The Famous and the Dead (25 page)

“You're trespassing, lady. Get out now.”

Beth spilled out of the house wrapped in a bedspread, hair wild and eyes squinting, freshly wrenched from sleep.

“Who are you?” Theresa Brewer asked.

“I'm a woman who resents being awakened by trespassers. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Charlie, can you make these people go away?”

By then the dogs had the cameraman backed against the low stone wall. Hood strode over and called them off to no avail and gave up on the delete. He two-handed the recorder into the shooter's chest and the man managed to hang on to it and not fall backward over the rocks. Hood dragged Daisy and Minnie by their collars into the house and slammed the door on them. He could hear them barking behind the heavy wood and adobe. The video guy ran for the van and Brewer scrambled away also, reaching back with her microphone to catch the last of the chaos. Reyes was on his cell phone, and Hood figured he was calling in his old buddies on Buenavista PD. Beth clutched the bedspread at her neck with one hand and helped Erin back up the steps to the front door. The Fox News van made a dramatic gravel-spraying turn.

“Don't miss
Fox News at Eleven!
” Theresa Brewer called out.
“I love your music, Erin!”
When Beth opened the front door, Daisy and Minnie bolted after the van in a yelping frenzy and chased it down the hill.

Hood looked for Erin's reaction. She was steadying herself on Beth's shoulder and looking down toward her feet. “Guys? My water just broke?”

H
ood watc
hed through a window as Dr. David delivered Thomas Firth Jones. Beth assisted in the birth. It took nearly two hours, but when it was over, Beth held up a robust-looking baby boy. Hood's eyes misted over when he saw Erin's face, dazed, exhausted but joyful. He'd never seen an expression like that on her before. Beth looked at him through the glass, hopeful and proud of her work. Hood thought he saw a glimmer of
maybe us someday?
in Beth's smile and in spite of the things that seemed to be collapsing upon him, the idea pleased him and he smiled back.

Thomas Firth Jones himself was seven-plus pounds, ruddy and wrinkled and doubtful.
Doubting Thomas
, thought Hood. His eyes were shut tight and his fists were clenched up at his mouth and the plastic bracelet was large upon his small wrist. His hair was fine and sparse, light brown. He didn't cry much after the shock of being born was over. He seemed to be recuperating. Hood wondered if he was even more spent than his mother. Thomas was outfitted in a white blanket and a small blue cap to fight off the chill of his brave new world, and he looked perfect in Erin's arms.

Hood stayed at the hospital, looking in on her but trying not to be a nuisance. For some reason the birth of Thomas made him think of his father, but the memory was not lugubrious or sad. The death of Douglas and the birth of Thomas, having come so close together, were just two more reminders that you get life for a while, then it goes somewhere else. So make the most of it.
Put that on my headstone
, thought Hood. Douglas would be buried in two days.

A couple of hours later Bradley, wearing his LASD uniform, came running down the hallway toward Hood and braked to a stop outside Erin's room. “We need to talk, Charlie.”

“Ready when you are.”

Bradley took a deep breath and stepped inside. Hood waited awhile, then looked in. Bradley had worked himself into the bed beside Erin, and Thomas was asleep between them. Erin was asleep, too. Bradley, up on one elbow, looked at Hood with unusual gravity.

•   •   •

They sat at a plastic patio table out in the hospital courtyard. The late afternoon was cool and they were alone. Bradley's uniform was crisp and clean, but he looked anxious, dark around the eyes and unkempt. “I'm a father.”

“Congratulations.”

“I feel different. Everybody said I would and I do. But not how I thought it would be.”

“Talk.”

“I partnered with Mike. It's a simple oath and he accepted. I did it to get his help. It seemed to have worked. Certain aspects of my life started to flourish again. Then I realized he wants Thomas. I'm in way over my head. You understand how dangerous Mike is?”

Hood lifted his hair to expose the knife scar. Bradley eyed it long and hard, and Hood saw fear in his young eyes. Bradley scooted his chair up closer and spoke in a whisper. “He hung around Mom and me for years. Since before I was even aware of him. When I got older he'd haunt the L.A. club scene when Erin was playing and I was there. He always knew things about people. Sometimes he seemed to know things he really couldn't know. Then he started coming up with things he shouldn't
have
—pictures of himself at a hanging that took place over a hundred years ago. And a bulletproof vest that he claimed once belonged to Joaquin Murrieta—and it really was old enough to have belonged to him. Mike and Owens gave it to us as a wedding present. Isn't that touching? Years of weirdness like that. Then, a few weeks ago he shows me pictures of you and the Blowdown team surveilling me at Pace Arms with the Love Thirty-twos. And he's got video of you down in Yucatán, lugging that ransom money around for Armenta. It's all there—the jungle, Armenta's castle, Luna, the Mexican Army, even you in his apartment in Veracruz. He can't
have
this stuff, Charlie. But he does! Get this: He can actually read my mind. He's done it more than once. Word for word, the exact words, the inflection perfect. And get this, too: He's got a woman trapped in a mineshaft way out in the desert above Adelanto. Beatrice. He says she's an angel—one of his enemies—and he's had her down there in the mine for ninety-four years. Ninety-four years! Mike says devils and angels live ten to twelve times longer than men and you can't kill them. They don't have to eat or drink. I heard Beatrice's voice. She wasn't hysterical and didn't seem afraid. Apparently, they pull this kind of shit on one another all the time. She pleaded with me to resist him and save my soul. Mike threw her meat sticks and beer and teased her. At first it blew my mind. Then later, he said something that made my scalp crawl. He said I should take Thomas away from Erin and raise him with Owens.”

“No court would let you take him from Erin.”

“What if there
is
no Erin? I'm afraid for them, Charlie.”

“You should be.”

Bradley nodded and stared off. Hood saw the tremble of his chin and the wet shine of his eyes and he saw how much it hurt Bradley to have placed them—his wife and his just-born son—so far beyond his ability to protect them. It was the first time Hood had seen Bradley put anyone truly ahead of himself. “God, I'm a fuckup.”

“What is Mike trying to do to me?” asked Hood.

“He wants to ruin you.”

“Why?”

“Ruin and chaos delight him. He told me that you
came up in the net
through Mom. He chooses promising people to befriend and use. He chose me because of my lineage. You saw Joaquin's head in the barn, so you know what I'm talking about. Other people, just good regular ones, he torments for the fun of it and to stay busy during slow times. People like you.”

“And the Ozburns. They were good people, Bradley. He tortured and destroyed them, without ever touching either of them. Is Grossly one of Mike's partners?”

“I don't think so.”

“Did he point Grossly at me?”

“Did he ever. First Mike posed as a doctor to give Rovanna one of the Love Thirty-twos. Then he used ‘dream insertions.' He said he inserted the same dream into Rovanna twice a night for three nights running. That's the maximum, or the waking mind devalues the dream and it will soon be forgotten. In the dream, you gave Rovanna the weapon and told him to defend himself and his ideals with it. Rovanna told the cops he got the gun from you. Mike tipped Grossly through a friend in Washington, and Grossly's office pried loose the police interview tapes.”

Hood thought of Rovanna's terror of Dr. Walter Freeman and lobotomies. Freeman inserts orbitoclast. Finnegan inserts dream. “Where did Grossly get the interior photos of Pace Arms and the Love Thirty-twos?”

“From Mike.”

“But Mike was in a full body cast at Imperial Mercy Hospital when those pictures were shot.”

“Owens took them.”

Hood remembered the starstruck smiles and the puckered lips of the Pace Arms gunsmiths—hamming it up for the pretty woman with the camera.
Owens
, he thought,
shilling for Mike again
.

Bradley looked at Hood with a punished expression. He wiped his face with his hands and took a deep breath. “I did more than give Theresa Brewer your home address. I gave Dez all the stuff Mike had of you down in Yucatán. Mike shot some of it from a little bi-wing airplane. I shot some of it myself. One of Mike's friends in the Mexican Army, an officer, contributed some video of the raid on Armenta's castle. Owens shot some.”

“And you're not present in a single frame or image of what you gave to Dez.”

“Correct. Mike edited me out. I've told CIB a thousand times I wasn't there—I was tarpon fishing a few miles away. So long as Caroline Vega and Jack Cleary back me up, I'm solid. I look innocent and it looks like you trafficked a million dollars in drug profits to a Mexican drug lord.”

Hood wondered at the depths of betrayal in Mike and in Bradley. “I did it for Erin.”

Bradley nodded. “I know. I know. Hood . . . I'll do what's right. I'm ready to do what's right.”

“Start by telling Erin the truth.”

“Like what, Charlie?”

“Everything. Start with Murrieta. Then tell her about the cash you've been delivering to the North Baja Cartel for the last four years. It took me a while to put it all together. But I investigated those Lancaster murders back in oh-nine, the North Baja Cartel cash couriers. I found out that Coleman Draper and Terry Laws murdered them to take over the delivery route. Good money, short hours. After Coleman killed Laws, he took on another partner. I didn't suspect it was you until you put a bullet in Coleman. At first, I thought you were watching my back. Then I realized you were taking over the cash run for yourself. You doubled your take without him.”

Bradley looked vaguely sickened. He glanced at Hood, then away.

“Something had to explain the way you lived, Bradley. Everybody saw that you had too much. Erin told me once that you always worked Friday nights and Saturday mornings so you could spend Sundays and Mondays with her—she never gigged on Mondays. She was proud that you'd do that. But a friend in payroll told me you've only worked four Friday
P.M
. or Saturday
A.M
. shifts in the whole time you've been a deputy. So, Friday nights had to be the Baja nights.”

Bradley sighed but still didn't look Hood in the eye. “Yeah, those were the Baja nights.”

“Tell Erin about the thousand Love Thirty-twos you sold to Herredia. Tell her about the deal you made with Mike. Tell her about last week, when you brought cocaine across the border in new Mexican-made Fords. The ones you delivered to Castro. I've got
you
on camera for that one.”

Bradley groaned.

“Part of her putting herself back together is sorting out your lies from the truth. You have no idea how much trust she wasted on you. So help her out, Bradley. Tell Erin who you are and what you've done. She knows the basics already.”

Bradley sat back and looked down at the plastic table. Hood saw the flush on his face. “If I do that, I'll lose her. Then I won't have anything.”

“Sure you will—you'll have that little streak of decency you were born with. Grow some, Bradley. It's time. And help me take down Mike.”

“How?”

“Owens is the key.”

L
a
ter Bradley sat near Erin and Thomas as they slept. He listened to the hum of Imperial Mercy Hospital and looked at his wife and son and wondered how he could feel so far from them when they were actually just a few feet away. But now that his small family was real, just when his direction should be clear, he feared that he would lose them. Maybe to Mike Finnegan. Maybe not. But lose them he would, when Erin learned the truth. He pictured a cat trying to hold on to a wet glass globe, claws scratching for a purchase that could not last.

He watched them sleep and wondered what it would be like to confess it all to her—what he had done, his history, his ill-gotten treasures, his deal with a devil. Was it really time?
Grow some. Tell Erin what you've done.
Then Erin would complete her banishment of him. And if Hood told Dez the truth of what had happened in Yucatán, the LASD would certainly fire and possibly prosecute him. He imagined prison, and what it would be like when he got out, trying to be a weekend dad, a man not with a wife and son but a man with mere visitation rights to what had once been his. He could not convincingly imagine such a life.

In the evening Bradley took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out to the parking lot. The sun had set and the eastern sky was purple and dotted with bashful young stars. He fished the pack of smokes from his sock—deputies were not allowed to carry tobacco products while in uniform—and lit it with a match. He called Owens and told her the news.

“Is he beautiful?”

“He's very beautiful.”

“Does he look like you?”

“He doesn't really look like either of us.”

“I am so happy for you. I am proud. You'll be a strong and good father. And Erin will be a wonderful mother.”

“I want that.”

“I'll tell Mike that Thomas Firth Jones is now among us. He'll be glad to hear this.”

“We need to talk. Face to face. No Mike. It's important, Owens.”

“He told me what you two were discussing at the convention before you made your exit. What he said about me is unflattering but true. I can be traded.”

“Can he be traded?”

She was silent for a long beat. “That's a dangerous idea, Bradley.”

“Hear me out.”

“Name the time and place.”