Three shirt deal

Chapter 13

In the elevator on my way to the lobby, I reflected on the damage that working in the criminal justice system could do to the people who pulled the ropes and turned the wheels. Yvonne Hope had undoubtedly started out as a caring person. She probably went into the P. D.'s office with hopes of defending the downtrodden. But the endless supply of craven liars she got as clients killed the dream. Calluses had quickly formed to protect her from the ugly reality of her job. It had cost her a large measure of her humanity.

Nobody is immune. Cops also develop dark humor to protect themselves. After the probationer period and a rookie year in squad cars, a lot of it spent prying corpses off their steering columns or rolling in on the worst that mankind has to offer, it's hard to see things the way you used to. It says "Protect and Serve" on the door of your patrol car, but after a short time, it's hard to know why you'd want to. After finally making it to detective you're then given the pleasure of walking into a crime scene where some dope-crazed lunatic has stabbed his wife in a fit of jealous rage and spread the remains of his three grade-school children all over the walls of the apartment. The humanity you once felt toward your fellow man slowly starts leaking out of you. Nothing seems outside the bounds of normal behavior.

After I left Vonnie, the memory of her was still with me. Those eyes were still glaring defiantly in the back of my mind. I got into my car and headed farther west. There was one other thing I wanted to check on while I was out here.

I'd looked up Valley towing services in the Yellow Pages earlier and had the name of one in Van Nuys that sounded like it might belong to Mike Church. The quarter-page ad pictured two tow trucks backed up to each other so that the towing arms formed a steeple in the center of the ad. The caption under the picture read:

CHURCH OF DESTRUCTION TOWING AND AUTO BODY WORK

This was followed by a lot of repair jargon: "Bondo Specialists"; "Qualified in Sparkle Paint Jobs"; "We'll Pimp Your Ride"; "Se Habla Espanol."

The address at 6358 Midline Drive was less than two miles from Church's house. I wasn't that far away, so I headed over to take a look.

Ten minutes later I parked across the street from a very shabby-looking auto body shop with church of destruction painted in faded red lettering under the eaves of a tin-roofed concrete block building. There was one paint bay and two body and fender garages, both busy. Hispanic men wielding hammers and metal sanders were creating an symphony of screaming metal. The yard out front was a clutter of automotive junk and rusting Detroit carcasses. There were trashed motorcycles, dirty oil drums, and old lumber scattered in amongst the twisted wrecks. It looked like a backyard in Tijuana. Two heavy tow rigs, big, muscular eight-wheel monsters with rear-end dualies, stout suspension, and long towing arms were parked inside the gate.

I didn't stick around long. I just wanted to get a look. I put the car in gear and pulled away. After seeing the place, one thing troubled me. Why would Wade Wyatt have any work done on his five-hundred-thousand-dollar collector Mercedes in that automotive graveyard? It was a brain stopper.

When I got back to Parker Center there was a note from Captain Calloway on my desk.

6 o'clock — O'Herlihy's?

Cal

O'Herlihy's is an Irish green-beer joint two blocks from the PAB. Cal wasn't in his office, but the rumor about me getting beefed by Internal Affairs had spread to the fifth floor, and people were avoiding me like I had a flesh eating virus, so I left and walked two blocks east to the bar/restaurant.

Cal was in a back booth with his feet up on the bench and his back against the side wall. His shaved black head glistened while his Mighty Mouse muscles bulged the short sleeves on his shirt. The Hickman file was open on the table in front of him.

"Sit down," he said.

I slid in. There was a half-empty pitcher of green beer already on the table with a spare glass, so I helped myself.

"This is fucking amazing," Cal said, still looking down at the pages in the file.

"Isn't it?" I agreed, sipping some beer.

For the life of me, I can't get into green beer. It always looked like lizard piss to me. Beyond that, O'Herlihy's was an Irish cliche. Green walls, wood booths, sawdust on the floor, and "Danny Boy" coming out of the speakers at least five times an hour.

"Why did Sasso close this?" Cal asked, as he read. "If ever a case needed to be looked at, this is it."

"Somebody told her to."

"You think?"

"Whatta you think?"

"I think there's so much wrong here it's hard to know where to start," Cal said.

"And you didn't even have the pleasure of hearing Tru Hickman whine about getting his asshole ripped."

Cal turned to me and pitched the file onto the table between us. "Your charge sheet came over from PSB today."

"I didn't see it."

"It was missing a signature on the write-up page, so I sent it back. Buys a few hours, maybe a day."

"To do what?"

"I don't know. You tell Alexa about this?"

"She's got her hands full with her performance review," I lied. I didn't want to tell him that even my wife wouldn't help me.

"These due-process things are all I. A. cases," he mused. "I've just been sitting here trying to come up with a way to get it over to us, but I can't think of one. Jane is territorial as all hell. We try to hijack and work one of her cases, especially one she just trash-canned, we're gonna learn the full and complete meaning of the words, 'extreme departmental reprimand.' "

"Detective Llevar and I gave a copy of the file to Tito Morales this afternoon."

"And you did this after I told you in no uncertain terms to drop the case? Man, I love being your supervisor."

"Whatta you want from me, Cal? I can't control myself. It's in my DNA."

He waved this away with a muscled hand.

"What the hell did you go to him for? He pled it. He's not gonna help you."

"That's not what he says. He listened. Thought the case sounded bad. Promised to get into it. He was doing his Hispanic

Crusader thing. All that was missing was a camera crew and a maroon tie."

"You believe him?"

"Secada does. She thinks he's neat."

"What's your take? I'd rather trust that."

"I think it can't get much worse than it is, so I'm hoping he's exactly what he says he is."

Cal sat there for a long moment. Then he said, "You should tell Alexa. I know she doesn't outrank Sasso, but she was the one who appointed Jane to head the rat squad, and at least they're on the same level of the department flow chart."

"Alexa reports to an A-Chief. Jane reports to the Super Chief. She'll lose in a shootout."

"Yeah, maybe, but still…"

"Let's lay low and see what Tito Morales comes up with," I said.

After a moment, Cal sighed. "Want me to get us another pitcher of beer?"

"Sure. I'll drink another beer with you, but it's got to be the right color this time."

It was after eight and I'd had one or two beers too many when I finally left O'Herlihy's, so, to burn it off, I jogged back to the PAB garage. I got into the Acura and headed home. I didn't know where Alexa was. She wasn't in her office and she wasn't picking up at home. I was tired of worrying about her and me. Us. Tired of the Hickman case, tired of this stupid black outfit I was wearing.

Twenty minutes later, I was driving down Abbot Kinney Boulevard a few blocks from my house when I heard a siren wail behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a black and white with its red lights flashing. How did the saying go? I only had two beers, Officer.

I pulled over and was getting my badge ready when my door was yanked open. Without warning, I was pulled forcibly from the car by my suit coat and slammed up against the fender. When I got my bearings I was looking into the meaty face and glinting eyes of Lieutenant Brian Devine. He'd gained some weight since I saw him last, but that crazy, out-of-control look was still there, buzzing maniacally.

"How you been, Scully?" he asked, not at all interested in the answer.

"Lieutenant." A nonconfrontational reply. Waiting him out. Trying to judge his intensity.

"Understand you've taken an interest in one of my old homicide investigations," he growled.

"Wasn't an investigation, Loo, it was a pinata party. You broke that kid on bad facts."

"Really?"

"You wanta back off? You're in my space here."

"Fuck you, asshole."

We stood glaring at each other. Then he said, "Here's the message, cowboy. You leave that case alone. If I find out you're even thinking about it, I'm gonna roll up on you like I did fifteen years ago. Only this time, I won't be threatening. This time, your family pays the full and complete price. I can put some serious hurt on your people, Scully."

I felt my adrenaline surge. I was on the balls of my feet. The beer had burned off. I was up and ready for this. Actually, I'd been thinking about it on and off since '93.

"Hey, Brian," I said coldly. "First off, I'm not the same fucked-up guy I was back then. You may want to bear that in mind. Second, you blew the Hickman case beyond all reason. You're an asshole, but you're not stupid, so I figure something else had to be going on there. Whatever it was, I'm gonna find out. Third, I'm not afraid of your bullshit. I've faced worse than you and I'm still breathing. Matter of fact, you're the one needs to be careful. I'm not always a stable person. Read my file. I'm a rage-filled lunatic who could snap at any moment and turn you into wall-splatter."

He was still more or less leaning on me, but as I spoke this craziness the words managed to distract him just enough so I could raise my arms up without his noticing. I suddenly gave him a hard, two-handed chuck, catching him under the nipples on both sides, and knocking him backwards, onto his ass in the street. He scrambled back to his feet and pulled his weapon. Mine was already out.

"You were always pretty good at blowing guys up when they didn't see it coming. How do you like it this way?"

We stood there, right on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, with traffic streaming past. Two assholes in suits, guns pointed at each other. Drivers were slowing down, scoping us out, registering shock, then powering on.

"You got a family, too," I said. "Don't fuck with me, Lieutenant. If I see you anywhere near my wife or my son, I'm coming after you and yours. You'll never see it coming."

The hatred flared on Devine's face, but he wasn't ready for me in this form or location. I saw all this compute in his eyes before he slowly put his gun away.

"Watch out behind you," he finally growled.

"You, too," I said.

Then, he turned and got into his borrowed squad car. It had a pipe front bumper with vertical bars for pushing stalled cars. After he put the unit in gear, he floored it and slammed into the back of my MDX, bouncing the Acura ten feet up the road. Then he hit reverse, Y-turned out, and powered away.

He'd mashed my back bumper and rear door, and shattered a taillight. It was at least a few thousand dollars worth of damage, maybe more. Even so, I was smiling. I had confronted an old ghost. For fifteen years I'd waited to set that bad decision aside.

For fifteen years I'd regretted not testifying against him. His hitting my car like that told me something. Lt. Devine was feeling exposed. Whatever this corruption was, he was definitely involved and it was much closer to the surface than I'd originally imagined.

As I got in my car and drove away, one thing was very clear in my mind.

In the end, one of us was going down.