Hollywood Hills

TWENTY-SEVEN

Six-x-thirty-two was cruising westbound on Sunset Boulevard when Jetsam said, “While I was off, I got thinking about the Wedgie Bandit. You know the apartments by Ivar and Franklin? The white building with all the palm trees in front?”

“Yeah, I think I know which one you’re talking about.”

“I got thinking that the Wedgie Bandit lives in that building. That’s why he strikes more in the vicinity of the library. He don’t have to run so far to get home. I worked out a plan.”

“What’s that?”

“The next time we hear any kind of call about a four-fifteen man anywhere near the library, we haul ass straight for that apartment building. If anything jumps off, we’re ready. I’m about the only copper at Hollywood Station who can ID him.”

“You can ID the back of him,” Flotsam reminded his partner. “He left you in the dust when he shifted to his fourth gear.”

“The doofus can run,” Jetsam had to admit. “But next time I’m gonna catch him. Losing that guy feels like a stain on my career. I gotta make it right.”

“Okay, dude,” Flotsam said. “Six-X-Thirty-two is gonna be the unit to catch the Wedgie Bandit. If we do, you think the sarge will buy us a pizza?”

Viv Daley said to Georgie Adams, who was the driver in 6-X-76, “Don’t rock the boat, Gypsy. I ate the world’s hottest curry last night and my stomach’s still reeling from the abuse. That’s the last time I date a Thai guy in Thai Town.”

Georgie Adams said, “Most Thai guys are no taller than me, sis. Didn’t you two look funny together?”

“No, I got to enjoy the top of his head after looking at it all night. He had bad hair plugs, and pretty soon I started counting the hairs in each plug when I didn’t know what he was talking about. He has a really strong accent, but he’s rich and it was a lot nicer than my last date, with a class-action lawyer who pops up on Channel Five every other day with an offer to make you rich. But no more dinners in the Thai guy’s ’hood.”

“Why would you date a trial lawyer that advertises on TV?”

“We all kiss a frog at least once in our lives.”

“Frogs, yes, cobras, no,” Georgie said.

She turned the rearview mirror to check her lipstick and Georgie said, “Why do you always have to do that when I’m driving in heavy traffic?”

“You’re getting very territorial for a Gypsy boy, aren’t you?” Viv said.

Georgie was silent for a moment and then said, “Well, if you’re dating short people with bad hair plugs, not to mention slithery trial lawyers, maybe you oughtta do something semiworthwhile for a change and go with me to the track next week. I got a few hundred bucks burning a hole in my checking account.”

Viv turned to Georgie with a hint of a smile and finally said, “Okay, it’s a date, if you promise to look in your crystal ball like a good Gypsy and pick a couple of winners for us.”

A horny businessman on his way home to West L.A. from downtown almost sideswiped 6-X-46. His problem was that he was ogling the streetwalkers who emerged after dark on the east Sunset Boulevard track. Two of the hookers were black and one was white, and they were dressed for duty in tank tops, short skirts or shorts, and leggings or nosebleed stilettos.

“This one’s for Momma at home with the kiddies,” Della Ravelle said to Britney Small when she turned on the red-and-blues and honked him to the curb.

To explain his erratic driving he said to Della, “I’m sorry, Officer. Something blew in my eye.”

After she’d written the citation and he was gone, Della said to Britney, “It’s another kind of blowing he’s interested in. We mighta saved him from a flaming STD, which would be hard to explain to the little missus.”

Britney said, “Have you noticed how quiet things have been all week? Hardly any code-three calls.”

“That’s okay for an old lady like me,” Della said. “But I know what follows quiet times. Remember where you work, kiddo.”

Britney giggled and said, “Right, I almost forgot. This is fucking Hollywood.”

Jonas Claymore was coming down fast from the methamphetamine frenzy, but there was still plenty of residue paranoia. He was in the number-one eastbound lane on Hollywood Boulevard, passing Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and he looked over at Barney the Dinosaur, who was talking to the Incredible Hulk, and both street characters seemed to be looking at him.

Narks! he thought. They’re undercover cops. Then he saw Spider-Man say something to Darth Vader, and he was sure they were pointing at him. They were all fucking narks. He suddenly got so terrified he began panting. They wanted him for murder! They wanted to execute him! There were two cars in front of him stopped by heavy traffic at Hollywood and Highland, even though the traffic light was green.

Jonas looked toward Grauman’s again. Now Batman was looking at him. Then a second Batman walked to the curb, and he was looking also. And pointing. They were all narks! Jonas Claymore pulled the van out into the westbound lane right at the oncoming traffic and sidewiped the rear fender of a Prius that had swerved just in time to avoid a head-on crash. Jonas kept driving eastbound and just failed to make the yellow light, and when the Wickland Gallery van roared into the busy intersecion, all north and southbound traffic had to screech to a stop, causing two whiplashing rear-enders and lots of horns blowing and a huge traffic snarl. But Jonas Claymore was past the famous intersection, and the stream of traffic had thinned, and there were no more narks dressed as Street Characters staring and pointing at him. He was heading home. He had escaped them all.

Six-X-Thirty-two was waiting to turn right onto Hollywood Boulevard from Vine Street when the Wickland Gallery van drove past, heading eastbound.

“Whoa!” Flotsam said. “That’s the van that Nate and me checked out the first night you were off.”

Jetsam said, “What was wrong with it?”

“Turns out nothing,” Flotsam said. “The guy driving was a nephew of the owner, but the way I got it from Nate, he shouldn’t be driving it anymore. Wanna check it out, dude?”

“Go for it, bro,” Jetsam said. “Nothing else to do.”

Flotsam sped around the traffic until he was behind the van and then turned on his red-and-blue wigwags and beeped his horn. The van kept going. Then he flicked the switch and hit the siren.

Jonas Claymore had been seeing so many hallucinatory cops everywhere he looked that he almost didn’t recognize real ones. Then he heard the yowl of the siren and he looked in his sideview mirror. Now he was sure of it. They were onto him. They were stalking him. They were going to kill him! He jammed the pedal to the floor and pulled out into the number-one westbound lane, causing all oncoming traffic to swerve right.

Jetsam keyed the hand mike and said, “Six-X-ray-Thirty-two requesting a clear frequency! We’re in pursuit!”

After that, he gave the make, model, and color of the van, including the California license plate number. And then, over the din from the wind rushing through their open windows and the yelps of the siren and the RTO’s squawking radio voice repeating the streets and direction of travel that Jetsam was yelling into the mike, Flotsam hollered to his partner: “Tell them it’s got Wickland Gallery on the side of the van! I want Nate and Viv and Georgie to know who it is!”

The black-and-white Crown Vic suddenly skidded at Hollywood and Bronson after braking for the driver of a Toyota who they figured had to be deaf. And after the radio car got straightened out, Jetsam yelled into the mike, “Cargo van has Wickland Gallery printed on the side panels!”

When the RTO at Communications Division repeated that information, Hollywood Nate, who was already racing toward the pursuit, said to Snuffy Salcedo, “Hey! That’s the van I checked out when you were off getting the nose job. Man, there’s something going on with that guy.”

Six-X-Seventy-six was one of the many units coming from several directions, all hoping to intercept the pursuit vehicle. The driver, Georgie Adams, said to his partner, Viv Daley, “Yo, sis! I think that’s the van our boy Jonas Claymore was driving when Nate and Flotsam jammed him, wasn’t it?”

Viv Daley cinched her seatbelt a bit tighter and said, “If it’s him, I can’t wait to hear his explanation this time. Hit it, Gypsy!”

Six-X-Forty-six, the only midwatch unit that was too far away to be racing toward the pursuit, was driven by Della Ravelle, who said to her rookie partner, “Damn, Britney, we had to get that call way up in thirty-one’s district. Those lazy bastards’re probably screwing off as usual. I wanted you to get in on your first pursuit. And this sounds like a good one. Damn.”

“My luck,” Britney Small said with a little sigh of resignation.

Jonas Claymore decided that getting anywhere close to his apartment in Thai Town was hopeless. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw at least three cars with red-and-blue lights flashing. There were too many headlights and too many cops and too much traffic. He couldn’t go fast enough to shake them. The yelping siren made it hard to think.

Then he thought of where there wouldn’t be so much traffic at this time of evening. An area where he could abandon the van and escape into the brush and hide in the darkness where cops couldn’t find him. And lately it was an area that he had come to know. He made a hard, sliding, screeching turn northbound on Gramercy Place and then turned westbound on Franklin Avenue. He was heading for the Hollywood Hills.

Della Ravelle said, “Hey, they’re coming our way. Maybe we’re not completely out of it after all.”

“They’ll probably double back and head east again,” Britney Small said glumly. “With my luck.”

The lead chase car, containing the surfer cops, careened up over the sidewalk on the north side of Franklin Avenue to avoid a bicyclist with no lights who’d darted across the wide street at midblock. When the black-and-white came crashing back down onto the street, the Crown Vic was lurching and nosediving. The tires screamed when Flotsam jumped on the brakes, but then he jammed down on the gas pedal again, and silhouettes rocketed past on both sides and horns blared.

Jetsam groaned and said, “Our shop’s shaking like a shuttle entering orbit. I think I just got me another muscle spasm.”

“Sorry, dude!” Flotsam said, cranking the wheel hard to the right when the car fishtailed again.

“I’m gonna try to parallel them on Yucca,” Hollywood Nate said to Snuffy Salcedo, who once again cinched up his seat belt and replied, “Is this any way to treat an old man with a new nose?”

Georgie Adams was doing his best to stay close to 6-X-32 by riding in their siren draft, but he drifted back a few car lengths when they hit heavy traffic at Cahuenga and even worse traffic at Highland.

Jonas Claymore was beyond reckless now and he simply blew across Highland Avenue heading west with complete disregard for the red light and the traffic moving north and south. He caused three fender benders before he miraculously crossed the busy thoroughfare and kept going west. That slowed Flotsam and Jetsam, who had to weave around the traffic collisions, siren still blaring, and it allowed Georgie Adams and Viv Daley time to catch up.

By then, Lieutenant O’Reilly and Sergeant Murillo were monitoring the chase in the office. The lieutenant was almost apoplectic because of the dangers posed to motorists by this wild pursuit.

“Get on tac! Get on tac!” he yelled to Sergeant Murillo. “There’re too many units involved. Tell them to drop off!”

But of course in a pursuit like this, with adrenaline erupting and endorphins exploding, the risen Christ couldn’t have made them drop off, and Sergeant Murillo knew it. Still, he issued the order on the tactical frequency, knowing that none of his coppers would listen to a drop-off order at this moment. And they didn’t.

When Jonas Claymore made the northbound turn onto Outpost Drive, he felt like cheering. This seemed familiar. This seemed possible. This was the area he’d been casing with that bitch that deserted him. This was Bling Ring country. This was the Hollywood Hills!

Della Ravelle and Britney Small were still driving east on Woodrow Wilson Drive approaching Mulholland Drive when they heard Jetsam yelling into the open mike that the pursuit had turned north on Outpost.

“No shit!” Della Ravelle said, making a hard right turn onto Mulholland.

The Wickland Gallery van careened north on Outpost Drive with three midwatch units behind it. And when 6-X-46 heard Jetsam yelling into the mike that the van was now turning west on Mulholland, Della Ravelle said to her young partner, “They’re coming right at us! Unlock the shotgun!”

She turned on her red-and-blues and her high beams to get the Mulholland traffic out of the way of the pursuit that was coming right at them. Jonas Claymore saw those lights in the distance just after he passed the big house where he’d first stolen this van. He was hyperventilating and had trouble filling his lungs, and now with cops behind him and cops ahead of him he considered bailing out, but then thought, No, not here. He was going to bail by the big house where it had all started. Where he had first set eyes on this vehicle that was taking him to his destiny.

He made a sliding, squealing U-ee and was heading back down only a hundred yards away from the cars coming up. And then he lost it. He veered too far right and hit a large steel mailbox in front of a view home and the van went skidding left on a collision course with the first chase car.

Flotsam yelled, “Hang on, partner!” And tried to crank it left to swing around the fishtailing van coming right at them, but their Crown Vic was T-boned and got spun into a 360, crashing into a eucalyptus tree before coming to a steaming stop.

The van had almost rolled, but another eucalyptus saved it from turning over, and Jonas felt the hardest jolt he’d ever felt in his life when the driver’s side of the van slammed into that tree, the hubcaps cartwheeling across the asphalt. And then he had to get out. He had only seconds. He crawled across the passenger seat. He could look out and hear yelling. He could see cops running with flashlights. His left hand was on the floor and it found the pistol. He wasn’t going down easy, not for murder.

He took the pistol with him and bailed out the door and limped toward the brush, where he thought he’d be safe. Where they’d never find him. Where he’d have time to wait them out and then go home. He had money. If he could just get away from this place. If he could get to a taxi, he could still make it!

But Jonas didn’t make it to the thick brush on the hillside. He almost limped right into a small figure with a flashlight. He heard a woman’s voice behind the beam of light yelling, “Drop it! Drop it!”

He didn’t drop it. He raised the pistol toward the flashlight, toward the voice, and Britney Small fired her Glock from ten feet away.

Jonas Claymore saw the first fireball and that was all. Two of the.40 caliber rounds missed him completely but three slammed into his bony chest and sunken belly. He went down on his back, eyes open, and they never closed again.

There was pandemonium then, with Della Ravelle running to Britney, her shotgun pointed at the supine body of Jonas Claymore. And Viv Daley came running with her shotgun, and Georgie Adams pointed his pistol at the unmoving body.

Hollywood Nate and Snuffy Salcedo helped pry open Flotsam’s door. He had blood on his face and on one hand, but he wouldn’t get out of the car. He was yelling at them, “Get an RA! Now, goddamnit!” Then he turned to Jetsam, who was moaning in agony, his right foot trapped by mangled metal, and Flotsam said, “Easy, bro! Easy, partner! We’ll get you outta here!”

It took both Hollywood Nate and Snuffy to pull and pry at the passenger door of 6-X-32’s Crown Vic before they got it open, and when Nate shined his light onto Jetsam’s right foot, he yelled to Viv Daley, “Get me a tourniquet or a belt or anything!”

By the time the rescue ambulance arrived, Jetsam was lying on the roadside and was going gray. Kneeling beside him, Flotsam waved away Della, who’d torn open a first-aid kit and wanted to tend to the bleeding contusion at Flotsam’s hairline.

He kept saying to his partner, “Easy, bro. Stay with me. Don’t go nowhere, bro. Stay here with me. I ain’t gonna leave you, so don’t you leave me!”

The tall surfer cop insisted on riding in the back of the ambulance when they loaded Jetsam aboard, and he talked to him all the way to Cedars-Sinai, even when the paramedic said that the officer was showing signs of shock and wouldn’t understand him. Flotsam remained outside the ER until Hollywood Nate and Snuffy Salcedo came to get him and transport him to Hollywood Station.

Before they were separated and before Force Investigation Division arrived at the station, Della Ravelle took her rookie partner to the women’s locker room and said to the shaken young woman, “You have nothing to fear from FID or anybody else, Britney. It was an in-policy shooting, a good shooting.”

“Funny thing,” the young cop said. “It doesn’t seem right to call killing somebody a good shooting. It doesn’t feel good. I don’t feel good.”

“He’s dead and you’re alive,” Della said. “That’s good. Very good.”

“He was my age,” Britney said.

“And you would never have gotten a day older if you hadn’t done what you did,” Della said. “Now listen to me. After you get interrogated and after they say you can return to duty, you’re gonna be treated different. The male cops, particularly the macho OGs, will pat you on the back and praise you and show you some deference. You won’t get treated like a rookie anymore.”

“Because I killed somebody?” Britney said.

“Because you’ve proven yourself to them,” Della said. “Just go with it and smile politely and you’ll find that your job will go better in this man’s world we live in. From now on, you won’t be a little female boot they make fun of. They’ll respect you and even admire you. Like it or not, girl, you’re now an authentic and bona fide gunfighter.”

By daybreak, both Hollywood Division and Beverly Hills homicide detectives had worked out what had transpired at Wickland Gallery on Wilshire Boulevard. Their reports said that Jonas Claymore, who had recentely been arrested for felony possession of controlled substances, had probably been in a drug-induced state when he’d entered the gallery and caught Nigel Wickland by surprise in a blitz attack, cutting his face with a knife that was found in the wrecked van. There were signs of a life-and-death struggle in which Nigel Wickland apparently managed to get his hands on a Smith amp; Wesson 9-millimeter pistol registered to him. However, he was overcome in the struggle and was shot dead by the assailant, who then stole the gallery owner’s wallet and wristwatch, which were found in Jonas Claymore’s pocket after he was shot and killed.

Because an art gallery wasn’t the kind of business that would be a normal target for this kind of attack, the detectives made a note that the gallery owner was openly homosexual. They surmised that because Jonas Claymore was a handsome young man, he may have had a past intimate relationship with the victim, a relationship that had soured and turned violent. The fact of the van having been in Jonas Claymore’s possession on at least one other occasion when officers of Hollywood Division had questioned him tended to validate the theory of an intimate relationship between victim and assailant.

By the next afternoon, Ruth Langley, the only employee of the Wickland Gallery, told detectives through copious tears that she was led to believe that the young man who had borrowed her employer’s van on the prior occasion was his nephew. Nigel Wickland had described him as a kind of black sheep. But the deceased killer’s mother, who lived in Encino, denied that they were related to Nigel Wickland. She could offer no explanation for her son’s bizarre behavior other than that he had been using drugs heavily and had lately been living with a young woman whose name she did not know. Jonas Claymore’s mother suggested that the young woman had no doubt enticed her son into the drug use that led to his death.

Ruth Langley of Wickland Gallery could not account for the poster-board photographs of two Impressionist paintings that were found in the wrecked van. She told detectives that they must have been something that Nigel Wickland had picked up from one of the many art dealers he knew, perhaps to frame and hang in his condominium. She told the detectives that the pictures had no value other than as decorative art and that she would like to have them as mementos of her years working at the Wickland Gallery.

Two days after the murder of Nigel Wickland, Hollywood Nate Weiss went to Cedars-Sinai before reporting for duty at Hollywood Station. The floor nurse told him that the patient’s mother and two sisters had just been there, and the patient’s father had visited separately. She added that the police partner of the patient was in his room now and that the patient should only have visitors for brief periods of time.

She asked Nate if he was aware that the patient’s foot could not be saved, and Nate said that everyone at Hollywood Station knew about it. She said that if he wished, he could join the officer and the patient’s partner for a little while but added that the patient would soon need to rest.

Hollywood Nate walked down the corridor and was surprised that his palms were moist. He didn’t know what he’d say to Jetsam other than something trite: “You’re looking great. Are they treating you okay? Everyone sends their best. Is there anything you need? Anything at all?”

Nate stopped at the door to Jetsam’s room to try to think of something better to say and he heard the voices from inside. He decided to listen to them for cues on how he should handle this. Flotsam’s voice sounded somber even though his words were meant to be uplifting. Jetsam just sounded feeble.

Flotsam said, “Dude, I talked to the captain, and you don’t have to worry about only working the desk when you come back. You’ll be working in the field with me just like always.”

“With one foot? They might as well retire me,” Jetsam said.

“I been talking to people,” Flotsam said. “LAPD once had a cop with one hand. He got it blown off by a bomb. He got a cool prosthesis. The gangsters started calling him Captain Hook. He was, like, kinda famous after that. And we had some coppers that got an eye shot out. They stayed on the Job and did good work.”

“A cop’s gotta be able to walk, bro. A cop’s gotta be able to run.”

“You’ll walk. You’ll run. I been talking to people about the kind of prosthetic foot they can give you. It’s gonna be better than your old foot, dude. You’ll be good to go. You’ll see.”

“My foot, it hurts bad sometimes, but it ain’t there. They call it phantom pain.”

“I know,” Flotsam said.

“I wouldn’t mind so much but… but I’m a surfer.”

“You’re a great surfer,” Flotsam said. “You’re way better than me, dude. You’re way better than I ever could be. Why, I seen you do chocka backsides that nobody at Malibu could do. You’re a crusher. Nothing can stop you.”

“I don’t wanna lay on the beach like a stranded seal and just watch,” Jetsam said. “I wouldn’t wanna do that.”

“That ain’t gonna happen,” Flotsam said. “Sure, maybe at first we gotta take it easy. I’m gonna take you to Malibu every day if you wanna go, and we’ll let the ocean heal you. The ocean is a great healer. And soon as you’re ready, we’re gonna get you that new foot. They can make you a prosthesis that’ll grip that board like Elmer’s Glue.”

“What’ll I do at the beach till it heals, bro?”

“We’ll bodysurf or boogie board.”

“I ain’t no booger, bro. Can you see me, like, sponging-in on a real kahuna and getting in his way like some snarky squid?”

“Dude, the boogie board would be temporary till we heal,” Flotsam said. “Till we get our new foot.”

“I guess the Wedgie Bandit’s safe now, bro,” Jetsam said.

Flotsam said, “Trust me. Real soon it’s gonna be us two kahunas ripping like always. And we’ll get that Wedgie Bandit, you and me. Don’t cry, dude.”

“You’re the one that’s crying, bro,” Jetsam said. “In case you didn’t notice.”

Hollywood Nate turned then and walked back down the corridor past the nurse’s station, heading for the exit.

The floor nurse said, “Aren’t you going in?”

“Not today,” said Hollywood Nate. “Not today.”