The Pallbearers

Chapter 45

The next morning my right arm was aching less and my left wrist was almost back to its normal size. I was feeling much better.

After I dressed, I went to my closet to get a new backup gun. I had two. The S amp;W. 38 caliber Airlight had a magnesium frame. Alexa said it was another underpowered pop gun just like my Taurus. Because I was going to serve a warrant on Rick O'Shea and because of my recent embarrassing history with him, I decided to pack heavv this morning and instead chose my Charter Arms. 357 magnum Pug. It shoots 124-grain JHP ammo and will drop a charging elephant.

I called Vargas and told him that we had a warrant and that Alexa and I were going to arrest O'Shea for murder. I had checked in with him as a courtesy and to try and put it back together. I never thought that he'd give me an argument.

"The rest of us talked it over," he said. "And we all want to be there when you slam the cuffs on."

"It's a police action, Sabas. Its not a ride at Disneyland."

"Don't insult me with shit like that," he snapped. "We all did this. We did it for Pop. This is our victory as much as yours, but you're not letting us have it."

"Right." I wasn't going to argue. "Do me a favor and call Vicki. Tell her I'm on the way to her office right now to pick up her financial breakdown sheets. I'll be at Kinney and Glass in half an hour."

I hung up. I couldn't believe he was angry with me over this. He wanted to take a bunch of civilians out to stand on the sidewalk and watch an arrest for first-degree murder? Didn't he know how stupid that was?

On second thought, I guess if you have a California law degree and you're still willing on a second's notice to hit a guy in the head with a tire iron, you're not exactly going to be posing for the cover of Lawyer Magazine.

I left Alexa in our living room; she was getting ready to head to the courthouse in the Valley. I agreed to meet her there by nine thirty.

Kinney and Glass was one of those big Century City high-rise outfits. Too much chrome in the sterile marble entry, which was also hung with huge, ultraexpensive, modern paintings that looked like they'd been done by some fifth-grade class with finger paint.

Amana and Frigidaire people who walked as if they had Ping-Pong balls stuffed up their asses passed me on their way into work. While I waited for Vicki, I wondered how a hotheaded woman who kept a short-nose Bulldog in her purse could survive in such a frosty environment.

Vicki finally came out and handed me the paperwork. "Vargas thinks we should be allowed to watch this go down," she said.

"Where did you guys get this idea that law enforcement is a game with rubber guns and whistles?" I said sourly.

"Vargas thinks it's his fault Walt got murdered. He's blaming himself."

"Yeah, I get that 'cause I'm blaming myself too. But if I took any of you guys out there and O'Shea went hot and injured or killed someone, it would go down very hard. Ill stream some video on my iPhone, and we'll all watch it in a bar later, but I'm not taking you out there."

"No, I think you're right," she said. "I agree with you, Shane. We're not cops. We're… we're… what the hell are we?"

"Pallbearers," I said.

I made it to the courthouse in thirty-five minutes, which was great time. Alexa and I showed the judge the redone autopsy from Oakcrest, Vicki's spreadsheets, and the corresponding deposit slips from O'Shea's personal bank account and explained how this material was the motive for Pop's homicide. The judge agreed we had sufficient evidence and signed arrest warrants for felony business fraud and first-degree murder.

We left my car at the courthouse and took Alexa's because I was still having trouble driving. We exited the freeway in Calabasas, and I gave Alexa directions to O'Shea's large Spanish-style house on Lupine Lane. When we pulled up, there was a black and white parked on the side with two uniformed officers leaning against their front fender, waiting.

Given my history with O'Shea, I normally would have used a SWAT warrant-delivery team, but it usually takes a day to set that up, so we'd called the L. A. sheriff's department. As I walked up to the uniforms, I was hoping they would be enough backup.

I told the two officers how we wanted to serve the warrant. "This guy is a professional MMA fighter. If you don't think he can hit, take a close look at me. Every bit of this is his doing."

"We'll stay frosty," the lead officer, a big linebacker-sized deputy named Davila, assured me.

"Okay. Let's go hook him up."

We entered the property through the side gate and walked across the lawn to a path that led to the front porch. There was no sign of the maroon Escalade, but it was only a few minutes past 10:00 A. M., and I was hoping that it was still in the garage and that O'Shea was sleeping in.

I stood next to Deputy Davila, who rang the bell while Alexa and the other blue walked down the back drive to cover the rear entrance. Nothing happened.

We rang again.

Still no answer.

"This is a no-knock murder warrant," I told Davila. "Go ahead and kick it."

Then I stepped back so he could do the honors. I'd done my share of solid door kick-ins, and the last thing I needed right now was to add a sprained ankle to my growing list of injuries.

The deputy and I both unholstered, and then he let fly with two kicks up by the brass handle. The big oak door flew inward. No alarm sounded.

"Police!" I yelled out. Then we moved into the house.

Nothing. The downstairs looked like it had been done by a decorator with nothing out of place, like an expensive condo model.

"Let's clear this place," I instructed.

We let Alexa and the second deputy in through the back door, and began going room to room, covering each other, stepping inside and calling "clear," until we had checked the entire first level.

Then we went up the stairs. The second floor was completely empty of furniture. There was no sign of Rick O'Shea.

The master bedroom contained only a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and nothing else. I opened the walk-in closet, and it was obvious that O'Shea had left in a hurry. Hangers were strewn on the floor. He had also cleaned out his medicine cabinet and most of the dresser drawers.

"Shit," I said softly. "Bet he took off right after he saw my badge."

We finished searching the house and went downstairs to the front porch, where we all stood looking out at the half-acre front lawn.

"You need us for anything else, Lieutenant?" Deputy Davila asked Alexa.

"Nope. Thanks for the assist," she replied.

They walked back to their squad car and drove off.

"Want to hear plan B?" Alexa asked.

"We don't have a plan B."

"I do," she said. "I think I should go to Eugene Mesa's party on Sunday. I've been invited. There's a chance O'Shea will show up."

It was a good thought, but I couldn't protect her there because they all knew me and there was no way in hell I was going to let her go alone.

But as she'd already told me, she was my boss. That meant if I was going to prevent her from going to that party, I was going to have to come up with a much better idea.