot, gathered around a blinged out Escalade, a half dozen Latino men were trying to look tough.

  A flock of pelicans flew overhead, their shadows chasing each other across the sand. A trio of Latino women herded a group of squealing kids toward a playground of slides and swings.

  I glanced over at Miguel and found him smiling as he watched the children. Something else we'd never share.

  During my brief, disastrous marriage there had been no kids.

  Sometimes you get lucky. The world could do without a Spider rugrat. Jason was all the kid I wanted. Though God 45

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  knows there was nothing paternal about the way I felt about him.

  An old woman pushing a shopping cart, full of battered shoe boxes and clothes Goodwill would have burned, rolled past us. She wore a heavy winter coat over a sweater that looked two sizes too big, and fingerless gloves. No dog, and she was white under layers of accumulated dirt.

  The wheels on the cart wobbled, dragging through a drift of sand, nearly falling off the boardwalk and dumping its contents on the beach. I reached it first and hauled it upright.

  She glared at me and snatched the cart out of my grip. I raised both hands to show her I meant no harm. The movement pulled my jacket open, revealing my Beretta.

  Her sunken eyes widened her hands tightening on her worldly possessions. This close, the smell of her unwashed body and clothes overwhelmed me. Her gray, lined face had paled even more until it looked like pitted concrete.

  "What do you want?"

  "We're not here to hurt you, ma'am." I wished we'd been able to come up with a better description of Momo and her white dog, but we'd have to use what he had. "We're looking for someone. A black woman. She has a dog with her and hangs around here..." I pointed behind us to the washrooms and the market behind it. I tried to ignore the cholos watching us. "The dog is probably white."

  "Black woman," she snorted. "Probably a white dog. Young man do you have a clue?"

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  "Sometimes I doubt it," I muttered. I could feel Miguel behind me, getting restless. No doubt convinced he could do better questioning her.

  "She calls herself Momo," I said. "We believe she used to associate with Isaac Simpson."

  "Who?" No alarm in her voice. Nothing but indifference. If she knew who Simpson was, she didn't care.

  "The man who died nine days ago in the washroom over there."

  She drew away from us and threw alarmed looks over her shoulder. I knew she was going to bolt any second. I stepped in front of her cart, taking care not to touch it, kno
wing that would trigger panic. Miguel blocked her from retreating back the way she had come.

  "We're not going to hurt you, ma'am," I said, speaking to her like I would to a wild animal. "We just need you to tell us if you know the woman, Momo."

  "No, no." She started shaking her head violently, her lips working on other unspoken words, silent curses no doubt.

  Spittle sprayed out of her mouth. Standing as close as I was, I could smell her unwashed flesh and the foul rot from her mouth. What few teeth she had left were riddled with brown decay.

  Behind me I heard Miguel doing his own muttering, but his words I could hear, though I'd rather have not. "... say to those with fearful hearts, 'Be strong, do not fear; your God will come...'"

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  I didn't need to be a Biblical scholar to know where those words were coming from. But I had no idea what he meant to do with them. Sooth her or scare her into compliance?

  The old woman's agitation increased. Whether from Miguel's helpful words or our presence, like she said, I didn't have a clue. She moaned and shook her head violently, more spittle flying from her cracked lips.

  I knew I didn't dare touch her or her cart. Already we were attracting attention. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Miguel flip his jacket open to show his badge to the growing mob from the parking lot drifting our way. Looking to find trouble or cause it?

  The display of arms didn't help. The crowd grew and so did their hostility. Great, were we going to have a pissing contest here in the middle of the beach?

  I knew things were going to get ugly if we didn't move on.

  With only two of us, crowd control was impossible. It would be nothing but stupid to get caught up in a riot out here. I signaled Miguel to move back. For one heart stopping second I thought he was going to refuse. Then whatever passed for common sense in his fundamentalist head took over, and he stepped off the boardwalk, right into the mass of gathering people, murmuring under his breath, "Though a mighty army surrounds me,

  my heart will not be afraid..."

  He pushed through the loose crowd that thankfully fell away from him. Maybe they were as awed by his Biblical quotes as I was.

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  I studied the dozen or so men exhibiting the most suppressed rage. Cop haters always got my radar up. I wasn't all that surprised to see Eastside gang tats on several of them, and one or two Westside placas. Two rival gangs occupying the same space? Never a good thing. Tensions climbed and I could almost smell the testosterone. Miguel's back was up and he wasn't standing down for any of them.

  I stood my ground too, and didn't leave the boardwalk until the old lady rolled her cart down toward the parking lot, and I was sure the bangers weren't going to follow her. Then I strode over to where an impatient Miguel waited.

  I ignored his rage and kept my attention on the retreating bangers doing their cock-of-the-walk strut, bouncing fists off each other, mock wrestling. They stood beside the Escalade, flipped us the bird and watched us. I tried not to think how many of them were probably carrying.

  "You see the ink?" I asked quietly so none of them would overhear us.

  He was still angry. He glared at them, then swung around to turn his hostility on me. "Yes. Does it mean something?"

  "Eastside, Westside they don't co-habit peacefully. I think we interrupted something."

  "What? You think there's going to be more trouble than this?"

  I thought of the death of Isaac Simpson and the way it hadn't made any sense. "I think maybe it already did." If I was right it might be only the beginning of a whole mess of trouble.

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  I turned to watch the gang bangers move as a group down the boardwalk, noticing how everyone got out of their way.

  They swaggered, sure of the fear they generated, not the least concerned a pair of Santa Barbara's finest were watching.

  "Think you can ID those tats?" I asked.

  "I got a good look at a few of them."

  "Let's hit the station. I think I recognized a couple of those mutts. If I can verify my ID we might find known associates."

  On our way back to our unmarked, Miguel glanced over at me. "What about the woman?"

  "Momo?"

  "We still going to look for her?"

  "More than ever."

  "You think she saw something?"

  "I think she knows exactly what went on, and if I'm right, she may be next."

  "You think they'll go after her as a witness?"

  "I think it's more than that." I glanced over my shoulder to where the old woman had vanished. "Did you see her fear?"

  "Of us?"

  "Not us. We didn't mean anything to her. It was the bangers."

  He shrugged. "So she's afraid of some rough looking guys.

  Who wouldn't be?"

  "It's more than that," I said. "I think those 'guys' are taxing the indigents down here."

  "Taxing them?"

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  "Extorting them. Probably for protection. And Isaac Simpson refused to pay, or couldn't pay."

  Just before I keyed the car open, I spun away from it and nearly ran down Miguel. "Pit stop. I need to check something out with the manager."

  Milpas market was busier than it had been the first time we stopped in. I didn't have time to wait for the till to clear so I pulled my badge out and pushed through to the counter.

  When Hardy saw us his mouth turned down. This time there was no amiable down-home-New Englander-just-jawing. I had spotted a teenage girl stocking cans down one aisle. I nodded toward her after catching Hardy's eyes.

  "Get her behind the counter. We need to talk."

  He called to the girl, who approached looking nearly as sullen as Hardy. When she said, "What is it, Dad," I knew why. Family dynamics didn't concern me right now.

  "Take over here...?" I looked at her until she muttered,

  "Brittany."

  "Brittany. Your dad will be busy for a few minutes." I turned to Hardy. "Got an office?"

  He snorted. "No. We can go outside, in back where the ice machine is."

  Out where the buzz of hungry flies and the cries of gulls competed with the sound of nearby traffic. The ice machine was in front of a narrow alley where a blue dumpster overflowed with a week's worth of garbage, explaining the flies.

  Hardy planted himself in front of the ice machine, arms folded over his barrel chest.

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  "We need to ask you some questions," I said before his belligerence could ratchet up into outright hostility. "I need to know who has been hanging around your store in the last couple of months, whether they came in to the store or just loitered outside."

  "I don't have time to be watching spics in the parking lot."

  "Spics?" I leaned toward him, crowding his space. I hadn't said they were Latino. "Describe them."

  "Spics. What can I say about 'em? Dirty Mexis, shaved like they just come outta jail. Tattoos. Those baggy clothes all the kids seem to wear. Sneering all the time." If he noticed he was standing beside another of his 'dirty Mexis' in the form of a cop, he gave no sign. Thick. I'd give Miguel points. He showed no sign the name calling got to him. His face was as flat as I knew mine was.

  "What did they do besides hang around?"

  "Pick on my customers. Call them names. Try to pick fights with the men, the women...I called the police but no one ever did anything. They'd ask if the Mexis could come in the store and when I said no, they said it wasn't trespassing then and they couldn't do nothing until they did. Lot of damn good payin' city taxes gets me."

  "Did you ever see them interact with either Momo or Simpson?"

  Hardy gave me a disgusted look. "They 'interacted'
with everyone. Business is down since they showed up, but fat lot of good you guys did me. Want to tell me why that was?"

  I made sympathetic noises, which didn't mollify Hardy at all. I jerked my head and Miguel followed me toward where 52

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  our car was parked, baking in the sun. The Escalade was gone. I didn't turn around to see if the angry manager was watching us. I knew he was.

  Miguel was getting better at reading me. "What's up?"

  "He's lying."

  He thought about that for a minute and nodded. "Okay, I agree. But about what?"

  I drummed my fingers on the wheel staring over the dash towards the rolling waves beyond the beach, crashing and churning on the shoreline. "That I don't know." I rammed the key into the ignition and cranked the engine on, immediately turning on the air. A blast of hot air was soon replaced by welcomed coolness.

  "He's afraid of them."

  "Anyone would be, if they're smart. But we're going to put a stop to it."

  "How are we going to do that?"

  "Haven't quite figured that out yet, either."

  "But you will." He sounded skeptical.

  "Yes," I said, slamming the car into gear and booting it out of the parking lot. "I will."

  Back at the station we pulled out the latest briefs on gang activity in our area and started leafing through them, looking for the bangers we had spotted on the beach or at least some familiar tattoos. It wasn't long before my suspicions were confirmed. The tats I had seen were all Eastside with the exception of two, who were confirmed Westside bangers with long sheets.

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  I took the briefs with me, then left for lunch around twelve-thirty. Over a corned beef on rye, I ran down what I knew so far. Bangers were up to something. Two opposing gangs showing up in Eastside territory, albeit right on the border between the two sides. Why? What would bring two warring factions together? Nothing good, I was sure. Add to the mix one dead, black indigent. Head shot, which suggested execution. So who executes a homeless old guy with no criminal ties? I went back to what I had told my class a good cop looks at. Opportunity? They had that—I'd seen them down there myself and had corroboration that they'd been there before. Means? I'd never known a banger that didn't have a surplus of weapons at his disposal. Motive? I was stretching there. Extortion? Common, but usually aimed at store owners or neighborhood dealers, not penniless street bums. Who expected them to have money? Or was there something darker at work here? There had been an increasing number of crimes against blacks by Hispanic gangbangers in the L.A. area. No one wanted to talk about it. Creating yet more racial tensions in a city that always seemed to be on the edge of another race riot was never a good thing. But the facts were there, buried in police reports from all over Los Angeles.