Avarice

Walter Atkins, in his early thirties, with a weak chin disappearing in the folds of a chubby face, looked up from his laptop and over the stained particle board that separated his desk from the reception area of his storefront office. He saw two men in dark suits enter the front door and immediately spot his head and eyes visible over the board. He knew they were cops from the minute he laid eyes on them. He knew their look well from his years as a prosecutor in Van Nuys, then briefly after being transferred to the Airport Courthouse office. Cheap suits, entitled attitude, fake friendliness disguising a predatory purpose. He knew why they were here. He had never liked cops when he was a prosecutor, but they served a purpose, and he put up with them.

He stood up and walked around the particle board to where they were standing, next to the vacant desk where a receptionist should have been sitting could he afford one. “How can I help you gentlemen? I handle every kind of personal injury except dental. Too difficult to prove, you know.”

The Asian showed Atkins his badge, as if it weren’t already obvious. The middle-aged white guy said, “Detectives Loshi and Mack. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

Atkins used the voice he reserved for a friendly jury, charming but professional. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward the orange plastic bowls on stainless steel that served as chairs. “What’s this all about?” As if he didn’t know.

The detectives sat and attempted to adjust their butts to the small, hard surface of the chairs. Mack took the lead. “It’s about the attempted murder of one of your former colleagues, Rosemaria Baker.”

Atkins settled his broad behind on a chair behind the receptionist’s desk. He intended to show that he was the person in charge of this interview, indicated by his superior position seated behind a desk, however battered it might be. He was the master of this domain, by God, and nobody was going to intimidate him.

“Oh yes, I heard about that. Such a shame that happened to a dedicated prosecutor. But those are the risks we take as we put our lives on the line to uphold justice. How is she doing, by the way?”

“She’s doing very well,” Mack answered. “But it was a close call.”

The cops waited. Atkins knew that was a ploy to get suspects to talk, but he wasn’t falling for it. Thirty seconds passed, and no one said anything.

Loshi broke the silence. “I understand the two of you had some problems.”

“Only the usual differences about how to handle a case. She worked for me and had a tendency to go her own way. As her boss, I had to set her straight from time to time. After all, that was my job.”

“Of course,” Loshi said. “Yet at some point, your differences became so great that your relationship became untenable, and you were let go.”

It was all Atkins could do not to lash out in rage at being reminded by this two-bit detective of the injustice that had been done to him because of that pain in the ass, Baker. “It was for the best. I needed to move on in my career and establish my own practice. That had been my goal all along.”

The eyes of both detectives swept the small storefront with its cracked linoleum tiles, paint flaking off the walls, and one peeling print of an Italian street scene hanging lopsided on the wall.

Atkins quickly added, “I know the office looks a little forlorn now, but I just moved in. Workers will be here next week to do a complete remodel. I’m looking forward to growing a booming practice here. It’s so convenient, just down the street from the courthouse and the police station. This area of Van Nuys attracts a lot of people who need my services.”

“Did you resent Baker for having you fired?” Mack asked bluntly.

Atkins was momentarily taken aback. “I . . . I was shocked when it happened, of course. I thought I had been fulfilling my duties properly, but the assistant attorney general thought otherwise.”

“What exactly was it that got you fired?” Mack asked. “It would have had to have been pretty egregious. You almost lost your law license over it.”

Atkins’s patience had worn thin. “Where, may I ask, are you going with this? You obviously know what happened, and I don’t care to relive it for the sake of your curiosity.” He was livid.

Loshi pushed him to the brink. “Did you hate her enough to want her dead?”

Atkins stood up. “As a former prosecutor and officer of the court who respects the law above all else, I take that as an insult and a threat. The next time you talk to me, I will have my lawyer present. Time for you to leave, gentlemen.”

The two detectives took their time getting to their feet, happy to be free of the torture inflicted on their rear ends by the tiny sixties-throwback chairs. As they sauntered toward the door, Mack said, without looking back, “Don’t leave town.”

“And don’t you insult me with cliches,” Atkins spit out, unable to contain his rage any longer. “Get the hell out of my office!”

He paced back and forth in the tiny reception area seething, glaring daggers at the cops as he eyed them walking away down the sidewalk. He lived and breathed for the day when that Baker bitch would get her punishment for what she had done to him. The humiliation he was forced to swallow every day was almost too much to bear.

The detectives’ black Toyota sedan was only a few steps away, parked in front of a meter. “Think we rattled his cage enough?” Mack asked his partner.

“Maybe too much,” Loshi said.

“No, I think it’s best that he goes after her again while she’s under the commissioner’s protection. We’ll know every move he makes. Having a guy like Collins on our side, with his clout, made our warrants sail through the system like a breeze. Even if Atkins waits until she’s out of that fortress, we’ll nail him before he gets to her.”

“I hope you’re right. I kind of like that girl, unpredictable though she may be.”

“And maybe Atkins isn’t the one. Let’s check out Vick next and see where his head is at.”

Loshi opened the driver’s side of their sedan and looked up and down Van Nuys Boulevard at the crumbling storefronts, aging businesses, garbage on the sidewalks, and a homeless man sleeping under a filthy blanket in front of a vacant office. “From the sublime of the wealthy to the depths of misery. I think I prefer San Diego.”

“Our motel in Sherman Oaks isn’t bad. But I agree. Let’s try to solve this fast so I can get back to my nice, ordinary house in Chula Vista.”

“I have a feeling getting back home won’t be that easy,” Loshi said as they got in the car and strapped in.