Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Where’s Salazar?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW. I SWEAR. HE CALLS ME.’

  Cutter searched the hood’s pockets and found his cell phone. Checked the call log and found several incoming ones. Number withheld.

  That didn’t surprise him. The Street Front hadn’t become one of the foremost gangs in the city for nothing. They probably use burners and proxies for their calls.

  He tossed the phone back at the hood and searched the kitchen and the utility room and then went to the garage, where he found a can of kerosene. He doused it liberally over the packets and, as Ernesto watched wide-eyed, set them on fire.

  ‘Tell Covarra to call me,’ he said with a grin and disappeared into the night.

  34

  Francisco ‘Snake’ Covarra watched Ernesto with lizard-like eyes as Salazar interrogated the banger.

  They had a protocol. The guards at each store had to check in every hour with their lieutenants. If no call occurred, the gang sent thugs to the location to check it out.

  Ernesto and his people hadn’t checked in the previous night. However, before that information came up the chain to Salazar, a hood had alerted him about a burning car on Verona. The deputy had immediately dispatched several bangers, who arrived at the house and discovered the scene.

  They hustled Ernesto away before the cops arrived, leaving the dead bangers behind.

  It was a gang rule. Those who died in attacks were left on the street for the dogs to urinate on and the birds to peck at, until the cops or the city authorities took away their bodies. Covarra had no use for those who failed. He took good care of their families, however.

  ‘Was he the bike rider?’

  ‘I don’t know, boss,’ Ernesto groaned when he shook his head. ‘He was wearing a mask. He seemed to be the same size, but I can’t be sure.’ He leaned forward in his chair, wincing from his wounds. A gang doctor had cleaned his wounds, bandaged them, pronounced that he would live and given him pain killers.

  His face brightened when a memory struck him. ‘He was wearing glasses. Did that rider have them?’

  All the bangers in the room turned to Salazar and Covarra.

  ‘How would I know?’ the gang leader snarled at them. ‘He was wearing a helmet. Did this man speak English?’

  ‘Si, boss. Spanish also. No accent.’

  ‘It must be the same man,’ the deputy told his leader. ‘Who else would know about the phone?’

  ‘HOW DID HE KNOW ABOUT THAT PLACE?’ Covarra thundered.

  No one dared to reply.

  ‘Fuse,’ Covarra asked silkily, ‘do you think we have a snitch?’

  ‘No.’ The deputy shook his head. ‘If we had one, why attack that place? He could have gone after the bigger one in Boyle Heights.’

  ‘The snitch might not know that place.’

  ‘We don’t have leaks. I vet our senior soldiers myself.’

  ‘THEN HOW—’

  ‘It must be Moe’s woman. He and Dime knew everything. That fool must have told her something in bed.’

  ‘WHY HAVEN’T YOU FOUND HER BY NOW?’

  ‘She’s disappeared, boss.’

  Covarra moved so fast that Salazar was caught unaware. The Street Front boss grabbed his friend by his shirt, whipped out a knife from his pocket and thrust it at his chin.

  ‘Fuse, how long have we been friends?’

  ‘Since childhood, Snake,’ the deputy gasped.

  ‘What do I keep telling you?’

  ‘That you won’t hesitate to kill me if I let you down.’

  ‘Then, don’t.’ He shoved Salazar away roughly. ‘Find her. Bring her to me.’

  ‘I know where he will go.’

  Covarra turned slowly toward the speaker, Ernesto.

  ‘You know?’ he asked softly. ‘How?’

  ‘He tortured me, boss. He made me give up the Forest Avenue place. I think he’ll go there.’

  The gang leader played with his knife as the room went still. He crouched in front of the banger as the man licked his lips.

  ‘You told him?’

  ‘I tried to resist, boss,’ Ernesto stammered. ‘That’s how I got these wounds.’

  ‘There were four of you in that house. All of you were armed. He was alone. He attacked you with a knife, not even a gun. Do you know what I do to those who fail me?’

  The hitter broke into a sweat.

  Covarra smiled suddenly and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I won’t kill you, Ernesto. You are the only person who saw him up close.’

  ‘Fuse.’ He got to his feet. ‘How many men do we have at Forest Avenue?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Double them.’

  ‘That house isn’t big enough, boss. That many people will get noticed.’

  ‘Have them on the street, in that case. We want to welcome our friend.’

  * * *

  When he was alone again, Covarra brooded. He felt trapped, his back to the wall. The loss of the fentanyl would hurt. He had negotiated credit terms with the Juarez Cartel, but they still had to be paid. Sure, he could make up for the loss but it would take time, and the Mexican outfit wasn’t known for its understanding.

  His eyes fell on the phone on the night table, the device the rider had thrust at him. His hand reached for it involuntarily, but with immense effort he stopped himself.

  No. He would not give in. He would not call the stranger. He, Francisco ‘Snake’ Covarra, was one of the deadliest men in Los Angeles. Reaching out to that attacker would be a sign of weakness.

  ‘FUSE!’ he roared. ‘Let’s inspect that house,’ he ordered when his friend came running.

  ‘Boyle Heights?’

  ‘No, you fool. The one on Verona. I want to see how that man got inside.’

  ‘Ernesto told us.’

  ‘I. WANT. TO. SEE. WITH. MY. OWN. EYES.’

  * * *

  ‘You’re sure Grogan didn’t leave his Sycamore house?’ Dade asked Matteo after the detective had finished briefing her on the Verona Street attack.

  ‘We had a patrol car watching it all night,’ Cruz replied before his partner could. ‘His Land Cruiser was in the driveway. His phone showed no movement.’

  ‘Did they see him?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Does he have any other vehicles?’

  ‘Not that we have found.’

  She looked out of the window, to the City Hall tower in the distance. Blinding white in the sunlight, standing proud and tall. Atop it was the Lindbergh Beacon, installed in honor of Charles Lindbergh after his solo trans-Atlantic flight. It was lit on special occasions, casting its beam into the night, making the building stand out.

  My city, she thought. Cutter’s turned it into his personal battleground. She was convinced he was carrying out deliberate attacks on the Street Front, but wouldn’t admit it to Matteo and his team. Sure, they thought he was the perp too, but she wasn’t going to throw her weight behind their suspicions. Let them prove it.

  She had spun the incidents to the media as gang warfare and given the same message to the mayor. They bought it—and why wouldn’t they? Bangers wiping out each other was good news for the city. The Beverly Hills case was still open, however, and the press was increasingly questioning the LAPD on the investigation.

  ‘No progress on Vienna McDonald and Arnedra Jones?’ she asked Matteo, though she knew the answer.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘What about those killings in Boyle Heights? Those hitters were Street Front thugs, weren’t they?’

  ‘We found nothing there, ma’am. No prints, no casings, no DNA. Rumor on the street is it was either an Armenian Bros hit or some other rival gang.’

  ‘Why hasn’t Street Front retaliated, if that’s the case?’

  ‘Covarra’s occupied with this rider.’

  ‘I hope there will come a day when you bring me some good news, Vance,’ she said bitingly and dismissed him and his team.

  Stay, she made a discreet gesture to Quindica and
Difiore, when they made to rise as well.

  ‘Do you have anything good?’ she demanded when they were alone.

  ‘Depends on what you mean by that,’ the FBI SAC said cautiously. ‘If you mean, have we got proof that some of your cops are white nationalists, nope.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But we’ve detected a pattern,’ Difiore chimed in. She turned on her screen and presented it to the police chief. ‘We compared the gang arrests for the last five years, and the findings are interesting. Hispanic, black, white, Armenian gangs, we looked at them all. All of their bangers, lieutenants, and in many cases their shot-callers, were arrested.’

  ‘What am I looking at here?’ Dade frowned at the colored graphs.

  ‘The seniority of those captured. White gangs had the least number of shot-callers arrested. Most of those taken in were low-level soldiers.’

  The police chief blinked as she took it in. ‘It’s sketchy,’ she said finally. ‘There could be any number of reasons why that data is what it is.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why we haven’t come to any conclusion. We’re digging into it.’

  ‘What does your gut say?’ she asked when the detective shut down her screen.

  ‘You have rogue cops. Either acting independently or in a gang.’

  Dade played with a glass paperweight on her desk, glanced at her watch and took a phone out of her purse.

  ‘Meet me at the usual,’ she commanded.

  ‘Come,’ she said as she got to her feet and beckoned to her visitors.

  ‘Where to?’

  The police chief didn’t say anything until they were in the elevator, just the three of them.

  ‘I’ve got my own rogue cop.’

  35

  Difiore looked at Quindica, who shrugged when Dade didn’t say another word.

  They followed the police chief out of the headquarters and down First Street. A brisk walk two blocks down to the Japanese Village Plaza, a shopping mall.

  It was crowded with visitors, and their slow going was compounded by Dade’s window-shopping.

  The NYPD detective frowned at the chief’s behavior. That’s so unlike her. She doesn’t go to malls during her working hours.

  She was about to ask a question when realization struck.

  She’s checking for tails!

  She turned to her partner, who smirked at her. ‘I figured it out a while ago. You’re slow on the uptake.’

  ‘Smartass,’ Difiore hissed and put on her game face when Dade looked at them inscrutably.

  They went down narrow alleys, checked out bonsai stores and Japanese sweets, until the chief took them to a tea shop and sat at a table.

  Difiore ordered a matcha soft-serve ice cream while the chief and Quindica went for the green tea. ‘I need my calories,’ she defended herself when they looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Why are we here, Chief?’ she asked when their orders arrived. ‘Why the secrecy?’

  She frowned when Dade looked over at a neighboring table, at a man who was sipping his beverage by himself.

  ‘Join us.’

  The stranger bobbed his head at them and dragged his chair over.

  ‘This is Matt Lasko,’ she introduced him. ‘LAPD’s worst detective. He’s been on several disciplinary charges, has been suspended a couple of times, reinstated when Internal Affairs cleared him. He’s been accused of being a racist, a white supremacist … the list goes on. He’s my undercover cop.’

  Difiore studied the man curiously. Blond hair in a buzz cut. He was in plain clothes, a short-sleeved blue shirt loose over his jeans. Tattoos on his forearms that he didn’t have to conceal, since he seemed to be off-duty.

  ‘Matt was a deputy in the LASD,’ Dade explained. ‘Not just that …’ She trailed off and jerked her shoulder at Lasko. ‘Why don’t you take over?’

  ‘I was with the Blue Brothers,’ the cop declared. A small smile tugged his lips at the shock on Difiore and Quindica’s faces. ‘I went with that deputy gang, even committed some crimes, but all along, I was feeding information to Matteo.’

  ‘You were responsible for busting that gang?’ the detective exclaimed.

  ‘Nope, that was him. My information helped, but he had other sources, evidence. The credit’s all his.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Your name wasn’t mentioned in any of the press releases or investigation reports. She and I,’ Difiore said, nodding at Quindica, ‘we went through all the files—’

  ‘That was at my request.’

  Difiore looked at him and then at Dade. ‘I’m lost.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Quindica chimed in.

  Lasko looked at the police chief, who smiled and squeezed his forearm gently.

  That’s … affectionate! Difiore straightened in surprise. What’s their relationship?

  ‘Matt is my godson. His mom, Nancy, and I were good friends. We met in college, stayed in touch over the years. She and Doug, her husband, settled in Dallas. I was there for his christening.’

  ‘My folks were racists,’ Lasko said bluntly. His blue eyes lingered on Difiore and Quindica, to assess their reaction. ‘They were hostile to immigrants, anyone who wasn’t white. I grew up in that kind of environment and ended up believing all that …’ He swallowed a swear word and grinned. ‘I spent a couple of summers with Lisa when I was in my late teens. She helped me work out how wrong I was. I moved to LA, did odd jobs, and then joined the LASD. Reached out to her when I found out about the Blue Brothers. She asked me to come forward with evidence. I told her I could do better by joining them. I heard rumors of Matteo’s investigation. I started feeding him information.’

  ‘How come you weren’t arrested?’

  ‘That was her doing.’ Lasko pointed a drinking straw at Dade. ‘My involvement with that gang isn’t on record anywhere.’

  ‘I used my juice.’ The chief shrugged. ‘I kept his name out and got him to join the LAPD. He’s a good cop. He’s become a detective on his own merit.’

  ‘Those suspensions, those disciplinary charges, they’re all an act!’

  ‘The behavior is an act, sure.’ Lasko grinned. ‘But the repercussions are real.’

  ‘I bounced him from department to department, hoping he could find LAPD’s equivalent of the Blue Brothers.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Matteo—’

  ‘Yeah, how did that happen? If the chief says you’re the worst detective, how did you end up on his team?’

  ‘He found out who I was. There was one call I made to him where I didn’t disguise my voice. He placed me from that.’

  ‘One tape was all it took for him?’

  ‘Nah! He checked out my background, reached out to deputies in the LASD, those who would still talk to him, questioned me … more like an interrogation.’ He smiled, remembering. ‘I admitted I was his snitch.’

  ‘You said there was no record of your involvement … what about those deputies, however? They know about you.’

  ‘They won’t talk. No one wants any association with the Blue Brothers. They only spoke to Matteo because he promised them confidentiality.’

  ‘Does he know about you and the chief?’

  ‘Nope. Nor does he know I was her inside person as I went from department to department. I played up my folks’ background. Hinted that I was into that ideology.’

  ‘You’re close to them? Your folks?’

  ‘They died several years ago. Car crash. A semi plowed into them when they were on the highway. Multiple-vehicle collision.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be. It was a long time ago. We had drifted apart by then.’

  ‘What have you found? In the department?’ Quindica finished her green tea and placed the cup back on the table.

  ‘No proof of any outfit like that deputies gang.’

  Difiore narrowed her eyes at his choice of words. ‘No proof?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure such gangs, or at least rogue officers, exist. They’re smart, however, which is why I h
aven’t picked up anything. Sure, there’s locker room talk, but I’ve got no evidence. Nothing actionable that I can take to the chief.’

  ‘These two,’ Dade said, nodding at Difiore and Quindica, ‘have a theory.’

  Lasko nodded when the detective broke it down for him. ‘It doesn’t surprise me. A police department the size of the LAPD is bound to have corrupt officers. All we’ve got to do is keep digging.’

  * * *

  ‘You didn’t introduce us,’ Difiore asked Dade on their return.

  ‘I’m sure he’s heard of you. The entire department would know by now that there’s an NYPD detective and a Fed who have their own team. They’ll figure out some kind of investigation is under way. I don’t want Matt to be seen in your presence. He reports to me only. I’ll pass on anything he finds.’

  Difiore nodded. It’s better that way. We don’t want to be seen with cops either, unless it’s in formal settings.

  ‘He’s playing a dangerous game.’

  ‘It’s his choice,’ Dade sighed. ‘He’s a great cop. As good as Vance. That act he puts on … he didn’t need to. But he’s got this …’ She searched for words. ‘This drive inside him. As if he wants to make up for his folks’ beliefs, or his own initial thinking.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Quindica exclaimed.

  ‘That’s what I’ve told him. But he’s determined.’ She threw her hands up in exasperation.

  ‘He’s part of Matteo’s task force?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He can help us.’

  ‘That’s what I figured. You’ll have your inside asset. A racist cop working for you.’

  36

  Cutter licked his ice cream as he bobbed to a tune on his headset. He waved his tattooed arms and his Hawaiian shirt fluttered in the breeze as he sang aloud in Salazar Park in full view of passersby and vehicular traffic. His hair was styled with blond streaks, and a fashionable beard covered his chin.

  His eyes were watchful behind his shades. The house he had attacked the previous night was just across the street. Police tape around it, cruisers parked on Dittmar as well as Verona. A few white-coated technicians leaned against a van and ate their lunches hastily.