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April 19, 1996
Friday afternoon
It was lunchtime, so I drove to Taco Maria’s on Hyperion. I picked up three carnitas tacos with a side of guacamole and chips. I ate one in the Taurus, making a mess, and then drove across town to Wilshire Community Police Station on Venice Boulevard. It took a good forty-minutes. Not a big deal, I knew Whatley would be at a press conference downtown most of the afternoon.
On the way, I called the owner of The Hawk, a straight woman named Marley who owned several properties on the stroll.
“I’m not going to be in this weekend.”
“This is a long stomach flu.”
“Yeah, um, I don’t think I’m coming back.”
“Thanks for the two weeks’ notice. Robbie’s gonna be pissed. He doesn’t like working a whole shift.”
“Couldn’t be helped.”
“He said some private eye keeps showing up. Straight. Older. He’s looking for someone who sounds a lot like you. Is that what’s going on?”
I decided to turn that into a joke. “Yeah, my ex-wife is trying to get back child support. Fifteen grand.”
Marley laughed. “You’re lying. You’re as queer as a three-dollar bill.”
“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
After a moment she said, “Feel free to come back when you straighten out your problems. I always appreciated that you didn’t rob me blind.”
Sometimes it doesn’t take a lot to please people.
Wilshire Station was in the Miracle Mile area right below La Brea. Unlike other police stations of my experience, it was clean and quiet. A one story, brick and concrete building, it looked to have been built in the sixties or seventies. I was there to see Detective Wellesley, though I had no idea what hours she kept. I was just taking a chance that she’d be there.
Actually, it was more than a chance. Given the recent collapse of at least three of her cases, it was likely she was on desk duty, which meant she’d be working a regular 9-5 work week.
I asked for her at the front desk, gave my name, and was told to take a seat. I wasn’t sure she’d remember who I was. If she did, I could end up sitting there a very long time. If she didn’t, she’d at least meet me out of curiosity—come to think of it, curiosity worked in my favor either way.
After about ten minutes, she came out to the bench I was sitting on. She had on a white shirt, a bolo tie and a pair of navy pants. If there was a jacket that went with this ensemble, she’d left it elsewhere. I was sure she didn’t own an iron.
She gave me a wry smile, and said, “I thought I recognized that name. Come on back.”
I followed her down a short hallway into a communal office space with about ten desks spread around a large room. She led me to a desk and the pointed at the chair next to it.
“Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”
“I won’t be long. But thank you. It was kind of you to offer.”
“Not really. No one’s cleaned the coffee maker since the eighties. Our coffee is disgusting.” She sat down and took a sip from a cup of Starbucks. “So what do you want?”
“Stu Whatley raped Candy Van Dyke last night.”
She had the decency to scowl when I said that but remained silent.
I continued, “I’m worried about Joanne Yardley. Whatley was asking his attorney hypothetical questions about double jeopardy.”
She raised an eyebrow. “But you work for his attorney.”
“I do.”
“You just broke attorney client confidentiality.”
