Three shirt deal

Chapter 46

"I can't wake up a city judge in the middle of the night over a stolen car," Vonnie complained, after I told her what I wanted.

"Then we'll sit on this place until you can get here with a warrant. My crime scene is being chopped up one piece at a time."

"This connects up to the Hickman case?"

"If you get me a broad enough warrant to search this whole garage it could," I said.

She was quiet, pondering her options.

"This is your case," I pushed. "Hickman's your client. Why don't you stop hedging and go to work for your guy? Use this transmission part number to get me a warrant on this place."

"Does anybody actually like you?" she asked.

"Does it matter?"

"I'd like to know where to send your fucking ashes."

She slammed the phone down, but I knew she was onboard.

The sun came up at six-fifty-five. Alexa and I had reparked the car and were now sitting half a block from the Church of Destruction, sipping McDonald's coffee out of happy-looking red

Styrofoam cups. At nine-oh-six, Church arrived along with a dozen beefy guys who didn't know where to buy clothes that didn't have the sleeves ripped off. At nine-forty-five, inside the garage I heard the sound of saws screaming in tortured metallic harmony.

"They're back to ripping up the Suburban," Alexa noted.

I tried Vonnie's cell phone for about the fiftieth time. Like all the other attempts, it went straight to voice mail.

I got out of the car and while Alexa watched the front of the garage, I went to the alley behind the building and stood behind a phone pole. Then, because everything in this case had to be a huge problem, at that very moment, along came a jumbo-sized garbage truck, preceded by a little shepherding forklift that scooped up the full Dumpsters parked along the alley and placed them on the front of the big truck to be tossed over the top into its giant bin.

As the forklift pulled up to the first of the Dumpsters behind the Church of Destruction, I hustled down the alley to intervene.

"Hang on," I shouted to the driver.

"Huh?" the operator said, turning a blank stare at me.

I showed him my badge. "LAPD. Please don't do that."

"Huh?" What cave did they find this guy in?

"The contents of this bin are evidence in an ongoing case. Leave it."

"Huh?"

I was wondering how I was going to get through to him when he solved our communication problem by removing his earplugs.

"Come again?" he said.

Before I could go through it once more, the huge elephant doors at the back of the garage started to open and Mike Church, along with a rough looking bunch of characters with grease up to their elbows, stood glaring out at me.

"What the fuck is this?" Church growled. Then recognition dawned. "You again?"

"Corao esta? How they hangin', bro?"

"Get away from my garage, asshole. First my house, now my business. The fuck you think you're doing?"

I saw Alexa moving down the alley. Her purse was slung over her shoulder, her right hand inside. It was one of her favorite bags, but even so, I knew if this went sideways, she wouldn't hesitate to dust this guy right through the expensive polished leather.

"We have a warrant to search this place. Step aside," I said.

"A warrant?" Church seemed surprised. "What's the charge?"

I looked past him into the garage where I saw what was left of Scout's Suburban. It was down to the axles and half a chassis.

"The charge is destruction of evidence in the attempted murder of two police officers."

"Let's see the paper."

"On the way," I shot back.

"That means you don't got no damn warrant." Church turned to the forklift driver. "Hey, buddy. Get that Dumpster on the truck and outta here. I need it empty. You got a job to do, so do it."

"Don't touch that thing," I said to the driver. "Get out of here before I take you in along with him."

The garbage man bailed. He put his forklift in reverse, motioned to the dump truck, and in a minute they were gone.

"What does she think she's doing?" Church said, as his eyes flicked nervously toward Alexa.

"I'm getting ready to park four ounces where you don't want it," she said.

"Hey, Rodriguez, get this fucking door down," Church barked, and two guys started pulling a chain, dropping the heavy metal.

Just then, two black-and-whites squealed into the alley, followed by an old 1994 tan Geo Metro. To my relief, Yvonne Hope sprang out of the Geo and handed me a warrant.

The garage door was still coming down as I stuffed the warrant into Church's hand.