The Pallbearers

Chapter 11

The uniforms left me cuffed and sitting in the back of the black and white while they dealt with jack. Like most complete assholes in custody, he wouldn't stop running his mouth. He was saying all the dumb-ass things arrestees had been saying since law enforcement began.

"This is police harassment. You had no right to hit me. Wait'll my lawyer gets through with you."

Shut up, Jack, I thought.

They took his wallet, and one of the cops headed to another car to run him. They told him to be quiet or they were going to write him up as a 5150, which is our code for a head ease. They threatened to call the EMTs and have him tranquilized. None of which slowed him down at all.

Finally, a weathered old Hispanic sergeant with five hash marks on his sleeve and whose nameplate said S. Acosta dropped anchor in the backseat beside me.

"Okay, sparky, what's your story?" He was already tired of me and we hadn't even started yet.

"I'm Shane Scully, an LAPD homicide detective."

"Then where's your wallet? Levinson says you don't have one. If you're a cop, then you obviously know it's mandated that all LAPD personnel carry their creds and a firearm at all times, on duty as well as off. Since you don't have either, as far as I'm concerned, that makes you a lying shitball."

"No… I am a cop. I left my house so fast tonight I didn't remember to grab my badge case out of my desk."

"Or here's a better one," he said. "You learned while doing your last prison stretch that it's better not to carry ID when you're out capering so if you get caught, we can't run you or match you up to your old priors."

"I'm a police officer."

"You don't look like a police officer," he said, studying my still-bleeding forehead, torn jeans, and flip-flops. "You look like a guy out on a hot prowl who just came in second in an ass-kicking contest."

"My name is Shane Scully. Call my captain at Homicide Special."

"Right. We'll do that right after we notify the governor," he growled.

"You better do it now, Sergeant. I'm telling you I'm a homicide detective working out of Parker Center."

"No kidding." He pointed at Jack. "Then explain why your buddy over there did a B and E on the MIG building forty minutes ago."

"What's the MIG building?" I asked.

"Mesa Investment Group. He set off all the silent alarms. We chased him on his motorcycle. Then, we lost him for about thirty minutes, and when he turns up again he's with you in the park. Start there."

"My wife is Alexa Scully. She's head of the LAPD Central Detective Bureau," I said. "I'll give you her number. You need to call her."

Before he could deal with that, another cop stuck his head in through the open back door and spoke to Sergeant Acosta.

"Sal, we just ran the other guy. Jack Straw has two outstanding warrants for federal bank robbery."

"He has what?" I said, astonished.

"Take both these humps to Mens Central Jail. Book Straw on the federal felonies and book this guy, whoever he is, as a John Doe material witness, until I can check his story or figure out something else."

Then a supervisors car pulled up, and finally a cop I knew stepped out. He was a tall blond lieutenant named Gordon Moon. I used to play basketball with him when I was in Devonshire Division.

"Lieutenant Moon," I called out. He walked over to the squad car and looked in at me.

"Scully?" he said, with a puzzled look on his face. "What happened to your head? What're you doin' in there?"

"You know this guy?" Acosta said.

Moon opened the door and pulled me out. "Yeah."

"Don't tell me, he's really a cop," Acosta said. "I was just gonna transport him to MCJ."

"I sure wouldn't do that," Moon replied. "He's in Homicide at the Glass House. What's the deal? What's going on here? Why's his head bleeding?"

Acosta ran through the basics of what had just happened. When he was finished, the lieutenant assured him again that I was who I said I was.

They took the cuffs off and one of the cops administered some first aid. I pressed a gauze pad on my reopened cut.

"Shit, man. Carry your fucking creds, why don't you?" Acosta said as I got the bleeding under control. I could see a worried frown on his face as he silently reviewed the violence his troops had already done.

"I'm taking back control of my arrestee," I said angrily.

"I'm sorry, you're what?" Acosta said.

"You heard me. Straw is my bust. I had him in custody when you guys blew in and fucked up my collar."

The squad of blues were all standing in a huddle around us, waiting to see how their sergeant was going to deal with this.

"Lieutenant Moon, I'm working Straw as a confidential informant on a big homicide case," I said. "It's imperative I retain control of my CI. I also want my car returned to me immediately."

Moon looked at Acosta. "What do you say, Sarge?" He grinned sheepishly. "The man really is in Homicide Special. His wife runs the entire Detective Division. I was you, I'd back off."

I handed Acosta the keys to the BMW, gave him the tag number, and told him where it was. A patrolman sprinted up the street and five minutes later returned with Alexa's car, parking it near where we stood.

Jack still didn't know what was going on. He was peering out the back window of the squad car parked next to us, mouthing questions at me that I didn't bother to answer.

Ten minutes later, he was pulled from the backseat of the X-ear and put into the front seat of Alexa's BMW, still with his hands cuffed behind him.

"Whose cuffs are those?" I asked.

"Mine," a uniformed patrolman said.

"Give me the key and your business card. I'll have them returned in the morning."

After he gave them to me, I climbed behind the wheel. Jack started grinning despite the fact that he was bleeding from four nasty-looking lumps on his head. His bullshit gold-boxed tooth had somehow managed to survive the conflict.

"This is very slick, dude," he said as I pulled away.

"Shut up, Jack."

"Totally mint," he added. "Can we take these cuffs off now? That asshole cop put them on way too tight."

I didn't answer him. I didn't even look over. Then I remembered something I'd seen in the La Cienega Park playground a few weeks ago. I drove ten or twelve blocks and pulled into the parking lot that adjoined the park. It was just a half a mile west of Park La Brea. I pulled Jack out of the car.

"Where we going? What re you doin', dude?"

"You're a fugitive from the FBI?" I snarled. "I've been running around for two days with a fucking bank robber?"

"Look… it's not as bad as it sounds," he said.

But it was.

In fact, it was much worse.