“Spoken by the guy who sent his daughter to a liberal arts school and his son to a pretty decent law school. You’re part of the fucking problem, waving a goddamn nine around like it’s a lollipop. Isn’t it you in that video pounding some fool into unconsciousness?”
“I’ve done good work in my career.” My neck and eyeballs started throbbing with anger. I loved Slade to death, but he knew how to piss me off, and he was smarter than me. “Put more wretched souls behind bars than most other cops.”
“And by your theory,” Slade said, “you haven’t done a fucking thing.”
I thought about Decassin sitting in that chair, the lit cigar smoking in his hand. I thought about him kissing Finney Portray, about her letting him do it. I thought about my wife soaring downward toward blackened water as hard as cement. “I get Applewhite, and Decassin, then I’ve done something. And maybe you’re right. All those scumbags before this were nothing. They were a way to get to here, to right now.”
“And the way you tell it, not a damn thing will be solved. Besides, Decassin killed a couple narcos with blood on their hands, Frank. It’s not like we’re after a cop killer.”
“No, we’re not,” I said as a white delivery truck pulled alongside the boot shop. Black spray paint—gang tagging—decorated the cargo hold, and the driver’s side door was gray, a replacement from a different vehicle. A young woman in Levi’s, a purple halter top and sandals climbed out, went around back. She lifted the cargo door and stood there with her hands on her hips. Mr. Sunday limped out of the store, stood beside her on the sidewalk. “We’re after some drugs, Slade,” I said, “and the bullshit artists who prance around spending money they make off those same drugs.” I slipped my finger beneath the latch, swung my door open into the street.
As I moved down the sidewalk, one hand pressed to my holstered gun, I caught myself praying that Slade decided to follow me. Funny thing, I wasn’t praying to God—I prayed to the sweet lady of death herself. I prayed to Santa Muerte.
The young woman spotted me as I jogged, hand on my gun, down the sidewalk. A short expression of surprise crossed her face—raised eyebrows and terse lips—before she hopped onto the truck’s bumper, slammed the cargo door back down into place, and sprinted to the cab. She flung the gray door open and vaulted into the driver’s seat.
The engine started as I shouted: “Police! Don’t move! Don’t move!”
The truck pitched and rumbled. The woman popped the clutch, restarted the engine and accelerated down the street. I touched the cargo door just as she found the throttle. A puff of black smoke shot from the muffler and surrounded me like a misshapen shadow.
I eyeballed Domingo and he shrugged. Women were running out into the street from the fruit market, everybody looking at me with hatred—that’s what the police get in neighborhoods like this. Maybe it’s the proper reaction. Who am I to judge? I turned and saw Slade sprinting back to the car. I holstered my gun while he hopped into the driver’s seat, punched the gas and slid to a stop beside me. We were squealing down the street before I had my door closed. “She fucking saw me before I—”
“We could have drove up on her,” Slade said. “Fuck, Frank.” He reached across his body and pulled down his seat belt, buckled it. “She better not get away. Call this in, man.”
“Take a right here. Go, Skinny.”
The Ford rattled and creaked. We flew past more shops and auto repair places, came out onto an industrial street. A long metallic window reflected our path as we burned down the street. I was conscious of the reflection, though I never turned to see it.
A small sedan changed lanes and I spotted the truck one block ahead. It ran a yellow light and turned left, toward the nearest highway entrance—headed south. “Go left at the light and make the next right. We need to cut her off at the freeway entrance.”
Slade ignited the siren in our windshield and swung us left at the light. Loose change rattled in the center console and my teeth clicked as we crossed a rough patch of road. Slade hit a deep pothole and the front end crunched.
“Fuck,” he said and punched harder on the gas.
He made the next right and I saw the truck just ahead, making a right turn on the next block.
“Call in air support, Frank. We need backup on this. Get some patrol officers here, man.”
“Fuck that.” I rolled down my window. Hot air slapped me in the face and my eyes dried as Slade accelerated. I licked my lips. “Pull alongside her.”
“Frank, I can’t just––”
“Hit the fucking gas, Skinny!”
The engine roared again, surged in protest as the transmission dropped a gear, shot us forward alongside the moving truck. I saw the woman through the window. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth was pushed up against her nose. Her bare shoulders hunched forward into the steering wheel. She turned to look at me—I pulled my 9 mm and pointed it at her.
“Jesus-fuck, Frank. What the—”
“Pull over, amiga! Pull the fuck over!”
I saw her consider my polite request. The truck’s engine let off for a moment, gave a slight tinge of deceleration. Fear crossed the woman’s face and—I imagined—a thousand thoughts ran through her brain. I wondered if, like Rambo, she was dead already. Was El Jefe on her ass and about to smoke her for talking to the cops? I didn’t doubt it, not after seeing the dead Castaneda brothers.
The woman’s mouth unclenched and the truck slowed. She downshifted and the brakes squealed. She pulled to the curb on a one-way street, just shy of the freeway entrance. Traffic spun past on the elevated highway.
The truck’s engine gasped as the woman again popped the clutch. I was out of the Ford before Slade stopped, my nine still raised, its oh-so-certain gaze pointed through the window at the woman.
I opened the door for her—that’s the kind of man I am.
Part Three
Chapter 28
Jackson sneered as Slade pulled another stack of cash and another brick of coke from another pair of El General boots. We were at the station, in a hot ass conference room, unpacking the boxes from the moving truck. The stack of money was about a foot high and two feet long—going on close to two million in legal fucking tender.
The coke I didn’t keep track of, but it was a lot.
Jackson said, “Jesus fucking Christ almighty in heaven. You imagine how much of this shit gets through? You two nailed this on a hunch, a fucking guess?”
He breathed hard through his mouth and I smelled cigarette smoke.
Slade kept searching boots and I nodded at Jackson. “Luck, Captain. Pure luck.”
“What’s the girl saying?”
I said, “She’s going to lawyer up. You know how it is. She isn’t saying shit.”
“And the boot salesman, the old fuck?”
“Same deal,” I said. “Cartel’s got the best lawyers money can buy.” I motioned at the roomful of boxes. “Best boots, too.”
Jackson hefted a stack of plastic-wrapped cash, felt the weight of it. “I want to know what the money’s for.” He rubbed the back of his head, tossed the money back on the stack. “What you see most times, it’s the drugs coming this way and—”
“The money going that way,” Slade said.
I sat down in a rolling office chair, put my feet on the table. “It’s probably a payment, or a donation for a political action committee. Great way to hide the money, right Slade?”
Slade rolled his eyes. “Damn you, Frank.”
“What now? What’s all this shit about a political action committee?” Jackson looked from me to Slade. His cheeks got red. “Ryerson, what the fuck? A PAC for who?”
I stood again and crossed my arms. “We have it that the Castaneda brothers were ordered murdered by Regis Decassin, a big-time fancy developer. Turns out Decassin runs a PAC for Ronald J. Applewhite, attorney at law.”
Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his forehead. “They were ‘ordered murdered by,’ Frank
? The fuck does that mean? You’re dabbling in all this political—”
“We’re saying Decassin did it, but he didn’t pull the trigger.”
“You think you’re working a mob case? You think it’s the 1920s, Frank?”
Slade said, “We put it together and it’s legit.” He slid a pair of boots to the side, pulled out his notebook and slapped it on the table. “You want the whole thing right now?”
“Do I want the whole thing right now? No—I don’t want any of it. I know you two saw the paper, and you’re hoping I don’t bring it up. We got a city calling these Castaneda her-mon-ohs the drug brothers. You’re telling me it’s a high society thing? I don’t want a goddamn thing to do with it. That’s where the fuck I’m at.” He breathed as deep as he could, leaned back in the chair with his arms behind his head. “I don’t want a fucking thing.”
“This is how it goes,” I said.
Jackson shook his head. “What about a trigger man?”
Slade sighed. “Need a murder weapon.”
“It’s probably at the bottom of the sea by now,” Jackson said.
“Then we follow the money.” I pointed at Slade. “We got him, and the two of us follow the money.”
Jackson said, “He’ll be dragging you around on a leash.”
“I’m a good boy,” I said.
“I don’t want to read anymore news stories like what I got today. Zip it, motherfuckers. That means you, lover boy.” Jackson glared at Slade. “Keep me updated, assholes. And I’m sending the techs in to inventory this stuff. You two can get your grubby hands off that money.”
“And drugs,” Slade said.
“That too, detectives.”
Slade slid his last taco toward me. We were at a taco shop uptown and I was still hungry. I shifted in the booth, nodded at Slade, and pinched the taco with two fingers. It went down the gullet—nothing to it. “Thanks, Skinny.”
No response.
“I’m stress eating.”
“You’re stressed? Shit. I’m about to pry my own eyeballs out.”
“Let’s not be dramatic.” Out the window, across the street, there was a contemporary-style office building. On the windows were two names: Applewhite and Lamonte. “We see the man go in and we just walk right in,” I said.
“Meet him in his office for a little chat.”
“A pleasant discussion.”
“A polite palaver.”
“College boy,” I said. Fucking vocabulary.
Slade looked at his hands, spun his cell on the table. He watched it until it stopped, went back to watching the law offices of Applewhite and Lamonte.
My own cell buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the number and said, “Oh, shit.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Kimmie.”
“Better answer that one, papi.”
I pressed the answer button and put the phone to my ear.
“Hey there, sweetheart.”
“Daddy?”
“What is it, honey?”
“Are you alone?”
I looked at Slade, lifted my finger to my lips. “Yeah, honey. I’m just having some lunch.”
She sniffed and exhaled.
“Are you crying, Kimmie?”
She didn’t respond.
“Kimmie? Everything okay, honey?”
“You won’t be mad at me, will you?”
I thought for a second—did she run off and get married to that blonde chick? “I’ve never been mad at you a day in my life.” I placed a hand on the table, flattened my palm. I listened to my daughter cry and I waited.
Slade watched me, interested.
“I’m pregnant, Daddy.”
I sat in silence, rubbed my hand in a slow circle. My eyes shot to Slade and back down to my hand. I started to speak, but Kimmie interrupted me.
“I knew you’d be––”
“That’s exciting, Kimmie.”
“What?”
“I’m thrilled to hear it. I can’t wait. It better be a boy.”
Slade leaned back in the booth, watched me with a smile.
“I thought you’d be mad.”
“Why the hell would I be mad?”
“I don’t know…”
“One thing I wonder, though,” I said. “How’d you—”
“My boyfriend.”
My saliva caught in my throat. I choked. “But I thought you were a—”
“Lesbian? Oh, Daddy—that was just a phase.”
Applewhite arrived forty minutes later. That was okay. He gave me time for three more tacos. Al pastor, pineapple, and cilantro. Nothing like it. We saw Applewhite come around the building from the parking area and stroll in the glass front doors. The receptionist stood and smiled for him. “You see what car he’s driving?”
Slade shook his head. “No, I missed it.”
I slid from the booth and loosened my belt a notch. “Nothing like a little taco siesta, huh?”
We crossed the street outside the taco shop and entered the law office. The high-powered air conditioning was pleasant. Slade started in on the receptionist while I studied the building’s directory etched onto a marble wall. The partners’ offices were on the third floor.
I walked toward Slade as he was leaning into the receptionist’s ear, whispering about Padres tickets and a nice seafood dinner. “Don’t believe any promise this man makes,” I said. “I’m the one you want. I might be big, but I’m happy.”
The receptionist, a well-fed twenty-something with pretty blue eyes, laughed and bit her bottom lip. “Detective Ryerson was just saying how he couldn’t live without you.”
I laughed. “Is that right?”
“He says you’re looking for a date.” She stared right at me. “Is that right?”
Slade straightened his tie. “I was saying how you wouldn’t mind taking Miss Patterson here out for dinner, that is, if she was willing to arrange a brief palaver with Mr. Applewhite. How’s that sound, Frank?”
I smiled at the receptionist. “Tell you what, you get us a quick sit down with Applewhite, and me and you are going to dine on the waterfront.”
She sighed and pointed at my wedding ring. “I’m thinking you’re taken, Detective, but Mr. Applewhite has made it clear that law enforcement officers are always welcome to see him. You two can go on up—third floor right.”
I twisted my ring and shrugged. “Never hurts to flatter a woman, does it?”
“No,” she said, “it doesn’t.”
Me and Slade walked to the bank of elevators. Neither of us said anything while we waited. The receptionist hummed a tune to herself.
Soon, a sharp ring sounded and the elevator arrived.
Applewhite was waiting to greet us when the elevator opened. “Detectives, it’s a pleasure to have you here in my office.”
The three of us shook hands and Applewhite led us through a professionally decorated foyer, past an assistant’s well-lit office, and into a corner office overlooking the city skyline. Applewhite motioned for us to sit and we took two leather chairs across from him. He sat cross-legged in a large office chair. Applewhite wore a blue bow tie and a white button-down beneath an off-gray vest. His clothes were obviously tailored and I found myself wondering how much his facials cost him. He had perfectly tanned skin, his hair parted artfully to one side, and fingernails as perfect as a mannequin’s. I didn’t like the man one fucking bit.
Slade said, “Mr. Applewhite, we’re here about—”
Applewhite lifted a smooth hand and said, “Let me first say I really appreciate the work our police force is doing here in this great city. I know you have a difficult job, detectives. A loathsome trying job in its dealings with death. I am in complete awe of the dedication, perseverance, and expertise of our law enforcement officers. Not least our crack detectives. For both of you, your reputation precedes you.” He touched a folded newspaper on his desk. “I find it appalling how the press
has treated you both in today’s paper. And without seeking comment. It’s utterly despicable and indefensible. Know this: if elected district attorney, I will stand behind my officers through thick and thin, notwithstanding the press’s veiled attempts at character assassination. I hope you know that I have your backs, gentleman. Now, and always.”
“That’s heartwarming, sir,” I said.
Slade grunted.
“Now,” Applewhite said, “what can I do for you gentleman?”
“You can tell us about your relationship with Regis Decassin.” Slade smiled as he said it.
“Come again?”
“Regis Decassin,” I said. “You know, a cartel money launderer here in the city?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the man.”
Me and Slade nodded.
“If you’re implying that I am, in some way, involved with this man, I must insist—”
“There’s nothing to imply,” I said. “But there sure as shit is plenty to infer.”
Slade added, “The man runs a PAC for you, doesn’t he?”
Applewhite’s face screwed into anger. “I’ve got nothing to do with any PAC. As you may know, political action committees operate independent of candidates. For me to be involved would be not only unethical, but also a—”
“Violation of campaign finance and election laws,” Slade said.
I chuckled and pointed at Applewhite. “You mean, you’d be a crook?”
The three of us sat in silence for a long while, though I thought I heard Applewhite’s blood boiling.
I ended the silence. “You want to talk about Decassin?”
“I’ve never heard of the man.”
“Let’s be clear,” Slade said. “Me and Frank here have done some digging, and I think it highly likely that you and Decassin—”
“Must I have a lawyer present?”
“You are a fucking lawyer,” I said.
“Detectives,” Applewhite said, “it’s likely that in the next couple months I’ll become—in a way—your boss. I’d warn you against any efforts at undue investigations. Now, if I can help you with an ongoing investigation, I’m happy to—”
To Bring My Shadow Page 15
