the Pallbearers (2010)

by Stephen - Scully 09 Cannell

  "In Ranger school, they taught us whenever you have a split objective, the most efficient solution is to split your force and stagger the timetable," Seriana said. "Tactically, it weakens us, but on the plus side we have a relatively small AO and we should be able to divide up, put two people on that bungalow while the main group deploys in the event center. We stay in touch by phone. The bungalow team waits 'til all the MMA fighters leave that house for the event tonight. Then, if Diamond stays behind, we secure the house first and take her into custody. Debrief. Then the splinter group moves up in support."

  "What the hell is an AO?" Vicki asked.

  "Sorry, it's just the battlefield. Stands for Area of Operation."

  "Then say it, okay? We can't afford a buncha misunderstandings."

  Seriana nodded.

  "I think Seriana's got a good idea," Alexa said. Then she looked at me. "What about Faskin and Westfall? Isn't it about time to pull them in?"

  "Who are Faskin and Westfall?" Sabas demanded.

  I told them about the two FBI agents and how I'd used Jack as bait to lure them out here.

  "Jack s risking his life too," Vicki said. "You really gonna turn him over to the FBI?"

  "He's guilty of sticking up two banks in Central California," I argued. "I'm still a cop. I'm supposed to turn my back on that?"

  "Yeah," she said.

  "Well, I'm not going to," I replied. But I certainly didn't feel very good about it.

  Then I told them about my visit to see Tom Ironwood at the tribal police and that my boss, Jeb Calloway, said we could trust him.

  What I didn't tell them was it concerned me that, despite his nine-foot wall and all that electronic security, Ironwood still didn't know Diamond and O'Shea were on his reservation. That meant he either had a large hole in his security or was careless or maybe even lying. But I didn't see any choice. I had to take a chance on him.

  We went over our plan point by point. After we were finished, I wrote out some instructions for the concierge. Then I left the suite and went to the lobby, where I handed my sealed letter to the man behind the desk along with a fifty-dollar bill and some instructions on what I wanted him to do.

  I showed him my LAPD credentials.

  "Is this a police matter?" he asked.

  "Yes, but I've already spoken to Captain Ironwood. We need you to follow the instructions inside exactly."

  We ordered burgers for lunch from room service. After we ate, we put the final touches on our rescue-and-arrest plan.

  When we were finished Seriana said, "We have eight hours. We should get some rest. Somebody needs to take the first watch."

  "I'll do it," Vicki said. "I'm not tired."

  We went to bed. Sabas pulled the drapes and stretched out on the couch in the living room.

  As I lay on the bed I kept thinking how Chooch said that rarely are you able to pay your debts in full.

  Tonight I was going to get a chance to try.

  Chapter 56

  I came awake when I heard Vicki outside yelling.

  All hell was breaking loose in the living room.

  I exploded out of bed, still half asleep, but somebody lunged into the bedroom, and I walked right into a sharp left hook, my third trip to the canvas in five days. When I struggled to push myself up, I got kicked in the head.

  I could barely see my assailant because it was dark in the room, but from his gargantuan shape it looked like Chris Calabro.

  As I went down again I saw Alexa being pulled out of the room by Kimbo Sledge. She was struggling to get free so he hit her. I lunged up to attack him, but with my collection of injuries and broken arm, it was a slow, lumbering charge, and Calabro ended it with a karate kick to my stomach.

  I was quickly secured with plastic snap cuffs then dragged into the main room of the suite, where all six of the fighters from Team Ultima were standing over four of the five of us. Seriana was the only one missing. I had no idea where she was, but was praying she'd use her combat skill, and whatever she'd brought in that canvas duffel, to change this outcome.

  I took a quick survey of the others' injuries. We all had our hands cuffed. Sabas had lost a tooth. Vicki had an ugly bruise forming on her jaw. Alexa looked dazed as she was pushed clown on the sofa beside them.

  Calabro threw me to the floor at Rick O'Shea's feet.

  "Chris, get them out of here," O'Shea ordered. "I'll go through this place and find out what they've been up to."

  I looked at the table clock. It was 6:00 P. M. We'd only been asleep for a couple of hours, but everyone had been so tired, we hadn't heard them come through the patio doors.

  We were pulled outside. An electric golf-course maintenance vehicle with an enclosed metal flatbed was parked right by the edge of the patio. The roll-up back door was open, and we were pushed roughly inside and forced to sit on the floor. There was barely enough room for the four of us as we were jammed inside. The door was slammed closed and latched. Ten seconds later we were on the move.

  "I'm sorry. My fault," Vicki said. "I was 011 watch. I didn't see them until it was too late."

  "It's nobody's fault," I said. "Does anybody know where Seriana is?"

  They all shook their heads.

  "She said she was going to outpost, whatever that means," Vicki said.

  We sat huddled in the small enclosed vehicle with our shoulders and knees touching as the little electric maintenance truck whizzed across the grass. Finally, we bounced up over a curb and were back on pavement.

  We rode for about five more minutes before the truck pulled onto the grass again, slowed, and came to a stop. A minute later, the rear door was unlatched and pulled up. A flashlight was trained on us.

  When my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Jack Straw. He was standing just outside the truck, smiling at me.

  Chapter 57

  Gary White, Chris Calabro, and Kimbo Sledge were all with jack at the rear of the truck.

  "Get em inside," Calabro said to Jack. "Mesas upstairs getting ready. Ill go tell him."

  Jack pulled us roughly out of the truck, and Gary shoved us through a side gate in an eight-foot wall that guarded a mansion. A stocky young Indian kid in a green khaki uniform, packing a side-arm in a crisp new holster, stood by the gate.

  This house was a huge, modern, two-story hacienda-style structure with a red tile roof. It was at least twenty thousand square feet, with its own private security force and perimeter wall.

  We followed Gary single file along a walkway next to an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Jack walked beside me with Kimbo Sledge following. Nobody spoke.

  Three young uniformed Indian security guards wearing sidearms in new leather holsters escorted us.

  Alexa and the others were pushed off and herded toward the main house, but Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the pool house. One guard followed us, never more than a few feet away.

  I was pushed by Jack through the open sliding-glass door into a large entertainment room outfitted with a mahogany pool table, video-game consoles, big screen TVs, and a wet bar. The Indian guard followed. I looked around the spacious pool house. There were eight or ten changing cubicles along the perimeter of the room.

  Jack shoved me up against the wet bar and turned to the young guard. "I got this," he said. "You can go."

  "But Mr. Calabro said we should . . ."

  "I got it!" Jack shouted. "Get the fuck outta here."

  He wasn't moving, so Jack wheeled and hit me hard in the side of the head. I didn't see it coming, and with my hands tied, couldn't block the blow. The best I could do was try to roll with the punch. Even so, my knees buckled. I went down again.

  Jack glared at the guard, who seemed shocked by this sudden assault. "You got the picture now?" Jack said. "I owe this shithead some payback. I wanta do it in private. Now get the fuck out of here."

  The Indian guard was unnerved by Jack's behavior and quickly left. But he stood a few feet outside the closed glass door, where he could still observe us. Jack pulled
me to my feet and leaned me against the bar.

  "Too bad there ain't a teeter-totter," he whispered.

  "Untie me. I gotta get to Alexa and the others."

  "I can't untie you. This place is loaded with security. That guy is right outside looking at us. Use your head, Scully."

  "Where's Diamond?"

  "I don't know. She's hanging by a thread with these guys. They don't trust her but they haven't decided what to do about it yet."

  The guard was still at the window. Still watching through the closed sliding-glass door.

  Jack followed my gaze and said, "Hold on, I gotta make this look right."

  He hit me in the stomach, but pulled the punch as it landed. I doubled over, making a show of it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the young security guard take a step back and shake his head in disgust. Then he moved further off and sat in a chair by the pool.

  "What's Diamond up to?" I said as soon as the guard took his eyes off us. "None of this makes any sense."

  "She's fucked up. She needed cash and struck a deal with O'Shea, got Pop to sign those documents for ten percent of his scam. She was playing the horses at Hollywood Park, got in debt to a loan shark or something. I don't have all of it but she started helping O'Shea siphon off money, and once she was guilty of that crime, she got threatened into helping O'Shea pin the missing cash on Pop."

  "If she's in on it, why didn't she tell them I was a cop?"

  "Because she never thought they'd kill Pop. She's as fucked up over his murder as the rest of us. She didn't rat you and me out because she was certain those guys would kill us too. She's not a killer. She's a good Catholic girl trying to have this both ways. It ain't working. She's shaking apart."

  "How do we get out of here?"

  "I don't know. Like I said, Mesa's got a ton of these Indian security cops. Most are just kids, but they got a few genuine tough guys who run things."

  "O'Shea's pretty stupid, but you can bet Mesa will have some kinda workable plan if he intends to kill four people, two of them cops," I said.

  "He's gonna stage a shootout that all of you are going to accidentally get caught in," Jack said. "It just might work. Last year they had a hundred shooting deaths on this reservation. Those braceros are robbing the Indians blind as they cross the border. There's shootouts almost every night. Mesas hired some coyotes as triggers. T hey should be arriving anytime through a secret tunnel he has under this reservation's wall. Its how Diamond and O'Shea got in here. These coyotes are Mexican hard cases who will have no trouble pulling your drapes. The story will be that you and the others accidentally wandered into the line of fire."

  "And Mesa can arrange that? What about the tribal police? Four U. S. citizens die and nobody asks any questions?"

  "Fuckin-A right he can arrange it. Eugene C. Mesa was born on the Mexican side of the res. Half-Indian, half-Mexican, no parents. Growing up, he was a half-breed who nobody gave a shit about. He ran away when he was eight, but thirty years later he came back in a Gulfstream jet and built the Talking Stick Resort, the local school, a library, and just about anything else that's worth a shit around here. Even the tribal police chief is his man. He's like a god."

  Before I could reply to that, the door opened and Rick O'Shea entered the pool house.

  Chapter 58

  "I want to talk to Mesa," I said once O'Shea was inside. "I know he's here."

  "Gene doesn't waste time on dead men." He walked to a cabinet, pulled out his monogrammed gym bag, and started to leave.

  "If Mesa intends to get past this stupid mess you've made, Rick, he needs to hear what I have to say."

  He stopped at the door and looked back. "Right, I'm stupid and you're over there looking like an ad for adhesive tape. I gotta go get ready for tonight, but an hour from now you and me have an appointment. Sit on this guy 'til I get back, Jack."

  He was almost out the door when I said, "The FBI already knows all about this. They have warrants. It changes everything."

  O'Shea stopped again, his back to me. Then he slowly turned.

  "The FBI can't do nothin' on Indian land," he said. "A reservation is like another country." A crafty, dumb look came into his eyes. "They got a treaty with the U. S. government or something. This place has its own courts and laws. Federal warrants are toilet paper here. We got immunity. The feds can't touch us. Nobody can."

  "You shouldn't be practicing law without a license, Rick. You better let Mesa make that decision. At least he knows what he's doing."

  O'Shea dropped his gym bag, crossed the room, cocked a fist, and shook it in my face.

  "I see it, but hitting me won't solve this. You better be smart for once and tell Mesa. That's just the teaser. I've got more information to trade. He needs to hear it all."

  "I'm totally on this guy, Ricky," Jack said. "I think you should go tell Gene. I got my own trouble with the FBI. Last thing I need is a buncha frisbees showing up."

  "Mesa ain't gonna talk to you," O'Shea blustered. But he looked less sure. He crossed to the sliding-glass door and motioned to a new guard who had joined the other outside. This second man was much older and looked more competent. He had chevrons stitched on the sleeve of his rent-a-cop uniform.

  "Hey, Arturo, get your ass in here and help Jack watch this turd." A minute later, the older, tougher-looking Indian guard entered the room with his gun out and stood by the door. As soon as he was inside, O'Shea snatched up his gym bag and left.

  It was six forty. Nobody said anything. Jack and I watched the clock on the pool-house wall hit seven, then seven ten. The armed guard remained at the door, never taking his eyes off me.

  Calabro had said that Mesa was upstairs getting ready for the event. But after half an hour had passed, I was beginning to wonder if O'Shea had even bothered to deliver my message.

  Five minutes later, the glass door on the pool house slid open and E. C. Mesa stepped into the room. He was dressed all in black with his hair in a short ponytail. He looked like a crushed-down Steven Seagal.

  "What's all this bullshit about the federal government?" he said. "I'm not wanted for any crime so the FBI hardly concerns me."

  "But it concerns him," I said and nodded at Rick O'Shea, who had just slipped through the sliding-glass door and was standing in the pool house next to the older Indian guard.

  "Let me worry about him," Mesa said.

  "He's gonna get arrested. The FBI has a warrant. It's never a good idea to have a stupid accomplice standing between you and a DA. He'll start making selfish decisions."

  "Rick, take Jack and Arturo outside for a minute," Mesa ordered.

  O'Shea didn't move, but Jack pushed away from the bar and sauntered across the room. As Jack passed the Irish fighter, he said, "Let's go, dude. Orders." He pulled the slider closed after the three of them left. But they didn't go far. I could see them standing just outside the glass door.

  Mesa and I were alone. He moved closer, stopping three feet away. "Your meeting," he said.

  "He's wanted for murder," I said. "O'Shea killed Walter Dix. The arrest warrant has already been issued by an L. A. judge. When he crossed out of state and onto this reservation, it got turned over to the FBI. The feds will get the Tohono police to serve it. My guess is when Rick sees what a deep hole he's in, he's gonna fall all over himself giving you up, Gene. I don't think it's a good idea to add kidnapping and murder to this mess. Work with me and I'll work with you."

  I still didn't know what the hell was going on with this guy. I couldn't figure out why an obviously astute, self-made billionaire who bought and sold huge companies all over the world was making what appeared to be so many stupid, emotional mistakes. There had to be a reason, and it had to come from somewhere deep inside him. However, he didn't seem too concerned with my threat.

  "What I don't get is why you went after Walt Dix," I continued, trying to get him talking. "What could be in that Huntington House embezzlement for you?"

  Mesa said nothing.

  "You couldn't poss
ibly care about a crummy one point five million dollars. There had to be something else." His expression remained blank. Now he wasn't even looking at me. His gaze had shifted to the plate-glass window and the three men standing just outside the closed sliding-glass door. "You surfed with him, right? Long boards."

  After I said that, he shifted his weight and seemed to tense. When he turned back to me, his expression had changed slightly. There was a new tightness at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. But still he said nothing.

  "Those cigar-box boards are a bitch to stay up on," I said. "I know, 'cause I tried." I still had no idea where the hell this was leading, but I could tell it was upsetting him so I kept going. "Seal Beach. Six in the morning, right? Up by the Municipal Pier just before sunup, you and Walt kneeling in the sand with a buncha little kids. Walt timing the AWPs."

  Mesa just stood there, but now his whole body was rigid. His dark face began to flush with blood. A vein started pulsing in the center of his forehead.

  "You two musta been the only guys around who could stay up on a cigar box. Nose always pearling. Hard as shit to cut back on. I couldn't do it. Walt taught you, right? That was his thing, always helping the other guy."

  Now Mesa's face twitched. "Shut the fuck up," he hissed angrily.

  "So I'm right about that. He taught you to ride boards like he taught all of us. You met him before dawn at Ninth Street, tapping the source. So why steal from him? Why send O'Shea to kill him?"

  "I didn't send Rick to kill him," Mesa said sharply. "It was a mistake."

  "When you make a guy write a phony suicide note then blow his head off with a shotgun, it's hard to call it a mistake," I said.

  His face was getting redder. His jaw clenched. He didn't say anything more for almost a full minute, and I just stood there and watched him smolder. When he did talk, he changed the subject.

  "You don't have anything that can hurt me," he began. "Even if you have a federal warrant for Ricky, all I have to do is get him across the reservation border into Mexico and that ends it. A little cash in the right hands down there and your warrant or any extradition gets crushed. As long as O'Shea doesn't do anything stupid, it's finished. If he screws up, he'll disappear. Nobody will ever see him again. Simple."