Lucido looked over the seat, checked her out. His hair was gelled and thinning, runways of scalp alternating with thick, black strands. “So what can you tell us about Gomez?”
“Nothing,” said Petra, “until you tell me why you want to know.”
Lucido gave a disgusted look and showed her the back of his head. She heard him breathe. He made eye contact again.
“You’re his babysitter.”
Petra didn’t answer.
Lucido smiled at her, a mustachioed gecko. “Here’s the situation: Gomez has been spotted consorting with a known drug dealer and all-around very bad guy.”
The facial bruise. The kid really was in trouble.
Lucido said, “You don’t seem surprised.”
Petra said, “Of course I am. You’re kidding.”
“Yeah, we’re a stand-up team,” said Rodman. “Doing the Laugh Factory tonight, the Ice House tomorrow.”
Petra said, “Who’s the alleged bad guy?”
“You don’t know?”
She felt her face go hot. “I’m his babysitter for official police stuff. Meaning he hangs around, rides along, plays with his computer at his desk. What I know is he’s a genius, accepted to med school, going to get a Ph.D. at twenty-two for fun. You want to tell me what’s going on, fine. You want drama, go take acting lessons.”
The black line bisecting Lucido’s face dipped, then rose. “A Ph.D. for fun.”
Rodman said, “No telling.”
Petra stared at both of them.
“Well,” said Lucido, “maybe he likes all kinds of fun.”
He turned away from her again and Petra heard paper shuffling. Something passed over the seat.
Eight-by-eleven black-and-white glossy of Isaac and a skinny guy sitting together. Really skinny guy, the sunken cheeks and droopy eyes of a junkie. The two of them huddled in what looked to be a restaurant booth. Plywood booth, no food in front of them. Maybe a cheap bar. The junkie wore black clothes and had a pathetic bit of fuzz over his top lip. Aggressively bizarre haircut: skinned on top, skunk stripes at the side, a very long, eely braid hanging over his right shoulder.
Isaac looked like Isaac: neat, clean, button-down shirt. But different around the eyes.
More intense than she’d ever seen him. Angry?
He and Junkie sat close together. The camera had caught them in the middle of something serious.
Petra said, “Who’s the skinny one?”
“Flaco Jaramillo,” said Bobby Lucido. “That’s ‘skinny’ in Spanish. Flaco Jaramillo aka Mousy aka Kung Fu- ’cause of the braid. His real name’s Ricardo Isador Jaramillo. Known dope dealer and there’s talk he kills people for money though he never got called up for that.”
“Which gang?”
“He’s not a banger,” said Rodman. “But he deals with bangers from East L.A. and Central.”
Omar Selden had bragged to Marcella about doing odd-jobs for various gangs. Could there be some connection?
Petra studied the photo some more. “Where was it taken?”
“All these questions,” said Bobby Lucido.
“If it’s answers you want, you came to the wrong place.”
“How’d you come to work with Gomez?”
“He was assigned to me by my captain. Who got his orders from Deputy Chief Randy Diaz, who got his from Councilman Reyes.”
“Yeah, yeah, we read all the p.r. bullshit. What we want to know is his connection to a sack-of-scum like Flaco Jaramillo.”
“Then ask him,” said Petra. “The only side of him that I’ve seen is a well-behaved graduate student, Detective Lucido.”
“Call me Bobby. This is Lew. The place we got the photo is on Fifth near L.A. Cantina Nueva. Dealers, border coyotes, freelance scum, your basic bottom-feeding dive.”
Petra flicked the edge of the photo with her fingernail. “You have an undercover guy there?”
“Let’s just say we’re in a position to take pictures,” said Lew Rodman. “And Flaco’s the subject of lots of them. So when your boy showed up, looking all preppy, he got noticed. Especially when he slides right into Flaco’s booth, is clearly a k.a. of Flaco. We got curious and followed him, figuring to run his tags. Turns out he has no car, takes the bus. We did a nice slow MTA tail, that was fun. Got Gomez’s home address, traced it to Gomez’s father, finally I.D.’d the kid yesterday but didn’t know he was connected. Then someone in our detail was looking at the picture, recognized Gomez’s name from a story in the paper. Reyes giving him some kind of award for being smart.”
Petra said, “Obviously, he knows Jaramillo but that’s a long way from being a k.a.”
“They associate, they’re known associates,” said Rodman. “We’re not getting Ph.D.’s but we do know how to add. Your boy’s palling around with Bad News Boy in a back booth at Cantina Nueva.”
“Any evidence Gomez is engaged in criminal activity?”
Bobby Lucido said, “He talked to Flaco, Flaco got up and went behind the bar, sat back down. A few minutes later, Gomez left with a briefcase.”
“He always carries a briefcase.”
“Bet he does,” said Bobby Lucido.
Petra’s gut churned. “So what do you want from me?”
“Nothing yet. Just continue to do what you’ve been doing. But keep an eye out for anything sketchy. The situation changes, we’ll let you know.”
“All of a sudden I’m working for you?”
Lucido said, “You’re working for the department. Same as us. You got a problem with any of this, feel free to complain.”
Petra felt an urge to bolt and twisted the door handle. It didn’t budge. Why would it? She was in the suspect seat.
Before she could say anything, Lew Rodman laughed and pushed another release button.
As she got out, Lucido said, “So who’s Omar?”
Petra leaned into his window. He drew away and she stuck her head in the car.
“You guys from the Valley?”
Lucido shook his head. “Central Gang.”
“Then you don’t need to know.”
CHAPTER 34
Petra watched the Crown Victoria drive off the parking lot.
Isaac into something really bad.
She changed her mind about walking, decided to get her stuff, play hooky. As she reached the station’s back door, someone called her name.
She turned.
And there he was, Mr. Double Life, waving with the hand that wasn’t gripping his briefcase. Wearing what appeared to be the same clothes he’d had on in Nueva Cantina.
Had he been watching her chat with the Gang D’s? Could the kid be that savvy?
He trotted up to her. The bruise was paler but still swollen and covered with pancake makeup.
“Hey,” she said. “Been a while.”
“Sorry, I’ve been burning the midnight oil.”
Bet you have. “Dissertation stuff?”
“Mostly. Some June 28 research. Nothing to show on that, unfortunately. The librarian’s still looking.” He frowned. “To be honest, I’ve been wondering if I was wrong. Maybe I made too big a deal out of what was actually a statistical artifact.”
“You didn’t,” said Petra. She eyed the bruise conspicuously.
Isaac’s hand rose toward the spot, dropped back down. “You’re convinced it’s genuine.”
“Seems that way.” She showed him her watch. Tiny black numerals in the calendar window declared 21.
“I know,” he said. He shifted the briefcase to his left hand. His shoulders drooped.
Petra said, “You look a little beat.”
“The buses were running late so I took an alternate route, ended up walking a few extra blocks.”
Did you, indeed?
Petra said, “Must be hard, without a car.”
“You get used to it. I heard one of the Leons’ face was on TV. My father saw it on the news. I’d mentioned to my parents that you were working the case. I hope that wasn’t indiscreet.”
“Nope,” said Petra. “My name was on the broadcast.”
“So is Leon the shooter?”