A Date to Die For

Crime Fiction by Robert Jakucs

The blinking amber lights of the patrol car cast an unnatural, yellow-white glow on the motel wall, silhouetting a pair of uniformed officers as they rolled crime scene tape around the building. Propped against the open door of one of the rooms was a bored looking, rail thin detective with a weak chin and a wispy brown mustache who nodded to me and my Hollywood Vice partner, Jim Hampton, as we walked past him. Lying face up on the floor was the body of an overweight, middle aged white man wearing only blue boxer undershorts. There was a blood stained T shirt stuffed in his mouth and his hands were bound in front by a leather belt. A hint of marijuana smoke clung to the room.

The man’s left eye was swollen shut, there was a bloody gash across his forehead, and his face was almost unrecognizable from the beating it had absorbed. Crouched down on his haunches next to the body was Lieutenant Sean O’Leary, the commanding officer of LAPD Hollywood Detectives. He was a tall, gaunt man with short cropped, graying hair, a weather-beaten face, and his speech still held a trace of the Dublin accent of his youth in the Emerald Isle. He wore a worn, gray raincoat, a black suit and a tired expression as he stared down at the beaten corpse.

            “What do you have, Lieutenant?” Jim asked.

            “We have a dead white male, late thirties, probably a john, with a staved in head and an empty wallet. The night clerk found him when he didn’t check out.”

            “Looks like a trick rip-off gone bad,” I said.

            “This is the second homicide we’ve had with the same MO. We’ve also had two robberies where a hooker took a john to a short time motel, and her accomplice beat and robbed him.”

            “I bet there’s other victims out there who were too embarrassed to report it.”

            “I wouldn’t take book on that one, Pilsudski. A month ago, a West LA vice cop went into a motel room with a street walker on Santa Monica Boulevard and was sapped from behind. They took his money, badge, and gun.”

            “Any description on the suspects in that one?”

            “The cop never saw his attacker,” he said. “The girl was a female Mex, early twenties, with long dark hair, skintight pants and a good body. She also had a noticeable scar on her left hand from the thumb down past her wrist.”

            “How about the robbery victims?”

            “Both thought the hooker was Mexican and her accomplice was a large black fellow wearing a Yankee hat.”

            “Could be the same team,” I said.

            “Right you are, boyo. Either way, better be damn careful out there. I know you vice cops are always alone when you’re operating prostitutes, but for the love of God don’t go in any motel rooms. Prostitution’s only a misdemeanor. It’s not worth dying for.”

            A crowd had already gathered on Sunset across from the motel by the time Jim and I drove out of the parking lot. This time of night, all three lanes on both sides of Sunset were crowded with out-of-town tourists, classic car aficionados, and lonely men on the prowl. Donna Summer’s brassy ‘Bad Girls’ blared out its pulsating beat from multiple car stereos on this festive spring night as working girls strutted their stuff on every corner from La Brea Avenue west to Crescent Heights Boulevard. Here and there one of them would put on a show, shaking and grinding her hips to the thumping beat as testosterone fueled boys, just barely out of high school, ogled her on with cheers and wolf whistles as they cruised by.       

            “The lieutenant gave us a good lead on that rip-off team, Jim,” I said. “Of the two suspects, finding the girl’s our best bet. There’re not many Hispanic prostitutes out here. This is our beat, and with hundreds of hookers out on the Boulevard on any given night, we stand a better chance of finding her then his homicide dicks.”

            “You got that right, Ski. Those dicks aren’t going to be out here every night at zero dark thirty looking for her like us.”

            “How’s this for a game plan. If we see her, one of us operates her and gets a violation. We don’t go into any motel room unless we both make the arrest outside, OK?”

            “Roger that,” he said. “As rule number three of police work says, we always go home alive at end of watch.”

***

            Two nights later it was hot and dry with a dusty wind blowing out of the foothills as Jim and I checked out the east end of Sunset Boulevard near the freeway. It was a few hours before sunrise, and even though traffic on the boulevard had subsided to an occasional passing car there were still a few working girls left on the street. As we drove past the Gloria Motel with its blinking neon sign casting a greenish glow on the sidewalk, I spotted a lone female standing under a streetlight in the parking lot, its cone of light illuminating her Latin features. She was short, in her mid-twenties, with long black hair, black Lycra stretch pants, black leather boots, and a red sequined halter top.

            “She matches the description, Jim,” I said.” Let’s stake on her and see what she does.”      I parked the car some distance from the motel while we watched her. The only drivers out in this run-down section of East Hollywood were johns looking for some action and checking out the eye candy. When an occasional car slowed down, she’d smile and try to wave them over. When a gray Camry stopped alongside her, she leaned into the open passenger side window. Whatever business negotiation transpired, it didn’t appear to go well, and she stormed off in a huff while giving the driver a middle finger salute as he left.

            “I’m going to operate her,” I said. “I’ll drop you off north of the motel. Make your way down and get in position behind one of those parked cars. Once I get a violation, I’ll signal you and we’ll arrest her in the street.”

            “OK. Let’s do it!”

            After I dropped Jim off, I parked up the street and continued watching her. I could feel the tightness mounting inside me as the minutes ticked by. Even after working vice for over a year, I still had that uneasy feeling of impending danger every time I operated a prostitute. I shook it off like a bad habit and drove down the street towards Sunset. As my car approached the waving woman she eyed me like a hungry hawk. When I stopped alongside her, she walked to the driver’s side window and leaned in. The smell of cheap perfume wafted into the car as she gave me a quick once over, reached in with her left hand, and stroked my hand on the steering wheel.

            “Hello, Studly, looking for a date?” she said. A quick glance down

was all I needed to see an ugly, raised scar on her hand running below the thumb.

            “Well…Yeah.”

            “How much you want to spend?”

            “What would thirty dollars get me?” I said.

            As she described in graphic detail what heights of sexual pleasure I would get for my money, I nodded my head while giving the violation signal to my partner.

            “Sounds good. Can we do a car date?” I asked. “I have to get home quick to my …I mean, I don’t have much time.”

            I tried stalling her until Jim arrived, but she turned and walked towards the motel stairwell. Looking over her shoulder, she gave me a sly, come-hither look and said, “I’ll be in two-ten on the second floor, Tiger. Don’t keep me waiting.” I kept flashing the signal, but Jim was nowhere to be found. A creeping sense of dread made my stomach tighten as I looked in vain for my partner.

            ‘What’s happened to him?’ I wondered. The only thing moving in the parking lot was a fat rat scurrying away from an overloaded dumpster. The place was giving me the creeps and things were going downhill fast. I had the violation, she matched the girl’s description in the trick rip-offs, but now Jim was missing. Do I try take her down alone? Do I wait and call the vice office and tell them my partner’s missing?

            Deciding to play the hand I was dealt, I crossed my own private Rubicon, grabbed my gun and badge from their hiding place in the car, and walked towards the stairwell. Off in the shadows to my left I saw two men sharing a joint and giving me a hard stare. When I looked back, the girl had already reached the second floor and was waving me up. My heart was racing, I was out there on my own, and there was a better than even chance a killer was waiting for me inside Room two-ten.

            As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I took out my gun and held it behind my left leg. Just as I reached the landing, I took a shooting stance with a good sight picture and cleared the top step. Empty. Hearing a noise behind me, I spun around while pulling back on the trigger as a dark, feral cat scurried away. I took a quick peek around the corner of the landing and saw the girl standing about four doors down.

            Stepping back into the landing, I took a few deep breaths to steady my nerves, stuck my gun inside my back waistband, and walked onto the catwalk. When she saw me, she rushed up with a big smile and started tugging on my shirt sleeve.

            “Come on, Sugar, don’t be shy. You know you want it,” she said.

            “I’m real nervous about this. I’ve never done this before.”

            “It’s OK, Baby. I’m going to give you the ride of your life. You’ll be howling like an old tomcat when I’m through with you.”

            Just then I heard pounding footsteps rushing up the staircase. I snatched the girl’s arm, twisted her around, and covered her mouth. As I pulled my piece and took aim on the stairwell, the top of Jim’s head appeared.

            “Don’t shoot, Ski, it’s me.”

A wave of relief washed over me. I leaned forward and whispered in the girl’s ear, “Police. You’re under arrest! Don’t say a word!” We handcuffed her and moved into a darkened corner of the landing.

            “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner, Ski. Some john pulled over and his headlightsd blocked my view. I couldn’t see you until you were at the stairwell.”

            “Better late than never. She went up to two-ten. I’m going to check if I hear anything inside that room. Stay here and keep her quiet.”

            I walked to the room, bent down, and put my ear to the door while straining to hear above the noise of an occasional passing car and the blinking sound of the motel’s neon sign. A slow minute went by before I heard the creaking sound of footsteps inside. I kept my eyes on the door and backtracked to where Jim and the girl were standing.

            “I heard footsteps. Someone’s in that room.”

            “There’s no one in there,” she said. “My first trick rented that room today.”

            “Shut up, bitch. Don’t let me hear you say another word,” said Jim. “Your call if we go in or not, Ski.”           

            It was my arrest, so it was my decision. I saw a limited menu with three options to choose from. Option one was call for a backup, but that could take forever. Option two was walk away to live another day but perhaps let a killer go. Option three was to go in and risk the possibility of a shootout and have our prisoner get shot in the bargain. None of them looked very promising, but then it hit me like a flash. Call it a cop’s intuition or whatever you like, but at that moment I knew the killer was in that room, and I was going to get him.

            “We’re going in,” I said. “Get the key out of her purse. She goes in first, I’ll be behind her, and you trail me.”

            Jim leaned forward and said, “You’re going in first, girlfriend. If there’s a shootout, you’re not coming out alive.”

A look of pure hatred burned in her dark, brown eyes as she glared at him. He rifled through her purse and handed me the room key. The tension rose with each step as we moved closer to the door. I put my ear to it, but this time heard nothing. I turned the key in the lock, the grating metal on metal sound magnified in the silence of the night. Once the bolt slid free, I stood off to the side and pushed the door open. Nothing.

            The room was what you’d expect in a low rent, East Hollywood no-tell motel that catered to pimps, prostitutes and other assorted bottom feeders living below the radar. An unmade bed with balled up sheets and blankets were off to my left. On top of the small nightstand next to the bed was a cheap, unlit ceramic lamp. There was a bathroom on the right side and a small closet on the left with closed accordion folding doors.

            The only light inside the darkened room from the blinking motel sign created eerie shadows on the walls, and the only sound heard was the slow, steady drip of a leaky faucet in the bathroom. I nudged her forward while pointing my gun over her left shoulder. Jim took a barricade position against the entry door frame while taking aim at the closet on the left.

            “Keep moving,” I said as we made our way to the bathroom. When she was next to the door, I braced her against the wall and pushed it open. I waited a few seconds and then whirled inside, my hands gripping my gun while I scanned the interior. Empty.

            I stepped back into the room and gave Jim the all clear sign. Grabbing the girl, I moved her towards the closed closet. After three hesitant steps, her body froze like Arctic ice and she wouldn’t budge. Pointing towards the closet, I nodded my head to Jim and pulled her back into the bathroom. Her fear filled eyes were round as saucers as I whispered in her ear, “Get in the tub, lie down, and don’t say a word.”

            I took a barricade position against the bathroom door frame and aimed at the closet. The quiet in the room was like the stillness before the first clap of a thunder in a giant storm. Jim grabbed the ceramic lamp by its neck, turned it upside down, and tossed it underhand in a high arc towards the closet. It toppled end over end and crashed into the accordion door, where it fell to the floor and shattered into tiny pieces. The door collapsed inward, and there silhouetted in the darkened interior of the closet was the crouching figure of a shadowy man pointing a gun at me. 

            Boom! Flame burst from his gun with a deafening roar and a bullet smacked into the doorpost just above my head, showering me with bits of plaster and dust. The room exploded in a fusillade of shots as both Jim and I emptied our guns at the dark figure until he toppled backwards into the closet and lay still. The smell of cordite filled the air and the only sound heard was the sobbing of the girl in the bathtub.

            “You OK, partner?” said Jim.

            “Yeah, I’m good.”

            “Cover me,” he said.

            He moved forward in catlike steps as he kept his gun trained on the limp form. A dark blue, New York Yankee baseball cap lay next to the lifeless body. Jim kicked the revolver from the dead man’s hand, bent down and felt the neck for a pulse. After a moment, he looked up and shook his head.

            “He’s dead, and there’s a nasty looking beaver tail sap lying on the floor in the closet,” he said.

“I’ll call the station and have the homicide dicks roll out.”

I grabbed the room phone, identified myself as the police to the night clerk, and got an outside line. I told the station front desk we had an officer involved shooting at the Gloria Motel, the suspect was dead, and to put out a Code 4 to responding units.

            After Jim handcuffed the dead suspect, I made my way to the stairwell as the sound of emergency sirens came closer. A brief time later I heard the familiar clamor of pounding feet on the stairwell.

            “Police Officer,” I said as I flashed my badge around the stairwell corner. “Don’t shoot. It’s me, Officer Pilsudski!”

Once the first uniformed officer showed his face, I told him to cordon off the second floor and went back inside the room and waited for the homicide dicks. Sometime later, Lieutenant O’Leary walked into the room.  

            “Well, lads, what do we have here?” he said.

            “One dead shooter who I think’s your murder suspect, Lieutenant,” I said. “The girl’s got a long scar on her left hand, this guy had a Yankee cap on and there’s a beaver tail sap lying on the floor in the closet. He was using a snub nose thirty-eight, and I bet it’s the West LA cop’s gun.”

            The lieutenant put on a pair of medical gloves, crouched over the body and examined the gun on the floor. He looked at the serial numbers, compared them to those in his notebook, and nodded to me. “Same numbers,” he said. “Looks like we’ll clear our murder and a few robberies to boot on these two. Tidy bit of police work on your part.

            “I’ll have patrol take the girl back to the station. Why don’t you both go back there and have a cuppa. You’ll be needing it, what with a long day ahead of you. Both Homicide and the shooting team will be having a crack at you, but you’ll both be coming out grand in the end.”

            As we walked out of the room, Jim turned towards me, shook his head sadly and said, “All this for a lousy misdemeanor.”

---

Bio: Robert Jakucs is a retired LAPD homicide detective and Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam, Gulf War, and Iraq War. His fictional crime stories focus on the beat of the street in the underbelly of Los Angeles. Besides the excitement, humor and danger inherent in the police work, his stories deal with the physical and psychological toll crime takes on people on both sides of the law, along with those caught in the middle. When not writing, he can be found surfing his favorite South Bay break and practicing the ancient Chinese martial art of Tai Chi.

Photo by: Pexels/Keiran

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