Vertical Coffin s-4

by Stephen J. Cannell

  "But what if there isn't? What if he was just overcome by smoke and couldn't get down to the basement?"

  "John said it was like when you reconciled a checkbook. If you're off even one dollar you can't just forget it, because that one dollar could be hiding a much bigger error."

  "So, what do we do?"

  "We start over. Start with Smiley's backstory again. Work it from the ground up."

  "You kidding? We've probably got SEB and SRT running around killing each other. We're under heavy pressure from your chief, my sheriff, your wife, and every cop and deputy in L. A. We have to find something fast that we can take to the D. A. Something that will allow them to sack up those two units until they can get it sorted out."

  "Look, I don't…"

  "No. Listen. If any other cop gets sniped on either side, you and I both go in the bag and stay there."

  "But, what if all the theories they're working on are wrong? What if we're building this investigation on a bad foundation? If we are, we'll never come out at the right place."

  She studied me for a long moment, then pushed her plate away. "Are you asking me?" she said.

  "Yeah. Damn right," I answered. "Since we finally agree we're in this together, just tell me where you think we oughta go from here. I'm open for suggestions, but we have a lot of stuff that doesn't line up, and I only know one way to do it, and that's to start over."

  She sat for a long time, then took her wallet out of her purse, opened it, and threw ten bucks on the table.

  "You don't have to buy lunch," I said.

  "Don't you wish. Get your dough out, Scully. Since I guess I'm going on this dumb-ass, career-ending ride with you, the least you can do is pay your half of the food bills." She got up without waiting for an answer and walked out of the restaurant.

  We had a truce. I think.

  Chapter 28

  THE RAM!

  The way it was explained to me by my stressed and emotionally frayed wife, two plainclothes lieutenants from the Warrant Control Office, along with an LAPD Special Weapons and Tactics Team, under the command of a captain from our Internal Affairs Division, drove out to 130 South Fetterly Avenue in East L. A. and served a search warrant on the captain in charge of the Sheriff's Enforcement Bureau. Scott Cook, who had commanded the Gray team at Hidden Ranch and his scout, Rick Manos, watched angrily as two LAPD SWAT team members in body armor collected five Tango 51s and seven 40-X long guns. They were put in one of the sheriff's ARVs to be driven out to Spring Ranch and test fired.

  A warrant was also served on SRT by two SWAT teams about an hour later, at 4 p. M. SRT had nine AR-15s, which were very versatile weapons that could be switched in seconds from a sniper rifle to a fully automatic carbine simply by swapping the upper receiver. All nine SRT guns were picked up and taken out to their training facility in Moorpark to be test fired.

  The collection of the weapons had gone down without incident, but Alexa told me that nobody was happy about it. "An insult," is what she'd heard Scott Cook had called it.

  In the past I'd found out that the best way to get the pieces of a confusing case to line up correctly was to focus my head on something else for a while. Let some fresh air in. It was five in the afternoon when I called home, and Delfina told me that Chooch had driven out to Agoura High to run his first Pop Warner football practice for the Rams. I was only a few miles away, so I said good-bye to Jo and drove over.

  The high school was in the foothills, not far from where this had all started. I parked behind the athletic building and walked around the big fieldhouse until I saw the practice fields on a terraced level about five feet above me. There were fences everywhere. The Agoura High football team was also running a practice using the two full-sized fields, but the Rams were on a fifty-yard overflow field on the far right. The problem was, I kept hitting locked gates when I tried to get up there. I had to ask a student for directions.

  "Gotta go around by the administration building." Then he added: "You can't get there from here."

  Story of my life.

  I eventually found my way onto the grass, snuck up into the bleachers a short distance away, and watched Chooch without letting him know I was here. He had a clipboard under his arm, a walking cast on his foot, and was working with two twelve-year-old quarterbacks. Both boys were wearing red no-contact jerseys, watching Chooch, with his broken foot, trying to demonstrate how to throw a quick out off a three-step drop.

  Across the field, Sonny Lopez was working with the linemen- the wide bodies, such as they were. The heaviest kid on the field was still under 170.

  Finally Chooch blew a whistle. "Okay, everybody over here and take a knee," he yelled.

  The twenty or so members of the team surged toward him. You could spot the serious athletes from the wannabes, even from where I was sitting in the bleachers. The committed players ran all the way to Chooch, some even raced each other. The other kids, the ones who were just there for their fathers, walked. I got up from the bleacher seat, and, trying to stay unobserved, moved down closer so I could hear.

  "Okay," Chooch said, "good warm-ups. In a minute we'll start walking through plays, then do a half hour of scrimmage. I'm not gonna have all of your names for a while, so when I talk to you, if I don't call you by name, you guys tell me who you are. I'll get it straight pretty quick."

  I watched Sonny Lopez pulling a blocking sled out of the way, getting the short field ready for play.

  "I've been studying Coach Rojas's offense, and even though I've never had much experience with a Veer, this one looks good. But I'm gonna have to put you guys through some new speed tests. Forty-yard dashes. Sorry about that, but I need to see for myself where the quickness is."

  The kids were a little subdued, all of them down on one knee, helmets off, looking at the grass instead of at Chooch.

  He sensed it, so he said, "On this team, anybody can say anything. I'm only a few years older than you guys. I'm your coach, but I also want to be a friend. I feel a lot of stuff going on under the surface-stuff you're thinking about me, or what happened to Coach Rojas. We gotta get that all behind us if we want to have a winning spirit."

  Nobody looked at him.

  "I want you guys to tell me what you're thinking. How you feel about all this-Coach Rojas dying. If it's on your mind, let's get it out in the open and deal with it."

  Still nothing.

  "Can't somebody please say something?" he said, smiling slightly.

  One of the larger boys in the back raised his hand. He was an African-American wearing number 58 on his jersey. Probably a linebacker.

  "Yeah," Chooch pointed at him.

  "How come we…"

  "First gimme your name," Chooch said.

  "Deshawn Zook."

  My blood chilled a little.

  "Okay, Deshawn. How come what?"

  "How come we gotta play for you when your dad is trying to fuck ours?"

  I almost got up and walked over to Chooch to answer that, but before I could move Chooch was talking.

  "I know most of you guys have sheriffs for dads, and I know a lot is going on between the LAPD and the sheriffs right now, but whatever happens down there, it isn't part of this team. This team is about us. You and me. It's about our values and how much we want to win, for ourselves and each other. It's about that and nothing else."

  Now they were listening. Most had their heads up watching him.

  "I was friends with Emo Rojas. That's why I'm here. I wanted to do this for him. What happens between our fathers can't be part of what happens on this field, but I'll tell you this, Deshawn, my dad is one of the fairest people you'll ever meet. I met your dad, Darren, on an Iron Pig rally this summer. He seemed really cool and really nice. With your dad and mine working on it, I just don't think whatever's going on is gonna be that big of a problem."

  Deshawn Zook nodded his head. He was smaller version of his father.

  Then Chooch looked down at his clipboard and said, "Deshawn, you're playing inside
linebacker, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You like that position?"

  "Not really."

  "Why not?"

  "Used to play fullback. Like that better."

  "Okay, then here's the deal. All positions are open again for two days. Everybody write down the position you prefer, the position you'll take, and the position you're playing now. Hand 'em in after practice. I'll work with each of you to try and get you where you want to go. I can't promise to move you, but everybody can have one tryout at any position he asks for. By Tuesday any position changes will be posted, and then we'll get back to work. Fair?"

  The boys started nodding, some were even smiling.

  Half an hour later, when the scrimmage started, I left, slipping out behind the bleachers. I don't think Chooch ever saw me. As I walked back to the Acura I was thinking how proud I was of the way he handled that-how smart. Throwing everything open and giving everybody a second chance was a great idea. The kids were now focussed on the future, not on Emo, or me, or any of the other angry nonsense that had washed over them.

  When I reached my car I had another surprise. Scott Cook and Rick Manos were standing there with Darren Zook and Sonny Lopez. As I took out my keys, Rick Manos intercepted me.

  "You know what happened this afternoon?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Warrants got served on us. They think we shot that fed. Your SWAT guys rolled in and took all our long guns."

  I stared at him, not sure how to play it. Then I glanced over at Sonny. "You call these guys when you saw me arrive?"

  "No sir," he said, leaning on the sir so it sounded more like a curse than anything else. "All our kids play on the team. Pickup is in half an hour."

  I turned back to Manos. "I'm getting sick of this. I'm just doing a job, what do you want from me?"

  Now Scott Cook leaned forward and fixed me with a level, no-nonsense stare, frightening in its focus. "You don't know where this is headed Scully. If you did, you'd play it differently."

  "Then you know something," I said.

  They started to walk away, but Scott Cook turned back.

  "I know what those assholes at Treasury are capable of," he said. "I know whatever those casing striations show, we didn't shoot Greenridge. And I know this has just started, Scully. Nobody can stop it now."

  Chapter 29

  MELTDOWN

  I'm worried," Alexa said.

  I was barbecuing chicken in the backyard, basting on my beer butter sauce and nervously watching the Santa Ana winds blow briquette smoke and sparks across the fence into the yard next door. I hoped my surfboard-shaper neighbor, Longboard Kelly, wasn't watching and cursing as my embers sailed over the fence. Franco was right at my feet, purring. He liked my barbecued chicken, so he was watching carefully.

  "I'm worried too-these hot embers. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea," I said, trying to refocus the conversation.

  "I'm not talking about the wind or the damn barbecue," she snapped.

  "I know you're not, honey."

  "How long until the sheriff's ballistics lab can get us a match on those casings?"

  "I don't know."

  The phone rang and Alexa jumped. She was that stressed.

  "Delfina will get it," I said. "It's probably just Chooch telling her he's gonna be late getting home from football practice."

  I wanted to tell Alexa about what I'd seen and how proud I was of the way Chooch had handled the team, but I didn't want to compromise the story by telling it while she was this upset.

  After a minute Delfina walked outside. "It's for you, Shane."

  I handed the barbecue tongs to Alexa. "Don't let my little chickadees burn," I said, doing a bad W. C. Fields. Then I gave her some Groucho eyebrows, trying lighten the moment. But she was in no mood to smile.

  I went into the den and picked up the phone. It was Jo.

  "You want the bad news, or the bad news?" she said. "Shit."

  "We got a positive match on the three-oh-eight you and I pulled out of the apartment. The pin impression and ejection striations line up perfectly with a long gun from the sheriff's SEB armory. A Tango fifty-one. Serial number X-one-five-seven-eight. Brand new sniper rifle bought three months ago."

  "Whose gun is it?"

  "That's the problem. They don't assign individual weapons at SEB. They have an armory, keep 'em in the van when they roll, and pass 'em out when they hit the event."

  She was right. That's what I had seen happen at Hidden Ranch Road.

  "So anybody could have taken this gun out of the armory and used it," she finished.

  "Great."

  "Sometimes one of the snipers will check a long gun out and take it home if he's on standby. That way they can roll to a call from home. When that happens, they sign them out. I imagine certain guys get attached to certain guns. They like the way the sights line up or the way the trigger pulls, the balance-stuff like that. I figure, if this long gun kept getting checked out to the same guy, maybe that leads us somewhere. I'll get the records"

  "Right. Good thinking." I tried to guess where this was going. No doubt we would now have to take the whole SEB Gray team off duty, print everybody, and hold them somehow.

  "I called Sheriff Messenger," Jo said. "He's not a happy camper. ATF went out to our crime lab with a court order and took the two-twenty-three casing we found at Nightingale's house. They're doing their own ballistics match. Messenger's gonna send a print team out to our SEB SWAT house at South Fetterly. With that three-oh-eight casing match, we have enough PC to force a print check on everybody in our enforcement bureau. That's all the updates."

  I stood looking down at the desk, trying to figure out what our next move was.

  "Whatta you bet we also get a positive on that two-twenty-three casing from SRT?" she said.

  "No bet," I replied.

  "Your place or mine? We've got a lot to do here."

  "Whatta we gotta do, besides wait?" I asked. "You figure we should go out and roll prints ourselves?"

  "I've been working on your angle. Rebuilding Smiley's back-story-his history. Isn't that what you wanted? I've been doing computer runs all afternoon. I've got reams of county and city printouts. I could use some help sorting."

  So, while I'd been at football practice Jo Brickhouse was down at the sheriff's computer information center doing runs on Vincent Smiley. I was impressed, and okay, a little embarrassed. I should have been on that, instead of watching my son coach. Figuring out priorities are a bitch.

  "Your place," I finally said, because Alexa was in a foul mood and I wanted to get some air. Also, she hated my background approach, so I'd just as soon not do it right in front of her.

  Just before Jo hung up I said, "Hey, Sergeant, Brickhouse?"

  "Yeah?" Her voice was wary.

  "Thanks for the help."

  "We're partners, aren't we?"

  "Yeah, but it was very thorough. The gun info, the background search-everything."

  "Just doin' police work, Hoss," she said. "Nothin' special."

  "Take the fucking compliment, why don't ya?"

  "You sure it's a compliment, or are you finally trying to make up for being such an asshole?"

  I could picture the dazzling smile spreading across her face. "See you in half an hour," I said, smiling myself as I hung up.

  Outside, Alexa had her back to the house, facing the canal, talking on her cell phone. When she turned around, I knew it must have been Tony telling her about the casing match, because her face was pulled tight.

  "You heard?" I said.

  "They matched the casing," she said.

  The chicken had been forgotten and was blazing merrily on the grill. Alarmed, Franco jumped up on the table to watch it burn. If a cat could frown, Franco was frowning. I grabbed the tongs and plucked a piece off the grill, but it was too late. Chicken briquettes.

  "Now we're gonna have to get everybody on SRT off the street and printed," Alexa said.

  "SRT?" I said. "Whatta you talking abou
t?"

  "Brady Cagel just called Tony. The two-twenty-three matched one of their AR-fifteens. What were you talking about?"

  "I was talking about SEB," I said. "That was Jo. She said sheriffs matched the three-oh-eights to one of their Tango fifty-ones."

  Alexa stood holding her cell phone, looking lost, her face a dark mask. She had always been my strength. Even though I hated to admit it, I looked to my wife for moral clarity and emotional guidance, because I was often at sea in those two critical areas. Now as I watched her I saw only confusion and fear on her lovely face. Suddenly she pushed past me and went quickly into the house, leaving me and Franco in the back yard.

  "Not good, buddy," I said to the cat.

  I had never seen her like this before. I turned and headed into the house after her. She was in the bedroom with the door locked. She never locked the door.

  "Alexa?" I called through the wood panels. Nothing. "Alexa, please let me in." No answer. "Don't make me break this open," I said.

  "Go away, Shane. Please." She sounded like she was crying. She wasn't a weepy woman. I had only seen her cry once, and that was when her ex-boyfriend and commanding officer, Mark Shephard, was murdered.

  "Alexa, please. Please open up."

  I heard the lock being thrown and she stood in the doorway, her face contorted, her mascara running. "What?" she said angrily.

  "I'm not the problem here."

  "Look, Shane, I'm having a meltdown, okay? Occasionally it happens."

  She turned and went into the bathroom. Then I heard that door lock.

  I sat on our bed and waited. Ten minutes later the door opened and she came out. She looked more composed, but she was still stressed. There was a tightness around her eyes. She saw me and paused, looking down without expression.

  "Honey…" I started.

  "No, look. I'm okay. I just caved in for a minute. Leave it be."

  "Most of the time you're propping me up. Most of the time I'm looking to you, but when you get down, if you won't let me be a part of it, how's that supposed to work?"