This new position was better paid but a lot more slapdash. He’d had a brief discussion about the salary and career prospects with the man who’d recruited him when he’d been released from Massachusetts General. Bottom line was Grant was still in law enforcement. His deployment and the nature of that law enforcement was more flexible than in Bradford. Grant reckoned it was the fact that he was off the books that made employing him desirable. He could be attached to various departments or police forces or asked to work alone, but if the shit hit the fan, then Uncle Sam could deny he worked for him. That and the fact that Grant didn’t always work strictly between the lines seemed to be the attraction for the man with the dark suit and quiet voice. Grant had no problems putting bad guys away with scant regard for the rules of evidence.
He waited for the machine to verify his account and glanced over his shoulder at the passing traffic. Not many cars. A single-decker bus like the one out of Speed but without the bomb and the fifty-miles-an-hour minimum speed. A blue and yellow taxi, the ugliest color scheme Grant had ever seen. There was no sign of the big black car or the two heavies who’d been watching him earlier. If they weren’t following him, he wondered why he felt the itch up the back of his neck—Grant’s early warning system for trouble.
He looked around again, scrutinizing passing pedestrians, any cars that appeared to be going too slow, and tourists sitting in the park opposite. Nothing seemed out of place. He looked to his left along West Sixth, checking out the front of the Moxa Medical Group building and the mini market next door. Then he looked to his right across the intersection toward downtown. Glass and chrome towers fringed the skyline. There was constant movement but nothing that appeared threatening.
He rubbed his neck, but the itch wouldn’t go away. It was one of the instincts that had helped him survive desert skirmishes and criminal confrontations. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The ATM beeped impatiently. He selected cash with receipt from the display menu, then typed in the amount he wanted. The machine whirred as it counted $500.
He looked around again. Still nothing.
The machine pushed his card out of the slot and beeped again. He took it. Crisp new fifty-dollar bills came out of a different slot, followed by a printed receipt. He took them all and put them in his wallet but didn’t step out from the ATM shelter. When he got this feeling, it was best not to move until he’d identified the source.
Two and a half minutes later, he did.
The bank alarm went off.
“Aw, shit.” He looked at the door and waited.
FIVE
The alarm was harsh and annoying. That was the idea—make them hard to ignore. Grant didn’t ignore it, but he didn’t make any rash decisions either. He was unarmed and unprotected. No body armor. No gun. He hated guns but knew how to handle one. There were times when you had to embrace the thing you hated. Having a gun right now would have been helpful.
The ATM shelter was next to the front doors. Grant stayed inside it but shifted to the end nearest the door. Smoked glass made it difficult to see inside the bank, but he could just about make out violent movement. Two men. Fast and jerky. Not the smooth moves of veteran bank robbers. That was good and bad. Veterans were more ruthless. Amateurs were more difficult to predict. Grant didn’t plan on giving them much choice.
The alarm was loud, but there had been no gunshots. Nothing bad about that. It suggested a modicum of self-control. Nobody wanted to go down for murder if they could help it. Armed robbery was practically an entry-level crime in LA nowadays. Killing people still took a lot of effort.
Grant judged speed and distance. The smoky figures through the glass door were coming this way but not fast. Not together either. They were separating. One holding back to cover the customers and staff, the other coming toward the door. Grant quickly scanned the curb. No getaway vehicle. Being right on the intersection, it would be hard to park for any length of time without drawing attention. A car would be coming, though. You could count on that. Even amateurs knew you needed a getaway car.
Traffic noises faded into the background.
Pedestrian chatter disappeared into silence.
The constant movement of the busy street slowed to a snail’s pace.
Grant breathed easy, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Somewhere up above, the soft thwup, thwup, thwup of a distant helicopter droned across the sky. This was LA. He doubted if he’d seen the clear blue sky at any point without at least one chopper darting about like a dragonfly.
The smoked glass door began to open.
Six inches.
Grant stepped out from the shelter. Arms raised slightly but relaxed. Waist level. Hands open. Knees flexed, ready to move quickly.
The door opened outward. Good. It formed a barrier between Grant and the gunman.
Twelve inches and moving. Half open.
The sawn-off barrel of a pump-action shotgun poked through the gap as the smoky figure came forward. Grant kept his eyes on the dangerous end, the end that could kill you. As more of the barrel became visible, it seemed less rigid, not pointing at anything now but lowering as if the shooter felt safe now he was out of the bank.
Big mistake.
The door was wide open. A car skidded to a stop at the curb.
The first armed robber came out of the bank. Medium height. Scruffy clothing. Dirty blond hair and three days’ growth of beard. His hands were grubby, fingernails caked in black, and his teeth needed brushing. This wasn’t a top-of-the-range bank robber; this was a knobhead with a gun. Grant waited until he’d cleared the door. It began to close behind the gunman. Then Grant made his move.
He stepped forward and slapped the shotgun barrel down toward the ground with his right hand. His left came up swiftly under the trigger guard, grabbed the smooth black metal, and jerked it upward out of the guy’s hands. He continued the sweeping movement until the shotgun did a complete circle, ending up the right way round in Grant’s hands. His momentum carried him forward, and he jabbed his left knee into the guy’s leading leg behind the joint. The leg collapsed, and the robber went down like a felled tree. Grant stamped on his balls.
One robber down. One to go.
The door opened again. All in one movement. The second gunman came out backwards. He held an ugly black handgun in one hand and a holdall leaking money in the other. He looked as dirty as the first robber, but at least he’d had a shave this morning. Grant heard a car door open behind him but couldn’t worry about that now. First rule of engagement: face the most dangerous threat. The most dangerous threat here was the man with the semiautomatic.
The robber backed out of the door, and it began to close. His shoulders braced and he puffed his chest out. He gave a short little fist pump with his gun hand and blurted a victorious expletive: “Fuckin’ yes.”
The door closed. The guy stood facing the bank as the reflections in the smoked glass stopped moving. What he saw was a big guy in an orange windcheater pointing a shotgun at the back of his head. Grant kept his voice hard.
“Fuckin’ no.”
The guy’s chest deflated like a pricked balloon. His shoulders sagged. The gun hand wavered, indecision stitched across his slack-jawed face. Grant jabbed the shotgun in his back, then stepped away out of reach.
“Ah, ah. I know what you’re thinking. Did he fire six shots or only five?”
“What?”
“You don’t need the rest of the Dirty Harry speech, do you? Drop the gun or your brains’re gonna be spread all over the door. Probably break the window. Maybe injure somebody inside. And definitely leave you feeling light-headed.”
The gun hand wavered, still undecided. Grant used the smoked glass to catch a glimpse of the car behind him. Nobody was getting out of the open door. He focused on the guy in front of him.
“Drop the gun. Bag too.”
The guy’s fing
ers tightened on the grip. His legs braced for one final roll of the dice. Grant recognized the danger. He pointed the shotgun skyward and fired one shot. He racked another round into the chamber and had the sawn-off barrel pointing at the guy’s body mass before the expelled cartridge finished spinning to the ground. The next round wouldn’t be a headshot. It would take out the guy’s spine and vital organs.
“Now.”
The fight went out of the robber all at once. He dropped the gun but lowered the bag gently to the ground as if it was carrying his baby. Banknotes leaked out of the half-open zipper and fluttered away. The man whimpered.
“On the ground. Face down.”
He complied. Now Grant could focus on the getaway driver. The getaway driver was probably as uneducated as these two, but he wasn’t stupid. He shoved the car into gear and sped off through the intersection, the momentum slamming the door shut. Grant didn’t know the make but it was a big flat rust bucket with a Vote for Bush bumper sticker on the back. It was no doubt stolen and would end up dumped in a back street somewhere in the next half hour.
He dropped to one knee and picked up the handgun. Stood up again with the gun stuck in his belt and both hands back on the shotgun. The first guy was moaning in the fetal position, both hands cradling his swollen balls. The second simply lay still on his stomach, hands behind his head even though Grant hadn’t asked him to. This was LA, the home of the movies. Everybody knew to put their hands behind their heads even though it was never what cops demanded. Hands in plain sight was what you wanted. Spread out, palms upward, away from any chance of reaching for a hidden weapon.
“I really think you should take up another line of work. You remember what film that was in?”
The first guy continued moaning. The second kept quiet.
“Charles Bronson in Mr. Majestyk. Another shotgun picture. I think Clint Eastwood got all the best quotes though. Maybe you should learn some of ’em. Or give up robbing banks.”
With the danger over, Grant slipped into conversational mode. Remaining calm and relaxed meant he never got the shakes from the post-adrenaline dump that most experienced after combat.
“First crook I ever locked up back in Yorkshire—his name was Robin Banks.” Grant smiled at the not strictly true memory. “Didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Stole a bag of sweets from the corner shop—Patel’s on Ravenscliffe Avenue. Neither of you two are called Robin, are you?”
Neither of them spoke. One of them might have shook his head, but it was hard to tell with them both being on the ground like that. Grant saw movement through the smoked glass inside the bank. The customers and staff, who had been forced to lay on the floor, were getting up now that the threat had gone. There was movement behind him too. Cars pulling up at the curb and doors opening. Red and blue lights reflected off the front door but appeared darker in the smoked glass.
Gun slides were racked, pump actions pumped. A commanding voice shouted across the sidewalk without the aid of a loudhailer. “Put the guns down and keep your hands out where I can see them. Now.”
Grant glanced at the two bank robbers on the ground and suddenly realized that he was the only guy armed and dangerous. A shotgun cradled in both hands and a handgun in his belt.
Traffic noises returned to full volume. A helicopter thumped away overhead. Pedestrians chattered. The voice became more insistent.
“Now.”
SIX
Grant set the shotgun on the ground and took the handgun out of his belt with just his fingertips. He laid it down beside the shotgun and stood up. He held both arms out straight, like Jesus on the cross. His reflection stared back at him in the smoked glass doors. The image was a familiar one. The orange windcheater was the icing on the cake.
“Aw, shit.”
He didn’t think that was overstating the point. He didn’t have to look up to know it was a news helicopter hovering over MacArthur Park, zoom lens no doubt focused on the Resurrection Man making headlines once again.
Three LAPD cops came over to him, keeping a wide circle with one on either side of him and one down the middle. Shiny badges and heavy utility belts supplemented their smart black uniforms. All three kept their guns trained on the disarmed suspect.
Only one spoke. The one in the middle. “On the ground. Face down.”
Grant complied.
“Hands out where I can see them. Palms open, facing up.”
Grant complied.
Firm hands patted him down and came up empty for weapons. While he lay on the ground, backup units set up a perimeter around the bank. Just because there were three suspects in custody didn’t mean there weren’t more inside. Grant was impressed. He didn’t try to explain. That would come later. Securing the scene came first. Protecting life and property was the priority.
Two officers, guns at the ready, deployed to the front doors. Both glanced through the smoked glass, one on either side, getting opposite views. One opened the door. The other darted inside. The first one followed, and the door closed. Grant could hear raised voices in the bank but couldn’t see from his position on the floor. He didn’t need to. The scenario was common sense. Get a quick first account from the witnesses. Confirm their stories with the bank staff. Ensure there were no further robbers hiding among the customers. View any CCTV footage.
There was some radio traffic from inside. Snippets of conversation. Then the officer standing over Grant spoke into his shoulder mike. “Two Adam Forty-Five. Scene secure. No casualties. Five-Six and Seven-Five on site. Request prisoner transport and crime scene.”
The radio squawked. Apparently reception in LA was no better than parts of Ravenscliffe back home. Grant could imagine the consternation in the control room. If getting CSI was half as difficult as calling SOCO, then examining the crime scene would have to wait. In a city the size of Los Angeles, he reckoned the wait would be a long one.
The answer came amid a burst of static. “Negative on crime scene. Detectives en route.”
As if on cue, an unmarked Crown Vic pulled up beyond the cordon of patrol cars and flashing lights. The front grill lights flashed twice, then stopped. Two detectives got out but didn’t cross the line of armed officers. Preserving evidence meant not storming through the scene until you knew the common approach. Until the first responders told the detectives where they’d walked, the plainclothes officers would stay put. Once again Grant was impressed.
After a few minutes the two cops came out of the bank. “Clear.”
They holstered their weapons and walked over to the detectives. There was a couple minutes of heads-together conferring, then the detectives approached the bank, keeping to the path the uniform cops had used coming out. The tall detective pointed at the two disarmed robbers.
“Have Five-Six and Seven-Five transport those two. Separate cars.”
Two Adam Forty-Five waved officers from the other two cars over from the perimeter and repeated the instructions. They handcuffed the suspects and read them their rights. The first gunman was dragged to his feet, still moaning. He managed to find his voice.
“Officers. I was coming out the bank when this guy assaulted me. Unprovoked attack, man. Shotgun and everything. Fuck me. I was scared shitless.”
The other robber followed his lead. “Yeah, man. We was, like, totally screwed.”
Robber number one turned on his accomplice. “Shut the fuck up, man! We don’t know each other. Remember?”
The tall detective jerked a thumb toward the patrol cars. “Take Shitless and Brainless back to Rampart. Separate rooms.” Then, to the robbers, “And you two: put a sock in it.”
They were dragged off muttering under their breaths. The detective indicated Grant on the floor as he walked past toward the smoked glass doors. “Sit this one up. Keep him here.”
The detective glanced up into the clear blue sky above Mac-Arthur Park. The throbbing beat of th
e helicopter had become part of the local ambience and could almost be forgotten. “And don’t forget the news is watching. This guy’s a celebrity.”
The detectives went into the bank. Grant shuffled against the wall and sat with his knees drawn up. He still didn’t explain. He reckoned the uniforms had given a brief account of the CCTV footage, and the detectives would be checking it now. Grant craned his neck and smiled at the camera above the door covering the outside and the ATM shelter. The cameras inside would show the robbery in its entirety. No doubt the customers would confirm what happened. In a city as busy as LA, Grant reckoned they’d dispense with the crime scene technicians. Forensic evidence would only confirm what the cameras showed. CSI had more important crimes to solve.
Grant waited patiently. You can’t rush a crime scene. Statements would be taken from the witnesses later. Thumbnail sketch accounts would be jotted in the detectives’ notebooks for now. After a while the perimeter was withdrawn. By the time the detectives came back out, there was only 2A45 left guarding the last suspect, Jim Grant.
The tall detective lit a cigarette but didn’t offer them around. He nodded to the uniform cop who’d been with Grant from the beginning. “Thanks, Tom.”
He pointed at Grant. “We’ll take this one.”
“Okay. Those things’ll kill you, y’know.”
“They’ll have to take a number. Street scum’re always trying to kill me.” He smiled at the uniform called Tom. “You pussies gave up too easy. Last smoker at Rampart. I’m proud to be an independent.”
They got Grant to his feet and led him to the car. The helicopter pulled back, then banked left toward Hollywood. The action was over. The Crown Vic pulled away from the curb and did a U-turn back along West Sixth. Behind it the world returned to normal in the baking heat.
Montecito Heights Page 3
