Suddenly the shooting stopped and there was a momentary lull.
Stepanovich, using the shotgun shells in his shirt pocket, reloaded quickly. With eyes darting and every muscle in his body taut, he roved about the lawn, checking to see if anyone was moving, The shotgun felt like it was welded to his hands.
Black, wild eyed, hyperventilating, yanked open the passenger door of the pickup truck and reached in. He pulled out the lifeless body of a young man wearing a watch cap and allowed him to fall. His head thumped to the pavement.
Arredondo knelt on the lawn and handcuffed Gordo's lifeless hands behind his back.
Black backed away from the pickup truck holding his Uzi in one hand. He threw his arms around Stepanovich. "We did it! We got 'em!"
"Viva CRASH!" Arredondo shouted.
Standing on the tiny lawn among the bodies, the three detectives, perspiring and out of breath, slapped one another on the back and exchanged hearty embraces.
One by one the lights in the windows on the street were coming on. "I'll handle the questions about renting the apartment," Stepanovich commanded anxiously. "On the shooting itself, we keep it vague. You were in fear of your life."
The others nodded and the heavy night air was filled with the sound of approaching sirens.
Stepanovich heard something and turned toward the house. A middle-aged woman with long black hair came out the front door. Obviously terrified and walking cautiously, with clenched fists under her chin, she walked from the threshold to the steps.
"Where is my boy?"
Stepanovich, figuring she was probably Payaso's mother, ran up the steps and past her into the house. In the living room, beer cans were strewn about and there was the distinct odor of marijuana. He found the telephone on a lamp table next to the sofa and picked up the receiver. He dialed the emergency number, identified himself, gave the address, and requested an ambulance. He went back outside.
The woman moved from body to body on the front lawn. "Where is my Primitivo?" she cried.
A minute later, a police car with siren blaring sped around the corner and slammed to a stop in front of the house. The driver's door swung open and Officer Candi Forest stepped out. Her hand on the butt of her holstered revolver, she sauntered in front of the car and onto the lawn. She shone a flashlight in Stepanovich's face.
"Get that flashlight out of my face."
She complied. "What the hell?"
"We've had an officer involved shooting," Stepanovich interrupted. "Notify the responding units that one of the suspects escaped on foot eastbound. Request the captain, the shooting team, and the coroner to respond to this location, then start sealing off the street."
"You're with narco, right?"
"Gang detail."
"OK, I'll block off the street," she said, retreating with her flashlight.
Ambulances and paramedics were the next to arrive, then some television news crews, and finally two well groomed young investigators from the district attorney's office. Stepanovich knew them. They were sent to the scene of officer-involved shootings to determine if the force used by police officers exceeded the limits of the law.
Harger arrived a few minutes later with siren screaming. He climbed out of his radio car wearing a button-down shirt and tie and his zebra skin holsters. It occurred to Stepanovich that though it was the middle of the night, Harger had taken the time to shower, shave, and dress neatly before leaving home.
Harger moved briskly about the lawn examining the bodies, then took Stepanovich aside, out of the glare of the news crew lights.
"Jesus, we have seven dead bodies here. What the fuck happened?"
"We spotted some White Fence suspects at Payaso's house and staked out. Eighteenth showed up and started shooting. We tried to make arrests and were fired on. We fired back."
"I'm gonna need more than that to keep the press off our backs. Houlihan is going to dig into this one. And those pricks from the DA's office "
"I thought the Chief was behind us."
"He is," Harger said, staring at the bodies on the lawn. "He is."
"Tell him we paid White Fence back for Fordyce."
Harger turned to look at the camera crews setting up across the street. With some difficulty he cleared his throat. "The heat is going to come down on this. Jesus H. Christ."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I didn't tell you to kill seven people."
Though the night was warm and muggy, Stepanovich felt a sudden chill.
Payaso's mother was standing at the side of the house, staring down at one of the wounded. "Where is my baaaaaby?" she wailed. "Primitivo!" Officer Forest tried to pull her away, but the woman would not budge. Forest threw her arms around the woman's shoulders to restrain her. The woman pulled away and Forest slipped and fell on the lawn, her police gear rattling.
"That's interfering, bitch!" Forest screamed, coming to her feet. She grabbed a handful of the woman's robe. "You're under arrest!"
As Payaso's mother struggled with Forest, two uniformed officers standing nearby rushed to help. Payaso's mother continued to wail.
Harger stood there watching the melee as if it was on TV.
"They're all shooters," Stepanovich said. "Every one of them is good for a murder."
"Seven bodies. The police commission is going to shit."
"It'll go a lot easier if you say we were authorized to stake out gang shooters if we saw them. That isn't enough to put you or the Chief on the spot, but it would give us something to lean on."
"It's probably better not to say too much to anyone other than the shooting team at this point," Harger said.
Stepanovich felt anger welling inside him. "Hey, remember me? The sergeant who works for you and the Chief?"
Harger grasped his arm firmly. "Everything will work out," he whispered. "The Chief has the right to review the decision of any trial board. He's on your side."
"Trial board?" Stepanovich said, pulling his arm away.
"Seven bodies. The police commission will demand it. When you're interviewed by Houlihan, keep in mind he'll be trying to tar me for Captain Ratliff. He'll be trying to lay this entire thing on me, to ruin my career and make himself deputy chief." Harger straightened his necktie, then marched across the street into a blaze of camera lights.
Standing there in the artificial light with his heart beating double time, Stepanovich suddenly felt a peculiar sense of relief and excitement because he hadn't been shot. There was nothing like this feeling, nothing he could ever admit to anyone. The seven dead men were killers. They had taken the lives of Fordyce and little Guadalupe Zuniga and countless others shot in drive by murders, and now they had sucked their last wind.
His hands were shaking, his ears were ringing, and his mind was clouded with the rush of emotion, but he felt no guilt. As far as he was concerned, a wrong had been set right.
Stepanovich, seated in a basement interview room in Hollenbeck Station, heard the creaking of footsteps above, which meant the captain had come in from home in the middle of the night a sure sign of a major police flap.
Jack Houlihan, wearing a blue sports coat and a white shirt with a soiled collar, sat across the small table from him. "What made you stake out Payaso's house?" he said. It was the third time he'd asked the question, having phrased it differently each time.
"We were on routine patrol and I observed White Fence gang members enter the location," Stepanovich said, repeating his word for word answer with a sleepless, headachy feeling that somehow he was no more than a bystander in the night's events.
"So you decided to stake out the house?"
Stepanovich nodded rather than spoke.
"Pardon me?" Houlihan said, giving away the fact that he was secretly recording the interview.
"Yes. I found an apartment with a view of the house and asked the renter if we could use it for a police surveillance. She agreed."
"What was her name?"
"I don't remember."
&nbs
p; "You used someone's apartment for an observation post without knowing their name?"
"That's correct," Stepanovich said because there was no regulation against doing so.
"And she just said OK and left all of you in the apartment with all of her property?"
"There was nothing in the place. Bare floors."
"Convenient," Houlihan said, referring to his notes. "Getting back to the shooting itself. Once you saw the pickup truck pulling up to the residence, how long did it take you and your men to deploy outside?"
"I don't recall."
"Surely you can give me an estimate."
"We saw the vehicle and moved outside to get closer. I don't know how long it took."
Houlihan tweaked his nose and looked at his fingers. "Then the shooting started."
"Yes."
"And you, Black, and Arredondo identified yourselves as police officers and tried to make arrests."
"Then they started shooting at us," Stepanovich said.
"What happened exactly? Moment by moment?"
"We were in fear of our fives and fired back to keep from being killed."
"Who did you shoot? Like specifically?"
To piss off Houlihan, Stepanovich shrugged rather than give a verbal answer.
"Answer verbally," Houlihan said impatiently. "You're clever enough to have figured out this interview is being recorded."
Though he didn't feel like smiling, Stepanovich smiled. "I don't recall."
For the next hour Houlihan asked the same questions over and over in every possible way. Stepanovich noticed that rather than getting irritated, Houlihan seemed to be holding his temper rather well, a sign that he was waiting to reveal some unsettling piece of information at the end of the interview.
Finally Houlihan closed his notebook and folded his hands. "I guess that's about it."
Stepanovich nodded and rose from the chair. At the door, like an actor anticipating his cue, he hesitated to allow for Houlihan to drop his bomb.
"Uh, one more thing," Houlihan said in the manner of a snappy television detective.
Stepanovich turned.
Houlihan held up a Polaroid photograph of the black Chevrolet parked in the garage at Sparky's tow yard.
Stepanovich consciously avoided making an expression of any kind.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Have you ever seen this car?"
"It looks like the White Fence caper car we found up in Happy Valley," Stepanovich said.
"Sit down."
Stepanovich stepped back to the table. "I'm tired of sitting down."
Houlihan, looking up, bit his lip nervously. "There was a drive by at Greenie's apartment, and a car just like this one was used."
"So what?"
"I'd appreciate it if you'd sit down."
"I've been in this room with you for two and a half hours and I'm tired of sitting down," Stepanovich said coldly. "If you have more questions, ask them and let's get it over with."
Houlihan came to his feet. "Did you remove this car from Sparky's tow yard after it was impounded for evidence?"
Stepanovich avoided the urge to clear his throat. "No," he said.
"Do you have any knowledge of any person using this car after it was impounded?"
"No. "
"Is there any reason the fingerprints of either you, Black, or Arredondo might be found anywhere on this car?"
"Yes," Stepanovich said. "We might have touched the car when we impounded it. Mistakes happen."
"But neither you nor anyone removed the car from Sparky's impound yard and shot up Greenie's apartment?"
Stepanovich stopped breathing for a moment. "Of course not," he said. Even if Sparky cops out, he told himself, Houlihan will still have trouble proving they did the shooting without a confession. Relieved, he allowed himself to breathe again.
Houlihan nodded, forming his lips into a priestly, condescending smile.
At the Rumor Control Bar, Stepanovich found Black and Arredondo sitting at what had become their favorite corner table. The few customers in the place, some between shift drinkers and a couple of Valley homicide detectives, noticed him as he entered and a few nodded to acknowledge his presence. But, as it was whenever someone was riding a heavy beef, there was more whispering than expressing support.
"Did Houlihan hit you with the black Chevy?" Black said as he sat down.
Stepanovich nodded. "He saved it for the end."
"Same here," Arredondo said, slurring his words because he was already drunk.
"They don't have shit," Stepanovich said. "Nothing. A zero."
"They have our prints on the car."
Stepanovich motioned to Sullivan for a drink. The barkeep nodded and picked up a glass. "So we touched some evidence."
"Sparky can hand us up," Black said.
"Sparky can hand only me up. I'm the one who asked him for the car."
Arredondo sipped his drink. "Houlihan must know something or he wouldn't have brought it up."
"It doesn't matter what he knows. It's what he can prove. As long as we keep our mouths shut, there is nothing he can do."
"What about Brenda?" Black said.
"Neither of you had anything to do with getting the apartment. I handled that."
Black wiped a streak of moisture from his cocktail glass. "Even a shithead like Houlihan will be able to find out it was Brenda who rented the place."
"Maybe, but Brenda has serviced a lot of Department brass. He'll press her, but I don't think he'll want to press too far."
Sullivan brought drinks to the table. "Everyone will be avoiding you while you're under investigation," he said, setting the drinks on the table. "The moment you're cleared of charges, they'll all want to buy you drinks. That's the way cops are these days."
"Tell us how it was in the old days," Black said.
"You making fun of me?"
Black shook his head. "Of course not," he said wryly.
Sullivan sat down and slid the cocktail glasses to their proper places at the table. "Houlihan phoned me this morning. He wanted to know if the three of you were in here at about eleven night before last."
Nothing was said at the table. Black fumbled for a cigarette.
"Ain't you cowboys gonna ask me what I told him?"
"What'd you say?" Stepanovich replied.
"I told him I'd have to think on it. That way I knew I'd have time to talk to you boys and find out what I should say,"
"Thanks, Sully," Stepanovich said.
"No need to get all sloppy. Just give me the word and I go. That's the wonderful thing about being retired. I can lie like a motherfucker and there's not a thing Houlihan or anybody else can do about it. Lying is part of the Bill of Rights as long as you aren't in front of a grand jury."
"We were sitting right at this table. All night."
Sullivan snapped his fingers. "Now I remember. You were sitting right at this table all night."
"We never left," Arredondo said.
Sullivan winked. "The three of you closed the bar. That's what I'll tell him. By the way, in case you don't know, Houlihan is Ratliff's right hand man, and Ratliff and Harger are both gunning for the deputy chief slot." He turned and shuffled back to the bar.
Stepanovich sipped his drink. By the hushed tones around the bar, it became obvious to him everyone was talking about the shooting.
It was after midnight when Stepanovich left the bar. Though his senses were dulled by alcohol and he was exhausted, the shooting, a vivid technicolor nightmare, was still at the forefront of his consciousness. On the way to Gloria's apartment, he relived it a few times in what he estimated was real time: a minute perhaps for the entire shootout. As he well knew, violence always happened quickly. It was something to get over with as soon as possible. It had an objective.
****
TWENTY-TWO
The sound of helicopters clacked overhead.
Payaso, exhausted and unable to run full speed because he still had
n't fully recovered from his wounds suffered at the Queen of Angels Church, jogged rather than ran along Third Street.
A police car with red fights flashing turned the corner.
Payaso ducked and scooted behind some bushes, and the police car sped past. At the end of the block the car skidded to a halt and two officers, a man and a woman, climbed out. They activated flares and dropped to either side of the car in order to block the street. Because he knew from experience that when someone escaped from the scene of a crime, the police always tried to trap him by blocking the streets, he knew he was safely out of the perimeter, With his T shirt soaked with perspiration from running, he lay there in the bushes trying to catch his breath.
Finally he came to his feet and, staying in the shadows so the policemen at the end of the block wouldn't notice him, resumed jogging. Though the street was illuminated intermittently by the powerful searchlight from one of the police helicopters flying overhead, he made his way another two blocks to Evergreen Cemetery. He climbed a six-foot chain-link fence and dropped onto the cemetery grounds.
Keeping an eye out for the powerful helicopter searchlight, he dodged sprinklers and made his way past crypts and tombstones all the way to the guard booth at the front gate. Through the gate he could see that Fourth Street was deserted. Still hyperventilating, he looked about on the ground. There was a loose brick lying near a sprinkler that was waving a powerful stream of water into the darkness. Picking up the brick and stepping to the guard booth, he smashed out the window glass just above the door handle and reached inside to open the door.
Inside, there was a telephone on the small desk. He picked up the receiver and, leaning close to read the dial, he touched numbers. The phone rang three times. Sleepy answered.
"It's me, baby."
"Parrot just called. She said Smokey and "
"Listen to me," he interrupted. "I'm running and I need to do something."
"Are you hurt?"
"No, I ain't hurt, but everyone else is dead. The pigs were waiting."
Earth Angels Page 21
