“You aren’t a cop. You’re a businessman.”
“I was a deputy chief at the LAPD.”
“That doesn’t get you any special treatment. You’re no different than any other civilian to me.”
“I heard you were hated by just about everybody at LASD. Now I know why. You’re a bossy little girl.”
She ignored his comment and walked back over to Grayson. “You can go home now, Grayson. But I may circle back to you with some more questions.” Eve handed him her card. “You may have some hard days ahead dealing with all of this. Call me anytime if you want to talk.”
“Thank you,” he said and slipped her card in his pocket.
Eve walked away as Dryer helped Grayson to his feet and went outside. The sun seemed brighter and the loud whap-whap-whap of news choppers circling overhead filled the air. The crowd behind the crime scene tape in the parking lot had doubled and now four more TV news trucks were parked on the street, satellite dishes raised, the reporters standing on the sidewalk facing their cameramen, using the shopping center as the exciting backdrop for their live broadcasts.
She spotted Tom near his patrol car, took his notebook out of her pocket, tore out the pages she’d written on, and walked over to him.
“Thanks for the notebook and pen,” she said, handing them back to him and stuffing the torn pages in her pocket. “The gunman had car keys for a 2017 Hyundai Sonata. Can you put out the word to check Vista Grande, Calabasas Road, the golf course, this parking lot, and the surrounding area for any old Sonatas? He might have parked, walked to Vista Grande, and jumped a fence to get in.”
Tom nodded. “Roger that.”
“Thanks,” Eve said, then saw Captain Moffett coming her way. She left Tom to meet the captain.
“You need to talk to the Officer-Involved Shooting Team,” Moffett said. “So does Duncan. They’ll meet you at the station.”
It was a waste of time, she thought. The incidents were all on video, here and at the house, and she had more pressing things to do.
“Can’t that wait, sir? There’s work I need to do first at Vista Grande. We don’t know how the three men got into the community or how they were planning to get out. We also need to—”
“I know what needs to be done, Detective,” Moffett interrupted. “I didn’t get my captain’s bars off a YouTube video. Vista Grande is locked down. I’ve got deputies canvassing the neighborhood looking for possible accomplices, collecting home security footage, and questioning gardeners, pool men, everybody that’s still inside the gates. You’ll get all the reports and footage. But, frankly, I think the spree of home invasions just ended.”
Of course he did, she thought, because that might reduce the heat from the media, and the public, over the deaths at the house, the car chase, and the shooting at the supermarket before any outrage over the violent outcome came to a boil.
But she didn’t think the case had ended with the deaths of Manny, Moe, and Jack. There were still too many unanswered questions.
He tossed her a set of keys. “Take my Explorer and pick up Duncan. You can go back to work once Officer-Involved is finished with you. I’ll get a ride back with a deputy.”
Eve nodded and started toward his car when he spoke up again.
“Oh, and Ronin? Bring back the vehicle in one piece.”
There were news helicopters circling high above Vista Grande and Eve even spotted a couple of drones buzzing like flies overhead as she drove up to the sting house. She wondered if the drones were from the media or curious homeowners.
Crime scene tape was stretched around the house and vehicles from CSU and the county medical examiner’s office were parked in the motor court. She parked at the curb and strode to the house. As she approached, she could see through the open front door out to the backyard, where white tents had been erected over the dead bodies to hide them from the media overhead. CSU techs were everywhere, taking photos.
Duncan met her in the entry hall. The blood had been cleaned off his face and his cut pinched closed by several butterfly bandages. The wound didn’t look like “just a scratch” to her, but she kept her opinion to herself.
“You get anything off the shooters?” she asked.
“Just their IDs, car keys, and burner phones. Both are white males in their twenties who live in the valley.”
“Same with the gunman at the supermarket,” she said.
He told her that the name of the guy she’d dubbed Manny was Joel Dalander, who resided in Reseda, and that Moe was Greg Nagy, who lived in Santa Monica. “I sent deputies to look for their cars.”