the Pallbearers (2010) (15 page)

"Rico hasn't made a cut since he got promoted to Chief," I said. "What's with that?"

"Somebody leaked the whole thing about Walt to the L
. A
. Times. They're doing a major story on him and Huntington House for the Sunday 'Calendar' section, making this a high-profile deal. You know how Rico is. He feels he has to personally protect the integrity of his office. He was at an ME's convention in Vegas, but he's flying back over the weekend. The new autopsy is scheduled for next Monday. Sorry."

A few minutes later, Alexa went inside to get disinfectant and the butterfly bandages. Then, while I sat still, she stood over me and pulled the wound on my forehead together, taping the edges closed.

While she worked, I was thinking I could sure use some karmic intervention.

Come
on, Walt, I pleaded silently to the heavens. I'm doing this for you. Get busy and change my luck up there. Make something happen.

Chapter
26

What happened wasn't good.

It started with a phone call at 1:15 A
. M
. I rolled over and pulled my cell out of its charger. I didn't recognize the number on the screen as I fumbled it up to my ear.

"What?" I snarled. I don't wake up happy.

"Scully?" Whoever it was sounded like he was out of breath. Like he was running.

"Who is this?"

"It's Jack."

I heard something crash. Heard him groan. More heavy breathing. "Just a minute," he said. "Hang on. I got my hands full." It sounded as if he was running again, then he was breathing hard into the receiver.

"I think this is better. You still there?"

"Jack? What's going on? What're you doing?"

"Listen, dude. I got us something. I broke the case wide open.

This is huge but I laid the bike down so I'm on foot. Near Park La Brea. I could really use a dust-off."

"You want me to pick you up?"

There was a long pause. "Well, yeah"

"What is it?" Alexa asked, rolling over and looking at me through tangled hair.

"I don't know yet. It's Jack."

"Scully." He was in my ear again. "Dude, you are gonna totally blaze when you see what I got for us."

"Where are you again?"

"Hang on a minute. There's a street sign up here. Lemme look." I heard what sounded like cycle boots running on concrete, then, "I'm on Hauser near Sixth Street in the La Brea district. You know where that is?"

"Sorta."

"Listen, Scully. Get your ass over here, pronto. This is huge. You're gonna love this."

"Now? It's after one in the morning!"

"Fuck yes, now. Come on, man. Oh, shit!" I heard running again and more heavy breathing, then Jack said, "Hey, I gotta get moving. I guess I won't be on Hauser after all. Get your ass in gear and come in this direction. I'll call back." Then he was gone.

"What was that all about?" Alexa said. She was now propped up on one elbow, watching me as I quickly dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt, then stepped into my flip-flops.

"I don't know. It's Jack. He says he's got something. He needs me to pick him up in Park La Brea. He was running, out of breath."

Alexa frowned. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Neither do I but I'll handle it. Stay here. I'm gonna use your car. Is your new little Beretta automatic still in the glove box?"

"Yes. Did he say what was going on?"

"No." I leaned over and kissed her. "I told you these people were gonna make problems. I told you that, remember?"

"I remember."

She was still frowning as I ran out the door.

I wanted to use Alexa's BMW because I wasn't sure what Jack was up to and something told me that rolling around in a black and white department slick-back might be a little too high profile. It was the first of about six bad decisions I made in the next half hour.

Alexas backup .25 automatic was in the glove box as she said. It was a tiny, palm-sized, Beretta Bobcat with a seven-shot clip and a pop-up barrel that took an eighth cartridge in the breach. The way it worked was the escaping gas on the first shot chambered the subcompact so you could fire the rest of the clip. When I checked, I found the gun was empty. No box of shells. I should have gone back inside for my own gun, but I didn't. Mistake number two.

I took off in the BMW instead, and by going Code Two I made it to Park La Brea in under twenty minutes. I was on 6th Street when my cell rang again. It was Jack.

"I'm almost there," I told him.

"Not on Hauser anymore," he panted. He was running again. "I'm gonna try to get into Pan Pacific Park. Meet me there."

"Jack, what the fuck is going on?"

"Can't really talk right now, dude. Later."

Just before he disconnected I thought I heard sirens in the background.

"Please don't let him be running from the cops," I pleaded to Alexa's dashboard.

I made it to the park. Between the buildings of the Park La Brea apartments, I spotted the giant Mesa Investment Group sign a few blocks south on Wilshire. I heard sirens getting closer, and the premonition of disaster struck. I should have turned around and gone home, but I didn't. Call that mistake number three.

I pulled Alexa's BMW to the curb, got out, left the car, and ran into the park.

I moved quietly through the semi-lit darkness. As I got closer to the small amphitheater, I heard a low whistle. I turned, and there was Jack, dressed as he was that afternoon, hiding behind a Dumpster, his face bathed in sweat. The police sirens in the background were definitely getting louder.

"Where you parked?" he whispered urgently. "We sorta need to jet out of here, man."

I could have arrested him right then, but I didn't. And of course, that was number four.

"What the fuck is going on, Jack?"

"Scully, you're gonna kiss me when you see what I got. I solved Pop's murder, but right now, we gotta book."

He started running back in the direction I'd just come. "Let's go. Where you parked?" he said as he sprinted past.

"Jack, what did you do?" I was loping along about ten yards behind him trying to stay up.

"I did what you should have done. I fucking broke this case wide open!" he yelled over his shoulder as he ran.

Then we were lit by a flashlight. The second it hit us, I knew it was one of the new department-issued mini-Maglites. Cops hated them because they put out a narrow beam.

The mini-Mags were just recently issued because of a lawsuit against the city filed by some special-interest group claiming that our old, foot-long, three-pound Maglites were unauthorized weapons. The idea was that the new ones were too small to use as bludgeons.

"Police! Stay where you are," the cop holding the mini-Maglite shouted.

"Let's go! This way!" Jack said veering right.

"Jack, come back here!" I shouted.

He suddenly spun around and headed back toward me. It was the first time I'd asked him to do something where he'd actually complied. Then I realized it wasn't me who'd turned him, but a fully lit
X-car with its siren blaring. It careened around the corner and was charging across the grass right at us.

"Shit!" Now I actually started to run from my LAPD brothers. Mistake number five.

Jack flew past me, heading the other way, yelling, "Let's go! We gotta get outta here!" I made a grab for him but missed.

Then it got really strange. Four more squad cars rounded into view and suddenly there were cops everywhere. All of them, out of their units with guns drawn, shouting at us. Jack and I were running around in the park, veering right, then left. The cops kept turning us, coming in on all sides. A big game of capture the flag with guns, batons, and Mace.

Jack was chased down and cornered first. Four cops descended on him, maced him, and started doing a bad-boy bongo on his head with their aluminum PR-24s. I was suddenly tackled from behind by two patrolmen, slammed to the ground, right onto my already-beaten face. I felt the cut on my forehead open up again. I tried to resist, and of course that was mistake number six.

I got maced for the effort, busted in the head, and finally, mercifully, I was handcuffed and it was over.

"I'm a cop!" I shouted. But even as I yelled this I knew it was going to be a hard sell. Both of my eyes were running thanks to the point-blank shot of Liquid Jesus. I had reopened the gash in my forehead and new blood was pouring down my cheek. Hie way I was dressed, in torn jeans and flip-flops with blood everywhere, the cop thing wasn't close to going over.

I was pushed into the back of a squad car. I looked over and saw Jack Straw in another black and white a few feet away. The insolent smile was finally gone. At least my brother officers had accomplished that much. He'd been pummeled and maced. His lip and head were bleeding.

Bad as all of this was, I could barely believe what happened next.

Chapter
11

The uniforms left me cuffed and sitting in the back of the black and white while they dealt with jack. Like most complete assholes in custody, he wouldn't stop running his mouth. He was saying all the dumb-ass things arrestees had been saying since law enforcement began.

"This is police harassment. You had no right to hit me. Wait'll my lawyer gets through with you."

Shut up, Jack, I thought.

They took his wallet, and one of the cops headed to another car to run him. They told him to be quiet or they were going to write him up as a 5150, which is our code for a head ease. They threatened to call the EMTs and have him tranquilized. None of which slowed him down at all.

Finally, a weathered old Hispanic sergeant with five hash mark
s o
n his sleeve and whose nameplate said S. Acosta dropped anchor in the backseat beside me.

"Okay, sparky, what's your story?" He was already tired of me and we hadn't even started yet.

"I'm Shane Scully, an LAPD homicide detective."

"Then where's your wallet? Levinson says you don't have one. If you're a cop, then you obviously know it's mandated that all LAPD personnel carry their creds and a firearm at all times, on duty as well as off. Since you don't have either, as far as I'm concerned, that makes you a lying shitball."

"No. ... I am a cop. I left my house so fast tonight I didn't remember to grab my badge case out of my desk."

"Or here's a better one," he said. "You learned while doing your last prison stretch that it's better not to carry ID when you're out capering so if you get caught, we can't run you or match you up to your old priors."

"I'm a police officer."

"You don't look like a police officer," he said, studying my still
-
bleeding forehead, torn jeans, and flip-flops. "You look like a guy out on a hot prowl who just came in second in an ass-kicking contest."

"My name is Shane Scully. Call my captain at Homicide Special."

"Right. We'll do that right after we notify the governor," he growled.

"You better do it now, Sergeant. I'm telling you I'm a homicide detective working out of Parker Center."

"No kidding." He pointed at Jack. "Then explain why your buddy over there did a B and E on the MIG building forty minutes ago."

"What's the MIG building?" I asked.

"Mesa Investment Group. He set off all the silent alarms. We chased him on his motorcycle. Then, we lost him for about thirty minutes, and when he turns up again he's with you in the park. Start there."

"My wife is Alexa Scully. She's head of the LAPD Central Detective Bureau," I said. "I'll give you her number. You need to call her."

Before he could deal with that, another cop stuck his head in through the open back door and spoke to Sergeant Acosta.

"Sal, we just ran the other guy. Jack Straw has two outstanding warrants for federal bank robbery."

"He has what?" I said, astonished.

"Take both these humps to Mens Central Jail. Book Straw on the federal felonies and book this guy, whoever he is, as a John Doe material witness, until I can check his story or figure out something else."

Then a supervisors car pulled up, and finally a cop I knew stepped out. He was a tall blond lieutenant named Gordon Moon. I used to play basketball with him when I was in Devonshire Division.

"Lieutenant Moon," I called out. He walked over to the squad car and looked in at me.

"Scully?" he said, with a puzzled look on his face. "What happened to your head? What're you doin' in there?"

"You know this guy?" Acosta said.

Moon opened the door and pulled me out. "Yeah."

"Don't tell me, he's really a cop," Acosta said. "I was just gonna transport him to MCJ."

"I sure wouldn't do that," Moon replied. "He's in Homicide at the Glass House. What's the deal? What's going on here? Why's his head bleeding?"

Acosta ran through the basics of what had just happened. When he was finished, the lieutenant assured him again that I was who I said I was.