Chapter 4 Dinah
Dinah
It takes twenty-four minutes to get to Montebello from our home in the Hollywood Hills. On the way, I’m honked at a half-dozen times, flipped off, cut off, and approached by panhandlers. In other words, a typical Tuesday-morning commute in Los Angeles.
Normally, I’d be headed into Beverly Hills, where the crime is heavily dissected between the uber rich and the poor, the tax base of the former helping us handle the disturbances of the latter.
Montebello is a different story, with thin resources and an understaffed department.
I’m not looking forward to meeting and working with a new crew, but that is what you do when one homicide detective out of twenty in a city like Los Angeles is on leave.
You cover. You help out. If I’m ever out of commission or on extended leave, someone will take my beat, research my murders, and make my arrests.
I despise the thought and spend nights lying awake in bed and thinking of someone like Robertson miscategorizing evidence and overlooking clues.
Is it wrong to want all the murders to myself?
I pull down Luther and appear to be the last one to the scene.
The scene techs, coroner, and some black-and-whites have sucked up all the available spots on the residential street that is solidly lower middle class.
I snag a spot a block down, between a Nissan coupe and a minivan.
My old partner would have griped at how far I’m parked from the curb, but Oley isn’t here anymore, so I leave it alone and step out, sending a quick apology up to him.
I don’t miss the guy; the job is much easier solo.
That being said, there are moments when I turn to say something to Oley at a crime scene or in the middle of an interview and he isn’t there.
He isn’t there smacking a big wad of bubblegum, his pen drumming against the inside of his thigh, the buttons on the front of his dress shirt straining against his wide chest, his goofy smile stretched across his sunburned face.
I was annoyed by him until he was gone, and now I wonder if, besides Joe and my first crush, he’s the only man I ever loved.
Oley would have described today’s weather as being hot enough to scald a lizard.
He loved that phrase and always guffawed after it, as if he’d said the wittiest thing.
I fan myself with my neck badge as I cross the street.
The skirt suit, which had seemed perfect inside our air-conditioned house, is a mistake.
My pantyhose are already slipping down my left thigh, and I can feel my underarms collecting sweat.
I quicken my steps and promise myself that I’ll lose the jacket as soon as I step inside.
A fly buzzes in front of me, and I swipe it away and smile at a uniform who passes by, his face bored, the gesture not returned. Fucking Montebello.
I step over the curb and up on the sidewalk and watch as another unmarked car pulls up to the front of the house and attempts to take the space at the end of the driveway. I squint, trying to see who is behind the wheel.
The car’s tire scrapes the edge of the curb, and the faint thump of music comes from its interior.
The sedan settles into place, and the engine shuts down as the door opens.
A man who looks like he could be a basketball player unfolds from the car, all dark and messy hair, an olive complexion, and a suit as stifling hot as mine.
As he tucks a cornflower-blue tie against his dress shirt and strides up the drive toward me, I immediately note all the things wrong with this picture.
Age: too young.
Attractiveness: too much.
Attitude: too confident.
I know every detective in this town, but he’s not familiar to me. I frown as he approaches, trying to understand who he is and why he’s here.
“You must be Dinah Marino.” He smiles big as his long strides eat up the space between us. “I’m Freddie Hodgkins.” He sticks out his hand and I take it.
Freddie Hodgkins. The name doesn’t ring a bell.
“What department?” I ask, pushing my sunglasses up on my head so I can see him better.
“I’m currently patrol but in the training program for detective. I’m shadowing Ron Memphis this month.”
I smile, though the thought of Ron makes me want to vomit. I still have the imprint of his stare on my ass from the last all-district meeting.
“Well, I’m covering for Rita Perez,” I say crisply as a bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck. “Ron’s not on Montebello.”
“He’s actually in the hospital.” He grimaces. “Really bad case of gout. So they have me shadowing other detectives. Sent me over here when this call came in.”
Screw that. The last thing I need is a trainee stuck to my side, questioning every move I make.
“Sorry that you’re stuck with me on this one.
” He shrugs and smiles, and that lethal combination has probably unlocked every door in his handsome little life, but it doesn’t do anything for me.
Instead, the idea of a trainee—especially an attractive one—digging through my scene sends bile rising to my throat.
I glance toward the home’s front door, anxious to get inside. “Okay,” I say, trying to think of a reason, any reason, to get him back in his car and out of my hair.
Nothing comes to me, so I head up a skinny sidewalk that cuts through a faded-green artificial turf lawn toward the front porch.
He follows closely, his dress shoes crunching, and now I won’t be able to take off my jacket, not without wondering if the white blouse I’m wearing is clinging to my breasts.
For the second time since leaving the car, I curse my outfit.
Joe hates when I wear this shirt; he thinks it’s inappropriate for work, and maybe he’s right.
My husband rarely has an opinion on my attire.
I should have listened to him this morning.
There’s a kit by the front door mat, and I dip down and grab a set of booties and latex gloves. After pulling the stretchy plastic over my flats, I work on the gloves and watch as he does the same.
“I’ll dictate if you take notes. You got a notepad?” I ask.
He reaches into his jacket’s interior pocket and pulls out a small red spiral-bound and a pen.
I grab the front doorknob and consider him for a moment. “I’m not used to having someone shadowing me, so please forgive me if I am a little ...” I pause, trying to find the right word. “Grouchy, at times.”
He smiles wide, as if I’ve said something funny. “I’ll grow on you,” he reassures me, grabbing the door’s edge and pulling it all the way open.
Yeah. That will be Joe’s concern.