3
Way it worked for anyone else, Officer
Hydeck would inform her watch commander that the victim and suspect
were en route to the hospital. Her watch commander would relay this
information to the Detective Bureau duty officer, who would
dispatch detectives to the hospital, where they would speak with
Smith and Mendoza, and likely the paramedics. If Mendoza ID’d his
accomplice, their case would be made. If Mendoza refused to
cooperate, the detectives would call Pike to arrange an interview.
They would ask to drop by his home or place of employment, or
arrange to meet at a mutually agreeable location, everything
low-key and friendly. This was the way it would work if Pike were
anyone else, but Pike knew it would work differently for him.
Someone would recognize his name, and what the investigators did
and how they approached the case would be different.
Pike was correct.
Eight hours, twenty-seven minutes after Pike
eyeballed the maroon Monte Carlo, he returned home to find two
detectives in his parking lot. Pike lived in a gated condominium
complex in Culver City, not far from the scene of the assault. The
condos were bunched in four-unit quads, and laid out so two or
three quads shared their own parking lot. Entry to the complex
required a magnetic key card to open the drive-through gate, but
here they were, a male and a female detective waiting in a
predictable tan Crown Victoria.
They climbed out of their car as Pike pulled in,
and were waiting with their badges when he stepped from the Jeep.
The man was in his fifties, with a fleshy face, thinning red hair,
and a blue summer-weight sport coat. The woman was fifteen years
younger, with raven hair, black eyes, and a navy pants suit that
hung as if she had recently lost weight. Her gun dimpled the coat
at her waist, and she stood with her hand floating close as if she
might have to draw. Nervous. Pike wondered what she had heard about
him that left her so afraid.
The older detective nudged the woman, showing her
an exhibit at the zoo.
“Joe Pike.”
Then, louder, to Pike, as if Pike was an animal who
had been oblivious to the nudge.
“When they said it was you, I thought, well now, if
he doesn’t shoot me, this one will make my day.”
The way he said it made Pike look closer. He now
seemed familiar, but Pike did not recognize him.
The man held his badge higher, making sure Pike
saw.
“What, Pike, you don’t remember me? Jerry Button,
from Rampart. Out of Pacific Station now. This is Detective
Futardo. We’re here on the Smith assault, so no shooting, okay?
Don’t shoot us.”
Rampart brought back the name, but this Jerry
Button looked almost nothing like the sharp young officer Pike
remembered. This Button was thirty pounds heavier, with blotchy
skin and puffy eyes. That Jerry Button had gone through the Academy
a couple of years ahead of Pike, and was a fast-track patrol
officer in Rampart Division when Pike was a boot. They had been
friendly, but not friends. Button had shunned him when Pike
resigned, but most of his fellow officers had. Pike couldn’t blame
them.
Pike read their ID cards, more than a car-length
away. Futardo was a D-1, which told Pike she was new to the
Detective Bureau and fresh out of a car. Button was now a
Detective-3, which was a senior grade usually held by supervisors.
A D-3 was too much horsepower for a simple assault.
Pike said, “How’s Mr. Smith?”
Button ignored him as he put away his badge.
“You carrying a weapon?”
“Two. And the permits.”
Button nudged Futardo again.
“Told you. He’s always gunned up.”
Futardo’s face was a dark little bunker.
“Should we check the permits?”
“Nah. You can’t get away with dropping as many
bodies as this guy without having your paperwork in order. Your
paperwork’s in order, isn’t it, Pike? You good on the paper?”
Pike stared at Button until Button finally laughed,
and held up his hands.
“Just kidding. Let’s go inside, talk about what
happened.”
“Out here is good.”
“C’mon, let’s go inside. Inside is better.”
“The courtesy of a call gets you inside. No call,
out here. The rudeness, out here is fine.”
Button darkened.
“Are you going to cooperate or not?”
“Ask your questions.”
“Here in the parking lot?”
“Here.”
Button cued Futardo to take out a pad.
“All right then, here. You know what we need. Tell
us what happened.”
Pike related the sequence of events just as he had
described them to Hydeck, including a description of the second
assailant and the arrival and actions of the paramedics and police.
Futardo scribbled fast to keep up, but Button looked bored, as if
he had heard it all before and didn’t much care one way or
another.
“According to Officer Hydeck, you produced a
nine-millimeter pistol and told her you took it from Mendoza. Is
that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mendoza claims you planted it on him.”
“What does Mr. Smith say?”
“Says he never saw the gun. Is he lying?”
Pike thought back over searching Mendoza.
“No. He was facedown when I took the gun. If he
didn’t see the gun before I arrived, he wouldn’t have seen it
after. The gun was in Mendoza’s pocket.”
Button glanced over at Futardo.
“Okay, let’s see the pictures.”
Futardo slipped a manila envelope from her jacket,
and shook out several sheets.
“We’d like you to look at some booking photos. Each
sheet—”
Button interrupted her.
“He knows what they are. He used to be one of us.
Don’t forget that.”
Each sheet contained six color booking photos of
adult males in their twenties and thirties, all of approximately
the same size and weight. Because each sheet held six pictures, the
sheets were called six-packs. Pike could tell by the tattoos that
most were or had been members of Mendoza’s gang.
Pike identified Mendoza’s partner on the second
sheet, middle of the bottom row.
“This one.”
Futardo cocked her head to see.
“Figures. Alberto Gomer.”
Button spiked her with a nasty glance that made her
pale. She had made a rookie mistake by identifying a suspect by
name to a witness, and Button would chew her out for it later. She
wet her lips nervously before continuing.
“Will you sign a sworn affidavit so stating, and
testify to that effect under oath in open court?”
“Yes.”
Futardo took a pen from her jacket, and held out
the sheet and the pen. Her fingers shook.
“Circle the image you are now identifying as the
man you saw assault Mr. Wilson Smith on this date and sign
it.”
Pike circled and signed. Button hadn’t been a bad
guy when Pike knew him, but now he came across as angry and mean.
Pike thought he was probably an asshole to work with.
“Did Mr. Smith recognize him?”
Button snorted.
“None of these people looked familiar to Mr. Smith.
Isn’t it funny how that works? Mr. Smith was not what we call a
helpful witness.”
Futardo softened for the first time as she took
back the pictures.
“He’s afraid.”
Button snorted again, and cued Futardo.
“Anything you want to ask, Detective?”
Futardo finished whatever she was writing, and
looked back at Pike.
“Let’s back up to when you first saw Mendoza and
his friend. What were you doing when you saw them?”
“Buying gas.”
“Uh-huh. And what were you doing in Venice?”
“Buying gas.”
“So you just happened to be there?”
“Where should I be?”
“Had you met Mr. Mendoza before this
morning?”
Futardo was watching him closely, and Pike realized
Button was watching him, too. As if they had been trying to get
here from the beginning, and were intent on reading his reaction.
They should have been asking about Wilson Smith and Reuben Mendoza,
but they were asking Pike about Pike.
“Where are you going with this?”
“Wherever. Of all the people in L.A., it’s you over
there kicking the shit out of this turd.”
“Ask Mr. Smith.”
“I’m asking you. You’re what makes this
interesting.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“It’s about whatever I say.”
Pike nodded, and now he understood why a D-3 was
running a simple assault investigation. Pike’s voice was quiet as a
leaf floating on a pond.
“We’re finished.”
“We’re finished when I say we’re finished.”
Futardo looked scared, and suddenly interrupted to
defuse the situation.
“What happens next is we’ll type up your statement
and call about getting together so you can sign it. You’ll have to
sign it.”
Button snapped at her.
“He knows that. Saddle up. I’ll be along in a
minute.”
Futardo took her pad and the pictures and looked
relieved to be going.
Pike kept his voice soft.
“What did you tell her about me, make her so
scared?”
“The truth.”
“You didn’t come here to make a case against
Mendoza.”
“We see a hundred assaults a day. A chickenshit
assault case is nothing.”
“What happened to you? You used to be better than
this.”
Button watched Futardo get into their car, then
studied Pike for a moment as he worked out an answer.
“I am a police officer. I believe in the law, and I
have devoted my life to upholding it, but you, Pike, the law is
nothing to you. These young cops, they talk about you like you’re
some kind of gunfighting legend, but I know you’re shit. I don’t
like what happened when you were an officer, or how you’ve gotten
away with putting so many people in the dirt since we ran you off
the department. You’re dangerous, Pike. There’s something wrong
with you, and sooner or later we’ll put you away.”
Button went to his car, calling over his
shoulder.
“Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in
touch.”
Way it worked for anyone else, Button and Futardo
would be trying to find out what really happened in Wilson Smith’s
shop, and making sure Mendoza and his accomplice couldn’t hurt
Wilson and Dru again. This was the way it would work if Pike were
anyone else, but Pike knew it worked differently for him. Button
didn’t care about the assault or whether Wilson Smith would be
assaulted or robbed again. Button was in it to grind Pike, which
meant Wilson and his niece were alone.
Pike was glad he had given his number to Dru
Rayne.