Then both Crips ran from the patio and out through the nightclub’s front door as people screamed and an ambulance was called. The young Arab lay thrashing and bled out, displaying no signs of life even before the RA and the first black-and-whites arrived. Still, he was taken straight to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital while a paramedic worked on him futilely.
It was B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster who sealed off the area and kept as many actual eyewitnesses in place as they could, but the nightclub had started emptying fast after word got out about the stabbing. When Andi McCrea and Brant Hinkle arrived (in separate cars so as to stay discreet), Benny Brewster and B.M. Driscoll were writing down information from half a dozen of the Arabs and two of their American girlfriends, who were crying.
Benny Brewster briefed Andi by pointing out the party promoter, Maurice Wooley, a very worried black man who was sitting at the far end of the now-empty bar drinking a tall glass of Jack. He was plump, in his midfifties and wearing a conservative, double-breasted gray suit. He was also bleary-eyed from the booze.
Benny said to him, “Mr. Wooley, this is Detective McCrea. Tell her about the homie that did the stabbing.”
“I really don’t know much about him,” the promoter said to Andi. “He’s jist somebody from Jordan Downs, where I grew up, is all. I don’t live down there no more.”
“I understand he’s your cousin,” Andi said.
“A much younger cousin to my play cousin,” the promoter said quickly. “I don’t know his real name.”
Benny Brewster abruptly changed tack, glared at him, and said, “So what’s your cousin to your play cousin’s street name? Whadda you call him?”
The promoter’s jowls waddled slightly and he said, “Doobie D. That’s all I ever did call him, Doobie D. I swear on my momma’s grave.”
Benny scowled and said, “Maybe your momma has room for one more in there.”
Andi said, “What’s his phone number?”
“I dunno,” the promoter said, twisting his zircon ring nervously, glancing every few seconds at the tall black cop, who looked about ready to grab him by the throat.
Andi said, “This officer tells me you invited him here as your guest tonight.”
“That’s ’cause I run into him on the street when I went to visit my momma. He said he wanna go to one of them Hollywood parties I promote. And me, I’m a fool. I say, okay, when I get one, I’m gonna let you know. So I get this job and I let him know and I comp him in here as my guest. With one of his crew. And look at the grief I get.”
“If you don’t have his number, how did you reach him?”
“I jist have his e-mail address,” the promoter said, handing Andi his cell phone. “His cell company is one of them that you can e-mail or phone.”
When they were finished at the Gulag and ready to go, Andi was approached by a man with an obvious hairpiece and a peculiar smile. He extended his hand to both detectives and said, “I am Dmitri Zotkin, proprietor of the Gulag. I am sick to my heart from the terrible think that has een-wolved my club tonight. I shall be of service if you need any-think. Any-think at all.”
He gave them his card and bowed slightly.
“We may have some questions for you tomorrow,” Andi said.
“On the back of the card is my cell number,” he said. “Anytime you wish to call Dmitri. Please, I shall be at your service.”
After getting back to the station, Andi Googled Doobie D’s Internet provider from the text message. Then she left a phone message with the provider, requesting that the customer’s name and phone number be pulled up, with the assurance that a search warrant would be faxed to them in the morning before the provider faxed the account information to her.
Andi said to Brant, “We’ll write a three-page search warrant and run it over to the Hollywood court tomorrow. Have you ever done it?”
“I’m real rusty,” he said.
“The provider will triangulate from the cell site towers. If we’re real lucky and Doobie D uses his phone, the provider will call us every hour or so to tell us where he is. It’s like a GPS on the cell phone. If he disposes of the cell, we’re outta luck.”
“Are we gonna finally get home to get the rest of our night’s sleep, do you think?”
Looking at those green eyes of his, she said, “Is that all you’re thinking about, sleep?”
“It’s one of the things I’m thinking about,” he said.
SIXTEEN
THE ORACLE SHOWED up at roll call that Thursday evening with a detective whom most of them had seen around the station and a few of the older cops knew by name.
The Oracle said, “Okay, listen up. This is Detective Chernenko. He has a few things to say to you, and it’s important.”
Viktor stood before them in his usual rumpled suit with food stains on the lapels and said, “Good evening to you. I am investigating the jewelry store two-eleven where your Officer Takara was so very brave. And I also have very much interest in the two-eleven of three days ago at the ATM where the guard was killed. I am thinking that the same two people did both of them and now everybody agrees with me.
“What I wish is that you watch out for anybody who might be stealing from a mailbox. It is a crime very typical of addicts, so you might watch for tweakers who are hanging around the blue mailboxes on the corners of the streets. Especially in the area of Gower south of Hollywood Boulevard. If you find a suspect, look for a device like string and tape that they use to fish in a mailbox. If you find nothing, please write a good FI on the suspect and leave it for me at end-of-watch. Any question?”
Wesley Drubb turned and glanced at Hollywood Nate, who looked sheepish, obviously thinking what Wesley was thinking.
Fausto Gamboa, the old man of the midwatch, said, “Why Gower south of the boulevard, Viktor? Can you share it with us?”
“Yes, it is no big secret, Fausto,” Viktor said. “It is a very small clue. I believe that information about the jewels was learned from a letter stolen from a mailbox there on Gower.”
Wesley Drubb looked at Hollywood Nate again but couldn’t wait to see if Nate was going to admit that they might have lost a lead several days ago. Wesley raised his hand.
The Oracle said, “Yeah, Drubb. Got a question?”
Wesley said, “Last week we got a call about two homeless guys fighting on Hollywood Boulevard. One of them said that a couple weeks before, he saw a guy and a woman stealing mail from a blue mailbox a few blocks south of Hollywood Boulevard on Gower.”
That didn’t elicit too much excitement in itself but Viktor was mildly interested and said, “Did he provide more details than that?”
Looking at Nate again. “Yes, he did. He said the guy was driving an old blue Pinto. And his partner was a woman. And he heard the woman call him Freddy or Morley.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Viktor said. “I will check recent FIs for the name of Freddy and the name of Morley, but of course that will not be easy.”
The Oracle saw Wesley glance at Hollywood Nate again, and he said to Wesley, “I think you’re not through, Drubb. Was there something more?”
“Yes, Sarge,” Wesley said. “The homeless guy had a card with the mail thief’s license number written on it.”
Now Viktor’s mouth dropped open. “Fantastic!” he said. “Please present me with this card, Officer!”
Wesley looked sheepish, and being loyal to his partner said, “I’m afraid I gave the card back to him.”
Hollywood Nate spoke up then, saying, “I told him to give it back. I figured, what the hell, just some tweakers stealing mail, happens all the time. It was my fault, not Drubb’s.”
“We’re not talking fault here,” said the Oracle. “What was the name of the homeless guy with the card? Where can Detective Chernenko find him?”
“They call him Trombone Teddy,” Nate said. “We wrote an FI on him and the other homeless geezer who knocked him on his ass. But neither one of them has a real address. They don’t live anywhere, guys like that.”