L.A. Confrontational Read online

  I stepped around to the wooden entry door on the side of the building, following Frank’s directions. Loud classical music reverberated from inside. Rather than knock, I stepped through the unlocked door into a short hallway filled with easels and stacks of unframed paintings. An assortment of smocks and coats hung on hooks to the right of the door. The pungent odor of drying paint and linseed oil filled the air.

  I continued down the short hallway and slipped through an archway into a large, dimly lit room. “Hello,” I yelled as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Bathed in soft overhead light, a beautiful young woman with short golden hair stretched out nude on a brown suede divan. Across from her, an older woman, her clothes covered with a blue smock, sat sketching on a stool in front of a large easel.

  I averted my eyes from the sprawled goddess and spoke to the artist. “Sorry to intrude, but I’m looking for Barbara Carson.”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Well, the door wasn’t locked.”

  She addressed the model. “You left the door unlocked.” She seemed unwilling to turn her head away from her subject. I shared her reluctance.

  “Are you Barbara Carson?”

  She returned her attention to me. “That’s me. What do you want?”

  “I wanted to speak to you about your daughter.”

  “Look Mr…”

  “Call me Arch.”

  “Arch, I think you should leave.” She stood to address me and I saw the refined middle-aged elegance Andy had found attractive.

  “It’s important we talk.”

  “I’m busy right now. Can you come back later?”

  Barbara glanced to her left and a disturbed look appeared on her face. I caught movement out of the corner of my right eye and turned just as a statue came rushing at my head. My football reflexes kicked in. I raised my right arm to deflect the blow. The statuette bounced off my arm and hit the wood floor with a clatter. I stepped backwards to keep my balance, but stumbled over a large metal toolbox and crashed to the floor among paint-stained drop cloths and wood frames.

  From my prone position, the model’s smooth muscular thighs and triangle of curly straw-colored pubic hair dominated my view. The mixture of coconut oil and feminine fragrances brought an erotic arousal to my senses. Tension gripped her entire body. A strand of short hair had fallen between her eyes, which were fixed on some distant point.

  “I see the carpet matches the curtains.” I croaked.

  My voice seemed to bring her out of a trance. Her glazed stare reminded me of someone awakening from a deep sleep. Barbara arrived to throw a navy blue robe around the model and usher her through a tie-dyed curtain extending across a doorway at the back of the room. I became conscious again of the loud classical music playing in the gallery, uncertain if the serenade of violins was real or a carnal hallucination.

  “You’ve got a knock-out body,” I murmured to the swaying curtain. I pushed myself off the floor and scanned the room. Barbara’s half-finished sketch of the nude model rested on the easel. It was good, but no matter how talented Barbara might be, the finished art could not capture the sublime reality of the model’s perfection. I heard a door slam behind the curtain.

  I rushed after them, pulling the curtain aside. Another hallway led to an exit door at the back of the building. The model’s perfume lingered in a small changing room adjacent to the door. A matching set of rose-colored bra and panties, abandoned by their recently departed owner, rested on a small bench. On impulse, I stuffed them in my jacket pocket and exited the back door into a small gravel parking area. A silver Camry, spewing gravel in its wake, sped down the driveway and out onto Canyon Road.

  As I walked to my car, the flashing light bar of a Santa Fe police vehicle became visible as it came up the road. I ducked into the boutique and pretended to check a rack of colorful dresses near the window. The cop car stopped in front of Barbara’s gallery.

  I lost sight of the cops after they left their vehicle and entered the building premises. I slipped out of the store to my car and eased down the road.

  In the city’s plaza, I found a small restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee. The caffeine alleviated the ringing in my head. During my latter years with the LAPD, I would have already consumed five or six cups by this time of day. To prevent dehydration, I’d kept several bottles of water in my squad car. Chewing gum became another necessity to hide my putrid coffee breath. My addiction had been reduced to one cup in the morning, but half of today’s serving sat cold in the container. My harrowing experience in the art studio brought on an acute caffeine craving.

  Cops get into some unhealthy habits, with their weird hours and high job stress. I was no different from the rest. I had hit the coffee and cigarettes hard during the day and the booze at night. Joanne didn’t need any additional excuses to terminate our six-year marriage. My absences from home left her with most of the responsibility of raising our daughter, who would be turning seven in a week. Joanne had been pregnant with Josie when we got married.

  I called Andy Lujan on my cell phone and left him a message. My friend liked playing the field. His Hispanic DNA, which fostered his dark, handsome features, worked like a magnet with women. We became good friends while attending the California Police Academy. Our fellow cadets gritted their jealous teeth when we went out to a local club or restaurant and the women would flock around us. Andy lured them in, but I never complained.

  Andy called back after I finished my sandwich. “Well, how is my arch competitor doing?” Andy loved that little play on words. “Did you land a big case or are you desperate to consult with me on my expertise with women?”

  “You are so perceptive.”

  “So, which is it?”

  “I’m up in Santa Fe trying to clean up the mess you made.”

  “Who is she?” With Andy, there was usually a scorned woman.

  “Barbara Carson. You know, formerly Mrs. Frank Minor.”

  “What can I say, Arch? She’s a pretty one, but a bit old for me. Ancient news, though.”

  “Wait until I tell you about this model I ran into. We need to talk. How about I buy you breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good. I just received some information you’ll find interesting. What did Barb have to say?”

  “Unfortunately, I never really got the chance to talk to her. I think she felt threatened and called the cops.” I took a sip of my coffee.

  “Don’t tell me. You forgot to introduce yourself and gain the client’s confidence.”

  “Yep. I know. I’m not a cop anymore.” Andy had repeatedly drilled me on the distinction between being a police officer and a private detective.

  “So what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning. Barela’s at eight?” I decided to cut the conversation short before we fell into our usual pattern of trading cryptic banter.

  “Better make it eight-thirty. I’ve got to meet someone first thing.”

  “No problem. See you then.” I disconnected, finished my coffee, and headed back to Albuquerque. My follow-up questions could wait until I consulted with Andy.

  Chapter 3

  The hot shower relaxed and soothed my neck muscles, still sore from my previous day’s tumble in the art studio. During my college football days, even a more vicious tackle would have caused little discomfort.

  I anticipated my breakfast would include Andy’s friendly ridicule for being blindsided and pinned by a woman. Despite his dismissal from the investigation, I could still sense his continuing involvement. He claimed to have useful information, without specifying whether it pertained to the present case. Andy thrived on the intrigue. His professional life immersed him in a world of movers and shakers, aided by his family’s connections to the state Democratic Party. He never hid his political aspirations. To Andy this would be just another case, but to me, a successful outcome would bolster my career.

  The parking lot across from Barela’s was full, so I drove around the neighborhood before fi
nding a spot. A popular establishment in the historic neighborhood that shared its name, the restaurant provided a meeting spot for power meals and attracted tourists, judges, police captains, and occasionally a mayor or governor. Part of Andy’s routine consisted of pointing out various important people. On occasion, I made a valuable connection because, despite being one of his main business competitors, Andy never hesitated to introduce me to someone influential.

  Through the glass doors, I encountered a small crowd waiting in the bright blue foyer. The large rooms full of busy chatter made conversation difficult, but the quality of the food made it all worthwhile. My stomach gently rumbled.

  The pretty, young Hispanic hostess greeted me with a smile when I asked for a table for two. She nodded and told me to let her know when the other party arrived. I considered getting a table and force Andy to search for me, but he might never make it, being stopped by the many locals who would draw him aside to discuss a piece of local gossip.

  As I moved to the rear of the entrance hallway, I had a flashback of the long, slim thighs of the model from the gallery. She had fixed me with a sad, almost apologetic stare before disappearing as if she felt remorse for nearly cracking my skull. My infatuation with her reminded me of my lack of female companionship since my split from Joanne. Despite my faults, Joanne said she would always love me, but living with me was like a long-term internship in purgatory. The “internship” comment referenced her extended sentence while serving at the county medical examiner’s office when we first met. She had worked 60 hours a week for little pay, no benefits, and the pleasure of getting the nastiest assignments. She must have seen the similarities in our marriage; only our union offered little hope of a future reward.

  My cell phone read 8:45. The usually punctual Andy was late. But he had mentioned meeting with someone first thing that morning. I peeked through the double glass doors, expecting to see Andy striding toward me, but there was only a cluster of young professionals in their business suits and red power ties gathering on the sidewalk.

  As the group entered the restaurant, I glanced to see it was almost 9:00. I called Andy’s cell phone, but got no answer. What the hell was keeping him? I waited another fifteen minutes and then drove over to his modest house near the University where he’d let me stay when I first moved to the Duke City, the natives’ name for this high desert metropolis. Andy loved the house and never considered moving unless he got married, which seemed unlikely given his playboy persona. Besides, I suspected he considered the location optimal for picking up college girls.

  Andy’s black SUV sat in his driveway as I turned onto his street. I pulled in behind it, expecting him to come loping down the porch steps spouting apologies. I knocked on the door several times and rang the doorbell, one of those yellowed plastic strips, but I couldn’t hear it ring. I moved to my right and peered at the shadowy living room through the slit in the dark curtains. There appeared to be a light on in the kitchen at the back, but I couldn’t detect any movement.

  Not getting any response, I decided to check for the key hidden under a large gray flowerpot on the side of the house. Self-conscious about being observed, I walked confidently, taking a glimpse around before lifting the pot to remove the key. A car alarm sounded down the street, piercing the quiet neighborhood, devoid of faculty and students on a fall weekday morning.

  I opened the front door and waited for the alarm to sound, but noticed it had not been set. I called out Andy’s name and loudly identified myself several times. Andy packed a mean Smith and Weston .45 and I didn’t need him confusing me for a burglar. My yells were greeted by dead silence.

  The house had that unsettled smell of a single male, something I recognized in my own place. The living room contained sparse furniture—a small brown leather couch and two matching chairs, a flat screen TV and stereo system, and a large wine rack along the left wall. Andy loved his red wines and the bottles filled every available space.

  The room’s wood floors continued down a hallway to the kitchen and the sound of my shoes cut through the stillness. In the kitchen, I turned off a dripping sink faucet. The pair of small bedrooms and his quaint office at the rear of the kitchen were empty.

  I crossed the kitchen to the foyer where a sliding glass door exited into the backyard. Andy’s body stretched facedown and half way out the open door. A blood trail led down the back of his polo shirt and onto the floor.

  “Shit, Andy.” With the amount of blood, the odds were against his still being alive. I checked in vain for a pulse and collapsed against a massive chest freezer.

  Suddenly conscious of not being armed, I searched for a weapon and grabbed a titanium club out of the red golf bag leaning against the corner of the hallway. Gripping the club, I checked the house, but the drying blood on the floor confirmed the shooting had occurred much earlier and it was doubtful the murderer had stuck around for a meet and greet. Streaks of blood extended across the corner of the kitchen wall at the entrance to the back room.

  I needed to call the cops, but I also wanted some time to figure out what had happened to Andy before the APD chased me out. Andy’s smart phone lay in the yard leaning against a struggling patch of grass just beyond his outstretched hand. Tears welled up in my eyes as I slipped out to my car to retrieve a small notebook and a pair of nitrile gloves for handling the phone.

  I turned the phone on expecting a request for a password, but after sliding the indicator to unlock, the screen lit up with a series of applications. A couple of taps brought me to the list of recent calls and I got busy copying the numerous numbers and names. I returned the phone to its place in the grass, tucked the gloves and notebook into my jacket pocket, and called 911 from my phone.

  A duo of uniformed cops showed up minutes later followed by a Detective Burns from the Criminal Investigation Department. I knew Burns, thanks to an introduction from Andy about a year ago. He ambled in the front door, wearing a navy blue jacket to cover a white shirt protruding at various points from his overweight belly.

  Despite his rumpled appearance, Burns was a sharp detective who had been fond of Andy. Having a military background, Burns still sported his blond crew cut to remind us all of his service. A small piece of tissue paper clung to his neck where he had cut himself shaving. Being divorced, he no longer had a partner to check his appearance before he exited the front door. With a deep frown plastered to his grizzled veteran face, he walked straight to me.

  “Hey Burns.” I didn’t know what else to say. He shook my hand the gloves and notebook a guilty lump in my breast pocket. Eventually, I would have to come clean about handling the evidence.

  “Arch, what the hell? Someone shot Andy?” Burns eyes shifted around the kitchen. One of the uniformed cops nodded to him as he noted the location of a shell casing.

  I shrugged. A bullet doesn’t distinguish between a good man and a creep. Too bad I hadn’t arrived earlier with my gun for a chance to plug a few in the degenerate murderer.

  One of the first officers to arrive had taken my statement as they locked down the scene, awaiting the arrival of the detectives and CSI. Burns waited for me to repeat my statement to him. He pounded on a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and stuck it unlit between his lips. He didn’t offer me one.

  “I was supposed to meet him at Barela’s this morning at eight-thirty. I tried calling him, but didn’t get an answer. I finally drove over and arrived just before nine-thirty. I knew he kept a spare key under the planter outside so I let myself in. The front door was locked.”

  “No sign of forced entry.” Burns nodded.

  “Doesn’t look like it. They must have slipped out through the back yard.”

  “And he was half outside like that?” Burns was a chain-smoker and even in the morning, his fetid nicotine and coffee breath burned my nostrils. His suit had absorbed the daily cigarette smoke, and the stale odor combined with the aftershave he used to hide it was lethal. I tried not to breathe too deeply, remembering my own struggles to shake t
hose same habits.

  “Yeah, it looks like he got shot from behind while in the kitchen, went down and pulled himself up along this wall.” I pointed to the white plastered corner with the bloodstains sliding at an angle. “Maybe he fell again and dragged himself to the door trying to make a call before he died.”

  “He was shot at close range.” Burns walked gently to the rear door, avoiding Andy’s prone body.

  “No doubt, maybe by someone he trusted enough to let into his house.” I stayed put and glanced the other way.

  “Damn, he was a good man, Arch.”

  “He told me he had an early appointment and couldn’t meet until eight-thirty.”

  Burns turned back to me. “He didn’t say with whom?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “Any idea what case he was working?”

  “No, you know Andy. We didn’t discuss our cases with one another unless we were working together.” Which wasn’t exactly true. The discussion usually consisted of me consulting Andy on one of my cases, including my current one. I wasn’t quite ready to tell that to Burns.

  “Yeah, I figured. I’ll need you to come down to the station with me so we can get your official statement. Did you touch anything?” He glanced around at the crime scene.

  “I was careful, but my prints are probably on this chair and the freezer in there.” I pointed to the backroom containing Andy’s prone body. “I checked Andy’s neck for a pulse and I picked up that golf club as a weapon just in case. That should be it.”

  “Okay. You carrying?”

  “No, it’s why I grabbed the club, but I guess you’ve got to check.” I raised my arms to make it easy, acknowledging that my presence at the crime scene made me the initial suspect.