L. A. Outlaws

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “How much did you tell her?”

  “Hardly anything.”

  “Melissa, if you lie to me again I’ll arrest you right here. This is a promise.”

  “I told her everything.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “No. That’s the truth.”

  “She knew the time, the place?”

  “Yeah. Everything.”

  “How long did it take Allison to get your ten grand back?”

  “A few days.”

  “Cash?”

  “In a market bag. She called and left it on my driveway.”

  25

  Hood volunteered to check credentials at the press conference Monday evening because he was no longer working two assignments.

  He’d never seen so many reporters for a law enforcement news conference. Not only were the national networks and local affiliates here, but PBS, all of the big cable news outfits, several of the small ones, ten or so radio networks and stations, student newspapers and radio from half a dozen Southland universities, and maybe twenty print writers and photographers. They came from as far south as Tijuana and as far north as Portland, Oregon. Many of them were from towns and cities that Hood had never been to.

  He stood at the entrance to the big room and checked the names off a master list. Well over half of the media participants weren’t on the list because they hadn’t come to a LASD press conference until now.

  But no one was going to miss the story of Lupercio Maygar and the trail of blood he was leaving across the Southland, and of the vanished L.A. schoolteacher wanted for questioning as a possible witness.

  So he logged in the reporters and gave them temporary passes. There was an oddly festive atmosphere. Hood gathered that the Monday conference was good timing for what must be a slow local news week. He signed in a lovely blonde from a Bakersfield radio station, but when he said he’d grown up there, she looked at him pityingly and said she was from Boulder.

  When the media had all been admitted and the room was nearly full, Hood found a seat near the back. His legs were still stiff from dune climbing and running in the Bakersfield desert. He could still taste human blood, though he reasoned that this was his imagination and memory playing a trick on him. But his body was the least of it. His soul felt filthy, and the faces of Officers Jackson and Ruiz—which Hood hadn’t seen clearly until the Sunday papers—waited at the center of it. Ruiz was DOA at a Bakersfield hospital. His HIV test had come back negative.

  Besides all this Hood was inordinately focused on the fact that Jackson’s riot gun had never been fired. Two shotgun blasts had killed the men, but Lupercio had not taken their weapon and used it against them. Hood had seen it in Jackson’s hands. Since that moment he’d fastened onto this anomaly like a life raft. He had used part of his bleary Sunday to read every page of Wyte’s jacket on Lupercio. There was not one mention of the man ever using a shotgun. When Hood tried to picture Lupercio trotting across the desert and into Madeline’s home with a shotgun, he couldn’t quite see it. A shotgun wasn’t an assassin’s tool. It was efficient but loud, difficult to conceal, effective only at close range. Reviewing the Bakersfield PD crime scene report, Hood saw that the shot pattern had expanded rapidly—more rapidly than even a sawed-off barrel and an open choke would suggest. It was as if the shells weren’t fired through a gun barrel at all, but from some truncated handheld contraption. A zip shotgun? Possibly. How about through his fingertips, like lightning bolts—one more example of Lupercio’s black magic? But two shotgun blasts had killed the officers, this was a fact. Each charge contained number six shot, which Hood knew was typically used for large birds such as pheasant and was fabulously destructive on a human up close. It was also a fact that no empty shot shells had been recovered.

  Twenty minutes later Captain Patmore had finished his synopsis of the facts surrounding the murders of two Indian brothers in San Diego County and the murders of Bakersfield Officers Burt Jackson and Steve Ruiz.

  Then the monitor beside him filled with the ten-year-old California Department of Corrections release photos of the suspect, Lupercio Maygar—left profile, right profile, front.

  Hood listened to the murmur that rose in the room, though he wasn’t certain what it was for. The man in the photograph looked fearless and unhappy, but far from unusual. L.A. was full of fearless and unhappy men. His short black hair was parted on the side and partially covered his forehead. Then Hood heard Lupercio’s name being spoken by some of the reporters, and he realized that they remembered him—his break with the gang he had helped establish, and his bloody war and peace.

  Next came the sketch done by Jordan Jones. Hood was relieved to see that Jordan’s proud signature had been removed. And he was relieved that Jordan’s sketch of Lupercio with his straw cowboy hat on was not shown. Hood had explained to Patmore and the other media relations people that if Lupercio saw the drawing with the hat he would know who had described him. And that Lupercio might wish to silence this person. The new Lupercio looked out at his audience with a different haircut but the same steady eyes and compact, ageless face.

  Patmore described Lupercio’s criminal career, from his early days around MacArthur Park, where he helped form the deadly Mara Salvatrucha, to his break from the gang ten years later.

  “We’ve issued a warrant,” said Patmore. “We’re hoping that somebody will recognize this man and call us. There is currently a reward of one hundred thousand dollars, pledged from some of the fine individuals and businesses served by our department. If every one of you watches and listens, we can stop this man. There’s a number at the bottom of your screen, and for those of you listening on radio . . .”

  Next up on the monitor was a synopsis of Lupercio’s criminal record, followed by a physical fact sheet. He stood five feet three inches tall and weighed 120 pounds. Brown eyes, black hair. Knife scars on his belly and forearms, bullet scars on his right front thigh and right stomach.

  Patmore pointed to the next image on the monitor, which showed Lupercio shirtless from behind.

  “Mayans in gangland,” said Patmore.

  Hood stared at the hypnotic tangle of serpents and eagles and big-toothed jaguars all wound together in a tattoo that covered Lupercio’s whole broad little back. Hood remembered that in school textbooks he’d found these motifs mysterious, but stamped into a man’s skin they were ominous.

  “Now, we’ve got a possible witness to some of this,” said Patmore. “Her name is Suzanne Jones. She’s thirty-two years old, and a teacher here in Los Angeles Unified. An award-winning teacher, no less. She’s a Dominguez Hills graduate, a single mom. She got herself into the wrong place at the wrong time. She was working with investigators but suddenly dropped contact with us five days ago. That was right after Lupercio Maygar attempted to murder her in a Torrance hotel parking lot.”

  What came from the crowd now was more than a murmur.

  Suzanne Jones’s face filled the monitor. It was apparently a school district employee photo from the year prior—poorly lit, not well focused, unrevealing.

  “We have no reason to believe she’s come to any harm,” said Patmore. “We need to talk to her. We need to find her. I can’t tell you how important this is. Again, please call the number at the bottom of the screen if you know anything about the whereabouts of Suzanne Jones. Ms. Jones, if you’re out there, please contact us.”

  Patmore filled in the Jones biography. Another photographic image swept over the monitor, a shot of Suzanne at a podium. She wasn’t smiling and she suffered red-eye from the flash, but she had a plaque in her hands and she looked serious and proud.

  Hood’s reaction surprised him: he was proud of her, too, and wanted her to be safely alive to mother her children, teach her students, drive her Corvette fast and maybe spend some quality time with Los Angeles County’s most recently minted homicide detective. Nice guy, bright future. For a moment he was able to see her like everyone else saw her and it was good.

  He told himself it
was possible that both he and Madeline were wrong about Allison Murrieta, even though he knew they weren’t. It didn’t matter that no one else on Earth could see what they had seen. What they saw was true. He had told Marlon but Marlon was skeptical because the two women didn’t look enough alike, in his opinion. Wyte had agreed. Hood felt like an unwanted witness—alone, unheard, doomed. Which is exactly how he figured Suzanne felt, running for her life.

  “I think my kid had her in eighth grade,” said a reporter near Hood. “U.S. history.”

  “Good teacher?”

  “Beats me,” said the reporter.

  “They say she is. The awards and all.”

  “What’s the tattooed pygmy want with her?”

  “I think she just stumbled across a crime scene,” said Hood.

  “And now he’s after her? That’s a story.”

  “Write it up. Run the pictures real big. It could help.”

  When Patmore opened up for questions, they came fast and loud.

  Hood drifted out with his cell phone throbbing against his hip.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “We had to.”

  “I will not be hunted. And don’t tell me some story about a good night’s sleep in the hotel of your choice. Everybody in Southern California is going to be looking for me and it’s your fault.”

  “There’s nothing else we can do, Suzanne. We can’t help you if we can’t find you.”

  Hood suddenly felt a sharp and unexpected sorrow for Suzanne Jones. Had she invented the Murrieta guise as a joke, or out of boredom, or because of competition with her mother, then been seduced by the action and the notoriety? Was she simply insane? He came close to telling her what he knew—that she was Allison Murrieta—and what he almost knew—that she had taken the diamonds from Miracle Auto Body after picking Melissa’s vengeful brain. But he didn’t, because that way he’d never see her again except in a hospital or in a morgue.

  And because it was his duty to arrest her.

  “Okay, say you’ve found me. Say I’m sitting right across from you. What the hell are you gonna do with me?”

  “We’ve got safe houses.”

  “Where?”

  “Desert, mountains, beach. Take your pick. We’d have two deputies there, twenty-four/seven.”

  “Hood, I can’t believe you did this to me.”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “He would have hacked Mom and Grandma to pieces.”

  Hood couldn’t get Jackson and Ruiz out of his mind, his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his dreams. “Yes.”

  “He killed two cops.”

  “Suzanne. Come in. I want you safe. The best thing you can do for them is stay with us for a while.”

  “What’s a while, Hood? Two days? A year? What if Lupercio decides to wait me out, just lets me go back to work and bides his time?”

  “He’ll kill you for sure is what.”

  “I’m not going to be run off my job. I’m walking into my classroom in September. I’m going to teach those thick-headed kids whether they want to be taught or not.”

  Earlier Wyte had suggested that if Suzanne would come in they could stage a video “statement” in a good location, subtly reveal her whereabouts, televise it and wait for Lupercio.

  “Help us set a trap,” said Hood. “You come in. We help you video a statement where you refuse to come in for questioning out of fear. But you want your family and friends to know you’re okay, safe right where you are. You send it to the newspeople and they run with it. We’ll make sure it gives Lupercio an idea of where you are. Just a touch, just enough to get him to come around. Then you’re free to go. Or you can take a safe house. Up to you.”

  “You do remember my last safe house?

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “You’re unimaginative, Hood.”

  “I’m trying to save your ass.”

  “Why bother?”

  “So I can enjoy it.”

  Suzanne was silent for a long moment. Hood slipped outside the headquarters building into the heat of the evening. Again he almost told her what he knew, but he could not.

  “You have to help me help you. Come in.”

  “Okay,” she said. “You work out the details. You get the location set up and figure the clues and get the video camera ready. Then I’ll do it. But no safe houses. No protective custody. No cages of any kind. None of that. I’ll tape a statement then I’m splitting. Deal?”

  “Deal. There will be at least two more of us, a sergeant and a captain. They’ve done this before.”

  “Comforting.”

  “I want you to be okay, Suzanne.”

  “You busy tonight, Charlie?”

  He hesitated. If she was with him she was safer. Suzanne and Allison were safer. He would protect them and bring them to justice.

  He couldn’t think of any meaning of the word idiot that didn’t apply to himself. “I hope so.”

  26

  Which leaves me three hours to boost a better ride because I can’t entertain Hood in a Sentra. And I need to hit the Burger King on Reseda Boulevard, which I cased last week and looks very good.

  I take a taxi to a long-term parking lot by LAX where I’ve got an arrangement with one of the shuttle drivers who has a nice black GTO in a private corner. I pull out the door lock with the slide-hammer, grab the ignition assembly and go to work on the wires. My heart is not steady but my fingers are.

  When I’m done I check my time on the Rolex I bought from Carl Cavore for a grand. It’s got ten diamonds on the dial and a rare mother-of-pearl face that tells me I’m gone in seventy-five seconds, not bad for a history teacher who steals cars only as a hobby.

  Ten minutes later I’m at the Pep Boys in San Fernando, where another associate of mine replaces the GTO door lock with an off-the-shelf universal that looks fine. And he pulls what’s left of the old ignition and installs an aftermarket imitation that operates on a regular key. Which means I don’t need a key with a microchip to start my new beauty, just a freshly cut key that costs me next to nothing. The work and parts run me six bills but I’m out in less than fifty minutes because this guy doesn’t fool around.

  Then to work. I park on a quiet residential street not far from the BK and I get suited up for the job: wig, gloves, pepper spray on my belt, Cañonita in the satchel, mask in my pocket. I’m already wearing the loose trousers and blouse and vest that allow for unrestricted movement in the event I need to run for miles and climb fences to get away from a homicidal maniac. The clothes help disguise me, too. I think a very quick prayer of thanks that the only person in the world who has recognized Allison as me is my own mother. I think I put some doubt in her, however, by questioning the agility of her mind. A little doubt goes a long way.

  One of the things that Joaquin liked to do was to work fast, hit three or four remote ranches in one night, steal the good horses and run them up north into the mother lode because that’s where the miners and the money were. Three-Fingered Jack, who rode with Joaquin, used to complain about the thirty-six-hour runs to steal and sell the horses—no sleep, no time to drink or whore or gamble until they’d sold off the horseflesh. In his journal Joaquin admitted to drinking “many gallons of powerful coffee” on his three-day crime binges. He brewed the coffee and carried it in cloth-covered canteens wrapped in serapes to keep it hot and protect the horses.

  Jack’s real name was Manuel Garcia. His hand got mangled in a roping accident when he was a boy, thus the finger loss. He was killed alongside Joaquin by Harry Love and his “California Rangers,” and they cut Jack’s three-fingered hand off for ID. The hand was purportedly displayed in the same jar as Joaquin’s severed head, and I’ve seen posters advertising the exhibition of the “HEAD OF JOAQUIN! And the HAND OF THREE-FINGERED JACK!” but there was no hand in the jar I was given by my great-uncle Jack and now keep in the barn down in Valley Center. I miss Valley Center.

  Joaquin was credited with stealing roughly fifty thousand dollars�
�� worth of gold and over a hundred horses. According to his journal it was more like twenty thousand in gold and a hundred and forty horses. Historians said he and his gang killed nineteen men, mostly unarmed Chinese mine workers. But according to Joaquin they killed four, and there is nothing dishonest, boastful or evasive in his own account.

  All of which runs through my mind as I park in the lot beside the Burger King lot. The two lots are separated by a hedge of lantana and there’s a nice body-sized opening to let me through.

  I stride toward the Burger King, all those nice yellows and reds brightly shining within.

  I must have timed out the dinner rush pretty well because the dining room has only a few customers and there’s nobody at the counter as I step up and point Cañonita at the young Latina girl whose smile freezes on her pretty face.

  “The money.”

  “Yes.”

  A boy with pimples and a French fry basket in one hand stares at me. The girl working the drive-through stops midsentence. A stout older woman with short red hair barrels out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dirty white towel and glares at me.

  I swing the gun on her. “Sit and stay.”

  “Where?”

  “Right where you are.”

  She crosses herself and kneels on the tile while the pretty girl empties the cash register into a plastic take-out bag.

  “Double-bag it, please,” I say. “And don’t forget the quarter rolls.”

  “Okay, yes.”

  “Any dye packs, locators, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave them out.”

  “We don’t have those.”

  “Somebody’s going to get hurt,” says the manager.

  “You volunteering, Red?”

  Right then the door opens and in wobbles an old couple, the kind you look at and think, Wow, that’s what I’ve got to look forward to if I’m lucky. Mr. Geezer stops, balanced on a cane. He’s nodding. He’s wearing a blue shirt with a green cardigan over it even though it’s a hundred degrees out. Mrs. Geezer has monumental hair, a scowl and heavy-duty therapeutic nylon support hose. She looks at me.