by David Putnam
“You’re welcome.”
He again stared out the windshield. “I didn’t say thank you. You took my knife.”
“You threw—”
Sergeant Kohl came up on the tactical frequency. “Heads up, everyone, we have a possible. Three suspects are in play by the fence, and they’re scoping a white female in the center gas island, gassing a baby-blue Volvo. Stand by.”
His words made my heart race. I grabbed onto the upright shotgun in the rack with my left hand and the spotlight handle with my right. Thibodeaux started the car, put it in drive, and kept his foot on the brake.
“They’re picking up their guns.”
Two or three tense minutes ticked by, our nerves on edge.
“Okay, ten-twenty-two, stand down, the victim drove away and they put the guns back.”
Thibodeaux shoved the gearshift into park and turned off the car. I tried to relax. The two detectives parked in the van, Blue and Jenkins, must have had a clear view of that back fence and of the three suspects with their illicit activities. Blue and Jenkins had to be climbing the walls in this tense game of go-don’t-go.
Dusk settled in all at once as the yellows and oranges disappeared and the low light crept toward darkness. Without daylight, the ghetto turned that much more dangerous. Now even the shadows could kill you.
“So, you’re working narcotics?”
Thibodeaux looked over. “That’s right. They just started a new street team and dropped one of those single-wide mobile home trailers out back behind the Lynwood Station for us to use.”
“And you work with Ricky Blue?”
He didn’t answer right away. He smiled. “You don’t work with ol’ Blue, you only try and keep up.”
“Sure, I know the type, gung ho and ready for anything, always pushin’ the edge.”
“You don’t know Blue or you wouldn’t be talkin’ like that. He doesn’t appreciate folks talkin’ smack. Fair warning.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s okay, never mind. This is a one-off. We won’t be working together after this, so it doesn’t matter.”
I shrugged. “All right. That’s probably true. Where’d you do your patrol time?”
“Firestone.”
“A Stony Boy, huh?”
He smiled and looked at me. “That’s right.”
He liked the reference to the time-honored nickname. He asked, “Where’d you do your time?”
“Right here in Lynwood. And I saw them put the trailer in back. They had to take down a section of the chain-link fence and then put it back up again. The brass told us the trailer was for OSS, Operation Safe Streets, the gang unit.”
“That’s right, the trailer’s sectioned off. Half is for dope and the other side’s for OSS.”
“That makes a lot of sense; dope and gangs go hand in hand.”
Kohl came up on the radio. “Units stand by, we have another candidate, a red Toyota Supra, white male victim wearing a gray pinstriped suit and tie. He’s at the gas island closest to the street, south side of the lot.”
Thibodeaux started the car, put it in gear, and kept his foot on the brake.
“Standby units, the suspects are going for their guns . . . ah . . . ah, ten-twenty-two, they changed their minds.”
Thibodeaux turned the car off. “Son of a bitch, this is really gettin’ under my skin. We gonna have to do this shit all night?”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “My stomach’s headed for an ulcer.” I let go a little acid burp I’d been holding in.
“That sergeant’s finally going to cry wolf for real, and no one’s gonna believe him.”
We sat quietly, our nerves resting on a jagged edge as darkness finished slamming down around us, bringing with it a stronger dose of paranoia.
After a while I asked, “What’s a narco street team doing working a robbery surveillance?”
“I hear ya, brother. Believe me, I do. I had no say in it. Ol’ Blue, he caught wind of this gig and just decided to throw in with it. I think he needs the overtime to pay for his tricked-out powerboat on the Colorado River. He’s also got a second home out at Havasu that’s a money hole.”
I didn’t think overtime was the reason. Blue was probably an adrenaline junkie, needed a fix, and three gangsters armed with handguns, pullin’ robberies, fit the bill perfectly.
“You hear him a little while ago?” I asked. “When he just, all on his own, bumped Phillips from his position in that van in the alley on the north side of the op?”
“Blue’s like a little tornado, like a Tasmanian devil. You can’t contain him. Blue, he does exactly whatever the hell Blue wants to do. If that spot’s the most dangerous, that’s where Blue wants to be.”
“Huh.”
Blue sounded a lot like Wicks. I stuck my hand out. “My name’s Bruno.”
He took it and shook. “Mine’s Claude. My friends call me Dirt.”
“Claude, where were you before you came to Lynwood narco?”
“Here and there, you know. After working Firestone, I moved around. Most recently though, me and Blue, we worked SPY.”
“Oh, I hear that’s a great job.”
“It was all right, I guess, but we like it better here at the Wood where we actually get a chance to feed our handcuffs.”
He didn’t really sound convinced, and now merely espoused the party line.
He looked at me and said, “We’re working a case right now on a heavyweight dude. We’ve got some good inside info from a proven CI in the joint. This guy out here, he’s runnin’ a huge coke operation, sells to all of South Central. His name’s Lucas Knight. You heard of him?”
Everyone referred to Sheriff’s Prison Intelligence, or SPI, as SPY. They didn’t work cases; they just gathered intelligence on prison gangs and passed it on to whatever law enforcement agency was affected by the information. SPI was one of the most elite jobs in the department, and no one would ever leave it voluntarily for a street-level narco job. For some reason, Thibodeaux and Blue got pulled from SPI and dumped in an out-of-the-way corner of the county. Out of sight, out of mind. And Thibodeaux wanted to make it sound like it was their choice to make the move and that they hadn’t been ejected from the assignment.
None of my business.
It also sounded like wherever ol’ Blue went, Thibodeaux followed along like a little puppy.
“Of course I’ve heard of Knight, but he’s too far up the food chain to be touched by anyone at our level. He’s so far removed from the dope, no one’s been able to link him to any crime—none of the murders or any of the big money.”
“Just give ol’ Blue a little time to put a case together. He’ll bring that old boy down, you wait and see. He’ll get it done. You wanna put some money on it?”
Kohl came up on the radio. “All units stand by, the suspects are moving quickly to the fence to get their guns and masks. It looks like the victim is going to be a Hispanic male adult in the center island driving a one-ton flatbed truck. Stand by. Stand by.”
Thibodeaux started the car, put it in gear, and this time eased his foot off the brake so the car crept along the street with the headlights off. The dark of the moonless night crowded in and made it more difficult to breathe. I had to focus in order to get any air.
“Stand by. Stand by.” Kohl’s tone lowered with each word.
His next words came out in a bark. “Now! Two-eleven in progress. Roll in. Roll in.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THIBODEAUX HIT THE gas. The patrol unit leaped forward into the darkness.
The headlights came on. Too bright at first.
We shot up Mona, headed for a red signal at Imperial Highway. I reached over to the Unitrol and flipped the switch for the overhead red-and-blue lights. We busted through the signal.
As we crossed Imperial Highway, in a brief snapshot of an image, I caught a glimpse of the gas station.
Ricky Blue had left the van in direct contradiction to orders and had come through t
he hole in the fence. He now stood at the lee side of the flatbed truck with a shotgun leveled. He confronted three people: one victim and two masked suspects.
The suspects fired at Blue with handguns. Blue let go with the shotgun that bellowed and spit out a bright flash.
In that same instant we crossed over Imperial, I instinctively brought my arm up for cover, half expecting shotgun pellets from Blue’s gun to pepper the side of our patrol car and blast out the windows.
It all happened in less than a second.
We pulled into the alley, our assigned position. Gunfire continued in the parking lot of the gas station to the east and out of our view. I opened my door and jumped out before the car came to a complete stop. In my peripheral vision, Thibodeaux put the car in park and jumped out a half second behind me on his side.
With his left hand, he drew his gun and brought it up. In his haste, it hit the top frame of the open door. His gun skittered off into the darkness. He yelled, “My gun! My gun!”
He didn’t go for the unit shotgun. He went down on his hands and knees in the dirt field that adjoined the alley. Frantic, he fumbled around in the dark.
The gun battle in the gas station parking lot went quiet.
Down the alley to the east, a masked suspect popped out of the hole in the fence and ran straight for us, trying to escape into the projects. Only he’d have to get by us first. He pulled his mask up. He didn’t look ahead. He looked behind, running scared, running like a tiger chased him.
He ran right at us with a long-barreled revolver in his right hand. The game plan had gone to hell when the detectives in the van jumped their position and confronted the suspects in the gas station islands. We no longer had designated shooters. I brought my gun up to shoot just as Ricky Blue popped out of the hole in the fence. He swung his department-issue Ithaca Deerslayer shotgun around.
Leveled right at us.
I didn’t have time to think. I dove for the ground, my eyes stuck on the approaching threat.
Blue held his finger down on the shotgun’s trigger and racked it, firing again and again.
Some of the double-ought buck pellets slammed into the front of our patrol car.
The windshield shattered.
One headlight blinked out.
Glass tinkled to the ground close to my hand.
Pellets thumped into the crook’s body. He let out a snort. His body spun around. He gasped for air and flew off balance. He fell and slid on the broken asphalt.
His inert form skidded to a stop two feet from me. His mouth opened and closed and opened and closed.
For the second time in two days, I smelled fresh blood, coppery and warm.
Blue walked toward us, thumbing shotgun shells into the breech, reloading.
Behind him, a second suspect popped out of the hole in the fence and ran north across the alley, into the field right by the van. He disappeared into the night. Detective Jenkins came out of the hole right behind him firing his handgun at the fleeing suspect.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Blue didn’t flinch or even turn. He racked a round into the shotgun and continued to walk toward the downed suspect, the one who lay too close to me for Blue to safely fire on.
I stood, my shaky gun pointed at the suspect on the ground. Bits of grit stuck in the palm of my other hand from the dive to the ground. Acrid gray smoke from Blue’s shotgun hung in the still air.
Blue came up and nudged him with the barrel tip, the same as a hunter might do with dangerous prey. The crook didn’t move. I didn’t think he’d ever move again.
Blue looked up at me, his expression blank. He broke into a smile. “There isn’t any workman’s comp for armed robbers.”
His words shocked me, his cynical coldness in the wake of such sudden violence.
Thibodeaux came around in front of the one working headlight, his found gun in hand, his words urgent. “You good, Blue?”
“Sí, amigo.”
Thibodeaux took off running straight up Mona in an attempt to cut off the suspect Jenkins chased, in case he decided to cut west toward the projects. I should’ve gone with him but couldn’t get my legs to cooperate, or my knees to stop shaking.
Sirens filled the air, lots of them.
I forced myself to move. I took the couple of steps over to the suspect and got down on one knee beside him.
Blue stood close, not looking at the suspect. He scanned our surroundings as if danger still lurked in the shadows of the night. The one suspect could double back, or the people in the projects could come out en masse and cause a serious problem. It’d happened before.
Blue said, “Leave him be. Don’t touch him.”
I gently took hold of the suspect’s shoulder. “I need to check his status. He might still be alive and need medical aid.”
Blue looked down at me, his expression harsh. “You hear me, rookie? I said leave him be.”
I pulled the suspect’s shoulder and eased him over on his back. His black hoodie looked blacker with all the blood. And just like the night before with Pedro Armendez, in death, this guy’s eyelids stayed hooded, showing only a slit of both eyes.
From the side, Blue stepped in quick and put his foot on the suspect’s hand that still held the long-barreled handgun. “You’re not going to make it out here, rookie. You need to listen to the people who know how to stay alive. You don’t, you’re gonna end up just like this poor slob, dead in some gutter, bleeding out. Now take his gun and secure the scene.”
Blue took his foot off the suspect’s hand. I did what he asked not because he’d asked, but because securing the gun followed protocol. I took it out of the suspect’s warm hand and set it on the hood of the patrol car.
Blue stuck his shotgun out toward me in a nonthreatening manner, the gun pointed right at my gut. He used the barrel to move aside my green sheriff’s windbreaker. When I’d bent over, he must’ve caught a glimpse of the model 59 Smith and Wesson in the shoulder holster. He smiled again. “Maybe you’re not as green as you look.” He didn’t continue to scold me for carrying a ten-thirty weapon. And somehow, I knew he wouldn’t tell anyone else about the policy violation.
Off in the distance, in the darkness of the night, three more gunshots echoed against the houses.
Blue brought the shotgun back up and let it rest casually against the top of his shoulder, the same as a bird hunter might after a long day of hunting quail or chucker. He smiled again. “Huh. Sounds like we might’ve just got ourselves a hat trick.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WITH THE SHOTGUN still resting on his shoulder, Blue walked by me and disappeared into the darkness toward Mona Boulevard. That’s when I noticed his height, maybe five-seven or five-eight, short compared to my six-foot-three. I don’t know why I thought he was taller.
Up close he looked like he might have a little Yaqui Indian mixed with Mexican. His nose stood out on his face a little too large in proportion. He also wore a sheriff’s green windbreaker that couldn’t disguise his muscular physique. He must’ve spent hours in the gym working the weight pile.
Our patrol unit, with the shot-out headlight and windshield, blocked the alley and sat next to the dead suspect, all of which became part of the crime scene and couldn’t be moved. Ten minutes—or it might’ve been an hour later—yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the car and went all the way around the business on the corner where another cop car sat in the parking lot to keep pedestrians out. The shooting scene now took up the entire gas station, the alley, and the dirt field north of the alley.
All of a sudden I needed to get away from the dead guy next to the patrol car, so I walked east down the alley. I passed the expended green shotgun shells on the crumbling asphalt, the ones Blue fired at the fleeing suspect. I continued on to the fence where the detectives and the suspects came and went during the shooting. On the other side, a group of homicide detectives in rumpled suits stood talking with Sergeant Kohl. They stopped talking when they saw me. I froze. The gun under my windbreaker
seemed to heat up, but it couldn’t have been anything more than my imagination. No one could see the gun, and I had not even taken it out, let alone used it.
One of the homicide detectives waved his notebook at me. “Hey, you! Yeah you, ya dumbass. Get the hell outta that crime scene.”
Kohl broke away and came over to the fence. “What’s up, Bruno?”
“Nothing. I just . . . I can’t . . . uh . . . our unit was involved in the shooting, and I’m going to need a ride back to the station.”
“No problem. You’re already here, so come on through.” He pointed to the hole in the fence. I crouched down and slid through, making sure my windbreaker didn’t come open or get hung up.
The same homicide dick said, “Hey, hey! What the hell?”
Kohl waved him off. “Come on,” Kohl said to me. “I’ll escort you to the street and get you a ride back to the station. You’re gonna have to wait there to be interviewed. You’re an eyewitness to the shooting.”
“I understand, thanks.” We walked by the group of detectives. The mouthy one shot us the stink eye.
I said to Kohl, “What’s his problem?”
Kohl took my arm and guided us a little faster and farther away before he spoke. “That’s the lieutenant from homicide, and he’s pissed about the citizen getting smoked.”
“The what? Are you kidding me? Really?”
A citizen caught in the crossfire, what a God-awful mess.
Kohl, still holding my elbow, looked over his shoulder and then steered us to the right and a little closer to the stake-bed truck.
On the dirty concrete, by the side of the truck, lay one crook still wearing his ski mask with an unsecured pistol next to him. Three feet away, rolled under the truck and on his side, lay the victim, the Hispanic male. He wore a tan work shirt soaked in blood. His eyes were frozen wide open in shock like his mouth, as if he couldn’t believe what just happened to him.
He’d been shot point blank with a shotgun to the chest. His life winked out before he hit the ground.
