(This story is part of a continuing series, An Assault in Venice. Part 1 starts here.)
The ever-illustrious Rodney was not at home when Cagney went calling. She did say, however, that the house matched the description that my friend John had given us.
He lives nearby in a Hispanic area at a busy intersection. The house style is not typical of the area. It’s two-story, dilapidated with a porch and a low chain link fence. There’s lattice under the porch. Light-colored. Pointy roof. Multiple families live there. It has a country, old-time feeling. It’s an Archie Bunker kind of house. Or Mr. Roper from Three’s Company. But very rundown. To the left of the house is some space, maybe an empty lot that’s used as a common area. If you stand on the porch and look to the right, you can see the orange ball of the Union 76 gas station on the corner.
Cagney would keep an eye on the place, but our more pressing need was to find the woman—”the strawberry”—he’d confessed to, and then get her to ID him. Both of these things were going to be difficult, Cagney warned me.
The following evening I met my friend Jay for dinner. Jay and I had worked together a few years before, and since then he went on to bigger and better pursuits. He’d helped get Pete Wilson re-elected for governor of California, for instance. Jay wasn’t just one of the smartest men I knew, he was also one of the most well connected. I tried not to let his politics interfere with our friendship.
During dinner, I recounted the details of my month, including my on-going fear of being alone in my home, as well as the sickening realization that Rodney was still out there and in such close proximity. “We’re pretty sure we know who he is,” I told Jay, “we just don’t have evidence to link him to the crime yet. And that’s just disgusting.”
Jay listened attentively and then pushed his water glass to the side of the table as if clearing a space. “I’m only going to say this once,” he said.
Then he met my eyes intently. “I know people if you want to use them.”
(more…)