by Ty Patterson
‘I don’t have one.’ She twisted her hands. ‘Moe controlled my life. He gave me money for groceries. I cooked for him and his friends whenever they arrived. I slept with him. He owned me.’ She looked at the dead man bitterly.
She didn’t go into shock. Most people would have, at the shooting.
‘Moe and Dime,’ she said, reading his thoughts, ‘they brought captives here. They killed two of them right where you’re standing. I’ve seen them do … things to their prisoners.’ She shuddered.
‘I’ll take you to the cops. They will help. You can tell them what happened. That some stranger burst in and killed all of them.’
‘No.’ She shrank. ‘The gang’s got their informers everywhere. Their men will kill me.’
‘The LAPD will protect you.’
‘No.’ Her hands came together in a begging gesture. ‘Please. You don’t know them like I do. They have officers on their side.’
Cutter studied her as his mind raced. Dirty cops. It wasn’t a surprise. Every police department had them.
‘I didn’t know the Street Front was that big … to have its snitches.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks. They are more dangerous than anyone knows.’
His head cocked up when he heard the distant wail of a siren. He moved swiftly to the wall and turned off the light. Draped a shawl around her shoulders, caught her elbow and suitcase in the other hand, helped her to the door.
He opened it cautiously and checked the street. Nothing but the yellow glow of the city. The siren had faded. He hurried her down the walkway to the sidewalk. Nudged her into his Land Cruiser and fired it up as soon as she was seated.
‘You got any place to go? Somewhere safe?’
‘I’ve got a sister in Texas. I’m not close to her. If you can take me to any women’s shelter, I’ll look after myself.’
He nodded. He knew just the place.
He drove aimlessly, checking his mirrors to see if he had any tails. Dime spotted me when I was shadowing them. That was careless of me.
‘Amarillo, that’s where I’m from,” she said, opening up after a while. ‘Came to LA to be a model. Found a few gigs. Partied with other girls. Started taking drugs. To relax. Moe turned up at one of the events. I found out later that’s how the Street Front got users. They threw these parties for models, for people on the edges of the movie industry. One thing led to another, I moved in with him. By the time I realized he was a gangster, I was in too deep,’ she said bitterly. ‘I cleaned up, kicked my habit, but he had power over me.’
Cutter drove into Downtown LA when he was sure there was no pursuit. Past the Fashion District, north towards City Hall. He broke off to enter West First Street and stopped in front of a red-brick building nestled between two tall office buildings.
He called a number. ‘Judith? It’s me. Cut—’ He caught himself before he mentioned his name. No need for Brae to know it.
He grinned and held his phone away when a voice squawked angrily.
‘Yeah, I’m outside,’ he told her and hung up.
Judith Lintock, wrapped in a colorful dressing gown, her grey hair flowing around her head like a halo, her dark skin glowing in the street lights, bustled out of the building.
‘You know what time it is?’ She scowled at him. No hesitation, no questioning looks at his disguise. She had recognized his voice, and that was enough for her to place him.
‘I knew you would be awake.’
She hugged him and kissed his cheeks and sized up Brae. ‘She needs shelter?’
‘If you’ll have her. Brae, meet Judith Lintock, director of the Lintock Foundation. She runs this women’s shelter. She owns it. You’ll be safe here.’
‘Honey.’ His friend shushed him quiet. ‘Whatever your story is, whether you’re running away from a husband, boyfriend, your folks, a drug habit … none of that matters. My center, it was my daddy’s, is for women. We have retired cops for security. I have the mayor on speed dial. No one will touch you.’
Cutter chuckled when Brae looked at her and then him, in wonder. ‘It’s true. Judith’s shelter is the safest place you can be.’
‘I don’t have money.’ She dropped her eyes to the ground.
‘Did I ask about that?’ The director placed her hands on her hips. ‘Money! Pshaw!’ She straightened when she took in the rounded belly. ‘You got any luggage? Let’s go inside, where it’s warmer.’
Cutter brought out her suitcase and followed them inside the building.
‘You will be safe,’ he told Brae when she looked at him uncertainly. ‘This is a well-regarded shelter. Look it up on the internet when you have time. You can trust Judith. She will do everything in her power to help you make a new life.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t even know your name.’
He caught his friend’s eyes when he saw she was going to utter it and shook his head imperceptibly.
‘Judith’s got my number,’ he replied. ‘Call me if you need anything.’
She hesitated at the elevator and returned to him while Judith remained in the elevator car.
‘I heard you ask about Covarra. You’re looking for him?’ she searched his eyes.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘I have some business with him.’
‘I should have asked you before … which gang are you with?’
‘None.’
‘Are you a cop? Some kind of undercover Fed?’
‘No.’
She nodded as if he had confirmed something she had suspected.
‘Snake and Fuse—that’s Salazar—they’re bad.’
‘I know.’
‘They’re worse than Moe and Dime. You should leave them alone.’ When Cutter remained silent, she added: ‘You won’t, will you.’
‘I need to talk to them.’
She licked her lips. ‘Covarra’s got a place in East LA.’ She gave him an address. ‘I heard Moe and Dime talking about it. Heavy security. Cops don’t know about it. You can’t take them on.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘They will kill you.’
He didn’t tell her that many terrorists and cartel bosses had said just that.
‘Make a new life here,’ he told her instead. ‘Judith will help you.’
He waited in the lobby while his friend took her upstairs.
‘What’s her story, and what’s with your getup?’ Judith said when she returned half an hour later, bearing two cups of steaming tea. She handed one to Cutter, planted herself on a couch and patted the seat beside her.
He did her bidding and sipped gratefully at the beverage. ‘Her boyfriend was with the LA Street Front.’
‘Was?’
‘Yeah.’
She listened silently when he broke it down for her swiftly. Squeezed his forearm when he told her about Arnedra and Vienna.
‘You can’t go to the cops,’ she guessed.
‘Correct.’
‘You should leave it to them. I don’t know those two, Matteo and Cruz, but if Terry rates them highly—’
‘He does.’
‘Then they’re good. I trust Terry’s judgment.’
Judith knew most of his friends. She threw welcome parties whenever he was in town and over time had gotten to know everyone he was close to.
‘You won’t give up, will you?’
‘No. Arnedra came into my life when I needed structure, something to focus on. She was like you. She brightened—’
She brushed his compliments away with a rude sound. ‘I won’t tell her your name. I’ll arrange for her to have some funds—’
‘No need. I left enough bills in her purse.’
‘She won’t need them, in any case. Not here.’
Her father had made it big in the oil industry and after exiting his businesses had turned to philanthropy. He had bought the shelter’s building outright and had turned it into one of the most trusted safe-houses for vulnerable women in the country.
Judith, his only
child, had taken over from him after his death and had improved on his legacy. Her work had drawn attention and won her numerous awards, not just in the city but nationwide. Cutter had come across her in one of his previous missions and had been floored by her warmth. The two of them had gotten along right from the start and she became part of his family.
‘Stay safe. I’d better not hear about you on TV.’ She hugged him again as he was leaving. She caressed his cheeks and peered into his glasses.
‘It’s an improvement.’
‘What is?’ he asked and walked right into her trap.
‘Your new look,’ she chortled.
Everyone had to be a joker.
12
‘I need your help.’ Cutter turned on his cell phone’s speaker and placed it beside him.
He was at his screen in the Sycamore Avenue house at ten am.
He had gone to Chuck’s bodyshop after leaving the Lintock Foundation and there he had disposed of his Glock and clothing. He had slept on his return and, after waking up, decided to reach out for assistance.
‘Took you long enough.’ He could practically hear Beth Petersen’s smirk.
He did hear the sound of flesh striking flesh and pictured her high-fiving her sister.
As if on cue, Meghan’s voice in the background announced: ‘That’s ten bucks you owe me.’
‘You bet on me?’
‘Sure as hell we did. Easy money.’ The elder twin snickered.
He sighed. I’m surrounded by women to whom I’m easy picking, he groused to himself.
‘What do you need?’ Beth asked him.
‘That program you have—’
‘Werner. It’s got a name.’
‘Yeah, that. Can I get access to it? That way I can research myself without troubling you every time.’
‘You can handle a computer, Cutter? Since when?’
‘I know my way around,’ he replied stoutly and ignored their derisive laughter. He knew what he was asking. The twins, Zeb Carter and five other operatives were his friends. They worked with the Agency, a covert intelligence outfit that took out terrorists, international criminal gangs, and various threats to security. Every mission was clandestine. Its boss reported to the president. Werner was its intelligence backbone.
They’ll have to security-clear me to allow access.
‘Done.’ Beth surprised him with her prompt reply.
‘What?’
‘Hold up, we’re calling you.’
A video call window popped up on his screen that he accepted. The younger sister waved at him when they appeared.
‘No bruises on your face.’ Meghan surveyed him. ‘You haven’t taken on any thugs?’
‘Give him time,’ Beth chided her. ‘He’s been there just four days.’
‘He’s slacking.’
‘I’m right here,’ he reminded them. He was sure they knew about the four bangers he had killed. They track my phone and would have followed the news. The twins would have put two and two together, but they wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rib him.
‘You find us funny?’ Meghan snapped at his smile.
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he mumbled and threw up his hands in surrender.
‘Click on that link,’ she ordered as a message came up in his chat bubble.
She guided him through the login and security protocol. ‘Facial and voice recognition,’ she explained. ‘That will grant you access. If you were with us, the Agency, you would need fingerprint recognition.’
‘What about your missions, however?’
‘You won’t see any of those, hotshot.’ Meghan smirked. ‘Those are behind more security than you can think of. You can use Werner for all its capabilities and even search its databases, but nothing more. Now, what were you looking for?’
She shook her head when he gave them Covarra’s address.
‘Nope, search for it yourself. That’s the address bar. Go on, enter it. Werner doesn’t bite.’
The house came up in a map view, along with its building plans.
‘How—’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she told him. ‘Those plans … you can’t rely on them. They are what got filed with the authorities. The residents could have modified the house.’
‘You can’t get those?’
‘We could try. Hack into architecture firms, but that will take time and you will require more knowledge of how Werner works.’
‘Whose house is that?’ Beth interrupted.
‘Francisco Covarra, leader of the LA Street Front.’
‘That’s a vicious gang.’ Beth traded glances with her sister. ‘He killed Arnedra and Vienna?’
‘Don’t know. I’ll have to ask them.’
‘You need help, buddy?’ Bwana came up behind them, tall, dark, biceps flexing as he crossed his arms. ‘Give us a call.’
‘He wants to ask them, Bwana.’ Meghan chuckled. ‘Not burn down the city.’
‘I need to hide my phone’s movement. Cops might want to track it to see where I’ve been.’
‘Easiest way is to leave your phone in the house. Clone it with another and take that other one with you. Use burners. You were Special Ops,’ she said in irritation, ‘you should know all this.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he admitted ruefully.
‘We’ll show your phone’s been around in the city,’ Beth chimed in, ‘runs to the stores, downtown, innocuous movement. Heck, in fact, we’ll set it up so that Werner keeps changing the registered address to your phone, randomly, and also routes any calls you make through several proxies and networks all over the world.’
‘You can do all of that remotely?’ He realized his mistake immediately, but it was too late.
‘There’s not much we can’t do,’ they replied together, scornfully, and ended the call.
* * *
He drove past Covarra’s East Hubbard Street hideout an hour later. The previous night’s disguise on his face, armor underneath his Tee and jacket, false license plates on his Toyota.
He had made out that the house had six bedrooms and four baths from its plans. Front and back yards. A narrow alley at the back that opened onto South Sadler Avenue, and that was all he could glean from Werner’s information.
The house looked larger on the street. Imposing. A six-foot concrete wall that ran around it. A metal gate, large enough for two cars to enter in parallel. A guard lounging at the front, smoking a cigarette, thumbing his phone. No sign of a weapon.
Cutter signaled and turned right on Sadler. Scoped out the narrow alley, which turned out to be part of the property, between the chain-link fence of its backyard and the wall separating it from the neighboring house.
A grilled gate at the mouth of that passage, too, along with another guard.
Werner had informed him the house was owned by a construction company that used the property as a guest house for its officers.
That will explain the presence of guards to anyone curious. There hadn’t been anything more on the ownership. The business was registered in Panama and had a law firm as its contact address. He had called its number and gotten a voicemail asking him to leave a message.
That’s how gangs and cartels operate. Launder their money by buying property. Register those to shell companies.
He circled back and returned to Hubbard, and as he was driving past, a pickup truck emerged from a neighboring house. The driver raced past him, his window down, music blaring, his shirt flapping in the wind.
Was that a Street Front tattoo on his neck?
He idled to a stop as if to take a call and checked out the surrounding houses.
It made sense. If Covarra and Salazar were in that house, then they would have some of their hitters nearby, in surrounding properties.
Which meant he couldn’t just stroll into that compound and ask them a few polite questions. A repeat of what had gone down at Moe’s wasn’t possible.
Cutter decided to check out the Armenians.
13
Davidian Associates was etched in white on the mirrored glass door of the ground-floor office on Western Avenue in Little Armenia.
Cutter parked his Land Cruiser in a vacant space and watched the office for several minutes. No foot traffic. He broke open a packet of hard candies and inserted one in his mouth. He climbed out and donned his shades against the three pm sun that beat down mercilessly, reflecting off the building he was heading to.
* * *
Offices on the top floor, signboards for law firms, accountants, therapists stuck to the dark windows. Ground level was a row of stores—convenience, liquor, massage parlor—and the real estate broker.
A bell tinkled when he pushed open the door and entered a small hallway. To his right was a reception desk, but no one was behind it. Brochures of the properties the broker was selling, a smiling photograph of the man himself, Arek Davidian, and his profile. If his achievements were to be believed, he had single-handedly rescued the property market from going bust.
‘Coming,’ a voice called out from inside.
Cutter waited, scanned the ceiling for cameras … and spotted one just above the door jamb.
Arek Davidian came out of an office, a wide smile splitting his face. He was deeply tanned, with dark hair gelled in a smart style, brown eyes, white teeth that flashed, and an outstretched hand as he approached.
‘You’re alone?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the broker beamed. ‘Personalized service, low costs, that’s how I operate—’
Cutter grabbed him by his shirt and shoved him back. Backhanded him with a lazy slap that sent Davidian staggering backwards.
‘Hey! You!’ the broker shouted. He recovered and held one arm up to fend off a blow while he searched for his phone with the other. He brought out the device and was dialing for help when Cutter punched him in the belly.
Davidian wheezed and gasped as he doubled over and dropped his phone. Tears leaked out of his eyes. His lips worked, but before he could utter a word, Cutter hauled him up.
‘That your office?’ he snarled, gesturing at the one the man had come out of.
