Mack pulledup behind a shiny Ducati that made us both gape in wonderment.
“Is Tom Cruise filming a movie here or something?” Mack asked as the Honda sputtered into a stall, which was almost as good as a stop in my book. “Not a common make in these parts.”
I glanced around the neighborhood but saw no signs of movie-making. One never knew when one lived in the land of movie stars. I’d seen my fair share of the bright and shiny people who glittered out here in Tinsel Town. Some were incredibly nice; some were flaming assholes. Like the rest of the population.
I exited the car with a moan, circled the expensive bike, then threw my partner a look as he worked at putting his tie back around his thick neck. I’d opted for cool today and had ditched a jacket and gone with khaki pants, a white shirt, and a tie I suspected had been doused with guacamole the last time I had worn it. It smelled like guac when the sun hit it.
Stretching to work out the kinks, I checked to make sure my weapon was secured in my holster, my badge was on my belt, and my thermos was in my hand.
“I hate ties,” Mack grumbled as we entered the front of the clinic.
“Cap likes them,” I replied, taking in the usual aura of upset following a crime. People white with fear, some crying, some pacing nervously, and some sitting in the waiting room with tension radiating off them. Two uniformed officers met us as we entered, both younger cops.
“Thanks for securing the scene. Are all of these people potential witnesses to the mugging?” I enquired and got two firm nods. Christ. There must be twenty people here. “Okay, cool. Any chance you’ve taken statements?”
A baby started to cry in the corner. The mother, a young Latina, bounced the bundle in the blue blanket, her dark eyes drifting shut despite her attempts to keep them open. I could relate. Not to the parenting thing. Gods, no. My sister was the Winwood who had kids. Just one, Leo, with my ex-brother-in-law, who… well, we’d not go into her reasoning for choosing Bryce back in the day. She’d been young. He’d had a guitar. You know how it goes. I’d disliked Bryce for a long time, for many reasons, but, as of late, we’d been working things out. Mostly for Leo’s sake, as my nephew adored his dad.
But seeing as Court was newly married to a forest ranger named Tony, I suspected another addition to the family within a year or two. I, on the other hand, had trouble keeping the lone orchid Mack’s wife had insisted I own alive, let alone a kid. Not that I didn’t want kids someday, but I had zero time to date, let alone plan for offspring in some unforeseeable future.
We had a quick chat with the patrol officers about the people being detained. Many had seen little more than a man dashing through the waiting room. Those, we turned loose after taking a brief statement and reminding them to contact us if they remembered anything.
While Mack started taking statements from the staff—from the reception attendant named Lazlo Richter to an older woman, Heloise Grant, the bookkeeper, who just happened to be there to pick up paperwork—I found the room where the crime had taken place. An office belonging to the doctor in charge, one Joseph “Joe” Baxter, an ex-military medic who had returned from a few tours in the Middle East to open the Haven of Hope Clinic. A solid guy, do-gooder type, I assumed, which was commendable. God knows the poor areas of this city could use more help in every way, shape, or form. The room had been taped off by the patrol officers, so I ducked under the tape, careful to step over the spilled coffee and papers scattered about. Along the far wall were pictures of Joe the Medic with family, friends, and fellow Marines, as well as a few diplomas and a smudge of blood leading to a rather large puddle on the floor. According to the staff who had attended the victim, the head wound had been superficial. Head wounds were always messy. Mack and I would head to Holy Trinity Hospital after we were done here to see if the victim was able to speak to us.
Mack joined me to work on the preliminary documentation and evaluation of the scene. There had been way too many people in here to please me, but it was what it was. The responding officers had done a good job of taking care of the witnesses and bystanders who’d been secured and separated. I moved around the area another time, documenting as much information as possible while ensuring that scene integrity was in place, and all evidence was safe and uncontaminated.
Certain protocols had to be followed from the first arrival of the patrol officers to the scene debriefing team’s final survey.
An hour later, we left Joe the Medic’s office with not much to go on, other than that this was no botched robbery. This looked to be a warning of sorts, and according to the initial interviews, the name of a certain crime lord had been heard as the offender fled.
Then we split, Mack sitting down with the rest of the office staff to finish statements, while I sat down in an exam room with one Oliver “Cowboy” Cowan, defenseman for the LA Storm. I knew Oliver by sight and name, obviously. He would show up on occasion to help coach the youth teams that the Storm sponsored. My nephew was on such a team.
“Imagine seeing you here,” I commented as the big D-man eyeballed me for the longest time, his sharp eyes moving over me, head to toe, as he tried to recall who I was, other than a gangly ass with a gun, a badge, and a Minnie Mouse thermos. “I’m Bryce’s ex-brother-in-law. Jack Winwood, LAPD Organized Crimes Unit.”
Nothing. Then the name hit him and some of the tension left his face. A handsome face that showed some life.
“Oh right, Michael Zhang’s boyfriend. Sorry. I should have recalled his name sooner. It’s been a day,” he said, then stood. I waved him back to the chair he’d been sitting in and took a seat beside him. The room was decorated with duck and chicken decals for the little ones.
“So I heard.” I settled down into my chair, my sight flickering to the tidy cabinets over a shiny sink. “Want to tell me about what happened?”
“I already told the other cops,” he said, as I knew he would. “I’d really like to get to the ER to check on Joe.”
“I know you spoke to the uniformed officers, but now I’d like you to tell me in your own words what happened.” My sight flickered from Oliver to the room in a quick sweep. The cabinets were untouched, the shelves holding glass jars of swabs, cotton balls, and tongue depressors. So the offender had not rushed in, wired for dope, and started ransacking random rooms. The offender knew just where to go. Interesting.
“Organized Crimes?” That always got them once it sank in. His eyebrows knotted. “Why are you here? It was just a junkie looking for drugs, I assumed.”
I gently unscrewed the cracked cup off the top of my thermos. The AC kicked in. Ollie the Cowboy smelled damn good. Much nicer than stale guac and drying blood.
“We’re not sure exactly what the offender was after. Can you start from the beginning, please?” I asked in my most polite cop tone. Considering I’d not had a chance to even light a cigarette yet, Ollie was indeed being blessed with all my charm. I placed my phone on the exam table, taking note that the paper covering was pristine. Yeah, random junkie my ass. “I’m going to record your statement, if that’s okay with you?”
“Sure, yeah.” He studied me closely with dark eyes. Christ, he was a good-looking beast of a man. Burly, yet toned, with short hair and neat scruff, both peppered with silver. I’d always enjoyed a good tumble with an older lover. We were of equal size and weight, although he might have a few pounds on me. Yeah, I could get down with going down on this man. “I just… can I call my kids’ school to let them know that I’m going to be late picking them up?”
Well, shit. Shit on a rancid stick. Kids. So, he was taken. Probably had a hockey wife at home waiting for his return. I didn’t know the Storm players or their personal lives, but being Leo’s uncle meant I skated on the periphery of the team’s activities.
“Sure. Go ahead.” I leaned up, paused the recording, and sat back to nurse my now tepid coffee while Oliver took care of his kids. He spoke softly for such a big man. I wagered he would be a gentle lover, unless a man asked him to be rough, then?—
For fuckin’ fuck’s sake, stop. The guy is straight. Man, we need to get laid.
Yep. We did need to get laid. Soon.
