Valley of Vice

by Steve Garcia

  “Let me see,” said Kahn. He peered over her shoulder. “This Duke guy’s your suspect, right?”

  “Damn straight,” said Reyes. “We think he may well be the cop at the center of FID’s investigation, too.”

  Kahn was already at his computer, tapping away at the keyboard. “If this guy served with Simons, his records will be available at the war library over in Gardena.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any librarians up at, oh”—Reyes looked at his watch—“just after eleven.”

  “It’s all online,” said Kahn. “I’ve been a member since I demobbed in ninety-three. What’s the squadron?”

  Reyes read off the details. Kahn clicked through several screens.

  “Sal, call the water company,” said Wallace. “We don’t have time for this. Davey could be in real trouble.”

  Kahn stopped tapping. “You might be right.”

  Wagner was looking at the screen, too. “Mangan?”

  “Who’s Mangan?” asked Reyes.

  “He’s a captain over at vice in Wilshire,” said Kahn. “Mangan was with us tonight.”

  “He’s the one who made me dress up like a faggot,” said Wagner. “I think he kinda enjoyed it—”

  “Shut up, Harlen!” said Wallace. She went over to the screen. Five names were listed under A Troop: Private Eddie Wilson. Corporal Jimmy Baxter. Captain Theodore Simons. Master Sergeant Brian Mangan. Private Ernesto Casañas. “Mangan has to be Duke.”

  “Am I missing something?” said Wagner. “Everyone knows Mangan was out in the Gulf. So were two hundred other guys in the LAPD.”

  “Yeah, but Mangan was there in an elite squad with Theodore ‘Prince’ Simons, who killed himself this morning with a Makarov.”

  “Oh,” said Wagner, as though a lightbulb had suddenly come on in his dumb head.

  “Where was Mangan when McCall got shot?” asked Reyes.

  “He was on the sting, with us—he’d gone to get coffee,” said Kahn. He shook his head. “Oh fuck.”

  “Let me guess, he was on the murder scene pretty promptly,” said Wallace.

  Kahn and Wagner shared a look.

  “That’s right,” said Kahn. “And the coffee was from Fratelli’s.”

  “What do you mean?” said Wallace.

  Kahn scratched the stubble across his jaw. “When he found us with the coffee, it was at least thirty minutes after he went to get it, and it was cold.”

  “Jeez, Don,” said Wallace. “Wanna tell us what you had for dinner, too?”

  “No, I mean stone cold, and stale. Hell, I knew something wasn’t right.”

  “Care to share it?” said Wagner.

  Kahn was looking shaken. “I often pick a coffee up at the Fratelli’s near Ange’s place. She likes soya milk. The thing is, the place closes at seven. I bet it’s the same for the one near the Biscayne.”

  Reyes eyes lit up as he twigged, along with Wallace. “So Mangan bought the coffees earlier. To give himself an alibi.”

  “He must have been the one who anonymously called in the murder to the hotel clerk,” said Wagner.

  Wallace turned to Reyes. “Sal, grab Siley from down the hall. I’m going to call the water company and see where Davey might be.”

  She quickly brought up the number and dialed. The phone rang once, twice, and then made a clicking noise. A recording began: “Thank you for calling The Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. If you are experiencing an emergency situation, press nine. If you wish to discuss—”

  Wallace jammed her finger on to the nine button. She could hear it click and then begin to ring. It rang several times until at last she heard, “LA Water and Power. Daniel James speaking. What is your emergency?”

  “Dan, this is Detective Wallace of the Hollywood Precinct. I received a report that there is a water emergency on one of the Sphinx Construction sites. I need to know which site. Is there some way you can tell me that?”

  “Hold on,” he said. Wallace tapped her pen as she waited.

  “Detective?” the operative said.

  “Yes?”

  “We don’t show any emergencies. There are three sites listed with Sphinx Construction as the primary contact. One has no water or sewer lines as yet. The other two are scheduled for completion in the next month or so and their lines are in place with no problems reported.”

  “You’re absolutely positive?” Wallace asked.

  “I’m looking at the screen. Nothing’s wrong. In fact, it’s a quiet night in LA as far as we’re concerned.”

  “Thanks,” Wallace said. “I’m going to need the addresses of the Sphinx sites.”

  Siley came into the office with Reyes, and she held up her hand while she wrote down the information from the water company, then hung up.

  “Christ!” said Siley. “We just cleared Cresner of some bullshit charges and now you’ve decided to go after a highly decorated captain? You better have some strong evidence.”

  “If we’re right, Mangan may be out hunting down another victim as we speak. Davey’s wife said he was called to one of his sites by the water company, but they report no problems. I have two addresses: the Davlene Office Complex, six thousand Wilshire, and the RFBF Tower, which is at three-oh-eight North Virgil.”

  “If we’re wrong on this one and on Mangan, we can all look forward to some dark days ahead,” said Siley. “I’ve known Mangan for a lot of years, and I’ve never heard anyone call him Duke.”

  “Maybe he and Simons only went with their old army handles when they needed security. I’ve sent a couple of squads to Davey’s house, in case he comes back.”

  “If Mangan’s work up to now has been anything to judge by,” said Reyes, “I don’t think Davey’s coming back.”

  26

  Reyes looked back and saw Kahn and Wagner turn east toward North Virgil, their sirens howling into the night. Reyes took out his cell phone and dialed SPHINX 1.

  “You have reached the voice mail of Sam Davey. If you’d like to leave a message, press one—”

  “He’s still not picking up.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a signal,” said Wallace. She sped through an intersection under a green light.

  “If he doesn’t have a signal on Wilshire, he needs a new phone service.”

  “He might not be on Wilshire.” There was a fatalistic tone to Wallace’s voice.

  The unmarked unit’s grille and dash lights and the scream of its siren cleared a path down the oh-two. They were making excellent time but no matter how fast they were traveling, it wasn’t fast enough if Mangan was already there.

  “Take the Glendale Boulevard exit.”

  “Tell the units responding that we want a report as soon as they get there,” Wallace said. “I want to know if anyone is there.”

  Reyes reached for the radio but hesitated to place the call. “I know everything seems to point to Mangan, but we all could be wrong.”

  “The best thing we can do is get over there and take a look.”

  The radio announced that units Baker four fifteen and two ninety-eight had arrived on the scene. Officer Diaz announced over the radio: “The gate was open. We’re in the grounds. There’s a blue Continental out front. We ran the plate. It belongs to Samuel Davey. There’s no sign of Davey or anyone else. Do you want us to wait or begin the search?”

  “Start looking but keep your partner close,” said Reyes. “The individual we want is Captain Brian Mangan. He should be considered extremely dangerous. You are authorized to respond with extreme prejudice if the situation warrants.”

  “Repeat please. Did you say we are to apprehend an LAPD captain?”

  “That’s correct. And he may have a civilian with him. Samuel Davey is to be considered a hostage.”

  “Roger.”

  The dispatcher broke in. “Attention units. Stand by for a physical description of suspect.”

  Reyes turned the broadcast down but kept h
is hand on the dial. “Hopefully with the uniforms on the scene, Mangan won’t risk doing anything stupid.”

  “If he’s even there,” said Wallace. She left the oh-two and bolted down Glendale Boulevard.

  “Wallace?” Wagner’s voice over the radio interrupted their conversation. She pushed the send button. “Yeah, I hear you.”

  “We’re at the North Virgil site. It was locked up. We took bolt cutters to the chain on the gate. We’re checking the building but it’s as quiet as a grave here.”

  “Thanks,” Wallace said. “Davey’s car is at our site.”

  “We’re on our way,” Wagner said.

  “Roger.”

  Wallace barely had released the send button and the radio crackled. “Baker four fifteen. Shots fired. Officer down. Six-zero-zero-zero Wilshire Boulevard. Davlene office complex construction site. Use caution when approaching.”

  “Damn it!” Wallace yelled.

  Reyes grabbed the radio. “Baker four fifteen. Adam Six Nineteen is ETA sixty seconds.”

  “Roger. Shooter is in the building but exact location unknown.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Reyes said. “You do realize that Mangan can hear every fucking word we say?”

  “Exactly.” Wallace drove at high speed through the gate. The car bounced hard. A cloud of white dust rose as she slammed on the brakes and slid to within a few feet of the main entrance of a half-built office complex. The car’s headlights showed up the concrete shell of the building, surrounded by scaffolding and plastic sheeting. Stacks of builders’ materials littered the yard, and a small crane stood inoperative to one side. Reyes made sure his vest was secure and climbed out of the car, grabbing his issue torch from the back seat.

  “Over here,” said a voice. Two cops were crouched by one of the structural supports.

  Strachman and Philby. Philby was clutching her thigh and had tied a bandage above the wound.

  Her face was white as a sheet, but her eyes were alert.

  “Don’t worry,” said Reyes. “The ambulance will be here any minute.”

  Wallace came to his side, and Reyes nodded toward the exposed concrete stairs inside the building. A slight breeze rustled the sheets of plastic that hung like gray specters.

  “What have we got?”

  “Captain Mangan hit her as soon as we hit the bottom of the stairs. I pulled her out as quickly as I could.”

  “Good work,” said Reyes. “Did you see anyone with Mangan?”

  Strachman shook his head. “Diaz and Herdez are inside. You think Davey might already be—”

  “I hope not.”

  “Let’s get the heavy armor,” Wallace said. She moved quickly across to the trunk of the car and picked out the Colt CAR-15 5.56mm assault rifle. She shoved shells into her pocket. Reyes took a shotgun.

  “Sal.”

  “What?”

  “Be careful.”

  “No sweat.”

  Wallace pulled the trunk lid down and walked back to the unfinished entryway.

  “Strachman, get Philby away from the building and wait for the medics. Keep pressure on that wound. You’re not safe here.”

  “Aren’t you gonna wait for backup?”

  “There’s no time. If Mangan is in there with Davey, he’s got one thing on his mind.”

  Reyes opened up the channels and pushed his radio.

  “Captain Mangan. This is Detective Reyes. You have a chance to make this end peacefully. Send Mr. Davey out.” Silence. “Brian,” he said. “We know you’re up there. You know how this ends.”

  Again, there was nothing.

  “We do it the hard way,” said Reyes.

  Wallace led the way into the building. As they entered the first floor, the wail of approaching sirens sounded out on the street, and the red and blue lights from an ambulance wheeled across the empty space. Some stud walls were half erected—probably ready to form the lobby when the build was completed—but otherwise the building was still a shell. The walls were covered with brown paper, torn in places. Overhead, the grid was installed for the ceiling tiles or lighting system but the entire HVAC conduit and piping system was still visible. A yellow rope was draped across an open elevator shaft declaring Not in Service for anyone dumb enough to make the mistake. Reyes twitched with each movement of the sheets of Visqueen, his heart thumping under his vest.

  Wallace held up her hand, then pointed up the stairs. Reyes directed his torch. There were spots of blood leading up the stairs to the second story.

  I hope they’re Philby’s, thought Reyes.

  They moved swiftly but cautiously up the staircase. Tiny pieces of construction debris crunched under Reyes’s feet, and he kept his gun extended over the top of his torch. A little light penetrated from the night sky, but everything was thrown in shadow.

  “Herdez?” he whispered. “Diaz?”

  Reyes shone his torch in wide arcs around the cavernous space. There were no stud walls at all yet on this floor. It was clear.

  Wallace moved a little faster on the next level, and Reyes wanted her to slow down. If Mangan was waiting for them, they were in trouble. Reyes raced after her. He could feel sweat trickle down the small of his back. They move past the fourth floor and reached the landing halfway to the fifth floor when Wallace pulled up short. A shuffling sound came from above. Wallace and Reyes raised their guns. A hand appeared holding an LAPD badge.

  “Put down the artillery,” said Herdez. “It’s us.”

  He and Diaz came into view, both holding their arms above their heads.

  Wallace and Reyes rushed up the remaining steps. “Okay, guys, what’s the situation?” Reyes asked.

  “The captain’s taken his hostage up to the roof,” said Diaz. “Two floors up.”

  “Did you get a visual?”

  “Negative, but we heard voices. The door to the outside is locked. How do you want to handle this?”

  “Is there another way up?” Reyes asked.

  “Yes.” Diaz stepped out of Reyes’s line of sight and pointed toward the far end of the fifth floor. “There’s an emergency stairwell on the other end.”

  “Take my cell,” said Wallace, handing it to Herdez. “Call in an air support unit.”

  “Sure thing, detective,” said Herdez.

  “Diaz, come with us,” said Wallace.

  They hurried across the empty floor toward the stairwell, with Herdez calling the precinct about the chopper. They reached the edge of the flooring and stepped out on to a wooden scaffold platform. The wind was strong up here, and Reyes caught his breath as he realized how exposed they were. Wallace tried a hand on the iron stair rail, and it held firm. “Let’s hope Davey’s a good builder,” she said, grimly.

  Despite their best efforts, every step they took up the metal stairwell seemed to send an echoing clang into the night. Reyes switched off his torch—the ambient light was sufficient to see by now that they were out in the open.

  They reached the top of the stairs, which opened straight through a gap on to the roof. No doubt this walkway would be covered at a later date, but at the moment it was open to the elements. Reyes peered over the edge. The roof was half covered with asphalt, and the other half had plastic tacked down over the tiles. Two gigantic air vents protruded in the middle, and between them stood Captain Brian Mangan. He was holding Davey close in front of him, but in a split-second he twisted and jerked up a gun.

  Sparks flew from the railings over Reyes’s head before he heard the crack of the shot. He almost fell back down the steps, but Wallace caught him.

  “Are you hit?” asked Wallace. Reyes’s heart hammered. “Are you shot, Sal?”

  Reyes righted himself on the stairs. “I’m good. Madre de Dios, he’s fast!”

  “Get out of here,” Mangan shouted. “You know I’ll kill this son of a bitch.”

  “Relax, Captain,” called out Wallace. “We just want to talk with you.”

  “Don’t feed m
e that crap, officer,” Mangan yelled back. “I’ve been LAPD for fifteen years. I know what you’re here to do.”

  “Let’s wait for air support,” said Diaz.

  Reyes shook his head. “Mangan won’t let it end like that. We need to neutralize him before he sees the writing on the wall. Phil, can you cover me?”

  “That depends on what you’re planning to do.”

  “I’m going on to the roof a different way.”

  “There isn’t any other way, Sal. The main stairway is locked. Isn’t that what you said, Diaz?”

  “That’s right.”

  Reyes slapped the scaffolding pole at his side. “I’m not going to use the stairs, Phil. Keep him talking, can you?”

  Wallace looked at him and shook her head. “You must be fucking kidding me, Sal…”

  27

  Reyes was already running down the stairs to the sixth floor. Back on the concrete he sprinted across the deserted floor and made his way across the breadth of the building. Herdez was coming off the phone by the central stairs.

  “I heard a shot,” he said. “Air support will be here in five.”

  “No casualties,” said Reyes. “You need to wait by the main stairs in case Mangan tries to come down that way.” He handed the shotgun to Herdez. “Take this.”

  Herdez nodded. “Where are you going?”

  Reyes looked skyward. “Up on to the roof.” Herdez frowned. “Don’t ask,” Reyes added.

  He continued past the lift shaft to the edge of the floor, where the plastic sheeting was tacked firmly in place to wooden jousts fixed to the concrete. There was a nail on the floor, and he used it to tear open the bottom of the sheeting and peel it back. There was no breeze at all on this side of the building—it was blowing down from the hills in the west. Downwind. Perfect. Reyes looked down over the streaming lights of Wilshire.

  For a few weeks in a summer vacation while at UCLA, Reyes had worked on a construction site and had gotten used to carrying loads around on scaffolding. There had been guys then who used to climb up the poles like monkeys, daring each other to hang from taller heights than this, just for a couple of beers after the shift ended. Reyes had declined the dares then—he wasn’t a big beer drinker and he had a healthy appreciation of danger.