dangerâas opposed to my hypothetical danger as the hypothetical victim of an incompetent killer. It was impossible to give it back. How much time did I have before the goon realized he paid the wrong woman? How much time before he identified me and came after me? The police were going to get the envelope, but that wouldnât change anything: the goon would
still
come after me.
I patted a bundle. It seemed like a fortune. Twenty thousand dollars was half a yearâs salary after taxes. I thought of the Impala with the Kansas plates. What if the research for Stenholm cost money? What if I had to go to the Midwest? Iâd lent my sister a lot since sheâd moved to L.A.; it had exhausted my savings and I was living from paycheck to paycheck. But I didnât want to ask for expenses in advance. Barry might use it as an excuse to kill the piece.
I thumbed the bills of one bundle. One bundleâmake it two, to be safe. That would be two thousand dollars for research. It was more than enough for comfort, but not so much that I couldnât pay it back. Iâd think of a way to finesse it with the cops. Lockwood had exposed me as a bad liar, but Iâd think of something.
I packed up the money, got dressed, and went out to the pool house.
The pool house felt fine in the daylight. In fact, the only spooky part about walking in there was how unspooky it felt. The place was sunny, the cops had cleaned the bathtub, and Iâd straightened up after Lockwood had left. Her death had left no visible trace in my house.
That wasnât true:
I
was a trace. I started to laugh but had to stop. It hurt too much.
I took a long shower, then examined my face in the mirror. The punch had missed my nose and caught me on the left cheekbone. The skin there was greenish yellow and swollen. My left eye hurt, and there was a squishy lump on the back of my head.
I swabbed the lump, spread arnica cream on my cheek, swallowed four aspirin, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it was brewing, I stood on a chair and pulled the xeroxes out of the attic. I stuffed the envelope through the slats, poured some coffee, sat down with the telephone, and went to work.
First, I left a message for Lockwood to call me.
Second, I left a message on Vivianâs voice mail. I told her about Stenholmâs apartment and asked her to ask her cop sources about a burglary last winter.
Third, I called Mark to see what heâd heard from his Industry sources. Something had come up and heâd only made one call. I told him to get cracking. I also asked him to get the guest list for the party from Barryâs assistant. He said I would owe him for this, and I said definitely.
I put the phone down and opened Barryâs file on the Burger King siege.
I set Vivianâs juicy note aside for the end. Underneath it was a shorter note from Barry. He listed the subjects that he wanted Lockwood to comment on. Most of them were common sense, as if Barry didnât trust my basic reporting skills. But one of his suggestions surprised me. He wanted me to ask Lockwood what
really
happened during the siege. I thought we already knew that.
The L.A.
Times
carried the initial story. It was dated Sunday, December 24, 2000.
----
Off-Duty Officer Slays Gang Member
Juan Pablo Marquez, 25, a gang member with an extensive criminal record, held Christmas shoppers hostage at gunpoint for two hours in an Echo Park Burger King yesterday. The siege ended when off-duty LAPD Detective Douglas Lockwood, 48, shot and killed Marquez. The hostages sustained no serious injuries. Lockwood suffered a minor gunshot wound.
According to eyewitnesses, Marquez, a Pico-Union resident, entered the Burger King fast-food restaurant at 1301 Glendale Blvd. at 1:15 p.m. Saturday. He was wearing an overcoat and carrying an old suitcase. He pulled a weapon, later identified as an AK-47 assault rifle, from under his coat and ordered the customers to lie down. He claimed
still
come after me.
I patted a bundle. It seemed like a fortune. Twenty thousand dollars was half a yearâs salary after taxes. I thought of the Impala with the Kansas plates. What if the research for Stenholm cost money? What if I had to go to the Midwest? Iâd lent my sister a lot since sheâd moved to L.A.; it had exhausted my savings and I was living from paycheck to paycheck. But I didnât want to ask for expenses in advance. Barry might use it as an excuse to kill the piece.
I thumbed the bills of one bundle. One bundleâmake it two, to be safe. That would be two thousand dollars for research. It was more than enough for comfort, but not so much that I couldnât pay it back. Iâd think of a way to finesse it with the cops. Lockwood had exposed me as a bad liar, but Iâd think of something.
I packed up the money, got dressed, and went out to the pool house.
The pool house felt fine in the daylight. In fact, the only spooky part about walking in there was how unspooky it felt. The place was sunny, the cops had cleaned the bathtub, and Iâd straightened up after Lockwood had left. Her death had left no visible trace in my house.
That wasnât true:
I
was a trace. I started to laugh but had to stop. It hurt too much.
I took a long shower, then examined my face in the mirror. The punch had missed my nose and caught me on the left cheekbone. The skin there was greenish yellow and swollen. My left eye hurt, and there was a squishy lump on the back of my head.
I swabbed the lump, spread arnica cream on my cheek, swallowed four aspirin, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it was brewing, I stood on a chair and pulled the xeroxes out of the attic. I stuffed the envelope through the slats, poured some coffee, sat down with the telephone, and went to work.
First, I left a message for Lockwood to call me.
Second, I left a message on Vivianâs voice mail. I told her about Stenholmâs apartment and asked her to ask her cop sources about a burglary last winter.
Third, I called Mark to see what heâd heard from his Industry sources. Something had come up and heâd only made one call. I told him to get cracking. I also asked him to get the guest list for the party from Barryâs assistant. He said I would owe him for this, and I said definitely.
I put the phone down and opened Barryâs file on the Burger King siege.
I set Vivianâs juicy note aside for the end. Underneath it was a shorter note from Barry. He listed the subjects that he wanted Lockwood to comment on. Most of them were common sense, as if Barry didnât trust my basic reporting skills. But one of his suggestions surprised me. He wanted me to ask Lockwood what
really
happened during the siege. I thought we already knew that.
The L.A.
Times
carried the initial story. It was dated Sunday, December 24, 2000.
----
Off-Duty Officer Slays Gang Member
Juan Pablo Marquez, 25, a gang member with an extensive criminal record, held Christmas shoppers hostage at gunpoint for two hours in an Echo Park Burger King yesterday. The siege ended when off-duty LAPD Detective Douglas Lockwood, 48, shot and killed Marquez. The hostages sustained no serious injuries. Lockwood suffered a minor gunshot wound.
According to eyewitnesses, Marquez, a Pico-Union resident, entered the Burger King fast-food restaurant at 1301 Glendale Blvd. at 1:15 p.m. Saturday. He was wearing an overcoat and carrying an old suitcase. He pulled a weapon, later identified as an AK-47 assault rifle, from under his coat and ordered the customers to lie down. He claimed
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