Vigilante

CHAPTER 16

I’d put the lights on in Lita’s house when I first arrived and had been walking around as if I owned the place, so whoever was in the backyard had to know I was here. He probably also knew I was in here alone. However, Lita had tacked those sheets up on quite a few of her windows, so I had some cover.

I found a protected spot, knelt down, and pulled my 9mm Springfield automatic out of its custom leather holster. I tromboned the slide, kicking a fresh round into the chamber, but left the safety on. Then I kept low and moved out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.

I’d already turned the lights off in there, so I was hidden by the dark room as I carefully removed the sheet Lita had tacked up over the side window. I slid open the glass and wriggled out through the opening, falling face first onto the dirt outside, cradling my gun in one hand.

I landed in a four-foot-wide path with a rusting chain-link fence that separated Lita’s house from the house next door. I gathered my feet beneath me and stood carefully, holding my gun at the ready.

I heard something clunk softly in the backyard. A muffled thump. I carefully thumbed the safety off the Springfield, then moved toward the sound. A few seconds later I approached the rear corner of the house.

Before I got there, I lay down silently on my stomach, gun out in front of me, and inched out so I could see into the backyard. I waited for my vision to adjust.

Light spilling through the kitchen window helped my eyes transition. I searched the area over by the garage where I’d last seen the figure. Then I heard some whispering off to my right and turned my head and gun silently in that direction.

“S-s-sh-h-h-h,” a man whispered. “Put it over there.”

“You want the three-fifty and the battery?” another man whispered.

“Yeah.”

I could see them now. They were crouched low at the back of the garden. Two guys in black T-shirts and jeans, setting something up. As my eyes adjusted further, I could see the faint outline of a studded equipment box. Then I knew who it was. The two cameramen I’d already met from V-TV. They were setting up their digital camera and a shotgun mike in a hidden position under some bushes. One of the guys reached into the studded camera case and handed the other a long lens of some kind. He affixed it to the camera housing and then attached a battery pack.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Got the infrared and battery on. Watch out for that puddle. I think a hose is leaking back here. Let’s just lay down, keep quiet, and wait.”

So we all waited. They were aiming their light-gathering telephoto lens at the house, trying to get a shot of me working the crime scene or planting evidence or whatever the hell it was Nash was hoping he’d be able to catch me doing. Since I wasn’t inside, they weren’t getting much of anything, which was beginning to drive them nuts.

“Where the fuck is he?” one whispered. “You think he left while we were setting up?”

“Damn, I just rolled in some dog shit,” the other cursed.

“Sh-h-h-h-h.”

Ten or fifteen minutes passed while they did a lot of low whispering I couldn’t make out. Finally, the taller one stood and moved past where I was hiding and up to the house to peek into the back window of the pantry.

“He there?” the cameraman whispered a bit loudly. They were losing their stealth to a mild sense of developing panic.

“No,” the tall guy said. “Can’t see anybody inside. I’ll check and see if his car’s still out front.”

The tall one moved quietly around to the far side of the house. Once he had gone down the drive, I rose to my feet and slipped out of my hiding place, hugging the shadows, and moved closer to their camera position. By the time the assistant came back, I was so close, I could actually smell the dog poop.

“His car’s still out front,” the tall guy whispered.

“I wonder where the fuck he is,” the other responded.

“Right here,” I said, and touched the barrel of the Springfield to the side of the camera operator’s head.

“Shit!” he screeched in terror, and shot up to his feet. He was off-balance and I pushed him hard. He sprawled on the grass as the assistant put his hands in the air.

“Don’t shoot! We give!” he shouted, spittle flying.

The cameraman scurried back to his feet, thought about running, but I stopped him by waving my gun in his direction.

“You two are trespassing on my crime scene,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You got Laura’s number on that thing?” I asked, pointing to a phone on the cameraman’s belt.

He nodded and handed his cell over to me. “I d-d-idn’t … I w-w-wasn’t … We were-,” he stuttered.

“Duly noted,” I said, scrolling his recent calls. I found Laura Burke’s name and hit her number.

It rang twice before a woman’s voice said, “Talk to me, Jason.”

“Are you in charge of this blanket drill?” I asked her.

“Who is this?”

“Scully. Two of your cameramen are trespassing on my crime scene. I can book them now or we can start a negotiation.”

“Stay where you are,” she said, and hung up. A minute later I saw her striding up the drive with another man. He was a barrel-chested gray-haired guy wearing a camel coat, jeans, and sneakers. They headed into the backyard and stopped a few feet from me.

Laura was dressed for a gunfight. She was wearing a three-quarter-length black leather coat belted tight on her pipe cleaner build. Her skintight jeans and knee-high boots made her look dangerous. With her rat’s nest of curly red hair stuffed under a ball cap and her no-nonsense scowl, she had about as much sex appeal as a nine-dollar hammer.

“This kinda sucks, Jason,” she snapped at her cameraman.

“Children, children, no fighting,” I said. “We’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”

“Are you gonna arrest them?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. I might. Make me an offer.”

We faced off for a moment. Then she turned to her companion. “Lenny, gimme your cell. I left mine in the van.”

The man handed over his cell phone and she hit a preset number. She turned away from me and had a quick, whispered conversation. I was still facing her crew, with my gun out, but it was now pointed at the ground. It didn’t look like I’d have to shoot anyone, so I holstered my weapon. Finally, Laura turned back and handed Lenny’s cell to me.

“Mr. Nash wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to do something I rarely do, Shane. But I like the way you handle yourself, the way you think, so I’m going to make a big exception.”

“We’ve had two conversations. You haven’t a clue how I think.”

“I do my research. I talk to people. You rate out. That’s why I want to propose something.”

I wanted to give this guy enough line before I set my hook, so I said, “I’m listening.”

“I want us to come to an accommodation. Enter into an arrangement. How does that sound?”

“Illegal.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

“Pick another city. Go to Nevada and fuck with the Vegas cops.”

“I’m not leaving L.A. I’m committed to Lita Mendez’s case.”

I said nothing, waited him out.

“We need to talk this out,” he continued. “I don’t want you as an enemy. I could use an ally on this. I think we have a shared interest. I want to find justice for Lita, who, I might add, cared desperately about justice. I think, from what I’ve been told, you share that trait.”

Again, I remained silent.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you say something?”

“I haven’t heard anything yet I want to respond to.”

“Okay, look. I can understand your hesitancy, but we’re about to tape the first L.A. show. It will air next Tuesday, ten P.M., coast-to-coast. It kind of sets up the whole deal here. Background on Lita and her activities against the LAPD, how your department harassed her. Of course we’re going to look at other L.A. situations as well, but obviously, the Mendez murder is going to be my centerpiece case. I can’t leave the studio right now because we’re shootin’ live for tape in two hours, but I’d like to extend an invitation for you to attend the taping. How’s that sound?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To find some common ground. This doesn’t have to be Atlanta. Why don’t you invest an hour and see if we can come to terms? Gee, the worst thing that happens is we go our separate ways. But in success, maybe you and your partner don’t have to become tragic secondary targets of my show.”

“Where’s the studio?”

“We rented a warehouse park on Pico near Century City. Follow Laura; she’ll lead you here.”