“How’d you like to go back to the Tishman Building?”
Broadway grabbed the rearview mirror and repositioned it.
“Which one?”
“Behind the Jeep Cherokee. The blue Escort.”
“Get serious,” he growled. “Nobody runs a tail in an Escort. They got less horsepower than a Japanese leaf blower.”
“Turn right and see what happens.”
Roger hung a hard right and started down Pico. A few seconds later we saw the Escort make the same right and follow.
“Go right again,” I said.
Roger swung onto a residential street. Only this time, after he rounded the corner, he didn’t stick around to watch. He just floored it. We flew down the narrow street over speed bumps that launched the Navigator into the air each time we hit. I wasn’t buckled in and shot up into the headliner with the first landing, slamming my head into the roof.
“Ooo-ee!” Rowdy shrieked, loving it.
When Roger got to the end of the street he hung a U and headed straight back toward the pursuing Escort. The two guys in the front seat suddenly started rubbernecking houses, pretending to be looking for an address.
“Look at these two dickwads,” Broadway said. “Comedy theater.”
We passed them and turned back onto Pico the way we came.
“We need to get outta here, Roger. One of those guys was the steroid case who walked us through the Tishman yesterday.”
“Danny Zant, the FBI area commander,” Roger said, and floored it again, heading for the freeway.
Just as he did, two more unmarked Toyotas skidded onto Pico, leaning sideways, burning rubber from all four tires with the turn. “Two more bogies,” I said. “Blue Toyotas.”
Roger had his foot all the way to the floor and the engine in the black Navigator was in a full-throated roar. He found an on ramp for the San Pedro Freeway and flew up onto the eight lanes of concrete, heading east. The next few minutes were a white-knuckle experience. We merged with unusually heavy 11 P. M. traffic. Roger was smoking around slower cars, tailgating, honking his horn, and passing in the service lane. Despite all his frantic driving, every time I looked back, the three federal sedans were still right back there.
“Can’t you shake these assholes?” I said. “They’re not in Ferraris, it’s a flicking Escort and two Toyotas.”
“Gotta have more than just stock blocks under the hood,” Broadway said.
He put more foot into it, careening between slower vehicles, finally hitting the off ramp at Fifth Street and roaring down the hill toward Parker Center.
“Let’s see if these humps want to have it out in the police garage,” he said.
He broke a red light at Sixth, and another at Wilshire, then hung another right and headed straight toward the Glass House. The huge, boxy building loomed in front of us.
“Going under,” Broadway shouted, sounding like a crazed subcommander as he drove into the garage.
He grabbed his badge, and as we roared up to the guard shack, held his tin out to the rookie probationer guarding the parking structure and frantically signaled the young cop to raise the electronic gate arm. The wooden bar went up and we went down.
I turned just in time to see the Escort flying into the garage after us. The driver didn’t wait for the closing arm. He broke right through, snapping it off. Splintered wood went flying. The two Toyotas followed.
The startled police rookie pulled his gun and ran down the ramp. A siren went off somewhere.
Roger held the SUV in a hard right, our tires squealing loudly on the concrete as we descended level after level. Emdee pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster and laid it on his lap.
“You aren’t really planning on shooting FBI agents are you?” I asked.
“Depends,” Rowdy answered, his mouth set in a hard line.
We finally reached the bottom level, four floors below the street and were flying toward a cement wall.
“Bottom floor,” Broadway announced. “Perfume and body bags.” The Navigator spun right, and skidded to a stop, inches from the concrete. We bailed out just as the federal sedans squealed to a stop behind us. Doors flew open and six guys with thick necks and hard faces jumped out. Everybody had a badge in one hand and a gun in the other. Then came the shout-off.
“You’re under arrest! FBI!”
“Stick it up your ass, Joe Bob!”
“Federal agents! Throw the guns down! Assume the position!”
“Eat me!”
The sound of police sirens now filled the garage, growing louder, echoing in our ears. Seconds later four squad cars, called in by the garage probationer, roared down the ramp and careened to a stop. Eight uniforms from the mid-watch jumped out with guns drawn. I heard more running footsteps pounding on the pavement.
“LAPD! Drop your weapons,” a burly uniformed sergeant from an L-car boomed. It was chaos. Everybody was pointing guns, waving badges and screaming.
Then the elevator on the far side of the garage opened and Tony Filosiani charged out, gun in hand. The garage security alarm sounded in his office and had brought him running.
“What the fuck is this?” the Day-Glo Dago bellowed.
“These men are under arrest for failure to heed a direct order from the head of California Homeland Security,” Agent Zant shouted hotly. “We’re FBI! They’re coming with us!”
“No they’re not,” Tony said.
“This is a federal issue,” Zant brayed. “It involves national security.”
“No it ain’t,” Tony yelled back. “It’s the LAPD garage, and it involves your fuckin’ imminent arrest and custody.”
Zant looked startled.
“You guys may not have noticed, but you’re way the fuck outnumbered here,” Tony growled.
The FBI agents slowly turned. By now thirty cops had them surrounded with their guns drawn. Some were in uniforms, some in plainclothes. The feds turned back to Tony.
“And just who the hell are you, fat boy?” Zant asked angrily.
“I’m the Chief of the Los Angeles Police Department and you six cherries got thirty seconds to get off LAPD property. Failure to comply gets you a bunk downtown.”
“We’re federal agents,” the big, pockmarked ASAC said. “You can’t jail us. Are you nuts?”
“You obviously ain’t been reading my press releases,” Tony sneered.
After a minute of indecision, Zant knew he was beaten. He motioned to the others and they got into their cars.
What followed was low comedy. Everyone was so jammed in down there that turning their vehicles around was next to impossible. Finally they got it done and a trail of red taillights retreated up the ramp.
Tony’s chest was still heaving, out of breath from all the adrenaline. “This parking lot ain’t secure,” he finally said. “We gotta get a metal arm on that entrance.” Then he turned and pointed at me. “This was supposed to be a covert op. Where’s the fucking marching band?”
“I think this Navigator may still have a few bugs on it,” Broadway said.
“All three of you. My office! Five minutes!” Then Tony turned and strode back to the elevator and left us there.
“We’re in deep doo,” Broadway said.
“Yeah, but at least we won’t have to listen to Barry Manilow,” I answered.
Chapter 39
You guys were supposed to be running a low-profile no-see-um ground op, but less than ten hours after you leave this office, half a dozen feds chase ya into the police garage.” Tony was a red-faced, five-anda-half-foot blood pressure problem, standing in the center of his office with his feet spread, glaring at Rowdy and Snitch, Cubio and me.
“Don’t you get it?” Tony continued. “If the humps down at Homeland decide to make all of you disappear, I can’t do shit. It’s worse than just them catching you out there disobeying Virtue’s direct orders, they also probably know exactly how you’re doing it.”
“How?” I asked. “All we did was go to a Lakers game and
to a Russian restaurant.”
He crossed to his desk, retrieved a small box, and emptied it onto his blotter. Ten or twelve miniaturized bugs, none of them any bigger than the transmitter we pulled off the Fairlane spilled out onto his desktop.
“So far this is what Sam Oxman in Computer Services found in our phones and ceiling fixtures. We also turned up scans on half a dozen computers, including Alexa’s and the main databank at CTB. So far, thank God, we haven’t found anything in the ME’s office.”
“Keep looking,” I said. “There has to be something down there.”
“We’re still on it, but after finding this stuff, I also notified the DA and the Superior Court. If somebody wants info on our activities this bad, it could also extend to other branches of municipal law enforcement, like prosecutors and judges.”
I glanced around the office with concern and Tony waved my look off.
“This room is clean now,” he said. “We went through it twice. Found four transmitters on this floor alone. Somebody in our own house must be planting these things, ‘cause security’s too tight for anybody else to get in here and do it. I’m gonna give everybody in ESD a close look and a lie-detector test.” He grabbed up a couple of the bugs from the blotter and held them up. “Some of this stuff is so new we’ve never seen anything like it before. We had to use a microwave zap to shut the damn things off. They’ve got batteries the size of a pinhead, and they’re sound activated. They run on such low power that our ESD analyst said they could have up to a twentyyear life.”
“If ya let hornets nest in yer outhouse, it’s hard t’get pissed when they buzz down and sting yer ass,” Emdee contributed wisely. Tony groaned at the analogy.
“Do you think these came from Americypher Technologies?” I said, looking at Emdee and Roger. Each picked up a bug and studied it. It was hard to tell because none of them had brand markings. Finally, Broadway shrugged.
“Okay, we’re running completely without cover now,” Tony said. “I expect to hear from Robert Virtue any minute. He’s bound t’ sic his bunch of crewcuts on us. He’s also probably gonna demand I hand the three of you over for obstructing justice—failing to obey a direct order from Homeland. Depending on what’s going on, they might even be able to gin that up into a threat against national security.”
Tony picked up the transmitters and put them back in the box. “The FISA court doesn’t have to divulge its reasons for approving wire taps or arrest warrants. They can bust you and hold you without ever saying why. We can’t beat these guys. Once you go into the system, you could be reclassified as enemy combatants or people of interest—whatever they need to put you on ice till this is over.”
The room got very quiet.
Cubio said, “I think, under the circumstances, we need to put these men into a deep-cover assignment.
Get them the hell out of here, find a secure location, and have them report in on SAT phones.”
“I agree,” Tony nodded.
“Chief, this morning you mentioned we needed to be totally covert and not confide in anyone,” Roger said. “But if we’re going to be effective, we need to confide in a few people.”
“Such as?” Tony asked.
“Something strange is happening between the CIA and the Israelis,” Broadway continued. “Eddie Ringerman and Bimini Wright were meeting tonight at the Russian Roulette. Ringerman used to be an LAPD detective. Now he does security for the Israelis. Bimini’s head of the CIA’s Western section station. We may need to start by getting them to brief us. Eddie used to wear blue and Wright’s a straight shooter. She also owes us on the Lincoln Boulevard shooting last year. We put the case down without questioning any of her people. We could’ve blown a lot of covers and we didn’t.”
Tony stood thinking about it, and then looked over to Cubio for his opinion.
“Might as well. We ain’t foolin’ anybody anyway,” Armando said.
“Okay, but not Ringerman,” Tony said. “I don’t trust a guy who changes sides like that. Start with Agent Wright, but don’t talk to anybody else unless you clear it with Lieutenants Scully and Cubio or directly with me.
“Yes, sir,” Broadway said.
“And we need to code name this,” Tony added. “I don’t want the feds to subpoena any internal memos using your names.”
“How about Unusual Occurrence?” Cubio suggested. “It’s the section in the CTB Operations Guide pertaining to tactical and covert operations. It’s vague and it’s already in our literature. Shouldn’t attract much interest.”
“Unusual Occurrence it is,” Tony agreed. “All communications will be under that heading. No names. Broadway, you’re One. Perry, you’re Two. Scully, Three. Cubio, Lieutenant Scully, and I will be Four, Five, and Six.”
We left the chief’s office and moved into the hall. Alexa was just coming out of the elevator. She’d made it back to headquarters from home in less than twenty minutes. A new record.
“We’ll meet you across the street in the park,” Cubio said, nodding a greeting at Alexa.
Once the doors closed, Alexa took my hand and led me across the hall toward her office.
“Tony called and told me what happened in the garage,” she said.
“I must be kicking over some of the right rocks,” I smiled.
“I’m worried. It’s one thing fighting criminals; it’s something else when it’s our whole federal government.”
“This is not the U. S. government,” I responded. “And it’s not Big Brother either. It’s just five or six assholes on a power trip. Tony wants us to work this undercover from a secure location.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Then she looked furtively around and planted a quick, secret kiss on my lips. “Once you get settled I want a call every five hours. If I don’t get that call on schedule, I’m going to crank up this department and come looking.”
It was almost midnight when I walked into the park across from the Glass House. Lieutenant Cubio was pacing in the mist-wet grass, talking on his cell. Emdee Perry was on his SAT phone, speaking low, gesturing, trying to explain to some lap dancer in Inglewood why he was going to be out of pocket for a few days. Broadway sat on a concrete bench a few yards away under a streetlight, doing the same thing with his wife. When they rang off, their faces were tight.
The lights from the windows in Parker Center shown through the trees and made strange patterns on the grass where we stood. Bums drinking wine out of Evian bottles eyed us suspiciously from the benches near the sidewalks. We were standing out here because we didn’t think ESD had found all the bugs inside Parker Center.
“You guys know that asset-seizure house off Coldwater?” Cubio asked.
“Yeah,” Broadway said. “The stilt house on Rainwood where we busted the gun drop last spring.”
“It’s still in our property inventory and it’s furnished. That’s where you’ll set up.” Cubio handed us a set of keys. “Except for the chief, Lieutenant Scully, and the four of us, nobody else will know that’s where you are. We’re gonna run outta clock fast. If you don’t get the shit in a bag by Monday, we’re gonna be facing a flock of subpoenas and federal court demands.”
“We’re full throttle,” I said.
He nodded. Then he shook each of our hands, wished us luck, and walked briskly back across the street.
“I guess church is over,” Emdee drawled.
The mechanics at the Flower Street garage pulled two bugs off my Acura. The Navigator also had two. Broadway selected a blue Chevy Caprice from the motor pool. Perry took a gray Dodge Dart. I arranged to meet them at the safe house in an hour because I had something I needed to take care of.
It was after midnight on Saturday, so the psych ward at Queen of Angels was crowded. Doctor Pepper was still on duty, but he looked like an assembly line worker whose conveyor belt had overrun him. He clearly wasn’t happy to see me.
“Who are we going to be tonight? How about Detective Farrell’s Uncle Harry?”
I showed Pe
pper my badge. “We’re working an important case. I didn’t think you’d let me in.”
He glanced at one of his clipboards then handed it to a passing nurse. “I couldn’t seem to help your partner, so I’m not his doctor anymore. I’m having him transferred to an abnormal psych unit that’s better equipped to deal with his kind of problem.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “I need to see him,” I demanded.
“This time I guess I should find out if you’re armed. It’s considered terrible form to allow firearms inside a psych ward.”
“Locked in my car.” I opened my sport coat and showed him.
I waited while he called a male nurse to escort me to Zack’s room. I was lugging the LAPD murder book on Arden Rolaine in one hand, and my briefcase in the other. The nurse pushed some buttons, cleverly hiding the combination with his body. The door swung open, I entered and heard the disconcerting sound of the electric lock buzzing the door shut behind me.
Zack was at the window, still dressed in the same clothes. He looked up as I entered, then leaned against the wall and studied me. There was something different about his demeanor, something distant and slightly lost.
“Hi,” I said.
He nodded but said nothing.
“Brought the Arden Rolaine binder like you wanted.” He just stood there, so I handed it to him.
“You got a minute? I asked.
“Do I have a minute?” he finally repeated, and shook his head in disbelief.
“Hey look, Zack …”
But he waved me off, his big hand polishing the air between us.
“I have a few questions on Arden Rolaine’s murder,” I said, and pulled up one of the plastic chairs. After a moment, he took the other.
“Questions,” he said flatly.
“Stuff we discussed that doesn’t quite track. I want to get it all straight before I give Underwood this murder book.”
“Pretty anal compulsive. Maybe you’re the one ought to be in here.”
“I’m just trying to find some answers.”
“So what is it? What’s the big head scratch?”
Cold Hit (2005) Page 19
