Guilt by Association (29 page)

Without waiting for an answer, two of the unis reared back and threw themselves against the door. It gave way as if it were
made of kindling, and they practically fell inside. They drew their guns and ran in, with Bailey and me close behind them.
We hurried through a nearly empty living room and down a narrow hallway that forced us to move single file, following the
sounds of angry grunts and male voices. When we reached the back bedroom, I saw Pickelman standing on an unmade twin bed,
struggling to climb out the window. A couple of skinny young men—one white, with a patchy, uneven beard; the other looking
like a Native American, with long black hair—had their hands on Pickelman’s legs and the seat of his pants and were trying
to pull him back inside.

The white kid called to us, “Help, goddamn it!”

I could swear I heard one of the unis chuckle as they moved forward in tandem and easily lifted Pickelman off the windowsill.
He squirmed and kicked and managed to knock heads with one of them in the process. That did it—the unis got serious and dumped
him facedown on the ground, folded his hands behind his back, and cuffed him. I allowed myself a sweet moment of elation.

“He’s a pig, man. He got sick all over the place, acted like he was insane. Get him out of here. He’s a friggin’ menace!”
the white kid yelled hoarsely. “I only let him stay because I thought you guys wanted him and there’d be a reward or something.”

I briefly wondered what the “or something” was that he had in mind. Then I looked down at Pickelman. He seemed a lot worse
for the wear. And not just from having been bounced around a little. He had the pale, sickly, awful look that takes some time
to achieve.

I crouched down and turned his face toward me. “What’s wrong with you, Duane? You look like shit.”

Duane was breathing hard, and he tried to turn his face away. But since he was being held down by a uni and he was in handcuffs,
it was a futile effort.

“Come on, Pickelman. You’re already screwed. We’ve got your ass for resisting arrest, which means we’re going to get your
DNA, so you’re toast. You may as well tell me why you look so bad.”

At this, Duane huffed and squeaked out, “I didn’t do no rape! I ran ’cuz I didn’t want to lose my job! If I gave you my DNA
you’d find out I been doin’ crank. I had to take off so I could detox and give you a clean test!”

Bailey and I took this in. Pickelman was a crystal-meth addict. I’d had a feeling this bust was too good to be true. My heart
sank as I admitted that Duane’s tale of woe unfortunately had the ring of truth, and it was convincingly backed by his pale,
sweaty face.

“Take him in,” Bailey told the unis. “He’s probably still under the influence, so book him on that, and make sure to get him
swabbed. I’ll get the swabs to the lab.”

But we already knew the tests would show he was a no-match.

We got into the car, and Bailey drove us back downtown. I looked out the window at the passing cars, too tired and depressed
to think. What I wanted was Susan’s rapist behind bars, a suspect for Jake’s and Kit’s murder, and a shower.

For now I’d have to settle for one of the three.

For the next three days,
we hit the Oki-Dog. Sitting as far away and unobtrusively as possible, we scanned the motley gathering for the Aryan Brotherhood
guy Hector had described, and made plans for how we’d squeeze him like a lemon when we found him. So far the only thing I’d
squeezed was my gut as my jeans got tighter by the day. If we didn’t catch this guy soon, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.

It was late morning on our fourth day, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Bailey and I were wearing big sunglasses that
hid our eyes.

“Here’s your ‘carry,’ ” Bailey said. She passed me the laminated card, and I slipped it into my pocket. For the first time
ever, I was legally carrying a gun. It didn’t feel any different.

“I do like our working hypothesis that this AB guy’s got some connection to the rape, since it looks like he set up the Sylmar
Sevens to take the fall on the burglary in Susan’s neighborhood,” I said in a low voice.

Bailey nodded without looking at me.

“But even if we grab him,” I continued, “that doesn’t mean he’ll give us anything. And I don’t have any connects in the AB
who’ll help loosen him up for me. Luis was a fluke. You got any skinhead buddies in your back pocket?”

Bailey looked at me. “Sure, me and Mazza used to shoot pool. I’ll just give him a jingle.”

Mazza, a big gun in one of the larger skinhead clans, had been on twenty-four-hour lockdown in the heaviest maximum-security
prison in the state for the past several years. This led me to believe Bailey’s offer was insincere.

My cell phone buzzed in my sweatshirt pocket, and I unfolded it and quietly answered, “Yep.”

“Are you in a library?” Graden asked.

“No, Bailey and I are on a stakeout… sort of. What’s up?”

I was momentarily distracted by a low-flying seagull that was swooping in for the kill on a half-eaten Oki-Dog someone had
left on the lid of the Dumpster.

“The Feds cleared out for the day. Some big drug bust down near the border. I was thinking you might want to come over and
see what we found in the motel.”

Suddenly I was a ball of energy. “What time?”

“I’m guessing that means yes,” Graden replied, amused. “I’ll call you when it looks like it’s about to get quiet enough.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, and we hung up.

As I closed my phone, Bailey cocked an eyebrow, having overheard. “It’s good to know the king, huh?”

I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a group of skinny young boys and girls with shaggy hair, tight jeans,
and small T-shirts had gathered at a table close to the sidewalk. One of the boys stepped back and put his foot on the chair
to tie his green-and-purple Converse sneaker, and I glimpsed an older man in dark glasses sitting in the middle of the group.

A black mustache drooped over his mouth, which sagged down at the corners, and his hair—too black to be natural—was gathered
into a ponytail. He was tough-looking in a way that went beyond his black long-sleeved henley and leather vest. He seemed
guarded, yet he exuded an aura of dominance that showed in the way the teens moved around him.

I watched as he leaned over to the girl on his right and held out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The girl took one, and as
the man drew closer to light it, a creepy feeling washed over me. I slowly took out my cell phone, scrunched down in my seat,
and snapped his picture. I tried for a second shot, but a bushy-haired boy had moved into the gap and blocked my view. I sat
and watched the group for a few more seconds, then turned to Bailey and saw that she too had spotted them, although her face
was pointed off to the left.

“You got him?” she asked softly.

“Think so,” I said as I held my phone under the table to look at the image. Other than the mustache, he fit Hector Amaya’s
description. “Think it’s him?”

“Could be,” Bailey replied. “Can’t see his neck, though.”

“Want to push in closer?” I asked, thinking that if we could see the tattoo, we could bust him. I knew that busting him now
would mean we’d have to get Hector Amaya to come out front with his story. But that was a problem I’d just have to deal with
later.

“Better wait. I don’t want to cause a scene with all those kids around him.”

I nodded. Then it occurred to me that we could skin this cat another way. I quickly hit my speed dial.

“ ’Lo?” Luis croaked.

Not even noon yet—way too early for the shot-caller of the Sylmar Sevens to be verbal. I didn’t even want to think about what
had kept him out all night. “Luis, wake up. This is urgent. Does Hector have a cell phone? I’ve got a picture he has to look
at for me, like, five minutes ago. Can you handle this?”

Inmates weren’t supposed to have cell phones, but an impressive number managed to get them anyway.

Luis yawned loudly, then said, “Send me the picture. I’ll take care of it.”

“I mean it. I’m in a hurry, Luis.”

“Okay, okay, jus’ send it to me, will ya?”

“It’s coming now,” I said, then sent him the photo.

“Heads up,” Bailey said quietly, beginning to stand.

I looked over and saw that our target had stood up to talk to a young blond girl behind him, letting us see that he was just
under six feet tall, medium weight. I figured Bailey and I could take him—especially if he didn’t have a gun. I didn’t have
an ID from Hector yet, but I had a hunch and I was willing to bet on it. I stood up, and Bailey and I started to move slowly
through the tables toward him, trying to act casual. For the second time since I’d been forced into it, I was glad to be wearing
my vest. I put my hand into my coat pocket and wrapped it around my .357, just in case.

We were less than ten feet away when one of the boys at the table said something to our target and jerked his head in our
direction. The man looked over his shoulder, and for a brief moment he and I locked eyes. Then the group suddenly closed around
him. Sensing the need for urgency, Bailey and I started to push through the tables, abandoning any effort at stealth. By the
time we got to his group, he was gone. I quickly scanned the area. Off to my right, I spotted him moving fast through the
parking lot, toward the gas station next door.

Bailey and I gave chase, running full-out, legs and arms pumping. As I ran, the vest compressed my chest, making it hard to
breathe. I wanted to call for backup, but there was no time. He headed for the gas station and disappeared into the mechanics
bay. Still running, I pointed the area out to Bailey. If we didn’t take cover, we’d be perfect bull’s-eyes. She nodded and
gestured for us to get in position at either end of the station.

I ran to the far end and stopped just outside the wall of the bay, gun held in both hands in front of me, pointed at the ground.
Still gulping air from the sudden manic sprint, I tried to quiet my breathing. Across the way, I saw that Bailey stood near
the wall between
the office and the mechanics bay, her gun down at her side. I heard men’s voices, but none sounded out of breath or amped
up. Puzzled, I hazarded a look inside. Two men in coveralls were bent over the engine of an old Mercedes—no ponytail, no vest.
Bailey and I exchanged a look across the garage.

I glanced around the station. A woman was pumping gas into a new red Corolla, and a man in a white T-shirt and motorcycle
helmet was screwing the gas cap on his tank. I looked back inside the mechanics bay. A car was up on the lift, and I noticed
something dangling from the window. I badged the mechanics and barked, “Police.” Not exactly true, but this was no time for
technicalities. “Bring that car down.”

The shorter and balder of the two stared at my gun for a moment, then quickly punched the button. When the car got within
two feet of the ground, I saw what it was: a leather vest. At that moment, the roar of engines being gunned hard turned me
toward the pumps—just in time to see the motorcycle speed out. I ran and nearly bumped into a young guy with big black hoops
set into his earlobes who’d come out of the office right behind me. He frantically yelled out, “Hey!” at the receding motorcycle.

I ran to the sidewalk to see if I could get an idea of which way he’d headed, and Bailey joined me one second later. I pocketed
my gun as we watched the motorcycle recede into the distance, heading south on Fairfax.

“That guy stole my bike!” he yelled.

I handed him my cell phone. “Call the cops.”

He looked from me to Bailey, perplexed, then took it and said, “Thanks.”

I nodded and turned to Bailey, who was staring down the street. “Shit,” she said, echoing the mildest of my thoughts.

I leaned back against the gas pump, and Bailey continued to stare off in the direction the motorcycle had gone, her hands
on her hips,
her expression grim. The hoop-eared guy returned my phone, then walked off, shaking his head. I dropped it back into my pocket.

“He ran the minute he saw us.”

Bailey nodded.

“He recognized at least one of us,” I said.

She nodded again. “Seems so.”

“Unless the sight of women always makes him run—”

“Or he made us as cops.”

I glanced at Bailey. “Not likely.”

She looked me up and down. “True.”

“I’m willing to bet he’s the one who did my car, and the one who fired the shots at us.”

Bailey thought for a moment. “Makes sense.”

“And you know what else?” I asked.

“No. What else?” she said flatly.

“This means our play worked,” I replied. “When he saw the
Times
story about us having a suspect in custody, he figured it was safe to crawl out of his hole.”

Bailey nodded.

“That’s something,” I said.

Bailey nodded again.

“You know, the way you go on and on is a problem sometimes,” I said.

Just then, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the number.

“Yeah, Luis?” I said.

“Hector says tha’s the guy.”

He was “the guy” all right
. In more ways than one, based on what I’d seen at the Oki-Dog. I didn’t know when or even if the cops would catch up with
him for stealing the bike. Vehicle theft was not a high-priority crime. And I couldn’t tell the cops how I knew the AB guy
had set up the burglary in the Palisades, because that information had come courtesy of my clandestine and highly illegal
visit with baby gangbanger Hector. The good news for Hector was now we wouldn’t need him to go public with his story—we could
bust our AB guy for auto theft. Assuming we could find him.

“Can you try to find out who this guy is without getting noticed?” I asked Bailey.

She nodded. “Soon as I drop you off.”

But I was impatient. Now that we were closing in, I didn’t want to just wait; I wanted to do something. So when Bailey dropped
me back at the Biltmore, I immediately sat down to e-mail Clive the photo of our AB guy. If I was right, and the guy was involved
in Susan’s rape somehow, he might show up in a database somewhere. Clive had ways of getting into such child-molester databases,
and he worked fast.