42
When my phone rang at eleven forty a.m., I was downtown, walking to a municipal parking lot across from the court building, after an in-chambers meeting with a family law judge and two lawyers.
I said, “Found yourself a judge.”
Milo said, “Yeah, but irrelevant. Alicia was watching the apartment from eight on, all of a sudden the Highlander leaves and gets on the 10 East. Alicia followed it to the Sixth Street exit, verified it’s Tiana driving, no one else with her. They’re stuck in traffic, which buys some time.”
I said, “Downtown. Returning to the scene?”
“Why else drive there—hold on.”
He was back a few moments later.
“That was Alicia. The jam eased and Tiana’s driving around kind of aimlessly. Alicia managed to stay with her but a bunch of cars got between them. Hector was nearby so she called him in. Overall, Tiana’s headed in the right direction if the dumpster is her destination but who knows? I’m almost there, let you know if anything happens.”
“I’m ten minutes away from the dumpster.”
“Why?”
“Court stuff.”
“Oh. Well, keep your distance. Not that I should have to tell you.”
A couple of years ago I was with him at a stakeout and got battered by a psychotic. No slipups by anyone; stuff happens. It took a few tense discussions for him to ease off sheltering me. But sometimes he still tries to protect and serve.
I said, “Good luck,” hung up, and continued walking.
The Seville had merited free parking because my I.D. tag saidI was a designated expert witness. That confused the attendant who felt he needed to consult with another attendant. Eventually the yardarm lifted.
Once out of the lot, I headed for the alley where Lynne Gutierrez had been treated like garbage.
Chapter
43
Normal cities revolve around a central hub. L.A. made a stab at normalcy for decades but then the freeways were built and everything drifted westward, leaving the hub to decay. Despite decades of nattering about revival, downtown L.A. remains more a concept than a reality.
A shaky concept; nowadays, the area’s a bizarre mix of gloss and crud.
Government buildings, convention hotels, and office towers housing bankers, money managers, and the kind of lawyers who schmooze with politicians coexist with itinerant street vendors, mono-brand fast-food joints, once glorious movie theaters converted to discount emporia crammed with schlock, pawnshops promising to pay you handsomely for your gold, a stunningly violent Skid Row, overflow hamlets of homeless psychotics camped out and wandering the streets, the drug dealers who prey on them, the shelters that try to save them.
I found a privately run patch of ravaged asphalt three blocks from the alley in question and paid far too much to park.
Midday downtown light was hot, hazy, heavy. The air reeked of deep-frying, fossil fuel, human sweat, the occasional burst of too-sweet cologne. Men and women in tailored suits stepped around heaps of garbage and worked hard at ignoring the mentally tormented men andwomen who’d created them. The sidewalk was splotched dark where tall buildings combated the struggling sun, lighter where empty lots admitted glare, creating a strange pinto effect. Din alternated with inexplicable bursts of quiet. Then louder waves of noise began killing the quiet, as if a cosmic roadie was amplifying the city.
For the most part people went about their business, shunning eye contact. Paying no notice to what was obvious to me a block and a halfin.
I spotted Moe Reed first, wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and standing just left of the alley mouth, cleaning his nails.
To the right of the dim strip stood Milo in a black suit, white shirt, and blue tie, pretending to read a newspaper.
The suit was a valiant attempt to blend in but a close look at the fabric would tell you this was no banker or politically connected paper pusher.
Moe was able to take in his surroundings by shifting his eyes without moving. Using the paper as cover meant Milo had to lower it in microbursts and during one of those instances, he sawme.
So did Moe, who didn’t react.
Milo did, glaring.
