Vigilante

by Stephen J. Cannell

  Light spilling through the kitchen window helped my eyes transition. I searched the area over by the garage where I’d last seen the figure. Then I heard some whispering off to my right and turned my head and gun silently in that direction.

  “S-s-sh-h-h-h,” a man whispered. “Put it over there.”

  “You want the three-fifty and the battery?” another man whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  I could see them now. They were crouched low at the back of the garden. Two guys in black T-shirts and jeans, setting something up. As my eyes adjusted further, I could see the faint outline of a studded equipment box. Then I knew who it was. The two cameramen I’d already met from V-TV. They were setting up their digital camera and a shotgun mike in a hidden position under some bushes. One of the guys reached into the studded camera case and handed the other a long lens of some kind. He affixed it to the camera housing and then attached a battery pack.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “Got the infrared and battery on. Watch out for that puddle. I think a hose is leaking back here. Let’s just lay down, keep quiet, and wait.”

  So we all waited. They were aiming their light-gathering telephoto lens at the house, trying to get a shot of me working the crime scene or planting evidence or whatever the hell it was Nash was hoping he’d be able to catch me doing. Since I wasn’t inside, they weren’t getting much of anything, which was beginning to drive them nuts.

  “Where the fuck is he?” one whispered. “You think he left while we were setting up?”

  “Damn, I just rolled in some dog shit,” the other cursed.

  “Sh-h-h-h-h.”

  Ten or fifteen minutes passed while they did a lot of low whispering I couldn’t make out. Finally, the taller one stood and moved past where I was hiding and up to the house to peek into the back window of the pantry.

  “He there?” the cameraman whispered a bit loudly. They were losing their stealth to a mild sense of developing panic.

  “No,” the tall guy said. “Can’t see anybody inside. I’ll check and see if his car’s still out front.”

  The tall one moved quietly around to the far side of the house. Once he had gone down the drive, I rose to my feet and slipped out of my hiding place, hugging the shadows, and moved closer to their camera position. By the time the assistant came back, I was so close, I could actually smell the dog poop.

  “His car’s still out front,” the tall guy whispered.

  “I wonder where the fuck he is,” the other responded.

  “Right here,” I said, and touched the barrel of the Springfield to the side of the camera operator’s head.

  “Shit!” he screeched in terror, and shot up to his feet. He was off-balance and I pushed him hard. He sprawled on the grass as the assistant put his hands in the air.

  “Don’t shoot! We give!” he shouted, spittle flying.

  The cameraman scurried back to his feet, thought about running, but I stopped him by waving my gun in his direction.

  “You two are trespassing on my crime scene,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “You got Laura’s number on that thing?” I asked, pointing to a phone on the cameraman’s belt.

  He nodded and handed his cell over to me. “I d-d-idn’t … I w-w-wasn’t … We were—,” he stuttered.

  “Duly noted,” I said, scrolling his recent calls. I found Laura Burke’s name and hit her number.

  It rang twice before a woman’s voice said, “Talk to me, Jason.”

  “Are you in charge of this blanket drill?” I asked her.

  “Who is this?”

  “Scully. Two of your cameramen are trespassing on my crime scene. I can book them now or we can start a negotiation.”

  “Stay where you are,” she said, and hung up. A minute later I saw her striding up the drive with another man. He was a barrel-chested gray-haired guy wearing a camel coat, jeans, and sneakers. They headed into the backyard and stopped a few feet from me.

  Laura was dressed for a gunfight. She was wearing a three-quarter-length black leather coat belted tight on her pipe cleaner build. Her skintight jeans and knee-high boots made her look dangerous. With her rat’s nest of curly red hair stuffed under a ball cap and her no-nonsense scowl, she had about as much sex appeal as a nine-dollar hammer.

  “This kinda sucks, Jason,” she snapped at her cameraman.

  “Children, children, no fighting,” I said. “We’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”

  “Are you gonna arrest them?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I might. Make me an offer.”

  We faced off for a moment. Then she turned to her companion. “Lenny, gimme your cell. I left mine in the van.”

  The man handed over his cell phone and she hit a preset number. She turned away from me and had a quick, whispered conversation. I was still facing her crew, with my gun out, but it was now pointed at the ground. It didn’t look like I’d have to shoot anyone, so I holstered my weapon. Finally, Laura turned back and handed Lenny’s cell to me.

  “Mr. Nash wants to talk to you.”

  I took the phone. “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to do something I rarely do, Shane. But I like the way you handle yourself, the way you think, so I’m going to make a big exception.”

  “We’ve had two conversations. You haven’t a clue how I think.”

  “I do my research. I talk to people. You rate out. That’s why I want to propose something.”

  I wanted to give this guy enough line before I set my hook, so I said, “I’m listening.”

  “I want us to come to an accommodation. Enter into an arrangement. How does that sound?”

  “Illegal.”

  “Then what would you suggest?”

  “Pick another city. Go to Nevada and fuck with the Vegas cops.”

  “I’m not leaving L.A. I’m committed to Lita Mendez’s case.”

  I said nothing, waited him out.

  “We need to talk this out,” he continued. “I don’t want you as an enemy. I could use an ally on this. I think we have a shared interest. I want to find justice for Lita, who, I might add, cared desperately about justice. I think, from what I’ve been told, you share that trait.”

  Again, I remained silent.

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you say something?”

  “I haven’t heard anything yet I want to respond to.”

  “Okay, look. I can understand your hesitancy, but we’re about to tape the first L.A. show. It will air next Tuesday, ten P.M., coast-to-coast. It kind of sets up the whole deal here. Background on Lita and her activities against the LAPD, how your department harassed her. Of course we’re going to look at other L.A. situations as well, but obviously, the Mendez murder is going to be my centerpiece case. I can’t leave the studio right now because we’re shootin’ live for tape in two hours, but I’d like to extend an invitation for you to attend the taping. How’s that sound?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To find some common ground. This doesn’t have to be Atlanta. Why don’t you invest an hour and see if we can come to terms? Gee, the worst thing that happens is we go our separate ways. But in success, maybe you and your partner don’t have to become tragic secondary targets of my show.”

  “Where’s the studio?”

  “We rented a warehouse park on Pico near Century City. Follow Laura; she’ll lead you here.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  The studio was in a new commercial park on Pico near Century City. Two concrete tilt-up warehouses faced each other across a hundred-car parking lot bordered by a nine-foot cement wall.

  As we pulled through the guarded gate, I was surprised to see twenty V-TV vehicles parked there. Ten were TV vans, half of those rigged with satellite dishes. Parked along one wall was a fleet of white station wagons and sedans, all with V-TV’s fancy blue logo on the doors. I knew this was a big-budget national TV show, but someh
ow, in my mind, I’d been diminishing it, hoping to find some run-down rinky-dink operation with only one vehicle and half a dozen employees.

  Once we were in the parking lot, I could see at least thirty crew walking back and forth between the two warehouses. One of the massive elephant doors was open and I glimpsed sets inside. Beside the door was a large sign that read: STAGE ONE. A huge sixteen-wheel TV remote truck like the ones I’d seen at televised football games was parked next to this stage with its generator running. Rubberized cables snaked out of the side and ran into the warehouse.

  Laura’s van was just parking in front of me, so I pulled into a slot next to it. She was quickly out of the truck and stuck her head in my lowered passenger window. “Wait here,” she said, and was gone.

  I decided to get out of the Acura and stood in the fully lit parking lot, watching the preshow activity. A camera truck was being off-loaded a few feet away and lighting equipment was being pulled off the lift tailgate.

  I sensed someone approaching on my right and turned to find Marcia Breen walking slowly toward me. She still had that sexy model’s walk I remembered, placing one foot directly in front of the other, causing a decent amount of hip sway. She was dressed in a tailored blue suit with a skirt cut just above the knee, like the ones she used to wear during trials to distract all the drooling railbirds at the courthouse. Tonight, she also wore a sad, almost apologetic expression.

  She put out a hand and said, “Hi. I was hoping to have a chance to try and explain myself to you before this got so far along.”

  “Some setup,” I replied, shaking hands but not following her lead because I was still a little uncomfortable with our reunion and didn’t need to hear an excuse for her betrayal.

  “I’m sorry this case happened to land on you,” she said.

  “I’m a big boy.”

  I was wondering how much I could say to her. We’d been friends once. Lovers. Of course, now that she was on Nash’s staff, I knew she had to be viewed as an enemy.

  “Please don’t hate me for what’s coming,” she said unexpectedly.

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  Then Laura Burke was back, full of kinetic energy. “Come on. Nix is in Makeup, but he wanted to see you before the taping.” She shot a look at Marcia. “They want you in show prep.”

  “See you later, Shane,” Marcia said, then turned and walked off.

  Laura led me past the control truck and into the main warehouse. As I entered Stage One, I saw a large, ornate courtroom set off to my right. It included a raised judge’s bench, jury panel, and large public seating area. We passed that and walked through another set that looked like a detective squad room, with big glass windows and a backdrop depicting the L.A. skyline. The room was full of computers and cubicles and looked a lot like our new space downtown.

  I saw a retired homicide detective I knew named Frank Palgrave. He’d worked Metro but had pulled the pin two years earlier. It shocked me to see him there, sitting on the edge of a desk reading a newspaper.

  “Hey, Shane,” he said, putting the paper aside.

  “What’s going on here, Frank?”

  “Life after death on the LAPD.”

  Then I saw a retired FBI profiler from the 11000 Wilshire building in L.A. Like a lot of Feds, he was nondescript. A blond vanilla sundae with a comb-over and blue eyes. I couldn’t remember his name, but he stepped up and supplied it.

  “Jimmy James Blunt. We did that Union Bank thing in Diamond Bar together.”

  “Right, I remember. J.J., right?”

  He nodded.

  “Come on, Shane; you can meet the rest of the cast later,” Laura interrupted. “Nix has a preshow meeting in ten minutes. It’s now or never.”

  I followed Laura out of the police squad room set, through a mock judge’s chambers, and into the large makeup room, which was located on the far side of the warehouse.

  Nix Nash was sitting in a swivel chair in front of a built-in vinyl table that ran the length of the chair-lined room under an expanse of lit mirrors. He was wearing a blue velour running suit and, as we entered, he was chewing out his bone-thin, heavily tattooed makeup man.

  “Come on, Greg,” Nix said sharply. “How many times do I have to go through this? You don’t line it; you dot it. Otherwise the top edge fades into my skin tone. You gotta use the number nine brown pencil, not the seven. Fill in the upper lip, starting right here.”

  He was talking about his bullshit moustache. The makeup man leaned in with a fresh number 9 pencil and started making little brown dots along the top ridge of Nix’s moustache, filling it in, creating a fuller look. Then he saw Laura and me in the mirror behind him and swung his swivel chair around, brushing the makeup guy’s hand rudely away as he turned to face us.

  “Hey, you made it. Gee, that’s terrific,” he said happily. “Just be a minute, Shane. Makeup’s already on. Just gotta let Greg finish the pencil work; then we can chat.”

  I watched while the moustache achieved its lush TV makeover. Then Nix checked it carefully, holding up a hand mirror.

  “Much better, Greg. You see what a difference it makes when you do it the right way?”

  “Unbelievable,” Greg replied, and then went wildly over the top as he added, “Twenty years in makeup and that’s a new one on me. Great tip, Nix. It definitely goes in the book, man.”

  Nix got out of his chair and looked at me. “I have a dressing room right onstage here. Come on.”

  We exited the makeup area, leaving Laura in our wake, and walked about fifty feet to a walnut door that said: STAR on a brass plaque. Nothing too subtle about that.

  Nix opened up and led me into a plush living room with wall-to-wall carpet, antique furniture, and a full mirrored bar. He went to the fridge, opened it, and poured himself a soft drink.

  “I never booze before a show, but let me fix you something. Beer, wine, shooter? What’ll it be?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, and waited to hear what he really wanted.

  Nix took a moment to examine two beautiful tailored suits that were on a hanging rack near the bar. One was brown, the other blue. He pulled both off, turned, and extended them toward me, one in each hand.

  “Can’t make up my mind. Blue is good for our set, but the brown goes better with my coloring. Which do you like?”

  “I’m not a wardrobe consultant. How ’bout we get to what it was you had in mind.”

  “To the point then.” He smiled as he hung the suits back on the rack. “What I’m about to say is just between us. No witnesses, so don’t make the mistake of thinking you can gain leverage by trying to use it against me.”

  “Don’t worry, Nix. I know about uncorroborated statements.”

  “Good.” He sat on the sofa, but I remained standing. “Lita’s murder is a bag of snakes,” he began. “But you already know that.”

  “Is it?”

  “You know it is. You went to see Captain Madrid today. She’s had it in for Lita for years. Her husband is a sociopathic killer. Les Madrid has ten notches on his gun.”

  “Nine,” I corrected. “One of those guys didn’t make it all the way onto the ark and ended up camping out in an oxygen tent.”

  “But you get the point. Besides him, I’ve got a list of half a dozen cops who had contentious arguments with Lita, some in public with witnesses present. You, my unfortunate friend, are holding an ever-expanding bag of runny doo. When it explodes you’re going to wish you’d worn your rain slicker.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. But I can help you. We can find a way to make this, if not easy, at least livable.”

  “How we gonna do that?”

  “I’ve got more evidence coming on Lita’s murder. Stuff you don’t even know about yet. It’s substantial and it’s going to make you and your partner look very stupid because you should have turned it and it points right at the killer.”

  “You mean at Carla Sanchez,” I said, holding his gaze.

  “I don’t think Carl
a did it,” he said unexpectedly.

  “Except that was your lead.”

  “No, it was your lead. I just turned it. As cops, we know sometimes leads go nowhere.”

  “So where’s this going, Nix?”

  “I’ve got a proposition.” He stood and set his soft drink down, then faced me. He seemed slightly taller. Then I noticed he was wearing boots with three-inch stacked Cuban heels.

  “You already know a lot of my people. Marcia, Detective Palgrave, J. J. Blunt, Judge Web Russell.”

  “I’m surprised to hear Webster Russell is working for you. I thought he was retired and living in Tahoe.”

  “He’s back. He’s a great jurist. The point is, all my people know their stuff. Agree?”

  “They’re good.”

  “And before they retired they were all destroyed by a corrupt legal system here in L.A. and put out to pasture. I don’t want to see you end up like that.”

  “Me neither.”

  “So let’s you and me keep it from happening. How’d you like to be on my team? Get off the firing line and step up for a little piece of what we’re doing here. Join Marcia, Frank, and the others?”

  “I always try not to crap where I eat.”

  “Gee … Good one.” He smiled, but I could tell I was frustrating him. “Here’s the choice as I see it, Shane. You can make a deal with me right now. Join my team, work this case with me, or you face the consequences like those poor cops in Atlanta. We’ll talk money later, but I promise you it’s gonna beat the heck out of your detective’s salary.”

  “If I work for you, do I have to retire from the LAPD first?”

  “For the time being, to be effective, our arrangement will have to be extremely confidential. You’d have to stay on the job. Later, after I leave L.A., you can pull the pin and if you’ve clicked with my audience, you might even be asked to join the permanent cast of V-TV. Become a famous talking head like Mark Fuhrman, maybe even write a few books.”

  “What would my job entail?”

  “You’d feed me case facts. There’s a five-thousand-dollar bonus for every fact you give me that I decide to run with on the air.”

  “Sell out my case.”