Cold Hit ss-5

by Stephen Cannell

  "Sorry," I muttered. "I keep forgetting that wall is there."

  "I'm not a complete moron," Underwood said. "The reason that line is chalked out is so the contractors who are coming in this evening will know where to hang the partitions."

  "Thank God for that," I muttered.

  "I don't like your attitude, Detective."

  "Don't feel bad. Nobody does. I'm not even sure I like it most of the time."

  Then I stepped over the chalk line into the squad room where I used my cell phone to call my friend Bryna Spiros at Forest Lawn. Once I had her on the line, I explained what I needed. She cut me a great deal. Twenty-five hundred for everything, flowers, all park personnel and security services, even a priest to say a few words. I told her I'd have Rico From Pico get in touch to make arrangements for the body to be sent over for embalming. She said she'd loan me a casket at no charge because it was scheduled to be burned in a cremation later in the week.

  With all this in the works, I decided to head up to Special Crimes to talk to Cal. On my way out two of my new task force brothers were shooting the bull by the elevators.

  "Judd Underwood is legendary," one of them said.

  I let the open elevator go and started stalling, fiddling with the buttons. I wanted to hear this.

  "Over at the Eye, they call him Agent Orange because he defoliates careers. If something goes wrong, he'll pin it on the guys working with him."

  A second elevator opened and Deputy Chief Michael Ramsey hurried out. He was tall, milk-white, and looked like a forties matinee idol, complete with the oiled black hair and pencil-thin moustache.

  He turned and faced me. "You're Scully."

  I reached out and stopped the elevator door from closing.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm looking for you to put this Fingertip deal down fast. Can you make that happen for me?"

  "Gonna try."

  "That's the ticket," he said with false enthusiasm. "We got a storm blowing in on this one. You wait 'til it's raining to pitch a tent, everybody gets wet." Sounding like a scout leader giving out instructions before a jamboree.

  We stood there looking at each other. Me in the elevator, him in the hall. No connection. Nothing. We'd actually run out of small talk in less than ten seconds. So to end it, I slid my hand off the door and the elevator closed, cutting him from view.

  Chapter 17

  I arrived at my digs in Homicide Special where the phones worked, and sat in my old cubicle without the murder book or my partner and rubbed my forehead. After talking with Fran Farrell yesterday, I had to admit I felt uneasy, unsure of what to do about Zack. All I knew was I was in a close race with Internal Affairs for his badge. But I couldn't dwell on it because now I was also stuck with this funeral. So I headed in to see Jeb Calloway, brought him up to date, and then begged for his help.

  "Not my problem anymore," he said, after I finished. "Take it up with your task force commander."

  "Deputy Chief Ramsey put some rat-bag ASAC from the FBI in charge of the task force. The guy's actually got us on a lunar calendar."

  "Look, Scully, you're a good cop, but sometimes you complain too much."

  "Captain, we're stuck in a Hannibal Lecter movie down there. His own people at the Eye call him Agent Orange."

  "Whatta you want from me?" Cal said. "I didn't put this task force on the ground. Take it up with the head of the Detective Bureau." Some songs never change.

  I switched tactics. "I need to get this funeral set up fast. I'd like to run it out of here."

  "Jeez, Scully."

  "I'll clear it with Agent Underwood," I pleaded. "We don't even have phones or furniture yet. There's hardly any place to sit."

  After a long, reflective moment, Cal nodded. "Okay, you clear it with your task force commander and I'll let you work it from this floor temporarily." Then he frowned. "A funeral's a big expense for a copycat kill, or are you off that now?"

  "I'm keeping every option open, Cap. Just like you taught us."

  He gave me a tight smile. He knew blatant ass-kissing when he saw it.

  "And I want Ed Hookstratten from Press Relations to handle the PR," I rushed on. "I need press about this funeral in all the papers and TV. I know you guys are tight and I was wondering if you could pin him down for me."

  "You got a name for the DB yet? We can't put John Doe on the headstone."

  "He's gonna be Forrest Davies."

  "Okay. You get Underwood to sign off. I'll get in touch with Sergeant Hookstratten."

  He fixed me with one of those hard-ass, Event Security stares of his and said, "Agent Orange?"

  The rest of the afternoon I focused on the funeral. First I left a message for Underwood that I was working at my old desk until our task force phones were in. Then I did the casting for Forrest's immediate family, who I decided to name Rusty and Alison Davies. I made a few calls and recruited two retired cops I'd worked with ten years ago. Detective Bob Stewart agreed to be Forrest's dad and Sergeant Grace Campbell would play his mom. Both were gray-haired sixty-eight-year-old vets who looked like they could be the parents of a fifty-year-old man. I asked them to send over personal portraits for a press packet I was making up to go with the artist's rendition of Forrest.

  At three o'clock, Bryna Spiros called back. There was a chapel available at one-thirty tomorrow afternoon. I took it and thanked her.

  By five o'clock almost everyone was back after an unsuccessful day at the V. A. I brought my team up to the Homicide Special break room for a pre-meeting. They were tired, and I was getting a decent amount of stink-eye. Big spender that I am, I bought everyone machine coffee. The funeral crew consisted of nine people including me.

  Sergeant Ed Hookstratten was a six-foot-four, hollow-chested, Lurch-like piece of work with a long hooked nose to go with his name. The man always slouched, but he was, without question, the best media guy in the Glass House.

  Chapter 18

  I'd picked the four cops that I already knew on the task force: Bola, Diaz, Ward, and Quinn. My long-lens photographers were Kyle Jute and Doreen McFadden, two patrol officers who were camera buffs. I'd used them both in the past. The last two players were the grieving parents, retired Sergeants Campbell and Stewart.

  Everybody sipped watery coffee while I laid out the op. We would be on Handy-Talkies with earpieces and would stay well back, watch, and photograph everything, making sure to get close-ups of all the license plates in the parking lot for DMV checks later. We had no warrants, so we would make no arrests unless some overt crime happened right in front of us.

  This was strictly a photo surveillance.

  When I got home that evening, Chooch and his best friend Darius Hall were huddled in the backyard with their heads together talking earnestly. Chooch had just been notified by the UCLA athletic department that head coach Karl Dowell wanted to arrange a home visit. It was scheduled for the day after tomorrow at five-thirty in the evening. Delfina was in her room doing homework, so Alexa and I kicked off our shoes in the den and sipped cold beers.

  "Good news about UCLA," she said.

  "Very," I agreed.

  "So how was your day?"

  "Don't go there."

  "Don't be an asshole," she smiled. "I want to hear about the task force. What's your take on the crowd Chief Ramsey picked?"

  Instead of engaging in petty cheap shots, I told her about the funeral the following afternoon.

  She was silent for a minute after I finished. "I thought you had John Doe Number Four down as a copycat kill."

  "Might be. Might not be. Never can tell," I said, blithely sawing the air with an indifferent hand.

  She looked at me critically. "Are you trying to get off this task force and be reassigned to this last John Doe murder?" picking off my brilliantly deceptive plan faster than a base runner stealing signs from second.

  "Naw. . get off the Fingertip task force?" I lied. "How can you say that? We got invisible offices and a neat FBI leader who will tolerate nothing but b
rilliance. No ma'am. This is a chance to get my name in the paper. Maybe I can even sell this case to the movies, and put a second story on this house so Chooch won't have to sleep in the garage."

  "Don't hedge, Shane."

  I looked at her and shrugged.

  "Let me see if I'm reading this right. You absolutely hate task forces. You know Zack is in career trouble. With all the white light the Fingertip case is getting, he won't last two days on that unit, so you want me to split this last murder off and move you and Zack onto it, out of the spotlight, until you can figure out what to do to save him." Busting me like ripe fruit.

  "Listen, I agree with you about the task force," she continued. "But we've been backed into this by the mayor. Tony didn't want to do it."

  "Then why did you put an FBI agent in charge?"

  "That was a deal we had to cut with the Eye so they wouldn't take the case away. You know how they love a high-profile media murder. And after seven weeks, if they just take it from us, it looks like we muffed the investigation. That's bad for Tony and for me."

  "How do they just take it away? It's our case."

  "Honey, with the new organization in law enforcement, Homeland and the FBI have gained major power. They can more or less have anything they want."

  I sat there for a long moment studying my shoes. It looked like they were due for a shine. Actually, I was due for new shoes. I wondered if I should step up from Florshiems to designer moccasins, or maybe get a pair of those butt-ass ugly Bruno Maglis like 0. J.'s.

  "I need you on that case to be my eyes and ears," Alexa said, interrupting these weighty thoughts.

  "I'm not a spy." My feelings were hurt that she would even suggest it.

  "That didn't come out exactly the way I wanted," she said.

  We sat together and finished our beers without speaking. Finally she got up and went into the kitchen to start dinner.

  I wandered out and listened to Chooch and Darius in the backyard. They were talking about what they always talked about. Football. Darius was Harvard Westlake's star running back and was also being heavily recruited by UCLA. They had already offered him a scholarship.

  "We should go as a package, dude," Darius suggested.

  "Way cool," Chooch answered, excitement building in his voice. "I could tell Coach Carroll I won't go to USC unless they offer you a ride. You tell the same thing to Coach Dowell."

  "Keep the old backfield intact."

  I stood in the doorway behind them and listened to a few more minutes of this nonsense. I didn't think trying to blackmail a couple of blue-chip, Division-One college coaches was the best way to earn a full scholarship from either.

  I went back into the den, switched on the TV, and caught the top of the seven o'clock news.

  "Big advancements in the Fingertip murder case," the handsome blow-dry on Channel Nine declared triumphantly. "Today, Chief Filosiani announced the formation of a new task force. The unit will be headed by famed FBI criminal profiler Judson. Underwood. Underwood is perhaps best known for his capture of the Detroit Slasher and his subsequent best-selling book, Motor City Monster. The task force will be comprised of crack members from homicide bureaus all over the city."

  Then my artist's rendition hit the screen. "Funeral services for the fourth victim, recently identified as Forrest Davies, will be held at the Old North Church at Forest Lawn cemetery at one-thirty tomorrow."

  The shot switched back to the anchorman. "The funeral will mark the beginning of the second month on this horrific case where bodies have been mutilated and leads have been scarce. But tensions seemed to ease all around town today, as the details of this new, high-tech squad were revealed."

  I wondered if our high-tech squad had any phones yet.

  Chapter 19

  My briefing went off in the task force coffee room at 8 A. M. Ed Hookstratten had blanketed the media with stories of Forrest's funeral. Chief Ramsey and Agent Underwood stood in the back until I was finished.

  "That's the skinny, then," Underwood said, as he walked to the front of the room. "I don't want to overload this funeral with suits, so I'm limiting attendance to ten people. One officer only from each Homicide Bureau. Work it out among yourselves and try not to show up looking like cops. No brown shoes and white socks." One of the few worthwhile things he'd told us.

  After the briefing, Underwood paused in front of me as the others were pushing their chairs out of the coffee room.

  "Where the fuck is your partner? I still haven't laid eyes on that guy."

  "He needed to get gun qualified this morning or go on suspension. It's been scheduled for a month. He's over at the shooting range," I lied flawlessly.

  Underwood stared at me for a moment, then turned and followed Deputy Chief Ramsey into his office, which had now been miraculously upgraded with walls and a door.

  Once he was safely inside, the members of our elite squad circled me like a snarling pack of coyotes. I'd claimed the early lead with my bullshit funeral and was a looming literary problem.

  Twenty minutes later, as I was getting ready to head out, one of the detectives from Central Bureau, a fireplug with a swarthy complexion, named either Brendan or Brian Villalobos wandered over. He stood across from my battered desk rocking on his heels.

  "Pretty good," he said. But there wasn't much enthusiasm in it.

  "Thanks."

  "You really think this dickwad is gonna show up at your dumb-ass funeral?"

  "Stranger things have happened, Brian."

  "Brendan."

  "Brendan."

  Then we started staring each other down like twelveyear-olds before a schoolyard fight.

  "Okay, look. . you want, maybe we can come to terms on this," he ventured.

  "Terms? What are we talking about, Brendan?" Giving him my dull stupid look, which unfortunately, I seem to affect very easily.

  "This task force is just a crock a sixth-floor bullshit. But maybe you and I can get past that and turn it into something worthwhile if we work together."

  "But we are working together, Brendan. That's what task forces do."

  "Don't shine me up, pal." He motioned toward the room. "This is a five-car accident. Still, there might be opportunity in all this chaos if we work it right." He leaned closer. "What if you and I trade everything we've got, but just with each other? These other humps can fend for themselves."

  "You mean hoard shit?"

  He smiled, "I know you're the original primary on these murders and you probably know stuff the rest of us don't. But if you team up with me, you're getting a skilled homicide guy with a seventy-percent clearance rate. If we end up with a book or a movie, we cut it right down the middle."

  "Can I get back to you on that? My voice mail is loaded and I'm sort of obligated to evaluate all my offers before deciding."

  His expression hardened. "I'm not going to let this opportunity get away. My partner is the buffalo in the checked coat over there." He pointed at Bart Hoover. "He's Captain Hoover's brother. They're filling his jacket with sexy stuff, hoping he catches this peril so he can make the lieutenant's list. But trust me, that jerk couldn't catch a cold in Alaska. It's also no secret your partner is a world-class alkie. Since we're both stuck working with lames, maybe we should unofficially team up. This funeral thing of yours has possibilities. I'm just saying, let's cut our losses and go in on it together."

  "Interesting idea," I said. "But I'm not sure about the fifty-fifty book and movie split. I'll have to run that by my creative affairs advisor. I'll get back to you."

  He wandered off looking dissed. Since I hadn't scored a chair yet, I sat on my broken desk and made a few calls.

  At noon I drove out to Forest Lawn and met with Bryna Spiros, a short, dark-haired woman with a bright smile. She'd helped me on two similar occasions, knew what I needed, and led me to the small wood-framed North Chapel.

  12:15 P. M.: My photographers, Doreen and Kyle, arrived in separate L-cars. They checked out suitable camera positions. I bought
some leafy flower arrangements from the worship center florist to provide them with better photo blinds.

  12:30 P. M.: The polished mahogany casket arrived on a rolling gurney and was placed in the front of the chapel. I really love the names they give these coffins. I actually saw one in the display room called the Sky Lounge. This one was a Heaven Sent. Since I have a less formal streak, when I die I want to get hammered into a That's All Folks!

  I opened the half-lid and propped it up. Forrest was festively turned out in a black suit and gray tie, resting on white satin, all ready for his heaven-sent ride into the great beyond.

  The embalmer did a reasonable job of cleaning him up. They taped over the gunshot wound and covered it with plastic skin, although his head still showed the lopsided trauma of the wound. He had that red-tinged robust complexion found only in wax museums and on the chalky faces of the dead. His eyes were closed and someone had decided to put heavy pancake over his eyelid tatts, covering the Russian Cyrillic symbols that said: "Don't wake up." This time he wouldn't.

  "I'm gonna get this guy, Forrest," I whispered somewhat foolishly to the waxy corpse.

  12:45 P. M.: Agent Underwood arrived and sat in the back, holding his ostrich briefcase, which undoubtedly had some kind of huge exotic, square-barreled automatic inside.

  1:00 P. M.: Stewart and Campbell, dressed as grieving parents, walked into the church and were seated in the front row.

  Members of the task force started to arrive, pulling into the parking lot in their personal vehicles. A few minutes later, they wandered into the church and spread out, everyone stylin' and profilin'. No polyester, white socks, or Kmart ties.

  Some tactical ops like to use catchy radio code names, but I always feel like an asshole triggering my mike and saying, "This is Dogcatcher to Handy-Wipe," so I just assigned numbers. Underwood was One. I was Two. Bola was Three, and so forth.

  There were a half a dozen people in attendance who I'd never seen before. The long-lens team was busy shooting close-ups of all of them. Kyle was inside the church, behind the viewing area. Doreen was in the trees, halfway between the chapel and the parking lot with a 350-mm lens. A CD of harp music played as a few more people ambled in and sat in the uncomfortable, wooden pews.