"That’s the key to the front gate. I'll be back in an hour and a half."
As Stepanovich stood there holding the key in his hand, Sparky stepped to his desk and flicked a switch on his answering machine. He headed out of the garage and climbed into his tow truck. After it turned over a few times, the engine started and the truck rattled out the driveway and turned onto Mission Road.
Stepanovich located the ignition key to the Chevrolet on the keyboard behind Sparky's desk. He looked about and spotted a flashlight among a pile of other tools on a greasy workbench. He picked it up and, approaching the Chevrolet, grasped the tarp and pulled it off. Using the key, he unlocked the driver's door.
Bending down to look under the dashboard, he used the flashlight to find the odometer cable, then unscrewed it. Without turning on the headlights, he drove slowly out of the garage and past the gate.
Once on the street, he stopped the car and pulled the heavy sliding gate closed behind him. Using a thick chain and padlock hanging over the top rail, he locked the gate securely. He checked his watch and climbed back behind the wheel, then sped down Mission Road to the parking lot.
Standing by the police sedan, Black and Arredondo looked extremely nervous as he pulled up beside them. Black opened the trunk of the police sedan and took out a pump shotgun. He climbed in the rear seat of the Chevrolet, and Arredondo climbed in front.
Stepanovich turned the steering wheel sharply and stepped on the gas. As the caper car made a U turn, there was the sound of the front tires rubbing the wheel wells.
"Any trouble getting Sparky to go along with the program?" Black asked as Stepanovich sped past a railroad utility yard.
"He's solid," Stepanovich said, turning on Soto Street and heading south past Wabash Avenue.
At Seventeenth Street, Stepanovich slowed down and pulled to the curb. Black cranked the beavertail of the shotgun and chambered a round. Arredondo reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out his six-inch revolver. He snapped open the chamber and checked rounds. With a flick of his wrist he snapped the chamber shut again.
Stepanovich's palms felt damp on the steering wheel. "Eighteenth knows this car," he said, driving on. "That means we get one pass only. So wait until I get us into position."
"Let's go for it," Arredondo said, climbing into the backseat.
As they neared Eighteenth Street, Stepanovich was scanning left and right. The area was quiet and no one was on the sidewalks. He made the right turn onto Eighteenth carefully, eyes still roving to either side of the street. Then, his decision made, he accelerated steadily to the middle of the block. Reaching Greenie's apartment house, he slowed and veered to his left. The sedan lurched as the front wheels, then rear wheels bumped over the curb and across the sidewalk onto the lawn in front of the apartment house. In the middle of the lawn he swerved and braked; the car came to a stop with the driver's side facing to the front of the dwelling. Black and Arredondo readied their weapons.
Stepanovich pressed the horn three times. It seemed louder than any sound he'd ever heard. There was no movement at the window of Greenie's apartment. He leaned on the horn again.
"We can't sit here all night," Black said nervously.
Finally someone pulled the curtain back from Greenie's window.
Stepanovich pulled his revolver. "Now," he commanded. He and Black rolled the windows down. Stepanovich aimed his revolver up at the apartment and pulled the trigger in rapid fire.
Black fired his shotgun and the car rocked with a deafening blast. Glass crashed as the apartment window shattered. Firing rapidly, Arredondo emptied his revolver out the same window.
"Barrio White Fence!" Stepanovich shouted. "Barrio White Fence!"
"Viva White Fence!" Arredondo shouted.
Stepanovich dropped his revolver onto the front seat and slammed the accelerator to the floor. He steered the Chevrolet across the lawn, sidewalk, and, with the sound of metal bumper scraping cement, over the curb into the street. Swerving to the right, Stepanovich headed to the corner at full speed. Turning left, he slowed down a little to avoid drawing attention from passing cars. As he weaved through side roads in the direction of Soto Street, his eyes burned from the acrid odor of gun smoke inside the car.
"I hope we got some of 'em," Black said.
Arredondo laughed nervously. "They'll never figure out what happened."
Having made a series of rights and lefts through residential areas, Stepanovich was relieved to finally turn onto Soto Street. He glanced at the speedometer, making sure he was traveling under the speed limit.
As he neared the freeway, flashing red lights suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror. Stepanovich's stomach muscles snapped taut and terror gripped him.
"Oh no. Oh shit," Arredondo uttered without turning his head.
Suddenly the red lights swung to the left of the Chevrolet and sped past. It was a fire department sedan with a flashing red light.
Black laughed nervously. "What are you worried about, homes?"
Arredondo let out his breath.
Stepanovich felt wetness under his arms. His hands were shaking.
Arredondo broke into laughter and, hidden from the eyes of East L.A. by the smoked windows, Stepanovich and Black joined in. They laughed hysterically and Stepanovich felt tears of relief at the corners of his eyes.
Minutes later, Stepanovich pulled into the parking lot where they'd left the police sedan. After Black and Arredondo climbed out of the car, he sped out of the lot and down the street to Sparky's impound yard.
The gate was still locked.
Stepanovich checked his wristwatch. He'd been gone exactly twenty-nine minutes. He climbed out of the car, unlocked the gate, and shoved it open. Quickly he slid back behind the wheel and steered the car into the garage. After he parked it in the same spot, he hurried to close the garage door to insure that anyone passing by on Mission Road couldn't see what was taking place. Shielded from the street, he used rags to wipe down any possible fingerprints from the car's interior. Then he reattached the odometer cable. With this task completed, he hurried to the gate, rolled it closed, and locked it with the chain and padlock.
Being careful to remain in the shadows of the billboards and buildings lining the street, he ran back to the parking lot and climbed into the police sedan.
There was static coming from the police radio.
"A shots fired call just went out," Black said. "But no requests for an ambulance, so I guess we didn't hit anyone."
At the Rumor Control Bar they slipped in the back door one at a time, Stepanovich last. The bar was now three deep with cops wearing the LAPD off duty drinker's uniform of T-shirts and Levis. The crowd was divided into the usual huddles by rank, job classification, or cabal, and the jukebox was blaring a country and western tune. Even though it was Friday night, the noise level was subdued and there was no ass grabbing or drinking contests, which Stepanovich attributed to the recent funeral.
Brenda, serving drinks behind the bar, was wearing her seashell halter top, tennis shorts, and had her hair drawn to the top of her head and tied with a fluorescent orange ponytail holder. Stepanovich slid between a couple of leather faced motor cops at the bar and got Brenda's attention. Even as he ordered a scotch and water, she spun the cap off a bottle of Teacher's.
"Where's Sullivan?" he asked.
"He got sick and went home," she said, filling a glass with ice. "He used to go fishing with Fordyce and he's just taking it real hard."
As Stepanovich picked up the cocktail, he realized his hand was shaking. "Any calls for me?"
Brenda shook her head, reaching into a cooler for a frosty beer mug, and lifted it to a tap spigot. Stepanovich stepped away from the bar.
"You guys gonna be around later?" she said, drawing beer.
Stepanovich pretended he hadn't heard and made his way to the corner booth where Black and Arredondo were seated. He slid across the red leather seat and took a sip of scotch.
"We did it," Arredondo said, sn
iggering mischievously. Black joined the laughter and Stepanovich found himself laughing too.
When the phone rang, though, they all stopped laughing. Brenda picked up the receiver. She looked about, spotted Stepanovich, and waved. He made his way back to the bar.
"It's Harger," she said, handing him the receiver.
"Stepanovich."
"Just got off the phone with the Hollenbeck watch commander," Harger said. "Somebody just shot up Greenie's apartment in a drive by. You'd better get over there and see what you can find out."
"That's a roger."
Stepanovich set the receiver down and returned to the table. "There's been a drive by at Greenie's," he said, smirking.
"Hijo la, " Arredondo said in mock surprise.
There were a lot of gawkers standing around in front of the apartment building: ghetto zombies shuffling about on the sidewalk in the glare of flashing red lights. As at most crime scenes, no matter what the hour, at least half of the crowd was made up of children.
Stepanovich parked the police sedan in a space at the curb between two black and whites. A short female officer was standing in the middle of the front lawn making notes on a metal clipboard as she interviewed a tall, obese Mexican woman in a pink chenille robe and hair rollers. The young officer's uniform had been tailored to complement her striking hourglass figure. Her police utility belt and holster were shiny patent leather, which meant that she had purchased it herself rather than wear the standard department issued equipment. It occurred to Stepanovich that when he'd joined up, there had been height requirements for police officers, and uniforms as small as the officer was wearing were sold only to police explorer scouts.
Stepanovich waited until she had completed her interview before he approached.
"What do you got?" Stepanovich said.
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Stepanovich. O.C.B. CRASH. Special Detail. "
"A gang detective?"
Stepanovich nodded, irritated by her obvious inability to recognize another cop when she saw one. On the other hand, he thought, without the uniform he wouldn't have guessed she was a police officer in a million years.
"You got an ID card?"
Feeling irritation turn to angry goose bumps on the back of his neck, Stepanovich took out his police identification card and showed it to her. As she examined it, he noted her nametag: Forest, C. Now he remembered. Candi Forest.
She nodded diffidently. "I was the first car to arrive," she said. "It's a drive by a black Chevy. But no one got a look at the occupants because the car had smoked windows." She pointed to the place in the lawn a few feet away. "They drove up onto the lawn about here and fired into that apartment. Two witnesses heard them yell, 'White Fence.' They sped off the lawn back into the street and headed south. Because of the grass, there are no tire prints."
"Any hits?"
"Nope. The people in the apartment said they were sleeping on the floor. There are no clues, if that's what you came here to find out. This is just another gang drive by shooting."
"Who do you think is responsible?"
"For the shooting?" Candi Forest said.
"For the shooting."
"Probably some gang just shouting White Fence to throw off the investigators: a false clue," Candi Forest said, arranging notes on her clipboard. "Look, I'm busy now. Why don't you just pick up a copy of my report tomorrow?"
"Sorry to bother you," Stepanovich said, gritting his teeth.
Officer Forest lifted her well-painted eyebrows again and folded her arms defensively across her flat, bulletproofed chest.
Stepanovich made his way up the stairs to Greenie's apartment. The door was open and, inside, the glass from the shattered window littered the living room floor. Greenie, wearing only khaki trousers, was standing in the middle of the room angrily whispering in Spanish with Loco and Gato, a couple of dissipated, similarly dressed Mexicans whom he recognized immediately as Eighteenth Street gang members. They stopped talking as he entered.
"Who was it?" Stepanovich said.
Greenie looked at the others. "We ain't got no idea, man. It was a drive by."
"You wouldn't tell me even if you'd gotten a look at them, right?"
"We ain't no fucking stool pigeons."
"Try to stay cool," Stepanovich said, thinking it sounded like something he might say if in fact there really had been a gang related shooting. "This neighborhood has enough problems without another drive by shooting." The gang members just stared at him with dumb looks on their faces, and for a moment Stepanovich wished the rounds he and the others had fired through the window had killed them all.
He sauntered back down the stairs and followed a cement path along the side of the apartment building to the alley. He looked about to be sure no one was watching, then took out a pen and pad, and noted the license numbers of those vehicles parked nearby he thought might belong to the gangbangers he'd seen inside Greenie's apartment. He knew any gang member's car might be used in a drive by shooting at some time or another.
As he was returning to his car, Harger pulled up to the curb in a full sized Mercury sedan with a whip antenna and a cellular phone. He climbed out. "What's up?"
"No hits."
"Does it look like White Fence?"
Stepanovich smiled. "It looks like 'em, all right. The shooters were driving a black Chevy with smoked windows."
"But Payaso's car is at Sparky's impound yard."
"I said, it looks like them."
Harger furrowed his brow. "I don't get it."
"It looks like White Fence, but it may have been ... another gang."
Harger stood there for a moment, watching the apartment house. A look of understanding crossed his face. "I see."
"But there's no doubt that Eighteenth thinks it was White Fence. Therefore, they'll ride, probably to Payaso's house. There'll be trouble."
"And you'll be staked out there."
"It's the only way to gain the element of surprise," Stepanovich said.
Harger licked his lips. "Then I'm all for it."
"I want you to know that if we're there and shooting starts, some White Fence people are gonna get killed."
Harger's hand clamped Stepanovich's shoulder. "The Chief wants them finished off. I want them finished off."
"We may need to rent a room nearby for an observation post."
"The Department will pay for it."
"We need your support on this," Stepanovich said.
"You have it. Go for it. Go."
****
TWENTY
Back at the Rumor Control Bar, Stepanovich found Black and Arredondo sitting at the same booth. As he sat down, they watched him anxiously.
"Don't just sit there," Arredondo said.
Stepanovich smiled. "It worked. Greenie and his homeboys saw Payaso's car. They'll ride."
Both Black and Arredondo laughed as they slapped Stepanovich on the shoulder. Arredondo signaled Brenda for another round of drinks. She pursed her lips into kisses to acknowledge the order.
"My guess is they'll hit Payaso's house," Stepanovich said.
Black leaned close. "What makes you so sure they'll hit there rather than shoot up Hazard Park or do a drive by somewhere else in White Fence turf?" he said in a conspiratorial tone.
"They saw Payaso's car so Payaso's definitely in the bull's eye. "
"He's right, C.R.," Arredondo said.
Black laughed." And since the White Fence homies aren't responsible for the drive by they won't be expecting anything."
"It's what Eighteenth thinks White Fence thinks that's important," Arredondo said.
"Actually, it's what we think that's important," Stepanovich said. "Because when they make their move, we're going to be there to finish all of 'em."
"Did we hit anyone on the drive by?" Black said, tearing open a fresh pack of Camels.
"No hits."
"Too bad.
"Setting up on Ortega Street isn't going to be easy," Arredondo said.
"There's an apartment complex across the street from Payaso's house," Stepanovich said. "I saw a vacancy sign when I drove by."
Brenda came from the bar carrying a tray of drinks. "You guys are so quiet this evening," she said. "But I guess it's not the same without "
"Sit down for a minute, Brenda," Stepanovich said.
Looking pleased at the request, she slid in next to Black, her abalone shell halter-top knocking against the edge of the table.
"Brenda, would you be willing to help us on something?"
She looked at the three of them suspiciously. "I'm not going to go down on another woman so you guys can watch. I just don't get anything out of it."
"It's nothing like that. We want you to help us on a case. "
"Which case?"
"We can't tell you, but it's an important case and it has something to do with catching the people that killed Fordyce."
"This is for real?"
Stepanovich nodded. Glancing at everyone at the table, Brenda could see they were serious. "I don't want to get in trouble."
"What we want you to do is perfectly legal. The only thing we ask is that you never tell anyone about it. Ever. "
"If it's not illegal, I'll help."
"As long as you keep your mouth shut, you'll have nothing to worry about."
She giggled. "I always wanted to be a cop."
Early the next morning, Stepanovich waited at Manuel's taco stand while Black and Arredondo made intermittent passes by Greenie's apartment in an unmarked sedan. They were supposed to notify him immediately if there was any movement from the location.
Brenda arrived shortly after ten and pulled her twelve-year old Mazda into a parking space in back. She walked to the patrol car and climbed in the passenger side. She was wearing a faded flower print dress. He was thankful she proved to have enough sense to wear something other than her seashell halter for her undercover assignment.
She handed him a rental application and a key attached with a piece of string to a tag that read: "APARTMENT 13." "The landlady barely spoke English. She looked at me real funny at first when I asked her about renting the apartment, but things eased up when I signed a Mexican name on the application. I think she figured I was married to a Mexican. But everything was OK the moment I showed the cash you gave me for the down payment."
Earth Angels Page 19
