Posts
—ZHOU ENLAI
POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
14th & BROADWAY
3:41 PM PDT
CARMELLA WATCHED RAYMOND CHO work the Woodcrest Apartments’ video, rewinding the tape this way and that and manipulating the image, comparing it to footage taken from the County Medical Examiner office’s lobby camera.
“Yeah, sure looks like the same the guy,” Raymond said. “Whoa. If we’re right, and this guy really was at both Norcestor and Imperial and the ME’s joint . . . Whoa.”
The implications of this, it was hard for Carmella to wrap her mind around—
Boomp, the door to MultiMedia swung open and Carmella nearly jumped out of her chair when Captain Decker strode in with a sour expression on his dark face. “You wanna tell me what you’re doing up here? We got brass coming down hard on all the shit going down with a missing cop on our hands and you’re in here goofing off with Cho.”
Carmella frowned. “What missing cop?”
That seemed to piss Decker off even more. “Bobby Riggs. Found his patrol in a parking lot behind a bar on El Cajon Boulevard, the Crow’s Nest, but the man has vanished. We’ve got not a single witness to whatever went down back there, with the exception of a suspicious person’s report: on some little druggie type apparently put something in a couple guys’ drinks and then stole their money.”
The Crow’s Nest was a little neighborhood dive bar down on El Cajon Boulevard, shot-and-a-beer, Friday-night-karaoke kind of joint, you know the type, with a parking lot behind it with a view blocked entirely from the street. In fact, really, the perfect place you’d want to perform an act of foul play if you were so inclined.
Captain Decker’s eyes went to the computer screen and the Woodcrest Apartments’ surveillance video. On the screen, still-footage had stopped with the mystery man yelling at the driver. “Who’s that?”
“That car hit a pedestrian down on South Norcestor one minute before Christian Ducroix was car jacked by Mij Andropov and minutes after the jogger was run down on Sweetwater. Hey, Raymond, show the captain the other car.”
Raymond rewound the footage until a vintage Mustang rolled on the screen. In the corner of the screen, the time showed 11:58.
Carmella said, “Christian Ducroix and some woman, it looks like. But you see, here, how she’s struggling? Look . . . Right there . . . See? Looks like she takes a swing.”
Decker said, “Let me see that again,” and watched the tape roll by. “So Mij Andropov escapesd from the apartment where we found a dead body on an anonymous tip—”
That would have been Elmond, calling from a pay-phone in the parking lot of the Super Lotus King Buffet.
“— an ex-South Guyanan colonel named Black Molo who may, or may not be, related to the dead-secret-agent-in-a-suit-type found in a backyard swimming pool out in Lemon Grove, said body later stolen by some guy in a suit and three goons.”
Before Carmella could ask a pertinent question, Raymond Cho, the department’s biggest geek, said, “Captain, what do you mean when you say, Secret agent? Secret agent how? Secret agent like James Bond secret?”
Now Captain Decker was really annoyed. “I don’t know how secret, Cho. He wore a suit, had a gun packing explosive bullets, a poison pen and money in various currencies hidden in hollowed out heels.” Decker fixed an eye on Carmella. “How’s your jogger?”
“Dead as of an hour ago, so it’s at least vehicular manslaughter if not outright murder and we now have a suspect. Raymond, show the Captain the side-by-sides.”
The Captain gave Carmella a look before turning to the screen.
The screen split in two, showing Woodcrest Apartments on the left and the Medical Examiner’s lobby on the right.
Captain Decker studied the screen. “Same guy?”
Carmella nodded. “Sure looks like it. I think after watching this video, it’s quite possible either the Mustang or Hummer is the one who hit the Sorensom woman. Hey, Raymond, show him the plate.”
Raymond cued up the sequence where the license plate was most legible, slowing the digital tape down to 1/24 speed and watching the car frame-by-frame. You could just make out the last three numbers: ‘323' and ‘LOMAT’, as in diplomatic plates.
Studying the screen, Captain Decker ran a hand across his dark, smooth-shaven scalp. “We got a country on that?”
Carmella said, “Winkle’s on it,” then watched Elmond come through the door. “And it looks like we might have some news.”
Elmond saying, “Yeah, we got some news: we can narrow our potential hit-and-run down to Christian Ducroix or a diplomat from France, Mexico, Britain, Germany, Russia or Japan. Anybody wanna play international Risk?”
Captain Decker shook his head. “Tell you what: way folks are right now, all keyed-up and crazy about the economy and all that trade war talk, last thing we need is for any of those countries’ diplomats to be the ones pulled a hit-and-run kill on an American citizen. Be some serious diplomatic implications from that.”
Carmella said, “All do respect, Captain, there’s a man out there about to bury his wife. What do you want us to do about it?”
Decker fixed her with an even stare. “You’ve got a person of interest in a hit-and-run fatality, that silver-haired cat and whoever was driving. I advise you locate them and bring em in ASAP for questioning and take a look at that car. Gotta be some kind of evidence if they did do it.”
Elmond said, “And if they claim diplomatic immunity?”
“That’s D.C.’s call, not ours. You just worry about tracking this guy and his driver down and bringing them in. How you two do that, I leave up to your own discretion.”
No comments:
Post a Comment