Vigilante

CHAPTER 7

Carla Sanchez lived in a large white stucco apartment building in Boyle Heights. The structure was known on the street and at the Hollenbeck Police Station as the White House. Not because of its color but because the White Fence Inca leader lived in an apartment on the top floor and his entire cabinet of veteranos resided in apartments on the lower levels.

It was 11:00 A.M. when we pulled up in front. I hadn’t recognized the address when I wrote it down, but once we arrived I realized that I’d been here before, back when I was on loan to an anti-narcotics task force for a few weeks during a citywide drug sweep.

The building was what was known as a gang module. Far from being palatial, it was an ordinary six-story stucco building. What it lacked in ornamentation it more than made up for in security. The White Fence Inca had mandated that shooters be on the roof 24-7 to protect the families of his shot callers, who lived under the constant threat of payback from rival sets.

After we pulled to the curb but before I could turn off the engine, people up and down the street were already standing up and walking away from porch gliders and sagging wicker chairs, heading to the safety of their homes. My car was a standard Acura, but thirty seconds after we parked we’d been made.

“We gotta start wearing better cologne,” Hitch quipped.

“Okay, so this address confirms that Carla and Julio are connected to people in the top tier of White Fence.”

“How do you wanta play it?” Hitch asked.

“We got two possible courses of action. One: we can back off, get a warrant, and come back with SWAT, or two: we can say the Disney prayer and go in wearing our Mickey Mouse ears.”

“Never hurts to be safe,” Hitch said, opting for the backup.

“Except if we come back with SWAT, we add a big testosterone factor. It’s all about ganas with these G’sters. Besides, neither of us trust Chavaria. Since this is probably bullshit, I think we’ll find out more if we low-key it.”

“How you gonna low-key a police sit-down inside a gang module?” Hitch correctly wondered.

“Your call then.”

“Meet ya halfway. Let’s have at least one unit stand by,” he suggested. “They can park up the street with their safeties off.”

“Make the call.”

He reached under the dash, pulled out the mike, and triggered it. “This is Delta-Fifteen requesting area backup to 1414 Lorena Street in Boyle Heights,” he said. “Have the responding unit meet us on Tac Two.”

“Roger that,” the RTO said. “One-Adam-Fifty-Six, D-Fifteen requests backup at 1414 Lorena. Meet the detectives on Tac Two.”

We heard Adam-56 affirm the call, and Hitch switched the radio to Tac Two, which was a tactical frequency for undercover ops and allows for longer, less formal communication.

“This is A-Fifty-Six. I’m George; my partner’s Gately,” a woman’s voice said. “How can we help you guys?”

“We’re two plainclothes detectives headed inside the apartment house located at 1414 Lorena Street on a one-eighty-seven investigation,” Hitch said. “You know the building.”

“Yeah, the White House. Gang shit hole,” the lady cop’s voice replied.

“We might have something and then again maybe not,” Hitch continued. “If we need to make an arrest, we’re gonna want you guys to show the flag. We’ll keep our rover on. If we need help we’ll give you two squawks.”

“Roger that,” the woman’s voice came back. “Our ETA your location is three minutes. What’s the apartment number?”

“Six-Fifty-Seven,” Hitch said. “We’re drawing a lot of interest out front, so we’re going in now.”

The cops in A-56 squelched twice in acknowledgment.

Hitch clipped a Rover hand unit to his belt; then we got out of the car and headed into the building. There were two teenaged gangbangers on lookout duty lounging on the front steps. I could tell from their alert, feral postures that they, like everyone else, had made us the minute we pulled up. Because they knew we were cops they didn’t want to start anything, but that didn’t stop them from insolently mad-dogging us.

“How ya doin’, guys?” Hitch said pleasantly as he walked past. Neither of them replied.

The ground floor was empty. I noticed movement on the front steps behind us and saw the two lookouts walking away. Both had cell phones to their ears, spreading the word.

The elevator arrived and we got in and rode silently up to the sixth floor. So far, so good. We exited and walked down a corridor still rich with the smells of morning cooking. At Apartment 657 we stopped.

I knocked and a minute later saw the dim pinhole of light disappear from the peephole as someone on the other side of the door put their eye to the lens. I held up my badge.

“What you want?” a man’s voice called out.

“We’re here to see Carla Sanchez,” I said through the solid wood door.

“’Bout what?” the man challenged.

“Is she in there? Open up! Police business.”

“You got a warrant?”

“We just want to talk,” I said. “There’s no need to turn this into an incident.”

A moment later the door opened a crack. A huge bald veterano, about thirty years old, with a large black WF tattooed on the side of his shaved head, glared out at us. Both arms were fully sleeved with elaborate gang ink. He took a menacing stance, placing his bulk in the threshold, and blocked our way.

“You can talk to me,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“Carla’s old man. Julio. What’s the trato?”

“We’re here to talk to Carla,” I said. “We can get a warrant and come back with a SWAT team and have the talk in custody, or we can all sit down and have a friendly chat right here. Your call, Mr. Sanchez. But if we come back with SWAT, the ABGs on the roof will go nuts and this building will become the Dead House, and that’s the trato.”

He swore softly in Spanish.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Hitch asked.

“Let them in, Julio,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. Then she pulled the door wider and we got our first look at Carla Sanchez. She was large as Chava had said, maybe three hundred pounds, but only a little over five feet tall. She wore a lightweight long-sleeved white sweater over a tank dress that only came to her knees. She had large, corpulent arms and thick legs with ankles that looked like brown tube socks stuffed with sand. Her black hair was cut short. Because of her girth she looked uncomfortable just standing there.

“How about doing what the lady says,” I suggested to Julio, who was still blocking our way.

He picked up his cell phone from the charging dock by the door and hit a number, then spoke a short sentence to somebody in Spanish. I understood enough to know Julio was getting some muscle to come over and stand in the hall. Hitch caught my eye and we traded a look as Julio finished the call.

“Suit yourself,” Julio said, putting the phone back in the dock and finally stepping aside.

We walked into an overfurnished apartment. It was neatly kept, but none of the pieces coordinated. Late-morning sun was streaming through the windows.

Hitch moved to my right to check out the back hallway, looking into each bedroom. A moment later, he returned to the living room, caught my eye, and nodded. The apartment was clear. I turned my attention back to the Sanchezes.

Then I saw it.

Sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa was the missing ceiling fan.