"Yeah," he said, "VMK hired Blue Shield to protect Ms. Cahill from herself. She had . . . gotten into some bad stuff. They needed to make sure she stayed away from it."
"Okay. Seems odd that your brother's company was supposed to be protecting Cahill and you end up as the lead investigator on her murder case," Zeke replied.
"I'm a homicide detective at the LAPD, what else do you think I do all day?"
"It . . . just seems like you should've flagged your conflict of interest."
"Fuck off with your conflict of interest," Salter said, "where I come from, you get an assignment and you take it."
"I see," Zeke replied, "were you working for Blue Shield, too?"
Salter picked up his brother's chair, pushed his body away with is foot, and took a seat. "Of course," he continued, "you know how much a police detective makes? Nothing. And it ain't nearly enough to meet the cost of living in Los Angeles. So yeah, I was working here as a side job."
"Were you ever assigned as Cahill's bodyguard?"
"A few times, sure. She was . . . sweet. Just needed to get her head on straight."
"Did anything happen between you two?" Zeke asked.
"Fuck off, Blackbird, your client did this and you know it."
"What happened with your partner?" Zeke continued.
"Who?"
"Your partner, from before you were assigned to the police academy. I heard the Department had to separate the both of you after you had some . . . problems?"
Salter paused for a moment, thinking over how to reply. "Beth and I were romantically involved, yes. When she ended things, I was devastated. I requested to be reassigned."
"I heard differently. Heard you got obsessive over her, that she requested to be reassigned."
Salter shifted in his seat. "Things got complicated."
"How about at the academy?" Zeke asked.
"What about it?"
"Someone is willing to testify that you took a special interest in the female cadets, harassing them."
"It's all bullshit."
"Maybe . . . but to a jury . . . it's going to look a certain a way," Zeke said, gesturing to Michael's body."
Salter laughed. He pulled his gun out of its holster and slammed it down on the table.
"Think you're so clever, Blackbird?" he started, "why don't you tell me what you think happened?"
Zeke looked at Matty and then looked at the gun. "Honestly," he said, "I'm guessing that Michael hired you as a favor to the Department. The folks I've talked to said you were a well-known fuckup; your supervisors were looking for ways to offload to someone else. Through Blue Shield you must've gotten assigned to Cahill's security detail. Given your history with women, it's not hard to imagine you started harassing her, probably watching her every move. To everyone else, including VMK, it looked like you were doing your job. But you're a bit of brute—"
"An ogre, really," Matty interjected.
“And Cahill was America's sweetheart, could've dated anyone she wanted. She had already rebuffed her millionaire boss, so I'm guessing she didn't even give you a second thought."
"So?" Salter asked.
"A few witnesses have said Cahill looked freaked out in the two weeks leading up to her murder," Zeke said. "You were probably stalking her after hours, just like you were doing to me in Little Tokyo."
"My suggestion—drive a shittier car," Matty said.
"You were probably the one that called VMK to tell them Blue Shield couldn't provide bodyguards for Cahill that night, which you figured was your last chance to reconcile things with her. I'm guessing your brother was suspicious when she wound up dead and her bodyguards weren't anywhere to be found."
"I'm not sure how you got into the house party, but once you found your way in you cornered Cahill in a private room. You killed her when she wouldn't relent. Guess you could say it was a crime of passion."
"You can't put me at that party until I showed up in my black and white," Salter said.
"I can, though. I guess you don't remember telling me how disgusted you were with the party guests videotaping Cahill before she died. But that's the thing about celebrities and influencers, they're always videotaping. There are still a few videos online if you know where to look. You show up in not one, but two different videos, before Cahill is murdered. Hard to spot, sure, but easy to see if you know what you're looking for."
"You dirty rascal . . ." Matty said.
"So how do you explain the murder weapon in your client's motorcycle?"
"It wouldn't take a leap of faith to think that the detective setting up my client was able to plant evidence, would it? You probably saw his flub with Cahill earlier in the evening, and 'bingo,' found your fallguy."
Salter was quiet for a few minutes. He walked to a refrigerator in the corner of the office, opened it, and pulled out a fifth of whiskey. After taking a few glugs, he turned to Zeke.
"Well, Zeke, I'll level with you. You're mostly right. Once I met Cahill, as her bodyguard, I got hooked. I moved to the night shift at Homicide and told Michael I wanted to work on every Cahill shift. Wainwright didn't want her buying any drugs, at all, so I would skirt the rules every few days and drive her to her dealers. She said I was her favorite bodyguard because I let her do what she wanted.
She liked me well enough, at first. But she was so focused on her acting career and repaying debts to Mikulski's that she couldn't focus on me, even though I was right in front of her. I confronted her about it in her trailer on set a few times, but she was going through withdrawal and just couldn't focus. A few days before the party we had a falling out. She had a mean streak, as your client knows. She slapped me and called me pathetic. That’s was when I decided it was either me, or nothing. And at the party, she didn't choose me."
"How did you get into the party?"
"Psh," Salter laughed, "Wainwright was in way over his head. I jumped the security wall on a side of the house. For someone that's supposed to be West L.A.'s 'drug kingpin,' Mikulski is running a pretty thin operation. It's all show with him, if you ask me."
"So how did you—"
"Plant the murder weapon?" Det. Salter asked. "I saw Mr. Garcia put his keys into a gym bag in a hallway closet. I grabbed it on my way out of the house, dropped it in his motorcycle, and walked down the hill to pick up my black and white. Who knew murder could be so easy."
"I'll make a deal with you," Zeke said, "if you agree to turn yourself in, I'll represent you. If you don't have any priors, I can probably get you a good deal with the District Attorney."
Det. Salter finished the bottle of whiskey and dropped it in a trashcan. "It turns out, Zeke, that I don't need your help. You see, I pride myself on being thorough."
"How do you mean?"
"Remember when I was following you in Little Tokyo? That was a stroke of luck, let me tell you. I've got picture of you with a known gang associate. Eric Volto has been working for the Inland Widows for a few years now, and I have pictures of you and him walking out of a restaurant together."
"So what? I was kidnapped at gunpoint," Zeke replied.
"You look like old chums in my pictures," Det. Salter said as he wiped down his handgun.
"See this," he said, gesturing at the gun, "it's unregistered. Serial numbers have been shaved off. All I have to do is tell my coworkers you struck a deal with the Widows to have me and Michael assassinated, as retribution for your client."
"Ok, but what happens when we tell them it was actually you?" Matty asked.
"You won't, because you'll be dead too." Salter put on a glove and grasped the trigger. "Hitmen like to tie up loose ends, makes sense they would take you two dolts out, anyways. Last words?"
"Yeah," Zeke said, "funemployment."
"What—"
The glass on the office window shattered and the door opened. Within seconds the room was flooded with LAPD SWAT officers, all pointing their guns at Salter, yelling at him to drop his weapon.
Zeke and Matty both hit the fl
oor, eager to stay out of everyone's way.
"Funemployment," Matty yelled at Zeke over their voices, "you're really a character, Mr. Blackbird."
Salter moved his hand toward his holstered pistol and was struck twice in the arm. He yelled and fell to the floor. Five SWAT officers descended on him.
After they had Salter in custody and first responders began treating his borther, ADA Williams walked through the door. He was wearing a bulletproof vest.
"Mr. Blackbird," he said, smiling, "I feel like that went well, all things considered."
Matty looked flustered. "How did you—"
"I called him last night, after you left the office," Zeke said.
"I thought you were crazy, until you sent me that link to the videos. Pretty damning evidence, if you ask me."
"Then why even bother doing the interview with Salter in the first place?” Matty asked. “Didn't it occur to you he would try to kill us?"
"We were counting on it," ADA Williams replied. "Plus, think of all that tape we got from Salter." Zeke pulled up his red tie to show a microphone on the back and lifted up his shirt to show a wire connected to a battery pack and transmitting device.
"Sorry, Matty," Zeke said, "but it needed to be believable."
"I get it. I suck at secrets."
The first responders put Michael on a gurney and started pushing him out of the office.
"How does he look?" ADA Williams asked.
"Bullets when straight through his shoulder, looks like it missed the major artery. No promises, but I think he'll be fine."
Zeke turned to ADA Williams. "How soon can we get Alex out of jail?"
"Soon," he replied, "but it will still take a little bit. The Sheriff's Department is . . . slow . . . like any good bureaucracy."
"We've got to get him out of there, Williams. The Inland Widows took a baseball bat to my car the other night, they aren't messing around."
"I understand. I'll get this evidence in front of the District Attorney by this afternoon, we should have the charges against your client dropped in the next day or two."
"Can you move him into some sort of protective custody?"
"As far as I know he's in Twin Towers 141-B. It's a quarantined pod. That's about as safe as it gets in the L.A. jail system."
March 9th, 11:15am
Alex dusted off his prison uniform as he walked into the yard. There was no grass or dirt to speak of, however. The 'yard' at Twin Towers Jail was, in reality, an indoor concrete gymnasium, just large enough to fit one pod's worth of inmates at a time. There were a few basketball hoops, some free weights, and a pair of bleachers. It was dim, though, as the room was only built with tiny slits for windows every couple of feet.
He saw Jimmer on the far set of bleachers, flocked by his usual clique of inmates. The group had thinned out since the dinner incident, but Zeke was certain to lose in anything more than a one-on-one situation.
Alex took his usual seat behind the basketball hoops. He would've liked to start using free weights during yard hour but it was gang turf, and he didn't feel like he could ask anyone to spot him while he was lifting. More important than spotting him, though, would be someone to keep an eye out if Jimmer or one of his crew was coming.
This is the best spot, Alex thought to himself. He was seated against a wall, so at least his back was protected. Alex could see the entire yard, including Jimmer on the bleachers to his far right, so he wouldn't have the advantage of surprise.
The basketball game was always a bit rough. Inmates didn't really appreciate the difference between a standard foul and outright aggression, but as long as Alex stayed out of it, he figured it would be fine.
"You look nervous, kid. What's up?" a familiar voice said.
Alex turned to his left and saw Rodrigo wheeling himself towards the basketball hoop.
"Hey! What're you doing here?" Alex asked.
"I told the guards I wasn't feeling well when it was my pod's turn for yard hours. So, they let me out now instead."
"Oh. What's wrong?" Alex asked.
"Nothing, I feel fine. But I need to tell you something."
"What's that?"
"I heard through the grapevine that the Inland Warriors called in a hit on you for taking out Jimmer. And seeing as Jimmer is their go-to-guy in here, you better believe it'll be him looking to deal the killing blow."
"I know. Alonzo said the same thing." Zeke looked over at Jimmer on the bleachers. He hadn't moved.
"I wish I could be more help," Rodrigo said, "but there's only so much I can do from here," he said, looking at his wheelchair. "But you better believe anyone that comes within arm distance in cruisin' for a bruisin'."
Alex laughed, "yeah, I bet."
Each pod only received one hour of yard time a week, and twenty minutes had already passed.
"Talk to your lawyer recently?" Rodrigo asked.
"Nah, it's been a little bit. I saw him at court a week or so ago. Why?"
"No reason, I was just wondering how your case was going."
"District Attorney dropped his offer to 20 to life, with possible release a few years early for good behavior."
"Now that's a good deal," Rodrigo said.
"I turned it down. I didn't kill anybody, even though no one believes me. It's all bullshit—"
A basketball veered at Alex’s face and hit him square on the nose. The impact knocked his head into the concrete wall, aggravating his previous injury, and causing him to fall sideways onto the floor.
Rodrigo turned towards the court, angry, "What the hell—"
Another basketball flew at Rodrigo's head, but he caught it.
"Man, you guys must suck at basketball," Rodrigo quipped.
The players strutted towards Rodrigo and Alex. "Nah, man," one of the players said, pointing at Alex, "it's time to pay the piper."
Alex sat up and looked over at the bleachers. Jimmer was sprinting towards him from across the room, along with his posse of inmates and most of the guys playing basketball. It was like an unarmed, pitched battle
"Here we go!" Rodrigo said, "it was nice knowing you, kid." Rodrigo wheeled himself in front of Alex and disappeared into the onslaught of attackers.
Not wanting to be known for sitting out a fight, inmates from all across the exercise yard rushed to join in. Even guys without loyalty to either side jumped into the fray, throwing punches simply to say they did.
Within seconds the exercise yard had erupted in a mayhem of flailing limbs, battlecries, and bloody concrete.
Despite being the initial target of the fight, all of the inmates kept a safe distance from Alex. Strange, he thought to himself. He figured that the inmates were under strict orders from Jimmer and his crew to keep away. Alex was the Widow's target, and only Jimmer could take him on.
After 10 or 15 seconds, Alex saw Jimmer emerge from the crowd. He was holding something sharp.
"Bet you didn't see this coming, did ya?" Jimmer said.
"Shut up and get on with," Alex said, standing up and taking a proper boxing stance.
Jimmer rushed toward him, raising the knife above his head as he ran forward. Alex put up his left arm to block and at the last split-second dodged to the left. Jimmer caught his blocking arm with the knife, tearing a sizable wound.
The pain was severe, but Alex was focused on taking Jimmer off his feet. The moment the knife came down Alex threw an upper-cut with his right hand, landing his fist under Jimmer's chin. Alex felt Jimmer's teeth clack together and heard a faint crunch. Jimmer swayed for a second and then hit the floor.
Alex heard Jimmer's knife clatter on the floor. He grabbed it, pinned Jimmer on the floor with his knees, and held the knife to his throat. Zeke looked around, but no one had noticed the pair on the floor among the chaos. He saw a few inmates on the ground around him, incapacitated or injured. Rodrigo's wheelchair was on its side a few feet away, but Zeke couldn’t see Rodrigo.
He turned back to Jimmer, who was conscious and staring at Alex.
/>
"Lucky hit," Jimmer said.
"Two times in a row," Alex said, "I must be pretty luck then."
"Let me make this easy for you, the Widows are never gonna stop trying to take you out. If you don't kill me now, I'll just try again in a few weeks."
You are all you have in this life, Alex remembered his father's words, never let people push you around.
Chapter 12
March 9th, 2:45pm
Alex threw the shank across the exercise yard and out of sight.
"I'm not playing your games anymore," Alex said, "I'm done—
A loud alarm rang out across the yard. The door linking the central hallway with the exercise yard opened and armed guards flood the room.
"Get down! Now! On your stomach with your hands on your head!" the guards yelled.
Most of the inmates immediately hit the ground. A few, still in a frenzy of fighting, were shot with rubber pellets, and yelped from the pain. Within 30 seconds the exercise yard had returned to relative calm.
"Over there, near the basketball hoop," Alex heard someone say. "Bring him to the Inmate Receiving Center, now. No cuffs, please."
A guard stood Alex up and cuffed him anyways. "Sorry," the guard said, "it's protocol."
Alex looked up and saw Zeke standing near the doorway. He was flanked by the Assistant District Attorney and a few jail officials.
"Fine, Zeke said, "let's make it quick. Every second he's in here is another stain on his constitutional rights."
"Alright, alright," ADA Williams said, "the grandstanding is unnecessary, Mr. Blackbird."
"I'll see you at the exit," Zeke said to Alex.
"Okay . . ." Alex said, smiling, wondering what was going on.
Alex could tell the guards were dragging their feet, and figured they weren't too pleased Alex had almost ruined their lucrative side hustle.
After the guards spoke with the jail warden, they brought Alex back to the Inmate Reception Center. The guards told him he was getting out. They weren't sure why, but he was getting out.
They showed him to an empty waiting cell. He changed out of his jail uniform and back into his casual clothes from the day of his arrest. He had lost weight around his waist, so his pants barely stayed up, but his chest had gotten bigger, so his shirt was tight. He caught a glance at himself in a glass partition. He would have laughed if hadn't been weeping through the whole affair.
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