Case 99: The Literary Lady

by

Ernest J. Abeytia

A creative project submitted to

Sonoma State University

in partial fulfillment of the requirements

for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

in

English

Committee Members:

Prof. Stefan Kiesbye

Dr. Scott Miller

04 May 2018

i Copyright 2018

By Ernest J. Abeytia

ii Authorization for Reproduction of Master's Project

Permission to reproduce this project in part or in entirety must be obtained from me.

04 May 2018

Ernest J. Abeytia

iii Case 99: The Literary Lady

By

Ernest J. Abeytia

ABSTRACT

This is a crime fiction novel. It is a confluence of the styles, settings, plot lines, and character development of such luminaries of detective storytelling as Raymond

Chandler, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Elmore Leonard, but it is not a hard copy or

“cover” of anything they wrote.

Bob Derby is a homicide detective in the Gardena, California police department.

Gardena is one of 88 cities or towns in the County of Los Angeles. He has made an arrest in, or “cleared,” 98 of 101 homicide cases as the story begins, but he has never actually solved any of them. Somebody else always beats him to it and he then applies the police procedure that closes the case. The murder of Emma Williams is to be no different.

iv

Table of Contents

Critical Introduction ...... vi

Bibliography ...... xix

Case 99: The Literary Lady ...... 1

v Case 99: The Literary Lady By Ernest J. Abeytia

A Critical Introduction

The most famous detective in history is a fictional character. When Sir Arthur

Conan Doyle sent Sherlock Holmes off a cliff overlooking the Reichenbach Falls in “The

Final Problem” (1893), more than 20,000 readers cancelled their subscriptions to The

Strand magazine, nearly putting the publication under. Doyle was also a talented author of historical novels, science fiction, horror stories, and adventure tales as well as a pioneer of the detective story. But very few readers responded to his creation of alternative characters, like Professor Challenger, and most of his non-Sherlock works remain obscure to this day. Faced with this public outcry and a general boycott of his other works, Doyle published The Hound of the Baskervilles in 1901, set as a case that occurred before Holmes fell to his death. The response was huge and Doyle had no choice but to write a complete resurrection of Holmes, which he did in 1903 (“The

Adventure of the Empty House). Holmes then lived on into the late 1920’s; the last story written by Doyle was “The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place.”

Doyle stands as the first of two giants of crime fiction that dominate my love for the genre. I had read all of the Sherlock stories and had seen all of the Basil Rathbone movie versions by the time I was sixteen. I reread the stories yearly. They have never gone out of print.

It was Doyle who first moved the detective character from beleaguered (Dupin,

Lecoq, Tulkinghorn) to beloved (Holmes, Poirot). The Baker Street Journal featured an article in

vi the 1940’s which asked “What Is It that We Love in Sherlock Holmes?” (Edgar W.

Smith) Here are the words that resonate most with this work:

But there is more than time and space and the yearning for things gone by to account for what we feel toward Sherlock Holmes. Not only the there and then, but here and now, he stands before us as a symbol—a symbol, if you please, of all that we are not, but ever would be. His figure is sufficiently remote to make our secret aspirations for transference seem unshameful, yet close enough to give them plausibility. We see him as the fine expression of our urge to trample evil and to set right the wrongs with which the world is plagued. He is Galahad and Socrates, bringing high adventure to our dull existences and calm, judicial logic to our biased minds. He is the success of all our failures; the bold escape from our imprisonment.

Escape is the operative word here. It is often used as a motif by the main giant of crime fiction that influences my work, Raymond Chandler, my favorite author. Philip

Marlowe, his erstwhile detective, consistently escapes the reality of his existence with alcohol (much like Chandler). We learn this in Chandler’s breakout novel, The Big Sleep.

General Sternwood is trying to escape his failures as a parent and his isolation as a millionaire, his son-in-law is trying to escape a loveless marriage to his daughter by running off with a gangster’s wife (also trying to escape), and his youngest daughter is desperately trying to escape becoming an adult.

Yes, Marlowe drinks a lot, but his behavior belies the prosaic label of drunkard.

Throughout these tales, Marlowe conforms to the image set forth by Chandler in “The

Simple Art of Murder,” an essay written in defense of the crime fiction genre for The

Atlantic:

vii

But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honor in one thing, he is that in all things. He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. The story is his adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in. If there were enough like him, I think the world would be a very safe place to live in, and yet not too dull to be worth living in. (6)

Doyle and Chandler have a very similar model for the detective: male, cosmopolitan urban dweller, autodidactic, isolated, cynical, and misogynist (“Women are never to be entirely trusted Watson, not the best of them.” The Sign of Four). It has been

left to other writers to break from this heuristic. Christie has given us Miss Marple,

Grafton has given us Kinsey Milhone, Leonard has given us Raylan Givens, for example.

These writers, among many others, have influenced my work by releasing me from the

notion of detectives as modern-day knights. Bob Derby, the detective in this text, does

have high professional standards and a dedication to justice for his victims. But his

viii integrity is reasonable, not rigid; he bends rules. A professor asked me once if Marlowe

is a “good guy.” My answer? “He wants to be.” This also applies to Derby.

Critical Theory

In “The Simple Art of Murder,” Dorothy Sayers, a twentieth century British crime

writer, is quoted as follows: "It (the detective story) does not, and by hypothesis never

can, attain the loftiest level of literary achievement…it is a literature of escape, not a

literature of expression” (3)

Chandler offers a rebuttal to this statement: “I do not know what the loftiest level of literary achievement is: neither did Aeschylus or Shakespeare; neither does Miss

Sayers.” (3)

This dissonance is an example of the enduring debate regarding whether or not crime fiction can ever be regarded as great literature. This paper will neither explore that debate nor take a position. Instead, it will discuss the genre in terms of theory: there is hardly a category of critical theory that can’t be applied to the text of crime fiction (using my own as a model):

• Psychoanalytic: There are psychological desires, needs, and conflicts, Brenda’s

need for control conflicts with her husband’s need for control, for example.

• Marxist: There is representation of both capitalism and classism, Money is the

motivation for characters of varying socioeconomic classes.

• Feminist: Patriarchal norms and values are present. Most of the bosses are male.

• New Criticism: there is organic unity and a theme of universal significance. All of

the characters are part of one social ecosystem; their actions intersect. The

universal theme of this work is greed.

ix • Stucturalist: There is an underlying narratological structure. Derby’s quest is the

vehicle, but Brenda’s talents provide the impetus.

• Deconstructive: There is undecidability and ideology at work here. Amoral

characters like Emma are likeable, for example, and greed is the primary

ideology.

• Cultural: There is representation of both elite and working-class norms and the

tension between them throughout. Brenda is a member of the elite while Derby is

a member of the proletariat, for example.

But the critical theory category that most applies to the crime fiction genre, and to this work specifically, is reader-response, here described by Lois Tyson:

Reader-response theories share two beliefs: (1) that the role of the reader cannot be omitted from our understanding of literature and (2) that readers do not passively consume the meaning presented to them by an objective literary text; rather they actively make the meaning they find in literature. (170)

In this context, interpretation of the text is subjective; readers will be able to make meaning from the text based on their own literary or life template and are not limited in any way by the text itself. More importantly, the cardinal rule of writing is take your

reader somewhere. This work attempts to do just that, like all the best detective fiction.

When the murderer strikes in this text, for example, all possible motives are available for

the reader to determine.

x Prose Tradition

This work conforms to a tradition of police work that is consistent with modern American crime fiction. It is described here by David W. Brown’s “The Case for Crime Fiction” in The Atlantic: The integrity of crime fiction begins at the police station. The station house tells the reader everything he or she needs to know about the crime novel as art, and about law enforcement as entertainment. Police stations are dirty. Not morally, though such a deficiency is not always entirely alien. They are dirty in a very real, very physical sense. Tables, chairs, desks, pens—in a police station, everything has a certain squalid grit to it. You can feel it between your teeth. Even when a station house is new, when coats of paint have yet to dry on cinderblock walls, and floors are freshly tiled and sealed and mopped, there's a honeymoon period of a day or so before the building ages a decade. It's almost as though crime manifests as grime on the wall. This is because police stations aren't where a day's work is conducted. It's where the work ends. Those so unfortunate to cross the threshold had too much to drink or too many pills. Threw a few punches or lost a few teeth. Definitely sweat possibly ran, and if so, probably found asphalt or curb. The business of crime does not lend itself to clean hands, or manicured nails. (2)

Some of the women in Case 99 have clean hands and manicured nails, but very few of the men, and none of the police officers. The Gardena, California police station is a squat, brick, one-story structure built in the early 1960’s. The interior is strictly institutional and dominated by Steelcase furniture. The police officers are blue-collar for the most part and adhere to a “thin, blue line” code of loyalty. Both the police station and the Los Angeles metropolitan area are characters in the story.

xi Non-literary Influences

Some of the best movies and television shows ever made have been about detectives, both police and private. As mentioned above, I eagerly watched the Basil

Rathbone performances as Sherlock in my youth and own the complete set of the Jeremy

Brett series that ran from 1984 to 1994. It is said Brett was so consumed by the character that he had a nervous breakdown.

But Case 99 is most influenced by the work of Raymond Chandler. The interaction between Bob Derby and Brenda Ortiz, a working-stiff detective and rich celebrity, has traces of the interaction between Marlowe and Vivian Sternwood in The

Big Sleep. (Both women get to the truth before the detective.) Vivian’s sister, Carmen, shares a personality with Betty the Body. The conniving nature of Emma Williams is similar to that of Phyllis Dietrichson, the Barbara Stanwyck character in the film noir classic Double Indemnity, for which Chandler shared screenwriting credit. It is this famous detective story, written by James Cain, that Brenda seeks out at the Pasadena City

Library.

Four television series have influenced the story. The Sipowicz character in NYPD

Blue and Bob Derby are both good detectives and Vietnam veterans. Lt. Giardello from

Homicide: Life on the Streets treats his detectives much the same way that Lt. Windsor treats Derby. And Chief of Detectives Pendergrass is a composite of the political animals featured in The Wire. Derby’s questioning technique is influenced by Peter Falk’s character in Columbo.

xii Tradition, Experimentation

I have sided with Raymond Chandler in this book. Here are his words from

“Raymond Chandler: Detections of Totality:”

A long time ago when I was writing for the pulps I put into a story a line like “He got out of the car and walked across the sun-drenched sidewalk until the shadow of the awning over the entrance fell across his face like the touch of cool water.” They took it out when they published the story. Their readers didn’t appreciate this sort of thing – just held up the action. I set out to prove them wrong. My theory was that the readers just thought they cared about nothing but action; that really, although they didn’t know it, the thing they cared about, and that I cared about, was the creation of emotion through dialogue and description.

My editors and I are doomed to a tug of war over how much detail there is to be in the text. I’m a detail-oriented person and I like to do what Steinbeck does: create a complete portrait of the environment and then animate it with the characters. I expect my writing to reflect my reverence for the traditional detective story, but I’m also willing to experiment. Talking to police professionals has given me some insight into how police work really proceeds. It is relentlessly tedious and boring most of the time. This is why

Derby hates the time he spends at his desk doing paperwork. Transcribing this tedium will get my work tossed in the fireplace, so I will minimize the paperwork references and stay with thoughts, dialogue, and action as a way to make it distinctive.

The other insight from police professionals is how much crime gets solved because of either the sheer stupidity of the culprits or sheer luck itself. I must have heard the phrase “catch a break in the case” a dozen times in my conversations and hundreds of times in the stories I have read or watched. This is partially what inspired the idea of a

xiii detective that has cleared ninety-eight murder cases without solving any of them, another potential area of distinction. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard famously recorded a number of arrests after Sherlock Holmes had solved the crime, but we know nothing of

Lestrade’s other cases. Does he solve those himself or does he need the help of someone else besides Holmes? I decided that Derby could still be competent and confident without being the super-sleuth that solves the crime. He is the facilitator of Case 99 instead.

Crafting

My first saved draft of this work is dated 2013. The ideas and story formation go back much longer. During the development of this work, I learned a very important lesson: organization will irrigate your creativity while you wait for inspirational rainfall.

Creating a sequence, from introduction to the crime to the chase to the conclusion, is more than a just a chronological flow of events. There has to be timely pauses so we can catch up with the thoughts and emotions of the characters. This was my first important structural decision. Another structural decision I made to accommodate this sequencing was to write the chapters as scenes, a technique I borrowed from Elmore Leonard; some of his chapters are only a page or two. Another organizing technique that has evolved for me is the idea of a “character bible,” whereby each character that appears more than once is given a biography of some sort, either in summary form or in detail. This was suggested by a creative writing professor. The fourth structural decision was to integrate flashbacks and history into the dialogue. This resulted in the extended interview with

Redd Wilson where we learn about Emma Williams and also Brenda’s interview with the writer from People magazine, where we learn about her marriage history with Beau. I also thought it would be more distinctive to have characters actually change their minds

xiv in the middle of a conversation, such as Brenda sharing much more in the People

interview than she intended and when Felix decides during his meeting with Brenda that

framing Beau is not the best way to go.

My writing process, regardless of the task, always begins with a mental first draft

that gets me to at least 90% of the storyline. I look for some unusual character first, like a

career detective that has never solved a case or a comedian with no sense of humor and I

start imagining how that person got to be that way. As those details evolve, the rationale

for why the character does what he or she does will emerge, even though a specific action

might be wildly irrational, like Brenda turning down a huge movie contract or Beau

committing murder.

Next comes the crime or other catalytic event (not all my writing is detective

fiction) whereby the reader knows exactly what happened. Borrowing from Columbo, the

culprit is not revealed dramatically at the end. Instead he or she is revealed along the way,

which triggers the dramatic tension of the cat and mouse game that ensues. My re-writing is more organizing than proofing or editing, although I have learned first-hand the importance of deciding what to include and what to omit: if it doesn’t enhance the story, it may not be necessary.

I change a line here and there, of course, but there is much more change created by moving blocks of text from one place to another. The very first line I wrote was “Mo didn’t like the looks of the man seating himself at the counter.” It’s a good line, but it violates the sequence of setting the scene first and then animating it with characters. I have also been advised that the reader may be confused about whose story this is by mentioning Mo first, but I’m not sure I agree with that. In any event, the line survives,

xv but further along in the scene. My most productive writing time is between four pm and midnight, which I’m sure has something to do with my circadian rhythm. (An example of a line that could be omitted.)

This paper has been heavily workshopped both academically and by published authors. Their feedback has shaped my writing in several ways:

• Lapses in timing and duration have been identified, creating a staging

process in which I note date and time, then list the characters introduced,

and the events described. I needed to change the timing of Brenda’s

extended interview with the People writer, for example, so she could make

it to her first lunch appointment with Derby the same day and I had to start

it early enough so she would be ready for a mid-day meal when she got

there.

• Geographic and cultural references were spotted by readers and corrected.

I changed the location of Brenda’s meal after her library visit to make sure

she had a short commute from Pasadena to the restaurant, for example. I

also adjusted the timing of the subsequent scenes leading up to the murder

in order to fit them into Emma’s “final 72 hours.”

• There was a lot of positive feedback from readers that recognized the Los

Angeles locations, which caused me to use real locations as much as

possible. I changed the location of Norm’s to Hawthorne Blvd. after

finding out there was no real location on El Segundo Blvd.

xvi • My initial text regarding the relationship between Mo and Emma was

clumsy and clogged with detail until my readers questioned the

explication. I realized then that all I had to say was they were “at it.”

• Inconsistencies my readers have pointed out have been very helpful. In the

initial introduction of Phillip Trum, for example, Derby’s partner tells him

that he liked to be called “Phil,” but when Derby meets Mr. Trum, he is

advised that he didn’t want to be addressed that way.

The most difficult part of writing this work for me has always been impatience. I forget that we can’t speak as fast as we think and we can’t write as fast as we speak. I find myself trying to transcribe my thoughts, which is difficult because of my unruly imagination. This not only clutters my writing, it also has the opposite effect. Some of my thoughts make their escape and I wind up leaving out essential detail. In the murder scene, for example, I was so concerned with depicting the murder site and the neighborhood that I forgot to plant a clue. That’s when I went back and added the flashlight.

To deal with this problem, I have developed a one-paragraph stop-and-read habit.

This allows me to quickly review what I have written so I can identify both omissions and potential deletions. My other strategy is to give my wife a chapter at a time to read.

More than one mistake has been corrected this way, plus I get real-time feedback on the story itself.

xvii Summary

The list of famous fictional detectives I know is long, but I’m always ready to add another: Dupin, Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Reginald Wexford,

Inspector Bucket, The Continental Op, Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, Nero Wolfe, Philo

Vance, Mike Hammer, Travis McGee, Spenser, Edward Delaney, Archie McNally, Easy

Rawlins, Bud White, Arkady Renko, Perry Mason, Father Brown, Philo Vance, V.I.

Warshawski, Jack Reacher, Mike Hammer, Frank Pembleton, John Munch, Stanley

Bolander, Kay Howard, Meldrick Lewis, Tim Bayliss, Mike Kellerman, Stuart Gharty,

Paul Falsone, Terri Stivers, Megan Russert, Laura Ballard, Beau Felton, Andy Sipowicz,

John Kelly, Greg Medavoy, Diane Russell, Jill Kirkendall, Bobby Simone, Baldwin

Jones, Danny Sorenson, John Clark, Jr., Connie McDowell, Rita Ortiz, Jimmy McNulty,

Kima Griggs, Bunk Moreland, Lester Freamon, Herc, Roland Pryzblewski.

Here’s some relatively famous ones I don’t know, some with very interesting names: Reginald Wexford, Mike Hoolihan, Inspector Morse, John Rebus, William of

Baskerville, Adam Dalgliesh, Chen Cao, Harry Hole, Jules Maigret, Meyer Landsmore,

Kurt Wallender, Dirk Gently, Nick Stefanos, Inspector Heat.

All these names share one thing in common. They somehow become important to their readers. This importance emerges and grows as they spend time on Chandler’s

“mean streets,” without themselves being mean, of course. They are imperfect, fallible, frequently afraid and often unhappy, but they keep going day after day, one foot in front of the other, seeking truth. They are no smarter than you or me, but they pay attention and they stay alert. To these lists I propose to add the name of Bob Derby. Who knows if he will ever actually solve a murder, but he will keep clearing cases.

xviii

Bibliography

Brown, David W. “The Case for Crime Fiction.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 31 May 2011, www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2011/05/the-case-for- crime-fiction/239631/.

Chandler, Raymond. “The Simple Art of Murder.” The Atlantic, Dec. 1944.

Doyle, Arthur Conan, and William Stuart Baring-Gould. “WHAT IS IT THAT WE LOVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES?” The Annotated Sherlock Holmes: the Four Novels and Fifty-Six Short Stories Complete, Wings Books, 1992, pp. 103–104.

Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. Vintage Books, 1992.

Tyson, Lois. “Reader-Response Criticism.” Critical Theory Today: a User-Friendly

Guide, Routledge, 2006, pp. 169–208.

Wilder, Billy, et al. Double Indemnity. University of California Press, 2000.

xix 1

One: 23 May 1988, 5:48 pm

Norm’s is one of the 24-hour joints situated near LAX. Inside, constant

fluorescence is accompanied by non-stop noise. In addition to customers talking and the

sizzle of the griddles, there are waitresses, bus boys and fry cooks barking at each other,

families with squealing kids that get on everybody’s nerves, silverware clinking on

dishware, tunes blasting at jet plane decibel levels from gangster vehicles on the street.

The food is good, the portions generous, and the waitresses call everyone “Honey.” The

chairs and booths are upholstered in hot pink and day-glow orange vinyl, a color scheme

designed to keep people from leisurely lounging after their meals. It is a family-friendly

place this time of day: lots of high chairs and crayons for the kiddies. That changes around midnight as the hookers, pimps, drunks, cocktail waitresses, bartenders and low-

lifes drift in from a dozen bars nearby. Norm’s serves a lot more breakfasts to these folks between 2:00 am and 6:00 am than to the working stiffs arriving between 6:00 am and

10:00 am.

Bob Derby ate at this diner four times a week after his shift as a homicide detective for the Gardena, CA police department. It was on the way home for him, only five minutes from his one-bedroom apartment down Hawthorne Boulevard. He ate the special every night except Wednesdays, which was liver and onions. That was his Arby’s night. He didn’t even have to order when he rolled in, usually around 5:45P; all the servers knew exactly what he wanted. He knew them all by their first names. They all knew he was a heavy tipper, especially when the Lakers won.

He rarely paid attention to anyone because the restaurant was a decompression

place for him, but today his policeman’s gaze landed on three guys seated in a big corner

2

booth. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course, but he could see it was an animated conversation. He glanced over a few times at the trio and was sure he knew one

of them. Not the guy with the convict attitude or the illegal. It was the civilian he

recognized. Derby set his curiosity aside when his spaghetti and meatballs were served.

He was right; he did know the guy. He was a witness to a drive-by shooting case he had

caught a few months before, an investigation that was still open.

******

Mo didn’t like Derby’s looks as soon as he saw him; he made him as a cop right away: from his flat-top haircut to the pistol bulging under his left armpit to the ugly heavy-soled shoes. He couldn’t be anything else.

Mo and his two pals had already consumed three or four cups of coffee each in the 90 minutes or so they had been there. Mo – short for Morris – was the only one who had done hard time. He got caught ripping off a bank in a fraudulent loan scam when he was 26, and ended up doing six years in Soledad, a gladiator school where toothbrush handles could be filed down to become a deadly shiv. Mo was originally scheduled to go to a place called California Institution for Men, a minimum-security prison, but he had pissed off the sentencing judge. He was a straight up, nonstop wise ass and he thought it would be cool to address the Honorable Arthur Leigh Allen as “Artie.”

Soledad was much like San Quentin and Folsom: strict racial divides and almost daily violence. It was six years of hell, but he learned from listening to some of the savviest criminals around. He knew, for example, about the telltale bulge under a cheap sports coat that identified a plainclothes detective. Wise guys favored suits with a jacket tailored to hide their weapon.

3

Mo had been doing odd jobs and small-scale capers during the four years that had

elapsed since he got out of prison. He was in pretty good shape, carrying 195 pounds on a

six-foot one-inch frame. He had been movie star handsome in his younger days, which made his early time in prison more difficult. He had finally been forced to shank one of

his many suitors with a sharpened spoon handle so he would be left alone. He could still

turn a female head from time to time, many of whom liked his longish chestnut hair,

which now included some gray strands as he moved towards forty, a few near each

temple. His outfit today was strictly James Dean: jeans, white t-shirt, and jean jacket. His

two-pack-a-day habit kept him lighting up at least twice an hour. Mo believes that he

only needed a few thousand to finance his dream. The money would be used to buy the

wardrobe he needed to become a male escort. He would prey on rich and lonely women

until he found one that would provide room and board, transportation, and the money he

needed to stay in action at the track and in the cardrooms.

Mo’s dinner companions have different ambitions. Hector immigrated from Cuba

and his temporary paperwork has long expired. He usually dresses in jeans and either a

Laker or Dodger jersey. He stands about five feet six, but his boots get him to almost five

feet seven and a half. He is the oldest of the three at 43. Even though he has done his

share of petty crime, he has served zero time in prison, just some time as a guest of the

Los Angeles County Correctional Facility. His hair is a black “Elvis” pompadour, kept in

place by a popular pomade known as “Dixie Peach.” He corrects people, usually with a

sniff, when they guess he is Mexican. He came to America in 1980 from Cuba in the

Mariel Boatlift and he didn’t consider himself a run-of-the-mill immigrant.

4

Hector has spent almost eight years since then looking for easy money as a street

hustler and gambler - a search that puts him in jail from time to time, usually for petty

scams. His motivation is simple: a thousand dollars in his pocket and a seat at a three-

dollar limit poker game every day. His uncle shines shoes at the Lucky Horseshoe, the

card room in Gardena, CA where the three first met. He and Mo became friendly there and Mo soon introduced him to Geoff, an absolute sucker at the card tables.

“Do you think that guy over there is a cop?” asked Mo, even though he would have bet the ranch he was one.

Geoff, whose mind was on other things, glanced over briefly, and replied, “I don’t know. Maybe. He can’t hear us, I don’t think.” Geoff was the civilian, the “square”

among them: no jail time, no arrest record, and not known to do anything crazy and wild.

People had been asking him if he was Woody Allen all of his adult life; he was even the

same size as the famous film director. He was a junior mechanical engineer at TRW, an

aerospace and automotive equipment company, and he looked the part, complete with

short-sleeved shirt, necktie, and plastic pocket protector stuffed with pens, pencils, and a

slide rule. He had met both Mo and Hector at the Lucky Horseshoe, where Emma, his ex-

wife, worked. Geoff was still crazy about her, and regularly lost money playing poker

just so he could be near her. He had married her when she was “with child.” A professor

at the college they were both attending was in the habit of trading grades for sex and she

wound up pregnant, but with an “A” in Medieval British Literature. He had been a

stalwart husband for fifteen years until she got tired of their life together and walked out.

Geoff was frequently both boring and broke – his mild-nature had kept him at the same

pay grade for almost a decade. Most wives would tolerate one or the other, but not both.

5

He had been convinced for some time that a financial windfall would be a big step

towards getting her back, his unrelenting passion. Thus, it was easy for him to give Mo’s

new scam a listen. He had become, however, as nervous as a cat when he heard what Mo

had in mind.

Hector was impatient. “Forget about tha’ guy. Geoff, she go along with thees or

not?”

Geoff, who had answered this question several times already, was still patient, “I

don’t know, Hector.”

“Well, you were married to her, weren’t you?”

Mo took up for Geoff. “Howna fuck is he supposed to know until he asks her?”

“I’m just asking does he think she’ll go for it is all,” replied Hector.

“Hector, he can’t read Emma’s mind. He will not know until he asks her.

Do...you...understand...that?”

Hector sensed Mo’s growing impatience. He quietly said “yes” and became absorbed in the menu, although they had already ordered the meat loaf dinner all around.

Geoff wanted to hear the plan again, so Mo laid it out right after their meal was served.

“Okay, Emma finishes her shift at midnight. At around 11:40P, she leaves the floor with her chip bag and heads for the casino cage to turn in her bank and cash out her tips. She’s doing high-limit games, so her bank alone will be over twelve thousand and she’ll have another thousand from collecting time. Plus, she’ll have five hundred to a thousand in tips.”

“She’ll have that much from collecting time?” asked Hector.

“Of course. How do you think the casino stays in business?” replied Mo.

6

“We’re going to steal her tips?” Geoff asked.

“Well, yeah. When we split the take four ways, she’s looking at thirty-five hundred dollars or so. It has to look like she was robbed.” Mo replied.

“I don’t think we should steal her tips,” Geoff said.

“Well, her tips are all in chips, which she has to cash in. How is she going to explain the bank being robbed, but not her tips? We have to take it all.”

“OK, that makes sense, but we need to give it back to her or she might not go for it”.

Hector decided to put his two cents in. “Fine, it comes out of your share!”

Geoff was afraid of Hector, so his reply was meek. “Okay, okay, what happens next?”

Mo continued, “As she passes the men’s room, I will reach out and pull her in.

The chips will be put in a bag and handed to Hector here. He walks out first and then I walk out after. Two minutes later, Emma comes out screaming.”

Geoff wasn’t satisfied. “What’s she doing by the men’s room? It’s over by the coffee shop, away from the cashier’s cage. And what about the cameras?”

“The women’s restroom is right next to the men’s, she has to pass by it to get to the lady’s. She’ll claim she has a bad stomach or something and couldn’t make it back to the employee locker room. The cameras will record the snatch for sure, but we don’t care as long as security doesn’t notice. There aren’t any cameras in the men’s room, so the chip transfer won’t be seen and Emma can claim she was knocked down” said Mo.

“Hector and I will be in disguise, so we don’t care what the camera records. Over the next two weeks, we’ll come in and cash in the chips a few hundred dollars at a time.

7

You’re driving the getaway car, which we will steal shortly. We can’t risk using our own

vehicles because of the parking lot surveillance cameras.”

“Shortly? We’re doing this tonight?” asked Geoff with a start.

Mo smiled, “Yeah. We don’t know what other nights Emma will be doing the big games. She might not have a high-limit bank for a month.”

“But Emma hasn’t agreed to anything yet,”, Geoff replied.

Mo’s smile got even bigger, “We’ve got almost six hours before Emma gets off.

You can talk to her on her dinner break in less than two hours and when she says yes, we’ll be ready. Relax, this thing is wired.”

Geoff was trying to think of everything, “What if there is someone else in the men’s room?”

“We’ll have the ‘closed for cleaning’ sign in place.”, replied Mo as he glanced again at Derby, “Emma won’t come by until she sees that sign.”

“What about the security guards?”, asked Hector

Mo’s smile dimmed but didn’t disappear, “That’s a little trickier because there’s usually one at each end of the corridor and one at the security desk watching the monitors. But there are two things going for us tonight. Both guards are new and both are young. They’re high school buddies or something, so they spend a lot of time talking about old times. There’s a coffee shop right across from the security desk and the desk moron has the hots for the coffee shop manager. He tends to be distracted anytime she comes to the register, especially when she has to stand there for fifteen minutes to close out the till for the next shift every night at eleven forty-five. He can’t take his eyes off

8

her. The others are also both lazy and stupid. They’ve been cited a few times already for

forgetting procedure.”

Mo then put a friendly hand on Geoff’s shoulder, “I have faith in you, buddy.

Let’s get going, we need to find a car to boost.”

Mo had good reason to be so confident. He and Geoff’s ex-wife Emma had been at it for several weeks and had cooked this caper up along the way. They had kept their relationship from Geoff because it was well-known that he was still in love with her. He is a simple soul and one of the nicest people on earth. Ordinarily, he would be too naive for Mo to consider for the crew, but Emma had insisted. She felt a lingering guilt about how she had used Geoff many years ago, and she knew his habit of haunting the games at the card room was costing him money he couldn’t afford to lose. Besides, Emma saw a benefit in bringing him along. She knew that if it all blew up, Geoff would swear up and down that she was coerced into it, and she could skate from any prosecution.

Geoff didn’t suspect anything; he didn’t ask why Mo was so familiar with both

Emma’s schedule and the details of the casino. There was no way he would guess that all of this was actually Emma’s idea, but it was, right down to the theater of having Geoff talk her into it. Mo thought it was more complicated than necessary but went along with it because he needed a score. Mo settled the tab with a twenty and a ten and the three made their way out of the restaurant.

Meanwhile, Derby had been trying to think about everything but his job as he worked his way through his meal, which had dwindled down to a piece of garlic bread.

Things were slow this week, and he normally liked to dismiss his work while he was eating, but the few cases he had were all ball-breakers. Even though he had arrived after

9

the three men, he always inhaled his meals and he finished his food just as the trio was

leaving the diner. He left a ten and two singles on the counter and headed out.

Derby pushed the door open slowly and deliberately. His mind had started racing

and he was parsing the random thoughts that were suddenly crowding his head. Daylight

savings time was only six weeks old and the evening was barely drifting towards dusk;

there would be lots of neon in a couple of hours when it was dark. There was no

particular case occupying his mind, nor was he thinking about Louise, his on-again, off-

again girlfriend. Instead, his thoughts were all over the place: the spaghetti sauce was

marinara instead of Bolognese, the daily special was now $6.49 instead of $5.99, would the Lakers cover tonight?

He could feel the warmth of the pavement through the hole in his right shoe. The clamor in the diner had been muted as soon as the door closed behind him, and the parking lot was as silent as a cemetery. He could hear the soft thud of his heavy footsteps, one after the other. The noise and the garish glow of the diner gave way to the mild

Southern California clime. He started speaking each letter of each parking section to himself as he walked; as he approached “E,” he also started taking note of the different types of vehicles and how they were parked. Some were exactly centered in their space while others were pushed to one side or another or at an angle, including those parked by

the assholes who had to take up two spaces to avoid their car being damaged in any way.

And as he finally came to his car, the three men who had left before him came into focus,

and it was then that he remembered who the civilian was.

“Geoff”, he said, “what are you guys doing with my car?”

10

They were stealing it, of course. Mo had experienced the same juvenile impulse he had when he was addressing Judge Allen; he thought it would be cool to steal the detective’s car and easily located it by looking for the dullest vehicles with no wheel covers. The radio in the car clinched it. Now his childish impulse was threatening to derail their venture before they could start it.

Surprisingly, it was Hector who came up with the best response to Derby’s question. “I tole you guys this was the wrong car!”

Mo picked up on it, and he was about to say something when Geoff surprised everyone by greeting Derby by name.

11

Two: 23 May 1988, 6:42 pm

“Detective Derby, how have you been? Did you solve that shooting? I never heard

anything more. I just finished eating with my friends here. Do you eat here often? I‘ve

only been here once or twice. I like the food and the service, but it’s a little noisy, don’t

you think?”

Geoff paused to take a breath, but then Mo decided to take control of the

dialogue. “Officer, we don’t mean any harm here. We wanted to pull a prank on a friend

while he’s eating inside and it’s obvious we got the wrong car. I had just spotted the

police radio, and I was about to say something to my friends when you arrived. We’re

sorry about this.”

Derby’s instincts told him that Mo was too glib and Geoff was too nervous for the

prank story to be true. If he wanted to follow procedure, he would make them confirm the

tale. They would have to identify the friend inside and identify the correct vehicle to

make sure that it was a close enough match to make their story plausible. But he was a

“murder police,” and busting some would-be car thieves was of little interest to him. In addition, they had only opened the door and the car hadn’t been moved. Even a mediocre defense attorney could argue that it was possible for the door to already be unlocked and for the defendants to be guilty of a mistake, but not a crime. Besides, game one of the

1988 NBA Western Conference playoff series between the Los Angeles Lakers and

Dallas Mavericks was starting in about 15 minutes. Derby had money on it. There was just enough time to get home, get comfortable, and settle in to watch the game. Still, he didn’t want to make this too easy.

12

“First of all, it’s detective, just like your friend here said, not officer. Second, I

want current name, address, and phone numbers for each of you. Third, I want to know

who has a record.”

“You guys are all old enough to know better,” said Derby after collecting the

information, “if anything comes up when I run your names tomorrow, it will affect my

normally sunny disposition. I will immediately bring you all in to the station for

additional questioning. Got it?”

*********

Emma rarely thought about the long-term. She had always been a live-in-the- moment person and didn’t know why. She was certainly smart enough, but her short-term focus and her intellect weren’t always in synch. She was capable of good ideas, cleverness, and even cunning, but her planning rarely went beyond the next 24 hours.

This night would be different, a real turning point as she operated from a set plan; she had never been a part of a scam this big and this organized.

Tonight, she wanted to look especially good. The high-stakes poker games were where the card players who actually had money liked to congregate. Some of them were very nice and just about all of them were good tippers, mostly because it was a statement

of their status, not of their generosity. A few were very nice looking; Emma was hooked

up with Mo at present, but it was far from an agreed-to relationship. She enjoyed his

sense of humor and his body, and it was gratifying to have a man who was two years

younger than she was, of course.

As she checked herself out in the mirror, she talked to herself. Not bad, looks like everything is still defying gravity! She had always been attractive, pretty enough in the

13

face and curvy enough in the figure to get the up and down from boys and men ever since she was 15. She felt good as she began her final 72 hours.

******

Geoff couldn’t believe that Mo wanted to move forward. The appearance of

Derby had convinced him that a cosmic sign had been given to them. Calling the whole thing off, or at least postponing it, seemed to be the thing to do. He suggested this to the crew. Mo, however, thought nothing of the encounter. He had never been superstitious about anything; this little incident was just a bump in the road to him. He knew what button to push to get Geoff back in line. His confidence, despite being unearned, rarely wavered.

“Geoff, think about how Emma is going to start looking at you when you show her you’re working on a score this size. She’s bound to be impressed. I mean, I only know her a little, but she strikes me as a lady who might appreciate a guy with some balls!”

Geoff was simply incapable of shedding his foolish romantic notions when it came to Emma. “She’ll have a lot of questions…”

“Which you can answer!”

“You think? Okay, let’s find a phone booth so I can offer to buy her dinner.”

14

Three: 23 May 1988, 8:30 pm

The Lucky Horseshoe advertised “Delicious Food at Cheap Prices” on billboards all around Los Angeles and Orange County. This was because the purpose of its food service was not profit; it was keeping card players inside. The cuisine and pricing were well-known and there were more than a few people who ate there that didn’t gamble at all. As Geoff took his seat across from Emma, he was still feeling the meat loaf dinner from almost three hours earlier; he decided to have a bowl of soup and some ice tea.

Emma, on the other hand, hadn’t eaten since her lunch-time tuna salad sandwich eight hours earlier and she had the appetite of a construction worker. She ordered a steak sandwich, BBQ potato chips, a fruit cup, and a chocolate malt with extra malt. As they carried their food to the table, Geoff asked Emma if she knew Mo.

“Who?” she replied as she placed her tray on the table.

“His name is Morris, but he goes by Mo. He did some time for fraud and he plays in the three-limit games sometimes.”

“Maybe. What about him?”

“He has an idea that involves you.” Geoff looked to his right and then to his left before he continued. “We think we can pull a heist here by pretending to rob you just before you get off shift. He and another buddy will yank you into the restroom, take all your chips and then leave you there for a few minutes before you come out screaming. “

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences would have given Emma an

Oscar right there and then. “Geoffrey,” she purred, “My, my! I never thought you would consider such a naughty thing! But listen, what do you know about these guys? Are you sure you can trust them?”

15

“Oh, yeah. Mo and Hector are my friends. I see them here all the time. Hector’s

uncle runs the shoeshine stand and Mo has loaned me walking-around money a few times

when I was short. I’m a little nervous, but I like the idea of thirty-five hundred for you and the kids, and I’m giving you all of your tip money out of my share besides.”

“Hmm. I like the sound of that, but I’m still not sure. How long will it take to get my full share?”

“A few weeks max. I’ll take my share last so you can get yours faster.”

“Tell this Mo I said OK, but it’s got to be tonight. I won’t have high-limit games again for another six weeks. He knows the routine.”

Geoff was so elated with his negotiating success that he didn’t catch the implication of Emma’s last comment. He couldn’t wait to get back to the crew, so he left a twenty on the table and came around to give Emma a good-bye peck on the cheek.

Instead, she swiveled her head around and caught him on the lips with a full-blown smooch; she even slipped him a little tongue.

********

Despite Emma’s positive response, Geoff couldn’t get Detective Derby off his mind. He kept questioning the wisdom of moving forward this very night. Mo finally got fed up with his whining and advised him that he would not be an active participant. He could wait for them back at the diner, where they would pick him up later. He would, however, be in on the car heist. At 11:22P, Mo and Hector arrived at the parking lot of the Lucky Horseshoe Casino after dropping Geoff off. They had stolen a station wagon belonging to a redhead who left the doors open while she dashed to Room 204 of the 40-

16

Winks Motel to meet her husband’s business partner. They were sure they had at least a

few hours before she discovered the theft.

They parked at the far end of the casino lot, a hundred yards from the side

entrance with the car placed at the end of the row facing the exit, which was less than

three hundred yards from the on-ramp to the Harbor Freeway. Geoff went in while Mo and Hector opened the trunk and donned hooded sweatshirts and wraparound sunglasses.

Hector wore his Laker stocking cap and Mo donned a Dodger baseball cap. Their look might have attracted suspicion if they had been entering a bank, but celebrities frequently donned the same attire here.

Mo and Hector could hear the clicking of poker chips as they entered through the parking lot entrance. This casino was one of several legendary cardrooms located in the

City of Gardena. Poker was legal in the state because the players won and lost money from each other, not the house, ostensibly. The income to the casino came in the form of

“time.” This was a seat-rental fee of anywhere from two to eight dollars, depending on the betting limit of the game, that was collected from each player every half-hour.

Basically, the customers played poker against each other, not against the house. This was

the rationalization offered to the city officials who licensed the venues. They rarely spoke

of the tax revenues for the city or the campaign contributions, of course. There were no

slot machines, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, or dice games. It was a ten-thousand

square-foot venue decorated as nicely as most of the Nevada gambling sites. The front

doors opened into a lobby with nicely appointed furnishings for people waiting for a

game or a table in one of the restaurants.

17

It went so smoothly Mo was already thinking about how soon they could do it

again. The “wet floor” sign was right inside the men’s restroom door as they entered it at

11:38 pm. At 11:39 pm, Emma scooped up the last of her tips after taking the 11:30 pm

time collection a few minutes late. She got the floor man to sign her time slip, then turned

right towards the men’s room instead of turning left towards the casino cage where she

would normally cash out. Her planned explanation for going towards the restrooms

instead of the cage was that she was experiencing a sudden attack of diarrhea.

At 11:42 pm, she stopped by the front register of the coffee shop to say hi to

”Betty the Body”, a former Miss Downey, CA who was the shift manager. Her three

childbirths had added some inches here and there, but her curvy proportions were still mostly intact. Throw in a blond pixie cut and a dazzling smile and the result was fantasies for the men and envy for the women. Her looks accompanied a truly sweet nature, which helped explain her children having three different fathers, of which only the second had bothered to marry her.

Emma waited for Betty to appear at 11:45 pm, just as Mo and she had planned, and she was right on time. “Hi, Sweetie, can’t talk, I have to get to the lady’s all of a sudden!” said Emma. “No problem, honey” replied Betty, “we had a busy night so I’ll be here all the way to the shift change, which means Gordy over there will be getting his nightly ogle!” Emma laughed, “Good luck with that girlfriend!”

At 11:48 pm, Emma was pulled into the men’s rest room by Mo, who slapped her across the face hard enough to leave a red welt. Hector unfolded the nylon gym bag he had underneath his sweatshirt and the chips and cash were in it in a matter of seconds.

Mo and Hector turned right outside the bathroom, took another right 12 feet down and

18 exited through the glass doors to the parking lot. By 11:56 pm, they were on the Harbor

Freeway heading north to pick up Geoff at the diner. By 12:32 am they were taking the

Cherry Ave. exit off the 405 freeway and heading towards Hector’s duplex unit. They had a money-counting party until about 2:00 am and then crashed for the night.

19

Four: 24 May 1988, 10:37 am

The day after the robbery was Emma’s day off, but she had been called back to the cardroom twice already to answer questions from the Gardena police detectives assigned to the case. If she had simply been robbed of her own money, she would have talked to a uniformed patrol officer, probably by telephone. But this was a casino robbery, which hadn’t happened in Gardena in over 18 years. Card rooms were a huge source of revenue for the city, even after the money that was skimmed by the owners, and, as the shift commander so succinctly put it, “the police commissioner will be all over somebody’s ass if we don’t give this the highest priority.”

The first interview had been perfunctory, but the second was uncomfortable. She stuck to her story about having to go to the restroom area because of her diarrhea, but

Detective Jimmy Hidalgo didn’t seem to buy it. He was the partner of lead Detective

Homer Bentham.

“Mrs. Williams,” he said, “if you were walking by the restrooms by accident, why would the perpetrators be hiding there? Wouldn’t they have to know about your diarrhea to know that you would be walking past them?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

“I mean that if you had stuck to your normal routine, the robbery couldn’t have happened as you described it. Or, if they knew you would be walking by and there was no diarrhea, we have to wonder if you were in on it.”

Emma had been coached by Mo on what to do when a police interview became sticky. His advice was to project righteous indignation.

20

“Are you implying that I’m a suspect in this robbery? Are you nuts?” she replied.

“Do you have any idea how many incidents we have in these restrooms with people being

assaulted or robbed? We can’t put cameras in there. Some guy was rolled out of the men’s restroom two weeks ago after he was stabbed for the thirty dollars he had in his pocket, a case that you geniuses are nowhere near solving! We’re open twenty-four hours

a fucking day. We get every kind of low-life and weirdo you can imagine in and out of here. We have employee restrooms right by our lockers. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those public restrooms. I told you, I was talking to the coffee shop manager right before I headed to the restroom. There was a line at the register. Maybe someone heard me.

There’s a damn window in every restroom door here because they open out and we don’t want anyone hit by a door. Maybe the robbers weren’t after me at first, did you consider that? Maybe they were going to pull a small time mugging on whoever showed up first and they just got lucky. If you want to arrest me, then get the cuffs out. We can have a different discussion with my attorney present if you like!”

“That won’t be necessary Mrs. Williams,” Detective Bentham interrupted, “we

have your number and we will be in touch, probably later this afternoon. Here’s my card

in case you think of something we need to know. Thank you for your time.” Emma

snatched the card out of the detective’s hand and did her best huffy departure, a

combination of both strut and wiggle.

Her son was away at college for another week and her daughter was consumed

with high school graduation events leading up to her commencement in two weeks, so

Emma was used to being home alone. She had just started in on the burger and fries she

had brought home when the call came and she was asked to return to the Lucky

21

Horseshoe for more questioning at 3:15 pm. She confirmed, finished her meal, and turned on the TV to catch the soaps until she had to leave.

Interview number three turned out to be strictly to protect the Lucky Horseshoe.

They had releases and statements for her to sign, making the casino’s liability for the incident less than zero and potentially preventing her from bringing suit. She was out of there in 45 minutes and by 4:30P she was catching the tail-end of the last soap of the day.

22

Five: 26 May 1988, 2:16 pm

One of the things Emma liked about living in her place in Long Beach was the

window above the sink. It faced out onto the street and allowed her to see anyone that

came up the walkway to her front door. The rent was affordable in this quiet, working-

class neighborhood. Another nice thing was the wide streets; the center islands had grass

and full-sized jacaranda trees.

She lived in a spacious, three-bedroom duplex unit that allowed her and her two

children to each have a room of their own. The view was a godsend when Mo was in her

bedroom or shower and Geoff showed up with one of his lame excuses for stopping by.

The kids would mention a certain record or spiral notebook or new Baskin-Robbins flavor and it would become an urgent task to bring it to them. It was most annoying, but

Emma was very conscious of how important it was to honor their relationship with their

Dad. Spotting Geoff at the sidewalk allowed her to get Mo out the back, where he could slip into his friend Hector’s place next door, or into her closet until she could complete the four-minute process of getting Geoff out of the way.

Today the Southern California summer was especially bright. Jackets and sweaters were nowhere to be found at any time of the night or day; men and boys wore short-sleeved shirts while every female from 14 to 64 was wearing a tank top and shorts, it seemed. Emma herself was fetching; she looked really nice in the navy tank top and

white shorts she was wearing. It had been a day and a half since her last encounter with

the Gardena police and she was feeling quite confident about her performance as she

finished cleaning the dishes from both breakfast and lunch.

23

Her shift was less than ten hours away and she was thinking about some of the

regulars she would see working the mid-level limit games. She liked to mentally forecast her tip take before each shift and she always gave herself a pat on the back when the projection was accurate, which it usually was. As she was drying the last glass, she noticed the stain in the sink from the morning grape juice and she reached down under it for some cleanser. The container was already empty, so she turned to the walk-in pantry to find a fresh can, telling herself once more how nice it was to have a pantry; newer housing didn’t include this wonderful feature, but this place was built in the 50’s. By the time she got back to the sink, she had missed seeing her visitor come up the walkway from a vehicle parked up the street.

Although her front door was already open, the screen door was latched, so the doorbell was her first notice that she had company. She knew him well enough, but he had never been to her home before. She greeted him with a “Hey” and a peck on the cheek, as always, and offered him ice tea after seating him in the living room. As she went to the kitchen, she couldn’t help thinking what a surprise this visit was. What’s

Booger doing here? she thought. Booger wasn’t his real name, of course. Its origin went

back to her first encounter with him. He was seated in his car outside a party to which

they were both invited. When she walked by, he had about a half inch of his index finger

excavating his right nostril, hence the nickname. They didn’t make eye contact, nor did

they get introduced at the party; that came later. To her he was “Booger,” although never

to his face. He had always acted friendly towards her, but never this friendly. Fact is, neither of them had much use for the other. She wondered again what could be on his mind, a habit that was reflexive after working in a cardroom for years.

24

The light traffic from her open kitchen window mixed with the noises she made:

the refrigerator opening, the scrape of the ice tray as she pulled it out along with the pitcher of tea, her knee closing the refrigerator, the crackling of the ice tray lever, the ice tinkling into the glasses, liquid gurgling while she poured the tea, filling the tray back

with fresh water, and again opening and closing the refrigerator as she put both the

pitcher of tea and ice tray back.

There was no way she could hear her guest put on surgical gloves, gently close the front door, slip off his shoes, and slip into the kitchen. She was completely

unconscious of anything besides the tea when the 100-pound test fishing line jerked her

backwards by the neck, lifting her up with her feet kicking in the air. She tried to reach

behind her head to claw at her assailant, but she barely touched his face. Then he

suddenly slammed her face-forward onto the kitchen floor. It was less than 30 seconds

before the knee in the middle of her back and the line yanking her head back completed

the strangulation.

The killer almost took a sip of the tea that had been poured, then thought about his

lips on the glass and put it down. He made sure the back door was locked, then went back

to the living room to retrieve his canvas slip-on shoes. He knew he hadn’t touched

anything, so he was ready to go as soon as they were back on. He still had his surgical

gloves on so he wouldn’t leave a fingerprint on the door knob or screen door handle; he

had used a tissue to ring her doorbell. His departure was delayed only by the metallic

blue mini-flashlight he spotted on the coffee table. He quickly stuck it in his jacket pocket and opened the door to leave. A look up and down the block told him the coast was clear and he made it back to his car without seeing a single person on the sidewalk. Another

25 scan of the neighborhood assured him there were no nosy faces in the windows that could identify him. The only possible witnesses were in the three cars that passed by. He used a small spiral notebook to pretend he was looking for an address, and also so he could keep his head down and his back to the street most of the way back to his vehicle. No one saw his face. A storm drain near his front bumper gave him a convenient place to dispose of the fishing line.

26

Six: 27 May 1988, 7:35 am

The day after the murder, Derby reported for work at the Gardena Police Station.

on W. 162nd Street. It is a one-story building with a brick façade that features only the

words “Police Department” and the address on it. The street directly in front featured

angled parking spaces designed to allow more cars than would fit with parallel parking spaces. It was one of these spaces that Derby grabbed when he came in because he was already five minutes late, at least to him. He was actually arriving 25 minutes before his

shift started, instead of his normal 30.

The police building looks small from the front but that is deceiving; what you see

from 162nd Street is just the end of a side wing of the structure. The facility itself extends almost a half a block back from the street and parking for police vehicles extends the property almost three quarters of a block. It is situated in a civic center property that includes city hall, the public works department, and the Mayme Dear library. It was constructed in 1963, so there was 25 years of wear and tear on it. The interior was

government-issue boring: steel case desks grouped in pairs facing each other, lots of

filing cabinets, fluorescent lighting and endless clutter. Every exposed surface featured a

layer of dust, a stain, or just plain grime.

Every time Detective Derby sat at his desk, he felt like he was back on desk duty

in the Marine Corps, dealing with day after day of mindless paperwork. It was a

challenge to face the constant tedium and chasing of details that true policework required.

The Lakers had beaten the Mavericks 123-101 two nights before and he had won

$25.00, his betting limit. He made a mental note that tonight’s game was in Dallas and

would start at 5:00 pm instead of 7:00. It was Friday, so he was sure he could leave work

27 a few minutes early. He liked the earlier game time because it meant he could take a nap after the game and before his weekly date night with Louise. She was a stripper at one of the local gentlemen’s clubs and they hooked up every Friday at 2:00 am for breakfast, shooting pool at a late-night billiards parlor, and then doing a few laps around her bedroom before they slept in and enjoyed a Saturday brunch sometime around noon.

The scene at the station was brightened periodically. Every 10 to 14 days or so, a new candidate for “stupidest suspect ever” would surface. It had been fifteen days since the last candidate. It was almost 10:00 am when Omar Henderson was brought in and marched past Derby’s desk to an interrogation room. He was uncuffed because he was not a suspect. He was the clerk on duty when a liquor store was robbed the night before, brought in to give a witness statement, look at some mug shots, and answer enough questions to eliminate him as a conspirator.

The robbery detective assigned to the case, Andy Bravo, picked up on Omar’s limited grasp of the facts of the robbery right away, considering he was the sole eye- witness. A canvass of the neighborhood around the liquor store had failed to turn up any other observer.

When Omar couldn’t remember if the robber had gone out the front or back of the store, Andy excused himself and asked Derby to sit in on the interrogation. His cop sense told him Omar was a legitimate stupidest suspect candidate and he wanted Derby to provide confirmation.

When the two of them returned to the interrogation room, Omar was standing in front of the one-way mirror that camouflaged anyone looking into the room. As he sat

28

down again, he noticed the slight smile on Derby’s face, which reassured him somewhat

as Andy resumed the interview.

“So, the robber was of medium height and weight, about your size, is that correct

Mr. Henderson?”

“Yes,” Omar replied, “he was dressed in black khaki pants and a purple polo shirt.”

“Kind of the opposite of your purple warm-up pants and black polo shirt?” asked

Andy.

“Yes.”

“And his face,” continued Andy, “what can you tell me about that?”

“Cream-colored complexion, no facial hair, brown eyes, kind of a pug nose.”

“How long was his hair?”

“Not too long, but shaggy, dark brown.”

“Anything unusual, like big ears or a scar or a band aid or anything?” asked

Bravo.

“Nope.”

“Do you remember what the gun looked like? Was it a revolver or an automatic, big or small?

“It was big, but not too big. I don’t know what kind. I was too scared!”

At this point, Detectives Derby and Bravo looked at each other and stood up.

“We’ll be back in a moment Mr. Henderson,” said Andy, “would you like a soda or something?”

“Yes, please. Coke, not Pepsi.”

29

“I think we have both,” said Bravo.

After Bravo made his trip to the soda machine, the two detectives went into the observation room. They could see Omar through the one-way mirror. Alongside them was one of the admin clerks they had grabbed along the way.

“Okay Clare,” said Andy. We want you to look at this guy and describe him for us.”

Clare looked at Omar for a few moments, then turned to the detectives. “Nothing special,” she said.

“No, we’re not asking your opinion of him Clare. We want you to tell us about him as if you were a witness describing him to a police officer. OK?” asked Andy.

“Well, he’s average or medium height, purple warm-up pants, black polo shirt, light complexion, shaggy dark hair, brown eyes and kind of a puggy nose. Is that what you mean?”

Yes. Perfect, Clare. Thank you. You can go back to your desk now,” replied

Andy. She smiled quickly and left.

“What do you think?” Andy asked Derby.

“Well, let’s go back in and ask him two or three more questions. Do you mind if I

talk to him?” Derby replied. Derby was senior to Bravo by at least ten years, a homicide

detective instead of a robbery cop like him. He had no problem letting him take over the

interview. He dutifully handed Omar his Coke when they went back in.

“Mr. Henderson,” Derby began, “we just have a couple more questions. First of

all, the person you described fits your own description. Could it have been a relative of

yours?”

30

Omar’s head dropped down and he gazed at the floor as he answered, “No, it

wasn’t a relative.”

“Okay, let’s put that aside for now. Do you remember what pocket he put the

money in before he left?”

“Uh, his right-hand pants pocket.”

“Would you mind showing us what is in your right-hand pocket?”

Omar sat up straight and started opening and closing his hands. In a very low voice he said, “I tried not to lie. They told me when you don’t lie you don’t have to remember what you said.”

“But you lied when you phoned in the robbery,” said Andy.

“Yeah, but that was easy to remember.”

The door opened and Bruno Anthony, Derby’s partner, stuck his head in and announced “We’ve got one, Derby.” Derby immediately got up to follow him, saying as he left, “Andy, you’ve got a new candidate!” Andy nodded as he turned back to Omar,

“So, you’re saying this wasn’t your idea…”

**********

“Why are we tagged for a homicide in Long Beach?” asked Derby as he settled into the passenger seat.

“The victim is a principle in that robbery at the Lucky Horseshoe a few nights back. When Long Beach PD found a card from Bentham in robbery on her kitchen table, they gave us a call. The Chief of Detectives decided this is part of that investigation and got Long Beach to let us handle it.”

“Lucky us,” snorted Derby. “Who’s the vic?”

31

“She’s the chip girl at the Lucky Horseshoe that was the robbery victim. That’s all

I know.”

As they drove, Derby wondered who was going to solve this murder. If he made the arrest, it would be the 99th homicide case he had cleared. He had not solved any of the

previous 98 himself, but no one knew that. The others whom had solved the prior cases

weren’t completely conscious that they had identified the murderer. They would ask a

question that he hadn’t thought of himself or drop some new piece of information which

spotlighted the perpetrator. He had dutifully reported the actual solver in his reports at

first, but his lieutenant had warned him that he was making the department look bad, so

he had learned to always include the person solving the case on the primary witness list

and leave it at that.

He had also learned to live with the slight tinge of guilt he felt when he received a

meritorious citation for four of the cases. His record was bright and shiny; it reflected 98

arrests against 101 homicides, leaving three cases unsolved, two of them from his first

year as a detective. Like a compulsive gambler that believes this time was going to be

different, he imagined solving this new case himself as they arrived at the crime scene.

32

Seven: 27 May 1988, 2:08 pm

Robert Derby’s failure to be the first to solve each of his first 98 murder cases was

a constant worry to him. He was not an underachiever. He wasn’t an overachiever, either,

at least not to the degree required to go from good to great, but he had never been

incompetent at anything. Everyone who knew him said he was “solid” because his

persona was both quiet and thorough. People had confidence in him and there wasn’t

anybody that perceived a lack of competence or diligence. His history as one of

unassuming confidence. He worked hard on his cases, setting up a big bulletin board on a

wall next to his kitchen table where he would put up 3” by 5” index cards with facts,

figures, ideas, and leads on his open cases so he could study them at night.

He usually had three to five cases going at once and his reports and murder casebooks were the most detailed and complete of any homicide detective. He used a project manager approach, noting crime scene details, organizing witness interviews into critical, useful, and marginal categories, and keeping deep suspect inventories, which

included anyone who had committed anything close to a similar crime for the last five

years. His lead follow-up was always thorough and his handling of evidence had always

been clean.

The murder of Emma Williams would be no different, even though coordinating

the case with Long Beach homicide detectives might be a drag. The two detectives

waiting for him provided very little useful information. The Gardena detective’s card

they had found on her kitchen table had made it easy for them to simply wait for Derby

and Anthony to show up. They had taken a look at each room, lingered for a few extra

33 minutes in the kitchen where the body lay on the floor, and checked for evidence of forced entry. None was found.

They were known as the “Department Store twins” because their names were

Macy and Nordstrom. It was Nordstrom that took the lead when Derby and Anthony appeared.

“No forced entry, no witnesses, no murder weapon,” he reported.

“Anything on the body?” asked Anthony while Derby went right to the corpse.

“We didn’t see anything; we didn’t get out the magnifying glasses but we know she was strangled.”

Anthony caught their indifference right away. “Who found the body?” he continued. He was surprised when Macy said, “Her daughter came home from a sleepover with her girlfriends at about 9:30am and found it. She’s in the living room, but still in a state of shock. She didn’t call it in until about an hour and a half ago.”

He wasn’t offended by their attitude because he might have had the same response if he were in their shoes. “How do you want to organize the communications?” he asked.

“Let us know if you need anything from Long Beach PD, otherwise it’s your show,” replied Macy.

They all turned away to leave at exactly the same time; Anthony went to join

Derby at the body. “What do you see?” he asked.

“She was strangled with a garrote or something like it,” said Derby. “She went quickly and she knew her killer. There is an iced tea on the table that looks like it was freshly poured, but it doesn’t look like anyone took a sip. My guess is the perp sat down

34 in the living room at first, she went in the kitchen to fix him a drink, and he slipped in and caught her completely by surprise.”

“You sure it was a he?’ asked Anthony.

“No, but I’m leaning that way based on how much upper body strength it would take to choke someone to death that way. It’s so efficient, it’s almost professional. At a minimum, it looks well planned.”

Just as always, Anthony announced, “You’re the lead dog here buddy.”

“Fine,” said Derby, who wouldn’t have it any other way, “you can talk to the daughter and any other children that live here, then start knocking on some doors as soon as the ME gets here to examine the body. I’m going to head over to that cardroom where she worked to see what I can turn up. You OK to catch a ride back in one of the squad cars?”

“Sure,” said Anthony.

Derby’s first conversation at the Lucky Horseshoe was with an imposing shift manager named George. He stood at least six feet-three inches tall and had an erect bearing that was a combination of perfect posture and strong self-confidence. He was not especially respectful of the chip girls, who all wore white blouses and black slacks. Derby could tell this by the nickname he used for them.

“She was one of my best penguins,” he said in his mellifluous voice, “always on time and always accurate with her bank and her paperwork. The only time she bent the rules was when her little writer friend was around. She would linger on her break a few extra minutes sometimes.

“Who is her writer friend?” asked Derby.

35

“I don’t know, Brenda or Barbara something” replied George, “She wrote one of

those self-help books, I think. I’m sure the other penguins will know.”

“Any problems with any of the cardplayers, fellow workers, supervisors?”

“Not any more than usual,” said George, “she was dating a guy named Mo, who I think is an ex-con.” Derby scribbled all this into his notebook and then asked George a final question. “One last thing, George, would it be possible to organize the chip girls on duty with Emma or who were close to her for interviews, two at a time?”

George thought for a moment and then said, “We rotate meal breaks so we don’t have them all off the floor at the same time. I’ll ask them to be available in pairs and you can join them during their break if you like. Next break is in 10 minutes. Will that work?”

Derby nodded his head in agreement and George went off, glancing back over his shoulder to say, “we’ll organize the rest of the staff that way when you are ready for them.”

“Thanks,” said Derby.

The interviews were frustrating for Derby. Most of the other chip girls had more questions for him than he did for them. It was more like they were talking to a reporter than to a detective. One interesting thing that came out was the identity of the boyfriend.

It turns out Mo was the same Morris he had encountered in the parking lot of the diner a few nights ago. He immediately added him to the preliminary suspect list, even though he had seen his rap sheet a few days before and it didn’t include any acts of violence. Mo’s prison stabbing incident wasn’t on his computer file, because he had never been charged.

Derby made a note to get a detailed prison record for him.

36

After talking to the available chip girls, he conducted interviews with the rest of the employees. These conversations put both Geoff and Hector back on his radar when it was revealed that Geoff was Emma’s ex and Hector’s uncle ran the shoeshine stand.

Derby cut off the interviews, treated himself to a shine at the stand, and quickly eliminated the uncle as a person of interest. If he hustled, he could still catch the second half of the Laker game.

He took the next day off from the interrogations and spent time back at his desk researching any possible criminal records among the people he had interviewed. It was on the fourth day of the investigation, during follow up interviews, that a chip girl nicknamed “Redd” revealed the first name of Emma’s “little writer friend,” Brenda.

Redd was the closest friend Emma had at the Lucky Horseshoe until Brenda came along. Emma had continued to tell her stuff, but it wasn’t quite the same, in Redd’s view. Once she got started, she didn’t stop until she had delivered a very comprehensive and compelling background of both Emma and Brenda, beginning with an infamous blind date.

******

It was the third blind date arranged by Brenda, and Emma had vowed that this would absolutely be strike three if it didn’t work out. The first one had been with a retired police chief who was twenty years older than Emma. The second had been with a musician/heroin dealer who was twenty years younger than Emma. “How could she come up with first a 60-year old, then a 20-year old?” she wondered. Emma was in a tizzy.

She knew it was hard to anticipate what to expect from her friend. She could be having dinner this evening with anyone from Charles Manson to Alfred E. Neuman.

37

Brenda tended to be cryptic in her descriptions; the retired police chief had been described as “a cop” and the musician/heroin dealer had been described as simply “a cute guy.” This new one had been described as “not bad,” which created a staggering amount of possibilities. And so here she was again, alternating hope and dread.

When Neal arrived at the table at 9:05, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She recognized him from the non-stop TV coverage of his trial; he had been acquitted a year earlier for the murder of his third wife. Her cool definitely gone, she sat numbly as he opened the conversation.

“Emma?”

“Yeh, yes”

“I’m Neal.”

She lost it completely. “You’re the guy that killed his wife!”

Neal saw the opportunity to use a word he had learned during the trial.

“Allegedly,” he said, “May I sit down?”

“Uh, uh…sure.”

Emma could barely pay attention as the thoughts raced through her mind. She would strangle Brenda as soon as possible. She would never go on a blind date again. She would marry the first nice guy she found, maybe even Geoff again if he was available.

Where had she gone wrong? What was the matter with her?

Neal was both charming and attractive and the thought crossed her mind that she didn’t have a damn thing to fix for breakfast. She shook herself to regain her self-control as that notion came and went. She was asking herself yet again why the hell she kept

38

saying yes to every damn date opportunity that came along. She knew the answer, of

course. Emma lived her life in a state of enduring horniness.

At this point, Derby interrupted Redd, “tell me more about the blind date.” She informed him that Emma decided to simply enjoy a nice meal and call it a night.

“No, I mean can you remember the guy’s last name?” he replied.

“Not really. His trial was all over the TV. Seems like everyone knew he did it, but his lawyers were just too slick.”

He knew who it was. Neal DeVaughn had been charged with the murder of his famous porn-star wife Amber Ashley about three years earlier. Heads had rolled at both the Hollywood Police Department and the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office after that one. Neal had been a mildly successful actor until the trial but hadn’t read for a part since. He now lived on the proceeds from his wife’s estate, less the legal fees piling up due to non-stop lawsuits from her family.

Derby made a note to increase his suspect list by one and asked Redd to go on, wondering why such an articulate person would be doing the work she did. He found out later she held a degree in Communications from UCLA and had once been interviewed for a news anchor position at a local TV station, before her intense gambling addiction had landed her in a Gardena card room. She made decent money there and, weirdly, kept her desire to gamble at bay. She resumed her biography of Emma, which would fill almost six pages of Derby’s notebook.

39

Eight: 30 May 1988, 11:08 am

“Emma reached forty years of age much more quickly than she had ever

imagined,” Redd began, “she graduated from a nice Catholic university in Los Angeles

with a degree in literature and was heading for a career in teaching when she discovered

that the professor who had taught her to truly appreciate Chaucer in her junior year had

also knocked her up. When he indicated that he had no interest in being a husband, father,

friend or anything else to her or the child, she pondered the situation for about six

minutes and decided to marry Geoff Williams, a sure thing if there ever was one.

‘Wait, Geoff is her ex-husband?’ asked Derby as a light bulb flickered in his head.

“Yes, Geoff had been Emma’s first college lover back in her sophomore year. He

was a teacher’s assistant in a required computer science course. They carried on hot and

heavy, but when she didn’t get the grade she thought she deserved, she immediately

confronted him. Geoff informed her that he had little or no influence on anybody’s grades

and, furthermore, was somewhat put off by the idea of linking dating with grades. She

promptly broke it off and resolved not to sleep with anyone from then on that didn’t have

tenure.

But Geoff was crazy about her; he started proposing right away and continued to do so every month throughout the rest of Emma’s matriculation. By card, by letter, by telephone when he was lucky enough to catch her, and even via the scoreboard at a football game that Emma didn’t attend. Geoff was very loyal, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to love.

So, she turned to this stalwart fellow and lied through her teeth to him. She had been raped by some unknown assailant and was now pregnant, she had nowhere to turn,

40 could he help her get an abortion? She knew he was staunchly Catholic so, predictably,

Geoff said there would be none of that. She would have the child. He would be the father and they would thank God forever for the silver lining in this dark cloud. Emma’s unspoken response to this was ‘whatever.’

The boy was born seven months later and Emma and Geoff were married for almost ten years after that, adding a daughter of their own along the way. Then Emma fell into the unfortunate habit of not only thinking ‘whatever,’ but also saying it out loud.

Geoff’s one and only confrontation with her lasted less than a minute, after which she proposed a divorce.

Geoff couldn’t believe his ears. He pleaded with her to reconsider. Emma took his hand in hers, looked into his eyes, and saw the tears she had caused. She looked for about

20 seconds, and then turned away and drove to Brenda’s house. When she came back four hours later the kids were watching TV and Geoff had departed, leaving a thick letter for her on the bed. She would always keep the letter with her, but she would never open it.

In truth, Geoff lost Emma because his sex drive had diminished in an exactly inverse proportion to hers. Aside from that, there was little to complain about him as a husband. He was reliable, faithful, kind to the children and devoted to her happiness.

There was some stress concerning money. Some engineers working for the aerospace company that employed Geoff made good money, but not all of them. This would only happen to those who were assigned to the hottest programs. Geoff was just not assertive enough to make this happen. He liked being a reliable soldier and thought that being a good corporate citizen was quite rewarding in and of itself. The classic

41

‘bedroom or bank’ rupture didn’t apply here. Yes, Emma liked nice things with designer

labels. But, in fairness, she was perfectly willing to help out with the finances and set

about seeking something that paid more than a teacher’s salary.

On a tip from her manicurist, who was Mo’s ex-wife, Emma found a job working

the graveyard shift at the Lucky Horseshoe. She did well there; promoted to other shifts

and to high-limit games within eighteen months. With tips, she grossed about thirty

percent more than Geoff and, if the undeclared income was calculated, she actually had a

take home that was fifty percent more. Unfortunately, her libido was subjected to

constant stimulation: a wide variety of men hitting on her every night. When she came

home to Geoff in the morning, as he was leaving for work, she was always wired and

horny. It usually took until mid-morning for her to relieve herself and drift off to sleep. It

took a while, but she eventually accepted first one, then another proposition, usually in

the back seat of a car in the parking lot.”

Derby knew that this interview had gone way past the level of information that

would be useful to the case, so he put up his hand and asked, “How did you know all

this?”

“On the graveyard shift the place is almost empty by 3:00 am. There is always an

hour or two with nothing to do but talk until they finally send us home. There’s lots

more,” she replied. “I’m sure there is, Miss Wilson, and I’m sure I’ll be back,” he said.

When he returned to his car, he added both Geoff and Neal DeVaughn to the list of possible suspects. He then looked at the interview and drew a circle around the name

“Brenda.” He did this because her name had been mentioned by just about everyone he had talked to and she was definitely a person of interest. Who could she be? he thought.

42

He went back into the Lucky Horseshoe to use the pay phone. He dialed Louise’s number

because she was a voracious reader. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey baby, is there a popular author named Brenda that you know of?” he asked.

She said yes and gave him a name he was not familiar with at all. He wrote it down, said good-bye and returned to his car. He didn’t realize the turn his investigation was about to take, nor did he anticipate how important this name was going to be.

He was about to meet Brenda Ortiz.

43

Nine: 02 June, 1988, 8:30 am

Brenda Ortiz and her husband, Beau Champion, had been waiting for twenty minutes for the writer from People magazine. They were to be featured in an article because the Style and Beauty Director had found out that they had married each other four times, which intrigued her. Brenda was all over the news because of the success of her book. A profile of the couple would be of strong interest to the magazine’s readers.

While they were sitting in a booth at Kate Mantilini restaurant, Brenda had a few things on her mind.

“Tell me again why we’re meeting with this writer, Beau,” said Brenda.

“Her name is Toni D’Ambrosio, short for Antoinette. She’s the wife of Frank, the

Chairman of the Board for FPD Properties, the biggest real estate development company in Northern California,” replied Beau, “we’re opening sixteen stores up there in the next three years and he owns at least half of the shopping centers we are targeting for the new locations. I ate with him and his wife a few weeks ago and she mentioned she was doing free-lance writing for People, among other magazines. She told me one of the editors was looking to do a piece on us, but you were telling everybody you weren’t giving interviews. So, when she found out that Frank and I were Vegas buddies, she asked him to set up the lunch.”

“And did it occur to you that there was a reason I wasn’t giving those interviews? asked Brenda.

Beau moved his six- foot, four-inch, two hundred-twenty-five-pound frame about a foot to his right so he could stretch out his legs before he answered, “I just assumed you

44

didn’t want to be bothered. Look, you don’t have to tell her anything you don’t want to,

but if you make her happy, Frank will owe me one.”

“The bother is part of it, but there are bigger issues, like privacy. You know I don’t like talking about myself and I especially don’t like talking about my family. The other issue is my reputation. I write self-help books and it’s not going to give my readers much confidence in me when they find out we’ve been married four fucking times.”

“Everybody knows about it, for Christ’s sake!”

“Yes, but it’s never been published. Once it is, it’s just a matter of time before people start rummaging through each and every incident. Is this her?” asked Brenda as she looked at the elegant lady approaching the booth.

Before Beau could answer, Toni arrived and stuck out her hand as she slid in next to Brenda.

“Hello Ms. Ortiz. I appreciate your meeting with me. I’ll try to do everything I can to make this a positive experience. Please tell me if there are any questions that are off-limits.”

Brenda liked the way Toni looked and acted, the way she took charge. She really liked the way she began the interview as if Beau wasn’t there. Beau took note of this and it wasn’t long before he excused himself and left.

Brenda smiled and said, “I’m going to break some rules of mine here, Toni. Ask me anything you want and I’ll answer everything I’m okay with. And please call me

Brenda.”

“I know you are both a successful actor and a successful author, but I haven’t found any biographical detail. Can we start with that?” asked Toni.

45

“I was born Brenda Amalia Ortiz in Boyle Heights, an East Los Angeles barrio,”

Brenda began,” My mom was a big fan of a singer named Brenda Lee. My parents ran a

small taco stand to support us. They worked there ten to twelve hours a day, seven days a

week. That made me the de facto head of the household because I rarely got emotional about anything, keeping my head when those around me were losing theirs, to paraphrase

Mr. Kipling.”

“Yes, you are known for your poise. I must have heard people call you level- headed a dozen times, “said Toni, “can you attribute that coolness to a specific influence?”

“Well, that coolness is perceived as coldness by some, but the answer to who influences me is simple. It’s John Wooden,” replied Brenda.

“The UCLA basketball coach?”

“Yes. He won ten national championships in only twelve years. I can’t imagine a better life coach. Poise and Confidence are the two blocks just below Competitive

Greatness on his ‘Pyramid of Success,’” said Brenda, “I won’t bore you with all his great quotes, but my favorites are ‘Be quick, but don’t hurry, focus on the task at hand, make every day your masterpiece, and don’t get rattled, thrown off, or unbalanced regardless of the circumstance or situation.’”

“Wow, words to live by for sure!” said Toni, “It seems, though, like your history is reasonably conventional. That is, home, school, career, fame.”

“My parents had conventional values, but they took unconventional steps when it came to me,” replied Brenda, “for example, they took advantage of summer reading programs at the local library and I had my first library card when I was only six. From

46

then on, I read a book a week, reaching more than eleven hundred by the time I was twenty-eight. I’m down to about thirty a year these days”

“So, you are a life-long reader,” interjected Toni.

“Yes, but I was also athletic; I could outrun all the boys in the neighborhood by the time I was eleven years old. By the time I was fifteen, I could also outsmart a lot of them, too. “

“You are known for your model quality beauty. How did you deal with attention from the boys?” asked Toni.

“I got some attention, especially from the ‘homeboys,’ or gangsters, but there was no way I could ever be a ‘homegirl,’ like the other young girls who affiliated themselves with gangs. My parents trusted me to look after my younger siblings and that responsibility gave me dignity and self-esteem. That also kept me looking onward and upward all through my teenage years and into my college career at Cal State Los

Angeles, where I graduated with honors with a degree in psychology, along with the school record for the hundred-meter women’s hurdles.”

“That’s an impressive history Brenda,” said Toni, “but now let’s get to the interesting part, shall we? How did you and your husband get together?”

“During my junior year in college, I agreed to go with my schoolmates to

Ensenada in Baja California during Spring Break. It was there I met Beau, my first, and only, lover,” said Brenda.

“Wait, you’ve never been with another man?”

“Nope. Beau is the only one,” replied Brenda as she smiled.

“And how long after that did you two get married?” asked Toni.

47

“Well, to keep from dishonoring my family, he became my husband in a quickie ceremony in Tijuana.”

Toni’s eyes got big when she heard this, but she pressed on, “And the subsequent divorces and marriages?”

“We’re not going there today.”

“Even if it’s off the record?”

“Even if it’s off the record. I’ve told you more than I have ever told anyone already, but maybe if we become friends I can share more with you…”

“Okay, can you tell me more about Beau?” asked Toni.

48

Ten: 02 June 1988, 10:15 am

Brenda nodded her head, “Sure. Beau comes from wealth. His father took

advantage of a seventies policy in Japan of encouraging car owners not to keep their cars

too long. They didn’t want their giant freeways clogged by old, used vehicles. While

visiting there as part of a student exchange program, Beau’s dad discovered that there

were thousands of used cars that he could acquire for next to nothing, sometimes simply

for the cost of shipping them back to California. He borrowed a hundred thousand dollars

against an inheritance he would receive when he was 35 and bought all the vehicles he

could. Those vehicles became spare parts for used vehicles back in the states and he rode the wave of demand for after-market parts for Japanese compact cars to a hundred-

million-dollar annual business in sixteen years. This afforded him the luxury of sending

his only child to the University of Southern California; Beau was halfway to an MBA

when we met. He was surprised when I announced that we must get married in Tijuana

on the way back to Los Angeles and even more surprised when I informed him that I

would remain Brenda Ortiz. I was okay moving into his place and living within his

budget and even taking care of cleaning and cooking, even though I couldn’t do much more than beans, rice, and tortillas. I would retain my name, there would be no comingling of funds, and I would pursue the work I wanted to pursue, regardless of where it took us.”

“Was it a problem when you started acting?” asked Toni

Brenda pursed her lips, blinked a couple of times, and said, “Okay, I’ll share a little more with you, but this is off the record, right?”

“Absolutely,” declared Toni.

49

“We got married in March of my junior year and the first sign of trouble appeared in June of my senior year. A prominent Hollywood producer was attending his niece’s graduation from Cal State and witnessed my valedictory speech. He immediately contacted me after the ceremony to ask if I had representation, which of course I didn’t. I refused to give him my phone number, so he handed me the card of one of the female agents at the biggest talent agency in Hollywood and suggested I introduce myself. ‘Wait a day so I can let her know who you are, please,’ he said, ‘she’ll set up the screen test and we’ll be casting you straightaway if you pass it. I already love your voice. I haven’t heard one that deep since Lauren Bacall!’ I waited three days before calling. I wasn’t sure I should set aside my career in psychology just because some Hollywood big shot liked me. I had interviews lined up with three successful psychologists and I intended to keep them. But then one of them cancelled because she had already chosen a candidate, even though she hadn’t met me. I decided that making the call was a good idea, sort of a way to hedge my bets. The agent already had my screen test scheduled, which I passed without a hitch. The next day I was told I would be a supporting actress in a full-length feature film and I was handed a check for one hundred twelve thousand five hundred dollars, which was half of the two hundred fifty thousand I would be paid for the role, less my agent’s 10 percent commission. I thought this was all pretty cool, even though I was puzzled when they didn’t hand me a script. Was I a supporting actress or an extra? It couldn’t be the latter, my agent later explained on the phone. Extras were paid scale and nowhere near the amount I was given. She advised me that this might just mean that the script wasn’t ready and that the most important thing was for me to be ready at 4:45am

50

the following Monday when the studio sent a car. ‘Everything will come together once

you’re on set,’ she said.

In the meantime, Beau couldn’t have been more excited. He had not yet revealed

his marriage to his parents and the prospect of introducing his new wife as a working

actress would make the whole thing a lot easier.

What was really going on was not in my best interests at all, however. The

producer didn’t see me as the next Elizabeth Taylor, or even the next Daisy Duck. He

saw me as the solution to a short-term problem that was jeopardizing a project with a ten-

million-dollar budget. The movie in question was simply a formula vehicle for a famous

singer who wanted to be an actor. Travis Tango was cast as anything from a race car

driver to a cowboy and most of his lines were in the songs he sang during the movie. The

films barely require a script because the plot is always exactly the same.

The hero is a nobody with big dreams who keeps losing his girl to more successful men. He sings of love and heartbreak at first, then a wise friend appears and gives him some profound advice. This triggers the next set of songs, which are about dreams and determination. He uses the advice to get past the bad guys who are keeping him from his big dream. He then wins the big race or the big shootout or something else big and he is standing tall when his dream girl comes back to him, causing him to break into a victory song as they walk into the sunset holding hands. Fade to black and roll credits.

The problem the producer had was that the word had gotten out that Travis couldn’t keep his hands off his leading ladies (or any other ladies that were around), frequently turned up drunk, rarely knew his lines, and was given to both body odor and

51 bad breath. No established actresses would work with him, and now even extras and wannabes were turning down his movies. The studio needed someone with no knowledge of his proclivities so they could finish the film, which meant someone outside of

Hollywood who had the looks to distract the audience from the terrible acting and writing. The producer was convinced that I was the right person for the job and also that the money they were paying me would keep me in the picture.

I was ready on time and enjoyed the 30-minute drive to a motel in the foothills for my first scene. I was to be behind the registration desk when the hero, a down-on-his- luck private detective named Bill, a former high school boyfriend of mine, checks into the motel. Travis had been up all night and was still drunk when he stumbled through the door. He caught sight of me as he came in and immediately forgot his first line, which was “I need a room for two nights please.” Takes two, three, four, and five didn’t work either for one reason or another. At take six, I took over. Instead of waiting for him to speak, I said, ‘Good to see you again Bill. Do you need a room?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘How many nights?’ I asked.

‘Two.’

‘Sign right here please.’

End of scene. Cut! Print!

The director couldn’t believe it. He spotted my new agent and asked, “Where have you been hiding this one?” The rest of the day’s shooting went along this way, with me controlling the dialogue so the actor could respond as if there were cue cards there.

More importantly, when he came by my newly assigned trailer at the end of the day to hit

52

on me, I kicked him square in the balls and pushed him out the door. “You’re not going

to fuck this up for me,” I explained. “From now on you show up ready to work or I will

kick your ass each and every day!”

And so he did. The movie finished on time and under budget and I was offered a three-picture deal along with a commitment to give me all the acting and voice coaching I needed. But I had one question, “Do I have to work with that asshole again?”

“Well, yes,” the studio head had replied, “no one else has ever been able to manage him. He’s terrible to work with, but every bubble-gummer in America has to see his movies and buy his soundtrack albums. The films are crap, but they make money.”

“Then I want double the money for doing the film, a consulting fee on top of that, and screen credit as both an actress and co-director.”

“Done,” he replied.

Beau didn’t think it was appropriate for me to have asked that question, even though it had worked. He was considering the financial upside; he tried to convince me of the value of going along with whatever the studio wanted. He was surprised when I filed for divorce number one.”

“Did that affect your movie career?” asked Toni.

“Not at all,” said Brenda, “I completed the three movies in the next three years.

After the first one, I encountered Beau at a party in Beverly Hills. He was with a date and it occurred to me that his presence in my life wasn’t such a bad thing after all. He was still my one and only. We left the party together and were back in Tijuana to re-marry the following weekend. When I completed movie number three, I was positioned to sign a major contract, but I balked at ever working with Travis again. When I turned down the

53

contract, Beau went through the roof, which annoyed me even more than the studio did. I

started looking for a place to buy in Malibu the next day. Beau received the notice of

divorce number two about two weeks later at his office.

There were offers from other studios, but I had simply lost interest in the movie

business. A month later, I commenced my Master of Science in Psychology coursework

at the University of California at San Diego.

I completed my work there in record time. Then Beau surprised me by attending

my graduation and presenting me with a new Porsche, so I decided to marry him again. I

had decided to write a book instead of pursuing work as a psychologist, a decision Beau

unwisely challenged. When I reminded him that I had told him way back after our first marriage that my career decisions would be my own, he decided to beat me to the punch and filed for a divorce himself.

I met my friend Emma at a party given by a mutual friend and commenced my schedule of writing at the Grub Hub from midnight to eight am six nights a week. I would join Emma for her meal break on those nights she had graveyard shift. I also commenced dating, but the men I went out with rarely called after one or two dates because they realized I wasn’t going to sleep with anyone I wasn’t married to.”

“Do you mean Emma Williams, the chip girl at the Lucky Horseshoe that was found murdered a couple of weeks ago?” asked Toni.

“You’ve done your homework. You’re a good reporter Toni. You’ve gotten way past where I intended to go, so I may as well fill in the rest,” replied Brenda, “still off the record, right?”

Toni nodded.

54

“After six months, I called Beau and asked him if he had come to his senses. I knew someone was asking him every damn day how he could have left me, but when he

tried to coerce an agreement from me that under no circumstances would we ever divorce

again, I hung up on him. He called back the next day and tried to explain that he was

simply expressing how he felt about our embarrassing history. I told him, ‘I’m a forward-

looking person, Beau. What has transpired has no influence on me regarding what we do

moving ahead. I’ll be at the Los Angeles Superior Court on Thursday at 2:00 pm to apply

for a license and to get in line for a marriage ceremony. My friend Emma will be there as

my witness. If you’re not there, I’ll assume the marriage is off. One-time deal.”

“And he was there, of course?” asked Toni.

“At 1:45 pm.”

55

Eleven: 02 June, 1988, 12:18 pm

The Lucky Horseshoe featured two white-tablecloth restaurants: an American-

style steak house and a French-style bistro, both of which featured excellent food and

service at prices that were easily 25% less than equivalent venues in the greater Los

Angeles area. It also featured a conventional coffee shop, but the most popular eating

place in the casino was the delicatessen-style diner, known fondly as “The Grub Hub.”

The menu included every kind of sandwich from steak to grilled cheese to tuna salad to a hoagie. You could get a great hot dog there, or bratwurst or Italian sausage if you liked. The sides included a wide variety of potato chips, macaroni and potato salads,

French fries and fresh side salads. The drink menu was just as impressive. In addition to tea and coffee (hot or cold), there were regular and low-fat versions of regular, chocolate, and strawberry milk, shakes or malts, and almost 100 soft-drinks, including all the popular sugar-free versions. It was said you could eat here every day for a year without repeating the same meal.

Derby ordered a tongue sandwich on sourdough along with macaroni salad and chocolate low-fat milk from the counter and found a two-seat table nearby. He waited for his 12:30 pm appointment with Brenda there. She arrived only about eight minutes late and apologized so profusely that Derby was distracted. His policeman’s eye faltered.

This ended when she ordered her food and sat down and he could see how gorgeous she was. He was also surprised when one of the ladies behind the counter brought Brenda’s meal to her, a grilled cheese sandwich, potato salad, and iced tea, to which she responded with a very generous tip. Everyone else in the place had carried their own food to their table. She caught the quizzical look on his face and explained

56

things quickly. “I have spent a lot of time in this diner Detective Derby,” she explained.

“It’s where I wrote my book. The menu is outstanding and it’s open 24 hours.”

“You are welcome to call me Bob, Ms. Ortiz,” said Derby as he took a bite of his macaroni salad.

“Thanks, please call me Brenda,” she replied, taking a sip of her iced tea.

Derby opened a thin file of notes on her background and saw that her book was a self-help best-seller named The Answer, a book that had sold almost four million copies to date.

“Everyone at the Lucky Horseshoe knows you as a writer, Brenda, but I remember you as an actress. You were the only one that was good in that ridiculous string of Travis movies, even though I enjoy his music very much.”

“Thanks Bob. Hollywood was a big disappointment to me, but I learned a lot,” she replied.

“I’m a little puzzled Brenda. It says here you have married the same man four times. Your husband is Beau Champion of Champion Auto Parts?” asked Derby.

“Yes, but actually Bob, I have never been married.”

This surprised him. “How so?” he asked.

“I’m Catholic. I’ve never been married in the church, which means I’ve never been married, according to the doctrine of my faith.”

“I see, but are you saying that your civil marriages are not legitimate?”

“No, I’m saying they are superfluous. In my book, I explain how the state of being married to someone is not a construct. It’s a commitment to face together what the world brings to you. I’m married to the only man I’ve ever been with, which is as

57

Catholic a notion as you can find, but we have had time outs when our differences seemed irreconcilable, which is definitely not Catholic.”

Derby tilted his head slightly toward his right shoulder as a sign of understanding, but not necessarily agreement. He needed to get back to the case, “How long did you know Emma?”

“Twenty-three months and three weeks,” replied Brenda. “I met her at a party put on by one of her high-roller card players who knew my movie producer, who also plays poker. When she told me about her job and her hours at the casino, it seemed like a good place to do my writing, which always flows best for me during the middle of the night.”

“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt her in any way?

“Not really. I know her ex-husband Geoff Williams is still carrying the torch for her, but she’s had lots of boyfriends that I didn’t know…”

“She slept around?”

“Yeah. Everyone knew that except him, apparently,” replied Brenda, “She would tell me about them when we ate together on her meal break each night. Girl talk, you know. I was always curious about how she could sleep with so many different men. I only knew their first names, of course, Jim, Dave, Joe, whatever, but none of them seemed dangerous to me.”

“Not even Mo, her most recent ex-con boyfriend?”

“Oh, Morris is alright in a low-life kind of way. His ex-wife used to do my nails and she told me once he was exasperating, but fairly devoted to their teenage son,” she responded. “Geoff doesn’t know about him and Emma, by the way, even though he and

Mo are buddies.”

58

“Tell me about fixing her up with Neal DeVaughn.”

“Oh that,” she replied with a laugh. “He is an acquaintance of my husband. It was

Beau that suggested I set them up.” She turned serious, “is he a suspect?”

“No,” replied Derby, “we checked and he was in court when the murder was

committed.”

“Thank God!” she replied, “I can’t stand the idea that I might have contributed to

her murder in any way.”

“I’m sure you haven’t Brenda,” he said, “here’s my card. If you can think of

anything else that might be pertinent to the case, please call my direct line. It will be

routed to me wherever I am, even at home. Thanks for your time. I’ve got Geoff lined up

for an interview in about 15 minutes.” They both stood up to shake hands and Brenda

departed as he went back to the counter for a Dr. Pepper. When he returned to his seat, he

found Geoff Williams standing there. “Thanks for meeting me Geoff,” he said as he

offered his hand, “do you want to get something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” said Geoff as he shook Derby’s hand, “I’m anxious to help any way

I can.” He sat down and Derby noticed how he immediately began wringing his hands.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Emma in any way?” he

began.

“No,” replied Geoff, “she was one of the most popular chip girls in the casino

with both the players and the staff.”

“What about any neighbors, family or friends?”

“Her neighbor is a buddy of mine named Hector…”

Derby looked up, “The same Hector you were with at the diner last week?”

59

“Yes, but he’s the only neighbor I know about. Her younger brother and sister still

live with her parents in Escondido, but I don’t think they’ve spoken with Emma for at

least two years.”

“Bad blood?”

“No, they’re all born-again Christians and Emma wasn’t into their evangelical

fervor. They told her they would keep praying for her but it was important for them to

spend their time with those who were ready to give witness to the risen Christ. I was of

the same mindset for a while, but not anymore.”

“Did Hector have any complaints about her or borrow money from her or

anything like that?” asked Derby.

“Oh, no. He fixed a few things for her when the duplex owners were too slow and

they were generally friendly as far as I know,” replied Geoff, “he and Mo are my closest friends at the cardroom.”

“And outside the cardroom?”

“Yes, outside as well. We spend time at sports bars together, stuff like that, but we’ve never been to each other’s homes, except once when we went to Hector’s place after….”

“After what?” asked Derby as he noticed the sweat breaking out on Geoff’s upper lip.

“After you questioned us at the diner. He didn’t have money for a sports bar that evening and we wanted to catch the Lakers game.” Geoff was uncomfortable. He felt like he had just avoided a major slip-up and he wanted to change the subject. “Do you think they’ll get past the Mavericks?’ he asked.

60

“I don’t know. The pattern so far is for the home team to win, which favors the

Lakers if it goes to seven games,” replied Derby as he snapped his notebook shut, “One

more thing Geoff: both Hector and Mo have criminal records. Has either one of them

ever invited you to do something illegal?”

The wide-opening eyes answered Derby’s question, but Geoff still chose to lie to

him. “No, they know I’m way too square for anything like that. Honestly, we’re just good

buddies.”

“Okay, thanks Geoff. I think you already have one of my cards, but here’s another

one in case you think of anything I should know,” replied Derby as he stood up to leave.

“Be careful with your new friends!”

Derby’s next stop was back to the station house, where his lieutenant was waiting

for a report from him. “Where do we stand?” Lieutenant Windsor asked as Derby entered

his office.

“Well, we have no suspect we like, no murder weapon, no motive, no witnesses,

and no forensic evidence. Other than that, the case is progressing nicely,” replied Derby.

“That shit is not funny Detective!” snarled the lieutenant. “If this homicide is

linked, directly or indirectly, to that fucking casino robbery, we need to know, now!”

“Yes sir,” replied Derby, “I interviewed the victim’s best friend and her ex- husband today. I’ve got some leads on other associates that I will pursue, but I’m leaning towards the victim’s link to the casino robbery being strictly coincidental.”

“I trust your judgment Derby,” said Windsor in a softer tone, “Let me know if you need anything.”

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“Thanks Lieutenant,” said Derby. Back at his desk, he spent the rest of his shift

constructing a timeline of Emma’s movements during her final 72 hours, even though it

was of no help. When he left the station, it occurred to him that he needed to talk to Mo

soon.

******

Detectives Derby and Anthony slid into the booth at Barbecue Heaven to discuss

their cases and to share their customary once-a-week dinner. The special on Thursdays was sweet and sour glazed short-ribs served on a bed of Basmati rice. This appealed to both, as did unsweetened ice tea to drink. As soon as they had placed their order, they began their regular debate regarding whose turn it was to pay this time, both men swearing that the other had paid last time. Three minutes later, Derby acquiesced and it was settled that Bruno would pay this time. Derby always knew who paid last time, as did

Anthony; it was kind of a ritual for them.

“I picked up something on canvass related to the Williams murder scene,” began

Bruno, “but I’m not sure how much of an aspect of the case it might be.”

“What is it?” replied Bob.

“Nobody reported seeing any unusual or suspicious people hanging around the duplex the entire day and most of the evening of the murder. But one guy who walks his dogs between 11:45pm and 12:15am every night reported seeing three guys pulling up to the front of the duplex in some station wagon two nights before,” reported Anthony, “He says the car wasn’t Hector’s and he had never seen it before. The next morning when he went to grab his paper, the vehicle was gone. He says the three went into the Hector Cruz unit and one of them had a small satchel in his hand.”

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This caused Derby to lean forward slightly, “Do you have his contact information?”

“Sure, name, address, and phone number,” replied Bruno, “He said to come by or call anytime except between two and three in the afternoon when Guiding Light is on.”

“What’s his name,” asked Derby.

“Philip Trum,” replied Anthony, “He doesn’t like to be called Phil.”

Bob’s eyes got wider as he looked up quickly at his partner. “Do you mean to say that this guy’s name is Phil Trum? Did you check his ID?”

“Of course I did. What’s the problem?” said Bruno.

“Do you know what a philtrum is?” asked Derby.

“No, I don’t,” replied Anthony.

Bob could barely get the words out as he started laughing. “It’s the vertical groove on your upper lip just below your nose!”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not. I can’t wait to talk to this guy!”

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Twelve: 02 June 1988, 8:30 pm

The Lakers had lost to the Mavericks in a two-point nail-biter, but Derby was barely interested. He was giving serious thought to the lieutenant’s admonition, and he decided he had been using the wrong approach. He should start with the assumption that the robbery and murder were connected instead of trying to prove that they weren’t, despite the department’s desire to separate the two. As he sat at his kitchen table with a yellow legal pad and four sharpened pencils, he decided to chart what he had thus far. He used a beer can to draw a circle on the top half of a blank piece of paper and wrote

“Emma Williams” in it. He then used a quarter to make smaller circles around it as satellites: one for Geoff Williams, one for Mo Adams, one for Hector Cruz and one each for Redd Wilson and Brenda Ortiz. He connected Emma’s circle to each of the smaller ones with a line and when he looked at the result, he realized that he could also draw lines between Mo, Geoff, and Hector, but not Redd or Brenda. These three had to have some piece of information he could use.

The next morning, he tracked down Homer Bentham, the lead detective on the robbery and invited him to the cafeteria for coffee.

“Homer, how much do you have regarding the robbery?” asked Derby.

“Not much more than we got from the victim, but my gut tells me that her account is not complete. According to all the chip girls we talked to, it was strictly taboo for any of them to use any bathroom other than the one in their locker room when they had an apron full of chips. If they had a bathroom emergency, the correct procedure was to leave their apron at the cage while they used the toilet. Most of them didn’t know what the public bathrooms even looked like,” replied Bentham.

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Derby thought for a moment, then said, “Both her shift boss and one of her best

friends have linked her to an ex-con named Morris Adams, a guy I questioned the same night as the robbery.”

“How so?”

“He was hanging around my unmarked car with a couple of other guys in the parking lot of Norm’s after dinner. It looked like they were going to steal the car at first glance, but they hadn’t done enough for a solid bust, and I was in a hurry to get home, “

explained Derby, “but now I’m thinking even if he didn’t do the crime, he might know

something. I think it might be worth it to do some ‘what ifs?’ with him.”

“Do you think those three are stupid enough to try to boost a detective’s car on the

night they were planning to rob the casino?” asked Bentham.

“Morris Adams’ parole officer says he has a teenage streak in him that would

consider it cool to do such a thing,” replied Derby, “and I can see him easily running over

the other two. It’s just too coincidental for the victim of the robbery to be the ex-wife of

one of these mutts, the current girlfriend of another, and a neighbor of the third. It’s even more coincidental for her to then become a murder victim. But why? She wasn’t in possession of the loot. We know that. We’ve got the two robbers on video grabbing her and making their exit. She wasn’t likely to be a potential rat. There’s too much that would incriminate her if she did. This is a stone ‘who dunnit!’”

Bentham held his hand out to Derby, “One thing is clear. Our two cases may not be directly connected, but they certainly are related! All we can do is keep each other posted buddy!”

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Thirteen: 04 June 1988, 10:47 am

“I wish you would think about the advice you’re giving Brian.” said Mo’s ex-

wife, Jackie. “He’s only sixteen and he’s not one of your prison buddies.”

“I was just trying to help him with his girlfriend troubles. She’s giving him a hard

time,” replied Mo.

“You told him to bone the bitch!”

Mo smiled, took a sip of his coffee, and stood up before he replied. “Well, it used

to work with you.”

“Yeah, right. Twenty minutes of sex, twenty minutes of telling me how you’re

going to change, and twenty minutes for you to shower and take off with your friends.”

“We lasted eight years” said Mo.

“How many times are we going down memory lane like this? I was a single mother with a five-year old son and a nice rack. You needed a place to stay and I needed not to be alone. We lasted eight years because I was dumb enough to wait for you while you were in the pen.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll talk to him; where is he?”

“He’s at the movies with his friends.”

“Which one?”

“Edwards Eight.”

“Isn’t that where his girlfriend works?”

“Yes.”

“Jeez, this kid is pussy-whipped. Aren’t you worried about him?”

“Of course, especially when he listens to you!”

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“Right. Everything is my fault. Call me tomorrow when he’s home and I’ll come

by.”

“Yeah, don’t do us any favors. If you come by around 6pm, you can have dinner

with us.”

“What are you making?”

“Fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“Mmm. My favorite!”

“Yeah. Pick up a chocolate Bundt cake from Van De Kamp’s.”

“It’s a date!”

“It’s not a date. You have no shot at getting lucky. This is about you getting things unfucked with my son, again!”

“Love you too!” replied Mo. He smiled when heard the pot hit the door just as it closed behind him.

******

Geoff was behind schedule. He was supposed to cash in $180.00 worth of the stolen chips three times a day at the Lucky Horseshoe: on day shift, on swing shift, and on graveyard shift. But for two days in a row, he had spotted Detective Derby as soon as he walked in and he had turned right around and left as soon as he saw him. His remedy was to cash in $360.00 two shifts in a row so he could catch up and thus meet his assigned weekly goal of $3,780.00; an amount to be turned in when he met Mo and

Hector at the diner this coming Saturday.

This system was calculated to complete the conversion of chips to cash in under three weeks. The amount of $180.00 was chosen so that there would be a four to one ratio

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of twenties to hundreds; a lot of pictures of Benjamin Franklin could attract attention.

Geoff had forgotten about this; when he cashed in the first $360.00, he was given three

hundreds and three twenties. He remedied this by asking for all twenties when he cashed

in the second $360.00.

But this conversion process, other than the Derby sightings, wasn’t what Geoff

was most anxious about. His thoughts were about Emma’s section the night of the

robbery: the four tables with eight players at each table paying $16.00 per hour each for

eight hours plus another four tables with eight players at each table paying $24.00 per

hour each for eight hours meant she had collected more than ten thousand dollars in time

when she had finished her shift that night. Adding this to her twelve-thousand-dollar

“bank” and her $1,700.00 in tips meant a take of almost twenty-four thousand from the

heist; each of the four would have gotten about six thousand each. But with no Emma,

Geoff knew that both Mo and Hector would be looking for a three-way split of eight

thousand apiece, which was a problem.

He wanted to ask for both his share and Emma’s so he could help with Emma’s funeral and do some things for the kids, but he wasn’t sure that argument would win over his cohorts. Mo and Hector were jailbirds and Geoff expected little in the way of empathy from them. He tried to think of a persuasive argument or some kind of leverage he could create, but absolutely nothing was coming to mind. He decided the best he could do is make an appeal to their sense of fairness, however limited that might be.

******

Emma’s murder was nagging at Morris Adams in a strange way. There was no emotional reaction on his part, no sense of loss or mourning. He had nothing to do with

68

it, but he wondered if there was any way he might have inadvertently contributed to the

circumstance of the homicide. His rational side told him he was being silly; his bookie

was also his cousin and the money he owed him was too small to create that level of

violence; besides that, he was current on the vigorish he paid to his loan shark every

week on a debt that would be easily settled when they finished cashing in the chips from

the Lucky Horseshoe score. Her murder had nothing to do with him, at least directly. But

he also wondered if Geoff could have turned to murder; maybe he knew more about he

and Emma than Mo thought. If he had figured out what Mo and Emma had done, he

might have been embarrassed enough to turn violent. Mo had seen this kind of thing in

prison.

Some embezzling bookkeeper that had stolen enough to be convicted of a felony,

and without good legal representation, ends up in Soledad. The hazing and harassment

process starts as soon as he enters the cell block and he is on his way to becoming some

inmate’s “bitch” in every way possible.

But sometimes, the humiliation would become a festering, seething rage and Mr.

Bookkeeper would find himself either acquiring or fashioning a weapon that he could use

to “shank” his tormentor. This would most often send his victim to the hospital, but

sometimes it would kill him. Either way, other prisoners would start thinking twice about

bothering Mr. B. Mo himself had been forced to take this kind of action, not because he

was meek, but because he was pretty. Clearly, if Geoff had turned homicidal, Mo and

Hector would have to be careful about the issue of Emma’s share.

Normally, these circumstances would have simply caused a four-way split to become a three-way one, but Geoff was in this deal solely because of Emma, which

69

meant he might be expecting a 50% share so he could maximize his children’s benefit.

This would leave Hector and Mo with 25% apiece, arguably still their original share, but

now not an amount they would be satisfied to accept.

On the other hand, if Geoff hadn’t turned homicidal, they might get him to accept

a third of the haul, which they would argue gives Geoff a full share plus Emma’s tips. Mo

was not looking forward to this discussion with Geoff, but the task at hand was a little

more ominous. He was scheduled to meet with Detective Robert Derby at the Gardena

Police Station in 40 minutes.

After Mo checked -in with the desk sergeant, Derby appeared and motioned him

to follow his lead. They walked through the noisy squad room half-filled with detectives

at their desks to a row of offices with windowed fronts that allowed everyone to see

everything going on inside. Derby motioned him to a straight-backed government-issue chair with a firm cushion at a Steelcase table with rounded corners and an upright hasp

along one edge that was used to manacle prisoners to the table.

Derby sat across from him and had his nose in a file folder when Mo finally broke

the silence,” What can I do for you detective?”

“For starters, you can keep quiet until I find what I’m looking for in your file

here,” replied Derby. Mo dummied up. After eight minutes Bob looked at him and said,

“Talk to me about Angel Ramos.”

“He was a prisoner at Soledad while I was there.”

“I already know that. Talk to me about who shanked him.”

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“I don’t know anything about it. I was in the yard when it happened and I was

interviewed as a potential witness,” said Mo, “but I didn’t see anything, I didn’t know

anything, and I didn’t say anything.”

“We hear that line of shit every day from everyone who has ever done time, Mo.

It says here that another prisoner pointed a finger at you, but then he got taken out himself three days later.”

“I was never charged with any of that detective. There are prison stabbings in a place like Soledad almost daily. It’s why it’s such a scary place. It’s also why no one ever says anything. I like cheese, but I’m not a rat!”

“Okay, let’s change the subject. When was the last time you saw Emma

Williams?”

“Three days before she was murdered, at the Lucky Horseshoe. We had coffee

before her shift started at 4:00 pm. I ran into you with my friends around 6pm or so that

same evening.”

“That was the day she was robbed.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And did you talk to her after the cup of coffee?”

“Yes, she called me the morning after the robbery and told me all about it. She

was quite upset.”

“Of course she was. What did you tell her?”

“About what?”

“About anything.”

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“Well, I don’t remember the conversation word for word, but her main concern

was losing time at work if she had to spend a lot of hours answering questions from the

police. I told her it couldn’t be helped, but if she really tried to give you guys all the

information she had, it would minimize the number of times she would be interrogated.”

“That’s sound advice, Mo. Are you going to follow that same advice here today?”

“Of course, detective. She was important to me and I want to do all I can to help nail her killer.”

“Do you have any idea who that killer is?”

“Absolutely not. I’m offended by that question!”

“Yeah, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Here’s a more interesting set of questions. The detective in charge of the robbery investigation says it is generally agreed by himself and his colleagues that her story had holes in it. Can you think of what those holes might be, since she told you all about It?”

“I didn’t find any holes in her story.”

“Really. Well, let’s play ‘what if,’ okay?” replied Derby, “My friend, Detective

Bentham in Robbery, has some interesting ones. For example, what if an enterprising thief wanted to take a bite out of the mountain of cash that goes through a casino every day? He knows robbing the casino itself is suicidal, but he realizes that the chip girls carry a lot of chips in their aprons so they can sell them to the cardplayers. They also collect more chips taking time every half hour and there is even more they collect in tips.

So, what if he decides the way to go is to rob a chip girl? Doing that out in the open would be just as suicidal as robbing the joint, so he needs to find a way to get a chip girl into a room or closet or something so he can have the privacy he needs. But how can he

72

know which chip girl to rob? How can he know when he can snatch her so he doesn’t get

a lot of unwanted attention? He doesn’t want to hurt her, but how can he be sure she

doesn’t start screaming her head off as soon as she is robbed? These are difficult

problems to resolve, don’t you think?”

“You would know more about that than me, detective, but I guess what you’re saying is reasonable,” replied Mo.

Derby nodded his head, stood up and casually sat on the table corner. He leaned over and looked Mo straight in the eye but still caught the slight gulp in Mo’s throat as he asked the next question, “But what if the chip girl is in on it? She would know when she was going to have the most chips in her possession, she could figure out a way to be snatched and an excuse for getting snatched, and she could be instructed to give the thief a little time before sounding the alarm, don’t you think?”

“Again, I suppose what you’re saying is reasonable detective, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, what if the chip girl that got robbed happened to be boinking a convicted felon? That would make her story suspicious and would also point a finger at the ex-con,

don’t you see? And what if her boyfriend was buddies with her ex-husband, who knows

nothing about his relationship with an ex-wife he’s still crazy about?

Derby smiled as he moved to his next two questions, “And what if these two

buddies had a third pal that had a criminal record as well? Doesn’t this make them

possible suspects for the casino caper?”

Mo pursed his lips as if he were pondering all this. He thought about the advice he

had given Emma regarding righteous indignation, then looked at Derby and said, “My

73 answer to your questions is this. Anybody can be a possible suspect in a building full of degenerate gamblers and lowlifes. There’s a dozen ex-cons in that cardroom every fucking day, detective. Are they all suspects in the robbery? And what if Emma was boning more than one of them? What if she was the silo for every missile in the joint? If you have something besides these fucking ‘what ifs,’ then get out the cuffs and I’ll wait for my lawyer before I say another word!”

Derby smiled. He knew in this instant that Mo’s indignation was a well-rehearsed act. He also knew that the more he learned about Mo, Hector, and Geoff, the closer he would get to what really went down the night of the robbery. The way to solve the murder was to solve that robbery. He sat back down and said, “That won’t be necessary

Mister Adams, we have your number and we will be in touch, probably in the next few days. Here’s my card in case you think of something we need to know. Thank you for your time.”

“So, we’re through then?” asked Mo.

“For now, yes,” replied Derby.

******

Phillip Trum answered on the fourth ring, a habit he had from his days as a character actor working for Ed Wood, generally regarded as the worst director in the history of Hollywood. Answering on the first or second ring implied either too much eagerness or the lack of a life.

“Phillip Trum here,” he greeted his caller.

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“Hello Mr. Trum. My name is Detective Bob Derby. I’m with the homicide squad of the Gardena Police department and I have some questions regarding the murder of your neighbor, Emma Williams. Do you have time to talk?”

“Homicide? Oh my. Emma was such a dear sweet darling. She sat right here and watched Guiding Light with me on the telly many, many times. I’m happy to help, but why is the Gardena police department involved? This is Long Beach. And please, call me

Phillip, but not Phil. People have such fun with Phil Trum, you know? May I call you

Bob, or do you prefer Robert?”

“Bob is fine, Phillip. The Gardena police have been assigned this case because

Emma was a person of interest in the casino robbery at the Lucky Horseshoe Casino on

May 23rd. My partner has advised me that you witnessed the arrival of three men very late that night at the duplex unit next to Emma’s. Is that correct?”

“Yes, definitely. I have three registered Lhasa Apso puppies that simply must be walked at midnight every night. On my way back from our stroll, I saw an unfamiliar station wagon pull up in front of Hector’s unit; he and two other male passengers got out and went inside. Hector was carrying a small cloth or nylon bag that seemed fat to me.”

Derby noted that this contradicted Geoff’s claim that they had been there watching the Lakers game all evening, “Phillip, it sounds like you are acquainted with

Hector. Is that correct?”

“Oh yes. He’s done some repair work for me.”

“And would you happen to know if he was there with his friends before you saw them? Were any of them in evidence earlier?”

“Well, they weren’t there at six, eight, or ten pm.”

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“Why those times specifically?”

“I’m a neighborhood watch captain. I live on the third floor and I have a wonderful view of the street for a block each way. Those are the times I run my video camera from my balcony every night.”

“Thanks much Phillip. You have been very helpful. Is there anything else unusual or suspicious about that night that we should know?”

“Well, Agnes, the lady two doors down from Emma is getting a lot of gentlemen callers. It’s possible she is entertaining for pay, you might say.”

“We’ll look into it Phillip. Please let me know if anything else comes to mind.

Thanks again and good-bye.”

“Au revoir,” said Phillip.

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Fourteen: 04 June, 1988, 3:00 pm

Back at Norm’s, Mo, Geoff, and Hector were simply staring at each other as they

processed Geoff’s concerns. Finally, Mo spoke, “So, you are raising two issues here.

First, you’re saying that the take should have been closer to twenty-four thousand than

seventeen thousand because you did a re-calculation of the time she collected. Second, you want her share and your share plus her tips. Do I have that right?”

“Yes,” said Geoff.

“But you were there at my place when we counted the money,” said Hector.

“Yes, but I wasn’t there when the money was taken. How do I know it all went into one bag?” replied Geoff.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” snarled Mo, “you had every chance to be there with us but you pussied out! And by the way, you are calculating the time collections based on full tables, which is ridiculous for a Monday night.”

It was clear to Geoff that the insulation from these two he enjoyed because of

Emma was now gone. He decided to concede the count issue and stay with the share

distribution, “Okay, there is nothing I can do about the count and you’re right, maybe I

miscalculated, so let’s talk about the shares.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. There was four of us and now there are three.

You’re in line for more than six thousand dollars,” said Mo quietly.

Geoff looked back and forth at each of them and shrugged his acceptance, “Okay,

here’s the money from the chips I cashed in this week. Give me my share and we’ll call it

a day. I want to get going.” As he left, he wondered if Detective Derby might like to

watch the Laker game with him that night.

77

Fifteen: 02 July 1988 2:35 pm

When Brenda realized who had killed her friend Emma, she was not so much surprised as she was chagrined. She felt she should have seen it all along. Of course! was her thought, followed by How could I have missed this?

As usual, she didn’t get emotional. She processed what had happened and focused on what she needed to do next, which was a cool and calm revenge. Derby had never given her any sense of a possible suspect or any other conclusive development. Their four conversations had been, more or less, a continuation of the first one; they had all involved lunch at the Lucky Horseshoe, and Derby always had some new name or some bit of information to run past her, but that was it. Still, she knew he had to be consulted somehow.

The truth came to her on her husband’s racing yacht. Beau Champion had always dreamt of winning the America’s Cup. Sailboat racing was his passion and he had spent a considerable amount of time and money pursuing it. His sailing yacht was almost exactly like the one Dennis Connor had captained to victory in the 1987 Cup. Beau had even joined the San Diego Yacht Club, Connor’s home base, and he had already won two regattas there. He kept a crew of thirteen full-time. He had read more than a hundred books on sailing yachts and racing strategies and tactics and attended every seminar and workshop put on by the yacht club. He was a volunteer for the racing committee and spent a lot of time at the club’s bar and restaurant, trying to network with the club members that might enable him to work his way through the intricate racing and politicking that would put him on a path to qualify for the big prize. He had already spent more than a million dollars on this hobby of his, which annoyed Brenda no end. The

78

money was of no concern to her, but the time apart did. She was busy on her own, of

course, but this yacht racing stuff often kept Beau away for eight or nine weekends in a

row. He was obsessed. She was tired of having to go to a publisher’s party or a book

signing by herself.

She rarely went out on the boat, even though Beau never failed to invite her.

Sailing involved lots of movement; there were all kinds of tactics and procedures for

everyone as the ship raced along and there was always lots of water splashing on the crew. There was nothing passenger-like about being on board the boat. She limited her boat trips to twice a year, max, and it was always because of some extenuating circumstance. This Saturday was part of a Fourth of July weekend and Brenda’s publisher had asked her if she could arrange for her son to experience a racing yacht while on summer break from his studies at San Diego State University.

She and Brad, the publisher’s son, were tied down at the very back of the boat with their life-jackets on, trying to stay out of the way of the crew-members scurrying

back and forth and side to side. The noise kept their conversation to a minimum, but it

wasn’t because of the boat. Brenda was wearing shorts and a halter top and Brad was

having trouble talking anyway. When Beau made his way back to them, he asked Brenda

to lift the bench seat lid next to her to see if his fancy chronometer was there. That’s

when she saw it.

When Brenda had published her book, her agent had advised her to create a formal business entity for tax purposes. As soon as she did, she started getting all kinds of offers in the mail: business card and stationary printing offers, legal services, insurance services, cleaning services, and the like came pouring in. Merchandisers sent her sample

79 pens with her company name imprinted on them, along with coffee cups, letter openers, and calendars, trying to entice her to buy the item in bulk to pass out to prospective clients. Most of the stuff was junk and quickly discarded, but every once in a while, she would get something she liked. This was the case with the item she had given to Emma as a gift. It was a metallic blue mini-flashlight and what Brenda liked about it was that it wasn’t just imprinted with her business name. Instead, opaque lettering on the lens would block out the light so a shadow would appear inside the circle of light spelling out the name. She thought it was really cool and gave it to Emma a week before she was murdered. Now, here it was on Beau’s fucking boat. She didn’t touch it. She wanted it to be there when the police came. It was obvious Beau had never bothered to turn it on or he would have ditched it immediately. She handed the chronometer to her husband and smiled at him. She knew she had to do something. She owed Emma that.

But this created a problem. Why would the police ever search the boat? How could she make that happen? Beau had placed it in a compartment with a lid that doubled as a bench and there was a cushion on top of that. Did this create an expectation of privacy which would be the basis for a spousal privilege argument if Brenda were to simply tell Derby what she had discovered?

Brenda had to implicate Beau in a way that would seem to be of his own doing.

She had been asked to read a script awhile back about a husband trying to frame his wife and she remembered that there were details in it about how he pointed the police in her direction. She resolved to call her agent and get that script back. She couldn’t wait for the boat to return to the yacht club.

******

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Beau was really happy for two reasons; one was Brenda’s presence, the other was the times his boat achieved on this little cruise. He knew the next regatta was only two weeks away and he started thinking about the steps needed to win it, which was the surest way to consideration as a representative of the yacht club when the America’s Cup qualifying series started. He was day-dreaming about winning the next cup as they docked. His reverie was broken by Brenda, who informed him that she needed to feed

Brad and get him home. “We’ll do drive-through and get a burger for him. I’ll be home before eight,” she said.

“Good, dinner at Matteo’s okay?” he replied.

“Yeah, I’ll see you there,” she said as she stepped off the boat.

He had killed before, but always for reasons related to money and always at arm’s length. Someone else always did the deed. It wasn’t really all that hard for him once he rationalized it. But this one had been personal in every way. He killed Emma because he knew she was sexually liberated and he didn’t want her to influence Brenda in that direction. He also could not tolerate the prospect of another divorce.

Brenda’s experience in Hollywood had conditioned her to the unsavory proclivities that big money could bring out in business executives. The life she lived was the life she had earned, in her view. She didn’t ask about Beau’s business practices and

she overlooked his sophomoric thinking. It was all simply the price she paid for the life

she had chosen. A price she believed she could afford, until now. She loved 1940’s film

noir and Sam Spade’s speech in The Maltese Falcon was her guide here:

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When someone kills your partner, you have to do something. It

doesn’t matter how smart or successful or dumb or unsuccessful he was,

you had to do something. He was your partner; nothing else matters.

First things first, she had to verify that it was the exact flashlight. She had to turn it on in a dark place and see if the beam flashed the “Ortiz Productions” shadow. She had to get back on the boat and that would be tricky. She couldn’t just straight out ask Beau if she could accompany him the next weekend; that would arouse suspicion. She decided she would wait for the next regatta, scheduled two weeks away. Beau always invited her to these things, knowing she would rarely accept unless she had another reason to go. The task at hand was to create that other reason, so Beau wouldn’t be surprised that she was coming. “Brad!” popped into her mind. She picked up the phone and dialed up her publisher.

“Ramsey,” was Edna’s way of answering her phone.

“Hi Edna,” said Brenda, “I’m calling to see if Brad liked our little cruise.”

“Oh God,” replied Edna, “he’s been telling all his friends about it all week. He’s already bugging me about asking you for another ride.”

“Really? What a coincidence! I was thinking he might like it if he could bring a buddy with him next time.”

“He would be thrilled. Do you have a date in mind?”

“Yes, there is a regatta weekend after next. He and his friend could join me on board before the race starts. There is always a little trial sailing before the event to make sure all the rigging is right, but then we have to get off. Only the crew is allowed during

82 the race, which we will watch from the club. Tell Brad I’ll pick him up at 9:00 am on

Saturday the 16th at his place.”

“Got it. I really appreciate this Brenda. Uh, I hate to be a pest, but do you have any more pages for us?”

“I’ll have fifty pages for you when I see Brad. I’ll send them back with him.”

“Excellent! Bye Brenda,” replied Edna. She clicked off before Brenda could respond.

******

Derby hated the Chief of Detectives, as did just about everyone else in the department. Ted Pendergrass was a political animal who had built an entire career on one good year as a detective. He had solved two grisly murders during that year and had risen through the ranks ever since, more because of time spent on the golf course with the brass and various city council members than actual performance. None of the police respected him, but everyone had to respect the power of his office and he knew it. He was in a snit over the Lucky Horseshoe robbery and the subsequent murder of Emma Williams, two cases that were entering their 39the day with no sign of a suspect. He liked to set an authoritative tone whenever he talked to a street-level detective.

“Sit down detective,” he snarled as Derby entered his spacious office. Derby glanced at the leather sofa and two easy chairs surrounding a coffee table in the middle of the room and at the round table with four chairs in the corner and then back at

Pendergrass. “Right here,” he said, pointing at the two chairs set immediately in front of the desk.

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“You know detective, I might actually be able to enjoy my Fourth of July weekend if there had been any progress on these two cases. Do you have anything at all to report?”

“I’m not handling the robbery aspect, sir,” replied Derby, “I’m in homicide.”

“I know where the fuck you work detective! Although, I don’t know how much longer you will be there. It’s the first of July and these cases have been active for almost six weeks and I am seeing no progress whatsoever. Are you and your partner up to this, or do I need to re-assign?”

This is the shit that makes us hate you, thought Derby. Pendergrass focused solely on his authority, the degree to which he could make things uncomfortable for those who failed to make him look good. He rarely had anything constructive or helpful to say, but he was frequently on the scene when an arrest was finally made, and he led the league in photo-ops.

“We have established that the murdered chip girl’s account of the robbery is highly unlikely, and we have identified three acquaintances of hers that could be likely conspirators in the robbery, but we don’t like any of them for the murder. We have no eye witnesses for the day of the murder, just a guy walking his dogs three nights before who identified the three acquaintances going into the duplex unit next door to the victim.

That’s how we identified them as connected to her, by the way. We had the card room under surveillance to see if any of these three shows up to cash in chips, but that has been suspended because of the manpower costs.” Pendergrass nodded at this. He was the one who suspended the operation. “We have asked the card room to pay attention to anyone

84 who comes in and goes straight to the cashier’s cage and we’re getting their video surveillance tapes daily.”

Pendergrass looked at Derby with a sardonic smile on his face. “Good old, methodical Detective Derby,” he whispered, so Derby had to lean forward, “cross all the

T’s and dot all the I’s. You are directed to report back here in thirty days with suspects identified in both cases, capisce?”

Capisce, thought Derby, more of the pretentious shit that Pendergrass loved. He nodded his head and replied, “Yes sir,” as he stood up to leave. “I don’t recall dismissing you, detective!” barked the Chief. “No sir,” said Derby as he sat back down.

“Monday, one August at 10:00am. That gives you an extra day. You may go now.”

“Yes sir,” said Derby as he gave Pendergrass the thousand-yard stare he acquired in Vietnam. The Chief looked away quickly.

Just as I expected, thought Derby as he walked out, what a pussy!

******

Brenda’s first day after the Fourth of July started early. She contacted her agent about the old script and ran into an immediate obstacle.

“They’re going to be excited if I tell them you want the script again,” she said.

“Oh, Kelly, they know I’m done with Hollywood. Can’t you say it’s for another client?”

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“I have twelve total clients, including you, Brenda: you’re semi-retired, three of my clients are in drug rehab, one is doing time for tax evasion, six are on location in

Europe, and the twelfth is in a retired actor’s home. What do you want me to do?”

“Well, shit! Okay, tell them it’s for me but let them know if I get a single call from anyone about the part, I'll incinerate the script immediately. I actually only need it for a day or two.”

“Material for your next book?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Can you have it couriered over tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Kelly in her best sarcastic voice.

Brenda looked at the clock and saw that she could still make her 10:00 am aerobics class. From there, she proceeded to the Pasadena City Library, a jewel of a building from the 20’s that she loved. It was a hike from West LA, but it was always worth it. She was looking for the 1943 crime novel written by James Cain called Double

Indemnity. Both copies were out on loan, but she did find a copy of the script for the movie version, written by Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler. It was interesting reading, but the sleuth in the story was an insurance investigator, which was of no help to her.

She left the library and grabbed a quick lunch at a place called “The Hat,” which featured a pastrami sandwich deluxe. As she left the diner, she noticed a drug exchange in the parking lot and a light bulb went on. It might take some doing, but maybe she could use drugs to frame Beau. But Derby is a homicide detective. How was she to get the evidence to him?

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Another light bulb went on. There were homeboys back in her old neighborhood

that might be able to help her. But she couldn’t go there without a bodyguard, and she

knew just who to call. He was a gangster turned stunt man named Felix Morales and he owed her one. She headed home to start supper.

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Sixteen: 07 July 1988 12:35 pm

“That shit is raggedy,” said Felix.

“Tell me about it,” replied Brenda, “I’m walking around with a blown mind. First of all, I have never for a moment considered that Beau could do something like this.

Second, I knew they didn’t like each other, but not enough to kill!”

Felix took another bite of his Pink’s hot dog and dipped a fry into the little pool of

ketchup on his plate. As he licked his fingers, he smiled at Brenda and gave her the up

and down. “Damn, you are still fine, girl!”

“Yeah, give it a rest Felix. This shit may be raggedy, but it’s still serious.”

“Are you afraid to be around him?” asked Felix.

“It probably sounds strange, but no,” said Brenda, “he’s never raised a hand to

me. Plus, he knows my brothers are gangsters and hurting me would turn the homeboys

loose on his ass. I’m having trouble sorting out my feelings about this, but you know me.

I take things as they come, I don’t shock easily, and I’m always more interested in what’s

next than in what happened.

“Are you sure he did it?”

“No, I can’t be sure about anything without checking. That’s why I’m talking to

you.” Brenda muffled her annoyance.

“Okay, okay. What do you need to do first?”

“Make sure the flashlight is the one I gave Emma, but I’m thinking that’s pretty

easy to do when I attend the next regatta, weekend after next. I just hope he doesn’t move

the damn thing and smudge Emma’s prints off it.”

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“Why do you have to wait? You’re the captain’s wife. Can’t you just go on and

off the yacht when you please?”

“No, it would be noticed. Everyone knows I don’t like sailing. My idea of a boat

trip is a luxury cruise ship or a Mississippi steam boat. I’m okay being on the water as

long as I can sit comfortably and enjoy some conversation and some nice food and drink.

This isn’t the case on the ‘Brenda Belle.’ Usually when Beau stows something away, it

means he’s lost interest in it, so I’m thinking it will still be there.”

“It’s nice he named the boat after you, at least. So, you don’t need me for this

verification step, right?”

“Right. The objective is to get the flashlight into the hands of Detective Bob

Derby in a way that will cause him to treat it as evidence. I want him to find Emma’s

fingerprints on it.”

“Can’t you just do an anonymous tip?”

“No, this is a big case. There are hundreds, even thousands of anonymous tips,

most of which are discarded right away. There’s no guarantee that Derby would ever see

the tip.”

“Even if you ask for him by name?”

“I can’t. That would trigger a request for my name and contact information, which

I don’t want to reveal.”

“Can’t you just give them a fake one?”

“No, because they would verify the contact information and they would immediately dismiss the tip if it came up fake.”

“This seems way too complicated. Can’t you just straight up call the detective?”

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“That’s the last resort. I looked all this up. It is complicated. There used to be laws forbidding a spouse from testifying against the other, but that has changed and it’s possible for a wife to rat her husband out, but she can’t be compelled to do so. That flashlight is the only physical link to the crime scene that I know of. If I tell Derby about it, he’s going to need a warrant to search the boat. To get the warrant, there needs to be probable cause and right now there is nothing of the kind except my tip. That might not be enough. Plus serving the warrant puts Beau on the alert. He’ll lawyer up immediately.

“Hmm,” said Felix. “It does look like we need to frame Beau somehow. Does he have any kind of a criminal record?”

“Squeaky clean,” replied Brenda, “Nothing more than a parking ticket for his whole family going back generations.”

“How many vehicles does he own?”

“I own one and he owns five more.”

“So that’s six between the two of you. What kind of vehicles?”

Well, my everyday car is a Porsche Turbo Carrera, his is a Bentley. He also has a

Range Rover and three vintage cars: a ‘66 Shelby Cobra Mustang, a ‘55 Chevy, and a ’69

Sunbeam Alpine Tiger. Why do you ask?”

“That kind of car collection is not uncommon for a drug dealer. If a felony weight package of heroin were to be planted in one of those cars, the DEA would consider invoking RICO statutes, which means they could seize all of Beau’s assets, including his yacht. Of course, some of those assets might be yours as well.”

“Actually, no. Beau and I have no comingled funds and we have always maintained separate property arrangements. Plus, I have never asked for any of the equity

90

in his business under community property statutes when we have divorced. I am a

shareholder, but no different than anyone else that owns stock. This could work, I

suppose, but how do we get the flashlight into Derby’s hands?”

“We don’t. There is no logical way that the flashlight becomes part of Derby’s

case, no matter how hard we frame Beau.”

“Well then, what the fuck are you suggesting?” snapped Brenda. “It seems like

you had an idea in mind, but it melted away.”

“That’s exactly what happened. Why are we talking about all this cloak and

dagger shit when the answer to your problem is completely in your hands? You don’t

need to frame Beau, you need to seduce Derby.”

“I’m supposed to fuck him?”

“No, no! Look, you’re a successful actor and author, both of which you mastered

on your own, right?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“You’ve had four conversations with Derby that all kind of went the same way,

right? “

“Yeah.”

“So, that means seeing you might be as important to him as any aspect of the case.

You can write a script for your future conversations. During those, you become the interrogator, asking him about every single detail. As the talks proceed, you can start mentioning details of your own that are either in agreement or disagreement with his. See what I mean?”

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“Yes, I do.” Her thoughts raced back to when she had started taking over scenes

when she was making movies. “You’re right, he likes me, but his focus is always the

case. If I can drop the right hint, he’ll get on it. He seems to follow up on everything I

say, at least he has so far.”

“I know this means you won’t need my services,” said Felix, crestfallen, “but I

really think you can make this happen yourself.”

Brenda reached in her purse and pulled out four one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Felix. “Here, this is for your time. Take care of the tab, will you?”

“Of course. Good luck girl. Don’t be such a stranger!” Felix’s smile lasted the entire time it took for Brenda to walk out the door and get in her car. My God, what a woman, he thought.

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Seventeen: 13 Jul 1988 6:45 pm

Derby shoved the Arby’s wrappers and empty milk shake cup aside as he spread open his murder book. He had eighteen days left to meet the deadline Chief of Detectives

Pendergrass had given him, and he didn’t feel like there had been much movement in the murder case. He was pretty sure they could bring a case against the trio of Mo, Hector, and Geoff for the casino heist.

It seemed like Geoff was only one or two interrogations away from flipping on

Mo and Hector, both of whom had less and less to say every time they were interviewed.

And the new information from Phillip Trum could create leverage.

Derby was right. Geoff was the weak link. He was traumatized by the death of

Emma and consumed with looking after their two children. He had been the one who had broken with the schedule to cash in the chips from the robbery. Instead of the original plan of once a week and no more than $200 at a time, he was spotted on video coming in three or four times a week and cashing in at least $300 each time. It wouldn’t take much more to make him crack.

The murder was a different story, however. Neither a murder weapon, nor witness, nor motive had surfaced. The victim section in the murder book was the fattest, with details on Emma going all the way back to high school. More than a hundred acquaintances had been interviewed without yielding any possible reason for Emma to be murdered. The people that disliked her had nothing specific to complain about; they just didn’t approve of her serial engagement with one cardroom loser after another. The people that liked her raved about her personality. It was driving Derby crazy. Why was she murdered? he kept asking himself.

93

There was no evidence of a robbery nor was there any indication of any kind of

serial killer at work. The possibility that she had simply picked up the wrong guy and

taken him home was raised, but the autopsy ruled out recent sexual activity and the broad

daylight timing of the death was also not consistent with that scenario. This was a “who- dunnit” for sure and Derby was stumped.

This had happened before; more than one of the cases Derby had cleared had seemed unsolvable at some point. His approach was all perspiration, not inspiration, and so here he sat, leafing through the two-inch binder that was the murder book for Emma

Williams. He re-read the notes from the Redd Wilson interview, from his interviews with

Geoff Williams, the Lucky Horseshoe employees, Mo, Hector, and Phillip Trum. It wasn’t until he got to the Brenda Ortiz notes that something struck him.

Other than their first conversation, there had never been one word uttered about her husband, Beau Champion. This seemed odd, considering the number of interviews they had conducted with every known acquaintance of the victim, however slight the relationship. Derby had no reason whatsoever to consider Champion a material witness or anything else, but not talking to him was not consistent with the detective’s meticulous, methodical ways. He made a note to interview him as soon as he could.

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Eighteen: 18 Jul 1988, 11:45 am

Brenda loved people-watching. The Lucky Horseshoe diner was unusually busy for a Monday and there were plenty of characters to observe as she waited for her noon appointment with Bob Derby. She was feeling pretty positive about things today; she had verified that the incriminating flashlight was right where she had left on Beau’s boat.

Some of the more colorful characters knew Brenda by name. She knew that cardroom denizens were split into two categories: “players” were there to make money, which meant fleecing the other category, the “producers.” These were the lifeblood of gambling establishments, the people that came in thinking they were equipped to deal with the experienced professionals that knew all the odds and all the angles. They came in and lost their paychecks and much more. It was their money that made the whole system work. Brenda had barely sat down before Eldorado Bob came by to say hi, as did

Redbird, Six-o’clock Rudy, and Frenchy, in rapid sequence. Frenchy lingered a little longer than the others, pretending to be concerned about Emma’s murder:

“Do these damn police have any clues?” he asked.

“Some, but it’s going real slow Frenchy. I’m meeting with the lead detective in a few minutes for an update,” replied Brenda.

“An update, yes, that’s good. Such a tragedy, she was so nice…”

Frenchy paused, looking around the cardroom as if searching for someone. But

Brenda knew he was searching for something. She reached in her purse and pulled out a

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hundred-dollar bill and pressed it into his hand. “Here’s some walking-around money

Frenchy,” she whispered, as if they were conspiring.

“You’re the best Brenda! We miss you!” said Frenchy, “gotta go!”

Derby arrived just as Brenda said good-bye to Frenchy. “Friend of yours?” he inquired.

“More like an acquaintance,” replied Brenda as she stood up to shake hands with

Derby, “shall we get in line for some food?”

She brought back a tuna salad sandwich, potato chips, and a Diet Rite cola. He went with a BBQ beef sandwich, fries, and a chocolate malt. As they sat down, she asked her first question.

“Were there any signs of a break-in at Emma’s murder scene?” she asked.

“No, we’re pretty sure she knew her assailant.”

“And you’ve ruled out Geoff, her ex-husband?”

“Yes, as a murder suspect.”

“But you like him for something else, like the robbery?”

Derby looked up from his sandwich, “I’m not supposed to comment on an on- going investigation, Brenda, but yes, we have more questions for Geoff.”

“You know he was crazy about her, right?”

“Yes, we are aware of that. But we have verified his whereabouts at the time of the murder and he comes up clean. This is a little more than I’m supposed to say, of course.”

“I appreciate that Bob. And I don’t mean to add to your workload. I just can’t stop thinking about Emma. Everywhere I go I’m reminded of her. Sitting here in this diner,

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thinking back to all those nights we laughed and giggled about this and that. You know

this is where I wrote my book, right?”

“Yes, it seems like I heard that before. How many copies has that book sold, by the way?”

“Approaching four million, I think, but the demand is slowing down. The last

publisher’s run was only two hundred fifty thousand in paperback.”

“I’ve been meaning to pick up a copy.”

“Why?”

“It’s a stretch, but maybe there’s a reference to Emma in it that might be helpful.”

“I doubt it. She’s mentioned in the acknowledgments, but the only chapter she influenced was the one on ‘The Power of Friendship.’ You won’t find a clue there, I don’t think. But don’t worry about buying a copy. I still have some autographed first editions. How many do you want?”

“Oh, just one will do.”

“I’ll bring it next week when we meet.”

“We’re meeting next week?”

“If possible. I want to stay as close to this as I can and I would be happy to buy you lunch here once a week so you can brief me. Plus, maybe something will occur to me that might be important.”

“Okay. Same day, same time?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

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“Did your husband know Emma apart from her relationship with you? Could he have made her acquaintance in the cardroom?”

This startled Brenda. Connecting Emma and Beau wasn’t in her script just yet.

She took a quick bite of her sandwich and replied, “I can tell you that they detested each other, and yes, they might have crossed paths at some party before she and I became acquainted, but I don’t know if they ever spent any time together other than when I was with them. Why do you ask?”

Derby took note of Beau and Emma detesting each other. This was new information. “I was reviewing my notes from our prior conversations and I noticed that the only mention of your husband was in our first interview, then nothing thereafter. I feel like I’m missing a step if I don’t talk to him about her. It occurs to me, for example, that he might have fixed her up with another one of his friends. If he did, that guy should be added to the inventory of acquaintances, even if it’s just precautionary.”

Brenda couldn’t help herself. “It’s tough to get on his calendar during the work week, but you can find him on his boat just about every weekend at the San Diego Yacht

Club.”

“That’s a high-brow place and a hundred-mile drive. Let’s start with his office number for now and take it from there.”

“Okay, here’s his business card,” Brenda replied as she laid it on the table, along with a couple of twenties to settle the tab, including her customary jumbo tip, “see you next week!”

Definitely, thought Derby, as he watched her walk away.

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Nineteen: 19 Jul 1988, 12:06 pm

“You mean she just reached in her purse and pulled out four hundred dollars?” asked Chuy, a nickname given to Jesus Gonzales when he was six.

“Yeah, she didn’t even blink,” replied Felix.

“And it was for a little over an hour of your time?”

“Yes. I gave her a disappointed look when we figured out she didn’t need me, and she coughed it right up.”

“Right. And she thinks her husband offed her best friend?”

“Yeah. She’s not sure, but she found a flashlight or something on his boat that she gave to her friend, so now she’s all suspicious.”

“She’s not an actress anymore, just a writer you say?”

“Yes,” replied Felix, looking at Chuy closely, “but she’s a best-selling author. She told me once that she has made more from writing than acting. You thinking of robbing her?”

“Well, not at gunpoint or anything, maybe more like a purse-snatching.”

“Oh man, that’s the Chuy from La Puente I know so well. You’re not thinking smart, man. Her husband is close to a billionaire.”

Chuy saw that Felix was agitated, “relax ese, it’s just a thought, you know?”

“Well, it’s a dumb thought!”

“Okay, okay. Let’s forget about it. How would I even know where to find her?”

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“Don’t bullshit me. You know just about every hotel doorman and restaurant valet

parking attendant in Beverley Hills and Hollywood. You would have no trouble tracking

her down. I’m telling you, forget about this!”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” lied Chuy, who rarely went more than 72

hours without doing so.

******

The twenty-one-story office building known as 100 Wilshire in Santa Monica is a

prestigious address. This is why Champion Auto Parts established its corporate

headquarters on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors. As Derby rode the elevator up for

his appointment with Beau Champion, he wondered how he could get to the subject of

the dislike between Beau and Emma Williams. He also wondered about Beau’s

association with Neal De Vaughn, an accused murderer. The secretary seated in front of

Beau’s office greeted him nicely and advised him that Beau was on the phone, which

Derby could see for himself through the glass wall behind her. She led him to a conference room in the opposite corner of the room and brought him a cup of coffee. She kept his coffee hot as he waited. There were pictures of the last fifteen America’s Cup winners decorating the walls of the conference room and Derby got to examine each of them closely; Beau’s call took a while.

The purpose of the call was to obtain advice about police interviews. William

Thompson, aka Barbecue Billy, had been an associate of Beau’s for more than fifteen years and the subject was quite familiar to him. His nickname came about after he had served some houseguests barbecued baby back ribs for breakfast. His massage parlors, vending machines, liquor distributors, strip joints and wrecking yards were a front for the

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prostitution, drug, and extortion rackets he ran throughout Southern California. Beau had

been laundering money for Billy for the past ten years and Billy had provided the names

of the hit men who had performed murder for Beau more than once. Billy didn’t think

Beau had anything to worry about.

“You’re saying he’s a Gardena homicide detective investigating that Long Beach

murder of your wife’s friend?“ said Billy, “that’s fucked up to begin with.”

“I thought so too,” said Beau, “but the casino heist three days before is somehow

connected, at least so it seems.”

“But this detective is strictly a murder police, so why is he talking to you?”

“He said he has already talked to Brenda four times, but never to me, which he thinks is an oversight, since I knew Emma.”

“Knew her in what sense? You fucking her?” asked Billy.

“Shit no,” exclaimed Beau, “she’s always been a slut. Truth is, I have never liked her.”

“And was the feeling mutual?”

“Yeah, she always treated me politely, but it was the kind of manners that feels forced, as if she had bitten something distasteful.”

“Play that down when you talk to the detective. Make it sound like any friend of

Brenda’s is a friend of yours, that kind of thing.”

“Okay. Good advice.”

“Did you off her?”

This caught Beau flat-footed. “F-F-Fuck No,” he exclaimed. Why would you even ask me that?”

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“Because it doesn’t make sense that you would need my advice for this

detective’s visit; you haven’t mentioned anything that has to do with our shit,” replied

Billy, “if this were a vice cop I would be asking questions right there with you. My

advice is to not get excited or emotional in any way; take a lesson from your wife.” Billy

was way too savvy not to know the answer to his question, Beau’s protests

notwithstanding.

“Alright Billy. You still barbecuing this Sunday?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Beau bounced into the conference room just as Derby was sitting back down to his coffee. “Hello Detective, I’m Beau Champion,” he said as he thrust out his hand,

“how can I help you?”

“Hello Mr. Champion,” replied Derby while shaking Beau’s hand, “as I

mentioned on the phone, we know that Emma Williams and your wife were exceptionally

tight, and we are combing through every possible acquaintance for any little scrap of

information about her. I don’t mind admitting that we are close to nowhere on this case.

We need all the help we can get.”

This visibly relieved Beau, which Derby noticed. He was still far from suspecting

Beau of anything, but he felt he could gain more by being assertive at this point.

“How are you acquainted with Neal De Vaughn, “asked Derby, “we understand

you fixed him up with Emma.”

“I met him in Vegas. He was celebrating the week after his acquittal and we sat

next to each other at a five- thousand-dollar limit blackjack table.”

“Five-thousand-dollar limit?” asked Derby, “Which casino was that?”

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“MGM Grand, but in a special VIP suite upstairs. You have to know somebody to

get in, you know, big line of credit and all that,” replied Beau.

“De Vaughn was celebrating big time, then,” noted Derby.

“Yeah, he had just gotten off a few months earlier and his wife’s estate had just

become available to him, less one point five million in legal fees, of course. We started

chatting and he said he was tired of women that just wanted his money and did I know of

anyone he could connect with. I thought of Emma immediately because her string of

boyfriends didn’t seem to include anyone successful, which to me meant she wasn’t

looking for money. Neal went on one date with her and tried to go on another, but she

wasn’t interested, which surprised me.”

“You were surprised that she didn’t want to date a man whom the majority of the

population believes murdered his wife?”

“Allegedly. Don’t forget that,” replied Beau, “the system ruled in his favor.”

“The system is fallible, Mr. Champion. Less so for the very rich, but even they can suffer from a hole in the system.”

“Are you resentful of the rich, detective?”

“Not at all. I respect people that are smart with their money and wish I could be more like them with my money. But I’m in a profession that understands how wealth works. People with money are less likely to be convicted of a crime, less likely to receive maximum sentences, and almost completely unlikely to face a death penalty. Every recognized collection of crime data verifies these facts and police officers are reminded of them every day. But the distribution of wealth is not my concern here today. I was advised by your wife that you and Emma detested each other. Is that true?”

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Beau could feel some heat under his collar and he desperately wanted to loosen

his tie. He was trying to will sweat not to appear as he answered, “Well, I think detested

is too strong a word. We just never got close. My attitude is that any friend of Brenda’s is

a friend of mine, after all.” His nervous smile was recorded in Derby’s notebook as he

asked the next question.

“So, you only knew Emma through Brenda, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You never ran across her at the Lucky Horseshoe or at a party or anything?”

“No, I’ve never even been to her house.”

This caught Derby’s attention, the way it always does when someone answers a question a policeman hasn’t asked.

“Mr. Champion, have you fixed her up with anyone else? I’d like to know every acquaintance of hers if possible.”

“No, after the Neal De Vaughn episode I lost interest in setting anyone else up with her. Plus, my yacht racing schedule has become almost another full-time job.”

He’s changing the subject, thought Derby, “Yes, I understand you are quite an avid and successful yachtsman, if that’s the right term.”

Beau’s sales instincts took over as he sensed an opportunity to bond with Derby.

“Well, I prefer Captain,” he said with a smile, “but yes, I have been pretty fortunate in that regard, and in many others. Brenda, for instance. Say, would you like to be my guest at the San Diego Yacht Club sometime? We could take a little cruise and have dinner afterward, and then…”

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“Oh, no thanks Mr. Champion,” Derby replied with a grin, “I’m not much of a boat person.”

“Well, you must have other interests. I can get you comped in Vegas, courtside

Laker tickets, Dodger tickets behind home plate…”

“I appreciate your generosity Mr. Champion, but there are all kinds of restrictions on police officers or officials accepting gifts.”

Not the ones Billy and I know, thought Beau, “I understand, Detective, I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“No offense at all,” replied Derby. This guy knows some things I need to know was his thought as he shook hands with Beau and left.