by David Putnam
Stunned, I checked my watch. How had the time slipped by that quickly? Three o’clock for a search warrant and two arrest warrants. Just three hours to write them and get them signed was a pipe dream under any circumstances.
I moved over and peered into the driver’s compartment of Ned’s vehicle. For the two wild shots the kid threw, he did pretty damn well. Lucky shots. One impacted right where Ned’s head should’ve been, dead center on the driver’s side. The other went wide and low but still struck the windshield at the corner of the passenger side. With a car barreling right at me, I didn’t know if I could’ve done any better.
I stood up on the doorsill and pointed to the windshield. “Not to sound like an uncaring fool, but, partner, how did that bullet miss you?”
Ned smiled. “Wasn’t my turn, I guess. I ducked. Saw him throw down on my truck and scrunched down a little.”
“Bruno,” Coffman said. “What’d I say? Get your ass to a phone and get that telephonic search warrant started.”
The paramedics pulled up and shut down their siren.
“I’m going with Ned to the hospital. I can use a phone there.”
“No, I want—”
My glare cut him short. He knew that if it came to taking care of Ned or jumping into a telephonic, Coffman would lose no matter what kind of threats he threw my way.
The paramedics set down their gear and put on latex gloves. Ned made half an effort to shoo them away and then relented. One paramedic asked him questions as he filled in the information on his clipboard. The other daubed with a gauze pad at the laceration above Ned’s ear.
I looked on. “Son of a bitch, Ned, you can’t see this,” I said. “Coffman’s right—this cut looks more like a furrow. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Cut the crap. It was a piece of shrapnel. The bullet fragmented when it went through the window. Check the gun. I bet you’re gonna find it loaded with some round-nose, all-lead bullets circa 1966 or some shit like that. I’m good. Just bandage me up, we got police work to do.”
The paramedic said, “You’re going to need at least ten stitches.”
“I don’t have time to wait in any packed ER. We have to keep rolling on this case or we’re gonna lose the momentum; we’ll lose the other two responsible for this cluster fuck. Right, Bruno? Tell ’em, Bruno.”
I said to the paramedic, “You don’t see any sign of a concussion, do you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ned said. “Of course they don’t, because there isn’t any.”
“Listen,” the paramedic said and hesitated. He looked at the bullet holes in the windshield and then at the smashed-up getaway vehicle in front of the bank. “We can run you over in the squad. My wife works today and she’ll get you moved right up to the head of the line. An hour, tops.”
Ned offered him his hand. “I’m in for that, thanks.”
The paramedics packed up their gear, and Ned followed them over to their squad as he held a blood-soaked pad to his head.
Chino PD crime scene techs worked the scene like four busy little ants, taking photos, fingerprints, and measurements. I didn’t say a thing to them, got in my damaged car, backed up, and pulled away. They all yelled, “Hey! Hey!” One ran a short way after me before giving up.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE PARAMEDIC, TRUE to his word, got Ned in the back door and into a closed-door trauma room. I stayed with him and settled into in a chair by the wall. He sat on the exam table and flirted with the pretty nurse as she prepped him for the sutures, shaved the side of his head around the laceration, and sterilized it with Betadine. I got up and whispered in his ear, “Hey, partner, this is the paramedic’s wife, remember? So, knock it off.”
She heard me and blushed. Ned said, “Oh right, sorry, really, ah, you have to excuse me, I’ve been shot in the head.” He shrugged, pointed to the laceration, and gave her the classic Ned smile, his eyes bright and mischievous.
The nurse prepped the tray and said, “The doctor will be right in to put in the staples.”
“Staples?” Ned said. “Staples? Really?”
The post-adrenaline symptoms started to ease up on me. I wanted to avoid talking with Ned. I still needed to tell him about Beth and used every excuse to avoid doing so. I went back to my chair and picked up the phone mounted on the wall. I dialed the narco desk clerk at headquarters, the one assigned specifically to the violent crimes team. I quickly dictated the affidavit and then the search warrant. Since I had witnessed the crime—the bank robbery—and I’d seen the same suspects from that crime go into the location on 11431 Willowbrook, I only needed three long paragraphs for the affidavit, one of the easiest search warrants I’d ever completed. Next I dialed the on-call judge, gave him the circumstances verbally as he read the faxed copy the clerk had sent him. The judge signed the warrant and faxed it to the hospital ER. From start to finish, the warrant in my hand took thirty-two minutes.
I thanked the judge as Chelsea came in the door to the trauma room. My heart gave a little skip. I wanted to go up and hug her and couldn’t, not in public; that’d be unprofessional.
She wore a fake smile. I tried to look behind her as she entered to see if she’d brought along ol’ Jim Turner. She said, “Ah, Bruno, can I talk to you for a minute outside?”
I hesitated and said to Ned, “You going to be okay?”
“What’s the matter with you?” He again pointed to his head. “This is all about nothin’. I’ve been hurt worse playing basketball.” He pointed at me and smiled big. He lowered his voice. “But you, my friend, better take a cold shower. I can see the way you’re looking at her.” He shook his hand and said, “Va va voom.”
I tried to keep from smiling and couldn’t. I checked to see that Chelsea made it out the first door, and in a harsh whisper said, “I told you nothing’s going on, so knock it off.”
I went out and caught up with her, my heart beating faster in her presence. I needed to apologize. I should’ve called her. The doctor passed me with a staple gun in hand on his way to attend to Ned. Chelsea continued on through the emergency entrance doors to the outside. She turned and crossed her arms on her chest, the fake smile gone, replaced with anger.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“First, let me congratulate you and your team for the fine job you did capturing those three kids.” She said it in a way I couldn’t miss the sarcasm.
“What do you mean? No one got hurt.”
She took a step closer. “Why, then, are we standing outside a hospital ER?”
“We—”
“You missed the primary suspect in this whole thing and managed to smash up three of our cars. Anyone could’ve grabbed the secondary suspects. Third-rate security guards could’ve done that.”
Now we were third-rate security guards. I fought down the rising anger.
She said, “We wanted Gadd with his fingers caught in the cookie jar. That was your whole purpose for the inception of your team, and you blew it. You crashed three cars and got your partner shot.”
“Hey, ease up off me, would ya? You have absolutely no room to talk smack about what happened out there in front of that bank. You set my team up to fail because your agency didn’t want the liability of taking on juveniles robbing banks.”
Her mouth dropped open as if surprised we’d figured out the FBI’s motivation.
I said, “That was a grade-A screw-over and you know it.”
She regained some control. “You missed the main player. You missed Gadd.”
“No we didn’t. We’re getting arrest warrants right now, and here’s the search warrant for his pad.”
Her anger fled. She grabbed the warrant from my hand. “You’re kidding me. You got enough for an arrest warrant on Gadd?”
“That’s right, we got Gadd slam-dunk on conspiracy to commit bank robbery and about ten other crimes. He’s going away for a long time.”
I should’ve also told her about Gadd being the Darkman but held my tongue; no one needed to know that. No
one.
I really didn’t need her jumping my case, not with the pressure from the two secrets that involved Beth and the Darkman, piling on, smothering me, giving me a magnitude-eight headache.
“Bruno, you really got enough to make it stick in court?”
“Deadbang, no problem, he’ll get twenty years guaranteed.”
“That’s wonderful. I didn’t think … I mean this is really great. Do you need any help taking Gadd down? I can assign a full FBI robbery team if—”
“No, I think we got it.” I shouldn’t have answered so quickly. Pride got in the way. We did need help. We could use four or five more bodies for the takedown and search warrant service.
The ER doors whooshed open, and Ned charged out, the staples on the shaved side of his head glinting in the sunlight. He didn’t slow and came right up to me. He pulled back and slugged me in the mouth. I saw it coming and didn’t flinch. The heavy guilt made me want it. Made me need it.
The blow lit up the afternoon in bright yellow and orange lights, made the air turn thick and the ambient sound warble. I stumbled back, spitting blood, more scared of the eternal guilt than the inflicted pain.
Ned yelled, “You asshole, you’re supposed to be my friend.”
“I am your friend. I swear I am. It was for the best for everyone.”
Ned moved in again to hit me. “You’re a judge now, a judge on what’s best for my daughter?”
I didn’t raise my hands to defend myself. He slugged me in the head again and again.
Chelsea grabbed him from behind. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”
He shrugged her off, shoved her away. “Let me go.”
I ran at him and shoved him. “Don’t you touch her.”
He said to me, “Then fight me. Raise your hands and fight me like a man, you sniveling little coward.”
His words bore down into my soul and made me sick, words that would stay with me forevermore.
The ER doors swung open again, and Coffman hurried out. “That’s enough, Ned. Stand down. That’s an order.” To me, he said, “I’m sorry, Bruno, I thought you already told him. I thought he already knew.”
Coffman must’ve talked with Wicks—and Wicks told him about Ned’s status with Beth.
I wiped blood from my split lip with the back of my hand as the air turned back to thin and tasteless. “No, it’s okay. I deserve every bit of this and more.”
“Damn straight you do,” Ned said. “How could you do this to Beth?”
Chelsea said, “What’s going on? What’s happened to Beth?”
Coffman waved her off and stepped in between Ned and me, facing her up close. He said, “I’m sorry, this is personal.”
Gibbs chose that moment to pull around to the back of the hospital in his car.
Coffman said, “Per the lieutenant, Ned, you’re to take some days off. Bruno, you, too.”
Ned stared me down. “Like hell I will. There’s nothing I can do now for Beth. CPS will never tell me where they’re keeping her. I got nothing to do now but wait on a court date. That could be days, thanks to you, Bruno. I won’t see Beth for days. So I’m working. I’m going after Gadd.”
I should’ve stepped in right then, told him about the scars on Beth’s feet, how it’d change everything in his favor, but I couldn’t. He’d take off after JB, and no one in this world would keep him from killing him.
“Suit yourself,” Coffman said.
I broke Ned’s stare and looked at Coffman in stunned awe—stunned at the inappropriateness of the wrong call, allowing Ned to work in his emotional state.
Coffman said, “Don’t give me that look, Bruno. Ned wants to work, he works. Come on, let’s go grapple up this asshole Gadd, finish this screwed-up case so we can all move on.” The last part he threw at Chelsea with a scowl.
I walked away. Chelsea grabbed my wrist. “Bruno, wait.”
I jerked my hand from hers and glared at her. The full weight of her words from moments ago had just started to sink in. She didn’t care one whit about me, about her and me. All she cared about was closing a difficult case and making her stats look good for her upward mobility.
“Wait, let’s talk. Please come back and talk to me.”
I kept going, raised my hand over my head, and gave her a last wave. If I would have turned and looked at her, her eyes, her mouth, her … I would’ve caved. I would’ve crawled back and let her stomp on my emotional vulnerability, let her grind it into the ground.
And maybe I would’ve liked it.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
TINA MITCHELL, CALLED Tiny Tina by the deputies at Lynwood station, responded to our request for a marked sheriff’s unit with a uniform. She’d go in on the search warrant entry for visibility’s sake. We met in the Compton Court parking lot at three o’clock, about a mile from the location we intended to hit, 11431 Willowbrook. All four of our cars sat in a row, the trunks open. No one said a word as we donned our body armor, our Sam Brown belts, and green nylon windbreakers with Sheriff in bold yellow letters across the back. Except Ned; he preferred the cooler green mesh vest. I would, too, but couldn’t afford those kinds of extras, not with all the money I put away for Olivia’s college fund. She’d need college to escape the heavy gravitational pull of the ghetto. Thinking about Olivia helped keep my mind off the terrible words Ned had spoken.
Tina stood by and watched, a new deputy just off probation and eager to please, eager to get into the action, and a warrant going after a violent criminal smelled of heavy action. “Hey, why’s everyone so quiet?” She couldn’t stand still and moved from one trunk to another, hanging a little longer at Ned’s. “What’s going on? You guys are never this quiet. You’re always baggin’ on each other.” She stood five feet four with a waist so narrow all her gear on her Sam Brown looked jammed together in a bunch. She wore her sun-bleached blond haircut in a bob and had intense green eyes and a small mouth. She had a thing for Ned and, try as she might, couldn’t quite keep it hidden.
No one answered her; they continued snapping on keepers and checking the loads of both revolvers. One trunk after another slammed closed.
Tina’s expression turned serious. “Hey, Ned, what happened to the side of your head? Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
Ned closed and locked the diamond plate aluminum equipment box in the back of the Pathfinder. “I’m fine, kid, it’s just a scratch. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
“Doesn’t look like just a scratch. Are you sure you shouldn’t be off IOD?”
“I’m sure.” He walked away from her and over to Coffman’s car where everyone else congregated. “What’s the lineup, Sarge?” he asked.
“This is a heavy caper with a heavy dude. You and Bruno have worked together the most, so you two go in number one and number two. Mitchell, you’re third, take in a gauge to bat cleanup if it goes down bad. Watch your field of fire. Gibbs, you take a shotgun to the back of the house. Holler if you get a runner. I’ll be out front on the ram. I’ll take the door—then, Bruno, you’re first. Ned, you come in right on his ass. Bruno, you know the routine, second guy in is at risk, you cover Ned. Take out the threat if there is one. Stay tight, cover and move and clear those rooms fast.”
“You don’t need to tell me how to do my job,” Ned said.
Gibbs said, “I get entry next time; I’m tired of covering the back.” Gibbs never complained. Everyone was on edge over the disharmony in our team. The disharmony I’d caused.
Coffman said, “We don’t need all these cars. Double up. Ned and Bruno, take Ned’s car. Gibbs, you jump in with Mitchell.” Coffman turned and faced Ned. “Listen, I know there’s some shit going on between you two, and I don’t want it bleeding over into my operation. You understand?”
Ned didn’t answer and went to the driver’s side of his car.
I hesitated as Coffman looked at me. I said, “It’ll be okay.”
Coffman said, “It damn well better be. I’m counting on you. Let’s hit it.”
&
nbsp; I got in Ned’s car with a thousand words swimming around in my head, words that had to be said, words too hot and emotional to come out in the scant few moments on the drive over. Maybe in a few hours after Ned cooled out a little. Sure, in a few hours after everything with Gadd was settled and we stood in the parking lot of some grocery store drinking a victory beer.
Ned drove angry, his eyes to the front. He jerked the wheel this way and that as we maneuvered through the streets headed to 11431 Willowbrook. He kept his head slightly tilted to the side to see around the spiderweb in the windshield from the bullet he’d dodged. The damaged front bumper rattled and banged. I had to say something, anything. I needed him to say something to me. I said, “Did you see Coffman, how he looked like an old man too frail to be—”
Ned’s head pivoted toward me, his eyes cold. “Enough with your shit about Coffman. He’s the best man we got. I think your time on this team has come to an end. When this investigation is over, I think you should transfer out.”
I looked away from him and out the window. “After this is over, if that’s what you still think, you got it, partner. I’m gone.”
“Don’t call me partner.”
I looked back at him. “Get your head out of your ass—we’re going on-scene.”
“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said.
Thick plywood sheets covered the front windows on an all-green house with white trim, the plywood covered in murals of gang graffiti, the white paint chipped and peeling. A three-foot, trampled-over chain-link fence without a gate separated the sidewalk from the all-dirt front yard. Three desiccated wood steps led up to the narrow wooden porch.
All three of our cars zoomed up to the front. We bailed out, Gibbs going to the side headed for the back, toting a shotgun port arms. He immediately came up against a tall fence he’d have to overcome.
Coffman took a couple of seconds longer than the rest of us, lugging the heavy door ram.
I mounted the wood porch alongside Ned, leaving no room for Tiny Tina. She stayed on the ground. The shotgun looked too big in her small hands, her eyes wider than normal as she covered the door from below us.
