CHAPTER 114
AMBULANCES POURED INTO the bowl of the cul-de-sac, and uniformed cops put up barricades, instructing dazed and frightened homeowners to stay out of the street.
Sergeant Jane Campbell interviewed me beside my car.
Jane was a good cop, twelve years on the job. I had gone to high school with her brother, had had a few sandwiches at her kitchen table a long time ago.
“Looks like about thirty grand in damage,” Sergeant Campbell said, surveying my car. “And that’s just for the rear panel.”
“A police cruiser gave me a tap, but I’m okay. And I’m insured.”
Campbell smiled. “Glad to hear it. Tell me what happened, Jack.”
“Long version or short?”
“Start with the summary, then we’ll back up.”
“Okay. We got information about a case we’re working. Men who were garroted in their hotel rooms. I had a theory that they were killed after having sex with a hooker. We wanted to talk to Ms. Gomez.”
“The LAPD is working that case.”
“We’re on it privately for Amelia Poole.”
“She owns the Sun? On Santa Monica?”
“Right. Another guest was killed in her hotel today, strangled with a wire. She’s concerned for her guests’ safety.”
“You think Carmelita Gomez was the killer—”
“We got a tip an hour ago saying she was. We went to her house to talk to her, and she fled, I mean at warp speed. We called the police immediately.”
“So why are you here?”
“We had to follow her, Jane. She was telling us she was guilty by the fact of her flight. We couldn’t take a chance she’d get away. I saw her drive into that wall. She didn’t try to brake. You’ll see there’s no rubber on the road. It was a suicide.”
“So you had a tip, chased your suspect, and now she’s dead. That’s what you’re telling me?”
“I didn’t see any other option. I still don’t.”
“Emilio Cruz,” she said, indicating him with her chin. “He said Ms. Gomez made a dying declaration.”
“She did.”
“And you’ll testify to her confession?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes. I will.”
“We’re going to have questions. Please don’t leave town, Jack.”
“People keep telling me that,” I said. “Do I have to worry about moving violations? Anything like that?”
“Why? So you can call Fescoe and get it fixed? Just get your taillight repaired,” she told me. “And tell Tommy I said hi.”
I drove my car up to where Del Rio and Cruz sat in the fleet car with the engine idling.
“Is the day over yet?” Del Rio asked.
“It’s done. Good job, both of you.”
I said good night and drove my injured car to the Hollywood Freeway. This time of night, it was only twenty minutes to Hancock Park.
Since my release from jail, I’d spent every free minute analyzing, researching, watching. Then I’d ruminated some more.
Jane’s message to Tommy was the prodding I needed to do what my gut had been telling me to do since the beginning.