by Ty Patterson
He crushed Cutter in a bear hug and didn’t stop beaming as he escorted his visitor into the house.
‘Sandra?’
‘She’s sleeping. Livia and Jeff, too. An earthquake could hit LA and they wouldn’t wake. Besides,’ he added, pointing to the concrete ceiling in the living room, ‘I’ve soundproofed the house. Nothing can be heard in the bedroom.’
He went to a bar and pulled out two glasses. Splashed alcohol into one and then stopped.
‘You’ve taken up drinking?’
‘Juice.’
‘You’re an insult to Delta,’ he grumbled. Nevertheless, he went to the kitchen and returned with a carton of orange juice, filled Cutter’s glass and handed it over.
‘Remember the time in Afghanistan when Duke thought that goat was Taliban?’ Chad started.
It was three am by the time they finished reminiscing.
‘You didn’t come to LA just to gear up.’ The armorer’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you gotten yourself into?’
His eyes turned flinty when Cutter broke it down for him. ‘Gangs,’ he spat. ‘They’re everywhere. I heard that on the news … didn’t think it would bring you here.’ He got to his feet and beckoned his guest with a finger. Led him through the kitchen, to a side door and into the armory.
‘I built out the back and created this room.’ He jerked his head to indicate the front wall. ‘Beyond that is my garage. This, here, is secure. Fingerprint scan, iris, all that. Only Sandra and I have access.’
Guns, all of them collectors’ items, lay beneath a glass counter, mounted on silk. Each had a certificate of provenance. More weapons hung on the walls.
‘Spent several years hunting all those, some from Europe and South America,’ he said with a grin and slapped a palm to an open space between a musket and a flintlock pistol. The wall slid aside noiselessly to reveal a concealed space. He pulled out a rack that slid on rails and gestured theatrically at the cache of weapons on the metal shelves.
Cutter picked out several Glocks, HK416s and magazines, and placed them on the counter. He inspected several blades and chose a Benchmade. Stun grenades, tear gas and body armor followed the pile of weapons. He eyed the Barrett M82 and pulled it out, too.
‘I need surveillance cameras, wireless ones, bugs, small—
‘I’ve got just the ones for you.’ Chad went to a stack of drawers and returned with a pouch filled with the gadgets. ‘Batteries, control pads, everything’s there.’
‘I need a drone.’
‘At your service.’ He returned with the equipment, surveyed the pile critically, disappeared behind the counter and returned with a large gym bag.
Cutter loaded the weapons in it, zipped it up and reached for his wallet.
‘No.’ Chad’s face hardened.
‘You have to—’
‘Get going. It’s late.’
‘Chad—’
‘Sandra would kill me if she knew I took payment from you.’
‘She won’t have to know.’
‘She’ll know. No secrets between us. I didn’t tell you Livy’s middle name. Olivia Cutter Liu. You’re her godfather. What you did for Sandra and our kids—’
‘Chad, these weapons, the other gear, they’re expensive—’
‘I can afford to give them away. I’m doing well.’ My business, my rules,’ the armorer cut him off when he further tried to protest.
He led Cutter back through the house and donned a jacket.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Drop you wherever you are staying.’
‘I’ll get a cab!’
Chad waved off his protests and fired up his SUV. He drove to the Wilshire address and stopped in front of the Sycamore Avenue house.
‘Four beds and three baths?’ He eyed it speculatively.
Cutter looked at him in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’
‘I do some house selling as well. I keep busy.’ He laughed. ‘You renting that?’
‘Nope. Friend of mine owns it. He said I could stay in it for as long as I want.’
He didn’t mention that the friend was a multimillionaire whom Cutter had rescued from a kidnap-for-ransom gang.
‘Will you need all of that?’ Chad pointed at the gym bag.
‘Uh-huh.’
I’m going to war.
7
‘MS-13, Crips, Bloods, Sinaloa Cartel’s offshoots, local gangs, bikers, take your pick.’ Cruz pointed to a map on the screen.
He, Matteo and Gus Estrada, a swarthy cop, along with Cutter, were in a conference room at the LAPD headquarters at eleven am.
The map had colored segments identifying each active gang in LA and their territories in the city.
‘No gang operating in Beverly Hills?’
‘Nope,’ Estrada replied. ‘The rich like their places to be crime-free.’
‘That’s not to say there’s no gang active there.’ Matteo tapped his fingers on the polished table. ‘They are more sophisticated over there, however. The dealers for that crowd are likely to be high-fliers themselves. No street-corner dealing, not in that neighborhood.’
Hundred gangs, any two of which could have been involved. Where do I start?
Cruz seemed to read Cutter’s thoughts.
‘Two of the weapons involved in the shooting, AR-15s, were used in killings last year. They were fired into the women.’
‘You got any prints on them?’
‘No. Wiped clean.’
He waited for Cutter to make more comments, and when none came, continued. ‘We arrested some of their bangers, who confessed those were gang weapons. Bad news is that we got low-level hitters. The shooters who used the weapons are still in the wind. Francisco Snake Covarra and Raul Fuse Salazar—they fired those rifles. Covarra is the leader of the gang; Salazar, his lieutenant. Gang has over a hundred strong hitters. They’re new and are muscling into the territories of the more established outfits. Central LA, East and West Hollywood is where they operate.’
Cutter frowned at the map. ‘Why did they show up in Beverly Hills?’
‘We don’t know it was them at the house.’ Estrada crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. ‘We questioned a few thugs today, before you arrived. All of them denied their involvement in the shooting. Covarra and Salazar, businessmen according to them, are out of the country. In Mexico for some deal.’
‘They have links to the Juarez Cartel.’ Matteo chewed on a toothpick as he brought up photographs of the two men. ‘Businessmen!’ he snorted. ‘Both of them have criminal records. They’ve spent a few years in prison. Covarra for assaulting his then-girlfriend, Salazar for possession of drugs.’
‘What do they push?’
‘The usual. Fentanyl, meth, coke.’
‘They are continually at war with the Armenian Bros in East Hollywood.’ Cruz toggled the map to show the relevant neighborhood. ‘That shootout, where those two guns were used, left three hitters dead, one Bro and two from the Front. Panig Janikyan is the Bro’s OG, original gangster. The founder.’ His lips twisted bitterly. ‘They call him Pain.’
‘How big are they?’
‘Three thousand bangers.’ He chuckled when Cutter straightened. ‘They aren’t just a street gang. They’ve got links to Russian mafia, are into financial fraud, real estate scams and cyber-crime. That last business is their fastest growing. The gang has a team of hackers that produces deep fake porn videos and blackmails celebrities. They send phishing emails, penetrate bank accounts … you name it, they do it.’
‘We’ll bring in some of Janikyan’s men, too, and him.’ Matteo threw his toothpick into a trashbin and inserted a new one in his mouth. ‘If we find him.’ He got to his feet, signaling the meeting was over. ‘We told you all this out of courtesy. We know your reputation and what you did in New York. This isn’t your turf. Stay out of our investigation. You’ve got enough on your plate. Funerals for—’
‘DNA on their bodies?’ Cutter interrupted him. ‘Did you find who it belo
nged to?’
‘No one in our system. LDIS, CODIS, no hits.’
LDIS, Local DNA Index System, CODIS, the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System.
‘Can I see the surveillance video from the neighboring houses?’
‘Nothing much there.’ Matteo nodded at Estrada, who connected his laptop to a projector, logged into the system and threw up a black screen on the wall. ‘We spliced the different clips into one,’ he explained as a view of the street came up. ‘That’s just after the hairpin bend. No cameras before it.’
Three SUVs rushed past, all of them dark, and disappeared out of the frame in a flash. ‘This is the cleaned-up version,’ the cop narrated when another video played in slo-mo. The same three rides appeared, shadows distinguishable inside, and then they were out of sight.
‘We worked out the models of those vehicles.’ The BHPD detective turned off the projector. ‘Two Toyota Highlanders, and one of them is a Toyota RAV. Those are the most popular SUVs in the country. We haven’t been able to narrow down those rides any further. Sorry.’ The cop shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t have better news for you.’
‘What about their phones, their bags?’
‘Their bags were at the scene. Their wallets, credit cards, everything seemed intact. We identified them from their driver’s licenses. No phones, however.’
‘The shooters took them.’
‘That’s what we believe. The cells are offline. Probably destroyed. We contacted their network providers and got a list of calls. Nothing that stood out. Each other’s numbers, a few local stores, a theater, restaurants. We placed their devices on Beverly Hills Grove Drive about an hour before time of death. Last position was up the drive. They didn’t ping the towers after that.’
‘Their killers turned them off?’
‘Possibly, but there’s network reception to consider as well. It’s sketchy in the hills.’
‘How did they get there?’
‘Vienna McDonald’s car is missing. We suspect she drove, but we haven’t found it. It’s a Mazda, again a common make.’
‘We called various bodyshops.’ Matteo’s toothpick bobbed in his mouth. ‘None of them got any such vehicle in the last forty-eight hours.’
Cutter sat grimly in silence and then got to his feet.
‘No interference from you.’ Matteo shook his hand. ‘Are we clear?’
‘Of course,’ Cutter lied smoothly and followed Cruz to the lobby.
* * *
He stepped out of the futuristic-looking LAPD headquarters on First Street. Searched for a food truck, didn’t find one, but spotted the LA Times building just behind. Times Mirror Square, that’ll have eating places. He ordered two large servings of nachos and found a bench in the lobby of the Times building. Checked his watch, pulled out his cell and dialed a number.
‘Terry, it’s Cutter. I’m in LA. The Times Building.’
He hung up and stuffed the phone into his pocket. People-watched idly as he waited for his visitor. The LA Times had moved out to new offices in El Segundo a couple of years ago, but the iconic building, its previous headquarters, still attracted tourists.
A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed hard.
‘Cutter!’ Terry Vargas, Assistant Chief, Director of Special Operations, LAPD, hugged him, thumped his shoulder and sized him critically.
‘You’re a celebrity now,’ he said, grinning. ‘Are you here on a book signing tour? A movie deal?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Cutter picked up one of the nacho servings and handed it over. ‘Just as you like it.’
‘You remembered!’
‘How could I forget? You kept griping every single day in Baghdad that the first thing you’d do when you got home was dig into a large plate of nachos.’
His friend had aged well. He was in great shape, the dark suit doing little to conceal his powerful build. Buzz cut, clean-shaven, intelligent brown eyes watching him in return.
‘Luisita’s keeping well?’
‘I hardly see her. She’s started her own business. Childcare. She’s got two places now in Crenshaw.’ His proud smile faded. ‘You think she’s having an affair?’
‘I’m sure of it,’ Cutter declared. ‘Why would she stay married to you? You’re a cop, for chrissakes. The kind of hours you keep …’
Terry punched him in the shoulder and looked at his serving suspiciously. ‘You’re still a vegetarian?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You need meat in you. Gives you power. Yeah, I know you took down that New York gang, but that was a fluke.’ He grinned.
They caught up on old times, remembering distant lands, bloodshed and lost friends.
‘Why are you here in LA?’
‘You’ve heard of this task force Matteo is running?’
‘Vance? Yeah. He’s heading it. BHPD’s on it, too. Why?’
‘You heard about that gang shooting in Beverly Hills?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I knew the victims.’
Terry was into personal contact with his friends. He touched hands, rubbed shoulders, hugged to convey his feelings. He put down his food at Cutter’s response, wiped his hands on a towel and clasped his forearm.
‘You knew them well?’
‘Arnedra Jones, one of them, she was my business partner. My friend. I am her emergency contact—that’s how the cops reached me.’
The cop sighed heavily and brooded for a moment. ‘Vance is good,’ he said after a while. ‘He and Cruz, I know them well. They will find out who’s behind it—’ His head jerked up sharply. His eyes narrowed. ‘No, no.’ He raised his hands. ‘Cutter, every time you come to LA you hit me up as if you want to catch up—’
‘I do, we’re friends.’
‘We are, but you sweet-talk me into giving inside info. I’m not doing that—’
‘She was a friend.’
‘I’m your friend, too. I risk my job every time I let you in—”
‘Risk your job?’ Cutter scoffed. ‘Lisa’s not going to sack you.’
Lisa Dade, LAPD’s Chief of Police, to whom Terry Vargas reported. Former captain in the 82nd Airborne Regiment. The mountains of Kandahar, Afghanistan, the scene of several stealth operations against terrorists. Cold nights and fierce fighting as Delta operatives and the regiment’s soldiers cleared caves and peaks. Cutter, Terry and Lisa had hit it off the moment they met and remained close after their return stateside.
‘I didn’t get the job because of our past,’ Terry growled. ‘We’re professionals. No favors for me.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I can’t help you, Cutter.’
‘Where do the LA Street Front hang out? Covarra and Salazar—they must have some joints known to the LAPD.’
‘This is the last time you harass me?’
‘We’re friends.’ Cutter put on a shocked expression. ‘Why would I harass you?’
Terry glowered at him and then broke into a reluctant grin. He pulled out his phone and searched briefly. ‘Blue Goose on Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s supposed to be a Street Front joint, but we haven’t been able to prove anything. That’s all I’ve got for you. Don’t press me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You didn’t get that from me.’
‘We never met.’
‘Oh, we did. Lisa will know you’re in town. Matteo will have told her. She’ll know you would have looked me up. Now I know,’ he paused, looking around the Times building, ‘why you called me here and didn’t come to the office.’
‘Cutter,’ he called over his shoulder as he was leaving.
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t burn my city down.’
* * *
Cutter went to the nearest automotive dealer and bought a pre-owned Toyota Land Cruiser. He could have leased it but figured the vehicle would become damaged, given what he was planning. He drove it to a bodyshop he knew in Inglewood that outfitted cars for illegal drag racers and gangs.
‘Chuck,’ he g
reeted the owner, who hugged him—and owed him his life. ‘I need that kitted with armor.’ He peeled off several bills from a thick wad and handed them over. ‘Usual deal.’
It was seven pm by the time he returned to East Hollywood, to Naysha Sutton’s house.
Another dinner and warm hospitality. He asked the question when he was alone with her.
‘Ma’am, do you know if Vienna had any calls from real estate agents? Asking if she was going to sell?’
‘Not just her.’ Naysha rolled her eyes. ‘Me, too. We used to get calls all the time, months ago, but we always said no. There was one agent, however, who was persistent. He didn’t take our no for an answer.’
‘You remember his name?’
‘Hold up a minute, I’ve got his card somewhere.’
‘Davidian Associates,’ she read out when she returned. ‘Take it, I’ve got no use for it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘You think he had something to do with killing them?’
‘No, ma’am. Real estate brokers don’t go about killing people.’
His name sounds Armenian. And East Hollywood neighbors with Little Armenia.
It was very likely to mean nothing, but he had to check it out.
* * *
Terry Vargas would do anything for Cutter. He had trusted his friend with his life several times. Luisita adored him. However, he was also a professional.
He knocked on the chief of police’s door and entered. He shut the door behind him and dropped into a chair at her invite.
The chief finished her paperwork, shoved the file to the side and put her hands behind her head.
‘You didn’t talk me out of this job,’ she accused him. ‘You should have warned me about the paperwork.’
‘Why would I do that? You’re great at it. Mayor’s eating out of your palm. Media love you for the way you handled the BLM protests. You didn’t go hard on them like many other police departments—’
