Benita Carballo lived in a small fifties era bungalow west of downtown L.A. The house was one of hundreds, if not thousands, built after World War II to accommodate the workers flooding into Southern California's burgeoning military-industrial complex. They were small, usually two bedroom structures, with a single bath and modest yard. The original construction had been wood siding, although many of them had been upgraded to stucco over the years. Benita's was one of those. Her house was neat and well-cared for, pale yellow with white trim. When Cyn pulled up at the curb, all the shades were drawn and the morning paper still sat on the front step. Her friend's car was parked in the short driveway, in front of a detached garage which Cyn happened to know was used as storage space by a variety of friends and family.
Cynthia picked up her cell phone and punched in Benita's number. It rang several times before the machine picked up.
"Benita, it's Cyn,” she said loudly. “Pick up, pick up, pick up."
Someone picked up the phone, then dropped it with a loud thunk. Cynthia jerked her ear away, then back in time to hear Benita's sleep-roughened voice say, “Chica, you better have a very good reason for waking me up."
"Hey, this is me calling back. Besides, it's almost rush hour ... and I mean afternoon rush hour."
Benita snorted. “It's rush hour twenty-four hours a day in this town. What's up?"
"I can't call to say “hi” to an old friend? I've gotta have an up?"
"Tell it to the rich boys, baby. I know you better."
Cyn sighed dramatically. “Eckhoff told me you might have answers to some questions."
"Eckhoff? Did you know that old man's pounding Jennifer down in records?"
"No shit? He told me he had someone; I thought he meant his dog."
Benita coughed a surprised laugh. “That's the Cyn I know. So where are you?"
"Right in front of your house. See what a polite person I am? Did I ring the doorbell? No. I called first."
"Dios mio. Come on in. I'll make coffee."
By the time Cyn reached the door, Benita had opened it and disappeared again. Cyn scooped up the paper and opened the old-fashioned, wood-framed screen door, letting herself in. The house was neat and tidy, with shiny wooden floors. Nothing was out of place, not even a magazine or a book. It barely looking lived in. She figured Benita had a cleaning service, because the girl Cyn remembered was not that neat. She could hear her friend puttering around the kitchen and made her way in that direction.
Benita glanced over her shoulder when Cynthia entered the tiny kitchen, arching one eyebrow as she took in Cyn's battered and bruised face. “I see we've got some catching up to do.” She pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard and set them on the tiled counter. “I've been gone a few days, so the best I can offer is coffee and a reheated bolillo from the freezer. You want anything else, you're going to the store."
"Coffee's fine. What're you working on for the department these days?"
She shrugged off the question. “The usual,” she said.
Cyn covered her surprise by walking over and sitting on one of two bar stools that stood against the wall. It wasn't like Benita to be coy. Even after Cyn had left the department, Benita had always been eager to share pretty much everything about her assignments. “Eckhoff says you're working the Russians."
Benita turned sharply, her dark eyes suspicious. “Why'd he tell you that?"
"Jesus, Benita, what's the problem? I asked him a few questions, and he said you could probably answer them better than he could."
"What questions?"
"I'm looking for a Russian. All I have is a name. Kolinsky.” She was watching the other woman closely, and so she caught the slight tightening of her expression at the name.
"Sure,” Benita said with forced ease. “Kolinsky's local, but you might be too late. He got hit pretty hard last night. What's this about?"
"Who hit him?” Cyn asked, wondering how much had gotten out about their raid. She didn't know for sure, couldn't remember anything after the fire fight, but she thought they'd taken Kolinsky alive, and maybe a couple of others, as well.
"I don't know any details yet, but if he's who you're looking for, you may have to look somewhere else. What's your interest anyway?"
"I think he kidnapped someone close to my client. And my client wants that someone back."
"Kidnapping? Not your usual bag, chica."
"So Eckhoff has told me. What about somebody named Pushkin? Eckhoff never heard of the guy, and my source was a little shaky."
"Pushkin?” Benita run a shaky hand through her short hair before answering. “No,” she said. “Never heard that one.” She jumped up, suddenly hyper. “Those bolillos are sounding good, after all. You want one?” She pulled a plastic bag from the freezer.