the Pallbearers (2010)

by Stephen - Scully 09 Cannell

  "Fuck yes, now. Come on, man. Oh, shit!" I heard running again and more heavy breathing, then Jack said, "Hey, I gotta get moving. I guess I won't be on Hauser after all. Get your ass in gear and come in this direction. I'll call back." Then he was gone.

  "What was that all about?" Alexa said. She was now propped up on one elbow, watching me as I quickly dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt, then stepped into my flip-flops.

  "I don't know. It's Jack. He says he's got something. He needs me to pick him up in Park La Brea. He was running, out of breath."

  Alexa frowned. "I don't like the sound of that."

  "Neither do I but I'll handle it. Stay here. I'm gonna use your car. Is your new little Beretta automatic still in the glove box?"

  "Yes. Did he say what was going on?"

  "No." I leaned over and kissed her. "I told you these people were gonna make problems. I told you that, remember?"

  "I remember."

  She was still frowning as I ran out the door.

  I wanted to use Alexa's BMW because I wasn't sure what Jack was up to and something told me that rolling around in a black and white department slick-back might be a little too high profile. It was the first of about six bad decisions I made in the next half hour.

  Alexas backup .25 automatic was in the glove box as she said. It was a tiny, palm-sized, Beretta Bobcat with a seven-shot clip and a pop-up barrel that took an eighth cartridge in the breach. The way it worked was the escaping gas on the first shot chambered the subcompact so you could fire the rest of the clip. When I checked, I found the gun was empty. No box of shells. I should have gone back inside for my own gun, but I didn't. Mistake number two.

  I took off in the BMW instead, and by going Code Two I made it to Park La Brea in under twenty minutes. I was on 6th Street when my cell rang again. It was Jack.

  "I'm almost there," I told him.

  "Not on Hauser anymore," he panted. He was running again. "I'm gonna try to get into Pan Pacific Park. Meet me there."

  "Jack, what the fuck is going on?"

  "Can't really talk right now, dude. Later."

  Just before he disconnected I thought I heard sirens in the background.

  "Please don't let him be running from the cops," I pleaded to Alexa's dashboard.

  I made it to the park. Between the buildings of the Park La Brea apartments, I spotted the giant Mesa Investment Group sign a few blocks south on Wilshire. I heard sirens getting closer, and the premonition of disaster struck. I should have turned around and gone home, but I didn't. Call that mistake number three.

  I pulled Alexa's BMW to the curb, got out, left the car, and ran into the park.

  I moved quietly through the semi-lit darkness. As I got closer to the small amphitheater, I heard a low whistle. I turned, and there was Jack, dressed as he was that afternoon, hiding behind a Dumpster, his face bathed in sweat. The police sirens in the background were definitely getting louder.

  "Where you parked?" he whispered urgently. "We sorta need to jet out of here, man."

  I could have arrested him right then, but I didn't. And of course, that was number four.

  "What the fuck is going on, Jack?"

  "Scully, you're gonna kiss me when you see what I got. I solved Pop's murder, but right now, we gotta book."

  He started running back in the direction I'd just come. "Let's go. Where you parked?" he said as he sprinted past.

  "Jack, what did you do?" I was loping along about ten yards behind him trying to stay up.

  "I did what you should have done. I fucking broke this case wide open!" he yelled over his shoulder as he ran.

  Then we were lit by a flashlight. The second it hit us, I knew it was one of the new department-issued mini-Maglites. Cops hated them because they put out a narrow beam.

  The mini-Mags were just recently issued because of a lawsuit against the city filed by some special-interest group claiming that our old, foot-long, three-pound Maglites were unauthorized weapons. The idea was that the new ones were too small to use as bludgeons.

  "Police! Stay where you are," the cop holding the mini-Maglite shouted.

  "Let's go! This way!" Jack said veering right.

  "Jack, come back here!" I shouted.

  He suddenly spun around and headed back toward me. It was the first time I'd asked him to do something where he'd actually complied. Then I realized it wasn't me who'd turned him, but a fully lit X-car with its siren blaring. It careened around the corner and was charging across the grass right at us.

  "Shit!" Now I actually started to run from my LAPD brothers. Mistake number five.

  Jack flew past me, heading the other way, yelling, "Let's go! We gotta get outta here!" I made a grab for him but missed.

  Then it got really strange. Four more squad cars rounded into view and suddenly there were cops everywhere. All of them, out of their units with guns drawn, shouting at us. Jack and I were running around in the park, veering right, then left. The cops kept turning us, coming in on all sides. A big game of capture the flag with guns, batons, and Mace.

  Jack was chased down and cornered first. Four cops descended on him, maced him, and started doing a bad-boy bongo on his head with their aluminum PR-24s. I was suddenly tackled from behind by two patrolmen, slammed to the ground, right onto my already-beaten face. I felt the cut on my forehead open up again. I tried to resist, and of course that was mistake number six.

  I got maced for the effort, busted in the head, and finally, mercifully, I was handcuffed and it was over.

  "I'm a cop!" I shouted. But even as I yelled this I knew it was going to be a hard sell. Both of my eyes were running thanks to the point-blank shot of Liquid Jesus. I had reopened the gash in my forehead and new blood was pouring down my cheek. Hie way I was dressed, in torn jeans and flip-flops with blood everywhere, the cop thing wasn't close to going over.

  I was pushed into the back of a squad car. I looked over and saw Jack Straw in another black and white a few feet away. The insolent smile was finally gone. At least my brother officers had accomplished that much. He'd been pummeled and maced. His lip and head were bleeding.

  Bad as all of this was, I could barely believe what happened next.

  Chapter 11

  The uniforms left me cuffed and sitting in the back of the black and white while they dealt with jack. Like most complete assholes in custody, he wouldn't stop running his mouth. He was saying all the dumb-ass things arrestees had been saying since law enforcement began.

  "This is police harassment. You had no right to hit me. Wait'll my lawyer gets through with you."

  Shut up, Jack, I thought.

  They took his wallet, and one of the cops headed to another car to run him. They told him to be quiet or they were going to write him up as a 5150, which is our code for a head ease. They threatened to call the EMTs and have him tranquilized. None of which slowed him down at all.

  Finally, a weathered old Hispanic sergeant with five hash marks on his sleeve and whose nameplate said S. Acosta dropped anchor in the backseat beside me.

  "Okay, sparky, what's your story?" He was already tired of me and we hadn't even started yet.

  "I'm Shane Scully, an LAPD homicide detective."

  "Then where's your wallet? Levinson says you don't have one. If you're a cop, then you obviously know it's mandated that all LAPD personnel carry their creds and a firearm at all times, on duty as well as off. Since you don't have either, as far as I'm concerned, that makes you a lying shitball."

  "No. ... I am a cop. I left my house so fast tonight I didn't remember to grab my badge case out of my desk."

  "Or here's a better one," he said. "You learned while doing your last prison stretch that it's better not to carry ID when you're out capering so if you get caught, we can't run you or match you up to your old priors."

  "I'm a police officer."

  "You don't look like a police officer," he said, studying my still-bleeding forehead, torn jeans, and flip-flops. "You look like a guy out on a ho
t prowl who just came in second in an ass-kicking contest."

  "My name is Shane Scully. Call my captain at Homicide Special."

  "Right. We'll do that right after we notify the governor," he growled.

  "You better do it now, Sergeant. I'm telling you I'm a homicide detective working out of Parker Center."

  "No kidding." He pointed at Jack. "Then explain why your buddy over there did a B and E on the MIG building forty minutes ago."

  "What's the MIG building?" I asked.

  "Mesa Investment Group. He set off all the silent alarms. We chased him on his motorcycle. Then, we lost him for about thirty minutes, and when he turns up again he's with you in the park. Start there."

  "My wife is Alexa Scully. She's head of the LAPD Central Detective Bureau," I said. "I'll give you her number. You need to call her."

  Before he could deal with that, another cop stuck his head in through the open back door and spoke to Sergeant Acosta.

  "Sal, we just ran the other guy. Jack Straw has two outstanding warrants for federal bank robbery."

  "He has what?" I said, astonished.

  "Take both these humps to Mens Central Jail. Book Straw on the federal felonies and book this guy, whoever he is, as a John Doe material witness, until I can check his story or figure out something else."

  Then a supervisors car pulled up, and finally a cop I knew stepped out. He was a tall blond lieutenant named Gordon Moon. I used to play basketball with him when I was in Devonshire Division.

  "Lieutenant Moon," I called out. He walked over to the squad car and looked in at me.

  "Scully?" he said, with a puzzled look on his face. "What happened to your head? What're you doin' in there?"

  "You know this guy?" Acosta said.

  Moon opened the door and pulled me out. "Yeah."

  "Don't tell me, he's really a cop," Acosta said. "I was just gonna transport him to MCJ."

  "I sure wouldn't do that," Moon replied. "He's in Homicide at the Glass House. What's the deal? What's going on here? Why's his head bleeding?"

  Acosta ran through the basics of what had just happened. When he was finished, the lieutenant assured him again that I was who I said I was.

  They took the cuffs off and one of the cops administered some first aid. I pressed a gauze pad on my reopened cut.

  "Shit, man. Carry your fucking creds, why don't you?" Acosta said as I got the bleeding under control. I could see a worried frown on his face as he silently reviewed the violence his troops had already done.

  "I'm taking back control of my arrestee," I said angrily.

  "I'm sorry, you're what?" Acosta said.

  "You heard me. Straw is my bust. I had him in custody when you guys blew in and fucked up my collar."

  The squad of blues were all standing in a huddle around us, waiting to see how their sergeant was going to deal with this.

  "Lieutenant Moon, I'm working Straw as a confidential informant on a big homicide case," I said. "It's imperative I retain control of my CI. I also want my car returned to me immediately."

  Moon looked at Acosta. "What do you say, Sarge?" He grinned sheepishly. "The man really is in Homicide Special. His wife runs the entire Detective Division. I was you, I'd back off."

  I handed Acosta the keys to the BMW, gave him the tag number, and told him where it was. A patrolman sprinted up the street and five minutes later returned with Alexa's car, parking it near where we stood.

  Jack still didn't know what was going on. He was peering out the back window of the squad car parked next to us, mouthing questions at me that I didn't bother to answer.

  Ten minutes later, he was pulled from the backseat of the X-ear and put into the front seat of Alexa's BMW, still with his hands cuffed behind him.

  "Whose cuffs are those?" I asked.

  "Mine," a uniformed patrolman said.

  "Give me the key and your business card. I'll have them returned in the morning."

  After he gave them to me, I climbed behind the wheel. Jack started grinning despite the fact that he was bleeding from four nasty-looking lumps on his head. His bullshit gold-boxed tooth had somehow managed to survive the conflict.

  "This is very slick, dude," he said as I pulled away.

  "Shut up, Jack."

  "Totally mint," he added. "Can we take these cuffs off now? That asshole cop put them on way too tight."

  I didn't answer him. I didn't even look over. Then I remembered something I'd seen in the La Cienega Park playground a few weeks ago. I drove ten or twelve blocks and pulled into the parking lot that adjoined the park. It was just a half a mile west of Park La Brea. I pulled Jack out of the car.

  "Where we going? What re you doin', dude?"

  "You're a fugitive from the FBI?" I snarled. "I've been running around for two days with a fucking bank robber?"

  "Look . . . it's not as bad as it sounds," he said.

  But it was.

  In fact, it was much worse.

  Chapter 28

  I dragged Jack across the park and over to the children's play area, and stood him next to the twelve-foot-long metal teeter-totter. Then I reached under and checked the bar fastening that hooked the teeter-totter to its base. It was still broken.

  I'd been to this park two weeks earlier on a field interview and had watched some kids unbolt the seat plank on this piece of equipment. They had put it across a five-foot-high metal brace on the jungle gym a few yards away. They were using it to go way up in the air. It was dangerous, so I'd reported it to the Department of Recreation and Parks as soon as I left. But like everything else with this budget crunch, it had yet to be fixed.

  Since it hadn't been repaired, I pulled the twelve-foot-long aluminum plank off and carried it over to the jungle-gym brace, setting it across the top just as those kids had done. Then I grabbed Jack, pulled one end down, undid his cuffs, and redid them by looping the chain through the metal support under the seat.

  "What the fuck is this?" he shrieked. "Whatta you doing?"

  "Not the right question, Jack. The correct question is, what are you doing?"

  "I was solving the case, asshole."

  "I told you we needed to go slow with those Mesa guys, but you go ahead and pull a black-bag job on their office anyway. Don't you ever listen to anybody?"

  I saw him trying to come up with a way to play me.

  Tin screwing around with you for two days, and all the time you're a federal bank fugitive? When did that happen? I thought you just got released. What'd you do, hit a bank up by Soledad on your way out of town?"

  "I was broke. I needed cash. I had a disguise," he protested. "But they made me with a bank cam because of my arm tats."

  "You must have sawdust for brains."

  "Scully, you're focused on the wrong things. Wait'll you see what I got."

  "Everything you took out of there is inadmissible!" I shouted. I was beginning to lose it. "You gotta have a search warrant to remove evidence in a police investigation."

  "You gotta have a search warrant. All I need is a crowbar."

  "You're fucking amazing." I went around to the other side of the teeter-totter and pulled the seat down, then got on it and lowered my end, hoisting him up by the handcuffs. His end was now almost eight feet in the air, and he was hanging under the seat, shrieking in distress, standing on his tippy-toes.

  "Ow! Ow!" he bellowed. "This is police harassment!"

  I bounced on the seat, pulling him a few inches off the ground with each bounce. He screamed in pain as the metal cuffs cut into his wrists. Then I lowered him back to his tiptoes again.

  "Okay, Jack. Here's the deal. I wanta know everything you've done since yesterday. Everything you touched, every window you crawled through. I want your whole chicken-shit playbook."

  "Nothing . . . I've done nothing."

  "I figure you've been running amuck ever since this started. Tomorrow or the next day, I'm gonna be getting this case. I wanta know how much evidence you've lost or compromised, how many laws you've b
roken, how much of your shit I'm gonna be digging out of."

  "Owww! Ow! Lemme down!" he screamed.

  "You break into Diamond's office too?"

  "No way! Lemme go!"

  "You did, didn't you? You broke in there and went through her rebuilt files."

  "No."

  I bounced my seat a few times. He shot up and down, showing me his white belly like a prize bass on the end of a spruce fishing pole.

  "Okay, okay. I did. But there was nothing there."

  "How 'bout the NHB Gym? You pay them a little visit earlier tonight, before you went into the Mesa building?"

  "Uh . . . okay, okay." He was squeaking slightly, hissing out the words through his teeth. "Put me down. I'll tell you everything. Please."

  I lowered him until he was standing with both feet under him, but his hands were still stretched high above his head.

  "I'm listening," I said, looking up at him from the low end of the teeter-totter.

  "Okay, I . . . I . . . okay, I went to the gym. Man, you and Vargas really fucked that place up. The front window was all boarded up. I had to pick the lock in back. Some guy's trashed Indian chopper was in the office, leakin' oil on the cement floor. But it's just a fight gym, man. Nothing there. I found some drugs in the back room, stole a Rolodex, that's it."

  "What kind of drugs?"

  "I don't know. Prescription shit."

  I bounced a few times.

  "Some kinda polypeptides/' he blurted.

  "Aren't they like human growth hormones?"

  "The fuck would I know? I don't shoot drugs. I drink a little beer occasionally, couple a scotch shooters from time to time, but that's it. My body is my temple."

  I looked at his temple dangling there, with numbers and pictures scrawled all over it. I took a minute and tried to assess the damage.

  "Why would you break into Mesa Group after I specifically told you not to?"

  "Because I've been trying to solve Pop's murder while you been sitting on your ass doing nothing."

  "Eventually, I could have developed enough evidence to get a legitimate search warrant on that place. Now I can't use one thing you took! Everything you removed is inadmissible! Don't you get that?" I shouted.

  "Scully, Scully, for chrissake, calm down and listen to me? Will you just listen?"