The Reckless

by David Putnam

  Too late.

  Wicks saw me through the windows of his office. He jumped up from his desk. I shrugged out of Gibbs’ grasp. The door to Wicks’ office slammed open. “Johnson, get your black ass in here.”

  Gibbs whispered, “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.” He quickly moved away as if I were nuclear waste.

  I entered Wicks’ office. He slammed the door and moved around to the other side of his desk. I had no idea what had made him so angry.

  I pulled a chair around to sit.

  “No one said take a seat.” He remained standing and stared me down.

  I asked, “What happened with Ollie? Did she take you to Gadd?” A rhetorical question to get him talking.

  He said nothing and fumed, his lips a straight line, his eyes narrowed. I didn’t like displeasing him. I respected him too much.

  “The Caddy wasn’t there,” he said.

  “What about Chelsea?” I was more worried about Chelsea.

  “You mean Agent Miller? Never saw her, never heard from her.”

  “What? Are you sure?” Something had to have happened to her. She should’ve called. I double-checked my pager. She hadn’t tried to get ahold of me. I went to his phone on his desk and paged her.

  “Oh, feel free to use my phone, Deputy.”

  I punched in Wicks’ desk number for her to return the call and hung up. I watched the phone, waiting for it to ring.

  “We jumped out for nothing,” he said. “I mobilized an entire team for nothing.”

  I looked from the phone to him. “That can’t be what’s got your back up. You know how those things go. What’s going on?”

  “Coffman put in his papers. No two weeks’ notice. No nothing. Gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Took vacation time with all this shit going on. He’s never taken a vacation in all the time I’ve known him. This isn’t like him. I wanna know what you said to him.”

  It felt like someone let all the air out of me. I sat down. I’d thought I wanted Coffman gone, but now that he was, a vast emptiness opened inside me. The man had been an icon, a mentor at Lynwood station when I was learning how to be a deputy.

  “Mister, no one gave you permission to sit.”

  I didn’t get up. “You talked to Coffman, then?”

  “Of course I talked to Coffman. I told you we’re a team here. He didn’t want to tell me what happened, but I pumped a pint of Chivas Regal into him, and he spilled it, told me you twisted his arm. I want to know what you said to him.”

  I shook off the sad emptiness as my ire started to rise. I stood. “It was time for that old man to retire.”

  Wicks slapped his desk. “That’s not for you to decide, buddy boy. We’re a team here and I’m the one who runs this team, not you. Now I’ve lost a good man, one I’ll never be able to replace, not one with his experience. Not one I could trust like I could trust him. You don’t find that kind of loyalty every day. I thought I had that kind of loyalty with you and look what that got me. You’ve violated that trust.”

  “Did he tell you what happened?”

  “He did, and I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing. There weren’t any witnesses in that house. I probably would’ve done more than butt-stroke that prick. He shot and killed Ned, Bruno. And don’t give me any shit about D’Arcy being handcuffed.”

  I said nothing and stared at him.

  He said, “What? What? Tell me.”

  I continued to stare.

  His expression softened. “Ah, shit. Am I missing something here? I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

  “That’s not for me to say. But maybe you should have another talk with him before you jump down my throat.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No, it’s not my place. He needed to go.” I went for the door, opened it.

  He said, “You’re going to tell me, maybe not today or even tomorrow, but you’re going to tell me.”

  “Don’t think so.” I left, walked over to my desk, and sat down with all the detectives in the room staring at me. I picked up the phone and again paged Chelsea.

  Come on, Chels, call me back. Go to a phone and call me back.

  I watched the second hand of the clock on the wall sweep around three times. The phone didn’t ring. I paged Ollie and waited some more. I stood and made eye contact with Gibbs. “Where are the op notes on Gadd?”

  He brought over a thick four-inch binder and set it on my desk. “Good luck with it. We’ve checked every possible lead, had forty, fifty eyes on it. As of right now, we got nothing. We’re waiting for something to break, anything at all.” He sat in the desk chair facing me. Ned’s desk. I stared at him until he squirmed a little and finally got up and moved.

  I sat down and opened the binder.

  An hour later Ollie and Chelsea still had not called. Why hadn’t Chelsea called? I couldn’t think of any reason why she’d not answered the page other than the obvious. That she was hurt and couldn’t.

  I’d scanned the entire binder, twice. Gibbs had been right; they’d checked every possible lead and then some inconsequential, long, long shots as swell. I closed it, sat back, closed my eyes, tried to relax, tried to think about all that had happened since we first came up on Gadd. And just like that the answer bubbled to the surface.

  My eyes shot open.

  I grabbed the binder and flipped it to the table of contents. It couldn’t be that easy. It just couldn’t. I ran my finger down to the list of addresses already checked by the detectives and checked it again. I looked up and found Gibbs and half the detectives looking at me. Wicks had caught on to something happening and came out of his office. “What? Whatta you have, Bruno?”

  I moved around my desk over to the “out” tray on Ned’s desk and quickly thumbed through all his reports, those recently typed and waiting for Ned to approve and pass along for approval and filing. But that was never going to happen, not by him. I found what I was looking for—typed notes on the bank robbery surveillance, the ones with children on the crews. I moved my finger down until I found the two addresses I wanted.

  I ran for the door.

  Wicks followed. “Son of a bitch, Bruno, wait up. Gibbs, grab your shit, gear up. Gear up, you guys, let’s roll.”

   CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  IN A CHAOTIC situation, like the death of a beloved detective, the small things tend to fall through the cracks. And in some cases, the big things. Coffman putting in his papers and leaving the team contributed to the error. Compounded by the fact that Ned had been the case agent on the bank robbery investigation involving Gadd. Some of the fault also fell to me. I couldn’t see through the grief to jump right into the chase or I’d have spotted the error sooner. At least I hoped I would’ve.

  I drove my truck as fast as I could. The headlights from a string of undercover cop cars followed along, oblivious to traffic infractions and even misdemeanors trying to keep up. Wicks stayed on my ass close enough that I could see his face strobe in his windshield when the streetlights passed. He came up on the radio. “Bruno, where we going?”

  I couldn’t answer, too busy shifting and clutching and steering and dodging the scant civilians out late who drove into my path. We made it to Lilac in Cerritos in record time. The apartment where Gadd picked up his girlfriend, the one he took to the card club in Gardenia. The girlfriend who Gadd shoved out of the car and left in the street when Ned pulled over and picked her up. All that information was in his surveillance notes in his “out” tray no one thought to check. Reading the notes, I remembered the name of Gadd’s girlfriend: Emma Wells.

  I shut off my headlights when I turned down the street. Too many cars from the folks who lived in the cul-de-sac left nowhere to park. I skidded to a stop in the middle of the street right next to Ollie’s Caddy. I got out and headed for the apartment, scared to death at what I’d find.

  “Bruno?” Wicks grabbed a hold of my arm and said in a harsh whisper, “What is this? What are we doing here?”

 
; Gibbs ran up carrying a shotgun along with ten other detectives, all of them anxious to get in the action to take down a cop killer.

  I said, “It’s Gadd’s girlfriend’s place. We followed him here on the bank robbery surveillance. That’s the Caddy I briefed you on earlier.”

  Wicks didn’t complain about the error that they’d missed; he just pointed. “You five take the back. Watch your crossfire. The rest come to the front and just flow in behind me and Bruno.” He took out his Colt .45. “Let’s go.”

  Gibbs said, “I’m not sitting this one out on the perimeter. I’m going in with you two.”

  Wicks looked at him for a second. “Okay. On entries Bruno always goes right, and I go left, you bat cleanup with that gauge and go right. Watch where you point that thing.”

  Gibbs nodded, his expression solemn.

  “The rest of you hold at the front door until we need you.”

  We ran to the apartment. The designated five detectives split off to cover the back.

  The apartments looked more like single-story upscale town houses with common walls. The entrance to each had a long concrete walk to a front door, shielded by shrubs and low pony walls stuccoed to match the apartments. The configuration, the funnel effect, made the approach dangerous. Someone with an automatic weapon could kill us all.

  I drew my service revolver, moving down the walkway. Wicks whispered, “Remember, if he’s good for one, give him all six. Give him all six for Ned, Bruno. And if you can’t, then step out of my way and put your fingers in your ears.”

  I just hoped Gadd had a gun in his hand, or at least something small and dark and unrecognizable. I could do it if it came down to it—if he had something in his hand. I knew I could. I came to the door, one reinforced with a wrought-iron screen.

  “Shit,” Wicks said in a harsh whisper. “Someone go back and get a Halligan tool.”

  I tried the door. “Open. It’s open.” I swung it out and entered.

  I stopped dead.

  Wicks bumped into me.

  In the living room, not moving on the floor, Ollie lay splayed out facedown. The handle of an ice pick protruded from the center of her back. Blood spread outward from the pick, changing the purple splendor of her silken gown to dark black.

  Wicks shoved me out of the way and yelled, “Go. Go. Don’t stand there, Bruno, move. Move your ass. Move. Move.”

  I snapped out of it and did my job. I moved through the luxurious apartment, checking the rooms.

  I found Emma Wells in the master bedroom. She sat naked on the king-sized bed, her back against the headboard, her eyelids tented. Her face was bloated with blue, the rest of her body smooth and colored in the purest alabaster. Except the scabs on her knees and hands from when Gadd shoved her out of his car. The red tip of her tongue protruded from the corner of her mouth almost like a small animal checking to see if it was all right to come out.

  She’d been throttled. Blue finger marks encircled her neck.

  In the master bathroom, the floor was littered with old bandages covered in both dried and wet blood. An open box of Kotex sat on the sink alongside an open roll of medical tape. Gadd had been hit during the entry to the Willowbrook house. The shadow I’d thought I’d seen had been Gadd, after all. Ned hadn’t missed. Good for Ned. Good for goddamn Ned.

  But that begged a question: Who, then, shot Ned—Gadd or D’Arcy? Didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not to me.

  I came back into the living room and reholstered.

  Wicks said, “Gibbs, notify Downey PD and then our homicide. This is theirs. The rest of you guys, get out—this is a crime scene.” He turned to me. “We just missed him, Bruno. Tell me how we got here?”

  Gibbs answered. “We followed Gadd here on the surveillance and—” He cut himself off as he realized he’d screwed up by not remembering it earlier, getting there sooner and maybe saving some lives. Wicks lit into him.

  Wicks’ words bounced off with little effect as I knelt beside Ollie. She’d been a great friend. A few years back we’d gone into a dope house on a ruse to take it down. We entered a “birdcage,” one of the most deadly situations you could encounter while working narcotics. She’d kept her cool or we’d have been killed. Since then she’d fed me top-drawer information on violent criminals in the ghetto. We were a good team and did good work together.

  The ice pick handle looked incongruent and grotesque. Gadd had planted it right in the center of the brightly colored embroidered dragon. He’d slain the dragon. I intended to do the same to him. No question now, he’d never make it to trial.

  I stood with a strength I’d never felt before.

  Wicks came in close. “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “What are you going to do? Where you going?”

  I didn’t answer, just turned and walked from the apartment. I knew where to find Gadd and didn’t want to take anyone with me. No witnesses. No prisoners.

  Wicks followed me out. “Bruno, I’m going with you.”

  I stopped and looked at him.

  He caught the gist. He patted my shoulder. “Okay, partner, I guess I owe you this one. My student’s finally ready to go out on his own. Watch your back, my friend. And call me as soon as the smoke clears, you understand? I’m your first call.”

   CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  I CAME OUT into the yard and yelled for the loitering deputies to move their cars. I got in my truck without saying anything else and headed for Avalon and 213th in the city of Carson. I watched my rearview mirror as I hit Imperial Highway to see if anyone followed. The chances of Gadd being at the 213th Street address were pretty good. With all the heat the cops put on him, he needed a place where no one knew him, a place he could lay his head without the risk of someone he knew ratting him out. If I hurried, I might even save the woman he’d met and picked up at the Harbor Town Pub, the place where I sat at the bar and had a beer with him.

  The place where I first recognized him as the Darkman. I should’ve clocked him over the head then and there, dragged him out into the sunlight, put the boot to him. If I had, Ned would still be alive.

  In the late hour, not many cars remained on the street. I drove fast. In the rearview, a set of headlights popped up behind me and quickly closed. Shit. I pushed down on the pedal. Moments later I came to a red signal and had to slow, intending to run it once the intersection cleared. I braked harder as a new red Ford van came southbound to my right. Instead of slowing when the driver saw me traversing the intersection against the red, he sped up. I stood on the brake.

  Too late.

  The red van came on too fast. At the last second, it veered into the front of my truck. I braced, gripping the steering wheel. The impact slammed me into the door, where I banged my head too hard. Everything slowed.

  Four men dressed all in black with balaclavas jumped out of the van’s sliding door, MP5 machine guns up and pointed at me.

  What the hell?

  They opened the driver’s door, dragged me out, and shoved me facedown onto the asphalt. One put his knee in my back and zip-tied my hands. I shook off the crash and found my voice. “I’m an LA County Sheriff’s deputy. What’s going on? What are you doing?” I didn’t know what else to say. One of the men pulled a black sack over my head. They picked me up and carried me to the van, tossed me on the cargo floor, and slid the door shut. We rode in silence for ten minutes. The men’s agitated state, their hard breathing, started to slow as they calmed.

  I tried to visualize each turn the van made, tried to visualize the streets and quickly lost track, hopelessly lost.

  After ten minutes they bumped into a driveway, drove a little farther, then stopped. The side door slid open. Hands pulled me out. They wouldn’t let me get to my feet and dragged me along to keep me off balance. We entered a room. A door closed behind us. They sat me in a chair. I stayed like that for several minutes. The door finally opened and closed again. Even through the black hood, the strong scent of Old Spice assaulted my sense of smell. I relaxed and said, “Special Agen
t in Charge Joshua Whitney, can we please dispense with these theatrics?”

  Someone pulled the hood off. I blinked and blinked while my eyes adjusted. Two men stood in the room. One was Joshua Whitney, with his thinning hair and eczema in the shape of Cuba that snaked across his scalp in red with white flakes. The other one, Jim Turner, stood to the side, his arms crossed. I didn’t know which one I despised more.

  They both wore nice suits, not the normal attire for a kidnapping. Turner took two steps closer, leaned over, and got in my face. “Where is Agent Miller, Deputy Johnson?”

  “Agent Mil … Chelsea? You mean Chelsea? I don’t know. I’m worried about her, too. She’s your agent. Why are you asking me about her?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve paged several times, and she’s never called me back. I—”

  Jim Turner slugged me in the stomach. All the air went out of my lungs, and I fought to keep from throwing up.

  Whitney said, “That’s enough of that. Do it again and you’ll find yourself in front of a board of inquiry.”

  “He’s lying,” Turner said. “He knows where she is.”

  Whitney pulled up another chair and sat close, his knee touching mine, a classic interrogation tactic. “I’m sorry about Special Agent Turner hitting you. If you’d like to file a formal complaint, I will handle it personally after we get through this other part.”

  “What is this, a really screwed-up version of the FBI’s good cop/bad cop? Cut me loose and I won’t say anything. But you keep me bound up much longer and you’re going to find your asses in prison for kidnap and torture. I haven’t done anything wrong, nothing to deserve this type of treatment.”

  Turner said, “You weren’t kidnapped. You’re being detained pending arrest.”

  “What? Are you two smoking crack? I haven’t—”