by Steve Garcia
“We have a very strong motive, Mr. Ellberg,” said Wallace.
“And my client has a very strong alibi for this morning. You picked him up at, what, eight o’clock? Council member Simons died before that, from what I hear…”
Wallace tried to play it cool. These smart-ass lawyers all had connections within the DA, favors to call in. “And how have you heard that, Dieter?”
“Let’s just say I’ve heard, detective. Are you suggesting my client killed Theodore Simons this morning before breakfast, drove home in rush-hour traffic from city hall to his home on South Weverly, then put on his robe and met you at the door?” He cocked his head to the side. “Come on!”
Wallace looked at Reyes. It has taken her almost an hour and twenty to get to Davey’s from Burbank, though she had to swing by Reyes’s place. “It’s possible,” she said.
“It’s possible.” Ellberg smiled. “But so is winning the state lottery. I think it’s time to put an end to this nonsense while the LAPD still has a shred of a reputation intact. Sam here willingly submitted to a GSR, which came back negative. You seem to be victimizing my client on the dubious ground of his concealed homosexuality, and to my mind that constitutes harassment.”
Wallace felt the anger boil up inside her. Smart-ass lawyers were bad enough at the best of times.
They were even worse when they were right.
23
Small droplets of spittle sparkled in Brooks’s mustache. Over the course of the twenty-minute journey, he’d been getting increasingly agitated and his driving more erratic. Cresner the good cop—Jerry this and Jerry that.
“Served his country as a soldier, then in law enforcement. Took a damn bullet, and this is how they repay him…”
They came to a red light, and Brooks slowed, flicked on the sirens, then accelerated across the intersection.
“There was a time,” he said, “that cops never chose between a cop and anybody else. I’d believe my partner over my own mother, God rest her soul. Now, the first hint, the tiniest suggestion that something isn’t on the up and up, and our own leaders turn the FID loose on us. Nowadays, you’d better have a high-ranking friend on the force who can pull strings for you or you’ll be eaten alive. I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”
Coombs had hardly spoken so far. Instinct told her to hold her peace, let him calm down a bit and get back to the steady Brooks she knew. Roaring down the oh-two with sirens blaring, while the driver tilts at windmills wasn’t the time to point out some of the problems with his logic.
Coombs felt her stomach churn as the car went over a bump at speed. “The DA cooked up this mess, I can tell you. I don’t know why they let Pearl out, but it’s their fault he ended up dead. Now they’re running scared and have FID trying to put together a case outa nothing.”
Ahead in the road a young couple scurried quickly across.
“Sergeant, maybe you should slow down.”
The dispatcher came over the radio. “All units vicinity, we have shots fired on Pandora and Holman.”
Brooks eased the car off the freeway without signaling.
“Is that Cresner’s house?” said Coombs.
“They shoulda left him alone,” said Brooks, by way of an answer.
“Maybe we should let them do their jobs,” she urged. “Cresner might be dangerous.”
“The only person Jerry’s a danger to is Jerry,” said Brooks.
“What do you mean?”
“Jerry’s got…problems,” said Brooks. “Sometimes he’s not himself.”
“What kind of problems?”
The trees screeched as they rounded a corner. “Jerry’s a junkie.”
“A drug addict?” Coombs had seen enough of them to know they came in every shape and size, but Cresner, well, he seemed like a different generation.
“I knew from when he first got shot,” said Brooks, “that something wasn’t right. No way should Jerry have been in that part of town. I wanted to get him on his own, but Mary was always there when I went over.”
“So Cresner was looking for a score when he was shot?”
“That’s what Pearl told me.”
Suddenly Coombs was afraid. When had Brooks spoken to Pearl? Before he killed him? She was sure she could get her hand onto the Smith & Wesson CS45 tucked into her belt quicker than Brooks could try anything.
“Sergeant Brooks,” she said. “Ray, I’m gonna ask you to stop the car and let me out. This has gone far enough.”
“Pearl wasn’t a nice person. He was a total asshole, in fact. He laughed at me. He laughed at Jerry, too, but during his boasting, he said one thing that explained the alley, at least in part. Jerry got heavy-handed with the dealer, said he tried to cross him. Pearl got a little fresh as well, used his fists. Well, if you know Jerry, you know he wouldn’t take that. He fought back. Pearl didn’t know he was a cop until after he was arrested.”
Brooks turned left on to Pandora Avenue. Several blocks ahead, red and blue lights lit the neighborhood.
“Goddamn them all if they hurt Jerry.” He pulled his car up to the back bumper of a squad car. Without another word, Brooks was out of the vehicle.
Coombs followed swiftly on his heels. She glanced to the right. A small bungalow—Cresner’s she guessed—was illuminated by several squad car spotlights. In the shadows like specters, dark-clothed SWAT members lurked behind trees and hunkered down on the neighbors’ lawns in full gear, helmets, Kevlar vests, AR-15s, shotguns—the works. They were all focused on the little house. David Wallace was standing beside one of the cars, holding a loudspeaker.
“You need to come out now, Jerry, while it can still all be handled without anyone getting hurt.”
“Damn FID,” Brooks said. He made for Wallace.
“Wait,” Coombs said. She grasped his sleeve, but he pulled away.
“Stay back,” shouted a man’s desperate voice from the house.
“None of us wants this to escalate, Jerry,” said David Wallace. “Come out and let’s talk.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Hey!” Brooks yelled over the squawk of a dozen radios and the rumble of high-powered police cruiser engines. “Hey, Wallace.”
David Wallace turned and squinted through the bright lights and spots of darkness at the figure rushing toward him. “Sergeant? What the hell are you doing here? This is West Hollywood jurisdiction.”
“I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing?”
“You’re out of bounds, detective,” Wallace said. He pointed at him. “Stay out of this.”
Coombs stepped into the fray. “Wait. Everyone. We’re on the same team.”
“And who the hell are you?” Wallace asked.
“Joanne Coombs. I’m with Hollywood. Ray and I are on the same squad.”
“Uh-huh, I remember. You’re both interfering with an FID investigation. The suspect has already let off a couple of rounds.”
Brooks stamped his foot. “Damn it, Jerry,” he muttered, then addressed Wallace. “Was anybody hurt?”
“He fired into the air,” said Wallace. “But that’s not the point—”
“Listen,” Coombs said. “Ray thinks he can get his friend to come out of there peacefully.”
“Really? Well,” he said, looking directly into Brooks’s eyes, “the only reason we haven’t moved in is because your friend’s wife is inside. Cresner is armed and drunk. I don’t think he’s going to listen to reason. We’re this close to using a flash bang on him,” Wallace said, holding his finger and thumb a quarter inch apart. “That’s about the only way this is going to end without—”
“You don’t need to use a grenade on him,” Brooks said. “He might be drunk but he’s also heavily medicated. Let me have a try at him.”
“Listen, I know he’s your buddy, but—”
“At least let him try,” Coombs said. “I don’t think you want to explain the morning headlines about your squad gu
nning down a drunken police officer who had recently been honored for having been wounded in the line of duty.”
Wallace sucked on his lips, then spoke into his radio. “SWAT, hold your positions. Repeat, hold your positions until I give the word.” He looked hard at Brooks. “You really think you can get him out without—”
“Without anything.” Brooks held out his hand for the loudspeaker.
Wallace nodded and handed it to him slowly. “Go ahead, but if it looks like he’s going to lose it, I won’t hesitate.”
“Understood.”
Brooks jammed down the talk button. “Jerry. Jerry Cresner. This is Ray Brooks. I’m coming in. Go to the front door, buddy. My colleague Joanne Coombs is coming with me.”
“Wait a minute,” Wallace said. “I don’t want a parade going up to the house. If he opens fire—”
“He’s not going to open fire. For Christ’s sake, his wife is in there, isn’t she? The only thing Jerry loves more than the force is his wife.”
“If he takes you both hostage, it further complicates our situation,” Wallace said.
“I’m armed,” said Coombs, patting the small of her back where the Chief’s Special was concealed.
“If Jerry Cresner takes us hostage, I’ll pass on my pension. Come on,” Brooks said. He started up the sidewalk. Coombs walked slightly behind and to the right. Stepping into the spotlights, knowing there was enough firepower in the darkness to blow away the neighborhood, did not make her feel confident. If Cresner panicked and fired a shot, all of those cops could open up and she and Brooks would be in no-man’s land.
“Jerry,” Brooks shouted. “You had better be by that front door. I’m going to look stupid standing there ringing the bell.” Brooks and Coombs climbed the three steps to the stoop but the door didn’t open. “Jerry? Jerry, open the door. It’s me, Ray.”
A slurred response, barely audible, came from inside. “Go ’way.”
“Jerry? You let me in there, right now. You’re making me look like an idiot.”
The door opened an inch. The latch was still fastened. One bleary bloodshot eye peered out. “Ray? They think I killed that bastard.”
“Let us in, Jerry. We’ll talk inside.”
The door closed. Coombs could hear the latch being moved, fumbled with. She held her breath, hoping that Cresner wouldn’t pass out or do anything else to screw things up.
The door opened, slowly. First an inch, then four or five until Cresner’s face was fully visible. “You’re not lying to me, are ya? You’re still my friend?”
“I came here because I’m your friend.”
Cresner pulled the door open. Brooks stepped inside as soon as there was enough room to squeeze through. Coombs hesitated, but only for a second. Something was telling her this was not been the smartest thing she had ever done.
“Hello,” she said, as she slipped in. “I’m Joanne Coombs.”
Cresner nodded, and her eyes were drawn to the service issue 9mm. The barrel was pointed to the floor. “Get in.” He quickly closed the door and paced across the living room. “Ray, what the hell am I gonna do?”
“They only want to talk to you again,” Brooks said. He glanced around the room. “Where’s Mary?”
Cresner leaned against the door. It looked to Coombs like he was trying to remember where his wife was, or worse, trying to forget.
“Is she all right?” said Coombs.
“Scared to death,” Cresner said. “I sent her away.”
“You sent her away?” Coombs asked. “Where? When?”
“Not tellin’,” he said. “She didn’t want to go. You know Mary, Ray. She didn’t want to go.”
“You knew they were coming, didn’t you?” Brooks said, nodding toward the front of the house.
Cresner grinned. “I still have friends. You’re my friend, aren’t you, Ray?”
“Yeah, Jerry, I’m your friend. Hey, isn’t that the TV you got yesterday?”
The plasma was unpacked, but not yet plugged in.
“Ya. It’s a damn nice one, too. HD.”
“See? That was from your friends on the force. You have lots of friends.”
“I guess…but those guys outside…”
“It’s okay. Everyone’s confused, Jerry. We’re going to take care of things.” Brooks nodded to Coombs. “Could you see if you can find some coffee and make a strong pot?”
“I don’t want coffee,” said Cresner. “Let’s have a drink.”
“First, let me have your gun before someone gets hurt,” said Brooks.
As soon as he said the word gun Cresner’s hand shot up and pointed the barrel straight at Brooks. “Don’t!” Coombs yelled, reaching for her own weapon. “Jerry, put the gun down.”
He swiveled the gun onto her. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Steady, Jerry,” said Brooks. “This is Joanne, remember. She’s new in homicide. Good cop, y’know.”
Coombs tensed. Cresner’s hand was shaking like he was experiencing a private earthquake from a couple of feet away. There was no way she could pull her weapon.
“Jerry,” said Brooks. “This isn’t you, friend. Look at her—she’s scared. She came in here to help you. She’s our friend, Jerry.”
Tears pooled in the rims of Cresner’s eyes, then rolled down his cheeks. He whipped the gun around and put the barrel against the side of his head. “I can’t go to jail. I can’t.”
“Nobody said anything about jail,” said Brooks. “Let’s put the gun down before one of us gets hurt.”
Cresner closed his eyes for a second, and Coombs leaped forward. One hand went on his wrist, the other twisted the barrel of the gun away from Cresner’s head. There was no resistance, and the gun slipped into her hand. She popped the magazine.
Cresner slid down the wall until he was in a sitting position. Sobs wracked his weakened body. “I…I can’t go to jail.”
“I’m going to tell Wallace the scene is secured,” Coombs said.
Cresner’s head jerked up. His bloodshot eyes looked at Coombs, then pleadingly he turned toward Brooks. “Don’t let them come get me. You promised.”
“I’m not going to invite them in,” Coombs said. “But if we tell them everything is okay, they will be willing to sit back and put their guns on safety. That kind of thing, you know?”
“That’s all she’s doing,” Brooks said.
Coombs opened the door a crack. She couldn’t see anyone through the glare of the spotlights.
“Wallace? Wallace, can you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Wallace’s electronically enhanced voice boomed.
“Cresner’s disarmed. His wife isn’t here. Give us a few minutes.”
There was silence from the street. Coombs squinted. “Wallace?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Coombs went back inside. Brooks and Cresner sat together on the couch.
“Jerry,” said Brooks. “We need to resolve the issue with the man outside. It’s David Wallace from FID. You’ve already talked to him once before.”
“He’s going to send in some of the boys and have them cuff me. I can’t let them do that.”
“How about if we can get him to talk with you here in your house? Are you willing to do that?”
Cresner hesitated. “You think he’ll do that? He won’t want to drag me out in cuffs?”
“I’ll get him to agree to it before we take another step. Okay?”
Cresner nodded.
Brooks rose and walked to the door. He opened it but stood back. “Wallace, I’m coming out. Everybody keep calm.”
“Go ahead,” Wallace said.
Brooks stepped outside.
“Would you mind getting me some water?” Cresner asked Coombs. “I’m still a little unsteady on the old legs.”
Coombs didn’t want to leave his side, but he stayed put as she walked toward the open-plan kitchen, found a glass on the drainer, and poured water from the purif
ier. She set it down on the table.
“Thanks,” he said. “Between the pain pills and the whiskey, I was pretty messed up.”
“I’d say that was an accurate description.”
He nodded. “Damn, I’m shaking like a leaf.”
Coombs and Cresner turned toward the door as it swung open. “We’re coming in,” Brooks said.
“Okay.” Cresner slid his hands between his legs and the sofa cushion. He looked at Coombs. “Helps relieve the pain in the hip.”
She nodded.
David Wallace kept Brooks between himself and Cresner as they eased into the room.
“Jerry, Agent Wallace has agreed to talk to you here. I told him you would answer all of his questions. Is that good for you?”
Cresner nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
Brooks joined Cresner on the couch. Wallace sat in a black leather recliner at an angle from him. “Detective Cresner, I’m going to give you the opportunity to clear up a few things.”
“All right.”
“In your previous statement regarding the day you were shot, you claimed you had come upon a mugging, moved to intervene, and were shot in the attempt.”
“Yes, that’s what happened.”
“There’s nothing you want to change?”
Cresner sat silently. Brooks leaned forward, turning slightly to be able to look into his friend’s eyes. “Jerry. Agent Wallace is giving you a chance but you’ve got to tell him the truth. Is there anything in your statement that you want to change?”
“Okay,” Cresner said. “Yes. I need to change what I said.”
Wallace looked across the table. “Please tell us why you went to meet Pearl that day.”
“I didn’t go to meet with Pearl. I went to see Bunny.”
“Who’s Bunny, Detective Cresner?”
“He’s a…he’s my, y’know…my dealer.”
“Bunny was supplying narcotics to you, Jerry?”
Cresner nodded. “I injured my back a few years ago when tackling a suspect. It wasn’t getting better and I was afraid that the department would force me to retire. If I visited a doctor, it could be noticed. It might be reported. I needed something to help kill the pain and let me do my job. I knew a pusher.”
