The Pallbearers

Chapter 39

I called Vargas to talk about Jack and the FBI development. We arranged to meet for a late lunch in Torrance, where he had a hearing at the courthouse. I had some time to kill before then, so I decided to run by Huntington House first to see if Vicki was making any progress with the financial records.

Alexa had decided to go downtown to Parker Center and head off the FBI by convincing Tony to go on offense. There was a fair chance she could talk our chief into stonewalling the bureau.

Of course, the problem was that I'd lied to Sergeant Acosta and Lieutenant Moon and now Jack was gone. I had a hunch on how to get him back but wasn't quite sure I wanted to. He was actually in a pretty good place right now to help us.

A gnawing feeling of gratitude for Jack had been building in me for the last two days. He was unorthodox, but he had guts. He was moving forward and risking everything, including his life and freedom, because he wanted to get some justice for Walter Dix. You had to respect it.

When I got to Huntington House, nobody was in the office. I walked the campus, once again flooded with memories of my time there. I never found Diamond or Vicki, so I finally got back into the MDX and headed out. I had just turned onto Western Avenue when I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw O'Shea's custom maroon Escalade ducking in and out of a line of traffic. Somehow I had missed seeing the car at Huntington House. It wasn't in the main lot, so O'Shea must have been parked on a side street and saw me coming out. He was about three car lengths back.

I had to decide very quickly how to play this. I didn't know if I wanted to pull over right now and confront O'Shea on a city street, taking a chance that this polypeptide junkie would park another right cross on my forehead, or if I wanted to try and be more devious.

Given all that had happened and the short time line I now found myself on with the FBI, being devious seemed like the better plan, even if it wasn't the bravest.

I was sure I couldn't outrun him in my Acura, so I started to search my mind for a terrain-friendly spot nearby where I could obtain a tactical advantage.

Then I remembered a maze of little short streets and cul-de-sacs by the Torrance Municipal Airport, which was only a few miles away.

I accelerated through a yellow light and headed in that direction. In the side mirror I saw the Escalade plow through the red light, blaring the horn, narrowly missing some oncoming traffic. I drove as quickly as I could, weaving through traffic.

I was just passing the airport on my right, when suddenly the Escalade moved up fast. It slammed into my back left bumper, executing a pretty good pit maneuver, which spun my car. I went off the road onto the shoulder and finally came to a jarring stop half on the road, half off.

I opened my door and stepped out as Rick O'Shea exited his car.

He was coming at me fast from about ten yards away with an ugly expression on his face.

"What's wrong with you?" I called out angrily, looking at the damaged front fender of his Escalade, then at the paint-scarred left side of my bumper.

"Get the fuck away from me," I said, trying to get to the. 38 strapped low on my ankle. I was reaching down, trying to unhook the flap on the holster and draw my gun, but I already knew I wouldn't have near enough time.

What came next was so fast I didn't even know what happened. O'Shea took me down in less than a second with some sort of complex Brazilian jujitsu move, then, like a break-dancer on his back, wrapped himself around me.

His legs gripped my torso while he simultaneously pulled me toward him and twisted my arms up in some kind of joint-ruining arm bar.

I was suddenly helpless. He held me there, pinned and totally compromised. Then, like an anaconda squeezing its prey, he slowly began to apply pressure.

O'Shea's complicated holds were tightening, bending my joints the wrong way, shooting unbearable pain through my entire body.

He had his mouth next to my ear and whispered, "Are you getting the point, friend?"

"Okay, enough," I pleaded.

He put more pressure on my left elbow, bending it further backward. My right wrist was screaming in pain.

"This is so you won't forget."

He bore down hard, and I heard a snap. My right forearm exploded in pain. Then he unwrapped himself, stood, and patted me down. He quickly found my gun and then my badge case. When he opened it, he cursed softly.

"You're a cop?"

"Yeah," I whispered through gritted teeth.

"Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, then stepped back and threw my Taurus Hy-Lite and shield twenty feet away before sprinting back to his car. He pulled out and drove off, squealing his tires as he went.

I remained on my back, lying very still. I was cradling my throbbing right arm in my aching left hand.

I was supposed to be tough. I had a rep around the LAPD as a hard guy to put down. But I'd been in two scraps with O'Shea and I'd lost them both. Elapsed time on both contests-less than fifteen seconds. Pretty damn pathetic.

I finally got to my feet painfully, holding my arm. My left wrist was aching, but at least it wasn't broken.

After I got the pain under control, I somehow picked up my badge and got my gun back in its holster. I needed to get to a hospital, but I'd be lucky if I could even drive.