MOSAICS: A Thriller by E.E. Giorgi Read Free Book Online

pronounced him dead at two-twenty-six. Michael Jackson is dead, guys.”
    Oscar’s mustache swallowed the smile on his face. “Wow. The King of Chicken Hawks left us. I bet all those child molestation victims will come forward, now.”
    Jo Kertrud, another seasoned detective who’d been with the RHD since the early ‘nineties, said, “Who knows. Maybe one of them just did.”
    The LT waited for the general murmur to subside. “Heart attack, they think, but you know the drill, guys. Mayamoto and Garrison—let’s have you two go to the hospital and talk to the docs. I want you to report back immediately after. Next two on the callboard stand by.”
    He bobbed his head, looked around if there were any questions. There weren’t, and he retreated back into his office. We shuffled back to our spots, all except Satish, who detoured to the vending machines in the hallway. Katie Cheng was sitting on my partner’s desk, casually fiddling with the strangulation props. She was a young Chinese-American officer permanently loaned to our division. She helped us deal with the estimated five thousand Chinese who lived in L.A. and didn’t speak much English beyond hello and thank you. Katie loved the homicide table so much that even when she wasn’t needed as a translator she kept herself busy doing desk work for us dicks.
    “ Wow,” she commented. “Jackson was going to turn fifty-one next month. Gee, I grew up with his songs.”
    I stared at the paper in her hand. It bore the warm, acidic smell of fresh-out-of-the-printer ink. “What’s up, Katie?”
    She blinked. “Oh. Sorry . This is for you and your partner.” She handed me the printout, together with a whiff of body lotion and mint chewing gum.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Satish slid inside the Charger. “Where are we going?”
    “Vernon Motel on Fifty-six. Couple blocks west of South Fig.” I whipped the car up the One-Ten ramp, merging into the steady flow of traffic. I had a Glock 17 tucked in my waistband holster and a five-inch M327 revolver for backup. I was wearing a tie and dress shoes as the brass gods demanded, and my badge, all polished and shiny, was safely stowed into my wallet. Little uncomfortable in the shoes, and already sweaty in the nice shirt, but other than that, I made one hell of an RHD dick. Satish wasn’t too bad either.
    Not that anybody cared. In South Central what most people care about is survival. A ghetto of dilapidated apartment buildings, body shops, liquor stores, and cinder-block walls decorated in layers of graffiti, South Central has always been ruled by the Main Street Crips, the Hoovers, and their various street factions. Summers get pretty damned hot in this part of town. 
    “So, what’s the deal in South L.A.?” Satish asked.
    “Katie found the guy who did the mosaic art on Amy Liu’s back patio. The work was done two months ago. Guy’s got no priors, but his nephew, who helped with the mosaic, is a Eighteenth Street with a tail. Ricardo Vargas, age nineteen.” 
    Satish tapped the car window. “A gang homeboy with a record. Interesting. What did he serve for?”
    “Fly-by shooting when he was fifteen. Shot a guy in the face to prove to his gang he was a man. His prize was a ten-dollar bill—that’s all the vic had in his wallet. Been on parole since last January. His uncle’s trying to keep him off the street by having him help out in his handyman business. They redid Amy Liu’s back patio last March. Uncle claims he’s been keeping an eye on the boy and he’s clean.”
    “I’m sure his Eighteenth Street pals are keeping an eye on him, too.”
    Half an hour later, w e left our vehicle and stepped into the sweltering heat of the small parking lot of a dingy, hot-sheet motel. By the street, skinny palm trees bowed under the sun. A man in a wheelchair peered at us from the sidewalk, his weathered face caked with layers of street life.
    “Bro,” he ca lled. We ignored him. “Hey, bro!” He wheeled toward us across