I pulled up at the curb and motioned for Ortiz to get in the car. I filled him in on what the woman told me.
“You sure she was talking about Duffy?” Ortiz said.
“I’m sure. That’s what the gangsters used to call him when he worked South Bureau Homicide.”
“What the fuck was he thinking?” Ortiz said.
“I heard Duffy was banging some twenty-two-year-old black secretary who works in juvenile, but I didn’t think he’d be dumb enough to actually talk to her about a case. He must have been on one of his fucking benders.”
“When he’s on one of those, he gets all drunked up and runs his mouth. What a stupid motherfucker. This is your case, Ash. It’s your call. What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to drive out to this address,” I said, waving the piece of paper the woman gave me. “I’m going to bust Li’l Eight. Then I’m going to front Duffy.”
I shook out three Tylenol, swallowed them with a swig of warm water from a bottle in the backseat, and stared through the windshield, my head swirling with thoughts of Latisha, how I had convinced her to talk to me; how I had tried to protect her; how we’d awake in the morning, her head on my chest, our legs entwined; how I had found her sprawled out on a street corner, half her head blown off. I thought about the hellish past year. I had been so consumed with anguish, so tormented; I had blamed myself for her death and I had suffered grievously. Every single day. And then this. The anger would come later, I knew. Now, I was in a daze.
“You want me to drive?” Ortiz asked.
I slipped the key into the ignition and started the car.
“You okay?”
I gripped the wheel tightly, drove off, and didn’t answer.
“For what it’s worth, that bitch in juvenile got canned a few months ago. She got caught snooping into some department databases.”
Pulling off Crenshaw, I headed up to The Jungle, a run-down South L.A. neighborhood crammed with seedy two-unit apartment buildings. Residents originally gave the neighborhood its nickname because of the lush tropical landscaping-fan palms, banana plants, begonias, enormous birds of paradise-that surrounded the buildings. But soon the name took on a more menacing meaning when the neighborhood began to deteriorate. Rival gangs shot it out on the streets, dealers peddled crack in the alleys, and the shoddily built apartments fell into disrepair.
I pulled up in front of the apartment where Li’l Eight was staying, we climbed the steps to the second floor, and rang the bell. When no one answered, Ortiz and I peered into a few side windows and determined nobody was home.
I returned to my car, and parked down the street, far enough away so Li’l Eight couldn’t spot us, but close enough so I could keep an eye on the front door. After two hours of silence, Ortiz said, “You’re great fucking company.”
“Sorry. This Duffy thing’s got me turned around.”
“Why don’t we call in this address to SIS and let them sit on the apartment. They can bring Li’l Eight in for us.”
“I don’t want to interview Li’l Eight at the station. I want to talk to him right here. I’ve got a creative interviewing approach in mind for him.”
“Just don’t be so creative that they fire your ass.”
I turned toward Ortiz. “This was never just a homicide investigation. The stakes were always high for me. Now they’re higher. I’ve got to take care of it in my own way.”
Ortiz nodded. “I understand.”
After two more hours of waiting, I said, “Let’s meet downtown tomorrow morning at five and then hit him up. We should catch him in bed then.”
“You got it.”
I drove back to PAB, and we headed up to the squad room. Now was the time to confront Duffy.