by David Putnam
I elbowed him. He grunted and stepped away.
Whitney moved behind his huge desk, which only served to make him appear smaller. He remained standing and put both hands flat on his blotter. “Special Agent Miller, would you please brief these gentlemen?”
“Certainly, sir.” Chelsea stepped over to a large map behind us on the wall, one that I’d missed when I came in. The map depicted Southern California, from Santa Barbara, south to San Diego. The cities bristled with a couple of thousand blue and red pushpins. She kept her hands behind her back when she spoke. “In Southern California, bank robbery has reached epidemic proportions. Twenty-four hundred a year, for the last two years, with no sign of letup. This year we are on track to beat even that number.”
Coffman took several steps closer for a better look. “You have got to be shittin’ me.”
“No, sir.” Chelsea said. “Those are the numbers. We have over fifteen Special Agents working on the problem full-time, and we haven’t even scratched the surface. Right now, all we can do is chase our tails, shuffling paperwork.”
“Agent Miller.”
Chelsea always told it like it was, never pulled punches.
She looked at Whitney. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She turned back to us. “Your agency has offered to lend a hand.”
I wanted to throttle the little puke for treating her that way.
Ned couldn’t hold it in any longer, and said, “Four deputies divided by twenty-four hundred—that’s quite a caseload even for us. But don’t worry, we can handle it.” He smiled and looked around to see if anyone would laugh. “One riot, one deputy.” An old adage Ned had stolen from the Texas Rangers.
Everyone looked back at Chelsea.
“Ah, no,” she said. “You are going to come up on some of these criminals, and take them down, in progress, in high-profile, newsworthy events. We hope this will have a deterrent effect.”
Coffman shook his head. “Not a chance in hell.”
Whitney, from behind his desk, said, “Excuse me?”
Coffman took a step toward him. “No offense, but you’re trying to put your values onto these mutts. It’s not like that. These criminals do not fear the system; they thrive in it. They don’t care if they go to prison. Prison, for them, is like earning a merit badge. No, I think you’re wrong in your thinking here.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t want to participate in operation Burnt Eagle?”
“Not at all. This will be a real kick in the ass, chasin’ these guys. I wouldn’t miss it. I just don’t think it’ll have the overall desired effect you’re hoping for. In fact, I know it won’t. But we are here to do whatever you ask and do it to the best of our abilities. You want bank robbers taken down and mounted on the wall, no problem. Just turn us loose and stand back.”
Whitney turned to Chelsea for her reaction.
Had I not witnessed Coffman’s meltdown that night at St. Francis, I would have thought his comment nothing more than LA County Sheriff braggadocio. Now I wasn’t so sure that after we took down the first bank robber, he wouldn’t go looking for a good taxidermist.
CHAPTER SIX
WHITNEY CHECKED HIS watch. “Special Agent Miller, I have a call coming in with the LA office SAC. Would you escort these gentlemen to the bullpen investigative office and give them their first case assignment and caseload?”
“Yes, sir. This way.”
Ned turned away from Whitney’s desk, tilted his head back and forth, silently moving his lips mocking what Whitney had just said. I elbowed him again as we followed Chelsea to the door.
He whispered, “Hey, cut it out. You’re not buying into all this pomp and circumstance, are you?” Then he spoke through his nose. “Excuse me, sir, might I place these lovely handcuffs on your wrists? Please? I said please.”
I shook my head, trying to get him to shut up. I didn’t want to engage him within hearing range of Chelsea or to let him continue to make an ass of himself. I slipped ahead so there’d be no one there to talk to, but he caught up and whispered, “Burnt Eagle? Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me? They gotta put a name to it, really? We’re gonna be chasin’ bank robbers, right? Not tossin’ Molotov cocktails at low-flyin’ eagles.”
We moved down a long hall with multiple doors and little signs, chest height, on the wall next to them: white collar, political corruption unit, domestic terrorist unit, and many more with acronyms I’d never seen or heard of before.
Coffman walked side by side with Chelsea talking quietly with her—a place I wanted to be, and at the same time didn’t.
We came to a door at the end of the hall. Next to it, the narrow blue nameplate simply read: Robbery. Chelsea punched in a code and entered. We followed. This room contained at least twenty desks, all out in the open, all with men and women dressed in business attire sitting behind their desks writing or talking on the phone.
Ned poked me in the back. “No wonder they got a problem. These birds aren’t gonna catch any burnt eagles sitting on their asses in the office.”
I waved an arm behind me. “Knock it off.”
Coffman heard me, not Ned. “Bruno, you want to act like an adult, or do you want to wait outside?”
I didn’t answer him.
Chelsea never slowed as she moved down the aisle of desks to an empty one with the title “Team Leader” on a plaque. “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, turning to face us. “I’ll be your liaison for this operation. We have signed an MOU—a memorandum of understanding—with your department and have made arrangements to pick up all your overtime.”
Gibbs said, “Hallelujah, now we’re talkin’.”
Chelsea looked at him. “I’ll be the one putting my name on the overtime slips. You start producing, and by that I mean you take down some of these offenders, and I won’t care how much OT you rack up. You do the dick-around, and I’ll cut it off.”
Ned jabbed me and guffawed, but this time made no verbal comment.
Chelsea said, “We want to give you everything you need to be successful: vehicles, equipment, training, whatever you think you’ll need.”
Ned straightened up and started to listen more intently, as did Gibbs.
I said, “What about buy money? Our department holds the purse strings too tight, and it hinders our effectiveness. Money is what these crooks are all about. It’s the only thing they understand.”
Coffman, in a lowered tone, said, “Besides a bullet.”
I continued. “You give ’em enough money, and they’ll give up their mothers.”
Chelsea held eye contact with me, eased down in her chair, opened a desk drawer, pulled out a gray metal cash box, opened it, and took out a wad of currency. “You chit out any expense and submit it with receipts, you can have all you want. Again, as long as you are producing. How much do you want for starters, Deputy Johnson?”
She’d caught me flat-footed. “I, ah … three hundred. Yeah, three hundred will work to … start off with.”
She counted out three hundred in twenties, wrote it in a log, and had me sign for it. All of a sudden, I didn’t like having a wad of fed money in my pocket. Too much responsibility.
The other three lined up behind me. She spoke while she counted. “Bruno, right there, that stack of files will be the team’s caseload.”
The stack stood about a foot tall, maybe twenty folders, some fatter than others. I picked up the top file and looked around. Every one of the other Special Agents at the twenty desks looked at us as if they’d never seen four deputies dressed in Levi’s and polo shirts, with guns on their hips. Maybe they liked our gold badges clipped to our belts. Or maybe they didn’t think we could read.
I looked at them until they looked away and went back to whatever kind of dick-around they were engaged in. Like Ned said, the crooks were not going to come knocking on their door to turn themselves in.
I opened the file: Dominic Johnson, white male, thirty-eight years old, and christened by the FBI as the Handsome Bandit. He’d robbed eigh
teen banks in the Inland Empire Riverside and San Bernardino counties, mostly Riverside. On the front work-up sheet was a color booking photo, his features gaunt and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. The second photo, a black-and-white, depicted Johnson walking through the bank, head down at an angle wearing a ball cap, his right hand in his jacket pocket. A simulated weapon, which meant he may or may not have been armed.
At the top of the sheet, large red font spelled out a ten-thousand-dollar reward. I went deeper into the file and read a couple of the summary sheets on robberies from the city police departments who took the reports. I understood this game too well. The police departments took the report, did the preliminary investigation, and handed it over to their detective bureau. The PD investigation bureau then forwarded it to the FBI. The FBI took the report, attached a scant FBI transmittal form, and filed the whole thing as pending. If or when the originating agency made an arrest, the FBI pulled the report from the file, attached a clearance transmittal, and took the credit for the case with their agency. So why leave the office? All they had to do was wait. That’s what Chelsea had referenced regarding the paperwork shuffle in the supervisor’s office when he’d chastised her.
I looked up when Chelsea finished the dole. “Hey,” I said. “You know this guy’s name, you’ve identified him, and you haven’t tracked him down yet?”
Her smile faded and her eyes turned angry. “That’s right. We looked for him. He’s a transient, couch surfing all over the place, never staying any one place for more than a day or two.”
Ned interrupted, “You said cars? You’re going to assign us cars, so we don’t have to use our own? What kind of cars?”
She held my eyes a moment longer, then turned to look at him. “That’s right. Each of you will be assigned a car. They’re down in the parking structure.” She looked back at me. “We’ll go down in a minute, and you can decide who drives what.”
Ned said, “We each get a car? We don’t have to share?”
“That’s right.”
“Why this case?” I asked. “Why did you chose this one as the first to be worked? He’s a known suspect. We don’t need to follow him to take him down in progress. We just need to find him.”
“Come here.”
I followed her over to the big floor-to-ceiling window that spanned the length of the office. The blue tinted glass defused the brilliant sunlight outside, sunlight that heated the sidewalks and streets until heat waves radiated off the asphalt and concrete, making the world a convection oven. She pointed down. “See that bank?”
My mouth sagged open. “You’re kidding me. This guy hit a bank right across the street from your office?”
Ned laughed. “Now that’s embarrassing. I don’t think I’d be spreadin’ that little tidbit around too much.”
Wilson, the clerk, hurried into the bullpen. “The Handsome Bandit just hit the Riverside County Credit Union, 1635 Mission Boulevard.” She handed the slip of paper to Chelsea, who looked at all the agents in the room, looking at her. “Orange Team, you take this one. Blue team, you’re on deck if another one comes in. Let’s move.”
Five agents came out of their trance, grabbed suit coats and war bags filled with their gear, and headed for the door.
I didn’t know why, but my team didn’t look at Coffman; they all looked at me.
Chelsea stopped grabbing her gear. Everyone in the room stopped and watched us. “Aren’t you going to the bank?”
I didn’t like her tone or the way all those agents looked at us, as if we’d just crapped the bed. “No. He’s not going to be at the bank.”
Chelsea’s expression again turned into a scowl. “Then exactly what are you going to do, Deputy Johnson?”
I looked over at Coffman. He gazed out the window, as if unaware of what transpired around him.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I think we’re going to lunch. We’ll catch this guy after we get something to eat.”
Chelsea shook her head and muttered, “Asshole.” She grabbed the rest of her stuff and took off with her orange team, her five Special Agents in tow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I GOT IN my truck with Ned. We drove around the block and then the next with Coffman and Gibbs following in their car until I came across the La Bufadora restaurant. “You up for some Mex?”
“You bet,” Ned said. “I’m starving.”
I pulled in, parked, and got out, carrying the Handsome Bandit file to go over while we ate. I already regretted the comment about catching this guy after lunch. What if we couldn’t catch him at all? I’d let Anger and his pal Mr. Ego pick my foot up and shove it in my mouth.
Coffman caught up to us and took a firm hold of my arm. Too firm. I didn’t like it. He said to Ned and Gibbs, “We’ll see you two inside. I need to talk with Bruno.”
They hesitated and then obeyed the sergeant.
I shrugged out of his grip. Sweat ran in my eyes and made me squint. Damn heat.
Coffman waited until they went inside. “I don’t mind you taking the lead on these cases. I don’t. You’re one of the sharpest street cops I have ever seen. But I’m the sergeant. I’m the one responsible for what happens out here. You understand?”
He was right. I’d gotten a little ahead of myself. I’d forgotten what it was like to work with a team, with a sergeant supervisor. I’d been working too closely with Wicks, who treated me as an equal while we manhunted the lowest form of humans: serial rapists, murderers, and urban gangsters.
“No, you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, I won’t let it happen again.”
He didn’t smile and patted me on the shoulder. “I know you won’t, son.” He started walking toward the restaurant door. I followed right next to him, the file sweaty in my hand. I brought my sleeve up and wiped the sweat from my eyes.
Coffman said, “I don’t want to gig you twice in so many minutes, but that was also wrong the way you talked to those people back there. I understand that they don’t see things the way we do. They come from a different culture than we do. We come from the street. They come from colleges. We need to get along, and if it takes eating a little shit, then we’re going to belly up to the table. You understand what I’m saying here?”
“Yes, sir. I read you loud and clear. You won’t ever have to worry about me again.”
“Thanks, Bruno.”
Inside, Gibbs and Ned sat in a large half-circle booth, the interior of the place all dark and cool and full of red vinyl. Ned said, “You two kiss and make up?”
Coffman sat down. “That’s enough of that shit, Ned.”
Ned whispered, “Yikes.”
What Coffman said outside made me rethink the way I needed to operate. I slid in on the outside edge, next to Ned, opened the file intending to read every report from all eighteen agencies. I shouldn’t have made that stupid-assed comment to all those FBI agents.
In the file, everyone—all the involved agencies—knew this guy, Dominic Johnson, and no one could put the grab on him.
In the back of my brain, I registered that the other three—Ned, Coffman, and Gibbs—ordered and that Ned flirted with the cute waitress. Coffman had shaken off his hollowed-out episode of staring out the window upstairs in the FBI office, enough to dress me down for the errors of my ways. Still, I fought over whether or not to talk to Wicks about it. Coffman just complicated matters. If I went to Wicks now, I’d come off sounding like sour grapes, retaliation for the scolding Coffman gave me.
I pulled out of my own trance long enough to order a couple of chicken tacos and an iced tea.
Ned reached over and closed the file. “Let it go, big man. Let’s eat, relax, and have a good time, huh? We’ll get back to it soon enough. All work and no play makes Bruno a dull boy.”
I looked at him too long, something niggling at me about what I’d just read or just seen in the file. I closed my eyes and tried to let it bubble up.
Coffman said something to me that didn’t get through. Then, said louder, “Bruno? H
ey, Johnson, you hear me?”
Ned said to Coffman, “Hold it. Hold it. I’ve seen him do this before. Let him think.”
I took in several deep breaths and let them out. I smiled and opened my eyes.
Ned slapped me on the back. “I’m liking what I see, partner. Come on, give.”
I opened the file to the front page, with the two paper-clipped pictures. “What do you see?”
They all leaned in to look at the photos.
Gibbs said, “I see a white trash dude named Johnson. What happened, Bruno, you just realize he’s a relative?”
Ned chuckled. “Wish I would’ve said that.”
“Come on,” I said, “quit foolin’ around and look. Really look.”
They all went silent and stared.
“I’m not gettin’ it, partner,” Ned said. “Just tell me.”
I pointed to the color booking photo and stuck my finger right below his face. “What do you see?”
The minute stretched out, then Ned muttered, “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.” He shoved on me. “Let me out. Come on, let me out. Let me out.”
“What?” Gibbs said. “What? I don’t see it.”
Ned all but shoved me out of the booth. I got up. He got out, reaching in his pocket for a quarter as he walked fast to the phone booth in the hall that led to Los Baños.
The waitress brought our food and set it on the table. I grabbed a taco. “You better eat. I have a feeling we’re going to be rolling hot in about five minutes.”
Coffman, his expression serious, stared at me. I’d just done it again—left him out of the loop, left him sitting there like a bewildered child.
I chewed the taco, pointed at the color booking photo, and spoke around the food. “The guy’s a hype, a heroin addict. Look at his eyelids—they’re droopy, and his pupils are constricted.”
Ned hung up the phone too loud and ran out to the car.
Gibbs stopped, a forkload of beans and rice about to go into his mouth. “Now where’s he going?”
I said, “To get a map out of the car.”
