Heaven, INC: Chapter 34: APARTMENT 420

APARTMENT 420,
NORCESTOR ARMS EAST
11:36 P.M. PDT

“The apartment’s rented to a Rosalita A. Gonzalez, but,” Captain Decker said, “as you can see, there’s not a single hint of a feminine touch here, let alone anything to indicate the place is even regularly inhabited, except for poker games. So far we haven’t been able to do much backtracking on that since, other than her phony Social Security number and a fake drivers’ license, we’ve got nothing on Rosalita Gonzalez or the stiff.”

The stiff wore a black Adidas running suit, new Nikes and bruises and rope-burns around his neck consistent with death-by-strangulation.

Pope said, “What’s the time of death?”

“About two a.m. Rudy Juarez also verified the footprints in the other room are a match to Mij Poopikov’s.” When Pope frowned, Decker said, “Poopikov was a local nightclub owner— DreamCircus, down in OB. A small fish. But at about 3:00 a.m. this morning, his body was discovered on a Beeler Canyon avocado farm having taken one in the back of the head and in the process of being dissolved with Muriatic acid. Witness said they left in such a hurry, he only got a description of one of the cars, a black Hummer, but not the plate number. Old guy, says he’s got bad eyes.”

Pope considered this. “Poopikov have enemies?”

“Like Napoleon at Waterloo and running debts all over town.”

“That’s an unhealthy lifestyle. Who’d he owe?”

“Well, for one, word is he was into the Russians pretty deep. Victor Lebvedev’s people.”

This caught Pope’s attention. “Lebvedev? This confirmed?”

Decker said, “Not a hundred percent, but it looks legit from what we’ve learned so far.”

Pope wasn’t sure how and wouldn’t say it out loud, but he had a distinct sense Decker had someone inside Lebvedev’s outfit. If it was the case, he’d try to respect Deck’s ‘sources’.

Decker continuing then, “Of course, since Lebvedev denies having anything to do with Mij Poopikov’s murder, and his lawyers’re throwing up a ton of flack, so who can we know for sure?”
Dead pan about it, like cops often are.

Pope went back into the other room.

Herein were a card table, three flimsy chairs and a floor strewn a couple decks of cards and an overturned ashtray, with butts everywhere. Over by the black-out-foiled window: the remnants of a fourth flimsy chair, this one broken, lengths of rope and a floor littered by blood spatters and cigarette ashes, all stamped into the outlines of hard-soled shoes and running shoes Pope thought might match the stiff’s in the closet. A technician was snapping stills as several more were dusting for prints.

Pope said, “Dave, I know you’ve got a theory. So let’s hear it.”

Decker’s eyes studied Gideon’s as though he were making a decision. “All right,” he finally said, “but you tell me: speculation starts with that chair. You see what we see?”

Pope studied the broken chair by the window and the footprints. “At some point, Poopikov broke free and used that rope to strangle Juan Doe before fleeing the apartment barefoot ahead of the hard soled guys. Poopikov is the one hijacked Ducroix. Nice. Well, since you’ve got Poopikov’s body— and a call woulda been nice, Dave— is there hard evidence to back all this up?”

“There is. Rudy found broken safety glass found in Poopikov’s right hand he’s ID̀ed as Ford Motor Company smoked glass, 1966. So then, we’ve got a problem.” A scowl passed across Decker’s face. “You remember how a certain cop got sent away in a case involving a carpet fiber?”

Pope exchanged a glance with Al. “I remember.”

Decker scowled. “Well we found a carpet fiber on Poopikov matching one found on Evie Chambers. And we’ve got Ducroix’s car getting car jacked by Poopikov. Meaning Poopikov got that fiber from Ducroix’s car. Meaning Ducroix really did kill the Chambers girl.” Decker’s scowl deepened. “And that means a good cop went to jail on the dirty.”

The vein in Al’s forehead pulsed as he got overloud in the ratty apartment, jumping to conclusions.

“Oh, now hold on a moment, whoa. Don’t go blaming the FBI. It’s a well-known fact the guy was strung out on heroin when he nearly killed Ducroix. Though it’s no surprise,” Al observed,

“Francisco being a musician slamming dope and all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one, cooking spoon on the way to rock and roll fame, on MTV. And spoons are always reliable witnesses.”

Al had a way of going right for someone’s jugular piss-off point without any thought whatsoever, like an elephant right into a field of mines. And this was a moment when Pope honestly thought Al might have pushed it too far. You could in Decker’s body detect tension— and remember, after starring at Grambling, Decker’d played two seasons at linebacker for the Bears and still retained much of the physique— there was a moment Pope thought Decker might punch Al out . . .

Before Decker finally said, “Well, I wasn’t blaming the FBI, but if you wanna lay a finger . . . Fact of the matter is, at this point, I don’t know what’s happened. But I can tell you this: we’re getting to the bottom of this and if the FBI’s trying to federalize this whole clusterfuck to cover something up, there’s gonna be problems. And you can make book on that.”