I was in a fog of anguish and anger.
Then I heard the scream.
Patowski fell against the door jam and slowly slid to the ground, the blood streaking the wall in a wide, wavy swath. He had dropped the gun after my shot had blasted his shoulder, just missing Martinez. She had fainted, and was now coming to. With one arm, I cradled her; with the other, I punched in the number for Communications Division.
About ten minutes later two ambulances arrived. A crew strapped Patowski, who suffered a through-and-through shot to the shoulder, on one metal gurney and me on another. We both headed for the Little Company of Mary Hospital in San Pedro.
After two detectives from the Force Investigation Division-who investigate every incident in which a cop fires his gun-questioned me, the ER doctor who’d stitched me up stopped by the examination room and handed me a prescription for Vicodin.
“A couple of inches lower, detective, and that broken glass might have severed your femoral artery,” he said, as Ortiz entered the room. “That’s an unpleasant way to go. Fortunately we got you here in time.” He patted my thigh. “Twenty-five stitches and you’re good to go.”
“Shouldn’t you keep him overnight, just to make sure?” Ortiz asked.
“He can go home,” the doctor said. “The Vicodin will help with the pain.” I lifted myself off the table.
“I feel like kicking your ass,” Ortiz said.
I limped around the room, testing my leg.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there without calling for backup,” he said. “You’re a fucking hardhead.”
“I didn’t have time.”
Ortiz shook his head with disgust.
“Before I leave,” I said, “I’d like to question Patowski.”
“That ain’t gonna happen. While you were going through triage, I tried to get a statement, but he dummied up. Said the only person he’s talking to is his lawyer. So let me give you a ride home. Maybe I can knock some sense into you along the way.”
Ortiz drove through the deserted streets and parked at a Denny’s.
“I know this doesn’t meet your high culinary standards,” Ortiz said, scanning the menu, “but there’s not much open at this hour. And you should have something in your stomach for the pain pills.”
Wincing as I reached for a glass of water, I dug the Vicodin vial out of my pocket and popped one. “How’d you know I was at the hospital?”
“I’d just come from a call-out, and one of the guys at the station heard about the shooting in Pedro,” Ortiz said.
I told him how Patowski had tried to barbecue me at the storage facility.
“How’d you know it was Patowski.”
“When I climbed out of that bonfire and I saw asshole shine the flashlight at me, I knew he was a cop. Nobody else holds a flashlight like that.” With my right hand, I gripped my fork, knuckles up, and raised it above my shoulder, forearm parallel to my ribs. I dropped the fork and said, “I suspected it was Patowski, but I didn’t know for sure-until I saw his car parked down the street from Martinez’s apartment. His rear right taillight was broken. I’d shot it out as he was burning rubber at Pomona Storage.”
“Good shooting.”
“If it was good shooting, I’d have hit him, not his taillight.”
“So how’d you know Theresa Martinez would be in trouble?”
“I figured that whoever had peeked at my murder book was looking for wits. One of them is in jail. Since Martinez was the only other wit who really saw anything the night Relovich was killed, I figured she was the most vulnerable target.”
“No surprise Patowski was dirty.”
“I should have figured it out earlier,” I said, picking at my scrambled eggs and hashed browns. “Adjutants are usually aware of everything their bosses are doing. What promotions they’re angling for. How they fudge their expense reports. Who they’re screwing. Since Wegland was dirty, I should have known that, at the very least, Patowski would be aware of it.”
“He must have emptied out that warehouse,” Ortiz said. “Grazzo told me a few dicks with a warrant are at Patowski’s place right now, and they found antiques, jewelry, stacks of cash, paintings, and a bunch of other artistic shit in a back bedroom.”
“I’m sure he was in on it up to his ass,” I said.
“Why’d Wegland rent space in a dumpy storage unit?” Ortiz asked. “He must have had some valuable things in there.”
“He probably had that place for years and years,” I said. “Probably had stashed stuff he’d lifted over the years. That’s why the writing on that key was so worn down. He was smart. It was far enough from L.A., so nobody would recognize him there. The drive was long enough so he’d be able to pick up a tail.”
“That’s why he kept the key in his office,” Ortiz said. “He knew that Internal Affairs always tries to take a dirty cop by surprise and searches his house first.” He motioned to the waitress for more coffee. “Why’d Patowski try to torch the storage unit?”
“He’d probably been going in and out of there, helping Wegland for years. He probably figured he’d left so many prints, fibers, and hairs in there, he’d never be able to clean the place up. He might have just emptied it when he saw me roll up. Or he might have even staked the place out, expecting me. Then when I showed, he put together a crude Molotov cocktail, which couldn’t have taken long to make, and figured he’d eliminate two problems at once-the storage unit and me.”
As I limped to the parking lot, I said, “Drop me back at Martinez’s place. I want to pick up my car.”
“I’ll take you home. I’ll have a uniform bring your car back downtown later tonight.” Ortiz jiggled his keys. “Is Martinez going to be okay?”
“She’s pretty spooked. She’s spending a few days at her sister’s place in Orange County.”
Ortiz opened my car door. “I’m worried about you, brother. Everyone’s trying to take a bite out of your ass. You’re not going to pull any more of that Lone Ranger shit tonight?”
I shook my head.
“And if you do anything else on this case, you’ll call me to back you up, right?
“Right.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”