Passing a smattering of spectators huddled in groups, they ducked under the police tape. Residents frequently avoided the cops, the fear of getting hauled in overcame their curiosity. But sometimes, passers-by became nosy.
“Who found the body?” Kelso asked as they made their way down the narrow alley.
“A homeless person rummaging through the dumpster.”
“A homeless person?” Gabby asked. “Who just happened to have a phone?”
“That’s what dispatch said,” Hastings replied testily. “He was gone when we arrived.”
“Sounds fishy to me,” Kelso drawled as they neared.
Gathered around the dumpster was a man in an apron, probably the cook from the diner that used the dumpster. Beside him stood another uniform.
“That’s my partner,” Hastings said. “And the owner of the deli.”
The owner was Ivan Smirnov and he operated the Russian grocery/deli located in the building on the right. He looked distraught and disturbed.
Kelso crouched down near the vic, Gabby noted the face was covered in blood. The hair was close cropped, probably blond.
“Victim is Caucasian male, around six-four, two hundred and twenty pounds. Put the age around late twenties to late forties.” Kelso rattled off his initial observation. “Blunt head trauma, red welts on the arms—possible defensive wounds. We need Nadia to estimate time of death.”
“Did you know our victim, Mr. Smirnov?” Gabby asked.
“He frequently comes in to Mechta,” the man sniffed. “Loves the stuffed cabbage. His boss loves the cakes. Pays in cash. Not unusual.”
Crap, Gabby thought. No receipts to trace. “When was the last time he came in?”
“The other night.”
“Was he a long-time customer?”
Smirnov shook his head and pondered the question. “Maybe two weeks ago.”
Kelso and Gabby exchanged glances. “Do you have surveillance at the grocery?”
“Of course. We keep thirty days’ worth.”
“Gabby,” Kelso called her attention to a note stapled to the dead body. “It’s the number for GHD and said we shouldn’t have interfered with Ortega. Does this look like a cartel hit?”
“Hard to say.”
“Hastings, can you shine a light on the face?”
The patrol officer did as he was told, and Gabby crouched down to look closer. There was something oddly familiar about the man. Like she’d seen him once before, but where? Blood obscured his face, probably on purpose, but why call GHD here and be mysterious about who was killed if the perp expected a reaction?
Someone was messing with them.
Gabby turned rigid and straightened to look around, wondering if they were being watched. Some perpetuators of crimes were egomaniacs who thrilled in witnessing the aftermath of their handiwork. Who was …son of a bitch. Her eyes flew back to the body on the ground as recognition sunk like an anchor in her gut.
“It’s one of Claudette’s bodyguards,” she said.
“There. Play that back again,” Gabby told Nadia and pointed to the footage of the grocery store surveillance. It was grainy and the technology was as old as Theo, but there was a frame that clearly showed Lance Logan, South African mercenary. But where was look-a-like Douglas Smith? Those were their names on their passports as security for Claudette Dumont, but she doubted they were real, given the vast resources of Antonio Andrade.
The FBI had reached out to the Brazilian billionaire. But as far as Gabby knew the man had evaded their efforts and had made no inquiries into Claudette’s whereabouts. At first Gabby thought the Biotech businessman used his connections to smuggle Claudette out of the country, but now she wasn’t too sure. Declan said her ex-stepmother had asked for his help in exchange for information about Ortega. There were certainly no public sightings of Claudette who was now a person of interest for carrying a biological weapon into the country.
Was she dead?
Gabby’s chest tightened.
As much as she hated the woman who stole her baby and caused her endless heartache, Gabby still wouldn’t wish her a brutal death. Although she’d imagined her murder a couple of times over the years and, most recently, after the captain’s death, she wanted justice to prevail.
“Looks like him all right,” Nadia agreed. She pulled up the photo taken by immigration when they first arrived in LA. “The CSI team is almost done cataloging the scene. I’ll head back to the lab if you don’t need me here.”
Before Gabby could answer, her rover—remote out-of-vehicle emergency radio—crackled.
“Gab.” It was Kelso. He was canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses, showing them pictures of Logan, Smith, and Claudette. They’d been at this for a few hours. Even if Nadia wasn’t the medical examiner, she had enough experience to estimate time of