"I think I'm getting the picture," Mann said. "You went with Angela Shaw, the victim of an assault, to apprehend her attacker—" he flipped open his own notebook—"Darnel Willis."
"Was that the shitheads name?" Blackstone asked.
"According to his driver's license," Mann said. "Did Ms. Shaw identify Darnel Willis as her assailant?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then what happened?"
"The pimp showed up unexpectedly Willis caught wind of us, barricaded himself in the house, and started shooting."
"And that's when Detective Perez was hit," Mann said. "All that is pretty clear. But we're going to have a problem mth the officer-involved shooting. Darnel Willis was DOA. Did you notice where the first shot that struck him came from?"
"No, sir. There was a lot of activity at the time and I was occupied with my partner."
"I saw the head wound on Willis," Mann said.
"The exit wound blew out the back of the guy's skull. We've confiscated all the officers' weapons who discharged shots. I'm going to need yours also.
Blackstone retrieved his revolver from its holster and handed it to the sergeant butt-first.
"The guys head was putty Theres no way a police .38 could have done that kind of damage," Mann said. Blackstone nodded. The police-issued .38 was notoriously underpowered. The thinking was that a police weapon should only have the force necessary to stop a criminal, but no more. The powers that be reasoned that anything more powerful might put the innocent public at risk.
"You know what they're going to say downtown, don't you?" Mann said.
"Sir?"
"They're going to say an officer had an unauthorized weapon."
"'They'll have to prove it, won't they?"
"Meanwhile, the press will crucify us. They're already describing Darnel Willis as a motorist. Can you believe that shit?"
Blackstone didn't know what to believe anymore. An officer is shot in the line of duty and what was downtown worried about? If a cop used a non-issue weapon. It was crazy totally crazy Like his worst fucking nightmare come to life. The seconds leading up to the shooting played over and over in his mind: Alex picking up the mike; Alex bleeding and unconscious; his own voice screaming to Alex that he would be okay
"I told him to get on the radio," he said.
"You followed procedure, right?" Mann asked.
"By the book. "
Mann looked at him for a long time before asking, "Anything else you have to say about all this?"
"No, sir," Blackstone said. What could he say?
That he'd like to find the shooter so he could shake his hand? "What should we do about these two?" he asked, indicating Angie and Champion.
Mann sighed. "Kick 'em loose, for now. I'll check with the DA and see if he's willing to file."
"All right."
"What are you going to do now?" Mann asked.
"I'm going to sit with Alex for a while. Sally's probably on her way"
Mann nodded, then put a hand on Blackstone's shoulder. "I'm going to need a full written report on my desk tomorrow morning. Were you ever able to get the feds to tell you anything about their case as it related to your homicide?"
"Agent Donavon hinted to me that Garillo had been supplying her office with information?
"Then that really doesn't figure," Mann said. "If this Garillo guy was an informant and hit because of it, then why would the feds want to advertise that?"
The sergeant's question left him with a sick sense of foreboding. Who was using who here?
19
OFFICER REESE TOLD Munch to call her Sissy She was pretty good people once you got to know her, and Munch was doing her damnedest to make a new best friend. It was apparently a slow day for criminals in Santa Monica, as Munch had the entire holding cell to herself. At midmorning, Sissy turned on the television and turned it so Munch could watch, too.
A Beverly Hillbillies rerun was interrupted by a news Hash. There had been a shootout in Venice involving fatalities.
"Motherfucker," Sissy said, staring at the mug shot superimposed over footage of a body being wheeled into the coroner's wagon.
"What?" Munch asked.
"That boy shot a cop."
Munch recognized the picture of the shooter. It was Darnel, Lisa's Darnel, red hair and all. Son of a bitch.
Another picture appeared in the lower righthand comer of the screen. The newscaster said something about Detective Alex Perez lighting for his life after the late-morning shootout in the canal section of Venice Beach. Munch said, "Oh," surprised at how sad she felt. "I wonder if he has kids."
"I think so," Sissy said.
"I need to get a message to his partner," Munch said.
"Say what?"
"You won't get in trouble for letting me call a cop."
"They told me no phone calls."
"A1l right, how about if you get a message to him?"
"What's his name?"
"Blackstone, he's a homicide detective with the Venice PD."
"What do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him I don't work at a printing press, but I need to talk to him." She could only hope that he would come alone.
20
OTHER OFFICERS joined Blackstone at the hospital as their shifts ended.
At one-hour intervals, the nurses allowed him five-minute visits in the ICU. Standing over his partner's hospital bed, he stared at thick layers of surgical gauze encasing Alex's skull. White tape, crisscrossed under his nose and over his chin, held the breathing tube inserted into his trachea still. His eyelids glistened with Vaseline. The eyeballs underneath were absolutely still. That couldn't be good. A nurse came in and checked Alex's vital signs. "How's he doing?" Blackstone asked.
"Check with the doctor."
Blackstone elicited her promise that he would be apprised of any change, and then went back out into the waiting room and tried to pray
He called the office from the hospital lobby Claire had left him a message that she would be out of town for the next few days. If he needed to get in touch with her, he could leave word at the Bureau.
When he returned to the waiting room, a fictionalized courtroom drama played out on the TV overhead. The show was interrupted by an afternoon news break. Some liberal movie actress was calling for a widespread investigation into the police force's use of unauthorized weapons. Blackstone watched the interview in numb disbelief. He'd like to take that bitch down to South Central and drop her off. He'd come back in an hour, after she'd had a little taste of life in a war zone, and see if she'd changed her tune.
He threw down his magazine and left the room. He didn't know where he was headed, he just knew that he needed to be alone to deal with his emotions. Walking quickly he took several turns and then wound up behind the kitchen. Crates of wilted produce were stacked against the wall. Steam rose from vents. An open Dumpster emitted putrid odors.
Staring out to nowhere, fists balled in his pockets, he thought of Alex not wanting to go on the call. Had he taken his investigation too far? Was he too gung-ho, too fucking John Wayne?
No, he decided. This was the job. For the most part tedious and boring, then life-and-death with no warning. They'd been following a logical succession of leads. His reports would reflect this. Would Sally understand? Would her children?
He replayed the crucial minutes of the shooting in his mind. What should they have done differently? He had never dreamed the suspect would open fire on them like that. There was no reason for it. Expect the unexpected. Alex shouldn't have broken cover. He had been careless and they had been hopelessly outgunned.
Blackstone kicked an empty can of whole tomatoes and watched it wobble away A man in a white kitchen staff uniform stuck his head out the door and started to yell something. Blackstone turned and faced him. Whatever the man saw in Blackstone's expression caused him to shut the door quickly and without protest.
Grease. The thought came to Blackstone suddenly when Claire had come to his house, h
er hands had been lined with black grime from changing her tire. What if the woman on the freeway worked with cars or some sort of greasy parts? He pulled out his notebook and made a notation. He stood there for another ten minutes, then returned to the parking lot where he'd left his car.
"Jigsaw?" a voice said from behind him.
He spun around and confronted the haggard countenance of Sergeant Mann. The sergeant looked even worse than Blackstone felt. Deep lines creased the senior officers face; dark bags hung under his eyes. "Sarge?"
"I'm still waiting for your report," Mann said. " know how rough it is, to have your partner wounded, but the job goes on."
"Yes, sir. I was planning to return to the station and type up my notes right after I leave here. How's the investigation going?"
"I've been on the phone all morning. The mayor's on my ass, demanding answers. Heads are going to roll on this one."
"Have you found the kill bullet?"
"I don't know. I haven't been able to get back to the house. From what I understand, the structure was pretty shot up. Speaking of bullets, I need you to turn in your vehicle so we can collect the evidence inside it." Mann's expression softened. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off after you finish your report? Get some rest. There's nothing more you can do here."
"Thank you, sir," Blackstone said. "You're right, there's nothing more I can do here."
Blackstone returned to his car and discovered that he had locked his door. Pretty funny considering that the rear and side windows were all shot out. He shook his head at the force of habit and brushed chunks of tempered glass off the seat.
He didn't drive back to work. The report would have to wait.
Twenty minutes later, he was standing where he'd been when he told his partner to radio in for tear gas. He faced the house. There was a puddle of dried blood where Darnel Willis had died. The front door where Willis's blood and brains had sprayed had been removed from its hinges and taken away He made a note to follow up on that.
Sawhorses strung together with yellow tape marked the crime scene perimeter. A patrol car manned by two officers guarded the house and kept the curious at bay While he watched, a woman who appeared to be in her twenties, wearing a long gypsy skirt and granny glasses, threw a bouquet of flowers towards the house.
He shook his head in disgust. She was honoring that asshole. Making him into some kind of a martyr. That rapist, woman-beating cop shooter.
A man wearing a blue parka emerged from the doorless entryway Blackstone called to him.
"This is a federal investigation," the man said, holding up a hand to indicate that Blackstone should stay back.
Blackstone showed the fed his shield. "t was my partner that got shot."
"I'm sorry about that," the agent said. "But I can't let you in here."
Blackstone started to say something, something involving the man's mother, and then realized it would do him no good. He returned to his ruined car and drove to the impound lot so the boys in Firearms could do their thing. After being admitted through the front gate, he was told to park wherever he could find a space.
The stolen blue pickup from the Garillo case was still there. He walked over to the truck and looked inside. The back of the bench seat had been removed and the windshield had collapsed in on itself. He opened the door and ran his hand along the back of the seat cushion. Nothing.
Something brushed against the back of his head. A business card had snagged on the roll of sheet metal where the roof of the cab met the door frame. He plucked it loose, brushed off dried blood, and was able to read the lettering: Happy Jack's Auto Repair. How long had that been there? He put the card in his pocket and walked across the street to the crime lab building.
He found Jeff Hagouchi perched over his microscope.
"I brought in my unit."
"How's Alex?" Jeff asked.
"Still under," Blackstone said. "If he remains stable, they'll slowly wean him off the anti-seizure drugs."
"He's a fighter,"Jeff said.
"Sergeant Mann said the bullet that took out Darnel Willis was more powerful than a thirty-eight. Did you get a chance to check it out?"
"No. I never got to see it," Jeff said. "The feds got there first. They were there all morning."
"Doing what?" Blackstone asked.
"They took the door, for one thing," Jeff said.
"That's where the bullet that killed Darnel Willis ended up."
"Why are they handling the investigation?"
Blackstone asked. "AD has their own investigators. Something's going on."
"It's worse than that, buddy" Jeff said. "The feds took the weapons that they found in the house and issued warrants to confiscate all related material in this case—including the bullet that wounded Alex. How are we supposed to prove that Willis shot Alex?
It's all fucked up. Now they're saying that Willis's civil rights may have been violated. I hope you covered your ass."
Blackstone stared at Jeff, but he wasn't really seeing him. He felt like he had been a step behind for days and he didn't like it. Opportunities always existed. You just needed to remember to stop and look for them. When you're on the defensive, scrambling backward, sometimes you forget that.
"What about that double homicide in Venice? We received information that it ties in to the Garillo case. Did you get a chance to ID those bullets?"
Jeff reached for a file and thumbed through it.
"Yeah, you're going to love it." He took out a document and handed it to Blackstone. "They were 7.62 by 21 millimeters, but not armor—piercing."
"Did you tell the feds?"
"You know, in all this excitement, I might have forgotten."
Blackstone read over the report, nodding his head. It had taken him long enough, but he was starting to smell the setup. "I play correspondent chess games," he said, looking at a spot somewhere over Jeff's left shoulder. "I play against opponents from all over the world. People I never see—only their moves."
"What's that—" Jeff started to ask.
"There's this one guy named Wang. He's a grand master. Lives in Hong Kong. I thought I had him in a game we played last year. I had his queen and both of his bishops. His king was backed into a corner. The next postcard he sent me had a Chinese pictograph on the back cover and then his move on the front. I didn't know what the writing meant, of course, so I ignored it. I didn't spend more than five minutes figuring what I was going to play next. I had him and I knew it."
"Maybe you should go home, Jigs. Get some rest."
"The thing is, two moves later he put me in checkmate. Later, I had the pictograph translated. The guy I took it to explained to me that the pictograph was actually two symbols superimposed: danger and opportunity He said it was the Chinese concept of crisis."
"That's really interesting, Blackstone. But what the fuck does it mean?"
"It means that it's time to go on the offensive. Give me your car keys." He handed jeff his own. "You never saw any federal warrant."
"How long do you think I can pull that off?"
"Hopefully long enough to dig the bullet out of the seat of my vehicle and get a look at it under your microscope."
"What am I looking for?"
"Compare it to the bullets from the double homicide, for starters. Just be sure you document everything."
"Anything else?" Jeff asked.
"Get ahold of Sergeant Mann and tell him what the feds are doing."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to call in a marker," Blackstone said. "All right if I use the phone in your office?"
"Help yourself, Jigsaw."
Claire Donavon had given him the number that rang directly to her desk. She answered after the first ring.
"I've just been back to the house," he said.
'You just caught me," she said.
He liked how she didn't play it cute by asking which house. "Did your people retrieve the bullet that killed Darnel Willis?"
"It's
a little soon to know anything, honey I'll be happy to call you in a few days when I get back into town. I really am literally walking out the door."
"Claire, I need your help. My partner is in the hospital. The department is under fire. We might have a riot brewing. I need some answers."
"You're going to have to trust me," she said. "You remember how I told you that this case had certain delicacies? That still applies. Lives depend on our maintaining a strict need-to-know policy on this investigation?
"Lives or careers, Claire? Forget need-to-know," he said. " think I've earned a right to know. Give me that much."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Honestly. But your involvement right now is far too personal. I promise you that when we get our lab results back, we'll share them with you. Until then, there's nothing more to say
He hung up on her. Childish, he knew, but it had felt good. That feeling faded when he realized that he'd forgotten to ask her why she wanted him to publish the picture of John Garillo. He tried to call her back; after twenty rings a recording came on and told him to stop trying.
The next number he called was the one he found on the bloodstained business card. A man answered,
"Happy Jacks, Jack speaking."
"Hi, Jack," Blackstone said in the cheeriest voice he could muster. "Do you have a woman who works there?"
"Munch? Shes not here;" he said.
Blackstone's stomach muscles tightened. Bingo.
"Will she be back soon? It's very urgent that I reach her. "
"She's . . . off for a few days. You'll have to try again on Monday"
"This is Detective Blackstone. I'm with the Homicide Division of the Venice PD. It's imperative that I speak to her. Do you have her home phone number?"
"Don't you guys talk among yourselves? What's all of this about? Does this have something to do with that friend of hers that was shot last Friday?"
"You know about that?"
"Not a whole hell of a lot. The guy was in here a few hours earlier. Wanted her to do him some kind of favor, but she don't mess with his kind anymore."
No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 15
