The Renegades ch-2

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “Charlie, get yourself to Fifth and San Pedro.”

  “Skid Row.”

  “ASAP.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Your old friend Kick.”

  Hood made it quickly in the light Sunday morning traffic. He drove into the shadows of the downtown buildings, made his way into the forbidding darkness of Skid Row. To Hood this was the worst of L.A., a twenty-four-seven bazaar of drug use and narcotics deals and prostitution, often conducted in Porta Potties set up for the homeless, who gathered here for services. He knew it was one of the only places in Southern California where rival gangs could be found buying and selling drugs side by side, violence suspended for the fast dollars. There was heroin on Broadway, crack on Fifth at Crocker or Main. Addicts, dealers, hookers, hustlers, gangsters, the homeless, the hopeless, the insane. All here, thought Hood, the Devil’s arcade. Or a fifty-square-block party, if your idea of a party is crack and sex in a Porta Potti.

  He found a place off San Pedro to park. Up ahead near the intersection of Fifth he could see three LAPD Central Division units with their lights flashing, a coroner’s van, a Fire and Rescue truck and a couple of unmarked police and sheriff units.

  When he got near the corner he saw two men wheeling a shrouded body into the back of the coroner’s van. A small, ragged crowd had gathered. Marlon was talking to two LAPD sergeants. He thanked them and pulled Hood aside and they stood in the doorway of a shabby office building that was closed on Sundays.

  “That’s Kick with the body snatchers,” said Marlon. “Deon Miller. He was walking down Fifth, apparently alone. A black Silverado pickup stopped beside him, the driver got out and shotgunned him. All of this according to the one witness, a Guatemalan dishwasher who rents a room with friends on Los Angeles Street. He was on his way to work.”

  Hood watched the coroner’s van roll away, no lights or sirens for this vehicle, just death on wheels. “Did the dishwasher get a look at the driver?”

  “White or light Hispanic male, tall. He wore a cowboy hat and dark bandana over his face. Boots and jeans. A long black coat. The hat was black, of course.”

  Pretty much what Bradley Jones would wear to avenge his mother’s death, Hood thought.

  Marlon took a small digital camera from a pouch on his belt and fiddled with it for a moment before handing it to Hood. On the viewer the pictures of Kick were sharp in the faint first light of morning. He lay center-shot on the sidewalk, faceup in a pool of blood.

  “Anyway, Hood, I remember what Bradley Jones told us. I remembered that you believed him. I thought you felt some responsibility to him because of what happened. Maybe it wasn’t him but I figured you’d want to see this.”

  Hood handed his camera back. “He said he was going to do it.”

  Marlon looked out at the LAPD cruisers on street. “You going to tell these guys?”

  “I’ll talk to him first.”

  “So you’re in touch?”

  “I can find him.”

  “Maybe you should do that.”

  “Since when do you answer LAPD calls?” Hood asked.

  “I drive sometimes at night,” Marlon said. “I look at things and listen to the law enforcement scanner. I can’t sleep. A possible one-eighty-seven always gets my blood moving.”

  “I do that some nights, too.”

  “You’re too young for that, Charlie,” Marlon said with a smile. “Get yourself another pretty girl. Make yourself tired. How are you liking the desert?”

  “I like the desert.”

  “And IA?”

  “I’d rather be back with the Bulldogs.”

  “There may be a time for that. I worked with Warren way back when. He’s okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear that from you.”

  “You know his story?”

  “None of it.”

  Hood looked at the bloodstained sidewalk. By now the sun was up but Skid Row was still shrouded in winter shadows. A few blocks away, Parker Center, the police headquarters, caught the early sunlight like a shrine.

  They talked to the dishwasher for a few minutes and learned a few more things. He said the black truck had approached and departed slowly. No hurry. The shotgun was long, not sawed off. The shooter raised it to his shoulder and aimed, like a hunter. It had been hard to make things out in the dark, with only the streetlights to see by. The dishwasher was afraid that he would be shot next, but the gunman tipped his hat and got back into the truck.

  Tipped his hat, Hood thought: pure Bradley.

  “Let’s drive, Charlie. I’ll tell you about Jim Warren.”

  Hood moved his Camaro to a pay lot. Marlon drove his Yukon, just a few months old, the interior still smelling new and the police band scanner under the dash turned low.

  “You’ve heard of the Renegades?” he asked.

  “Tattooed deputies out of the old Lynwood station.”

  “Gung-ho white guys,” said Marlon. “They had big attitudes, thought they ruled the known world. They got tattoos of six-guns on the inside of their ankles, with ‘Renegades’ written underneath like barbed wire. This was ’89, when you were what, nine or ten years old? Those were rough years in the ghetto stations, and Lynwood was right in the middle of South Central. Lots of racial tension between white deputies and black citizens, Gorillas in the Mist and all that kind of thing. Warren was the founding member. The Renegades were his.”

  Hood looked at his old boss. “Yeah,” said Marlon. “You wouldn’t think of that with what he’s doing now. Back then, Warren swore they were good deputies, total professionals, the good guys. He said the tattoos were just a way of showing solidarity-like a Marine Corps tattoo. He said it wasn’t about power or race, it was only about being a good cop in a bad place. A lot of the Lynwood deputies wanted to be invited in. They really wanted that revolver and the word ‘Renegades’ tattooed on their ankles.”

  “There were the Vikings and the Reapers and the Saxons, too,” Hood said.

  “The Renegades were the first and the toughest. It finally came down to Warren and the sheriff himself, meeting for an hour behind closed doors. When the meeting was over, the Renegades were allowed to continue on with the membership and the tats. That went for all the clicks. The sheriff washed his hands, said he didn’t approve of them, but the deputies had a constitutional right to assemble in that way. Then came Roland Gauss.”

  Hood knew of him, as did every LASD deputy. Roland Gauss was the infamous Renegade who staged a series of “drug raids,” in which he and two other deputies, all in uniform, busted known drug dealers, took their cash and product, and sold the dope themselves.

  “When Gauss got caught in the Fed drug sting, Warren stood by him as long as he could. But the evidence was overwhelming against Gauss because someone in his crew was singing loud to the prosecutors. So Gauss tried to sing his way to a lighter sentence, by fingering Warren as the ringleader. He also accused Warren of marital infidelities, drug use, gambling. Warren got suspended. The media played the Renegades story big, and they followed it to the top-Warren. They actually went to his house, staked it out, took his picture. But he kept to his story. He rode it out. Months. By the time the investigation was finished, Gauss was bound over for trial, Warren was exonerated, and the Renegades were banned from the LASD forever. But Warren had that tattoo on his ankle. They all did. Half of them were transferred or took early retirement. Warren had the tattoo removed and he took an IA job nobody wanted. Then, you see what happened. It was like Saul on the road to wherever it was-he started out a badass Renegade and ended up the saint of Internal Affairs. He had this thing for catching bad guys, and he just switched it over to catching bad cops.”

  “It seems personal,” Hood said. “He thinks this department is his. Like if you hurt it, you hurt him.”

  “Oh, it’s personal all right. His wife died of a heart attack about halfway through the investigation. She had a bad ticker but all the stress didn’t help. They had a good thing. I saw it. To me, she was the s
addest casualty of the whole damned mess, that and the way the public thought we were Nazis. What Warren wants now is that nobody like Roland Gauss ever puts on a sheriff’s badge again.”

  “That’s a good cause.”

  “People like Warren need a cause. They need an enemy with a face. They need a story and a part in it for themselves. Me? Five more years and I’m gone. Montana. Idaho. Typical cop cliche, but that’s fine with me. That’s if I can talk my wife into it, and survive five more years. Blood pressure too high. Cholesterol too high. Putting on pounds. Tired a lot because I can’t sleep at night. They say it’s pressure, but I don’t know. What’s pressure? Everyone’s got pressure. Being a cop was never more than a job for me. But somehow, that wasn’t enough to get me through the years without wearing down. I’m not like Warren. Or you.”

  Hood and Marlon had had the first part of this conversation a year ago, just before Marlon got Hood onto the Bulldogs. Marlon had been in Vietnam and Hood had been in Iraq, so they had things in common. Marlon was a patrol sergeant and Hood did investigations with NCIS. Marlon knew what it was to be ambushed in a jungle, and Hood knew what it was to be ambushed in a desert town. But Hood also knew how it was to be hated by your own side. He felt betrayed and alone. He understood Jim Warren’s need to find men he could believe in. Hood had it, too.

  “You think Bradley Jones blew Kick away?” Marlon asked.

  Hood nodded. “Her birthday was yesterday. I hope I’m wrong.”

  “Me, too,” said Marlon. “I liked Bradley. He’d make a deputy someday.”

  “I told him that.”

  “And what’s he think?”

  “He likes the idea but won’t admit it.”

  “He still running his own little hoodlum crew?”

  “I think so.”

  “Does he still hate you?”

  “Mostly.”

  “He might get over that.”

  “He sets a course and follows it, just like his mother.”

  “Stupid. I don’t mean she was stupid. You know what I mean.”

  24

  Hood called Erin and told her about Kick.

  “Bradley was here all night,” she said. “He’s still here-out in the barn. He’s pulling the engine on the truck.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “I can’t tell you exactly where this place is.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “But-”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see you in less than an hour.”

  Hood had gotten Bradley’s address from police at Cal State Los Angeles, where Bradley had registered but never attended class. Hood confirmed it by tracking one of Bradley’s gang-the forger-through Probation to the same address. Hood wasn’t surprised to find that he was living in Antelope Valley. Bradley lived on an unimproved, unmaintained county road, in a house he didn’t own, far from L.A.

  A few minutes later Hood steered the Camaro down Soledad Canyon Road toward Acton, a town of just a few hundred people spread over a few miles, tidy homes, large parcels, horses, hills and blue sky.

  His first turn off of Soledad Canyon was a dirt road, wide and freshly bladed and running north. The second dirt road was narrower and turned to washboard that attacked the stiff suspension of Hood’s IROC and threatened to demolish the interior. The third dirt road was narrower still but the washboard ended. He stopped at the chain-link gate, pulled the chain and padlocks off the pipe rail, swung it open, ignored the “No Trespassing” sign and drove through. When he got out to close the gate a soft cloud of dust surrounded him.

  Further down, the road improved. There was a pasture and a few head of cattle, and the sage and foxtail brome was dense and healthy from the rain. He passed a small stream and an outcropping of rocks. It looked to Hood like a good place for grinding acorns and chipping arrowheads and keeping watch. At first he thought he saw a ground squirrel sitting atop the highest point, then he realized that it was a surveillance camera.

  Hood drove around a long bend, down an incline, then out into a broad meadow. There were buildings on the far upper slope of the meadow. The meadow was fenced and he could see horses, some grazing, some watching his car. He came to an electric chain-link gate, and a small speaker stand and keypad.

  He pressed the CALL button and waited. A pack of Doberman pinschers and a small Jack Russell terrier barked and growled from the other side of the gate. He pressed CALL again. Bradley’s voice was half static.

  “Beat it, Hood.”

  “Nice dogs.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  “Kick’s dead. I can make this official business or not.”

  “What’s the ‘not’ get me?”

  “It allows you to open the gate and talk to me here where you live.”

  “Otherwise you drag me to the station and hook up the cattle prods? Or do you waterboard now?”

  “If you’d like. I want to say hi to Erin and I’ll say yes to a cup of coffee.”

  Hood could hear Bradley talking to someone. He didn’t sound happy. Finally the gate opened and the Dobermans charged out and came to Hood’s side of the car, snapping, sharp-eared, sleek and muscled. The terrier finally couldn’t restrain himself any longer and he sank his teeth into the leg of the Doberman in front of him. The Dobie wheeled shrieking and the Jack Russell bolted away. But they didn’t touch the Camaro. They stayed almost exactly one yard away. When Hood tapped the gas and passed them they spread out on either side of the road and sprinted ahead of him all the way to the house, the terrier lagging far behind.

  Hood parked in the circular asphalt driveway in front of the house. It was a sprawling one-story with faded yellow paint and a roof of buckling wood shingles eager to burn. Bright beach towels hung in the windows instead of curtains. There was a deck out front with an awning over it and an older man stood leaning on the railing, looking down at Hood. He was dressed in jeans and flip-flops and a USC sweatshirt. He wore sunglasses. The dogs had lined up along the deck to look down on Hood, too.

  He cut the engine and lowered a window.

  “You’re Hood.”

  “I know that. Who are you?”

  “Bradley told me all about you. This is private property you’re on.”

  “Somebody let me in.”

  “I own this land and this house. It’s paid for. I’ll die here and that’s fine with me. You have to die somewhere, so it may as well be with your dogs.”

  “It may be sooner than you think with that roof.”

  “I got the brush cleared back. Two hundred feet is what they recommend but I did three hundred. I do extra on things I care about.”

  “You sure talk a lot for a guy with no name.”

  “Preston.”

  “Well, Preston, where is he?”

  “Come on up. This way.”

  “You have those dogs under control?”

  “You’d know if I didn’t.”

  The deck needed refinishing and creaked underfoot. Two of the dogs smelled Hood’s pants and boots and the others panted and watched him. Preston shouldered through the door and Hood followed him in. The living room was beaten leather couches, old concert posters tacked to the walls, and two acoustic guitars gleaming in their stands. In the corner was a baby grand piano, polished and stately.

  “Erin’s a musician,” said Preston. Hood looked at him and saw the odd angle of his head as he spoke. “Come on.”

  Preston led him through the living room and down a short hallway. He turned right into a kitchen. It was dark and small and to Hood it looked scantily equipped. Beyond the kitchen was a dining room and at the table sat a chunky fiftyish woman in a blue bathrobe. The Sunday L.A. Times was piled on the floor beside her and a stack of advertisements and coupons waited on the table in front of her.

  “That’s Wanda,” said Preston, looking at the woman with that odd angle of head. “I’ll bet she’s keeping up with world events.”

  “You’re Hood,” she said.

  “I can’t fool anyone,” h
e said, realizing that Preston was blind.

  “They’re out back wrecking another car,” said Wanda.

  “Come on,” said Preston.

  He led Hood outside, around a beaten stucco garage, down a ramp and into a small barnyard. His trail across the earth was narrow and well worn through the weeds. The dogs followed.

  Bradley was in the barn, up to his shoulders in the engine of an old white F-150. Clayton, the document forger, stood across from him, also bent into the depths of the engine. Hood nodded to Erin, who was sitting at the end of a picnic bench under one of the barn windows, a small guitar resting on one thigh and an arm draped over the body. Wedged between the bench and her leg was a notebook with a pen on top. Stone, the car thief, sat at the other end reading a thick hardcover book. Between them was a pot of something steaming and one upside-down mug and an ashtray with a cigarette burning in it.

  Preston walked over toward the workbench, felt for the chair, then swung it around backward and sat down facing Bradley’s direction. The dogs spread out around him on the cool concrete floor.

  “Look what I found,” he said.

  Bradley straightened and looked at Hood. He flipped a torque wrench full circle and caught it by the handle. “Not hard to find someone trespassing right up to your front door.”

  Erin waved and smiled feebly but didn’t look at Hood. Clayton glanced at him. Stone never looked up from his book.

  “So what do you want, Charlie?” asked Bradley. “You may as well just say it here and say it quick. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Someone blew Kick away about four hours ago,” Hood said, though he knew where all this was going.

  The quiet barn got quieter.

  “I got a cup for you,” said Erin. “Have some coffee, Charlie.”

  He walked over and upended the cup and poured. He caught the worry in Erin’s eyes as she looked back at the guitar strings. Hood went over to the truck and stood between Bradley and Clayton. The engine head was off and the cylinders were exposed and he could see the burned silver-black carbon in them.

  “Kick was an unformed child playing games in the land of little error,” said Bradley to the engine. Then he looked at Hood. “So I don’t feel one bit sorry for him. My only slight regret is that I wasn’t the one to blow the life out of him. But that would have taken a risk far greater than Kick’s life was worth. As you can probably infer, and as all of these people will tell you, I’ve been on this property since last night and right here in this barn since before sunrise this morning.”