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  The explosion in the dream had been an IED the insurgents had buried in the rubble pile before Drew’s unit had started the clearing operation. With Drew, Mukoyama, and a medic sheltering behind it, the insurgents had remotely detonated the IED. The blast had finished Kenny, who Drew accepted was probably already a goner and had killed the medic. The medic had taken the worst of the blast, saving Drew’s life. His injuries had been limited to shrapnel wounds, mostly to his hip and the back of his right thigh. While not life-threatening, the wounds had gone septic, which had necessitated Drew spending four weeks recuperating at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center next to the U.S. airbase at Ramstein.

  Unwilling to risk another dream, Drew went to the kitchen and started coffee brewing in the Keurig while he went to shower. Three hours of sleep was all he would get this time.

  Chapter 5

  At seven on Tuesday morning, Drew was back at his desk in the squad room at West Bureau, glad the Christmas holidays were over. It wasn’t like he needed another reason to feel depressed. He had enough of those already. A few minutes past seven, Ortega walked in carrying two paper cups of Starbucks coffee. The department supplied K-cups for the Keurig machine in the break room was bad. Del Dickinson, the day watch sergeant, said it was great if you enjoyed drinking hot dishwater. Ortega and Drew took turns stopping at Starbucks on the way in and bringing the morning coffee with them. Ortega handed Drew a cup and set the other on his desk.

  “Have a good Christmas?” Ortega said.

  “Yes, it was great,” Drew said. “You?”

  “It was good,” Ortega said. “I ate too much.” Ortega patted his stomach for emphasis. “We had a lot of family over for Christmas dinner.”

  “That’s good,” Drew said, sipping some coffee.

  “You already started on the list of friends and acquaintances?” Ortega said, looking over Drew’s shoulder at the spreadsheet on his computer screen.

  “Already done with it,” Drew said. “I’m ready to start calling and setting up interviews.”

  “Don’t tell me you spent your whole Christmas holiday working,” Ortega said.

  “We’re behind the curve,” Drew said. “I had time to work on it, and you said we needed to hit the ground running this morning.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I admire your work ethic,” Ortega said. “But, you don’t want to make a habit of working on cases on your off time. Trust me, no one appreciates it. Not the supervisors, not the chief, and you can be sure the damn city council doesn’t appreciate it.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Well, you make your calls, and I’ll start putting the murder book together,” Ortega said.

  The two detectives went about their respective tasks in silence until their boss, Lieutenant Celia Walsh, rolled into the squad room at eight o’clock.

  “How you two doing on the Silverman case?” Walsh said.

  Ortega swiveled his chair around to face the detective commander. “Drew has compiled a list of friends and acquaintances. He is about to start calling and setting up interviews. I’m putting together the murder book, and we’re waiting to hear from the ME on when they’re going to do the cut.”

  “You like anyone for it yet?” Walsh said.

  “We’ve got some possibilities,” Ortega said. “But, as I said, we haven’t even started the interviews. The only person we’ve talked with was Silverman’s cousin when we made the death notification.”

  Walsh nodded, then dropped a copy of the L.A. newspaper on Ortega’s lap. He picked it up and read the above the fold headline: Mafia Princess Killed Mob-Style in Beverly Hills Shooting. Ortega scanned the article.

  “The press is already all over it,” Walsh said. “Any truth to the possible mob connection?”

  “No, that’s bullshit, Celia,” Ortega said. “The cousin told us the victim published a memoir about growing up in a mob family. It was all ancient history. Nothing mob guys would kill her over. Some reporter just Googled her name and found out her history and then probably found out from a source at the coroner’s office she died from a single gunshot to the back of the head.”

  Walsh nodded. “I just want to be prepared if I start getting pressure from the PAB to transfer the case to OCID,” she said. “We need to show progress on this by the end of the week, or the sharks downtown will start circling.”

  “We’ll do what we can, LT,” Ortega said, “But, you know we’re at a real disadvantage because of the Christmas holidays.”

  “Yes, I know it sucks catching a murder case on Christmas Eve,” Walsh said. “Just do the best you can to work around it.”

  “Will do,” Ortega said.

  “How about you, Howie?” Walsh said to Drew. “You learning anything from Ortega here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Drew said without looking away from his computer screen. “Rudy has already shown me where all the best taco trucks are on the west side and all the places that comp the coffee for cops.”

  Walsh laughed. “I’m sure he is covering all the important stuff first,” she said. “Rudy, keep me updated.”

  “Roger that,” Ortega said, handing the paper back to Walsh. “We’ll keep you in the loop, boss.”

  Walsh turned and left for her office. Drew started making calls. After twenty minutes, he had reached only two of Silverman’s friends out of the eight he had called. The rest of the calls had gone to voicemail. He had left messages.

  The first woman he spoke with said she was at home and would be available to speak to the detectives if they came to her house before noon. The other, another woman he’d reached on her mobile, told him she was out of town for the holidays and wouldn’t be available until later in the week. Both of the women he spoke with had already heard about the murder.

  Ortega’s desk phone rang, and he picked it up. After listening for a few moments, Ortega said, “Got it, we’ll be there. Thanks.” He hung up.

  “That was the ME’s office,” Ortega said. “They are doing the cut at eleven-thirty this morning. That going to be a problem with your interview schedule?”

  “No,” Drew said. “Only one person I’ve called has agreed to see us. She is available from now until noon.”

  “Okay, then let’s go see her,” Ortega said. “Then we’ll cruise over to the coroner’s office. If the slug is good for comparison, we can run it over to FAU once the coroner extracts it. Then we need to drop off a search warrant for Silverman’s phone records at the Criminal Courts Building.”

  Drew nodded. “Sounds like the one interview is all we’ll have time for today anyway,” he said.

  Both detectives picked up their jackets. Ortega grabbed the search warrant he’d typed up off the bureau printer tray on their way out of the squad room. They got in Ortega’s Crown Vic and drove out of the lot.

  On the drive, Drew told Ortega what he had discovered about William Hurst, about Silverman’s participation in a possible cover-up, and the whole omertà thing.

  “The New York cops believed he murdered his wife and disappeared her body,” Drew said. “Silverman lived in New York at the time, and she was the one who alibied him. Maybe she knew he killed his wife and knew where the body was buried. Now that the investigation has been re-opened, maybe Hurst decided not to risk Silverman spilling her guts.”

  “Damn, Youngblood,” Ortega said. “You spent your whole Christmas holidays working on the case.”

  “So what do you think?” Drew said. “You think Hurst is our guy?”

  Ortega shook his head. “I’m not seeing it,” he said. “If he killed his wife and Silverman knew about it, she kept his secret all this time. Why would he think she would rat him out now?”

  * * *

  Silverman’s friend, Margaret Fraley, lived high atop a mountain canyon, not far from Silverman’s cottage, in a fashionable neighborhood where the homes had sweeping views of the city and valley below. On unusually clear days, residents near the peaks could see the ocean.

  Inside the house, the detectives sat on
a chintz fabric sofa, flanked by antique tables and lamps, in an elegant living room with gleaming hardwood floors and open-beamed ceilings. As Fraley served them mugs of coffee, Ortega petted the woman’s dog and told her the animal was remarkably well behaved.

  “I must be doing something wrong,” Ortega said. “I can’t train my dog to do anything. How do you do it?”

  Ortega had sensed Fraley was nervous when the detectives arrived at her door. He used the dog opening as a way to connect with her. She seemed more relaxed after his comment and learning one of the detectives was a dog lover. Fraley described a few training techniques and had her dog perform a few tricks. She then told them she was a volunteer at an animal rescue agency where she got plenty of experience working with dogs.

  “How did you know Fiona?” Drew said.

  “My husband is a film producer, and she pitched a few projects to him several years ago. He thought we would get along and introduced us. Sometime later, she was flying somewhere, called me, and said, ‘If something happens to me, will you take care of my dogs?’ I said, of course. I’m an artist, but I do animal rescue work. If anything needs to be done for dogs, I’ll do it.”

  “Did you see her frequently?” Drew said.

  “I haven’t seen her a lot recently,” Fraley said. “Fiona could be… well, very confrontational in public. Very difficult to be around. She had a lot of food allergies. Once we were at a restaurant together, and she told the server she was allergic to eggs. She asked if there were eggs in the dish she planned to order. The server said no. But then she marched right into the kitchen and confronted the chef. She shouted, ‘I’m allergic to eggs, and I’ll die if I eat eggs! I’ll die!’ I was so embarrassed I wanted to crawl under the table. I told my husband afterward I was never going to a restaurant with her again.” Fraley finished by telling the detectives she had chatted with Silverman only a few times during the past few years.

  “Did she ever mention having problems with her landlord?” Drew said.

  “Once she said something negative about her landlord, but I can’t recall the exact details,” Fraley said.

  “Do you know anything about Fiona’s relationship with a man named William Hurst?” Drew said.

  “No, nothing,” Fraley said. “Fiona never mentioned him to me.”

  “How about Nelson Welch?”

  “Oh, yes, Nelson was Fiona’s agent,” Fraley said. “I think she had a crush on him. That’s one of the few names Fiona ever mentioned. I think she was very lonely. She had a hard life.”

  “Did she ever mention having any financial problems?” Drew said.

  “Not in so many words,” Fraley said. “But last year, I lent Fiona a thousand dollars. She told me she had to fly somewhere and needed money for the trip. She said, ‘I thought this deal would go through, but it didn’t.’ You know, the typical Hollywood conversation.” Fraley finished the recollection with a sad smile.

  It seemed apparent the interview would not advance the investigation. It seemed Fraley had been more of a casual than a close friend. Ortega mentioned to Fraley animal control had taken Silverman’s dogs and they were at the animal shelter as the detectives prepared to leave.

  “You mentioned she once asked if you would take care of her dogs if something happened to her,” Ortega said. “Any chance you’d consider adopting them. I hate thinking they might not get adopted, and animal control might eventually have to put them down.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Detective,” Fraley said. “Fiona’s dogs are very maladjusted, very hard to deal with. But, I won’t allow them to be euthanized. I’ll call this afternoon and make arrangements to get them from the animal shelter.”

  “Thank you,” Ortega said. “I’ve been so worried about those dogs. I couldn’t take them because my dog is already too much of a handful.”

  The detectives walked out to their car. Ortega headed down the canyon road toward the I-10 and the Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner-Coroner on North Mission Road.

  “Well, that one was a bust,” Ortega said. “Nice lady, but she didn’t seem to know Silverman all that well.”

  “No, we didn’t learn much of anything we didn’t already know, except that Silverman was a little eccentric,” Drew said.

  “At least we know she’ll take care of the dogs,” Ortega said.

  “Yes, that’s a relief,” Drew smirked.

  “Don’t you like dogs?” Ortega said.

  “Never had one,” Drew said. “Guess I neither particularly like nor dislike them.”

  Despite the traffic, the detectives made it to the medical examiner’s office fifty minutes later, only a few minutes past the autopsy’s scheduled post time.

  “Guess you didn’t attend too many autopsies when you were at Hollenbeck,” Ortega said.

  “No, I’ve only been to one,” Drew said. “The one they bus you over here to observe when you’re in the academy.”

  “You going to be okay in there?” Ortega said.

  “Yes, I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies,” Drew said. “A lot of them in worse shape than Silverman.”

  * * *

  A deputy coroner named Sarah Poole was doing the autopsy. She had already started by the time Ortega and Drew walked in. They said their obligatory hellos, and the detectives put on the required protective paper bodysuits and plastic face shields. They leaned against a stainless steel counter and watched Poole go about her business. Ortega expected little from the autopsy. They were there primarily for the bullet and hoped it would be usable for comparison purposes.

  Poole kept her long blond hair in a ponytail that she then wrapped inside an over-sized paper cap. Ortega usually maintained an ongoing friendly banter with the deputy coroners while an autopsy proceeded, but he knew from experience Poole was all business and rarely engaged in small talk.

  Silverman’s body was on a slanted stainless steel table with raised edges with a drain in one end that carried away bodily fluids that collected during the internal investigation. A large rubber block under her neck supported her head.

  There was a stainless steel tray on rollers next to the table that held a small stand containing the test tubes filled with blood, urine, and other samples of bodily fluids that technicians would test later. Once she had finished inside the chest cavity, Poole used a handheld electric saw to remove the skull cap. She removed the brain and examined it. After a few moments, she used a pair of long tipped tweezers to pick out the bullet and dropped it into a metal dish.

  “You should be able to work with this one,” Poole said. “It’s largely intact. Looks like a nine millimeter.”

  Ortega and Drew stepped over to look into the dish. The bullet had mushroomed slightly on impact, but at least half the shaft was intact. The detectives could see the tiny contour variations on the surface of the shaft made when a fired bullet passed through the barrel of a gun.

  Poole wrapped up the autopsy about fifteen minutes later. She cleaned the bullet and put it into an evidence envelope. When she handed the envelope to Ortega, she told him she would send him the analysis results of the samples collected from the body as soon as the lab completed the testing. Ortega thanked Poole, and the detectives headed out of the autopsy suite after removing the paper bodysuits and dropping them in a trash can beside the glass exit doors.

  From the coroner’s office, Ortega drove to Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center on Paseo Rancho Castilla. The detectives took the recovered bullet to the Firearms Analysis Unit. A technician told them he would enter the bullet for image capture and search in the ATF’s National Integrated Ballistics Information Network (NIBIN) database for comparison to other crimes and firearms in the database. He said the spent bullet casing hadn’t yet been entered, but he would submit both pieces of evidence. The technician confirmed the spent bullet was 9mm, which matched the casing SID had recovered from the scene.

  After leaving the regional crime lab, Ortega suggested they eat lunch at Philippe’s on North Alameda Stree
t. After lunch, they could drop over to the Criminal Courts Building on West Temple Street to get the warrant signed.

  Philippe’s, a landmark deli, served up signature French dipped sandwiches and other comfort fares in busy communal digs. It is one of the oldest and best-known restaurants in Southern California. Philippe’s was established in 1908 by Philippe Mathieu, who claimed the distinction of having created the “French dipped sandwich.” In 1918, while making a sandwich, Mathieu inadvertently dropped the sliced French roll into a roasting pan filled with juice still hot from the oven. The patron, a cop, said he would take the sandwich anyway. He enjoyed it so much he returned the next day with a group of cops asking for more dipped sandwiches. And so was born the “French dipped sandwich,” so-called because of Mathieu’s French heritage, the French roll the sandwich is made on, or because the officer’s last name was French. The answer was lost to history.

  The detectives entered the restaurant with its floors covered with sawdust and lined up with the other customers at the counter. They both ordered French dipped sandwiches, pie, and coffee from servers in starched uniforms and aprons. They took their food and sat down on wooden stools at a long wooden table to eat. The restaurant’s walls featured many articles about the founder and how he had invented the famous sandwich.

  After the detectives finished their lunch, they got back in the car and drove to the Criminal Courts Building on West Temple, between Broadway and Spring Street. The building had long been renamed the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Building, but many L.A. cops still referred to it as the CCB, an abbreviated form of its original name. Others called it the 2-10 in reference to the address on West Temple. They took the warrant for Silverman’s phone records to the chambers of Los Angeles County Superior Court Judge Clive Schuman III.

  “This is the so-called mafia princess case,” Ortega said.

  “You got anything?” the judge said.

  “Not much, Your Honor,” Ortega said. “We caught the case on Christmas Eve, so we’re just getting started.”