Heaven, INC: Chapter 9: NORCESTOR & IMPERIAL

NORCESTOR & IMPERIAL,
MARKET PARK
8:02 AM PDT

BASE CAMP CARD TABLE, as Al dubbed it, was a fancy, over-the-topper provided by DNS budget and planted at Norcestor and Imperial, a trash-strewn intersection in a suburb of San Diego called Market Park that compares to La Jolla as Hell does to Heaven. At the intersection’s north-east corner sits the Red Garter Lounge across the street from which are a Taco Shack on one corner and an abandoned strip-mall with boarded-up windows on the other. Behind Valu-Land mall is a junkyard called Chuey’s Tip & Tow, while across the street from the mall squats a three hulking apartment towers in the brooding urban-gothic style, that of burnt-out lawns, broken windows, government subsidies and the angry, despondent and defeated. Every big city in America has this place. In San Diego, it’s Norcestor and Imperial.


POPE AND AL CROSSED a police ribbon to find a homicide lieutenant at the card table talking with Deputy Inspector Rose.

Seeing Pope, Lt. Marcus gave a nod of recognition before pointing a cigarette at the Red Garter Lounge and saying, “So. . . as I was saying . . . This bouncer says he was arguing with one of his dancers, trying to get her to come into work, when he hears the sound of breaking glass and someone yelling out in the street. Goes outside, sees an old Mustang heading east on Imperial along with a late-twenties white male hightailing it in the direction of the Norcestor Arms, and subsequently returns to the club to call 911— Dispatch clocked the call at three minutes to three in the morning.” Marcus drew on his cigarette, exhaling smoke and saying, “In the ensuing call, you hear two gunshots, one of which we think goes along with a slug found in a homeless shot dead around the corner from the club. 9mm, maybe a.380.”

Pope took in the towers of the Norcestor Arms, the nearest a dozen brooding stories high and marked near the top with a great faded ‘3’, built on something of a plateau, with a broad dirt hillside leading down to the street and intersected by wide concrete stairs; on the stairs, a group of local hoods had gathered to watch the festivities.

After introducing himself— after flashing DNS credentials and enduring Marcus asking his age— Deputy Inspector Rose presented a black-and-white photo. “This is who we’re looking for. We believe the Mustang is this man, Christian Ducroix. We believe he was the victim of a botched car-jacking.”

“Zat so?” The lieutenant studied the picture. “This kid by any chance related to that other Dr. Ducroix?”

“Yes, Dr. Ducroix is Christian’s father.”

The lieutenant looked to Pope and back at Rose. “Why don’t we get to it?” He waved his cigarette, taking in the brooding apartment towers and Chuey’s Tip & Tow. “This place is on the way to anywhere, so I’d bet he’s just another rich kid looking to score a baggy in the ‘Hood and finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Since that would be bad for his old man’s image, you come out this cock and bull. Zat about right?” Before Rose could answer, Marcus smiled. “Boys down at the Station’ll like that, hearing the esteemed Dr. Ducroix’s kid’s out trolling the Park for party favors or maybe dirty puss.”

Rose looked annoyed. “Look, Detective—“

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant, that’s ridiculous. Dr. Ducroix has no history of drug use.”

“Which one?”

“Which . . . Both. Neither. Look, the fact of the matter is we know Christian and his date left Lord Bletchly’s party in an intoxicated state and it’s probable he wandered into the wrong neighborhood. You can get there from here.”

“Where was the party?”

“Rancho del Sol Estates.”

Marcus smirked. “Yeah right.” His dubious gaze slid to Pope and back to Rose, reminding Pope that it was the opinion of more than a few cops it was the FBI that got Detective Francisco sent away instead of Christian Ducroix’s father. “Only other thing I gotta say is, how improbable it is the driveway camera apparently malfunctioned and erased the surveillance data. I mean, given all the other weirdly improbable shit surrounding that family.” Clearly wanting to say more, Marcus simply said, “Look, I’m sure it’d be a damn shame if anything terrible happened to the good doctor’s kid, but if you mind, I gotta get back to investigating my dead homeless nobody gives a rat’s ass about.” And with that, he shoved off into the crowd of onlookers in the direction of the Red Garter.

Simultaneously, before Pope could ask a question, the deputy inspector’s phone chirped. Snapping it out to reading a text, he then stated abruptly, “Alright . . . Look, I need to make a very important call. Agent Pope, if you’d take over a moment, directing your people to, well, whatever you people do, I’ll get this real quick,” and without waiting for a response, Rose was walking away, not calling anyone but instead frantically texting.

Al captured Pope’s sentiment best. “What the fuck?”