L.A. Bytes

by P. A. Brown

  284 P.A. Brown

  “He’s down there,” Chris whispered. “He won’t go far from his target. And he’s got David somewhere close, too...” He didn’t say what he could see on Martinez’s face. Unless he’s already dead.

  Abruptly he stood up. “You do what you gotta do, but before you turn it into a circus, I’m going down there.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Chris—”

  “You going to arrest me, Detective?”

  For a brief moment Chris thought he was going to do just that. Martinez’s face was mottled with rage.

  “Don’t do this, Chris,” he said. “Let the experts handle it.”

  “Experts,” Chris almost spat, but bit his tongue and kept silent. Sparing Brad a glance, he headed for the door before Martinez could make a decision they would both regret.

  § § § §

  Chris climbed into his Escape and sat unseeing behind the wheel, ignoring the sweat trickling down his face. Finally he put the car in gear and cranked on the AC.

  He wasn’t sure how much of what he told Martinez was pure bravado, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave David’s rescue in their not-so-delicate hands. Whether or not they meant well—he knew Martinez did, but Martinez wasn’t running this show. He’d be lucky if he even got invited along for the ride.

  David would be seen as nothing more than collateral damage.

  No doubt he’d get a hero’s funeral, replete with the fl ag draped coffi n and the touching speech from the Chief of Police.

  Just like Jairo.

  As David’s registered partner he’d get the full spousal treatment even if the LAPD had never known what to do with David and certainly wouldn’t know what to do with him. Maybe they’d even give him the fl ag off his coffi n.

  Well, Chris wasn’t ready to write David off quite so fast.

  He took the I5 down to the 110 then headed south toward the Civic Center. The skyline towered over him, traffi c slowed to L.A. BYTES 285

  a crawl. He got off at Figueroa, past the Health Center, where he turned left on Temple after sitting through two lights. Temple itself was bumper to bumper with lunchtime traffi c.

  He drove past Los Angeles Street, slowing down to examine 300 North. It was a tall, imposing structure, white against the brilliant cloudless sky. A group of sign carriers protesting some war in some part of the world most of them probably couldn’t pick out on a map paraded across the street from the Courthouse. Occasionally one of them would wave a handmade sign in someone’s face. Chris found parking on Temple in front of the twenty-two story Roybal Federal building.

  He saw why the protesters weren’t picketing the federal buildings. A single, empty Homeland Security van was parked two cars behind him. No one who looked like a federal agent was in sight. Were they already on alert?

  A woman hurried past him. A scruffy-looking mongrel trotted at her side. The woman jabbered non-stop, her words, as far as Chris could tell, nonsensical. What she lacked in coherence she made up in volume. He could hear her long before she came alongside him. She wore a ratty fur coat over gray sweats. The dog wore an equally scruffy sweater. The dog’s eyes met Chris’s.

  It looked resigned.

  Ahead of her two men argued, though there wasn’t much heat in their words. Their argument must have been an ongoing one. As they drew nearer, Chris heard the name Nixon and “that damned scoundrel, Agnew.” Like the woman, they were both overdressed; the one who had taken issue with Agnew wore what once had probably been an expensive suit. It might have been new when Nixon and his reviled running mate fi rst took offi ce. The other one, like the woman, wore a heavy winter coat over several other layers. No doubt all the clothes he owned. As they passed him the miasma of unwashed fl esh, urine and shit lingered.

  Surely if there was a high alert in place, the streets would have been cleared.

  Chris picked up his pace, eager to get clear of this area. He almost wished there was more visible security. Did they think 286 P.A. Brown

  because so many of these homeless people were mentally ill they posed no threat? They couldn’t be that naive.

  For that matter, what better cover could someone use? No one looked twice at the destitute who littered the streets of Los Angeles. They smelled bad, they talked to themselves and everyone knew they were crazy. Chris had seen people cross the street to avoid them even when they weren’t panhandling.

  He slowed, no longer trying to fl ee. Instead he started surreptitiously studying the faces of everyone around him. He tried to keep it casual, knowing some of the more belligerent would take offense if they caught him staring. He remembered the woman in Santa Clarita who had mentioned the way the one man had smelled. Did that mean something?

  If Adnan was here, did he have David nearby? But he could hardly conceal an unconscious or bound man, so where could he be?

  Couple that with the question of how Adnan planned to deliver the explosives. Judging from the amount of equipment Adnan had purchased, he wasn’t going to hand deliver it. That meant a vehicle of some kind.

  He wished he could have spent a week combing through Adnan’s computer. Just what might he have found? But time was a luxury he no longer had. A luxury David no longer had.

  He dragged out his Blackberry and dialed David’s cell one more time.

  Wednesday, 11:15 am, Civic Center, Los Angeles The vehicle shook; dragging David out of the fi tful half-sleep he had fallen into as the temperature inside the vehicle climbed.

  The door rattled open and David struggled onto his back. The air that fl owed into the cargo area was only marginally cooler than what had been there before. David sucked in as much as he could through his nose.

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  Even the rich effl uence of car exhaust smelled wonderful. It meant he didn’t have to smell his own stink.

  Somebody climbed into the vehicle bed. The stench hit David almost immediately. Sweat and the rank smell of unwashed fl esh and clothes. It brought back a rush of memories. The house in Santa Clarita, following Chris, the man who had attacked him.

  The brief glimpse he’d had of his assailant. Adnan.

  David heard his soft, even breathing. He knew exactly the moment his abductor stood over him. When Adnan knelt, David tried to pull away, though the gesture was futile.

  Rough hands jerked him back and wrenched the tape off his mouth. Along with half his mustache.

  “Sorry about that.” Adnan’s familiar voice was gravelly with fatigue and something else—fear? Was what he was doing fi nally sinking in?

  Maybe it wasn’t too late to stop this after all.

  He strained to hear if Adnan was alone. If his partner was there, Adnan wasn’t going to listen to a stranger’s plea. Especially a cop’s. But all he could hear was Adnan’s harsh breathing and his own. Beyond the door he could make out the swish of nearby highway traffi c.

  “Adnan. Listen to me,” David said. “I know what happened to your father. Whatever you’re doing, you can stop, it will be all right—”

  “Shut up! You don’t know anything,” Adnan snapped. He pulled David up and shoved something under his nose. “Drink this.”

  David sputtered as cool water spilled over his closed lips, dribbling down his chin. He hastily opened his mouth and sucked in the liquid. It poured down his parched throat, bringing a coughing fi t as some of it went down the wrong way. Too late he remembered the poison Adnan used to kill his mother. Then he realized it didn’t matter and he drained the bottle.

  “Easy, easy. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  288 P.A. Brown

  “Adnan—”

  “Shut up, old man. It’s hard enough to do this without you trying to fuck with my head.”

  Do what? David tensed when he heard the snick of a switchblade open. He fl inched and tried to pull away, ducking his head down to protect his throat, knowing there were a dozen other places Adnan could stick him that would be just as fatal.

  “Hold still!”

/>   David ignored him. He twisted sideways, knocking Adnan’s arm aside. Suddenly his hair was being twisted and the knife blade pressed against his throat.

  “Hold still or I will cut you,” Adnan whispered.

  David froze, his body going cold as he anticipated the knife sliding in, the pain, then the inevitable shock of death. Instead he was hauled onto his side, the knife blade sawing the bonds that held the tape over his eyes.

  Adnan was almost in tears. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,”

  he said. “I just wanted to pay back those bastards for what they did to my father. Not this. Never this—”

  Savagely he fi nished cutting through the tape, tearing it off.

  David blinked away the tears that fl ooded his eyes at the shock of light through the open door of what he now realized was a van.

  Then his cell phone rang again.

  David could see Adnan’s tension.

  “Answer it, Adnan. Let them know I’m okay. Someone will come. They’ll help—”

  “Shut up.” Adnan dug through David’s pocket and extracted the phone.

  David held his breath and let it out with a fear-tinged gust of relief when Adnan fl ipped the thing open and spoke.

  “Yes,” Adnan snapped.

  David could hear Chris’s frantic voice on the other end. He shifted on the fl oor of the vehicle and tried to sit up.

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  “He is unharmed,” Adnan said. “And will be released soon—”

  Adnan thrust the phone into David’s face.

  “Tell him.”

  “Chris? I’m fi ne—”

  “David! Oh, God, David, where are you—”

  Adnan climbed to his feet and stepped toward the back of the truck. David could still hear Chris shouting.

  “What are you doing here?” Adnan asked, his voice fl at and uneasy. “I thought we agreed—”

  David whipped around toward the rear of the van. Through the lingering tears he could make out a dark, broad shouldered silhouette. He didn’t need an introduction from Adnan to know it was his partner, the Frenchman.

  The Sig Sauer in his hands was pointed at Adnan’s gut. In a thick French accent he said, “Our agreement has changed—”

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing here?” A thick voice, another accent, lighter. Latino. David shouted out a warning as an orange-vested Caltran’s worker appeared behind Adnan’s partner, who spun around, weapon coming around in a narrow arc.

  The Caltran’s worker’s eyes bugged out. He backed up, hands coming up in a warding off gesture.

  Adnan lunged toward the open door. His partner spun back around, but before he could bring the Sig back on target, Adnan kicked it out of his grip. The knife in his hand fl ashed and the Frenchman gasped. The gasp became a liquid gurgle. A spray of blood fi lled the van with the sharp stink of metal.

  Adnan stumbled back, the knife falling from his bloody fi ngers. It clinked against the metal truck bed.

  David tasted blood. He rolled onto his knees, his bound hands behind him. He felt, rather than saw, Adnan jump out of the van.

  Knowing he only had seconds to act, he threw himself forward, feeling the knife handle under his chest.

  290 P.A. Brown

  “Get out of here,” Adnan shouted at the Caltran’s guy. “I’ll shoot.”

  An agitated Adnan bound back into the van, slamming the door behind him. He scrambled toward the front, but not before David saw that he now held the Sig.

  The van engine rumbled to life and the truck shook as it backed slowly out and jolted to an abrupt stop, throwing David back, then forward. The knife skidded out from under him. He tried to roll with it, but the van’s sharp movements kept him off balance. The van picked up speed over rough ground, then the wheels whispered with a steady cadence. They were on pavement.

  Picking up speed.

  David began to hear other vehicles alongside them and when they slowed he knew they were traveling through traffi c. Surface streets, since their speed was nowhere near enough for highway traveling. The truck slowed, sped up, swerved into another lane.

  David heard the impatient stutter of horns and brakes squealing on hot pavement, all typical sounds of driving in L.A.

  They stopped, the truck idling for a minute or two, then lurching forward again.

  Going where?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Wednesday, 11:30 am, Temple Street, Los Angeles Chris stared at the silent Blackberry. “David? David!”

  He was jostled by someone who reeked of sweat and piss. He fumbled to hang onto the phone.

  “David!”

  He punched in Martinez’s number.

  “Diego here.”

  “Martinez, I talked to him. I talked to David!”

  “What? Whoa, slow down, Chris. When did you talk to him?

  Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t you trace the call? Our plans are both through Wireless Planet. Call them. There’s a GPS on his phone.

  You can track it.”

  “They will,” Martinez said. “Now, where are you?”

  “Downtown.” Chris looked around. “Downtown, on...

  Temple, near Los Angeles.”

  The crowds pulled Chris along. He left the street people, Homeland Security, and the ragged band of indifferent protesters behind. The suits got newer and Armani and Brut replaced the stink. An errant breeze brought the whiff of Kenneth Cole and he felt an ache at David’s familiar fragrance.

  South of him the skyline loomed; the seventy-three story First Interstate World Center, the Bank of America and Wells Fargo towers delineating the downtown proper.

  He hurried along Temple, driven by demons and the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t give in to despair now.

  He couldn’t give up on David. That would be the worst betrayal of all.

  292 P.A. Brown

  He passed the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, the new home of the Los Angeles Archdiocese that had opened to so much media hoopla back in 2002. Ahead the 110 converged with the 101 and the roar of traffi c became an overriding hum that grew with each step. He wouldn’t fi nd David going that way. He should go back to Los Angeles Street, try and fi nd some pretext to take a closer look at any delivery trucks he saw there.

  Chris moved down Temple. A siren screamed ahead of him.

  A black and white roared up Hope Street and swung west on Temple, a second one followed less than a minute later. An ambulance, its siren ululating into the silent watchfulness that fi lled the streets, followed.

  Chris’s heart slammed into his throat. Had David been found?

  He elbowed his way through the mob. Once he passed Hope, the foot traffi c slackened and he picked up his pace, jogging the last block, only slowing when he spotted the kaleidoscope of lights from the emergency vehicles at the mouth of the 101 on-ramp.

  A small crowd of onlookers clustered at the south end of the ramp the police had shut down. At fi rst Chris couldn’t see anything, then he made out the man-sized shape near the bush-choked verge cut off from the on-ramp by a sagging chain link fence. Swallowing a lump of fear, Chris edged through the crowd to get a better look. A uniformed offi cer circled the body, snapping pictures. Chris could see enough to know the guy was dead. His black beard was covered with blood, and more blood on the ground had already drawn fl ies.

  “Guy in the back of the van just nailed him and drove off.

  Never said a word,” a gruff voiced Latino in the garb of a Caltran’s worker said. “Bastard almost nailed me.”

  “Jesus, they shoot him?” another orange-vested man whispered.

  “Fuck if I know—”

  Chris turned to ask the guy who was in the back of what truck when another uniformed cop appeared in their midst.

  “Step back, please, people.”

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  Reluctantly the crowd broke up. Chris watched the cops corral them like dogs after sheep and take them off to be i
nterviewed.

  He knew better than to try to slip away. The cops had made him, and any attempt to disappear would only rouse their suspicion.

  He let himself be moved toward the second black and white by a trim, good looking African-American offi cer. His name tag said Ridley. He looked Chris up and down and Chris knew he was wondering what a guy who looked like him, who clearly wasn’t a Caltran’s worker, was doing down in this end of town. He wasn’t even dressed like the usual downtown crowd with their Prada suits and silk ties, so he couldn’t even claim he’d strayed from the offi ce for a little excitement.

  Hell, he knew what he looked like to this cop: a Silver Lake twink trolling the wrong part of town.

  Chris could hardly tell him the truth; that he was looking for his husband and a truck full of explosives. But he had to say something to the questions he knew were coming once they got the preliminary vital statistics out of him.

  “So tell me, Mr. Bellamere,” Ridley asked. “What brings you here?”

  Chris shrugged. “I heard the sirens and wondered what was going on.”

  “Just curious, hmm?” Ridley said. “Something must have brought you downtown.”

  “No, not really.” Chris sighed. “Listen. Before we start this dance, you might want to call Detective Martinez Diego at the Northeast. Clear up a couple of things.”

  “Martinez?”

  “Detective—Northeast.”

  “He someone special to you?”

  Chris grinned, knowing what Martinez would make of that assumption. “I’ll be sure to tell him you asked.”

  Ridley wrote something down and stepped back. “We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

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  Chris nodded and turned away. That was when he saw the cell phone lying beside a clump of weeds next to the shrouded body.

  He froze, then edged closer to the yellow crime scene tape.

  It couldn’t be... It looked like David’s cell. The blue one Chris had given him last Christmas.

  Without thinking he moved toward the barrier of yellow tape.

  A uniformed shape blocked his way. He ignored Ridley’s scowling face and was about to push past him to get to the phone when Ridley blocked him again. He turned away and pressed David’s speed dial. Not caring if the cop watched him, he stared at the phone on the ground and waited while his phone connected and began ringing.