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Khezir got out of the car and went toward the salesman, who backed up, screaming into the phone, “I need the police. Mariah Koo, Rodeo—”
Khezir grabbed the phone from the young man’s hand, threw it at the store window. Then, as onlookers screamed, he dropped his fist down on the back of the boy’s head.
The salesman’s knees buckled and he fell.
Police sirens could be heard coming up Wilshire, but the Sumaris had the advantage of time.
Khezir said, “I left my jacket in the store.”
“Leave it. This one is better.”
Khezir nodded, then said, “Which do you like more? The mother or the daughter? I want the daughter. She is closer to my age. Maybe she can keep up with me.”
“Anything you want, Khezzy. Anything at all.”
Chapter 32
CAPTAIN LUKE WARREN arrived on Rodeo Drive at 3:18 that afternoon and found five squad cars double-parked and uniforms keeping the tourists away from the entrance to the ritzy boutique Mariah Koo.
The first responder was Officer Fox Welky. Welky was from the Wilshire Division, Warren’s precinct, and was waiting for him at the curb. Warren opened his car door, and Welky walked him to the sidewalk, talking the whole time.
Welky said, “Why I called you, Captain. There were these two guys, one maybe fifty, the other about thirty, foreign accents, sounds like the guys who mugged those women at the Beverly Hills.
“These foreigners were in the store for about a half hour then left with a couple of women plus a jacket that had a ticket price of two thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars plus tax. They didn’t pay.
“Brian James Finnerty, he’s a salesclerk here.” Welky indicated the store with his thumb. “He ran out to get the crooks to come back in and pay up. He put his hand on the younger one’s arm and the guy turned on him and used some kind of karate. Really hurt the kid. Broke some of his ribs, for sure.
“Then the same thirtyish guy beat up on this other kid. Ravi Hoffman. Hoffman is on his way to the hospital to be checked for head trauma.
“Hold on, Captain, I got the goon’s name here.”
Welky took out his notebook, said, “Khezir Mazul. I think I said that right. He’s the one did the beatings, and Finnerty can identify him. Said he had a lot of weird tattoos over most of his body. And he also had tattoos circling his arms that looked like writing.”
Warren said, “Is the Finnerty kid okay?”
Welky said, “I think so, Captain. He’s hurt, but he’s talking. Ambulance is on the way for him.” Then Welky went on. “Mazul and the other one were last seen driving toward Santa Monica in a midnight-blue Bentley with rental plates. Those are the guys you’re looking for, right, Captain?”
“Nice work, Welky. Very good job.”
Sirens were singing up Wilshire.
Welky said, “Thanks, Captain. Finnerty is still inside, and we also got other witnesses who were watching through the door.”
Captain Warren went through the black glass doors into a slick clothing store that didn’t appeal to him at all. Too much black. Looked like the walking dead shopped here.
Warren found Finnerty lying in a fetal position on a checkered rug, squirming and crying and rocking himself. A bunch of twenty-something salespeople were clustered around him.
“Brian? Are you Brian Finnerty? Brian, the ambulance is coming now. Anyone else see what happened here?”
A salesgirl with white-blond hair identified herself as Angela Lanzadoro. Ms. Lanzadoro said she’d helped a couple of women tourists, sold one of them a Nicole Miller dress.
“They’re mother and daughter. Susan and Serena Stanley from Ann Arbor. The older man, his name was Gozan? He friended them? He and his boyfriend.”
“What makes you say they were boyfriends?”
“I’ve got excellent gay-dar, Officer. Anyway, I think they made plans to have dinner with Susan and Serena tonight.”
The hair on the back of Luke Warren’s neck stood up. He knew full well that those douche bags were not gay.
