Dominguez butted up against the door.
He tightened his grip on the secateurs.
“Unless you want another finger on your conscience”—Citrin whimpered but didn’t scream as the blades drew blood—“you had better lower the shotgun and back off.”
The door wouldn’t open. It wasn’t a swing-both-ways door. It only opened inwards. And Dominguez didn’t have a free hand to open it. Impasse. The drug baron couldn’t go backwards and he couldn’t come forwards. Grant weighed up the loss of another Citrin finger against letting a killer go free. He balanced the death of a single hostage against how many more people would die if Dominguez got away.
Citrin saw the calculations on his face.
Grant stared into her eyes. He blinked. Once. Slowly.
Citrin nodded. A half smile that was almost a grimace on her face.
Grant’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Dominguez was a cold-blooded killer of women and children and just about anything else that lived and breathed. He would shoot your dog. He would skin your penis. He was a very bad man. And very bad men were always incredibly lucky.
The bad man’s luck kicked in now.
The garage door opened, and a short man with wire-framed spectacles came in. A customer. He took one look at the armed men before him and threw up his hands in surrender. Dominguez slipped through the opening with Citrin before the door closed and disappeared.
FORTY-SIX
The bespectacled customer squealed and backed away as Grant lunged forward. Fearing imminent death, the customer bumped into the door, collapsed on the floor, then curled up in a ball with both hands wrapped around his head. Grant pulled the handle, but the door was blocked.
“Shit.”
In one swift movement he dropped to a crouch, grabbed the little fella’s collar, and dragged him aside. He yanked the door open and braced it against one leg as he bobbed his head through the opening. One quick glance, then back out again.
“Shit.”
The stairwell was empty. Footsteps echoed in the distance, down in the bowels of the parking garage. The landing was brightly lit and freshly painted, but the corridor at the bottom of the stairs looked dingy and careworn. It reminded Grant of a mid-level restaurant where the front of house was beautifully decorated but behind the scenes was utilitarian and plain. The stairs were utilitarian and plain. The lack of good lighting made them dangerous as well.
Posey came up beside Grant.
Grant shook his head and pointed toward the front of the building.
“Make sure they cover the exit ramp. Nothing gets out.”
Posey nodded, then turned to find Tanburro. Grant went through the door and took the stairs two at a time, shotgun leveled, ready for any more surprises. A short corridor at the bottom led to a pair of swing doors. Not as fancy as the ones into the bank. They were still swinging to and fro. Grant kicked the right-hand door open and stepped back. While it was still flip-flapping, he bent at the waist and darted through the left-hand door.
Parking garages are the same the world over. Concrete pillars and dark ceilings. The ribbed floor was painted oxide red with direction arrows and instructions marked out in white. There was nothing nice about them. There was nothing safe. And there were lots of places to hide.
Rodrigo Dominguez wasn’t hiding. He was standing next to a big American car with the turning circle of a bus. He still had Robin Citrin clamped in one arm, and he still held one finger in the jaws of the secateurs. Her head was slumped and she was breathing heavy. Dominguez had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing. What kind of human shield would that be?
Grant’s footsteps echoed through the subterranean lair.
Citrin coughed. That echoed too.
Dominguez didn’t have to raise his voice.
“Stop right there.”
Grant stopped.
The fluid situation had solidified. The odds were down to evens. One on one, with a single piece of collateral damage. Grant had made these decisions before and always chose the greater good. Living with those decisions was just something you had to do if you were in the firing line. Whether it was a bleached-out desert street or a conference room in Boston, the decision was still the same. Take the shot. It was the only decision.
“Mushrooms.”
Grant’s voice echoed off the concrete pillars.
Dominguez couldn’t help but respond.
“What?”
“Cops are like mushrooms. Keep them in the dark and feed them shit.”
Grant used the conversation to cover him moving forward two more steps. Twenty feet became fifteen. Closer than the Remington’s optimal range but not quite close enough for the kill shot. Not to be certain. Dominguez was intrigued.
“Shit for brains, it seems like.”
Grant held the shotgun loosely across his body at waist level. Two more paces would be enough. He kept talking as he cleared the pillars on either side of him.
“Thing about mushrooms is this. You cut them down in the morning.”
Twelve feet.
“But they keep coming back at night.”
Ten.
“And the darker it is, the stronger they get.”
Citrin’s head came up. The time had come. Her face was dulled by acceptance but her eyes flared with panic. It was the human condition. No matter how hopeless the situation became, there was always a spark inside that forced you to survive. Grant tried to ignore the spark in Citrin’s eyes. He raised the shotgun. Her eyes flashed a warning, but he had to be strong. It was the only way.
Dominguez spoke quietly.
“The only thing I know about the dark.”
There was a smile in his voice.
“Is that you can’t see in it.”
Two hulking figures stepped out of the shadows on either side of the concrete pillars. Both held guns pointed at Grant’s head. The two Hawaiians who weren’t really Hawaiian. Citrin’s eyes dulled over. Grant recognized the warning too late. He lowered the shotgun barrel and let out a sigh.
The concrete sucked all the light out of the parking garage. Even the red oxide paint couldn’t lift the atmosphere. The room smelled of defeat. In the distance, toward the South Olive exit ramp, sirens echoed down the tunnel and tires squealed to a halt. The sirens were switched off. None of that was worth a damn to the hostage and her rescuer twenty feet beneath Los Pueblo Trust and Banking.
The two Hawaiians kept their distance.
Dominguez lowered the secateurs.
“Now, slowly—using the barrel—lay the shotgun across your foot and kick it over here.”
Grant took his finger out of the trigger guard. He glanced to his right. The colorful Hawaiian shirt was the only brightness in the gray concrete tomb apart from the other colorful Hawaiian shirt. Grant glanced to his left. Both guns were aimed high. Head shot.
Bad move.
Grant nodded toward the exit ramp.
“Those are real cops out there, not retirees or movie cops. They aren’t going to let you out of here.”
Dominguez smiled.
“For a cop, you’re not very observant. This is a one-way parking garage. South Olive is the entrance. Exit’s on South Grand.”
Grant could have kicked himself for being so blind. The entrance ramp had been in plain sight when he’d crossed from Pershing Square. It was a single-lane ribbed-concrete driveway. The parking structure ran beneath the entire block, coming out on the next street. In all the excitement of setting the trap, he’d overlooked the basic rule of engagement. Always reconnoiter the battleground.
Dominguez remained focused.
“The shotgun. Slowly.”
There was no distracting the drug lord. Grant took hold of the shotgun barrel near the front sight and let the butt sink to the ground. Bending at the knees, he slowly
lowered the barrel across his toes and let go. It balanced evenly on his left foot. The Hawaiian on Grant’s right appeared to relax. His gun was still aimed at Grant’s head but with less purpose. He took over prisoner control. Another bad move.
“Hands behind your head.”
Grant was still flexed in a half crouch. He moved his hands out wide until they formed the Resurrection Man cross but kept them moving, slowly bending at the elbows until his hands came behind his neck. The muscles in his thighs tightened as he began to rise.
“They don’t teach that at cop school. We prefer you to keep the hands out in the open until after the body search.”
The second Hawaiian put his gun away and took the car keys out.
The first stepped forward, his gun arm lowered halfway to the ground.
Dominguez snipped the air with the secateurs.
“I think you’ve earned a few more fingers. You could keep them as souvenirs. Except you will be dead before she stops screaming.”
The secateurs began to come up slowly. Citrin tensed but was held firm by Dominguez’s clamped arm. Grant tugged at the Velcro collar that held the folded hood as he pushed upwards with his legs. The snub-nosed .38 came out easily. His fingers found the trigger as he snapped the gun forward and shot the gunman in the chest.
The gunshot echoed off the concrete walls. Blood and bone exploded out of the guy’s back. Grant was already dropping the .38 as the other Hawaiian tried to get his gun out again. A coordinated jerk of Grant’s foot and the shotgun sprang into the air. He caught and fired it in one movement, dropping the driver with a gut punch that took all the wind out of him. His gun skittered across the floor toward the car.
Dominguez brought the secateurs up too slow. Grant racked another round into the chamber and took aim at the center mass. The body. Dominguez smiled. The body belonged to Robin Citrin. He dropped the secateurs and reached for the gun beside his feet. Grant looked Citrin in the eyes. And pulled the trigger.
The shotgun spat flame, and the beanbag squid hit her full in the chest. It broke two ribs and doubled her forward. Her legs gave way. She went down like a dead weight. Grant worked the pump action, and the spent cartridge ejected through the smoke. It was still spinning when the next round was slammed into the breach, and Grant drew a bead on Dominguez.
Dominguez froze halfway up from the ground. The secateurs clattered at his feet. The gun looked alien in his hand. He held it out to his side to show it was no threat and slowly straightened his back until he was fully upright. Smoke hung in the air like mist. The smell was harsh and acrid.
Grant laid the front sight on the center mass. The body. From this range it would be like being hit by a double-weight baseball bat but would still be a non-lethal strike. Dominguez stared into Grant’s eyes. Grant stared back. There was no anger. There was no compassion. Grant didn’t have to think twice.
He raised the aim six inches and fired. Kill shot. The beanbag hit Dominguez in the jaw from five feet and split, sending shotgun pellets up into his brain like a splinter round. He wasn’t dead when he hit the side of the car, but he was by the time he slid to the ground. The echo lasted longer than the dying drug baron. Then Grant was on his knees beside Citrin, holding her in his arms until help arrived. The echoes faded. The smoke cleared. Help felt like a long time coming.
FORTY-SEVEN
The aftermath of the Los Pueblo Trust and Banking robbery at Pershing Square played on every news channel across America. Grant doubted if it was covered on the BBC back in England. Los Angeles was the bank robbery capital of the world, and this was just another robbery. It wasn’t even a successful robbery. When the Great Train Robbery made the news back in 1963, it was a rarity. Banks were two a penny in LA. Grant wasn’t sure how that translated into American money.
The medal ceremony, three days later, was about to be given as much prominence as the robbery in California. All the local news stations prepared to televise it live from Parker Center, the LAPD administrative building. Grant felt a little embarrassed about that. L. Q. Patton was ecstatic, convinced it would enhance the ratings for his new show, The Resurrection Man.
Grant felt a little guilty about that.
He hadn’t told Patton about his decision yet.
“You can’t do that.”
Not L. Q. Patton. Chuck Tanburro. He was standing open- mouthed in a private anteroom at Parker Center half an hour before the medal ceremony. Grant slapped him on the back, admiring the dress uniform Tanburro had been provided with to attend the ceremony. Grant was as smartly dressed as he ever got, clean blue jeans and an open-necked black shirt. No tie. No orange windcheater. He did wear a pair of highly polished black shoes he’d borrowed off Tanburro.
“I already have. PR guy threw a dickey fit.”
“A what?”
“He wasn’t happy. But it’s done.”
Tanburro let out a sigh and shook his head.
“You earned it. Ain’t right just me and the guys getting ours.”
“They’re retired LAPD. So are you. It’s appropriate.”
“You couldn’t talk ’em around about Posey and his crew?”
“Giving medals stuck in the LAPD’s throat. Cleaning the slate made Posey’s day. He’s thinking of going into movies.”
“What about you?”
“The movies aren’t my thing. I’m a cop.”
“I mean the medal.”
“I’ve been given medals. Lost every one of them. I’ll be proud to cheer you on, though. From the crowd.”
They could hear the hubbub outside the door. Visitors and press gathering to salute the heroes of the Los Pueblo Trust and Banking robbery. The men who had foiled an armed robbery and brought down the biggest drug cartel south of the border. Dominguez’s confession on CCTV had been silent, but a court-appointed lip reader confirmed what had been said. The drug lord’s unfortunate demise meant he couldn’t defend himself. The bank’s assets had been frozen and would later be seized by the Federal Government. It was a big win for all concerned. Grant was pleased to be a part of it, but that wasn’t why he’d been sent here.
“I’ve got a private audience coming up.”
“With the pope?”
“The chief. In the police, that’s the same thing.”
A side door from the anteroom opened, and a smartly dressed aide beckoned Grant to follow him. Grant turned to shake Tanburro’s hand.
“Great job. I’ll see you out there.”
“Thanks.”
Grant followed the aide through the door and took a deep breath. It was time to have a private word with Sherman Gillespie.
The office was silent. Tension bristled like static. Chief Gillespie stood with his back to the window and ignored the sunshine outside. The front lawn stood out in brilliant green five floors below. The squat black memorial to fallen officers was hidden behind Gillespie’s back. It was just as well. Grant might have been provoked to violence. Those fallen officers deserved better than to have a disgraced chief of police running the LAPD.
Gillespie’s shoulders sagged.
“You would do that to the LAPD?”
“I would do that to protect the LAPD.”
Grant watched the most powerful police officer in California crumble. It wasn’t a pretty sight. In Grant’s view, the law of diminishing returns applied to cops when they climbed the ladder of rank. The further away from the streets they got, the more ineffective they became. God complex set in, and they invariably began to believe their own publicity. Gillespie wasn’t the worst case of an authority figure being corrupted by power that Grant had come across. It wasn’t as if the chief had been turned to the other side for money or power. He’d simply slept into the wrong crowd and been caught in their trap.
“I never wanted this to happen.”
“Nobody ever does.”
“I am not a bad m
an.”
“Neither was Bill Clinton, but loose lips sink ships.”
“Pardon me?”
Grant formed an O with his mouth and pouted his lips. He held one fist in front of his mouth as if holding a penis and with each thrust forward stuck his tongue into his cheek. Gillespie blushed.
“Once they had the recording…”
He didn’t finish. The details weren’t important. The only consolation was that it hadn’t gone on for too long, and Gillespie’s involvement had been minimal. Deep water had been beckoning, but he was only in the shallows. The corruption had only resulted in a bit of misinformation and Gillespie’s threat to have Grant deported. It had been an idle threat. Grant leaned against the desk.
“There’s nothing wrong with sex, just who you have it with.”
“I know.”
Grant almost felt sorry for the man who’d run the LAPD for three years. For two and a half of those years, he’d done a pretty good job.
“It’s not always about being a bad person, just bad choices.”
Gillespie accepted the olive branch with a nod of the head.
Grant didn’t nod back. He didn’t feel that sorry for him.
“And now you’re going to take early retirement for health reasons.”
“To spare the force. I know.”
Grant moved to the window and looked down at the memorial to fallen officers. There were things he didn’t like about the way this had shaken out. There were people who deserved to be punished but would get off scot-free. Zed Productions would continue making porn movies, but Stuart Ziff was out of the armed robbery and extortion business. Keeping his name out of the Los Pueblo Trust and Banking debacle would depend on his accomplices taking their punishment like men. That wasn’t always the way it worked. Pressure had to be exerted and promises of leniency made, something else that stuck in Grant’s throat. All for the greater good. The reputation of the Los Angeles Police Department. Because if that collapsed, then the streets would run with blood again. Appeasing a few bank robbers was a small price to pay. The judges were trying to reduce the prison population anyway.
Montecito Heights Page 27
