Montecito Heights

by Colin Campbell

  Grant crossed the parking lot to the ATM and stepped under the shelter. The screen had settled back into advertising mode after the last transaction, but a paper receipt stuck out of the slot like a tongue poking fun at him. He took the receipt and read it. Somebody had withdrawn two hundred dollars just eight minutes ago. The card details were blanked out except for the last four numbers. There was no customer name. He screwed the paper up and balled his fist.

  Above him, a CCTV camera looked down into the shelter. Grant glanced at the bank door. There was another camera in the angle of the wall. A customer walked into the bank, the door swinging both ways as it shut. Grant turned to Citrin, who was standing beside the minivan.

  “Keep an eye out for her. I’ll check the cameras.”

  He turned toward the door, fishing out his badge wallet. It wasn’t an LAPD badge but it still made him official. Kind of. The door was working down to the last flip flaps and he was about to push the handle when it opened outwards. A dark-skinned woman and a white guy wearing a Dodgers baseball cap came out side by side. Grant stepped between them but was shoulder charged by both. The woman waved an apology. The white guy did not. One of the few things that angered Grant. He felt like snapping a retort but focused on the job in hand.

  He pushed the door and entered the bank.

  The interior was as low rent as the outside. PLS Check Cashers clearly had been a poor man’s financial institution before the Bank of America realized the potential of having a bank in even the roughest parts of town. No wonder there were so many armed robberies. A sign inside the door advertised money transfers around the world, and it reminded Grant of the corner shops and travel agents in Bradford. Immigrant families from India and Pakistan could save money through the welfare system and send it to the next member waiting to move to England. It was a growing industry, right up there with furniture manufacturers who supplied at least four settees per household for all the extended family living in a two-room semi.

  CCTV cameras covered the main room, but it was outside that interested Grant. There were only a handful of customers at the dark wood counter with anti-climb windows. Grant held up his badge and shouted over the glass.

  “Police officer. I need to speak to the manager.”

  There was a muttering of excitement from the customers and bank tellers. A short man in a dark suit stood up and pointed to the side of the counter. He looked nervous. Grant moved toward the end of the counter, and a door opened in the wood-paneled wall. The short guy stood in the opening.

  “Please. Not another robbery.”

  Grant put his badge away and made a placating gesture with the hand not holding the receipt. He kept his tone calm but insistent. “I’m a cop, not a robber.”

  “But please. You not here because of another robbery?”

  “Have you had another robbery?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not here about the robbery you haven’t had.” He glanced around the room. “Don’t you have armed security guards anymore?”

  He remembered seeing movies where even the smallest branch had a geriatric ex-cop standing guard in the corner.

  “Sadly not. Cutbacks, you know.”

  Grant shrugged and held the receipt up.

  “Can your system pull up the details of the last half-dozen ATM transactions?”

  “Only the same as on the receipts.”

  “Not who the customers were?”

  “No, that is private information. I cannot reveal that to you.”

  “But head office could do it? Else how d’you know whose accounts to debit?”

  “Yes. But without—”

  Grant interrupted him. “I’ve got a missing girl. Could be in deadly peril. I need to know if she just used the machine outside.”

  He was overstating the case, but it was worth a try. The short, nervous bank manager shook his head, wringing both hands as if pleading forgiveness.

  “I am sorry, officer. Without a court order I cannot release that information.”

  It was what Grant expected. Time was of the essence. Unless he could persuade the manager to circumvent procedures, the girl would be long gone before he found anything out. That just left the one thing he could check. He waved at the cameras dotted around the room.

  “Your CCTV cameras. They on time lapse or full record?”

  The manager looked confused. He stopped wringing his hands and began to rub his head with one hand while stroking his chin with the other.

  “I cannot show—”

  Grant’s tone ratcheted up a notch.

  “Deadly peril. If this girl dies, d’you want it on your conscience that you could have helped save her and didn’t?”

  “But procedures are—”

  “I don’t want to seize the tapes. Just have a quick look.”

  “But—”

  Grant lowered his voice and feathered a knowing smile across his lips. “If there’s anything on the tape, we’ll get a court order straightaway. These are exigent circumstances. I’m sure you’ve got them in your manual. Life or death. Choose life.”

  The manager was weakening. He stopped rubbing his head and stroking his chin. He began to nod, slowly. The sad look in his eyes remained, but he forced a weak smile. He was about to step back and let Grant through the office door when his expression changed. His eyes flared panic as he looked toward the front door.

  “I thought you said this wasn’t a robbery.”

  Grant turned to follow the manager’s stare. Red and blue flashing lights showed through the glass. Several police cars were pulled across the parking lot. Armed cops racked shotgun actions and handgun slides. They formed up across the hoods of their cars. The only thing they didn’t do was shout, “You’re surrounded. Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up.”

  He glanced around the room. Of the handful of customers, three were short dumpy women, one was an elderly Mexican who looked too thin to hold himself upright, and one was a housewife with her baby son. No prizes for guessing who the police were here for. Grant let out a deep sigh and walked toward the front door.

  The parking lot had become a war zone. Three marked units blockaded the entrance, red and blue lights flashing, and a plain Crown Vic was parked behind them on East Cesar. A square black SWAT van pulled up outside the Spanish church across the intersection. The only thing missing was a police helicopter. It was the first time Grant had seen the sky empty.

  Grant opened the door slowly and stepped outside. He held his arms out straight at shoulder height, hands open and palms forward. Half a dozen gun barrels swung in his direction. The lead officer shouted over the hood of his car.

  “Sir. Get on the ground. Facedown. Now.”

  Grant lowered himself to the floor, facing the threat, and lay flat on the ground.

  The lead officer walked around the front of his car. “Hands out where I can see them. Palms up.”

  Grant already had his arms outstretched, palms up. He watched the lead officer nod to his colleagues from Hollenbeck Division, and two of them approached the bank. The same procedure as before. A quick recce inside, then they came back out, holstering their weapons.

  “Clear.”

  The lead officer kept his gun pointed at Grant and spoke into his shoulder mike. “Four Adam Fifty-Three. Scene secured. Suspect detained. Call off SWAT.”

  The other cops lowered their weapons behind their cars. A black- clad SWAT commander visibly sagged. Another siege he hadn’t been able to send his team into action for. The heavy mob were the same the world over. Couldn’t wait to get into combat. Grant didn’t mention that the suspect wasn’t detained until he’d been searched and handcuffed. This wasn’t the time for flippancy.

  Two Hollenbeck detectives came through the cordon. Grant half expected to see Bob Snow and Dick Wadd, but he didn’t recognize these two. The
lead uniform dropped to one knee and began a weapon search. He read Grant his rights as he checked each pocket. The American version he’d heard a thousand times on TV and in the movies. He doubted if anyone in the States didn’t know their rights, but it wasn’t the knowing so much as the having them read to you. Procedures. Fall down on the little things, and an entire case could crumble to dust.

  “Sit up.”

  Grant rolled over and sat on the edge of the curb.

  “Cross your legs at the ankle and put your hands behind your head.”

  Grant crossed his ankles.

  “Interlock your fingers.”

  Grant linked the fingers of both hands behind his head. He was now sitting in an unstable position. It would be hard for him to cause trouble, and he could be easily pushed over if he tried. A solid base would be to have your legs apart, but with them crossed he was top-heavy and vulnerable. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable. Four Adam Fifty-Three began a more detailed search of Grant’s pockets while asking if Grant understood his rights. Grant nodded. The officer holstered his gun.

  “You are under arrest for the abduction of Angelina Richards.”

  “What?”

  Grant had assumed this was another robbery call. He turned toward the detectives crossing the parking lot. They weren’t smiling. Grant knew better than to start arguing his innocence. This would get sorted out at the station. Until then, it would be wiser to keep quiet. He kept quiet. Beyond the police cars he saw Robin Citrin next to the sliding door of the minivan. The door was open. He couldn’t tell if she looked worried or excited. The cameraman wasn’t in the driver’s seat.

  A short, fat detective with a moustache stepped around the lead uniform and reached for Grant’s interlaced fingers. He pulled the ATM receipt out of his hand. The second detective was concentrating on the pocket search. He looked at each item as it was laid on the concrete. The usual stuff—wallet, coins, handkerchief. Grant’s notebook and pen. Grant felt the lead officer’s hands go into the side pocket of his windcheater and saw him put a small plastic card on the curb. The second detective picked it up by the edges.

  A bankcard.

  He held it up to the light to read the name.

  “Angelina Richards.”

  He looked over at his partner, who was still holding the ATM receipt. They nodded at each other, then the short, fat one spoke to the lead uniform.

  “Cuff him.”

  Grant was helped to his feet and handcuffed behind his back. The suspect had now been detained; there was no arguing that. Grant wasn’t thinking about being arrested though. He was thinking about the person who’d sent him here in the first place. A man he’d trusted. Chuck Tanburro.

  PART three

  I’ve got a tattoo just above my butt-hole says No Entry. Rubber or not, nobody fucks me in the ass.

  —Jim Grant

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was hard to know who to trust in a foreign land. That was something Grant had learned through bitter experience in desert climes. There was nowhere more foreign than Los Angeles and nothing that looked more alien than Hollenbeck Station at 2111 East First Street. If Rampart Station was a new building, then Hollenbeck was modernity gone mad. It looked more like a gallery of modern art than a police station. The pink and orange squares arranged along its sides obscured the fact that none of the windows seemed to correspond with a regular floor plan, and the hideous brushed-steel panels of the frontage looked like a kid’s Lego construction gone wrong.

  Four Adam Fifty-Three swung into the back yard beside the red and white communications tower, the only thing that identified the building as a police station apart from the strange sign on the brushed-steel panels, and pulled up at the van dock to the cells. Grant was handcuffed in the back seat. Nobody spoke. The unmarked Crown Vic parked in a vacant space marked Detectives.

  The arresting officer, the uniformed cop guarding his arrest figures by insisting the collar was his, led Grant through the metal door with the peephole window, his partner bringing up the rear. There was no queue at this time of day. The custody sergeant inspected the handcuffs as a matter of routine before ordering them to be removed. If anybody complained about them being on too tight, the custody sergeant could refute the claim, having checked them himself. In the litigious society that was America, deflecting a lawsuit was as important as presenting the evidence. Grant reckoned it was the evidence that would clear this matter up. It would just take a little time.

  Grant was booked in at the counter and his property bagged and listed. His badge wallet drew close inspection, but nobody discussed it. Bad cops were nothing new, and since the charge desk was being recorded, nobody wanted to speculate on the matter until they knew which side of the coin Grant was on. He wasn’t fingerprinted—that was the only discretion the custody sergeant had exercised—but he was placed in a cell without his belt or shoelaces.

  He sat on the hard wooden bench and waited. He wasn’t worried. As soon as the detectives checked the CCTV, they would see it wasn’t Grant who had used the card. The problem was that if somebody had enough clout to send Grant to the bank, then what else had they managed to arrange? There was nothing to do but wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Half an hour later, an overweight jailer opened the door with a rattle of keys and told Grant to get up.

  “I’ve seen this bit on TV. Good cop, bad cop. That’d make you Sipowicz”—nodding at the short, fat detective with the moustache—“and you Jimmy Smits”—nodding at the taller, more smartly dressed cop. “I can never remember his character.”

  The tall one spoke first. “Bobby Simone. But I’m not Hispanic.”

  The short one joined in. “And neither of us are with the NYPD.”

  Grant was sitting at a metal table bolted to the floor in an interview room that looked more expensive than his hotel room. The chairs were bolted to the floor too. Grant wasn’t handcuffed to the table, so that was a good sign. He kept his tone conversational.

  “Don’t tell me they filmed that in LA as well? I bumped into them making CSI: New York downtown, and it ruined the illusion.”

  The short one shook his head. “No more of an illusion than a Boston cop working in LA.”

  Grant corrected Sipowicz. “Not working. On vacation.”

  “But keeping busy.”

  Grant shrugged. Until the detectives got down to business, he was going to play his cards close to his chest. Sipowicz sat in the chair opposite. The tall one stood beside the closed door and made the introductions.

  “I’m Detective Laudati, and this is Detective Costillo.”

  Costillo rested his elbows on the table. “We’re investigating a reported abduction. The daughter of a very fuckin’ prominent figure in the community.”

  Grant folded his arms across his chest and said nothing. Laudati came and sat in the chair next to his partner. He wasn’t smiling, but his expression wasn’t as serious as Costillo’s. That marked him as the good cop—the one who would claim to be Grant’s friend. Laudati relaxed in his seat, leaning backwards, not forwards. Giving Grant some space.

  “We’re three cops here, so we all know how this works. Your record is pretty impressive. No criminal history. So this is no doubt some prime-time fuck-up. Help us clear you out and look for the real bad guys.”

  Costillo offered the stick instead of the carrot. “Otherwise you’re fucked up the ass without a rubber.”

  Grant unfolded his arms and rested them in his lap. He looked at Costillo, then Laudati, before settling on Costillo again. When Grant had enlisted in the army, the training had been brutal. The drill sergeants could put the fear of God into a young soldier. Later, after mustering out and joining the police, the West Yorkshire version of a drill sergeant tried to do the same. After the army, it was laughable. The two detectives trying to put the arm on him now were the same. After some of the desert interrogation
s he’d endured, this was chicken feed.

  “I’ve got a tattoo just above my butt-hole says No Entry. Rubber or not, nobody fucks me in the ass.”

  Laudati took the friendly approach. “Jim. We’re not the enemy here. Somebody else has put you in the frame. Not us. We just need to understand how come. You tell us what happened, then we can start working it out.”

  The pattern had been set. Soft soap and hard rock. Grant lowered his eyes and took a deep breath, as if considering his options. The detectives waited patiently for the enormity of Grant’s situation to sink in; patiently in Laudati’s case, Costillo less. Grant leaned on the table.

  “Isn’t this where I ask to see my lawyer?”

  Laudati took the lead.

  “You can go that route if you want. You’re a cop. You know how that goes. If you lawyer up, then we can’t ask you anything. Also means we can’t help you. Right now, we want to help.”

  Grant nodded.

  “You got one of those yellow pads for me to write everything down?”

  Laudati slapped a yellow legal pad and a pencil on the table. He must have had it ready beside his chair. Grant pushed the pad aside with a smile, shaking his head.

  “Just checking. They always did that in NYPD Blue. I didn’t think anybody was dumb enough to confess on the strength of a promise and a Diet Pepsi.”

  Costillo smacked the table with one hand.

  “Okay, you want to be a smart-ass, go ahead. Right now we’ve got you at the ATM using the missing girl’s bankcard and with no good fuckin’ reason why.”

  Grant leaned back in his seat.

  “You’ve got me at the ATM with a receipt. The bankcard was in my pocket.”

  “Same thing.”

  “You were careful handling it. Got it printed yet?”