Into the Dark

55

Los Angeles, California

Later that day, LAPD Officer Will Tollson walked out of a little taco place on South Alvarado carrying two large take-out coffees to the parking lot.

His partner, Arnie Veck, had found a patch of shade big enough to swallow their new Chevy Caprice black-and-white.

Tollson passed him his coffee.

“Thanks.” Veck ceased scrutinizing the patrol car terminal to take the cup. Then he readjusted his seat behind the wheel. “You know, I prefer the Crown Vics.”

“Old dogs like you don’t like change,” Veck said, swiveling the terminal.

Veck studied the street as dispatches crackled over the radio.

“I’m thinking of dropping in on Bill Cruger’s retirement party tonight. Want to come meet some embittered old bulls?”

“Sure, all part of staff development.” Tollson tapped the monitor. “Look at this. We got to watch out for a gang funeral. Cruger’s retirement, gang funeral-the circle of life turns the right way for once.”

“Let’s head that way, fly our colors out of respect.”

Veck slid the transmission into Drive and they started patrolling. They’d turned down a local four-lane boulevard and were eastbound about a mile from the Staples Center. They were rolling by low-rise office buildings and fast-food outlets when they approached the Palms of Paradise Motor Inn, a two-story hellhole. Veck hit the turn signal.

“Let’s sweep the lot for BOLOs first,” he said.

“Roger that.” Tollson took a hit of coffee, then cued up the monitor for his notes from the rotator, looking for information on wanted suspects.

Veck slowed the car to a crawl through the lot, which by Tollson’s estimate, had some two dozen vehicles.

They had alerts for a 2009, possibly a 2010, blue Dodge Challenger with left rear taillight damage sought in the shooting of two gang members on Eighteenth Street’s Westside. They were also looking for a lime-green lowrider Civic with the last character a 9 in the tag. The Civic was wanted by L.A. County for an armed robbery.

“Hello.” Veck swept by a white 2012 Jeep Patriot, without stopping, reciting the seven-character California plate to Tollson for submission. “I think there’s a BOLO for a white Jeep Patriot.” Veck rolled out of the lot so that anyone watching them would assume they were done.

The terminal gave a soft ping.

“Bingo,” Tollson said. “That tag comes up with a big-time want by Alhambra P.D. The registered owner is Eric Larch, of Long Beach, wanted for breaching a protective order, now sought in the disappearance of his estranged wife, Amber Pratt. Christ, this is real bad. It just goes on. Hell, it looks like he’s a 187 suspect. He’s already had one assault on her. According to his bail terms, he’s not to set foot in the Southland.”

Both officers looked at Eric Larch’s recent arrest photo.

“Okay, call it in,” Veck, said. “We’ll swing back and block him. Odds are he dumped his SUV. When backup arrives, we’ll shake the building.”

Veck and Tollson T-boned Larch’s Patriot. A quick visual of the interior indicated no one was inside. Within minutes, two additional units arrived. The officers got out and used earpieces to mute their radios as two took the back and one each took the side of the motel.

Tollson and Veck entered the small office.

It was cramped with plants and wired carousel trees filled with tourist brochures about L.A., Hollywood and the sights. The clerk, a soft-spoken slim man in his forties, cooperated fully, checking his registration records and tapping his finger in his record for Room 134.

“That is the one with the white Jeep,” the clerk said. “It’s on the ground floor, near the pool breezeway. Here it is on the map.”

“No back entrance? No adjoining room entrance?” Veck asked.

“None, sir, only one door.”

“Are there people, guests, in the adjoining rooms or above?”

The clerk studied his records.

“None. They are vacant.”

Veck turned and whispered into his radio before he and Tollson headed to Room 134. Two more officers joined them. The pool was empty. The courtyard showed no signs of life and the upper level balcony appeared quiet. Paint blistered on the door, which rattled when Tollson banged on it. The other officers kept to the side, each had a hand on the grip of their holstered sidearm.

Nothing.

Tollson banged again, harder.

Movement on the inside.

“Los Angeles Police, step outside with your hands on your head!”

Locks clicked, the chain jangled, the handle turned and Eric Larch opened the door. He stood there bewildered, wearing only boxer shorts.

Tollson, Veck and the others charged in, put Eric down on his stomach and began placing his wrists in handcuffs behind his back.

“Hey! What the hell is this?”

“You’re under arrest.” Tollson snapped the first cuff.

“What for- Fuck, hey that hurts!”

“Violation of the protection order.”

“What? No way, I’m keeping my distance. I’m in L.A., not Alhambra.”

The other cuff snapped.

“You’re not supposed to be here at all, asshole,” Veck said. “Let’s go.”

The other supporting officers checked the bathroom. It was clear. Veck told them to sit on the room.

“The techs are going to want to process this and his SUV.”

As they escorted Eric to their patrol car, Veck read Larch his rights.

“Want to tell us where Amber is?”

Larch remained silent.

As Veck and Tollson approached their car in the rear parking lot, the two officers posted there had taken serious interest in the back of Larch’s Patriot.

“Hey, Arnie, come over here and take a look,” one of them said.

He pointed to an area on the rear gate and some rusty-red smears.

“Does that look like blood to you?”