He stepped through the gate and turned to face me while holding it open. I walked past him and immediately looked up and down the street. “Yeah, well, he might think you’re his mother.”
Floyd closed the gate and gave it a tug to make sure it latched. “Should we take two cars?” he was saying, but the sounds of his voice slowed and became garbled in my brain as time seemed to stop. Floyd’s persistent grin had disappeared and his eyes popped wide and his face tightened into a grimace as he stared past me. He shoved me aside and reached for his gun. I followed his gaze as I stumbled away with the force of his push, but my movement felt as if I was stuck in molasses. Nothing could be rushed now, no matter how I tried. A car was stopped in the street adjacent to where we stood. The driver had his hand extended from its window, a gun pointed at us. I didn’t hear the shots, but I saw muzzle flashes erupting from the barrel of Floyd’s gun. The driver pulled his arm back into the car as he ducked away from the open window, leaning toward the passenger’s seat. As I drew my weapon the car started moving. I could see bluish smoke rise from the asphalt and I could smell burning rubber and gunpowder. I now saw the action in real time as bullets struck the rear window of the fleeing car, one burst of glass after another. Floyd continued sending hot lead down range as I stood with an unfired weapon watching the action unfold before me.
Floyd yelled, “Sonofabitch!”
The little black car faded from view as Floyd ran to his car, shouting over his shoulder for me to get in. He flipped a U-turn and we gave chase, but the car was nowhere in sight. Floyd asked where it went, if I was hit, and told me to call 9-1-1 as he raced to each intersection, stopping to look both ways in search of the shooter’s car. I realized my gun was still in my hand. I hadn’t fired it, and now as we raced through the streets, I wondered why. I leaned toward Floyd to holster my weapon on my right hip. We were driving at high speeds on a major boulevard, darting through traffic. Floyd’s county car had no siren; most of the detective cars were no longer equipped with them. We didn’t need them, they had said. But captains and above somehow did. Floyd was on the horn, yelling and cursing through the open windows, but everyone else was oblivious to our emergency. Finally, we skidded into an intersection where our vehicle was nearly struck by a firetruck turning in the direction we had come from. Floyd yelled, “Fucking firemen!” and remained there until horns began blaring from all directions. He swiveled his head one way and then the other before jerking the wheel and accelerating through the intersection, reversing our direction of travel. We were headed back toward my apartment.
Soon two cop cars sailed past us, lights and sirens activated, and Floyd slowed and steered to the right. When they passed, Floyd accelerated again and began following them.
“Headed to my place, I’m sure.”
He glanced over. “Did you fire any rounds?”
“No.”
He had looked back to the road but glanced over at me again after I answered. “Why not?”
I shrugged but he hadn’t seen it. “I don’t know. It happened fast. The guy was gone when I came up with my piece.”
He didn’t say anything, and moments later we arrived at my house and pulled in behind the two Burbank police cars, a firetruck, and a paramedics’ rig. Chuck and Patti were outside, both wearing shorts and t-shirts, comfortable retiree attire. Chuck started our way as we exited Floyd’s car. The firemen were pulling away now in no hurry.
“Are you guys okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah, is everyone okay here?”
“So far, it looks that way. Elvis is okay, that’s all I care about. I guess they’ll have to check all the neighbors’ houses.” Chuck then smiled and said, “Half of them I don’t care if they took a stray round. What the hell happened?”
I started to answer but Floyd beat me to the punch. “That asshole who’s been trying to kill Dickie four-seventeened us.”
“Did he cap rounds or just four-seventeened you?”
Floyd shook his head. “I don’t think he got any shots off, Chuck. But I looked right down the muzzle of his pistol. He was definitely four-seventeen.”
I said, “Yeah, he definitely had a gun. I never saw muzzle flashes from the asshole’s gun, only from Floyd’s. But he definitely had a pistol in his hand, and he pointed it right at us. I never heard any shots, not even his,” I said nodding toward Floyd. “It was weird.”
Chuck said, “I sure as hell heard them. It sounded like about ten shots or more to me.”
I leaned against a parked car and waited as one of the uniforms approached. I nodded to Floyd. “I saw the gun, partner. I don’t know if he shot at us or not, but he pointed a gun at us.”
“Shit yeah, he did. I know that much. I’m not worried about the shooting.”
Chuck smiled as he greeted the approaching officer. “Hey, Mike, good to see you. It’s been a while since you’ve stopped by, you little prick.”
“Jesus, Chuck,” the officer said, “what the hell happened out here? We’ve had a dozen 9-1-1 calls saying there were shots fired. I hope this is clean, not some kind of drunken cop bullshit.”
Chuck assured him it was, and then he introduced us to the officer and suggested we go inside. Once inside, Chuck said, “Can I get anyone an iced tea or lemonade? Or maybe you guys would prefer bourbon or tequila, something to help take the edge off.”
“Now you’re talking,” Floyd said.
Leonard had thrown the goddamn gun that didn’t shoot when he pulled the trigger right out the window while speeding away from the location, and immediately regretted having done so. Now he waited outside of the uniform shop watching the front door where two young men had walked in just as he arrived. They appeared to be in the military, or maybe new cops, with their short-cropped hair and white t-shirts tucked into jeans. Each of them were lean and muscular. Leonard figured he would wait until the pair left, then go in. He’d pop the old man with a fist and knock him on his ass. Then he’d make him show him how to use a goddamn gun so the next time he tried to kill the damn cop he wouldn’t feel stupid sitting there pulling the trigger with nothing happening, and then having the fucking cops shoot back at him. Jesus. After the old man showed him how to properly use it, he’d practice one time at the back of the old man’s head. He had just about had it with this assignment. He needed to get it over with and kill that sonofabitch with the hat and his pretty boy partner too if he got a chance, the sonofabitch who shot the back window out of his brand-new fucking car.
36
THE LIVING ROOM was comfortably furnished in brown leather sofas and chairs and hardwood tables. Chuck and Patti sat on one of the sofas, and Floyd and I sat on another. Two officers sat in floral-patterned Queen Anne chairs across the glass-topped table from us. The glass was intact, which made me recall Floyd playing through in my living room. I pictured him breaking the glass on this table and saw in my mind Chuck taking the club away and attacking him with it. One of the officers opened a notebook and hovered a pen over it. “I just need everyone’s names and a brief synopsis of what happened. Your agency will have the lead on the investigation, according to my watch commander.”
This would be short and sweet, just the basics for his “first” report of the incident. The shooting investigation would be the formal, recorded statement, conducted by two homicide detectives from our unit. Their investigation would be monitored by Internal Affairs and the Force Review Board. To me, there was nothing to be concerned about. It was cut and dried. A man pointed his gun at us, and Floyd shot at him. The only concern I had was the question of why I hadn’t fired my pistol. And chances were, I wouldn’t be the only one to worry about it.
Floyd provided some background, telling the officers about someone watching me, telling them about the Regalado shooting a year ago, telling them about a possible connection between all of it or otherwise we had no clue why someone would want me dead. He said, “Dickie’s a hell of a nice guy, once you get to know him.”
The young officer didn’t know Floyd
and didn’t catch the attempt at humor. I told the officer that what Floyd had said was the long and short of it, and added that when we came outside, there were no cars driving on the street, and that I hadn’t noticed any parked cars that appeared suspicious. It was as if the suspect had appeared out of nowhere and had done so instantly. One second, the street was clear, the next, a man was twenty feet away, pointing a gun directly at us. They asked if the suspect had fired his weapon. Floyd shook his head as I shrugged and said I wasn’t sure. The officer looked from Floyd to me and then at Chuck and Patti. Chuck told him they weren’t outside and didn’t see anything. I said, “I know he pointed a gun at us.”
Another Burbank officer appeared at the door. Everyone looked up. “No casings on the street other than those near the curb. There are fourteen expended nine-millimeter casings in a group on the sidewalk, parkway, and in the street near the curb. That’s it.”
The officer interviewing us thanked him. I watched as he retreated through the door, and noticed the black Crown Vic pulling up in front of the house. Lt. Joe Black stepped out of it, as did Captain Stover.
I looked at Floyd. “Well, so much for the good times.”
Leonard watched the two young, buff men leave The Cop Shop in a black Jeep. They turned onto Hollywood Way and disappeared into traffic. Leonard didn’t hesitate. There was no time to. He needed to get a gun, he needed to get the cop killed, and he needed to get out of this goddamn city and county and state and get back to Florida where life made more sense. Maybe back to Raiford where a daily routine provided less stress, and where Whitey Blanchard, Leonard’s only friend in the world, would spend the rest of his life.
Leonard walked directly up to the same older gentleman who had helped him the last time he was in, nearly a week earlier, and punched him in the face with a closed fist. But the old man bobbed his head to avoid the punch the way a trained boxer might, and the blow glanced off of him with little impact. Leonard didn’t see the hard, walloping punch, but he felt it. The man’s fist came in low and landed squarely on Leonard’s chin, knocking him backward and momentarily stunning him. Before he could recover from the first punch, the man hit Leonard two or three more times in the face and once or twice in the abdomen. This old man’s hands were lightning fast, and his punches hard and accurate. One of the low punches sent a wave of pain through Leonard’s body and he fell to the ground. He curled up with both hands covering the part of his body where the pain persisted, over his liver. He recovered quickly and realized he would need a weapon. He dug into his rear pocket for the knife he had purchased at this very store and had used to cut two Russians’ throats and saw off a queer’s head and hands. But as Leonard struggled to his feet with the knife in hand, the old man produced a pistol and pointed it directly at him. Leonard turned and ran. He heard the sonic crack of bullets whizzing past him, each immediately followed by the sound of a gunshot. He pushed through the door and ran into a man who was walking in, knocking him down onto the pavement. Leonard ignored the yelling from that man and the old man with iron fists who was now trying to shoot and kill him. Leonard jumped into his car and sped from the lot.
He needed to get the hell out of Burbank. Get back to downtown Los Angeles where it was safe.
Late Sunday evening we finished providing our individual statements of the incident to investigators from our office and to Captain Stover and Lt. Joe Black. After the Burbank cops had received all they needed from us for their reports, we left Burbank and drove back to our office. Joe told us repeatedly how glad he was nobody was hurt. The captain said he was glad that for once we hadn’t killed anyone nor had we even wrecked a car—at least not any of his cars. Then he chewed my ass for not informing him about the situation with someone watching. I told him it hadn’t been confirmed, and I was reluctant to jump to conclusions. He said, “We don’t take chances with things like this, Richard,” and left it at that. I walked out of his office starting to believe he had both heart and soul.
I rounded the corner into Unsolveds and found Davey Lopes at his desk. He looked up with tired eyes, but then looked back down. I could see he was going over phone records.
“Those the phone records?”
Without looking up he said, “Yeah, I pulled them off the fax machine. Came in a couple hours ago.”
Nothing was said for a minute, so I walked out. He didn’t want to be bothered; that was plain to see. More than likely he didn’t want to talk to anyone, and I wouldn’t take it personally. But it did make me wonder what had happened. I walked back toward the front desk to see if there were any updates on Maria Lopez. Maria Lopez with a Z, as Lopes had called her, and always smiled when he had. I wondered if the story behind Lopes’s current disposition would be found at the desk, written in pencil on a Homicide Bureau Dead Sheet.
37
MONDAY MORNING TRAFFIC had me dreading the drive to the shrink’s office though I looked forward to speaking with Dr. Katherine James. After yesterday I had much to discuss, and I had thought of it all night until the moment I fell asleep, and again first thing this morning. So I called Dr. James’s office and asked if I could slip in to see her on short notice, and said it was urgent. Her receptionist had checked with Dr. James and said it would be no problem, she would move some things around for me. Now I was thinking about all of it again, everything that had happened the morning before, and all of the self-doubt and serious concerns it left me with. I made a silent vow to be truthful with Dr. James in order to get an expert opinion on the matters. I needed some answers, badly. She was the only one who would be able to help me now. This was potentially a matter of cowardice, and I wasn’t going to discuss it with anyone else. I needed her to help me figure out why I hadn’t fired my weapon. What had happened to me?
When I arrived at her office the receptionist smiled and offered me coffee, which I gladly accepted. There were no sign-in sheets or billing issues or any other normal healthcare considerations at this office. It was comfortable enough that I considered booking it for the whole day, or maybe the week.
I took my mug of coffee and had a seat at the far edge of a sofa nearest the entrance to Dr. James’s office, and furthest away from the front entry. It was quiet and softly lit. I hadn’t brought my reading glasses and I had no interest in the magazines scattered about the room.
I was thinking about yesterday afternoon when the door to her office opened.
She smiled and greeted me warmly. “Hello, Richard, please come in.”
Our eyes met.
She stepped back into her office and held the door, gesturing for me to step inside. I had to turn slightly to avoid brushing against her as I entered. She smelled fresh, as if she had just bathed in a bouquet of wild flowers. I walked across the carpeted floor and took my usual seat where it would be her back to the door, and not mine. I wondered which chair she would choose if I allowed it. But I didn’t. Ever. Not in any circumstance other than dining with someone whose skills I implicitly trusted. Like Floyd. Or Lopes. Maybe a very few others. I watched as she approached and took the other chair; this placed our knees just inches apart. She glanced at my lap, causing me to look down also. Both hands held a half-empty, oversized mug, and the remaining coffee was sloshing around inside. I realized my hands were unsteady, and she had noticed.
Her eyes met my gaze again, and she indicated the table to the side of my chair. “You can put the cup there, Richard, if you like.”
I set the cup on the table and leaned back in my chair. I scanned the room as if I had never seen it before.
“Richard, you seem uneasy today. Is there something on your mind, something bothering you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Do you think you would feel better if you talked about it?”
“Someone tried to kill me yesterday.”
“Richard!” Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her chest, as if she were shocked. Then, seeming to realize she may have reacted more impulsively than professionally, and immediately regretting
having done so, she smoothed her blouse a bit and dropped her hand to her lap so that it joined the other. She drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “My goodness, that must have been quite an experience. Tell me about it.”
Good cover, I thought. And Dr. Katherine James was back to being professional. Dr. James was always professional.
“It’s a long story. Someone has been watching me. It took a while for me to allow that truth to settle in. But some things have happened, and I’ve been concerned, and then Floyd decided to stay the weekend with me because everything started adding up. To make a long story short, we don’t know who it is or why he wants me dead. For that matter, we don’t even know if he is the one who wants me dead—the man who’s been watching—or if someone else has sent him to do it. Though after yesterday, I can’t imagine he’s a pro.”
Katherine, Dr. James that is, gazed steadily at me for a few seconds, her face giving no indication of what she might be thinking. I couldn’t tell if she was merely deciding on the best way to handle this information for me as my shrink, or if maybe—maybe—she was considering things on a more personal level. Just as I was dismissing the thought, she spoke. “Why do you think he’s trying to kill you, Richard?”
“I have no idea.”
As I looked at the floor I could feel her eyes on me, and then I heard a sharp intake of breath. She let a beat go by. I looked up as she spoke again. Dr. James, professional, in control. “Why don’t you tell me more about what happened, Richard.”
“I messed up. I held my fire, and the circumstances dictated I should have shot him.”
“Why do you think you elected not to shoot at him when you could have?”
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 59
