"What do you mean?" Blackstone said.
"You and the G-babe. The two of you got together last night, right?"
"Yeah," Blackstone said.
"What happened?"
"We played chess."
"Who won?"
"We both did." Before Alex could respond to that, he added, "We played more than one game."
"Did she tell you anything?"
"I think we can pretty much bank on the assumption that Jonathan Garillo was a federal informant. Claire didn't deny the Oregon connection or that this involved the weapons stolen from the National Guard Armory I told her about the guy with the grenade"
Alex eyed him askance. "You gave her that?"
'Yeah, sure. Why not? I think Claire is the type who remembers favors." He didn't add that she was a different kind of agent than they were used to or how he came about that knowledge.
"By the way" Alex said. "The guy from the bakery came down last night and looked at mug books"
"And?"
"The broad he saw with the baby wasn't Lisa Slokum."
"Let's hook him up with a sketch artist," Blackstone said.
The phone rang and they both looked at it.
Blackstone picked up on the second ring and identified himself.
"Thish is Angie," a woman's voice lisped. "Remember me?"
"What is it?" he asked.
"I seen the guy" she said.
"The one that assaulted you?"
"Yesh. He's in Venish. I tried calling Bernie, but he's off today"
"You got an address?" Blackstone asked. "We'll take a ride over there."
"No, I jusht shaw him on the shtreet in front of Numero Uno's. I could show him to you."
"Would you be willing to press charges? Testify in court?"
"Yesh, just bust the guy"
"Give me your number, Angie. I'll call you right back."
Alex Perez had stopped drinking his coffee and was listening intently to Blackstone's half of the conversation. After Blackstone hung up, Alex stared ahead—strangely quiet.
"What?" Blackstone asked.
"Nothing, what's going on?"
"That hooker that Bernie knows, Angela Shaw, says she saw the guy that did her. She wants to roll over on him."
"Does it have to be today?" Alex asked.
"Is that a problem?"
"No, I guess not."
"What did it say?" Blackstone asked, suddenly realizing the source of Alex's uneasiness.
"What?"
"Your horoscope."
"I know you think it's stupid," Alex said. "But I'm telling you, nine times out of ten . . ."
"What did it say?" Blackstone asked again.
"I got it right here," Alex said, retrieving a scrap of newspaper from his pocket. "Avoid unnecessary risks at work. Update insurance coverage or licenses that are about to expire. A Capricorn may have an unpleasant surprise for you." He finished reading and looked at Blackstone expectantly
"Sounds like an insurance agent wrote that," Blackstone said.
"Yeah, well, before I left for work this morning I checked my premium notices."
"And?"
"My life insurance note is due."
"Alex, I've told you a thousand times. You can't take all that mumbo-jumbo to heart. It'll just mess up your head."
"All right, Jigsaw," Alex said, putting the scrap of paper in his wallet. "Let's go bust this creep."
* * *
Blackstone dialed Claire's number, and then called Angie back and told her to meet them at the Shell station on Venice and Pacific. As an extra precaution, the detectives donned Kevlar vests. The plan was straightforward. Alex and Blackstone would cruise the vicinity with the woman in the back seat. Two other units would be nearby waiting for radio contact.
"What did Claire say?" Alex asked.
"She wasn't at her desk when I called," Blackstone said. "I left her a message?
When they got to the Shell station, Angie was there already standing by the pay phone and glancing nervously up the street.
"Should I ask her if she's a Capricorn?" Blackstone asked Alex before they exited the car.
"I already checked her rap sheet," Alex admitted.
"She's a Virgo."
"Isn't that the virgin?"
"Yeah."
"Enough said."
Blackstone beckoned to Angie and she sidled over to them, giving Alex the once-over. "Who's thish?" she asked.
"My partner, Detective Perez. Get in." She did. "So you say you saw this guy outside the pizzeria on Washington?" he asked, watching her in the rearview mirror. She nodded an affirmative, her eyes shifting from side to side.
"Let's go," she said, wiping perspiration from her upper lip.
Blackstone and Alex exchanged quick looks. " shaw the dude hours ago. Where have you guys been?"
"Not so fast," Blackstone said. "We've got some ground rules to cover." He waited until he established eye contact with her in his rearview mirror. "Are you listening?"
"What kind of rules?" she asked.
"First of all, you see the guy you just tell us. You don't point and you don't shout. You got that?" He didn't want the suspect alerted, especially if he were some hopped-up biker freak loaded with heavy artillery
She started to say something, but Blackstone quieted her with a look and held up a second finger.
"Two. If we spot him, you stay the hell out of the way. You clear about that? I don't want you leaving the car." And he didn't want any distractions if things got heavy
"I'm the victim here," she said sullenly
"I'm serious, Angie."
"All right"
"So run it back to me," Blackstone said.
"I make the guy" she said, "and then I duck."
"All right. We're good to go." Blackstone merged into the traffic headed southbound toward Washington. They pulled up across the street from a small market three doors down from the Numero Uno pizzeria. A steady flow of foot traffic streamed in and out the store's doors. Angie studied the people, but said nothing.
"Let's cruise the canals," Blackstone said after twenty minutes. "Maybe he's staying at one of the houses in there." He turned to his partner. "Keep a look out for modified Harleys, too. Those bikers tend to hang in packs."
They cruised a narrow one-way street that took them across an arched bridge. Angie straightened suddenly.
"There!" she shouted. "That's the shun of a bitch."
"Be quiet," Blackstone hissed, slowing the car to a crawl. The man she pointed to seemed unaware of them. Blackstone wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. "The guy in the blue T-shirt?"
“Yesh."
Alex picked up the microphone, requested backup, and gave their location and a description of the suspect—whom he also described as possibly armed and dangerous.
"He's going back into the house," Blackstone observed. "Looks like Three-oh-Nine over the front door. Single-story dwelling, attached garage."
Alex relayed this new piece of information on the airwaves while Blackstone studied the lay of the land. The only car parked on the road was three houses up. Its tires were low on air and judging from the weed growth, it hadn't moved in at least a month. The house that the suspect entered was on a canal, which meant that his only route of quick escape was the narrow road running in front of it. When the other unit radioed to confirm that they were in place on Venice Boulevard, then he and Alex would approach the house.
A red Cadillac Sedan de Ville pulled up behind the detectives' car. Blackstone waved the car to pass them. Instead, the driver of the Cadillac parked and got out.
"What the . . . ?" Blackstone said. "Who the fuck is this?"
"Champion," she said.
They watched the pimp—a white guy wearing a long duster, snakeskin boots, and velvet pants—exit his vehicle and limp towards them. Blackstone saw that Champions left leg was inches shorter than his right. He used a cane with a silver handle that thumped as he approached. Each time he ste
pped with his left foot, his right hip shot out at a sharp angle. On his head he sported a floppy velvet hat worn low over his left eye, which only added to his slanted bearing.
"What's he doing here?" Blackstone asked. She didn't have time to answer before Champion's hand was on the rear door handle.
"That be him?" he was asking, pointing at the same guy in the blue shirt who was now aware of the commotion fifty yards away Champion whipped off his hat to reveal an Art Garfunkel blond Afro. The suspect ran into the house.
Both detectives got out of the car. Their bust was quickly going to hell.
"I kill the motherfucker," Champion said, making a fist. A large gold Super Bowl IX ring shone on his right index finger. "Mess with my bitch."
Blackstone decided he particularly disliked this guy And what was with the black speak? He didn't hate white bad guys any more than black bad guys, but this phony crossover shit annoyed him deeply.
"You," Blackstone said, pushing a finger into Champions chest, "will stay exactly where you are. One more step, one more word, and I'm running both of you in for obstruction. Angie, get back in the car." He looked over at Alex and saw that his partner had drawn his gun.
"What do you think, Jigsaw?" Alex asked, eyes shining with fear and excitement.
"He's not going anywhere. We'll wait for backup."
The words were no sooner out of Blackstone's mouth when they heard a loud cracking of wood and angry squeal of spinning tires. The garage door of the house burst outward as a Mercury Comet with Oregon plates and a Hertz bumper sticker barreled through it. The car was still in reverse when it reached the street. The driver hit his brakes, sending him skidding into a turn and raising a black cloud of burnt rubber. The car paused briefly with the passenger side facing the detectives. They could see the driver frantically working the gearshift.
"He's running," Alex yelled, aiming his gun.
"Halt," he shouted at the man in the car. "Police."
The driver responded by pointing the business end of an M- 14 at the detective and shooting out his own passenger window. Alex ducked back to the shelter of his car and returned fire. The popping of his .38 sounded woefully inadequate. He fired off six rounds. One shot punctured the Comets front tire. The other live peppered the side of the car, just denting the metalwork.
Blackstone also had his weapon out and shot at the moving vehicle. He ceased fire when he saw the backup unit approach from the north. The suspect was trapped. Both ends of the street were covered and the back door opened to the canal. Blackstone took cover behind a row of trash cans. The Comet abruptly shifted into reverse and hurled back inside the garage. The driver jumped from his still-moving vehicle, leaving his door open, and bolted back into the house.
"Are you all right?" Blackstone called to Alex across their unit's open doors.
"Yeah, yeah," Alex answered, his forehead beaded with sweat.
"He's got nowhere to go," Blackstone yelled, crouched behind the trash can enclosure. "We'll set up a perimeter. Call for SWAT."
Alex climbed back into the car and grabbed the microphone. Blackstone heard his partner describing the situation to Dispatch. Alex peeked over the dashboard as he relayed his information. Blackstone heard the sharp whine of a bullet. There wasn't time to move or warn. The action beside him unfolded in slow motion. He saw the blossoming of fracture lines on the windshield and Alex's head whip back.
He heard his own voice shouting, but it was too late. The microphone fell from Alex's hand. His head lay back against the seat, mouth slightly ajar, eyes half-closed, blood welling from the wound above his ear. Angie screamed.
Blackstone sprinted the short distance back to his car and pulled Alex down across the front seat. Another mistake, he knew, to leave his own cover. Fuck it. He pushed his palm over the now-gushing crease wound in his partners head. With his other hand he picked up the fallen microphone and uttered the most dreaded code in the police department. "Nine, nine, nine." Officer down.
Blood from Alex's wound leaked out between Blackstone's fingers. "You're going to be okay" Blackstone kept repeating. Alex made no response.
Blackstone saw that the bullet had penetrated the seat.
"Angie," he yelled. "Are you shot?"
"No," came her muffled reply
He told her to stay down. She offered no argument. He started the car. A spray of bullets pierced the windshield in a line above the top of the dash.
The back window blew out.
"Down," he repeated. He cocked the steering wheel all the way to the left and put his car in drive. The car rolled forward as he attempted to make a blind U-turn on the narrow roadway The passenger windows exploded, showering them with chunks of tempered glass. Blackstone put the car into reverse and backed up into their previous position. The side of the car was no match against the sniper's firepower. They were trapped.
Within minutes the air filled with the sound of sirens and screeching tires. Police cordoned off the neighborhood and announced to the populace to stay in their homes. Blackstone heard a voice, amplified through a bullhorn and directed at the shooter inside the house, say "Let's be smart about this."
The radio reported that the fire engine was on its way It would be at least twenty minutes before the SWAT team arrived. Blackstone didn't think Alex had that kind of time.
"Do the right thing," the negotiator said. "You've got nowhere to go. Don't make us use tear gas."
Blackstone heard a door open and snuck a peek over the dashboard. He watched as the suspect came out the front door, hands held high above his head. When the shooting started again, Blackstone was only a little surprised. The suspects head jerked back as a round caught him between the eyes, plastering skull fragments to the door behind him. Many other shots followed, but they were superfluous. There would be hell to pay later. Too many witnesses would say that the suspect had been unarmed and that the police had gunned him down in cold blood.
"Too fucking bad, he thought.
If his hands hadn't already been occupied trying to keep Alex's lifeblood within his body Blackstone might have been the first one to pull the trigger and save the taxpayers all that money Someday he decided, he would meet the guy who had drilled the asshole. He would thank the guy personally But for now, he concentrated on keeping Alex alive.
Angie poked her head over the back seat. "Is he going to be okay?" she asked.
"I've got to get him to the hospital." He took her hand and pressed it over Alex's wound. "Keep pressure on it." He slammed the car into gear and shouted, "You're doing good, buddy Hang in there."
Champions Cadillac blocked part of the road. Blackstone rammed it out of his way
Champion shouted, "Hey!" but Blackstone ignored him. He'd deal with that asshole later. Flooring the accelerator, he calculated the quickest route to Marina Mercy Hospital. The trip there was going to be the longest mile of his life. On Washington Boulevard, he hung a left that sent them skidding, but maintained control.
Angie still held on to Alex. The skin around Alex's mouth had a gray cast to it. Blackstone jammed on the gas, and the car shifted hard.
Dispatch reported unit after unit responding to the 999 call. Blackstone's unmarked unit had no siren. He flicked the switch that caused the headlights to flash left to right. As he turned south on Lincoln, he picked up a motorcycle escort.
The emergency room team was out in front with a gurney when he pulled in the driveway of Marina Mercy Able hands jerked open the passenger door and lifted Alex's inert body onto a stretcher.
Blackstone came around to follow them inside. He was the first to notice when Alex's skin began to twitch and jerk. Within seconds, everywhere he looked on his partner's arms and face he saw hundreds of tiny muscle spasms.
"What's happening?" he asked the attending physician.
"Seizure," the doctor said. "One thousand milligrams of Dilantin, stat," he yelled, pushing Blackstone aside.
The team of medical personnel and their patient disappeared behind the curta
ins of the treatment room. Blackstone had never felt so helpless in his life. How was he going to tell Sally?
He walked back outside to his car just as Champion's red Cadillac turned in off Mindanao. There was a screeching moan—as the dented right front fender rubbed against the tire. Angie was still seated in the back of his unit, blood on her hands, eyeing him fearfully
He had a sudden fantasy of pulling out his gun and shooting her in the head, then he'd go after the pimp. In his mind's eye, he saw both their heads lolling against the leather headrests of the red Cadillac.
"Are you hit?" a voice asked.
He looked up and saw that the speaker was Sergeant Mann. "No," he answered. "It's not my blood."
"How's your partner?"
"They're working on him now. I don't know."
"What happened here?" Mann asked. "What were you doing at that house?"
"Assault complaint," he said, pointing at Angie. "Victim ID."
"Does this involve a homicide investigation?"
"Yes, sir. " Blackstone pulled out his notebook and flipped back a few pages. "There's a connection to last Fridays sniper attack. As I'm sure you recall, the ammunition recovered was military and tied to last month's National Guard armory burglary in Kern County "
"Right," Mann said. "And you liaised with Special Agent Claire Donavon, the one with all the moles."
"Beauty marks, sir. Yes, that's the one."
"Anything come of that?"
"In the works. She asked me to release a photo of Garillo, the sniper victim, to the press."
"Why did she want that?"
"She didn't say"
"You still haven't explained why you and your partner were here today"
"I put the word out on the street that I was interested in any military weaponry that might have surfaced in the last month."
"Go on," Mann said, head bent and listening carefully
"Yes, sir. The female"— he pointed to where she cowered in his back seat—"Angela Shaw, aka Angie, reported an assault by a man with a grenade."
"Who's the yo-yo in the red Caddy?" Mann asked. "Her pimp. He calls himself Champion" He didn't mention the agreement to drop charges on Champion in exchange for Angie's information. Technically the deal Blackstone and Bernie had made with Champion was illegal, even though it went on all the time. He didn't trust the sergeant well enough to risk getting Bernie's ass in a sling. Besides, it really didn't make a difference.
No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 14
