Stepanovich, his ears ringing from the gunfire, hurried back to the motor home. Inside, Fordyce was lying on his back with his hands covering his stomach. His complexion was gray and his expression one Stepanovich had seen too many times before: the glassy-eyed, pleading grimace that meant impending death. Stepanovich knelt close to him.
Like a child, the speechless Fordyce lifted his hands from his torso for a moment to reveal a silver dollar sized blood spot spreading under his rib cage. "Don't let me die," he said. There were tears in his eyes.
Out of breath, Arredondo used the walkie-talkie to transmit a request for an ambulance. The dispatcher immediately acknowledged the request.
Fordyce coughed harshly and arched in a spasm of pain. Stepanovich took his hand. "You're gonna be OK," he said, though it was clear to him the opposite was more likely.
"The paramedics are on the way," Arredondo said.
Black pulled a blanket from the bunk, folded it into a pillow, and placed it under Fordyce's feet. As Fordyce coughed a few more times, Stepanovich lifted his neck to keep his airway clear, as he'd been taught in the emergency first aid course at the police academy. Fordyce continued coughing and Stepanovich, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness, looked up at Arredondo and Black.
Fordyce's breathing became labored. His mouth opened and he began to gasp uncontrollably. Eyes wide, his tongue protruded and he retched violently and disgorged a mouthful of dark, foamy blood. Quickly his skin took on a bluish gray tinge, a color Stepanovich associated with many of the soldiers he'd helped load onto Medevac choppers in Vietnam, with heart attack victims and gunshot victims he'd helped since becoming a cop. It was the cast of death.
The sound of a screaming siren drew closer and two paramedics, a young black man and a husky woman, rushed into the motor home and began to work on Fordyce. Stepanovich stepped out onto the street, which was in the process of being barricaded from both ends by arriving patrol cars.
After conferring with a uniformed officer, Black turned to Stepanovich. "A priest is on the way."
Stepanovich nodded. Suddenly feeling lightheaded, he turned toward a crowd of Mexicans gathered on both sides of the street. He wanted to fight, to cry, to chase them away.
****
FOURTEEN
At L.A. County General Hospital, Harger was waiting for him at the emergency room door. Stepanovich briefed him on what had occurred, and Harger hurried to a phone. Suddenly a police squad car driven by a young uniformed officer sped up the ramp leading to the emergency entrance and came to an abrupt stop. Stepanovich opened the passenger door and Father Mendoza, an overweight Roman Catholic priest with thinning hair swirled to cover his balding pate, stepped out. Stepanovich introduced himself and led Mendoza through hospital doors, down a hallway, and into a crowded emergency room, where medics were ministering to Fordyce. Without saying a word, Mendoza kissed his tippet, draped it around his neck, and edged in between two green-gowned nurses to lisp the sacrament of the last rites.
Before he'd finished, Fordyce's terrified parents, a well groomed, gray haired couple who looked like brother and sister, were ushered into the emergency room by Arredondo. As they stood there holding hands, clutching one another, Stepanovich noticed, God knows why, that they were wearing the same walking shoes as in the photo inside Fordyce's motor home. Trapped in the tiled room with the sounds of scissors and ripping cloth, an Oriental doctor's commands in broken English, the clank of metal instruments, the crackle of needles being freed from sterile wrappings, of Mendoza's Latin chants, of the Fordyces crying, Stepanovich felt like he was suffocating. He found himself escaping out the doors and into the hallway. Black and Arredondo were standing in front of a vending machine.
"We should have realized White Fence might figure out what we were up to," Black said, handing him a can of Coke.
"We had no way of knowing."
"Somebody must have noticed the motor home parked at Greenie's place and figured we were using it." Arredondo said.
Black took out a package of filter cigarettes and ripped off the cellophane. "Doesn't matter how they knew we were there," he said. "The point is, we killed their homeboys and they came gunning for us. I give them credit for having balls. They have to know what this means."
Stepanovich knew that his face and neck must be bright red. He could feel the heat of his anger.
Harger stepped out of the emergency room. Advancing to the men, he spoke in a subdued, official tone. "Because this is an officer involved shooting, major crimes division is in charge of the investigation."
"Fuck major crimes," Black said.
"They don't know shit about solving a gang case," Arredondo said.
Harger cleared his throat. "In my position, I can't really make any official comment. But you men know how I feel. Fordyce is one of us. This should be our case. "
"We can put this case together on our own without interference from a bunch of third floor prima donnas," Stepanovich said.
Harger put an arm around Stepanovich and led him away from the others.
"I've spoken with the Chief, " he said as they walked. "He wants CRASH to stay on this as long as it takes but unofficially. If you guys come up with the shooters before major crimes does, then so be it."
"That means the Chief is giving us the go ahead?"
"His exact words to me were: 'Bob, in the old days, when an officer was shot we had an unwritten code about what to do when we found the shooter.' Need I say more?"
"You're saying he wants us to catch 'em and kill 'em?"
"That's a ten four. He feels that if the gangs get away with this one, no policeman is safe in this city. He's not talking a few arrests and a long trial to clear the books. He wants notches on the gun."
"There's always a risk in this kind of thing."
"I'm well aware of that. And I'll certainly understand if you don't think you can handle it."
"That's not what I'm saying," Stepanovich said, restraining his emotions.
Harger put his arm around him. "Of course. I apologize for coming on so strong."
"I'm ready and the others are ready, but I just want to know whether we're going to be on our own or with help from the top."
"I'm standing here as a man telling you the chief of police will back anything you think you have to do to get the fuckers that shot Fordyce. If heat comes down, the Chief and I will be there to take it with you. This city is in a war and he intends to win."
"This can't be done without some heavy moves."
"Do whatever you have to."
Their eyes met for a moment. Then Harger slapped Stepanovich on the shoulder and headed down the hallway toward a cluster of uniformed officers, detectives, and hospital employees.
Someone touched Stepanovich and he whirled about. It was Gloria. There were tears in her eyes and she looked visibly shaken. As they embraced, she said, "I saw all the policemen and thought you were the one who'd been shot."
He wanted her arms around him forever. "I love you," he whispered.
"I've missed you so much."
"I'll have some time off, soon."
"What's wrong?"
She shook her head.
"There's nothing to worry about."
"Sometimes I wish I'd never met you," she said.
"You're just upset. We're all upset. But this isn't for you. It's just . . ." His words sounded hollow to himself, and he could tell they sounded the same to her.
She turned away, using a Kleenex to wipe her eyes. The tiny sear near her eye seemed a deeper red. There was a look of defeat in her eyes ... or was it fear? He reached out to touch her, then thought better of it.
"I have to get back to my ward," she said. "When will we be able to have some time together?"
"Soon. This will all be over soon."
She nodded gloomily and walked away to answer a call from the nurses' station. She returned to be with him as she continued her duties during the day and later obtained permission for him, Black, and Arredondo to wai
t in the staff lounge rather than the hallway.
Around five, Stepanovich left the room and found a water fountain in the hall outside the emergency room. When he leaned down to take a drink, the water was cold and hurt his teeth.
Suddenly the emergency room door swished open, and out drifted a rush of hospital air, carrying the awful odor of alcohol, Lysol, and nervous perspiration. The young Oriental doctor, dressed in a green surgical gown, stepped outside and looked about for a moment. Then he spotted Mr. and Mrs. Fordyce.
Silence descended on the hallway as he walked toward them. "I'm very sorry, but your son has expired," he said. Mrs. Fordyce’s knees buckled, and she and Mr. Fordyce broke into loud, uncontrollable sobs. Harger and the doctor helped them to a bench.
Stepanovich felt his eyes glaze with tears. He, Black, and Arredondo threw arms around one another. Harger joined them in the mutual embrace, and Stepanovich could feel the strength of Harger's hand grasping the back of his neck and smell the tobacco odor on Black's coat.
Later, in the hospital parking lot, Stepanovich, Arredondo, and Black huddled next to a police car. As Stepanovich used a hand to shield his eyes from the harsh pink light of dusk, he asked, "What do we have at the scene?"
"The shell casings in the street are nine millimeter parabellum," Arredondo said. "They probably shot at us with an Uzi."
"There's no record of any White Fence member having access to a submachine gun," Black said.
"And no one in the gang drives a black Chevy," Stepanovich ruminated.
Black lit a cigarette and exhaled some smoke. "No one. I checked the file."
"That means they have a caper car stashed somewhere," Stepanovich said. "Without it we have nothing."
"A black Chevy with bullet holes," Black said. "I'm sure we hit it at least once."
"The word from the Chief is if we find the shooters before major crimes, we own 'em," Stepanovich said. "This is with full backing from the top."
Arredondo slammed fist into palm. "All right.
"Let's go for it," Black said.
Stepanovich turned away from the dying sun and ran his hands through his hair. "We have to find the Chevy."
Black took a long drag on his cigarette. "My guess is the wheels are still right here in East L.A."
"It's where we start looking, "Stepanovich said, reaching into the driver’s window of the police sedan for a city mapbook lying on the front seat. He dropped it on the hood of the car and flipped pages to a map of East L.A. He reached into his pocket for a pen and marked the map into three areas. "These are the places White Fence has been known to stash caper cars."
"It'll take us all night to cover "
"We're going to split up to save time," Stepanovich interrupted, pointing to the map. "Black, you take City Terrace and this area all the way to Eastern Avenue. Raul, handle from Diamond Street all the way to Sunset. I'll cover the Gardens and the stash areas along the freeways."
"And if we spot the car?" Arredondo said.
"Just stake it until all of us get there. If you complete your search area and find nothing, head for Manuel's taco stand. We'll meet there. And stay off the radio unless you have an emergency. I don't want everyone in the Department knowing what we're up to. "
Stepanovich drove them to Hollenbeck Station, where they picked up two more police sedans from a sleepy garage attendant. With little else said, the three men climbed into their cars and drove out of the station lot.
Stepanovich began his search on a dirt road paralleling the freeway near Wabash Avenue. He'd once found a stolen pickup truck used in three drive by shootings here below the freeway. The road was deserted and the air seemed to vibrate with the sound of trucks and cars whizzing by overhead. Near where the road merged with a paved street, he parked and climbed out of his sedan. Using his flashlight to guide him, he walked hesitantly in the darkness to a shallow gully behind some magnolia trees, a place so hidden from cursory view of any passing police patrol car he would have picked it himself for a stash location.
There was nothing in the gully but trash.
Stepanovich, cold and invisible in darkness, returned to the sedan. At the sound of a car backfiring on the freeway he recalled himself in the motor home, trapped among the others as it was being pierced by gunfire. Then Fordyce was looking up at him, taking his hands away from his chest to show his mortal wound.
With the bitter warmth of tears in his throat, Stepanovich reached out to the sedan to steady himself. He shuddered and a sob came from his lips an alien, embarrassing sound. He lifted his hands from the car and slammed them down violently on the fender, stinging his palms. After a moment he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, took a few deep breaths, and climbed back in the sedan. He sped along streets in his search area like a robot, stopping now and then to make sure the black Chevy wasn't hidden behind trees or shrubbery.
It was two by the time he completed his part of the search. Manuel's taco stand was nearly deserted. He swerved into the small parking lot and pulled his sedan into a space directly between Black's and Arredondo's sedans.
They were prudently sitting at one of the wooden picnic tables behind the stand rather than at the sidewalk tables, where they would be a target for shooters. Stepanovich advanced to the counter and ordered three tacos from Manuel, who prepared the order and placed them in a small gray cardboard tray. Stepanovich made a show of trying to pay, but as he expected, Manuel refused to accept payment and said in Spanish not to insult him. When Stepanovich had brought the tacos to the table and took a seat, he didn't have to ask if the others had found the caper car.
"If it was me," Black said as Stepanovich dug into his first taco, "I'd stash my caper wheels outside the city in Pomona or Bakersfield or Uncle Chuey's garage in Tijuana. On the other hand, if I was a real smart chongo, I'd drive the fuckin' car out of town and set a match to it ... or maybe drive it over a cliff."
Arredondo spun the cap off a small bottle of bright red Pio Pico hot sauce and reached across the table for one of Stepanovich's tacos. "A gangbanger would never torch his car," he said, thumbing open the taco and drenching it with Pio Pico.
"I agree," Stepanovich said. "The car is probably still somewhere in East L.A."
Black finished his Coke. "We've looked everywhere."
"If I was a White Fencer and my wheels were hot, I might head out of my own turf to stash," Stepanovich offered.
Black nodded as if he liked the idea. "After killing a cop there's no telling what they might do."
"White Fence has been getting along with the Happy Valley gang for the last few months," Stepanovich said. "That's where I'd go."
After they finished eating, Stepanovich followed the others back to the motor pool, where they dropped off their sedans. They climbed in Stepanovich's car and he took a shortcut down Griffin Avenue to Lincoln Heights. He cruised past Lincoln High School and made a right turn into the area known as Happy Valley: a residential vicinity comprised of older wood-frame dwellings and stucco apartment houses tied together by alleys, sluiceways, and power lines. He shifted down into low gear and steered the police sedan to a winding snail track of a road leading past deteriorating cracker box homes jutting from the hillsides.
Stepanovich drove carefully in the morning darkness stopping three times to check out dark colored Chevrolets. As they climbed, he felt exhaustion creeping up on him, and because the conversation in the car had dwindled to nothing more than a grunt when someone spotted a car, he could tell the others were just as used up as he was.
By four Stepanovich had traversed every street in Happy Valley. The rim of Happy Valley leading to the east had a view of chaparral covered hills separating the valley itself from the teeming suburb of El Sereno, and there he drove beyond the paved street and onto a level dirt road recently formed when earth moving machines had scraped off the crest of the hill. If he remembered correctly, an article in the Los Angeles Times said the road had been built by a developer who'd promised to deliver low cost housin
g to the city, but had flown to the Cayman Islands with the allocated city housing funds shortly after the grading was completed.
At a wall of high grass marking the end of the road, Stepanovich stopped the car and set the emergency brake. Leaving the headlights and ignition on, he stepped out of the sedan and was met by the aroma of damp earth and grass. To the southwest the lights of the city meshed into a carpet of white dots extending to a bank of downtown high-rise structures. Even farther in the distance, a tiny flashing red light protected the top of the Los Angeles City Hall from being sheared off by low flying aircraft.
"This is where lowriders like to bring their women," Arredondo said, following him out of the sedan with Black. "You know. Lean back on the front seat of the old Chevy and watch the city lights while Concha eats the standing rib roast."
Black yawned. "Inspiration point."
Stepanovich used his flashlight to check the soft dirt of the clearing. There were indentations that could have been made by tires. He stepped a few feet to the end of the cleared area and moved the light slowly along the edge of the grass. The circle of yellow picked up some broken branches on the ground and two heavy indentations that seemed to enter the grass. He leaned down for a closer inspection. "Tire tracks."
Stepanovich kicked the branches aside. The tracks led directly into low chaparral.
Keeping their flashlights trained on the ground in front of them, the three pressed forward, following the path of the tires through the underbrush. In the midst of his exhaustion Stepanovich felt a surge of adrenaline.
Just where the path began to lead downward, it turned behind a wall of cypress trees to a gouge in the earth neatly hidden from view of the street below.
The beams from three flashlights danced on shiny black steel.
"Hijo fucking la, " Arredondo said in awe.
In the recess was a black Chevrolet with tinted windows. The front bumper had no license plate.
Before approaching the car, Stepanovich and the others circled the Chevrolet, using their flashlights to painstakingly check the ground for clues. This search went on for a long time, but they found absolutely nothing of value: no weapon, no scrap of paper. And because of the heavy brush and dry, sandy sod, not even so much as a footprint.
Earth Angels Page 14
