The door opened and Lieutenant Dolan appeared in company with another (I was guessing) plainclothes detective. I felt a spurt of fear for the first time since this ghastly ordeal had begun. Dolan was the last man I wanted to have as a witness to my current state. I could feel a blush of embarrassment rise up my neck to my face. Dolan’s companion was in his sixties, with a thick shock of silver hair brushed away from a square face, deep-set eyes, and a mouth that pulled down at the corners. He was taller than Dolan and in much better shape, substantially built with wide shoulders and heavy-looking thighs. He wore a three-piece suit in a muted glen plaid with a denim blue shirt and a wide maroon tie with a floral pattern more fitting for a couch cover. He wore a gold ring on his right hand, a watch with a heavy gold band on his left. He made no particular attempt to be polite. If he had an opinion of me, nothing registered on his face. Together, the two men seemed to fill the room.
Dolan leaned out into the hall and said something to someone, then closed the door and pulled a chair up, straddling it. The other man sat down at the same time and crossed his legs at the knee with a slight adjustment of his trousers. He held his big hands loosely in his lap and made no eye contact.
Dolan seemed positively perky by comparison. “I’m having some coffee brought in. You look like you could use some.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“One of the deputies recognized you when you were booked in and called me,” he said.
“Who’s this?” I asked with a glance at the other man. I didn’t think he should have the advantage of anonymity. He clearly knew who I was and enough about me to adopt an attitude of disinterest.
“Lieutenant Santos,” Dolan said. Santos made no move. What was this, my week to meet hostile men?
I got up and leaned across the table with my hand held out. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
His reaction was slow and I wondered briefly just how rude he intended to be. We shook hands and his eyes met mine just long enough to register a stony neutrality. I had thought at first he disliked me, but I was forced to amend that assessment. He didn’t have an opinion of me at all. I might be useful to him. He hadn’t decided yet.
There was a rap at the door. Dolan leaned over and opened it. One of the deputies passed him a tray with three Styrofoam cups of coffee, a carton of milk, and a few loose packets of sugar. Dolan thanked him and closed the door again. He set the tray on the table and passed a cup to me. Santos reached forward and took his. I poured some milk in mine and added two packs of sugar, hoping to jump-start myself for the questions coming up. The coffee wasn’t hot, but the flavor was exquisite, as soft and sweet as caramel.
“What happened to Jimmy Tate?” I asked.
“Right now, he’s looking at homicide, murder two. A good attorney might get it knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, but I wouldn’t count on it, given his history,” Dolan said. “You want to fill us in on the shooting?”
“Sure,” I said glibly, knowing I’d have to stretch the truth a bit. “California Fidelity asked me to investigate Bibianna Diaz for possible fraud in a claim she filed. I’ve been trying to get close enough to pick up concrete evidence, but so far all I’ve netted are some fashion tips. The dead man’s name is Chago. He’s the brother of Raymond Something-or-other, who’s an old flame of Bibianna’s. I gather Raymond sent Chago and his wife, Dawna, up here to abduct Bibianna for reasons unknown. I can’t get Bibianna to tell me what’s going on, but they’re clearly pissed. …”
Santos spoke up. “She and Raymond Maldonado were supposed to get married. She backed out. He doesn’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”
“I believe it,” I said. “He apparently gave Chago instructions to ‘smoke’ her if she didn’t cooperate.”
Santos shifted in his chair, his voice flat. “That’s all bluff. Raymond wants her back.”
I looked from one to the other. “If you already know all this stuff, why ask me?”
Both men ignored me. I could see there wasn’t going to be any point in getting crabby about the situation.
Dolan consulted a small spiral-bound notebook, leafing back a page. “What’s the story on Jimmy Tate? How’d he get involved?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I gather he and Bibianna have been embroiled in some kind of heavy-duty sexual relationship for the past couple of months. It seems to be serious – for the moment, at any rate.” I went on, detailing the day’s work, filling in as much as I knew about the dead man, which wasn’t much, and about Jimmy Tate, which was considerable. As fond as I was of Tate, I couldn’t see any reason to shield him from police scrutiny when it came to the shooting. There were other witnesses at the scene, and for all I knew, Dolan had already talked to them.
When I finished, there was a silence. I looked down at my hands, realizing that I’d systematically destroyed my now empty cup in the course of my narrative. I placed fragments on the table.
“And Tate did the shooting,” Dolan said at length.
“Well, I didn’t actually see that, but it’s a fair assumption. He fired twice at the car, and after I hit the pavement, there were several more shots fired. I don’t think Bibianna was armed.”
“What about the other woman, Dawna? She have a gun?”
“Not that I saw, at least not in the restaurant. She could have had one stashed in the car, I suppose. Hasn’t she turned up?” I didn’t think Dolan was going to answer, but I liked pretending we were equals. Just us law enforcement types having a friendly little tete-a-tete here at the county jail.
Dolan surprised me with a response. “She took a hit. Nothing serious. Looks like a bullet ricocheted off something and grazed her collarbone. We picked her up in a phone booth a few blocks away. Probably interrupted a call to Raymond, though she wouldn’t admit it.”
“She’s in the hospital?”
“For the time being. We’ll hang on to her if we can, just to see what she has to tell us.”
“About what?”
Dolan slid a look to Santos, like he was checking his hole card in a game of poker. I had the feeling Santos was making a decision. His expression didn’t seem to change, but something must have been communicated between the two of them.
“I guess we better tell you what’s happening,” he said. His voice was rumbling and his delivery methodical. “You’ve stumbled into a bit of a sticky situation here.”
“Oh, yeah, tell me about it.”
Santos tipped his chair back against the wall and laced his hands across his head. “I head a task force made up of a number of agencies working to uncover what we believe is one of the biggest auto insurance fraud operations ever mounted in Southern California. You’ve worked in this business long enough to know what I’m talking about. Los Angeles County is the nation’s automobile insurance fraud capital. Now it’s spreading through Ventura and Santa Teresa counties. This particular ring is only one of dozens that generate an estimated five hundred million to a billion in phony claims every year. In this case, we’re looking at fifteen lawyers, two dozen medical doctors, half a dozen chiropractors. On top of that, a rotating pool of some fifty to sixty individuals recruited to participate in the trumped-up incidents that comprise the claims.” He pushed away from the wall, sitting upright, the front legs of the chair hitting the floor with a chirp. “You with me so far?”
“Oh, I’m here,” I said.
He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table. I noticed his manner toward me was warming somewhat. He was a man animated by his work. I had no idea where he was going with the explanation, but it was clear he hadn’t driven all the way up from Los Angeles in the dead of night just to deliver this deadpan rendition of his professional concerns.
“We’ve put this case together bit by bit, piece by piece, over the last two years, and we’re still not in a position to shut them down.”
“I don’t see the connection,” I said. “Bibianna isn’t part of the ring, is she?”
“She was. Raymond Maldonado started out as a ‘capper’. At this point, we believe he’s one of the kingpins, but we can’t prove it yet. You know how these rings operate?”