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“Ruled DOA at seven-thirty-seven. Our boys were close behind; they took over when evidence of homicide became apparent. Sergeant Andrew Fick,” he points to the group of police officers nearby, “—kid with the red hair—took statements and called the Medical Examiner and RHD,” he sighs dramatically, “where yours truly happened to be on duty, enjoying his first cup of coffee.”
“Make sure Fick gets those statements to us.”
“Already done.”
“COD?” As I approach the lump beneath the tarp, the smell reaches for me with unsettling familiarity. My gag reflex kicks in. My mouth waters. My empty stomach heaves.
“Single bullet wound to the lower abdomen.”
“We’ll wait for the ME to confirm that.”
“Van is on the way.”
I nod and turn about slowly, taking in the surroundings. MacArthur Park isn’t much, especially in the daytime. It’s large. There’s a lake and enough grass to deserve the label ‘park’. But, like everything in Los Angeles, the signs of fatigue are there if you look for too long. The little lake, although serene enough, is covered with delinquent seagulls, birds that gave up their ancestors’ adventuring in favor of gorging themselves on the city’s refuse.
Concrete sidewalks guided by concrete banisters section off the north and south portions of the park from four-lane Wilshire Boulevard. Morning rush hour traffic slogs past, the consistent hum only occasionally interrupted by the blare of a horn or the rev of an engine.
“How long has the park been closed?” I ask, nodding towards the chain-link fence.
“A few months. It’s due to open to the public again in two weeks, around the end of June.” Mani tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans as we talk.
“Renovations?”
“Supposedly. The budget was one point five million. RAP—Recreation and Parks—slapped some paint on the buildings, planted some trees…”
We both look around, searching for signs of improvement. “But?”
“The renovations provided anopportunetime to start moving the homeless folks out.”
“How many?”
“Nearly one-hundred and thirty. The captain had some of the rookies help the outreach teams on the sheltering effort.”
“Not surprising. How many calls do we get out here a week?”
“You mean RAMP? Or the park?”
“Just the park.”
“Dozens. It’s a hot spot. Drugs, sex, violent crime. The city’s been trying to turn it around, but you know how it is,” he shrugs, “this is one of the poorest neighborhoods in LA.”
“Red or Blue?”
“Neither. MS-13, far as I know. The gang was founded in these parts back in the eighties. Used to collect taxes from anyone operating out of the park.”
I don’t have to ask what operations Mani is referring to. Money makes money. And even if he’s not referring to the dozens of vendors working MacArthur Park on any day, the illicit affairs of the down-on-their-luck drug dealers and sex workers aren’t exempt. “And the victim?”
“Not homeless. Or a gang affiliate.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Lieutenant,” he exaggerates my new title, “she’s dressed like she just stepped out of the Gatsby.” He mentions the new nightclub, which, as chance would have it, is only a few miles away in Downtown Los Angeles. “Her clothes are all designer. She’s wearing a pair ofLouboutinheels.”
“What?”
“Shoes. The ones with the red soles.” Mani’s mouth twitches. “Angie’s been saving for a pair…”
“Run her name through the list of people who were rehoused anyway.”
