There were a couple of varnished wood benches in the hall opposite a door that said SERGEANT'S OFFICE. We went into the office and Malone closed the door. "You want coffee?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Malone filled a couple of paper cups, handed one to me, then went behind a cluttered desk and sat. He didn't offer cream or sugar. Maybe they didn't have any.

I sat across from him in a hard chair, and we looked at each other and sipped our coffee. He said, "My buddy Lou Poitras says you want to know about Charles Lewis Washington."

"Uh-huh."

"You're a private investigator."

"That's it." The coffee was hot and bitter and had probably been made early this morning.

"Make any money at it?"

"No one's getting rich."

He took more of the coffee and made a little smile. 'The wife's been after me to leave the force since the riots. All this time, she's still after me." He made a shrugging move with his head, then set the cup on his desk. "So tell me why you're digging around Charles Lewis."

"His name came up in something I'm working on and I want to run it down."

Malone nodded and had more of his coffee. He didn't seem to mind the taste, but then, he was used to it. "How do you know Poitras?"

"Met on the job. Got to know each other."

He nodded again and leaned back. When he did, the old swivel squealed. "Lou says you pulled time in Vietnam."

"Yep."

He put down his coffee and crossed his arms. "I was there in sixty-eight."

"Seventy-one."

The chair squealed again. The nod. "People think the Nam they think the sixties. Lot of people forget we still had guys there till March twenty-nine, 1973."

"Lot of people don't care."

He made a little smile. "Yeah. We kicked ass in Saudi. That sort of makes up for things."

"Don't forget Panama and Grenada."

The smile got wider. "Kick enough ass, and pretty soon you forget the losers. Who wants to remember losers when you got so many winners running around?"

I said, "Hell, Malone, we're not that damned old, are we?"

Malone laughed, uncrossed his arms, and said, "What do you want to know about Washington?"

I told him.

Malone went to a battered gray cabinet, took out a manila folder, and brought it back to the desk. He skimmed through it for a couple of minutes, then he closed it. He didn't offer to let me see. "Washington worked in a pawnshop over on Broadway, down in South Central. We had information that the shop was being used as a fence drop for some of the guns looted during the riots, so REACT put eyes on the place, then went in with a sting."

"And it went bad."

"That's a way to say it. Washington thinks he's making a buy on ten thousand rounds of stolen ammo, the officers think it's under control, but when they flash the badges he goes a little nuts and decides to resist. Washington dives behind a counter, and comes up with a piece, but our guys are thinking Rodney King, so they don't shoot him. There's a scuffle and Washington hits his head and that's it."

"I hear it was controversial."

"They're all controversial. This one less than most."

"What do you have on Washington?"

Malone checked the report again. "Twenty-eight. A longtime Double-Seven Hoover Crip with multiple priors."

"He there alone in the store?"

"Sure. The family went nuts. We had the pickets, the wrongful-death suit, all of that, but they backed off."

"Did the city settle?"

"Nope. They dropped it. Hell, Cole, it was a righteous shooting. Even the goddamned TV people said so, and you know how those bastards are. Conflict is news, and they'll do anything to encourage conflict."

"Can I read the report?"

Malone stared at me for a while and you could tell he didn't like it, then he shrugged and shoved it across the desk at me. "Here in my presence. I can't let you copy it and I can't let you take it."

"Sure."

I read the report. It told me what Malone had told me, only with more words. Lieutenant Eric Dees, the REACT team leader, had written the report. Garcia and Pinkworth and Riggens had gone in to front the sale, and Thurman and Dees were the outside men. When it was clear that the transaction would be consummated, Garcia identified himself as a police officer, told Washington that he was being placed under arrest, and Dees and Thurman entered the premises. As the cuffs were being applied, Washington broke free from Pinkworth and Riggens and lunged for a weapon. The officers attempted to subdue the suspect without the use of deadly force, and Pinkworth and Riggens received substantial injuries. Washington was struck repeatedly by all officers involved, but refused to succumb, and died when team leader Eric Dees tackled him, causing his head to strike the corner of a metal display case. Dees assumed full responsibility. There were copies of the IAD investigation report and a letter of final disposition of the case. The letter of disposition released the officers involved from any wrongdoing. Copies of the death report, the coroner's findings, and Charles Lewis Washington's arrest record were appended to the finding.

"What about Riggens?"

"What can I say? Riggens has his problems, but you read the report. It was a team effort."

I said, "Does it seem odd to you that five officers couldn't apprehend this guy without letting him kill himself?"

"Hell, Cole, you know what it's like out there. Shit happens. This kid was a felon gangbanger and he picked the wrong time to pull a gun. Our guys tried to do the right thing, but it went wrong. That's all there is to it. Nobody wants another Rodney King."

I nodded. "Mind if I copy down Washington's address?"

"No problem."

"Any idea why they dropped the suit?"

Malone shrugged. "People down there are tired. I spent four years in South Central. God knows I can tell you we are." He made the shrug again. "Nobody ever drops a wrongful death against LAPD. Too many shysters are willing to take the case on a contingency, and the city council's always ready to settle out, but who can tell."

"Yeah. Who can tell. Thanks, Malone. I appreciate it."

I handed back the file and went to the door. He said, "Cole."

"Yeah?"

"I know the kind of press South Central gets, but the people down there, most of the people down there are good people. That's why I stayed the four years."

"Most folks everywhere are good people."

He nodded. "I don't know what you're doing, or where you're going, but watch yourself around the gangs. LAPD owns the streets, but the gangs keep trying to take'm away. You understand?"

"More than I want."

I showed myself out, picked up my car, and took the long drive down to South Central Los Angeles.

Home of the body bag.

CHAPTER 10

I dropped down through West Hollywood and the southwest corner of Beverly Hills through La Cienega Park to the I-10 freeway, then picked up the 10 east to the Harbor, then went south on the Harbor past USC and Exposition Park, and into South Central.

Even on the freeway, the world begins to change. The cinderblock sound walls and ramp signs show more graffiti, and, if you know how to read it, you can tell that it isn't just young Hispanic taggers out to get famous all over town, it's gangbangers marking turf and making challenges and telling you who they've killed and who they're going to kill. Just the thing you want to see when you're looking for an exit ramp.

I left the freeway at Florence, looped under to Hoover, then turned south to Eighty-second Street. Broadway and Florence show liquor stores and neighborhood groceries and gas stations and other businesses, but Hoover and the cross streets are residential. Up by the businesses you get out-of-work men hanging around and a lot of graffiti and it looks sort of crummy, but the residential streets will surprise you. Most of the houses are stucco or clapboard bungalows, freshly painted and well maintained, with front yards as neat and pretty as anything you'd find anywhere.