Rick Mofina - Into the Dark

Tollson passed him his coffee.

“Thanks.” Veck ceased scrutinizing the patrol car terminal to take the cup. Then he readjusted his seat behind the wheel. “You know, I prefer the Crown Vics.”

“Old dogs like you don’t like change,” Veck said, swiveling the terminal.

Veck studied the street as dispatches crackled over the radio.

“I’m thinking of dropping in on Bill Cruger’s retirement party tonight. Want to come meet some embittered old bulls?”

“Sure, all part of staff development.” Tollson tapped the monitor. “Look at this. We got to watch out for a gang funeral. Cruger’s retirement, gang funeral-the circle of life turns the right way for once.”

“Let’s head that way, fly our colors out of respect.”

Veck slid the transmission into Drive and they started patrolling. They’d turned down a local four-lane boulevard and were eastbound about a mile from the Staples Center. They were rolling by low-rise office buildings and fast-food outlets when they approached the Palms of Paradise Motor Inn, a two-story hellhole. Veck hit the turn signal.

“Let’s sweep the lot for BOLOs first,” he said.

“Roger that.” Tollson took a hit of coffee, then cued up the monitor for his notes from the rotator, looking for information on wanted suspects.

Veck slowed the car to a crawl through the lot, which by Tollson’s estimate, had some two dozen vehicles.

They had alerts for a 2009, possibly a 2010, blue Dodge Challenger with left rear taillight damage sought in the shooting of two gang members on Eighteenth Street’s Westside. They were also looking for a lime-green lowrider Civic with the last character a 9 in the tag. The Civic was wanted by L.A. County for an armed robbery.

“Hello.” Veck swept by a white 2012 Jeep Patriot, without stopping, reciting the seven-character California plate to Tollson for submission. “I think there’s a BOLO for a white Jeep Patriot.” Veck rolled out of the lot so that anyone watching them would assume they were done.

The terminal gave a soft ping.

“Bingo,” Tollson said. “That tag comes up with a big-time want by Alhambra P.D. The registered owner is Eric Larch, of Long Beach, wanted for breaching a protective order, now sought in the disappearance of his estranged wife, Amber Pratt. Christ, this is real bad. It just goes on. Hell, it looks like he’s a 187 suspect. He’s already had one assault on her. According to his bail terms, he’s not to set foot in the Southland.”

Both officers looked at Eric Larch’s recent arrest photo.

“Okay, call it in,” Veck, said. “We’ll swing back and block him. Odds are he dumped his SUV. When backup arrives, we’ll shake the building.”

Veck and Tollson T-boned Larch’s Patriot. A quick visual of the interior indicated no one was inside. Within minutes, two additional units arrived. The officers got out and used earpieces to mute their radios as two took the back and one each took the side of the motel.

Tollson and Veck entered the small office.

It was cramped with plants and wired carousel trees filled with tourist brochures about L.A., Hollywood and the sights. The clerk, a soft-spoken slim man in his forties, cooperated fully, checking his registration records and tapping his finger in his record for Room 134.

“That is the one with the white Jeep,” the clerk said. “It’s on the ground floor, near the pool breezeway. Here it is on the map.”

“No back entrance? No adjoining room entrance?” Veck asked.

“None, sir, only one door.”

“Are there people, guests, in the adjoining rooms or above?”

The clerk studied his records.

“None. They are vacant.”

Veck turned and whispered into his radio before he and Tollson headed to Room 134. Two more officers joined them. The pool was empty. The courtyard showed no signs of life and the upper level balcony appeared quiet. Paint blistered on the door, which rattled when Tollson banged on it. The other officers kept to the side, each had a hand on the grip of their holstered sidearm.

Nothing.

Tollson banged again, harder.

Movement on the inside.

“Los Angeles Police, step outside with your hands on your head!”

Locks clicked, the chain jangled, the handle turned and Eric Larch opened the door. He stood there bewildered, wearing only boxer shorts.

Tollson, Veck and the others charged in, put Eric down on his stomach and began placing his wrists in handcuffs behind his back.

“Hey! What the hell is this?”

“You’re under arrest.” Tollson snapped the first cuff.

“What for- Fuck, hey that hurts!”

“Violation of the protection order.”

“What? No way, I’m keeping my distance. I’m in L.A., not Alhambra.”

The other cuff snapped.

“You’re not supposed to be here at all, asshole,” Veck said. “Let’s go.”

The other supporting officers checked the bathroom. It was clear. Veck told them to sit on the room.

“The techs are going to want to process this and his SUV.”

As they escorted Eric to their patrol car, Veck read Larch his rights.

“Want to tell us where Amber is?”

Larch remained silent.

As Veck and Tollson approached their car in the rear parking lot, the two officers posted there had taken serious interest in the back of Larch’s Patriot.

“Hey, Arnie, come over here and take a look,” one of them said.

He pointed to an area on the rear gate and some rusty-red smears.

“Does that look like blood to you?”

Commerce and Alhambra, California

Joe Tanner studied the files on his desk.

Since yesterday a puzzling ping of recognition had been sounding in his brain but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d been searching reports, exhibits, handwritten notes, photos, records and statements from the five cold cases and the new one for Amber Pratt.

For much of the morning the task force had been following tips from the news conference. But Tanner was dogged by a persistent niggling in the back of his mind since meeting Robert Bowen.

The reason eluded him.

“Why is Bowen familiar to me? The answer’s got to be in here.”

“I told you,” Zurn said, setting down a clipping from the Los Angeles Times . “Look at the headlines. Robert Bowen is the hero pilot who rescued a mother and her baby from their burning car.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“That’s it, Joe. You’re overthinking this. Now get moving on some of these new tips. We may find a lead there.”

Tanner couldn’t shift his focus. He continued scanning the documents, until he heard his name shouted by a detective across the office.

“Hey, Joe, call coming for you!”

Tanner grabbed his line.

“Joe, this is Belinski in Alhambra. The LAPD just picked up Eric Larch. We’re setting up to let you talk to him.”

“You find anything about the girl?”

“Nothing. How soon can you get here?”

“On our way.” Tanner hung up and pulled on his jacket. “Let’s go Harvey, Alhambra’s got our suspect.”

Some twenty-five minutes later Tanner and Zurn were in Alhambra police headquarters standing on the dark side of the one-way glass looking into the Alhambra Police Department’s interview room. It had dull white walls, an acoustic-tiled ceiling, fluorescent lighting, a plain table with two empty hard-back chairs on one side.

Eric Larch was alone in a chair at the table, facing the one-way glass with his arms folded over his chest-the embodiment of anger.

Is this the Dark Wind Killer?

Since his arrest by the LAPD, he’d been transferred to Alhambra where he’d been jailed in a holding cell while awaiting a court appearance for violation of his bail and the protection order.