the Pallbearers (2010) (22 page)

"Detective Scully?" the taller, thinner one said.

"Yes."

Tm Agent Kurt Westfall. This is my partner, Agent Leo Faskin."

Faskin was a sour, short, lunchbox-shaped guy who looked like he hadn't smiled since the Reagan administration.

"'Sup, guys?" I said, playing it loose and friendly. Of course, I already knew it was about Jack.

"We understand that you took custody of a wanted federal bank robber named Jack Straw two days ago."

"Yep."

"Where is he?

"Sorry, that's classified," I said as Alexa moved in beside me.

"Unclassify it right now, or I'm gonna start making some phone calls. You won't like how they end," Westfall threatened.

"Can't," I said.

Westfall continued. "According to Sergeant Acosta and Lieutenant Moon, you took custody of Straw on Wednesday at two fifteen A
. M
. in West L
. A
. We have an open warrant on that guy. He robbed the First National Bank in Soledad then hit the B of A in Temecula two hours later on the same day. The federal warrant is over two weeks old, and I'm under some heavy pressure to redeem it. A federal warrant definitely takes precedence over whatever it is you're investigating."

"For you, maybe. Not for me," I said.

Westfall took a step forward. "Do not fuck around with me, Detective."

"Excuse me," Alexa interjected.

Westfall shot her an angry look. "We're not talking to you, ma'am."

"No, but I'm talking to you," she replied. "I'm the commander of the Central Detective Division of the LAPD and the classified case he's talking about is an important murder investigation that has a high police department priority. Mr. Straw is acting as a confidential informant in that situation. Our homicide investigation cannot be compromised. You'll have to wait until the LAPD case is resolved."

"You're commander of what?" Agent Faskin said. He was having trouble accepting the fact that such a beautiful woman could be in charge of anything more complicated than a shopping cart.

Alexa grabbed her purse off the chair and pulled out one of her business cards. She handed it to Westfall, who, after he read it, held the card like he'd just fished it out of a public toilet.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough," he finally said.

"Then I would suggest that you take this up with Chief Anthony Filosiani at your earliest convenience," Alexa replied firmly. "Until I hear from him to the contrary, this matter is closed. Was there anything else?"

Both feds stood there for a long moment, not sure how to deal with this. They had been prepared to just take the case from me. Now they had a sixth-floor LAPD commander to deal with, which momentarily trumped everything.

"You'll be hearing from our ASAC," Kurt Westfall said testily. Then he looked at Leo Faskin, and the two of them turned. Alexa held open the front door as they passed, then closed it firmly behind them.

When they were gone, she turned to me and said, "Of course, you know that will never stick."

"Come on. Why not? You told the truth. Jack's working undercover even though we didn't exactly sanction it. This is a high-profile murder just like you said. What's not to stick?"

"Honey, we have a new Homeland Security rule book. There's something in there called the interagency operational guideline. They aren't gonna accept that we're using their wanted federal bank robber as a protected UC. Those guys have open-felony paper on Jack. I'm going to be hearing from Deputy Chief Bradshaw within an hour.

I know he's gonna demand we turn Straw over, but of course we haven't got a clue where he is. So we're sorta fucked."

"Finally, you see how easy it is to get in trouble with Internal Affairs." I grinned.

Chapter
39

I called Vargas to talk about Jack and the FBI development. We arranged to meet for a late lunch in Torrance, where he had a hearing at the courthouse. I had some time to kill before then, so I decided to run by Huntington House first to see if Vicki was making any progress with the financial records.

Alexa had decided to go downtown to Parker Center and head off the FBI by convincing Tony to go on offense. There was a fair chance she could talk our chief into stonewalling the bureau.

Of course, the problem was that I'd lied to Sergeant Acosta and Lieutenant Moon and now Jack was gone. I had a hunch on how to get him back but wasn't quite sure I wanted to. He was actually in a pretty good place right now to help us.

A gnawing feeling of gratitude for Jack had been building in me for the last two days. He was unorthodox, but he had guts. He was moving forward and risking everything, including his life and freedom, because he wanted to get some justice for Walter Dix. You had to respect it.

When I got to Huntington House, nobody was in the office. I walked the campus, once again flooded with memories of my time there. I never found Diamond or Vicki, so I finally got back into the MDX and headed out. I had just turned onto Western Avenue when I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw O'Shea's custom maroon Escalade ducking in and out of a line of traffic. Somehow I had missed seeing the car at Huntington House. It wasn't in the main lot, so O'Shea must have been parked on a side street and saw me coming out. He was about three car lengths back.

I had to decide very quickly how to play this. I didn't know if I wanted to pull over right now and confront O'Shea on a city street, taking a chance that this polypeptide junkie would park another right cross on my forehead, or if I wanted to try and be more devious.

Given all that had happened and the short time line I now found myself on with the FBI, being devious seemed like the better plan, even if it wasn't the bravest.

I was sure I couldn't outrun him in my Acura, so I started to search my mind for a terrain-friendly spot nearby where I could obtain a tactical advantage.

Then I remembered a maze of little short streets and cul-de
-
sacs by the Torrance Municipal Airport, which was only a few miles away.

I accelerated through a yellow light and headed in that direction. In the side mirror I saw the Escalade plow through the red light, blaring the horn, narrowly missing some oncoming traffic. I drove as quickly as I could, weaving through traffic.

I was just passing the airport on my right, when suddenly the Escalade moved up fast. It slammed into my back left bumper, executing a pretty good pit maneuver, which spun my car. I went off the road onto the shoulder and finally came to a jarring stop half on the road, half off.

I opened my door and stepped out as Rick O'Shea exited his car.

He was coming at me fast from about ten yards away with an ugly expression on his face.

"What's wrong with you?" I called out angrily, looking at the damaged front fender of his Escalade, then at the paint-scarred left side of my bumper.

"Get the fuck away from me," I said, trying to get to the .38 strapped low on my ankle. I was reaching down, trying to unhook the flap on the holster and draw my gun, but I already knew I wouldn't have near enough time.

What came next was so fast I didn't even know what happened. O'Shea took me down in less than a second with some sort of complex Brazilian jujitsu move, then, like a break-dancer on his back, wrapped himself around me.

His legs gripped my torso while he simultaneously pulled me toward him and twisted my arms up in some kind of joint-ruining arm bar.

I was suddenly helpless. He held me there, pinned and totally compromised. Then, like an anaconda squeezing its prey, he slowly began to apply pressure.

O'Shea's complicated holds were tightening, bending my joints the wrong way, shooting unbearable pain through my entire body.

He had his mouth next to my ear and whispered, "Are you getting the point, friend?"

"Okay, enough," I pleaded.

He put more pressure on my left elbow, bending it further backward. My right wrist was screaming in pain.

"This is so you won't forget."

He bore down hard, and I heard a snap. My right forearm exploded in pain. Then he unwrapped himself, stood, and patted me down. He quickly found my gun and then my badge case. When he opened it, he cursed softly.

"You're a cop?"

"Yeah," I whispered through gritted teeth.

"Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, then stepped back and threw my Taurus Hy-Lite and shield twenty feet away before sprinting back to his car. He pulled out and drove off, squealing his tires as he went.

I remained on my back, lying very still. I was cradling my throbbing right arm in my aching left hand.

I was supposed to be tough. I had a rep around the LAPD as a hard guy to put down. But I'd been in two scraps with O'Shea and I'd lost them both. Elapsed time on both contests--less than fifteen seconds. Pretty damn pathetic.

I finally got to my feet painfully, holding my arm. My left wrist was aching, but at least it wasn't broken.

After I got the pain under control, I somehow picked up my badge and got my gun back in its holster. I needed to get to a hospital, but I'd be lucky if I could even drive.

CHAPTEII 40

I managed to drive myself to the nearby Torrance Medical Center and went inside. There was a doctor there whose son was on Harvard Westlake's football team, and he'd set Chooch s finger after he broke it on a blitzing linebacker's helmet while throwing a pass during the last game of his junior year.

Dr. Raymond George was listed as on duty. Kveryone from school called him Dr. Ray.

I spoke to the admitting nurse and told her I wanted to see him and that I needed to get my arm set. I was directed to the waiting room of the ER and was given patient insurance forms to fill out, which was a severe challenge using only my left hand.

I needed help on some of the more involved written stuff and kept pestering the nurse for assistance.

While I waited, a woman who looked like she'd been in a bar fight helped me dial my phone. I cradled my swelling right arm i
n m
y lap, held the cell in my left hand, then put it gingerly to my ear.

Alexa answered a few seconds later by saying, "Whats going on, babe?"

I filled her in on what had happened with O'Shea and told her where I was. When I finished, she said, "He broke your arm?"

"Don't make me say it again. I already feel like a total pussy. T he guy has taken me out twice in two days and hasn't even broken a sweat."

"I'm on my way."

"Not necessary. I'm okay, sorta. I'll meet you at home. How are you doing with Chief Filosiani?"

"I haven't even been in to see him yet. Maria's trying to fit me in between appointments."

"Stay there. I'm okay. I'll call you when I get out of here."

Dr. Ray met me in one of the ER exam rooms. He was a tall, skeletal guy with an infectious smile. I showed him my arm and told him I missed a step and fell down some stairs.

"Let's see what you did," he said. "Gonna have to take a picture."

He numbed the arm and took X rays. Once he got them back, he showed me the results.

"You have a hairline fracture," he said, pointing to a slight crack in the bone visible on the X ray. "It's gonna need a cast."

He opened a cabinet and pulled out some fiberglass casting tapes and put them in a bowl of water to moisten. Then he began to wrap the waterproof cast liner, starting down by my first knuckle.

"I need to be able to use my hand," I told him.

"Shane, to keep this stable I should immobilize the entire arm, wrist to shoulder," he said, holding the dripping tape in his hand.

"Yeah, but I need to be able to fill out my police reports. I'll be careful. I'll keep it in a sling."

He looked at me skeptically.

"Come on, you immobilize my whole arm and my boss will pull me outta the field and stick me on a desk answering phones. Don't do that to me. I'll die of boredom."

Reluctantly, Dr. Ray acquiesced.

When he was done, the cast went from just above my wrist, almost up to the elbow.

"You have to leave this in a sling. The arm needs the support."

"No problem," I said.

Then he checked my swollen left wrist and declared it a sprain.

"This is gonna be sore. I'm going to prescribe something for the pain."

"I don't want it," I said. "I deserve the pain."

He left the room to get the sling. As soon as he was gone, I got off the table, limped to the medical supply cabinet, and stole a fiberglass tape roll, jamming it down into my pocket. I had a devious notion of how to use it.

Dr. Ray came back with the sling. He fitted it around my neck and put my broken right arm inside, adjusting the straps.

"Pay the front desk," he instructed.

I went out and gave them my card. The computer hummed and blipped. My broken arm ached like a bitch.

Chapter
41

I had a voice dial on the MDX, so as I carefully held the steering wheel, I recited Vargas's cell number. Miraculously, I got him on the phone.