by David Putnam
“Ah, shit,” Ned said. “Gibbs, you wanna trade?”
“No chance, my brother.”
“Oh,” Chelsea said, “I saw on the news that Frank Duarte killed again last night.”
“That’s right, and the press are starting to crucify the department over it.”
“In that case, I understand.”
Coffman said, “Thanks.”
Gibbs smiled and said, “Hey, Bruno, catch ya on the flip, huh, man? We’re out of here.”
Coffman gave me the stink eye, nonverbally telling me to play nice. He turned and left to catch up with Gibbs.
Turner said, “Not to worry. You two won’t be going out in the field anytime soon. It’s going to take you three days at least to read and digest this file.”
Now angry enough to spit, I looked at Chelsea and said to Turner, “I don’t think it’ll take that long. I’m familiar with the Rollin’ Sixties Crip gang.”
He looked at Chelsea as he said to me, “What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with that gang.” Then it sank in and his confusion shifted to anger as he figured out I’d referenced a case I wasn’t supposed to know about, the special one Chelsea told me about the night before, as we sat together on my porch.
No sense me being angry all by myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JIM TURNER SAID, “Let’s lay down the ground rules and be very clear, shall we? I am to be notified of any action you take on this case. You understand?” He handed Ned and me his business card. “Here are my numbers. You can always call the OD—the officer of the day—and he will know how to reach me anytime, day or night. So there’s no excuse. Or you can page me. The numbers are all on the card. Are we understood? No independent action. I’m to be kept in the loop on everything you do.”
“We’re not children,” Ned said. “And I’ll tell you right now, I don’t work well with a boot on my neck.”
I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. “Come on, let’s go get some coffee and start reading.”
He put up token resistance before he turned and came along.
Special Agent Turner said to our backs and in front of the entire bullpen, filled with agents working diligently, shuffling papers from one side of their desk to the other, “See you two in a few days after you finish reading. And after you finish evaluating the case, I want you to submit a typed game plan, about how you intend on going after this guy.”
I didn’t have to turn around to see his expression. His words came out dripping with smug arrogance. He’d said the last part with plenty of witnesses to our marching orders, witnesses who could testify in our disciplinary review if we screwed it up.
I didn’t mind that as much as the thought of Turner ever touching Chelsea, kissing her neck, nibbling her earlobe and—
An involuntary shiver rippled through my body; I wanted—no, needed—to put a fist in that guy’s smug smile.
At the door to go out, Ned spun to head back. “Hey, they didn’t give us our cars.”
I gave him a gentle nudge, opened the door, and moved out into the hall. “I don’t think we’re going to be working this gig much longer, so it’s really not going to matter.” I’d made up my mind, made the choice even though I knew it was wrong.
“You gonna talk to Wicks tonight about what’s happening?”
“I’ll brief him, but I don’t think he’ll pull us. He’ll say suck it up, that this is too good a deal to screw up. The overtime, the cars, the resources.”
“Then what’s gonna sour the Feebies on us?”
“Oh.” He smiled and then chuckled. “You’re gonna pull a Bruno Johnson, aren’t you? You’re gonna stick this case right up their ass, aren’t you? You’re not going to take three days to read the case file, and submit some bullshit typewritten game plan? You’re gonna go nuclear and kick in some doors starting right now.”
“Something like that. If I can pull it off, anyway.” We moved down the hall to the exit and entered the waiting area.
“Count me in, partner. It’ll be worth it just to see the look on those Feebies’ faces.”
“Now,” I said, “I just hope these college boys left me something in this file, something they missed, that I can get my fingers into and exploit.”
Ned pushed the “down” button on the elevator. “You know they did. They’ve been chasin’ a known suspect for two years and haven’t been able to catch him. How hard is that? In the last two years, how many people have you run down while on the violent crimes team? Huh? How many times have you been onto someone that didn’t end with you feeding your handcuffs or zipping up a body bag?”
“We’ve been real lucky that way.”
“Quit with the modesty. Your team’s reputation is the talk of the department. You’re headed for legendary status, my pal. Wyatt-fucking-Earp. You and Wicks both.”
I hefted the five-inch report in front of him. “By the size of this, they did a lot of legwork.”
The elevator dinged and opened. We stepped in and took it to the ground floor.
Outside in the bright sunlight, we walked in silence to my Ford Ranger and got in. I drove right to the La Bufadora restaurant, where we’d eaten the day before. At nine o’clock the place didn’t open for another hour and a half. People inside moved around, getting the place ready. We sat for a moment, parked right in front of the door, not knowing what to do next.
Ned had gone silent again. “What’s up with you?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Something’s eating at you. Come on.”
“I can’t keep anything from you, can I?”
“You gonna tell me?”
“It’s a personal thing.” He checked his watch. “I really need to be someplace. I thought I could blow it off, but that would be a bad choice, and I’m trying to make better choices lately.”
I smiled. “What? Who are you, and what did you do with my friend Ned?”
“Come on, knock it off.”
“You going to tell me what it is?”
“Naw, not right now. Thanks though. I do appreciate the concern. Maybe in a few days over a beer.”
“You’re scarin’ me here, pal.”
“It’s not a big deal. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You want me to drop you back at your car?”
“I don’t wanna leave you hangin’, not with this thing looming big on the horizon.”
“You’re not. It’s going to take me at least a few hours to wade through this monster of a case and try to develop a game plan, if there even is one.” I backed up, put it in drive, and headed for the street. “Why don’t you read the file to me while I drive you back?”
“You sure?”
“Read.”
“Okay, but fair warning, I get carsick.” He leaned over a bit and feigned throwing up in my lap. He smiled and opened the first file folder.
“Raymond Desmond Deforest, ‘The Bogart Bandit.’ On the street, they call him ‘Teener,’ like a teener of coke. He’s Negro, male, twenty-four, and a little guy, five feet six, a buck forty-five. He’s got a tattoo of, ‘Grape Street,’ on his left bicep. He has a woman with huge breasts tattooed on his chest.” Ned held up the Polaroid photo of the tattooed woman. I took my eyes from the road for a second and snatched a look. A quality tattoo, and based on the writing on the Polaroid, it looked like it came from OSS—Operation Safe Streets—the sheriff’s gang unit from before Deforest started robbing banks.
“Grape Street Crips?” I said. “That means he grew up in The Nickerson,” an area close to the Corner Pocket where I grew up.
Ned flipped the page, ran his finger down. “Yep, you called it, on 114th, 1574. And get this, this fucker has a cap, a gold tooth right up front in his grill.” Ned pointed to his own incisor. “And these Keystone Kopps couldn’t catch him. What the hell?”
Ned went silent as he continued to read, flipping page after page. I got on the freeway. My mind wouldn’t come off of Chelsea and her beau, Jim Turner, so
I didn’t care that he didn’t read it out loud. We hit some stiff traffic, the stop-and-go kind. For the next two hours, Ned stayed buried in the reports. He only stopped a few times to check his watch.
I got off the freeway and took surface streets to our office. When I pulled into our parking lot, Ned said, “These guys did a helluva job on this one. They worked every last lead and really put this case to bed. I don’t know, partner, I think we’re really screwed on this one. I mean, they checked every known associate and the associates of the associates. They sat on his neighborhood for six months, waiting for him to show, and nothing. They spared no expense on manpower. They also put out a fifty-thousand-dollar reward; broadcast it on the radio and television. They twisted up two snitches who said they could produce him. And still nothin’. A big zero. Robbery dicks from San Francisco and San Diego also did everything they could think of. They even wiretapped his mom. His mom, you believe it? That’s a new low, a desperate move. They really want this guy.”
He put the file down on his lap. “I think they gave us this case just to humiliate us. They know there’s nothing to sink our teeth into. Turner—that smug bastard—he’s gonna let us spin our wheels for a few days, until we admit we failed. And then he’ll probably have us say it out loud right in the middle of their overcrowded bullpen, the same as a public hanging. What do you think, partner?”
“Huh? What?”
“I said, what do you think? You think the Feebs are sticking this case up our ass to get even?”
“Doesn’t really matter. I’ll get him tonight or tomorrow, no later than day after tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I TURNED TO look at Ned. His mouth sagged open and gradually turned into a huge smile. “Man, the FBI’s got nothin’ on you when it comes to arrogance. You’re drippin’ with it. But I love it, my friend. I do.”
“I’m joking. No way are we going to catch this guy. Maybe in a couple of months if we work it full-time. But that’s not gonna happen.”
“Thanks. You really had me going there. What a letdown.”
I said, “You gonna get out and get in your own car? You got that thing, right?”
“Not a chance in hell. I’m sticking to you like glue. I’m not going to miss it, if you happen to get lucky. Do you have any idea at all where to look for this guy? Where to start?”
“Not a clue.”
“Jesus, Bruno, what are you gonna do?”
“Nothing I can do but drop back and punt. You might as well take off, do your thing, whatever that is.”
“No, no, come on. Let’s go. Let’s at least give this a try. We got nothing to lose. It’s still going to be a kick in the ass to try.”
“All right then, let’s go inside. I gotta make a phone call.” I opened the truck door.
“You think … I mean, you really don’t have any idea where to look for this guy?”
“Nope. I told you, not a clue.”
“Ah, man, Bruno, you’re not just yankin’ on my dick, are you? You went and got me all jacked up for nothin’?” He punched the dash.
“Hey, take it easy on the truck.”
I got out and headed for the door to our office, the converted grocery store at the strip center. Ned followed along. The door was locked, and that meant no one was inside. I unlocked it, reached in to flip on the lights, entered, and made a beeline for my desk, my mind now locked onto the problem at hand. I sat on the edge of my desk, picked up the phone, and dialed. Ned sat in my chair, put both feet up on my blotter calendar. “So, come on, give. You’re obviously thinking of something, now, right?”
The phone beeped. I typed in the phone number to my desk phone along with a “911” and hung up. I said, “Yeah, but it’s a real long shot. We’re not going to chase this guy Deforest. Not in a direct line, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said the FBI has covered all the bases chasing this guy, right? Going at him head-on.”
“I did. They didn’t leave so much as a bread crumb to pick up.”
“Okay then, we won’t go that route. We can’t afford to. We can’t match their resources. We’ll go in a totally different direction. You still have your buy money the FBI gave you?”
“Bruno, this guy isn’t some localized heroin hype. That trick from yesterday isn’t gonna work. I’d like to think that caper yesterday was good police work, but I gotta tell ya, we threw the dice and came up with a seven on that one.”
I snapped my fingers several times in front of him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his money, and slapped it in my hand. I counted the twenties. “Hey, you’re a couple short.”
“Man’s gotta eat.”
“Not with fed money. Are you crazy?”
“Take a breath. I’ll hit the ATM.”
The phone rang. I picked it up. Ned jumped out of the chair and moved to his desk. He picked up his phone and punched in on the same line to listen.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s me.”
“Well, if it ain’t the infamous Bruno the Bad Boy Johnson. It’s good to hear your voice, baby. Why haven’t you called me?”
“Been busy.”
“It hurts me, to my heart, that you only call if you want somethin’. You never call just ta talk ta me. That last time when we did in that ol’ boy Jefferson Sampson over ta the Fox Hills Mall, you promised me a little somethin’, and you never showed up ta pay me off.”
“I never promised nothing like that, Ollie, come on now. That’s what you said, but I never agreed.”
I looked over at Ned, who raised his eyebrows at the woman on the phone talking smack. He put the phone to his shoulder and made a circle with his index finger and his thumb. He stuck his other index finger in the circle and moved it in and out in a vulgar gesture. I scowled at him and shook my head.
“Ollie, you know I never said that. Right now, I really need your help. I need to find somebody real fast and I’m willing to pay for it.”
“Oh, you’re gonna pay for it, my little jellyroll.” She cackled into the phone. “How can ol’ Ollie hep?”
“I need to find a girl, and I’m in a big hurry.”
Ned looked at me confused and raised his hands in a questioning gesture. I waved him off.
“You’re always in a hurry. What’s her name?” Ollie asked.
“That’s part of the problem. I don’t know her name.”
“What? How’m I gonna find a girl if I don’t know her name? I mean, I’m good, darlin’, but you gotta give me somethin’ ta work with.”
“She’s got a boyfriend who’s Grape Street.”
“Now dat’s somethin’ I kin work with. I know all dem gangstas up in there.”
Ned smiled.
“His name’s Teener. You know a guy named Teener?”
“No, no, can’t say dat I do.”
“That’s okay, I want to know where his girl is laying her head. This Teener’s name is Raymond Desmond Deforest.”
“What’s Teener done?”
“Banks. Lots of them.”
Silence on the phone. “This one’s gonna cost, Bruno. I’m serious.”
“I can give you three hundred cash.”
“No, it’s not gonna be money this time.”
Ned raised his eyebrows and did the vulgar thing with his fingers again.
“What do you need, Ollie?”
“It’s my nephew.”
“He get pinched? What kind of case? I’m sure we can work something out if you help me get Teener.”
“It’s not like dat. He’s a good kid. He jus’ fell in with the wrong … Bruno, I need you to put a boot up his ass.”
“I can do that, no problem, and I’ll still give you the three hundred.”
“Let me page up my homegirl on a Hunert and First. She know all dem ganstas up in there. I’ll call you back.”
“Thanks, Ollie.”
“Bye, lover.” She hung up.
Ned hung up. “Who’s this Ollie?”
/> “Few years back, I took her down comin’ out of a rock house with a big bag of money. I took her right back in to get the dope. We walked into a birdcage.”
“No shit. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one.”
“Yeah, we were trapped like a couple of rats and she kept her cool. Well, sort of anyway. Ever since then, she’s been doin’ things for me, here and there. I keep her in my back pocket, for special capers.”
“She signed up?”
He wanted to know if I followed department policy and procedure, and had her signed up as a regular informant, with a snitch number.
I shook my head.
He nodded. He’d worked narco and knew that sometimes you had to keep your snitches off the books or they could be stolen and abused by a major’s narco crew. Headquarters narcotics got all the status reports on signed snitches, and if one was doing an outstanding job, they’d grab up the snitch, work them hard, burn them out without compassion or empathy, and then discard them like yesterday’s underwear. Then the major’s crew just moves on to the next one. I wouldn’t let that happen to Ollie.
“Will she come through?”
“She hasn’t let me down yet, but this isn’t like any of the other cases we worked together. This one’s a tough nut to crack.”
“What does she look like?”
“She’s got a heart of gold.”
“Oh, that means she’s two tons of—”
“Sometimes, Ned, I just don’t know about you.”
He shrugged. “Goin’ for the girlfriend of Teener. That’s a good idea, but I didn’t’ see one listed in the case file. He might not have a regular girlfriend. He might just be a player.”
“With all the banks he’s taken down, this guy has to favor himself as a Bonnie and Clyde kind of gangster. No, he’s gonna have a regular girl, maybe a couple a three—one in each area where he operates.”
The door to the office opened. We turned to look. In walked Lieutenant Wicks.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WICKS NEVER SLOWED down. “Kiefer, my office.”
“Ah, shit,” Ned said. “I knew this gig was too good to be true.”
