Deadly Lullaby

by Robert McClure

  The detectives didn’t reveal what they knew from other sources, but before one of them walked out he said, “Maybe you ought’a firm that up a little more.”

  They briefed Abel. Now he’s called to do a little firming up of his own.

  He says to me now, “So your story is your appearance at this street battle was a coincidence.”

  Lounging on a hospital bed in my room now, feeling loved to the bone by the long, warm kiss of a recent morphine injection, I say, “Yeah.”

  “And you were on your way to talk to Phan again at the Pueblo Del Rio, even though you couldn’t shake a thing out of him earlier that day.”

  “Right. I was running out of leads and figured, you know, what the hell.”

  “Had you already called all the numbers on the mystery driver’s call list?”

  “I got through one number as I was driving, yeah. I was interrupted during the second call when I heard weapons fire and saw the Suburban haul ass from the alley.”

  “You find anything out from the first call?”

  “Just that on the day of Sonita’s death our driver called a pizza joint—North End Original, the one on Third Street.” To get a bead on the direction Abel’s thoughts are running, I add, “I should be up and around tomorrow. I’ll stop by there then and grill the guy I talked to.”

  The prick actually laughs. “Don’t fucking count on it.”

  Damn, I thought he’d say something like that.

  After saying something I didn’t catch, he says, “So when the passengers in the Suburban started firing at you, you panicked. Are you sticking with that one?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Crucci, you’ve never panicked under the stress of action before. Hell, everything I’ve ever heard and read about you indicate you’re more at home in a shoot-out than you are in your living room.”

  “I-I’m ashamed of my actions last night, boss. So, you know, don’t dwell on it.”

  “As your immediate supervisor, I have to dwell on it. We found your wrecked cruiser riddled with bullets three miles from a crime scene that was, by the way, also riddled with bullets. No dead or wounded were found at the scene, but traces of blood were. The record owner of the place is an offshore corporation, and all the employees on the site have lawyered up and won’t say squat.” He pauses as if to catch his breath, to calm down. “Speaking of which, let’s return to the Khemra case before the blood surging through my head parboils my brain….All the employees at Malabar Plumbing are Cambodian. Khang happens to be Cambodian, as was Sonita Khemra. Khang is also—”

  “It’s a Southeast Asian neighborhood, Lieu—”

  “Shut up and let me finish….Khang is also widely rumored to be in the drug trade—a rumor, by the way, you’ve never mentioned. Now, along with all the other circumstances in play here, the first thing that pops in my head when I hear about a gunfight at that warehouse is ‘drug war.’ I think I can accurately predict your answer, but I have to ask: Other than your claim that you were on your way to check on Phan, did your presence near that warehouse last night have anything to do with the Khemra case?”

  “No, my presence there had nothing to do with that.”

  Damn, it sucks that I can never tell Abel I solved the Khemra murder. Me and the old man chewed on this last night and I have no real choice but to go with my genetic predisposition to cover up this entire clusterfuck. Revealing the whole “truth and nothing but the truth” would land Joe and Tarasov in prison—Joe for pulling the plug on Fecarotta, and both of them for conspiring to commit assault, murder, and a banquet buffet of other offenses at the stash house. If I squealed, these two mugs would view it as treason, especially since the only thing I’d gain from it is an attaboy from my boss. The justice dealt Fecarotta and Donsky was of the frontier variety, but it was complete justice nonetheless, avenging the murders of both Sonita and Taquan Oliver. Bottom line is that with justice served on all fronts, it’s preferable to fall on my figurative sword than worry about Joe and Tarasov hacking me to bits with something akin to a real one, and I’ll make friends in the process.

  And only one enemy: “Goddamn,” Abel says. “I knew asking that question would be a waste of oxygen. So the only leads we have to the mystery driver are the numbers you haven’t called on his cellphone-data sheet?”

  “Right.”

  “And now someone else will have to chase those down.”

  Which will lead nowhere—I made certain Tarasov and Sacci and their crew dumped their burners last night, and the old man as well. For kicks, I say, “I’ll do it.”

  “Good try, but forget it. Just continue your fantasy tale by telling me about your crash.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I was chasing the Suburban up Santa Fe and another vehicle slammed into me from the side. That’s all I remember.”

  “And next thing you know, abracadabra, you’re in the grass outside the emergency room of Cal Med.”

  “A Good Samaritan must’ve helped me out of the car and driven me over there, maybe even the person who slammed into me.”

  “Based on the time of the reported gunshots in the neighborhood, the working hypothesis is it was almost two hours after the crash when you walked into the emergency room. What’s your story concerning what this Samaritan did with you all that time?”

  “For all I know he was an alien who spent two hours studying my cell structure in his spaceship. More likely, I was unconscious on the hospital lawn for the duration.”

  “With all the hospital personnel and pedestrians who walked by there and didn’t report your presence, you might want to go with the alien-abduction angle,” he says, and remains silent for a long moment. “The fact is, Crucci, you encountered a violent crime in progress and had plenty of time to report it before the crash, but you didn’t. The fact is you initiated a vehicular pursuit and didn’t call dispatch for support and assistance, and didn’t switch on your in-car video system to record what was going down. These facts give rise to a host of scenarios, none of which reflect favorably on you in the best of circumstances—much less in light of the circumstances I’ve found you in of late.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know. And whether what went down last night has anything to do with Sacci or your father is, at the moment, irrelevant to my immediate duties as your supervisor. The offenses you’re undeniably guilty of are punishable with discipline up to and including termination. I’ve already informed your union of my intention to temporarily relieve you from duty pending a hearing before the Board of Rights. The chief can suspend you or remove you from the force before then, but he won’t; he’ll let the process take its course.”

  I rub my eyes and yawn; the morphine’s beginning to really take hold. “I understand.”

  “You sound drugged. Do you understand the trouble you’re in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your union rep told me you should expect the lawyer they retained for you to contact you soon. Don’t take this lightly, Crucci.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Before I hang up, I want to make sure you understand something else. I don’t believe a thing you’ve told me today. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, almost certainly because you’re protecting someone, but it’s all irrelevant to me. I’m not going to insert myself in the disciplinary process, and will silently abide by whatever decision the board makes about your future. Don’t think for a New York millisecond that I’m giving you a break. For one, I don’t want a headline scandal to tarnish my watch. Probably most significantly, I’m sick of the mere thought of you. If you’re expelled from the ass end of the disciplinary process with your present rank intact, you make damn sure you ask for a transfer, or I’ll transfer you myself. Do you understand all this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goodbye, Crucci. I would say good luck to you, too, but I wouldn’t have the slightest faith in the sincerity of my wish.”

  —

  After a c
ouple hours of drug-induced sleep, I rise and walk to the bathroom to urinate. When the deed is done I stand before the bathroom mirror. Considering my fricasseed corpse could be chilling in a morgue locker at the moment, I’m not in bad shape. The left side of my face has seen better days: my eye, cheek, jaw, and neck are bruised, scratched, and swollen, but not so hideously I’d be ashamed to go out in public. The real problem is my upper body. I try to raise the left side of my hospital gown and my left shoulder throbs from what the docs diagnosed as a strained rotator cuff and jammed clavicle. My gasp sets the left side of my ribs to screaming in protest, and I switch to my right hand to lift the gown, finding my entire left side covered with green-purplish bruises. The word is that three of my ribs are contused as badly as they can get without being broken, but they don’t bother me much when I’m walking, sitting, or lying down on my back or right side. The good thing is that my legs, though a little stiff, work fine, and to feel better about myself I spread my legs apart and try to stretch my hamstrings.

  My ribs scream at me again: Stop it, dumbass.

  Okay, I surrender.

  My ribs would welcome another morphine injection at the moment, and I’m due one.

  I’m splashing cold water on my face and trying to gauge how my body would deal with a hot shower when my cellphone goes off on the table by the bed. Hopefully a friend is calling, or maybe the lawyer Abel said my union is providing free of charge. Either way it would be a nice change of pace to talk to someone who’s on my side, even if they are getting paid to take it.

  My iPhone display says “Private Caller.”

  “Hello.”

  “Detective Crucci. Do you recognize my voice?”

  Khang.

  “I do, yes.”

  “Early this morning one of my security guards found two packages behind the dumpsters at my place of business. I immediately thought of you because they were wrapped with crude bows someone fashioned from strips of garbage bags.”

  I smile. Yeah, I admit to showboating by paying Barzi to deliver the corpses of Fecarotta and Donsky to Khang with bows tied around their heads (pulling it off with strips of garbage bags was Barzi’s idea; I wasn’t there when he did it). The message I intended, though, hit home, and Sonita’s family will now have closure. It bugs me that I’ve yet to figure out how to inform whatever family Taquan had that he was innocent and his murder was avenged, but I’ll find a way to do it.

  I say to Khang, “I know nothing about that.”

  “Of course.”

  “At the Leopard Spot day before yesterday, remember I said I was just using a figure of speech when I promised to wrap Sonita’s killer in a bow for you.”

  “And at the time I am sure that is how you intended it….May I speak frankly?”

  “Yes. I’m alone and on a secure line.”

  “As am I….I have come into possession of some very interesting digital video footage. It depicts violent activities last night at an alley gate near a certain plumbing business.”

  The room tilts and sends me reeling toward the side of the bed, where I sit heavily and begin to massage my eyes. The fucker’s going to blackmail me, I know, and the only response I can muster is, “Hmm.”

  A long pause followed by a chuckle. “I will keep you in suspense no longer. I ordered that the disc and the recording machine’s hard drive be destroyed. I personally witnessed their destruction in our industrial incinerator—along with the, um, packages.”

  I ease myself onto the inclined bed and throw the back of my hand over my eyes, sighing with relief. “And there are no copies.”

  “I made certain none were made.”

  Whew. “Thanks.”

  “It is I who should thank you.”

  “What about your two men? The ones, uh, who greeted me at the alley gate?”

  “Oh, them? I assume you are aware that I knew of the packages’ involvement in Sonita’s murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, from this I concluded that your good work on Sonita’s behalf brought you to appear in that alley, and you saved me the inconvenience of wrapping the packages myself. It would be dishonorable for me to use what you were forced to do to my men against you—the recorded images, too, for that matter. The men are replaceable. I have come to believe that you are not.”

  “That’s good to hear. I should tell you, though, that you might change your mind about my value to you after learning that LAPD has relieved me from duty due to my actions last night—or due to my inaction might be a better way to put it.”

  A pause, then, “I admire you for admitting this to me, but I was already aware of your department’s displeasure with you. I do not base opinions of men based on what the Los Angeles police think of them.” The smallest chuckle. “If I did, I would have no friends.”

  Yuck-yucking along with him, I’m thinking, Damn, the fucker has sources within the department, which shouldn’t surprise me anywhere near as much as it does.

  He says, “Please come by the Leopard Spot to see me, and do so soon. I have another gift for you of a more, shall we say, bankable nature. One that should assist you in the event your department discontinues your salary.”

  I’m fucking beaming now. “Thank you. I’ll definitely stop by.”

  “Excellent. I am interested in hearing the details of how you came to appear in that alley last night. Is this something you will share with me?”

  Give up Monique? No way. “Sorry, but I can’t do that. I made a sincere promise to keep that source confidential. If your gift is contingent on me breaking that promise, I’ll have to refuse it.”

  “Oh, no, please, you misunderstand me. I am merely seeking to satisfy my curiosity, nothing more. I appreciate the honor behind your stance and would not attempt to sway you from it. This is the trait I admired about you from the start of our relationship, Detective Crucci. You are an honorable man.”

  —

  Soon after that, my union-appointed lawyer stops by my room for a consultation. He’s a gray and rumpled old warhorse named Pete Beranger, well-known in union circles for defending fallen LA cops. He listens intently to my story and asks no questions, finally saying he’s rescued cops from the wreckage of worse jams. Barring further revelations, Pete says my reputation will take a beating, but I’ll probably keep my job, at least in some form. “Staying with the department might entail a demotion in rank and pay,” he says, “which would put you back in uniform. It’s just as likely we can avoid that, however. We have at least thirty days to prepare for the mandatory preliminary hearing, but we might want to try to make a quick kill of this thing before presently undiscovered witnesses step forward.”

  “Whatever you think’s best.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, get that out of your mind right now. But, uh, just thinking out loud here, do you have any more information to give me I can trade in exchange for lenient treatment?”

  Yeah, right. “No, I told you the truth, Pete, and the whole truth.”

  He nods and strokes his chin, considering something else. “Is it true what I hear,” he finally says, “that your father is Babe Crucci?”

  “He is, yeah.”

  He lets that stew a beat or two and says, “You know, the department probably wants to avoid the publicity this fact would generate. They might be willing to strike a quick deal in secret before newspapers run with it. There’s a flip side to it, however, that bothers me. Right now I can’t decide whether the fact Babe’s your father is good or bad.”

  “Welcome to the fucking club,” I say.

  —

  Later, my doctor drops in and wakes me from a nap. Doc Render is a thin guy in horn-rims, about my age, with a quiet but pleasant bedside manner. He examines my pupils with a penlight, has me follow his fingers with my eyes while I hold my head still, and then studies my reaction as he snaps his fingers near my ears. He then watches me walk a straight line heel to toe, with my arms spread to my sides. Nodding, he says he’ll discharge me in the morn
ing unless my condition worsens overnight. “But you absolutely, positively cannot drive for at least two days,” Render says. “Head injuries are tricky, and I don’t want you relapsing and killing somebody with a car. So have a friend or family member here to take you home in the morning, or you’ll have to stay.”

  The doc leaves and my thought is that I have no friend to call for a ride home. All my supposed friends are little more than acquaintances I hang with in bars, and there’s no one I feel comfortable calling for a lift in the middle of their workday. There’s usually a girlfriend or two in my life, but that’s not the case now.

  That leaves family members.

  Nurse Feel-Good arrives to medicate me, and after she again refuses my marriage proposal—the fourth, fifth?—I call my father.

  We’ve already exchanged a few vanilla text messages, and now we chat generally about my physical condition and the people I’ve dealt with today—minus Khang; for now, I want to keep that conversation to myself. I get pretty specific about my conversation with Abel, which concerns him. He claims the trouble I’m in is his fault and I disagree, listing all the reasons I’m keeping my mouth shut. He still grumbles and I tell him to forget it, let it drop. When I ask him if he can pick me up tomorrow morning, he says, “Sure, we can talk about the details later. Now that you are finished with all the cops and doctors and lawyers, I will stop by for a visit.”

  “No, don’t waste your time. I’m bushed and just had my bedtime dose of morphine. I’ll be out cold for the night in a few minutes. I’ll call you in the morning.”