There were unexpected little signs of domesticity in the camp. A Welcome mat outside of one of the rusty trailers. A collection of plants in small pots lined up by a tent. A dog with a jaunty bandana tied around its neck. People often talk about what makes us human in terms of our intellect, emotions or spirit, but perhaps humanity is to be found in these small expressions of our souls. The sign tacked to the side of a tent that reads “Strangers are friends you haven’t met,” or the warm smile of one of the volunteers doling out food to someone in need.
I crouched beside a lady in a wheelchair who was busy sewing a patch onto a jacket.
“I wonder if I could ask you some questions,” I said.
She eyed me carefully. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, but homelessness could age a person, so it was hard to be sure. She had curly gray hair that fell to her shoulders and wore a faded Madonna T-shirt. Her face was tanned and lined, but her eyes still sparkled with vitality.
“Cop?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “I’m trying to help a friend who got hurt last night.”
She nodded. “Friend who lives here?”
I shook my head. “No. But the person who hurt my friend might have passed this way.”
“What did he look like?” she asked.
“About six feet tall. Black jacket, black pants, my build or thereabouts,” I replied.
“Face?”
“He was wearing a mask,” I said.
She frowned as she thought about this and relaxed her expression before she spoke. “We have good people here. Peaceful. You have to be decent to live in a community like this with no locks on the door.” She gestured at the nearest tent, which I could only assume was hers. “No one has much, but we like what we have and want to hold on to it, and when we’re crowded in like this, there needs to be trust. No one here hurt your friend. Least not anyone I know of.”
“Thank you,” I said, rising to my feet.
“You’re welcome,” she replied. “A lot of people from outside misunderstand what this place is.”
I looked at her expectantly.
“It’s home,” she said. “A place where we can feel safe. Where we can look after ourselves and those close to us.”
“Thank you again,” I said, and she nodded.
I turned and spotted Sal some distance off in the camp. He was finishing up with a thin, gray-haired man in his early sixties. My phone rang before I reached them, and I saw Mo-bot’s name on-screen.
“Go ahead,” I said after I’d greeted her.
“Weaver says one hundred and eighty-three vehicles passed the bus stop between five-thirty and six-fifteen,” Mo-bot replied. “Just over sixty of them went up to the parking lot, but all of them left before the Academy shooting.”
My heart sank.
“So, they can’t belong to the shooter, but there was one vehicle that stopped on the corner of the intersection, right by the bus stop, and it paused for less than a minute at five-forty-six p.m. A Honda Prius registered to an Uber driver called Ahmed Subry. It came from the south, stopped, and then went back the way it came.”
“Dropping someone off?” I suggested.
“Looks that way,” Mo-bot replied. “I’ll send you Subry’s details.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And please pass on my appreciation to our friend in Maryland.”
“Already done,” Mo-bot told me, before hanging up.
“Anything?” Sal asked as he headed my way.
My phone vibrated with an incoming message from Mo-bot. “Looks like he might have taken an Uber up here.” I checked my phone. “Driver is called Ahmed Subry. He lives in Ladera Heights.”
“Let’s go,” Sal said, and we headed back through the settlement toward his car.
Chapter 9
Ahmed Subry lived in a small house on Hill Street, a blue-collar neighborhood on the outskirts of Ladera Heights, touching the edges of Inglewood. We caught the start of the evening rush hour as we went south on the 405, and I watched light from the setting sun touch the cars ahead, making them glow brightly like colorful lanterns strung in an endless line. The sky turned copper and by the time we reached Subry’s house, the first stars had pierced the deepening purple of the night.
I followed Sal along a path that bisected a small, well-kept yard. A Honda Prius was parked on a short driveway to our left. The front door stood behind a metal security grille and Sal rapped the frame so it clattered loudly.
“Go away,” a man yelled from inside.
“Los Angeles Police Department, Mr. Subry,” Sal said. “Open up.”
I waited a couple of steps back. A woman spoke sharp words in Arabic, and moments later the door opened and Ahmed Subry, thirty-something, peered through the gap hesitantly. He wore a traditional galabaya, a long tunic commonly worn in the Middle East instead of comfortable lounge wear or pajamas. Behind him a woman held a girl of about eight close to her.
“Identification,” Subry said.
Sal produced his shield. “My name is Detective Mattera. This is Jack Morgan. He is a private investigator who is helping us with our inquiries.”
“Inquiries into?” Subry asked, his concern palpable.
“You hear about the shooting at the Motion Picture Academy last night?” Sal asked, and Subry looked blank.
“The Star Wars movie,” I suggested, and saw realization dawn.
“Yes, of course. Those poor people,” he said somberly. “What does that have to do with me?”
“We believe you might have given the suspect a ride yesterday. Taken him to a bus stop near Temescal Canyon,” I responded.
Subry’s eyes widened. “The Irishman?”
“Irish?” Sal asked.
Subry nodded. “Yes, I think so. Irish. I know the accent because it sounds like people are singing when they talk.”
“Where did you pick him up?” I asked.
Subry thought for a moment. “The Hyland Inn, in Van Nuys.”
“I know it,” Sal said. “You run a dashcam?”
Subry shook his head. “I had one, but someone stole it. Crime in this city...” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to and trailed off.
“It’s okay, Mr. Subry,” Sal assured him. “I believe crime in this city sucks too.”
“You think this Irishman was a guest at the Hyland?” I asked.
“I think so,” Subry said. “He came out of room 205.”
“Let’s go,” Sal said, heading for his car. “Thank you, Mr. Subry. I’m going to arrange for an artist to visit and work on a composite of the man you saw.”
“I start work in an hour,” Subry protested.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Sal said. “Don’t go anywhere, please, sir. Not until one of my colleagues has given you the okay.”
Subry looked crestfallen as he watched us head for the Lincoln.
Sal was already on his phone. “Do you mind driving?” he asked as he unlocked the car. “I need to make some calls.”
“Sure,” I replied.
I got behind the wheel, pressed the start button and the engine came to life.
Salvatore got in beside me, giving instructions to one of his team as I put the car in drive and started for Van Nuys.
Chapter 10
Sal turned on the siren, and the lights in the front and rear windows had a miraculous effect on the traffic on the 405. Cars parted, allowing me to cut across the eight-lane highway to the carpool lane, where I could make fast progress north. The engine roared and the suspension rocked and bounced as we raced by lines of almost stationary traffic.