Mortal Faults

23

Abby did not, in fact, have plans to spend the evening in a warm bath, with or without the accompaniment of Jim Nabors’ dulcet baritone. She was way too keyed up for that.

She headed into Hollywood and parked outside the LAPD divisional station on Wilcox. The front of the building was an unprepossessing brick facade adorned with a banner inviting passersby to sign up for the police reserves. She wondered if the department ever got any takers.

Having left her gun in the car, she got through the metal detector without any fuss. At the front desk she asked for Sergeant Wyatt, identifying herself as Charlene, the code name they’d agreed on. The desk officer called Wyatt, got an okay, and directed her to his office.

She walked through a maze of corridors, past bulletin boards crowded with actual bulletins, past squad rooms where the desks were jammed together into communal work spaces littered with in-basket debris, past an echoing stairwell and a grimy coffee nook, and finally found the office, located near the rear door of the building-convenient for the cops who parked out back in the fenced lot.

Vic Wyatt was alone in the office, which meant he could risk a kiss-a quick kiss, almost furtive. He might be afraid of someone walking in on them, or he might just be feeling a little standoffish. He got that way sometimes. He had always wanted more out of their relationship than she had been willing to give.

“You running the show tonight?” she asked. Normally a lieutenant served as watch commander, but a sergeant took the helm sometimes. It was no big stretch for Wyatt. He was due for a promotion to lieutenant any day now.

“It’s all me,” he said, running a hand through his sandy crew cut. “What brings you here?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I’d say so. Showing up at the station isn’t your usual M.O.”

She put on a pouty face. “You talk about me like I’m a criminal. I could take offense.”

“You’re too dangerous to be a criminal. Besides, criminals are stupid.”

“Only the ones who get caught.”

“They all get caught eventually.”

“Spoken like a true officer of the law. Okay, what brings me here is this.” She reached into her purse and removed her sketch of the tattoo, smoothing it out.

Wyatt studied it. “Very artistic. You entering a contest or something?”

“It’s a tat I saw on a man’s neck. I think it’s a-”

“Scorpion,” Wyatt said, frowning.

“Hey, you got it right on the first try. Am I a good artist or what?”

“You’ve definitely captured the subject. Where’d you see this guy, anyway?”

“Around.”

“Around where?”

She didn’t want to tell him, but she knew he would get it out of her sooner or later. “I had a little encounter this afternoon.”

“What kind of encounter?”

“The kind where people are shooting at me, and I’m shooting back.”

He set down the sketch and stared at her. “Are you okay?”

“Not a nick on me. It was no fun, though-as I guess you know. You been in many shootouts?”

He frowned at the question. He was doing a lot of frowning all of a sudden. “I’ve been in zero shootouts.”

She found this hard to believe. Wyatt had worked out of Hollywood for years, and despite extensive efforts at renovation, much of the area still wasn’t safe after dark. “None?”

“I’ve never fired a shot in the field. I’ve hardly ever had to draw my piece. Which makes me no different from about ninety-eight percent of the cops in this town.”

“Huh.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that. Now you’re looking at me like I wear a skirt.”

“No, I’m not.” She considered it. “Maybe a little.”

“Thanks. So how serious was this situation?”

“It was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not exactly an answer.”

“Minor dust-up. No big deal.”

He grunted skeptically. “Which division is covering it?”

“LAPD isn’t involved. It was in San Fernando.”

“I can’t help you there.”

“You couldn’t help anyway. The FBI took the case.”

“The FBI? How the hell did they get involved?”

“Hey, you know the federales, always horning in on the action.”

Wyatt stepped closer to her and put his arms around her waist. His touch was unexpectedly gentle. “These days the feds are more concerned with terrorists than street criminals. You weren’t shooting it out with Al Qaeda, were you?”

“Nothing that dramatic.” She was surprised at how good it felt to be embraced, how much she needed it. “They were pros, though. One of them was wearing the body art. I was hoping it might mean something to you.”

“It does. It’s the logo of the Scorpions.”

“The Scorpions. Scary name.”

“Scary guys. You sure you’re okay?”

She slipped free of his grasp and let him study her from head to toe. “Do I look incapacitated?”

“No.”

“All right, then. So who exactly are the Scorpions?”

“Biker club out of Santa Ana. They all have tats like this.”

“If they’re in Santa Ana, how did they come to your attention?”

“They get around. Santa Ana is where they started. They have a few satellite clubs in L.A. If you got into it in San Fernando, you’re probably dealing with someone local.”

Abby thought about Reynolds’ trip to the barrio. “No, I don’t think so. I think Orange County is a better bet. You wouldn’t happen to know where in Santa Ana these gentlemen can be found?”

“I don’t, but I can talk to somebody who does. If you give me a reason why I should.”

“They fired bullets at my head.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

“It concerned me, too.”

“I mean, it concerns me that you might be thinking about revenge.”

“What I’m thinking of is bringing these folks to justice.”

“Street justice? Or the regular kind?”

“The regular kind. Trial by jury, innocent until proven guilty, Miranda warnings, the whole nine yards.”

Wyatt reached out and stroked her hair thoughtfully. “I know I ought to believe you.”

“Come on, Vic, what do you think I’m gonna do? Track down these guys and get into another pissing match?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“A pissing match is one contest I know I can’t win. Besides, although I may be occasionally a tad reckless, I’m not suicidal.”

“Not normally. But you seem pretty jazzed, Abby. Kind of…”

“Hopped up? Like I’m on speed?”

Wyatt squinted at her. “Well, yeah.”

“Someone else made the same observation. So I guess it must be true. I mean, not the speed part. But I am a little jumpy. Can you blame me?”

“Not at all. But you know, there’s a reason police officers aren’t sent back into the field right after a shooting incident. The aftereffects-”

“I studied psychology, Vic. I know all about posttraumatic stress.”

“Then you’re aware that you’re showing some of the symptoms. You’re on an adrenaline high. At some point you’re going to come down. You could come down hard.”

She took his hand. “You’ll be there to break my fall.”

“How can you know that?”

“You always are.”

He looked away, embarrassed. “I really think you’d be better off taking some time to get yourself together. Deal with what you went through. Get it out of your system.”

“Oh, hell, I’m not a newbie. I’ve been shot at before. And I’ve shot back. I killed a man once, and I didn’t lose a damn bit of sleep over it.”

“Maybe it would be better if you had.”

She pulled her hand away. “Are you going to help me or not?”

He thought about it. “Tell me what you intend to do.”

“Find this guy. Then bring in the feds.”

“How are you going to tip off the FBI without involving yourself?”

“I have a contact in the Bureau.”

“Then why do you need me?”

“They don’t know the city like you do.”

Wyatt pursed his lips. “Nice compliment.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I know you’re manipulating me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your lips are moving.”

She bristled. “Somebody woke up on the cynical side of bed.”

“It’s hard not to be cynical with someone who uses you.”

“Look, Vic, if my being here is a problem-”

“It is. You know it is. We can’t be seen together. It’s risky enough for me to come to your place. The damn doorman and those guards at the desk could pick me out of a lineup with their eyes shut by now.”

“How would they be able to pick you out if they had their eyes shut?”

He ignored the question. “I’ve taken a lot of chances for you, Abby. And, let’s face it, it’s pretty much a one-way street.”

“I take, but I don’t give. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what you said.”

“You’re not disagreeing.”

“Would I have any reason to disagree?”

“Maybe I’d just better go.”

She turned away. He put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back. His voice was softer than before. “The situation must be pretty desperate if you’re coming here.”

“Not desperate. Just urgent.”

“Subtle distinction. You promise you’re not going to go off and get yourself killed?”

“That’s not the plan.”

“And you aren’t gunning for revenge?”

“My life isn’t a Charles Bronson movie. I told you what I want to do.”

“Yes. You told me.”

“And you don’t believe it,” she said flatly. Tess hadn’t believed her, either. She was tired of being doubted. “Okay, I’ll take off, then.”

“Not till I get you that info.”

She cocked her head, uncertain she’d heard right. “Yeah?”

“One of our gang guys will know about the Scorpions. Just wait here. And try to be inconspicuous.”

“I always am.”

He left. She paced the small office, barely aware of the chatter on the police radio. A uniformed cop stuck his head in the doorway, saw her and not Wyatt, and mumbled something about coming back later. Other than that, she was undisturbed.

She thought about what he’d said. Yeah, she was stressed. Who the hell wouldn’t be? She was tense and a little hyper. So what? She’d survived a goddamned gunfight. All her senses were temporarily heightened, her mind racing. That wasn’t a bad thing. If anything, it gave her an edge.

Maybe coming to the station house had a been a bad idea. She knew she shouldn’t be seen with him, especially by his fellow officers. It was the kind of thing that could come back to hurt him if she were ever exposed. But she was in a hurry. She wasn’t in the mood to play it safe.

He complained that she rarely told him anything about her cases. He was right. But the thing was, she was doing it to protect him. The less he knew, the better.

That was part of it, anyway. Not the whole truth. If she were being completely honest with herself, she would have to admit that she never shared more than necessary. Not with Wyatt. Not with Tess. Not with anybody. She was the original lone wolf. It had always been like that for her, but in recent years she seemed to have retreated even deeper into isolation and wariness. She had learned to trust no one, to be perpetually on guard.

It wasn’t the easiest way to live. And it wasn’t getting any easier. More and more often these days, she was getting that trapped feeling. It came on for no apparent reason and lingered for hours or days. Usually a dream served as a harbinger. She would dream of herself in prison-not a real prison, simply a place she couldn’t escape from. It might be nice and pretty, with attractive decor and comfortable furnishings, but she couldn’t leave. Sometimes the prison looked like her condo, and other times it looked like the ranch in Arizona where she’d grown up, but most of the time it was just an anonymous place, as meticulously appointed as a luxury hotel, and as impersonal.

She’d had the dream on and off for years. She was pretty sure she knew what it meant. Her symbolic imprisonment was a subconscious complaint about the life she’d chosen.

She worked alone. She’d created a job that allowed her to interact with a wide variety of people while maintaining a cautious separation from them all. Sometimes she felt trapped in the private world she’d carved out for herself.

Still, there was more to the dream than that. She had a feeling she was trapped in a deeper sense than simple emotional disconnectedness. Trapped by… circumstances? Fate? She wasn’t sure she believed in either. Circumstances were what you made them. Fate was a myth. Or so she liked to tell herself. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe when she’d signed up for this life, she’d boarded a train that was headed down a straight stretch of rail toward a predetermined end, and now the train was moving too fast for her to jump off.

Not that she would have jumped off, anyway. She was committed. She would ride this line to the end-even if it was a dead end. What the hell. Everything was a dead end if you looked far enough ahead, wasn’t it?

Besides, there was always a chance the train would jump the rails. She wasn’t sure if that part of the analogy was comforting or disquieting. She supposed it depended on whether or not she survived the wreck.

The door opened, and Wyatt came in. “Their main hangout,” he said without preliminaries, “is a biker bar on South Grande Avenue, name of Fast Eddie’s. There’s about twenty-five, thirty members in the Santa Ana club, plus a few probates-aspiring members-at any given time.”

“And they all have these tattoos?”

“All the sworn members, yeah. It’s part of the initiation ceremony. The tat isn’t always on the neck. Sometimes it’s on the biceps or the chest or wherever.”

“As gangs go, are we talking major crime or penny-ante stuff?”

“Somewhere in between. They push meth and designer drugs, but they don’t produce the stuff themselves. They’ve made efforts to legitimize themselves-graffiti cleanup, toys for tots, that sort of thing. But it’s all bullshit. At heart they’re all about drugs and violence.”

“A real credit to their community.”

“They’re people you don’t want to fool around with.”

“I never fool around,” Abby said quietly.

Wyatt gave her a long look. “That's what worries me.”

She didn't like his inquiring stare. It was hard to know what secrets he might draw out of her. He knew her so much better than Tess did.

She broke eye contact, moving quickly to the door. “Thanks, Vic. I owe you.”

He showed her an unreadable smile. “I'll put it on your tab.”