Page 92 of Dirty

Alexandra squeezed my hand.

Shit.

“No, wait,” I said. “After I kicked the weapons into a pile, I called 911 and reported the crime. Then, I stumbled out into the street. Then everything went black.”

“So, during your time in captivity, you had a phone?”

“No. I used the phone on the table beside Tattoo.”

He nodded. “When the police arrived, you were gone. How were you transported here?”

“I came out of my unconscious state when a guy was loading me in the backseat of a car.”

“Another Hispanic male?”

“Nope,” I said. “White dude. Executive type. Dressed in a suit and driving a BMW sedan. He brought me here. In fact, he signed the admission form.”

He flipped through his pad, eventually stopped on a page, and then studied it for a moment.

“Jay Parsons?” he asked.

“Sounds right.”

He chuckled. “Jay Parsons, as in the Jay Parsons?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Who’s the Jay Parsons?”

“Attorney to the movie stars,” he said. “Millionaire extraordinaire, Jay Parsons. The one who represented that pro basketball player who was accused of killing his maid. Remember? His wife was screwing the other basketball player and tried to frame him? The Jay Parsons that sued LAPD for wrongful death when they choked that kid to death by accident and won a $50,000,000 settlement? The same Jay Parsons who obliterates everyone who opposes him in court. That Jay Parsons.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t make the connection.”

“Sounds like a hell of a story.” He sighed and closed his notepad. “Well, I’m glad you made it out alive.”

“Makes two of us, detective.”

“On another note. We found one Hispanic male in a building by the pier, and he’d been shot in each leg. The pistol used in the shooting was confirmed to be the weapon we found beside Jose Sanchez-Guiverra, who, in case you are unaware, is...” He paused and raised his index finger. “No, was, the local leader for Calle 18. He’s the one you called ‘Tattoo’. And, for what it’s worth, we found his fingerprints were on the frame of the pistol, and we found a partial on the trigger.”

I raised my eyebrows in false interest.

“Two other deceased Hispanic males were found on the scene,” he said. “They were later identified as being Sanchez-Guiverra’s henchmen. The firearms used in the crime were stolen from a navy SEAL armory years ago, and were listed as stolen weapons in the National Database.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

“The only living Hispanic male suspect, however, swears that he didn’t do it. The man who was shot in each leg by Sanchez-Guiverra.”

“They all say that, don’t they?” I asked. “That they’re innocent?”

“Crazy bastard says the US Marines did it, and that he was set up.” He looked right at Crip and grinned a sly grin. “Surprised he didn’t say it was the Navy SEALs.”

“Never know with those gangbangers,” I said.

He stood up. “Can’t trust ‘em, if you ask me.”

He glanced at each of us, nodding his head as he made eye contact. “Navarro, Peanut Butter, Miss Hart, Downey. Have a nice life. My Calle 18 case is closed, and I’m on to bigger and better things.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and then hesitated. “Funny thing, you know…”

“What’s that, detective?”