“Don’t worry about the door,” said McGill with an outstretched hand. “It’s got a mind of its own.”
“Deputy Shia Saint George, sir,” greeted the trainee.
Seated in a wooden chair turned to the Assistant Sheriff’s desk, Wimmer patted the open seat next to him.
“Sit yourself, Deputy,” said McGill. “Sounds to me like you’ve had a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride of a first week.”
“Mr. Toad, sir?”
“Old school Disneyland attraction,” clarified McGill. “You’ve been to Disneyland haven’t you?”
“Not my favorite place,” replied Shia. “Long story, sir.”
“For another time,” smiled McGill, seating himself in a high-backed power chair.
“We’ve been discussing,” said Wimmer. “I believe the Assistant Sheriff is going to be a fan.”
“The barrel can never tolerate a bad apple,” said McGill. “Spoils the whole stew. So I want you to know that you are safe and have Temple Street support.”
“Guarantees,” added Wimmer.
“Assuming,” held up McGill’s bony hand, “you can corroborate the recordings your federal friend here has just played me.”
Shia felt as if under a million-kilowatt glare. Her hands hadn’t ceased perspiring. When shaking the Assistant Sheriff’s hand, he’d surely felt the sweat slick transfer from her pinkish palm to his.
“It’s okay,” nodded Wimmer. “We’re right where we wanna be.”
We wanna be? Or where you wanna be?
“What’d you show him?” asked Shia.
“Lockin’ boys in the dumpster,” grinned Wimmer in such a fashion Shia wasn’t certain if it was in glee or amusement from the phone video. “And last night’s big hit. Stuff in the car with that fat DWP guy…what was his name again?”
Shia didn’t reply. She slipped her fingers into her front pocket and withdrew the same phone which she’d used to record her betrayals.
“I actually have some more video,” she conceded.
“Sorry?” joked Wimmer. “Say you’ve been holding out on me?”
“I’m both a deputy and a woman,” Shia teased. “Think the Assistant Sheriff will admit even lady cops are allowed some mystery.”
The aging bureaucrat let trip a toothy smile. He was charmed, for sure. Shia, in turn, tapped the phone screen until her video files appeared. She paused, opened a video, and made sure the volume was fully audible.
“Hey beauty queen,” sounded a voice. “Thought I’d give you a tour of my private dojo.”
The eyebrows below Wimmer’s considerable forehead shifted with unknowing concern. McGill, on the other hand, let his long face droop in sudden recognition.
“Yes, sir,” said Shia. “That’s Atom Blum’s voice. He was your friend, is that right sir?”
“He was,” replied McGill.
“My condolences, sir.” With the gentle push of her finger, Shia eased the phone closer to the Assistant Sheriff.
Wimmer stood to get a better angle.
“’Kay, so that was a Tiffany glass door we just walked through,” continued Atom on his camera-phone tour. “Foyer here. Living room that way, office and kitchen down there. Classic Paul Williams design. You know Paul Williams, the architect?”
“Why are you doing this?” Shia was heard asking on the other end of the video phone call.
“Cuz you gave me your number,” said Atom, his face appearing on the recording. “Need I say more?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Not before the money shot!” pleaded the boy wonder, shifting the camera angle back to tour mode. “Here we go up the creaky fun stairs.”
While the video played, Shia never let her gaze leave the Assistant Sheriff’s ever-lengthening face.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, sir,” said Shia to McGill. “But the reason Mr. Blum was afforded two ride-alongs with myself and Deputy Dey was because your office had insisted. At least that’s what our watch commander passed on to us.”
“Wait. Is that the dead movie director?” quizzed Wimmer.
“Shut up,” said McGill, drawing the phone even closer. “Deputy? Is there a purpose to you showing me this?”
“Keep watching, sir,” assured Shia. “I think Mr. Blum advertised a money shot.”
“Guest bedrooms there and there and down there,” showed Atom on the video. “Bathrooms are all new granite with sub-floor-heating for your sweet feet.”
“I am never coming over,” replied Shia to the movie director. “And you are making me seriously uncomfortable.”
“Heeeeeeeeere’s the master bedroom. Classic. Nothing for swingers. King-sized bed for a King Kong. And that’s me, if you haven’t guessed.”
“Nice knowin’ ya.”
“Don’t hang up!”
“Did you not hear me early tonight when I told you your shit was way outta line?” angered Shia’s voice on the video.
“What if I told you you’re the most beautiful creature I had ever seen? And I’m talkin’ EVERRR.”
“I said I was flattered, but not interested. Nothing’s changed. Goodnight.”
“But I’ve changed! Or you’ve changed me. Look here!”
McGill’s seen-everything glower revealed not a molecular tick. As if the man knew exactly how the offending video would end.
“Is he showing his junk?” twisted Wimmer.
“At full salute,” deadpanned Shia. “Sorry as I am for the tragic loss of your ‘friend,’ sir, it seemed, while he was alive, he was as proud of his erection as he was his stupid movies.”
“Manners wasn’t Atom’s strong suit,” heaved McGill. He shoved the phone back in Shia’s direction.
“Shia?” said Wimmer. “For the life of me I don’t see how this helps our cause.”
“Mr. Wimminger,” said McGill with understanding. “Would you excuse us?”
“Sorry?” asked Wimmer.
“I need a moment with my deputy,” forced McGill. “And on your way out make sure you shut the door all the way. Please?”
“And what we discussed?” Wimmer pled.
That’s right, thought Shia. Exactly what did you discuss?
For the forty-five-plus minutes Shia had been left alone while Wimminger and McGill had conferred, the trainee had been seized by her own sizeable imagination. There’d been time enough for her to replay every particular of her relationship with the fed. Boiled down, his plan had been simple enough: build a federal civil rights case against former Lennox Reaper, Lucky Dey. In exchange for Shia’s assistance, he had promised her a fast track into the FBI Academy at Quantico and a Washington career.
But what about building a federal case against a deputy sheriff involves informing higher-ups in the department?
Shia wasn’t certain about the Department of Justice protocols, but she was educated enough to concoct a reasonable scenario. Wimmer had used the word “opportunity” with relish. Having secured the strings as her personal and professional puppeteer, the lawyer had dreamt up a bigger canvas on which to splash his paint. Where there’s one civil-rights-bending cop there sure as shit would be more. And what’s better than an informant trainee? How about an Assistant Sheriff to open the gates to a department-wide federal shakedown?
In a crystallized moment, Shia puzzled out that she was more than likely a pawn in a much larger game. And any chance of her receiving a reward was minimal to none. Or miles upon miles away.
“Right,” said McGill once it was only Shia and himself in the inner sanctum. “Clearly you’re a smart trainee. Maybe too smart for your own good. But we’ll see.”
“Sir?” she said, polite and unforgiving. Though the unspoken leverage in play was obvious. Shia was a triple-harassment threat. Trainee. Female. Black. Atom Blum had been placed in her and Lucky’s radio unit because of his relationship with McGill. Not once. But twice. If it could be proven the dead wunderkind was a known pig when it came to women, McGill could be found culpable—but not before the media burned him a
t their holy First Amendment stake.
“U.S. Attorney plays you,” said McGill. “Now you’re playing both him and me. You are the fulcrum and I am about to get tossed off the seesaw. Yeah? So what’s your expected outcome?”
“Finish my training, sir,” said Shia.
“Finish your training?”
“Exactly that, sir.”
“Dunno what the hell slick willy out there promised you,” tapped McGill with his index finger. “But it had to be better than bottom-rung deputy. Now, what do you really want?”
“Finish my training, sir. With Deputy Dey as my training officer and you as my administrative…Dutch Uncle?”
“Like lawyer-boy out there thought I didn’t know about the Lennox Reapers. You know how far back I go in this department?”
“Sir. The video I showed is embarrassing,” reminded Shia. “But I don’t believe we should be personally judged by our embarrassing friends.”
“The videos of your T.O. are embarrassing. Disgraceful, even.”
“I don’t think they tell a complete story, sir.”
“I expect they don’t,” groused McGill. “And now they want every deputy to wear a camera. Body cams. How’s that gonna work for you and your training officer?”
“Can’t say, sir. Only time will tell.”
“You’re suspended, yes? Pending the shoot investigation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assuming you and your T.O. come up clear…”
“Sir.”
“You choose to resume patrol with the very same training officer,” he warned, “he might bring you more trouble than you deserve. Or than I’m willing to cover.”
“What’s deserves got to do with it, sir?” smiled Shia.
“I assume I’m not going to get a copy of young Atom’s video?”
“What video, sir?”
The Assistant Sheriff revealed a confident smirk before he reached for the handset link to his desk deputy.
“Please thank the U.S. Attorney for his time and efforts,” instructed McGill. “Then have deputies escort him out of the building.”
Shia rode the elevator to the parking lot alone. She was slightly numb inside, not entirely certain what she’d done or how she’d done it. The landscape had shifted so fast. She questioned whether she had behaved out of pure, feral survival—or because once she’d reached the precipice of betraying Lucky, she’d acted de facto out of loyalty and duty. Shia wanted to believe the latter about herself. Still, something that feared otherwise tickled her insides.
No matter, Miss Shitheel. You’re Sheriffs, now and forever. Live or die with the decision.
One thing for sure, Shia wished she could phone up Lucky and reveal all. Confess. A voice inside cautioned her to think again. Lucky, she reflected, was so much more about do than tell. Soon, she thought. Lucky and Shia would be back in the black-and-white. With time and miles of Compton blacktop to cover, the truth would find the right place and time.
Until then, bad guys beware.
52
It was the same café on cobble-stoned Saint Vincent’s Court. Tim Gilligan—showered and dipped in antiperspirant for fear of sweating out all his fluids—arrived early. He’d chosen the same table he’d shared with Cat on Tuesday and wedged himself into the very same uncomfortable chair. He had two ice waters poured as he waited, checking his watch in less than thirty-second intervals.
“So glad you got my message,” said Cat, breezing in wearing running shorts and a vintage t-shirt. “Wasn’t sure you’d realize it was me texting from a borrowed phone.”
“Casual Friday?” Tim quipped.
“Hardly,” moaned Cat. “After this morning—or Jesus—this week? Think I deserve an early start to the weekend. You order drinks yet?”
“Not drinking today,” said Tim. “Thinkin’ I might be done with all that.”
“Well, start tomorrow. We have to celebrate our…whatever. Lemme tell you about what I did to my phone.”
“Order wine if you want,” said Tim. “I’m good with water.”
“You have to hear this. So I’m running to this breakfast with the mayor. Heels. Such a mistake. So I’m hauling tail for a bus, but I forget that in my bag—my six-hundred-dollar handbag, might I add—I had two Red Bulls and a defective can of Diet Coke—”
“Cat,” interrupted Tim. “I went to the LAPD this morning.”
“I’m sure you’ve got a good story. But lemme finish mine—”
“I talked to a detective in the homicide division. I told him about Hal.”
“Told who about Hal?”
“Homicide. LAPD. I laid it all out.”
“Laid what all out?” she stiffened.
“What I know. Which, I admit, isn’t everything. But what I know. I called a lawyer friend. He went with me.”
“Tim?” reflexed Cat. “What have you done?”
“You need to get a lawyer too.”
“I already have a Goddamn lawyer!” Cat slapped the stainless steel outdoor tabletop with an open palm. “That’s why we should be toasting…”
“You got a lawyer? When did that happen?”
“I got a lawyer and fixed this shit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I had it fixed, you fat fuckin’ moron,” she hissed. “Taken care of. No ties to you or me.”
“Wait. I’m lost. How can a lawyer—”
“We’re done. I don’t want to know you. I don’t wanna talk to you.” Cat pushed back her chair and began her walk back to the hustle and bustle of South Hill Street.
“Cat!” stood Tim, the chair lifting with him before it clattered away. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU FIXED IT?”
53
The sun was setting across the San Gabriels. It was a time of day when Frosty would usually pause and look to the sky. Twilight was coming, when the trees turned black against the sky. Yet on that evening—that one particular extinguishing of a day—Frosty was not interested in pausing for anything. Not even the voice of reason under his skullcap.
You’re doing it all wrong.
Frosty acknowledged as much to himself. He wasn’t on his usual game or sticking to his normal killing routine. He was mad as hell—angry to such a degree he hardly felt able to organize his thoughts. His trees. His beloved trees and plans to start his own nursery may as well have gone up in flames along with the hydroponic cannabis crop. Julius was missing or more than likely dead considering the damage at the Pizza Wing.
His customary precautions—using public transit to do the job—or even a stolen car—had been ignored in the heat of his rage against Lucky Dey.
If only I hadn’t missed.
The failed shot from the rooftop of the New Wilmington Gardens haunted Frosty. He’d excused his own guilt with reminders that the whole New Wilmington mess was Julius’s idiotic play. But that had been two full days ago when Frosty was still chock-full of hope for his future.
With a tip from Tuba’s cousin who worked inside the Compton Sheriff’s Station, Frosty had scribbled the address on a yellow Post-it and driven his own Cadillac Escalade to Altadena. After a pair of afternoon drive-bys past Lucky’s house, Frosty returned to Lake Avenue, stopped at the nearest Circle K for a fifty-four-ounce Mountain Dew, then parked his SUV pointed north toward the impressive San Gabriel Mountains where he’d waited for dark to begin its nightly assault on day.
The plan kept changing. At first, he was simply going to camouflage himself from head to toe, storm into the house via a back door, and kill whomever was there, leaving no witnesses. It was his comic, red-faced version of a murder—the angriest of acts scaled by the sequence of faces on the anger scale.
My anger scale.
Frosty’s personal metric was based upon a pain assessment scale he’d once memorized while waiting in a Compton medical clinic. There, on a paint-chipped wall, was tacked a row of happy to sad cartoon faces. Each face registered degrees of discomfort with an ascending number scale from one through ten. Only Frosty
hadn’t seen physical pain in the cartoon mugs. He’d imagined the scale as something to do with feelings. Ever since seeing the graph he’d graded his own temper based on those happy to angry faces. Number One was content and happy. Number Ten was red-faced livid and barely under self-control.
Seated in his Escalade, Frosty calculated his present number at a 9.8. Too brain-fried to operate. He couldn’t imagine even handling the easily leveled, bull barrel Ruger .22 without shaking. He tried the basic breathing exercise of inhaling in through the nostrils then exhaling out the mouth. Rhythmic. Over and over. Despite what felt like a disciplined effort, the shudder in his fingers continued unabated.
Frosty’s phone rang. Before he could reach for it, the Escalade revealed the caller on the console screen: momma.
“I din’t forget,” Frosty moaned.
“We’re not meetin’ there,” said Des’ree, his mother’s oh-so-familiar voice sharp and conditional. “You’re drivin’ me an’ your Gran’nana like a proper gentleman.”
“Jus’ church, Momma.”
“No such thing. God wants a man to bring his best. Meetin’ us a’ the church your best?”
“S’pose not,” answered Frosty, rolling his eyes to nobody but the rearview mirror.
“Open your ears and you can hear him say so.”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Gonna dress nice?”
“C’mon, Momma. Lemme back to it.”
Get back to puttin’ smoke to the man who fucked up my future.
“See you in an hour,” said Des’ree.
Frosty needn’t have seen her face. He could hear it in her voice. Wry. Looking right through him. Or thinking she could look into his soul. Thank Jesus, she couldn’t. What would his dear Momma think if she knew the truth—that her sweet Lamar was a nerve-settling minute from putting two bullets through a white man’s cranium?
When the call ended, Frosty noted a shift in his own demeanor. His jitters had diminished some. And the cartoon face he ascribed to his anger was closer to a six or seven. Manageable. Clarified.
No time like now, nigga.
He’d parked under a hundred-year-old oak tree offering shade from the streetlights. Acorns crunched underfoot when he stepped from the SUV and drew an easy arc to the sidewalk. He assumed the walk of a local. Direct but in no hurry. A point A-to-B-styled gait, shoulders back and without a care. Blue and red snapback LA Clippers cap pulled low. A half block north, a ninety-degree right turn on Dolores, a three-minute cruise, and Frosty would be in front of Lucky Dey’s rental. The rest, he imagined, would come naturally. A measure of patience seemed to have returned. Small but workable. And based on the tingling in Frosty’s nerve endings, his external calm wouldn’t last long.
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 90
