"You need to go get straightened out with Mayor Bratano on that," Alonzo said. "We got a big jurisdictional overlap here. Our department is all over the Eighteenth Street gun-smuggling problem. We don't want federal help."
"You aren't doing anything, except cashing envelopes full of payoff money."
"You got some evidence to go with that, or are you just showing off for your crew cut over there?"
Love's lanky build was tense. She stood with her feet spread defiantly, facing us down under dull streetlamps.
"I'm now a duly sworn member of the Haven Park Police Department," I said hotly. "If I see you behind me again, I'm going to take appropriate action."
"Do whatever pleases you," she snapped back.
"Ophelia, let's go," her young partner said, shifting his weight uneasily.
She took her time as she turned and they both got back in the Chevy and pulled out.
"Little history between you two?" Alonzo asked.
"That bitch is the reason I got thrown out of L. A."
Alonzo Bell dropped me in front of the impound yard and waited as I got my car. There was a Hispanic man waiting just behind the fence. He opened the gate, handed me the key to the MDX and watched as I started it. I noticed one or two of the cars we'd towed this afternoon sitting under the halogen lights in the lot, all of them sporting CHACON FOR MAYOR stickers.
As I pulled out, Alonzo stepped over and leaned into my passenger window. "Coming back to A Fuego?"
"Think I'm gonna look for a new hotel and hit the sack," I replied. "See you in the morning."
"Good first day, partner," Alonzo said, holding up his envelope.
"Good first day," I agreed, holding up mine. Then I put the MDX in gear and pulled out, leaving him standing there.
Chapter 13
It took me all of five minutes to get out of Haven Park. My head throbbed and my shoulders were tight with tension. I drove toward downtown L. A. and finally pulled into a garage on Sixth Street that housed a high-tech custom car stereo shop.
I'd called ahead and a guy I'd known since I busted him for illegal wiretaps ten years ago was waiting for me. He'd done six months in county, but he was an electronics genius, so after he got out I helped him get a job here. His name was Calvin Epps, but everybody called him Harpo because, except for his ebony skin color, he was a dead ringer for the late Harpo Marx. He was still the best wiretap guy I knew.
"How you been, Shane?" Harpo said as I pulled in and shut off my headlights.
"Okay, I guess."
"I heard what happened at Parker Center," he said. "Couple a blues walking a beat down here told me about it. You'll make it, man. Same as me. Everything looks better after some time passes."
"Thanks, Harpo." I'd already told him what I needed on the phone. "You straight on all this?" I asked, as I got out of the MDX.
He nodded. "Leave your car here. I'll loan you my extra van. I'll be done by eight tomorrow morning just like you wanted."
We swapped keys and after saying goodnight I got into his old, primer-painted '86 Chevy van and drove out.
It took me almost thirty minutes with the Dodgers baseball traffic to get on the 110 Freeway. I kept a wary eye on my rearview mirror to make sure I wasn't followed as I finally transitioned to the 105 and settled in for the long drive past LAX before exiting onto Sepulveda.
I drove past the endless stretches of oil fields, where huge pumps seesawed up and clown like giant metal insects drinking from an underground pond. Then I turned west toward the little city of Manhattan Beach. I finally found Ocean Way and looked for an address I'd already memorized. It was halfway down the Strand. I turned into the driveway of an expensive new three-story complex with a Century 21 real estate sign announcing new beachfront condos for sale and pulled up to the security gate. Then I punched in the access code I'd been given. The garage door opened and I drove Harpo's rusting, primered van down into the sterile, freshly painted parking structure, where I left it and took the elevator up to Penthouse 2.
The Otis box was mirrored and carpeted and, like everything else in this overpriced mecca, smelled brand new. The doors opened onto an attractive foyer. There were two penthouse condos on this floor that, from what I knew about Manhattan Beach real estate, I estimated had to be worth at least three million dollars apiece. I'd been told the key for number 2 would be hidden inside a carved figurine opposite the mirrored wall. I felt inside the figures open back until I found it, then unlatched the mahogany-paneled front door.
Inside, the lights had been dimmed and there was a fire burning in the fireplace. A Sheryl Crow love song was coming through the elaborate stereo system. The condo was beautiful. Rich upholstered furniture sat on the white plush pile carpet. Fine art hung on padded silk walls.
I saw her sitting on a porch chaise, her back to me, looking out at the ocean. She must have sensed my presence, or maybe she even saw my shadow move.
A woman so breathtaking, men might easily agree to kill for her. Movie-star gorgeous --that beautiful. She stood and turned toward me, looking through the sliding glass doors into the living room.
Then she ran into the condo, struggling for a moment with the doors before she raced toward me, flinging herself into my arms.
"Oh, Shane . . . my god, I've missed you so," she whispered.
I hugged her tight, feeling her warmth. I could barely speak, couldn't wait to make love to her.
"This was the hardest thing I've ever tried to do," she whispered in my ear as we stood there clinging to one another.
Then she kissed me, and with that kiss my tension evaporated. As if a cool dressing had been laid on an open wound, I was instantly better.
"I love you so much," I told her.
"I love you, too," Alexa said.
Chapter 14
After we finally separated, Alexa said, "Shes down on the beach patio. We shouldn't keep her waiting."
I got three Beck's beers from the fridge and we headed down to the sand where Ophelia Love was waiting. I handed her a beer and we clicked bottles.
"That was intense," she said, smiling.
"Sorry about the guns. Alonzo's idea."
"Not the first time I've looked Mr. Smith in the eye." The sentence was etched with her Carolina twang.
We arranged the patio chairs together in a circle so we could all look at each other. Then I filled Alexa and Ophelia in on what had happened since I went undercover. I finished by saying, "It's much worse even than Rick Ross told us. It's crooked as a Bayou card game down there."
Alexa leaned forward, her shining black hair falling in luscious sheaths at the sides of her face.
"I'm a little worried for this guy who's running for mayor, Rocky Chacon," I said. "Alonzo and the rest of the Haven Park department aren't about to let him win."
"Now that you're on the inside, you can't do anything that might blow your cover," Ophelia cautioned. "We're already doing what we can to protect him."
After we finished our beers, Agent Love stood to go. "I'm gonna keep hassling you and pulling you over, Shane. It's the only way I can stay close enough to give you any cover." She smiled wanly. "See if you can keep that walking woodpile you're partnered with from blowing my head off."
I handed Ophelia the envelope containing the eighty dollars in towing kickbacks. "I didn't open it. Before you book it into evidence, get the bills dusted. You might get some latent prints."
She nodded and handed me a business card. "Here's my cell number. Memorize it and throw the card away. In a crunch, you can call or text me, but if you use that number I'd suggest that you ditch your cell afterwards. The Haven Park cops can easily track the SIM card."
I knew she was right. It would be dangerous walking around with a phone message to her that could be recovered from the cell's memory.
After Ophelia left, Alexa put her head on my shoulder and we sat on the beach chairs, holding hands and listening to the pounding surf.
It didn't take long before we moved our escalati
ng foreplay upstairs to the penthouse bedroom. The condo complex we were in was less than a month old and was about half sold. P-2 belonged to Assistant Chief Malon Arnett, who ran the Administrative Affairs Division. The A-chief came from a wealthy family and had invested his inheritance wisely. Arnett had agreed to loan his place to us for secret meetings.
We didn't even bother to strip the comforter off. We just fell on the quilted spread and grabbed for each other. Our lovemaking lasted for almost half an hour and afterward we lay naked on top of the king-sized bed, both propped up on an elbow facing each other, smiling.
"It's good to have you back," Alexa said, "even if it is just for one night."
Then I took her through my blowup with Chooch and finished by saying, "He said he never wanted to see me again."
"I've been talking to him, trying to spin it up so he won't be quite so angry," Alexa said. "But he thinks you cheated on me and it's ripping him up inside."
It was hard to believe that all of this had started just fifteen days ago when Ricky Ross had popped up and asked for a secret meeting with Chief Filosiani. He had just received his up-from-the-ranks promotion to chief of the Haven Park PD, and told Tony that two months before that he had finally taken the cure. Once he'd sobered up, he knew he had to do something about the massive corruption in Haven Park. Mayor Bratano had only appointed him interim chief because he thought Ross was still such a drunk he wouldn't make any trouble. The mayor didn't like strong people around him.
Once Ross got sober he said he knew he had to step up and try to change what was going on in Haven Park and Fleetwood. However, as acting chief he was rarely told about what was happening on the street-policing level. After the indictment of ex-chief Le Grande, the mayor preferred to keep his new chief in the dark. Rick said he got his envelope of cash every week, but that he couldn't prove where the money came from.
Ross thought he was being set up by Bratano to take a fall if the feds ever put their gunrunning narcotics case together. Alexa and I discussed it and we thought that was the real reason he'd come to Tony Filosiani and the LAPD for help. Ross also agreed that something bad was about to happen to Rocky Chacon. That his life might be in real danger.
He told Tony that he wanted me to go undercover because I had been the one to flag him for discharging his firearm on the freeway when nobody else in our patrol division had been willing to step forward. I found that explanation very hard to believe.
During the week that followed, Tony, Alexa and I had several intense meetings with Ross. After listening to it all, I still wasn't sure of his motives and didn't trust him at all. But the evidence of massive corruption in Haven Park and Fleetwood was overwhelming. After two days of indecision, I had finally accepted the assignment.
Tony recruited Agent Love from the FBI to be my backup because she was already working the gun beat in Haven Park and her presence down there wouldn't alert anyone. Nobody else knew that my dismissal from the LAPD had been staged.
Ophelia's roommate in college had been Tiffany Roberts. She had gone on to become a famous movie star. Ophelia had asked if she could use Tiffany's name and the story about her wanting Harry dead to dress up the sting. We agreed to try and keep the whole story out of the press. But if it did leak, the LAPD Public Affairs Office had a lot of preprepared denials ready. We didn't think, with those department denials, any news organization would risk a defamation-of-character lawsuit. In less than two weeks her true role in all of this would be revealed. I had never met Tiffany in the parking lots of any big-box stores, nor was there ever any FBI surveillance tape. The plan all along was for me to confess at the chiefs midnight meeting, making the need to display the video evidence unnecessary.
The only other sticking point had been Chooch. The chief had refused to cut me loose to work the undercover assignment if Chooch knew the truth.
Tony had reasoned that Chooch would not be able to resist telling his friends that what they were hearing about his father being fired was B. S. "He'll swear them to silence and then let the secret out.' Tony had said, adding, "Any leak can get you killed." Alexa and I had finally and reluctantly agreed to keep our son in the dark.
Alexa had moved some of my clothes over from the house in Venice. We dressed in sweats and went out on the upstairs balcony to sit under the stars.
"You said your car got impounded by Blue Light Towing. You know they probably hung a bug on it," Alexa said.
"I left it with Harpo. He's sweeping it now. But he's not going to take anything out if he finds one. It would tip them off."
Of course, the other huge risk in all this was Freeway Ricky Ross himself. He'd threatened my life in the Parker Center garage ten years ago. He'd lost his career, his wife, everything he owned. I'd been the witness who had taken him down. What better way to get back at me than to lure me into a Serpico-like situation, then find a way to let Alonzo or Talbot Jones know that I was an LAPD spy? Td be shot in the field. Fragged in some staged gunfight.
I spent the rest of the night with Alexa in Deputy Chief Arnett's king-sized bed. We made love again, held each other, and then fell into a restless sleep.
Chapter 15
I arrived back at the stereo shop on Sixth Street at a little past seven A. M. Harpo was in his office, hunched over a Mexican breakfast of refried beans and rice.
"Want some of this?" he asked, pushing the plate across his desk and offering me a plastic fork out of a box. "This guy Gonzales, on the corner, is a genius with a frying pan."
I grabbed one of the forks and took a bite. Amazing.
"Find anything?" I asked.
"Your Acura has better recording capabilities than the big room over at Capitol Records. Whoever installed that shit knew what they were doing." He led me over to my car, still carrying the plate of beans, then leaned in and pointed at two carefully concealed microphones. One was in the rearview mirror light sensor, the other was tucked up under the dash on the passenger side out of sight.
"It s all voice-activated. I erased the recording back to the spot just before you pulled in here, then turned it all off." He elosed the car door and we stepped back. "All of the units are high-frequency radio bugs. They have receivers in the trunk, stuck to the inside of your spare tire. I left it all right where it is just like you wanted. For the fun of it, I installed a separate voice-activated radio unit of our own. It's buried up in the passenger side of the front seat piggybacking off their mikes."
"Thanks, Harpo. You're the best."
"Then how come I got busted?" He grinned.
I took a few more bites of the refried beans while he reactivated the digital recorders, then paid him in cash.
I pulled out of the Sixth Street garage and tuned the radio to an angry rap station, then set the volume at the threshold of pain just to piss off the dirtbag who eventually had to listen to all this.
My guess is they would go into my trunk and switch out the recorder late at night while I was sleeping, or when I was out on patrol with Alonzo and the MDX was unguarded in the police parking lot at the elementary school.
The big disadvantage of hanging a wire on someone is, if the bug ever gets discovered, it's very easy to get fooled by your own trickery. I started thinking of ways to get something on that recorder that would help my cause.
After pondering my top five options, I finally decided to give Sammy from Miami a call. Sammy Ochoa was a forty-year-old Cuban street character whose grind was every low-end street hustle ever worked on the ice-cream eaters from Minnesota who wandered the tarnished streets of Hollywood searching for scraps of movie glamour. He would sell these marks everything from a counterfeit Best Picture Oscar to fake Britney Spears memorabilia. He ran his business out of a gay movie theater he owned on Melrose Boulevard. I'd first busted Sammy when I was still in patrol, right after he got here from Miami Beach. Something about his flat-footed, take-no-prisoners larceny was comically appealing to me and we'd entered into an uneasy friendship where mutual benefit and cash were the glue. He sl
ipped me street intel, which I paid for out of my snitch fund. I also kept Hollywood Vice off his back, claiming him as a street informant.
As I drove back to Haven Park, I decided to put on a little theater production, with Sammy from Miami as my featured guest star.
I got back to the Haven Park Elementary School before eight and parked in the police parking lot that adjoined the school. After I locked the Acura I hurried up the sidewalk.
I had to show my driver's license to the old guy at the gate, who didn't seem to remember me from yesterday.
The locker room was in turmoil like all police shifts getting ready for a tour--guys dressing in patrol uniforms, talking too loud, horsing around, slamming lockers.
Once I was down to my shorts and T-shirt, Alonzo Bell, already in harness, ambled over. Without warning he threw a beefy arm around my shoulders, then turned me roughly and presented me to the room of about ten other patrol officers. "Meet my new boot, Hardwood Scully," he announced. "He fucks movie stars."
The cops in the room hooted. "He's a beaut, Al!" one said. "Tiffany Roberts was fucking that?" Another laughed.
Alonzo suddenly slipped me into a headlock. Before I knew it, he was wrestling me playfully around the locker room, giving me a painful head noogie.
"This is the guy." He joked as he threw me roughly against a locker, pushing his huge right palm into the middle of my chest, pinning me there. "Let's check out the merchandise here." Then he ran his hand quickly across my chest.
The cops in the room hooted with laughter. One shouted, "Leave him be, Al. He's got an ass like a forty-dollar cow!"
I was grinning, pretending I was having fun while at the same time trying to keep from punching Bell's lights out. But I knew exactly what he was doing. He was checking me for a wire.
"You about through?" I asked, forcing a smile.
He grinned and turned me loose as the rest of the room laughed. "For now. Let's get you in harness. We got some important shit to attend to. You and me are working fire and health this morning."
On the Grind (2009) Page 6
