Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“What we got here is some lock picks and a thousand bucks and a guy with a four-five-nine record,” Charlie said, never eager to do any work whatsoever. “That’s pretty thin for a felony booking. How about that wrong address note? Can’t we pull a victim outta that somehow?”

“The burglary dicks might be able to do it tomorrow,” Jetsam said. “That’s the reason we lock him up tonight, right? To give them forty-eight hours. Come on, this guy’s dirty. I just know it!”

“Lemme get a coffee and think about it,” Charlie said.

Since the federal consent decree had gone into effect six years earlier, the nighttime detective could no longer approve a felony booking. Now the detective could only “advise” a booking, and then it went to the patrol watch commander for a booking “referral.” It seemed that the federal government and its legion of overpaid civilian auditors and overseers didn’t like declaratory phrasing and active verbs that sounded too aggressive. Their preferences created a lot more paperwork, as did everything about the consent decree. But in the end, it all amounted to the same thing. A felony suspect went to the slam for forty-eight hours while the detectives tried to make a case that they could take to the district attorney’s office.

Jetsam was disgusted. While Charlie was gone, the surfer cop took out his notebook and, sitting at one of the desks, dialed the cell number of Hollywood Nate Weiss just before Nate went end-of-watch.

Jetsam explained what had gone down and said, “Did you ever get a chance to ask that friend of yours on Mount Olympus about this guy Stilwell?”

“No, I didn’t,” Nate admitted. “But I talked to someone who knows her a lot better than I do and he said he’d ask her about it.”

“Did that someone ask her?”

“I don’t know,” Nate said uncomfortably.

“Look, bro, you gotta help us,” Jetsam said. “I was hinked-out by this dude the first time I saw him. He’s a burglar. I just know he pulled a job where he stole a thousand bucks, but we got no report on it yet. I think it happened up there on Mount Olympus at the house where you were, or close by there.”

The line was silent for a moment and Nate said, “I’ll make a call right now and get back to you.”

“Thanks, bro,” Jetsam said. “That house up there? It gives off bad juju.”

Nate rang the home of Margot Aziz, who had just pulled into her garage with her son, Nicky, who was asleep in his car seat. She got Nicky out of the car and was carrying him to the door on the first ring. She tried the handle but the door was locked.

“Damn!” she said. The door was never locked. Lola had forgotten so many times that Margot had stopped reminding her. This had to be the one time Lola had locked it, now, when Margot was hoping for a call from Bix Ramstead, whom she’d been trying to reach all day.

Margot managed to dig her keys from her purse while still carrying her sleeping five-year-old and got the door open just as the phone stopped ringing. She punched in her alarm code to shut off the electronic tone and ran to the kitchen phone, picking it up after the voice message had concluded.

She played it back, but it was the wrong cop. She heard a voice saying, “Margot, this is Nate Weiss. Please call me ASAP. This is about a police matter that might concern you.”

A police matter? She picked up his card from the desk in the little office by the kitchen but put it down again. A pussy matter, more like it. After their evening together she had never called him as promised, and now he’d obviously decided to press her. He’d probably tell her that he wanted the job of moving in as her house protector during the remainder of the escrow period.

You had your chance, bucko, she thought. It was too bad he wasn’t a boozer like Bix Ramstead. She liked Nate’s looks and his sexy manner.

Hollywood Nate made a decision. He was going to do the show-and-tell with Bix Ramstead. He was positive that Bix must have something going with Margot Aziz, and he knew Bix was married with two kids. Well, that was too bad. Nate didn’t like embarrassing the guy, but this Stilwell thing had gone on long enough. He was going to tell Bix everything about his evening with Margot, and then either he or Bix was going to find out if anything peculiar had happened around her house lately. Anything that might explain why a lowlife burglar with an address written down that was close to hers had lock picks and a thousand dollars in his pocket. Nate knew from experience that Margot was a smart woman. If the Stilwell business made any sense at all, she might be able to figure it out for them.

Of course, Nate was aware of the Somali murder the prior evening and that Bix had had a long night and was not on duty today. He dialed Bix’s home and cell numbers but was taken to voice mail at both of them.

“Bix, it’s Nate Weiss,” he said on each voice mail. “I’ve gotta talk to you about Margot Aziz ASAP. It might be very important. Call me.”

He looked in the office and discovered that Ronnie had just signed out. He went to the women’s locker room, stuck his head in the door, and yelled for her.

He was relieved when she said, “Yeah, I’m here.”

A few minutes later Ronnie emerged in her street clothes, and Nate said, “Do you know how I can reach Bix?”

She shook her head and said, “I’ve tried four times today with no luck. I think that weird murder last night had an effect on him. I’m kinda worried, to tell the truth.”

“Doesn’t his wife know where he is?” Nate said.

“The wife and kids are outta state, visiting her parents. They won’t be back till after the weekend.”

“So I won’t be able to talk to him till tomorrow?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “He called the sergeant today and took tomorrow off as well. He’s got a lotta comp time on the books and said he needed a couple days to do family business.”

“You think he went outta town?”

“I don’t know, Nate,” Ronnie said. “Bix is a mysterious guy. And so are you these days.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You and Bix. What’s the secret you’re sharing? Or is it a guy thing?”

Nate paused for a few seconds and said, “There’s this woman who lives up on Mount Olympus. She may have been burglarized today. It’s a long shot, but Flotsam and Jetsam got themselves a suspect, and you know how obsessive they are. They want somebody to talk to her right now, but she’s not home. I just called.”

“What’s Bix got to do with it?”

“We both know her and I think Bix probably has her cell number. It’s a long story.”

“So it is a guy thing,” Ronnie said, deeply disillusioned. Bix Ramstead, the last of the monogamous cops. An alcoholic in denial. And a womanizer to boot?

“Good luck,” Ronnie said. “I gotta go home.”

Nate found Flotsam and Jetsam in the detective squad room and said to them, “Okay, you guys know that I’m familiar with the woman who lives at the Mount Olympus address, but I’m not as familiar as you guys think I am. I tried to reach her and I left a message. Why don’t you just book the asshole and let the dicks sort it all out tomorrow when the lady’s at home?”

“Our sentiments exactly, bro,” Jetsam said, “but Charlie Gilford’s acting all PMS-ey tonight and don’t wanna give us a booking approval without an eyeball witness, a videotape, and a confession signed in blood.”

Just then Compassionate Charlie came out of the interview room where he’d been talking to Leonard Stilwell. He had a 5.10 report in his hands, which made the surfer cops hopeful. He wouldn’t be doing paperwork if he was going to kick the crackhead out the door.

“Okay, I’ll five-ten him and advise a booking for four-five-nine,” Charlie said. “Book the lock picks and the thousand bucks, and we’ll let the burglary team deal with it tomorrow.”