The Fallen

26

A pale fog was drifting through the valleys surrounding Eden Heights. The last of the streetlights cast its muted round glow as we headed up into the hills.

I thought of Garrett Asplundh’s favorite poem, as recited by Stella:

I pictured Hummer Man again and hoped we might buy some more luck with our “Wanted” poster. What Miranda had told me was apt, interesting, and a little chilling. But it wouldn’t do me a lot of good unless he went back to Higher Grounds when she was there or until I could match a suspect’s DNA with that in the saliva from the lid that Sanji Moussaraf had given me, inadmissable as that might be.

It was twelve forty-five by the time we left headquarters in the tactical SUV, a black-and-white Suburban heavy with lights and bristling with antennae. It’s an impressive vehicle. Eight of us were crammed inside: Fellowes and two detectives, all in street clothes, and three uniforms. Mincher had been plucked from duty in traffic, no doubt by Fellowes, and he sat quietly at the wheel, devoted to the road, saying nothing to me or McKenzie.

Everyone had armor. Fellowes seemed especially uncomfortable in it, and in fact the vest looked too small for his long torso. I wear an older, Kevlar II vest made by Point Blank, which fits me very well and is highly rated, though weighty and no longer considered cutting edge.

Behind us were four cruisers and two slickbacks, with a total of twelve armed and armored officers. Four of them were females from Vice; two were female patrol officers. It’s easier for women to arrest women because there is less likelihood of excessive force or groping accusations, though sometimes women peace officers have trouble subduing a violent suspect alone. Bringing up the rear were two transportation vans and four uniforms to take the girls and the johns directly to jail.

I turned to watch one van, two cruisers, and two unmarked cars pull to the roadside, then bump off into the darkness. They would use county-maintained fire roads and come in the back way. According to Fellowes, they would get to their destination sooner than the rest of us. They would park as close to the back of the Tuscan mansion as possible, then move on foot and take positions around the backyard and pool house.

The rest of us would divide into two groups, roll right up, and block both ends of the house’s circular front driveway. Some of us would spread out on foot to cover side doors and windows. The rest of us would go in, serve our warrant, and start cuffing people. Fellowes would do the knocking and talking, though I suspected we might end up breaking down the front door.

I looked out at the moon, a curve resting on its back in the gauze of fog and darkness. McKenzie checked her Glock, then holstered it and snapped the strap. I was aware of my grandfather’s Colt 1911 A1 up against my ribs.

Fellowes told us what they’d found out about the brothel. He told us that his Vice detectives had discovered that the Eden Heights house was actually owned by a Los Angeles — based financier who had never occupied it. It was managed by Sorrento Property Management and rented out month to month to Preferred Financial Services for seven thousand dollars. Preferred Financial Services was a company owned by Jordan Sheehan & Associates, Investments. There was no formal rental agreement on which her name appeared.

“I hope she didn’t smell us out,” said Fellowes as we slowed for the off-ramp. “She isn’t stupid.”

I figured that Fellowes had made sure she smelled us out, or we wouldn’t be marching in right now. I figured that Jordan Sheehan was far, far away from Eden Heights at this moment, likely at Indigo, where she would be seen and remembered. I figured that she had arranged to let Chupa take this fall. I figured that Fellowes would not be telling the press who the actual renter of the Tuscan behemoth really was. I didn’t think we’d find much of the A-list here tonight, but rather the second-echelon johns who actually paid for their Squeaky Clean fun.

“I hope I can cuff her myself,” said McKenzie. She leaned forward toward Fellowes as she said this, stepping on my toe with her duty boot to let me know that she understood Jordan had taken the night off.

We all had extra plastic wrist restraints, which are quickly accessible inside a belt or waistband. Two of our officers would carry video cameras to record the procedure. We wanted a clear record to help establish our case and to protect us from the storm of criticism that can come when police actions are questioned. Of course, our behavior had to be perfect, which can be difficult when people are screaming, running, or resisting arrest.

At least we wouldn’t have to pull off to the side of the road and wait for someone with the gate code to come in or out of Eden Heights. Fellowes had gotten the code from Liberty Ridge Protection, the private security company that maintained the gate to Eden Heights.

We waited while Mincher punched in the code. The elaborate wrought-iron gate swung open and the Suburban rolled forward. We started up the road slowly so the others could catch up. A moment later Mincher kicked the big Suburban into a trot, and we headed up the hill.

We passed down the wide street and through the handsome neighborhood. It was like driving through a life-size travel brochure for a Mediterranean paradise. I saw the Tuscan mansion up ahead, its fountain throwing streams of water into the air, the windows aglow with muted light, and the sharp reflections coming off the cars parked along the big circular drive.

McKenzie leaned forward, then sat back and took a deep breath. We knocked fists for luck. Chupa Junior stood on the porch in a swatch of light, took one look at us, then vanished inside.

“We’ve been made,” said Fellowes.

Mincher punched the Suburban to the far entry and swung sideways to block it. Two cruisers pulled up around us to seal it off. I glanced back to the first entry and saw our cruisers and slickbacks throttling the entrance, doors swinging open.

We trotted up the drive, Fellowes leading the way. The blue water splashed in the fountain and I could smell the damp sage from the hillsides. Our video shooter flared off to the side and kept pace with us, camera rolling.

Captain Fellowes knocked three times, waited a few seconds, and knocked again. Standing on the driveway behind him I saw a light come on upstairs, then another. Doors slammed. Voices touched the walls inside.

Fellowes signaled. Mincher and another officer slammed the battering ram into the fancy door. The brass burst off the wood, the door twisted open like something wounded, and Fellowes stumbled inside.

I heard shouting from the back of the house. Fellowes and three men ran down the foyer then branched off to the left. McKenzie and I followed but went right. A door slammed open in front of me and a young man shot out, saw us, and ran the other way. He wore a suit but carried his shoes and socks. Behind him tumbled a barefoot young woman with her dress almost on, her hair in her face, and a wild glint in her eyes as she tried to follow him down the hall.

I charged past the woman and caught up with the john halfway across the game room, yelling at him to stop. He didn’t, so I brought him down. We crashed hard into the leg of a billiards table and I could hear the balls clack apart up on the felt but I swung the guy’s wrists behind him and put a tie around them. He did not meaningfully resist. I ran back to find McKenzie in control of the girl, who was cuffed and demanding to see her lawyer immediately.

Two of our uniforms appeared to escort our suspects to the transport van.

More shouting from the back of the house then, but I couldn’t tell what was being said. In a suite off the hallway McKenzie and I surprised a couple still trying to get enough clothes on to run away. The man was middle-aged and plainly terrified. The girl was a very young Latina in a red slip. Her hair spread into a shiny black fan as she tried to sprint past me for the door. McKenzie took her down and they spit and argued in frightening Spanish while I let Middle-Aged put on his pants and shirt.

Suddenly the lights were out. A woman screamed upstairs, and a man yelled. A gun went off somewhere in the back of the house — a small-caliber handgun, 22 or .25 was my guess.

Two more quick pops rang through the chaos. A man screamed in pain.

Middle-Aged broke away from my grip and ran down the hall.

I yelled at him to stop but he didn’t. I saw his silhouette round the end of the hallway and head for the game room. I clambered in behind him, remembering where the billiards table was but miscalculating the jukebox location. I crashed into it, managing to stay upright. The French doors stood open at the far end of the room. I could see the faint moonlight outside and the shimmer of the pool on the window glass. Middle-Aged blundered outside and headed right.

I identified myself and ordered him to stop one more time. I caught up with him out by the pool house and took him down hard. He broke my grip with a nice turn of his wrist and struggled back to his feet. He made the spiked fence and I slammed into him as he tried to climb over, then fell to the ground and rolled once. He writhed away from me again. I picked myself up and clawed after him. But instead of running he stopped, planted his feet, and swung for my face. I leaned away from the blow and used his momentum to take him down again. I drove a knee into his back and used all my strength and weight to get his wrists together and finally cinch the plastic tie tight.

I stood up panting and really noticed what was going on around me for the first time.

The plan had worked. Our back-side interceptors were now marching off the girls and their johns two and three at a time. The lights on the cruisers bathed the scene in alternating flashes of red and blue and yellow, and the headlights of the transport van and the slickbacks cut through the scene with high beams powdered by the fog.

I recognized the San Diego fireman from one of Garrett’s videos. I recognized another face, though I still didn’t know his name. Carrie Ann Martier, wrapped in a white terry robe, looked at me as one of the Vice officers marched her past.

“Hi, Robbie,”

“Hi, Carrie.”

“Help me out here, will ya?”

“I would if I could.”

“All I did for you?”

“I’m cuffed too, Carrie.”

Then the wall exploded. A huge, headless shape blasted through a ground-floor French door, caught its foot on the broken glass, crashed to the patio, and rolled once. It came to its feet like a big, heavy cat and lowered the protective sport coat from its face. Chupa froze. He looked at me and at the other cops, then swung his immense arms and legs into rhythm and powered his way across the backyard toward the fence. He was limping badly. A Vice detective tried to tackle him but Chupa lifted him over his head and threw him into the pool. Another one climbed onto Chupa from behind but the big man shrugged him off. Another Vice detective drew down on him and yelled for him to stop but Chupa was already at the fence. A uniformed officer approached with his gun drawn but Chupa turned away from him and started climbing the fence topped by the elegant points.

I didn’t think he could do it. The fence was six feet high and built on an embankment. But he had already locked each of his big fists onto a spike, and he had more than enough strength in his arms to hoist his body toward the top. He hooked one ankle over the top horizontal railing. I could see the blood running off his shoe.

Then I saw Fellowes stumble through the broken French door, followed by Mincher. They looked at Chupa and lifted their already drawn weapons.

“Down from the fence!” yelled Fellowes. “He shot an officer! Officer down inside!”

“Bullshit, man, I got no gun!” yelled Chupa.

Someone fired over Chupa’s head and ordered him down. He had found a precarious balance, his feet stable on the top railing, his body bent over and wobbling. His big mask of a face glared down at us.

Another warning shot rang out into the night, humming into the darkness of the hills behind the house.

“Get down from that fence!” Fellowes yelled. “You are under arrest! You are under arrest!”

“Got no fucking gun, man. What’s wrong with you?”

Chupa let go of the spikes and stood. He raised his great arms for balance and his sport coat flared out, giving him a billowing grace. He began to gather and shift his weight for the jump down but the bloody foot either slipped or gave way, and he fell back down inside the fence and hit the ground with both feet. He was breathing heavily now, huge legs straining to keep him upright, his hands gripping the iron railings behind him.

Two officers moved closer, guns drawn.

“He’s armed!” yelled Fellowes.

Chupa found his balance. “Bullshit, man, I got no gun!”

“Drop the gun!”

He smiled. “I got no gun!”

“Drop the gun!”

And that was when Chupa whipped the pistol from inside his coat.

I drew down in an instant but it didn’t matter.

Chupa didn’t get off the round. A roar of gunfire collapsed him to his knees. He looked hapless and surprised. He fired one crazy shot into the air and another fusillade dumped him onto his face on the embankment. His back heaved and the blood gushed out through the bullet holes. He lifted his head, squinted out at us and into the flashing lights, then lowered his face to the grass and shuddered.

By 1:30 A.M. someone had found the main circuit breaker and turned it back on.

By 2:00, all of the johns and girls had been taken downtown. A small bunch of neighbors had gathered outside the driveway, and the fog had thickened.

By 3:00, the Coroner’s van had taken away the body of Chupa Junior.

By 4:00, Roger Sutherland and his Professional Standards Unit had confiscated the video cameras used to record the scene, completed their measurements and calculations of the crime scene, conducted interviews relating to the shooting death of Chupa Junior, and ordered all SDPD personnel to refer press and media questions to his office.

As it turned out, one of Fellowes’s Vice officers — Swanson — had gone down with a gunshot to the chest, but his armor had done its job. Mincher had witnessed the shooting: Chupa Junior had produced a small handgun from the pocket of his jacket and caught the officer as he burst into an upstairs suite.

McKenzie and I stood out back. The transport vans and cop cars were gone but the pool lights made the water bright and the yard lights issued a soft glow in the fog.

“You okay?” I asked.

“My nerves are shot and I’m sleepy.”

“Me too.”

Fellowes came from the house, slouching his way over to us.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here we are,” said McKenzie.

“I hate swimming pools,” said Fellowes. “They remind me of Samantha Asplundh. Take a walk with me, will ya?”

We followed him back inside the house, then upstairs. As I climbed the stairs behind him I understood that Fellowes, as directed by Sarvonola, had tipped off his influential friends so they wouldn’t get busted that night — Rood, Stiles, Vinson. And that he was covering his own and Mincher’s tracks by raiding the brothel. I understood that he had let Squeaky Clean get through the net so she could set up shop somewhere else. Jordan’s girls would take the fall for her — Carrie Ann Martier and the others. And I understood that we had killed a man who may or may not have taken a shot at a Vice officer, as witnessed by a traffic cop on the take along with Fellowes. I felt a deep sickness in my guts, like nothing I had felt before.

He motioned us into one of the suites. I saw that the door had been broken down.

The room was quite large. The furniture was leather and the carpet was dark and thick. Gas logs burned in the fireplace. One wall was a huge, mirrored walk-in closet. The bed was tossed — black satin sheets and pillows.

Mincher was there, leaning against the entrance to the bath. Two Vice detectives stood across from him and two more stood by the window.

“Shut the door,” said Fellowes.

Mincher shut the door. Fellowes went to the window then turned to McKenzie and me.

“You two should understand something,” he said. “We don’t know what happened to Garrett. Leave Vice out of it. We have our hands full with our own problems. Clear?”

“One of your problems was Garrett,” said McKenzie.

“No. He never said one word to us about anything he was doing. We had no problem with Garrett until you showed up. Listen, you fuckin’ crusaders — this is my turf. I allowed you to come along tonight so you would see what happens on it.”

“We saw,” I said.

“This was nothing.”

“Tell Chupa that,” I said.

“Dirtbag deserved what he got,” said Fellowes. “Ask Mincher. He saw it.”

Mincher shrugged. But he didn’t look at McKenzie or me.