“What was that?” he asked.
“That was Spanish,” I said.
“It was something, but it wasn’t Spanish.”
I sighed. “You were saying, Detective?”
He continued, “It is as you said it was, Mr. Knighthorse. More shark fins than even I would have believed. As you know, Mexico currently has a moratorium on all shark hunting. Of course, enforcing such a moratorium is another business altogether.”
“I understand.”
“Shutting down the black market is a good step. Except...”
I finished his sentence: “Except another will soon replace it.”
“No doubt, my friend. But, like I said, it is a step. There is one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“There were a handful of American buyers at the market during the time of the raid. One of them was a name you gave me.”
“Trujillo.”
“Raul Trujillo. Apparently, he is a well-known buyer in the states. Selling shark fins is illegal in California, no?”
“Yes. Until just recently.”
“That’s what I thought. He is being held here, and authorities in the US will be contacted. More than likely he will only be fined.”
“It is at least something,” I said. “This will be good news for someone I know.”
“I expect so.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“It is a nasty business,” he said, “and I’m happy to help.”
When I clicked off, Sanchez said, “He say what I think he said?”
“He did.”
Sanchez held up his fist, and as I bumped it with my own, he said, “Good work...bro.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
The next morning I called Heidi Mann and told her the good news: Raul Trujillo was currently in a Mexican prison, and his days of importing illegal shark fins—at least from Mexico—were over.
“Thank you,” she said. “It makes me think that Mitch...” but her voice trailed off in a choking sound on the other end of the line.
“That maybe Mitch didn’t die in vain?”
“Yeah. Something like that. He’s still stupid as dirt for doing what he did, but he started all of this, you know. Everything. The website. The organization. The demonstrations. The high-speed boat chases.” She laughed a little.
“And you will continue it?” I asked.
“Until my last breath.”
“Be careful,” I said.
“I’ll leave the high-speed boat chases to the boys.”
“Remember...these guys play for keeps,” I said.
“So do we,” she said, and thanked me again and hung up.
* * *
I looked out across the empty cemetery.
Well, empty of anything living. It was midday, and somewhere out there on a slope that descended down toward the Pacific Ocean, was my mother’s grave.
I was sitting on a bench in the shade of a wide oak tree. Sitting on my lap was a criminal report I had purposefully delayed getting. Delayed for no good reason. Delayed because I was not in the right frame of mind to rush this investigation.
After all, Gary Tomlinson wasn’t going anywhere.
Earlier, I had printed out the report without reading it. Now, sitting near my mother’s grave, I decided it was time. Perhaps I was disrespecting her by bringing this here, but I doubted it. My mother knew perfectly well who her killer had been. She had looked into his eyes, spoken to him, yelled at him, cursed him, fought with him.
I opened the report. Although not quite as thorough as police rap sheets, this was close enough. It hit the highlights, and sometimes the highlights were all that you needed to hit.
There were two arrests in the report.
Gary Tomlinson, who may or may not have murdered my mother, had been arrested twice for rape. Or, as the report puts it in politically correct terms, criminal sexual assault.
The first offense had been when Gary was in his late teens. The victim had been a girl under the age of sixteen. Under the “Outcome” heading was a single word: “Dismissed.”
A small wind rattled the report in my hand. The wind brought with it a hauntingly familiar scent. A flower scent. I glanced around the cemetery. No surprise there. Flower bouquets, in various stages of decay and propped against headstones, dotted the landscape.
I glanced down at the second arrest. Same outcome.
Dismissed.
A homicide investigator in good standing with the Los Angeles Police Department had a son who was arrested not once, but twice, and both cases had been dismissed.
I rubbed my jaw, ran my fingers through my hair.
Sandwiched between those two arrests was the date of my mother’s murder.
The rest of the report was clean. No other arrests and certainly no other convictions. Had the kid seen the error of his ways and cleaned up his act?
Or had he gotten better at covering up his crimes?
How many more victims were out there? How many cases were unsolved thanks to Daddy sweeping shit under the rug?
I didn’t know. I also didn’t know how much pull a homicide investigator had. There was, after all, only so much he could do, right?
Unless he worked the case, I thought.
Unless he worked the case, he could certainly manipulate facts and make evidence disappear. A homicide investigator also works closely with the district attorney’s office, whose job it is to convict. A district attorney could decide to drop a case if he or she felt so inclined, especially if there wasn’t enough evidence to convict.
Or if he didn’t want to convict.
Was it a coincidence that Bert Tomlinson, Gary Tomlinson’s father, had been assigned to my mother’s murder case? Or had he pushed for the case, knowing full well that his son was responsible?
I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.
Chapter Thirty-nine
I was in my father’s immaculate office in downtown Los Angeles.
My father was easily six inches shorter than me, but looked twice as mean. Or twice as psychotic. People talk about dead eyes. My father had them. Or they talk about glassy eyes. My father had those, too. Mostly, there was nothing behind them. They were devoid of any warmth or friendliness. Mostly, though, they were devoid of compassion. These were the eyes that looked down upon you from the chopping block or the gallows or, in his case, stared at you from behind a sniper’s telescopic lens. If someone were to tell me that my father was a serial killer, I wouldn’t blink twice.
I know, I couldn’t be prouder.
But you don’t pick your father, right? Mine just happened to be a sneeze away from a nationwide killing spree.