Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  ‘You’ve met Vance,’ she said, smiling at them. ‘He’s our best detective. He’ll find who is responsible for burning that house. He’ll—’

  ‘That place deserved to be destroyed,’ Emily Curiel interrupted her fiercely. ‘It was used by that gang. Entire neighborhood knew about it. What did the cops do? Nothing.’

  ‘Ma’am, you know we can’t act unless we suspect—’

  ‘Jim, you remember when LAPD raided it?’

  ‘Yeah, last year. They arrested a few men, some cop came on TV and said they had cleaned up the neighborhood. But the gang returned as if nothing had happened.’

  This will be tough, Dade sighed internally.

  ‘How are your wounds healing?’

  ‘They’re fine. Superficial cuts,’ Jim Curiel growled. ‘Ma’am, I have to ask, why are you here? We told him everything that happened.’ He jerked his chin at Matteo. ‘We held nothing back.’

  ‘You don’t remember anything else? About that man who shot those two—’

  ‘He saved us.’ Emily Curiel glared at her. ‘He could have run away. There was enough time for him to escape when those thugs broke inside.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Did he say anything that you remember? He’s our prime suspect—’

  ‘He should get a medal for what he did. Cleaned out that place and took out two gangsters.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Difiore came to Dade’s rescue. ‘Did he look like this?’ She showed them Grogan’s photograph on her screen.

  ‘Him! No. We described him to this cop.’ It was the wife’s turn to jerk her head in Matteo’s direction. ‘He was wearing glasses, he had a heavier build. He didn’t have green eyes.’

  ‘Brown or black.’ Jim Curiel nodded his head. ‘Neither of us were in a state to observe him closely.’

  Difiore wasn’t done. She scrolled swiftly on her phone, turned the screen towards the couple and played a video. Ellen Ronning, a prominent TV journalist, interviewing Grogan in New York. ‘Did he sound like this?’

  Emily Curiel’s lips thinned in anger. ‘We told you he didn’t look like this man. Why do you keep showing—’

  ‘Mrs. Curiel,’ Dade interrupted gently. ‘That attacker—’

  ‘He didn’t raise his hand or his gun on us.’

  ‘No,’ Jim Curiel echoed. ‘In fact, he was unarmed when we saw him. He reached for his gun only when those thugs broke in. He rescued us from them.’

  ‘Sir,’ the chief said patiently, ‘he could have been in a disguise. That’s why Detective Difiore is playing that tape. Perhaps you could recognize his voice.’

  The couple listened intently and then shook their heads. ‘He didn’t sound like that. That man’s voice was deeper, harsher,’ the wife said. ‘No, he isn’t that person in the interview.’

  ‘Did he say anything about a vehicle? Where he was going to?’

  ‘He took Jim’s Ford.’

  Matteo leaned forward urgently. ‘Ma’am.’ He addressed them sharply. ‘You didn’t tell us that. You said he went through the back gate.’

  ‘We are old,’ she snapped back. ‘You think our memories are like yours, young man?’

  Dade couldn’t help smiling at Emily Curiel’s stinging reply. She broke into a grin when Jim Curiel winked at her slyly. Her troubles—the mayor demanding hourly updates, the media camped outside the headquarters, the investigations that were going nowhere—suddenly seemed distant. I like them, she thought. What did Gina say about them? Salt of the earth? She’s right.

  ‘The key was hanging there.’ She pointed to a hook near the door to the backyard. ‘He took it, asked where the vehicle was and went away.’

  ‘You remember the license plate, ma’am?’

  Jim Curiel snorted. ‘It’s our car. Of course, we do.’ He recited it to the detective, who made a hurried phone call and put his phone away.

  ‘Where was it parked?’

  ‘On Boulder Street.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘We run out of parking on this street quickly. There are always spaces on Boulder. And no,’ he said firmly when Matteo made to question him again. ‘This man didn’t say where he was going. He didn’t tell us his name. He didn’t leave anything behind.’

  A dog trotted into the room, sniffed the visitors and climbed into Emily Curiel’s lap, its tail wagging furiously.

  ‘We wouldn’t even have known he was passing through our yard if Oscar hadn’t woken us up.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Dade stroked the pet, who licked her palm. ‘Did Oscar attack him?’

  ‘No. He was on a leash. But those thugs—’ Her eyes hardened. ‘One of them kicked him. He deserved to die just for that.’

  * * *

  Difiore led the way out of the Curiels’ house, donned her shades and waited with Quindica while Matteo and the chief thanked the couple.

  ‘That was smart thinking,’ the task force lead complimented her as they headed back to their vehicles, ‘showing them Grogan’s photograph and video.’

  ‘It came to nothing.’

  ‘Investigations are like rolling a boulder uphill.’ He shrugged, waved to the chief and drove away.

  ‘Vance will find the Ford dumped somewhere,’ Dade said after a while, as her driver took them back to the office. ‘Probably burned, and even if isn’t, it will be clean.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Difiore agreed.

  ‘You know.’ The chief turned around to face them. Her eyes were distant, her expression remote. ‘I’ve never had to arrest a friend.’

  She’s referring to Grogan.

  ‘It could be anyone, ma’am,’ Quindica said softly. ‘Another gang attacking the Street Front. Heck, Covarra doesn’t lack enemies.’

  ‘It isn’t anyone. His gang and Armenian Bros have been sniping at each other for years. That’s the most brutal rivalry in town. None of the previous attacks had this kind of precision. They were street brawls, drive-by shootouts, killings in a bar. These attacks,’ she said as her green eyes regained focus, ‘they are military-style. Planned to the smallest detail, executed perfectly. And the gear,’ she paused, laughing mirthlessly, ‘no banger would even think of using such equipment.’

  Difiore squeezed Quindica’s thigh in warning when her partner went to speak. Let her talk.

  ‘But, Cutter, I’ve seen him work. This has his signature. He can disguise his appearance, his voice, he can use ghost weapons … but it’s him.’

  She straightened and pulled out her phone. ‘Vance,’ she ordered the detective, ‘meet me at the office. We’re fifteen minutes away.’

  * * *

  Difiore and Quindica followed her silently when they reached the LAPD headquarters. They took their cue from the chief, who ignored the assembled reporters’ questions and didn’t look at the TV cameras.

  Up through the elevator and to her office, where Matteo, Cruz and Estrada were waiting.

  ‘We found the Ford, ma’am. Burned out, in a parking lot in West Hollywood. Forensics team is going over it right now, but I’m not hopeful.’

  Difiore watched the chief straighten files on her desk. Adjusted a paperweight and placed it neatly on a stack of papers.

  ‘Where’s Grogan?’ Her eyes were flinty when she raised them.

  ‘He’s gone, ma’am. He’s not at the two addresses we have for him. He’s not answering his phone. It shows he’s at the Sycamore place, but its empty.’

  He exhaled softly. ‘He’s gone off the grid, ma’am.’

  ‘What progress have you made with your investigations?’ Dade fired at Difiore and Quindica.

  ‘Not much,’ the FBI SAC answered. ‘Matteo’s helping us, but still—’

  ‘You two know Grogan better than anyone else in this room, in LA in fact.’

  Difiore sensed it from the chief’s tight face. Her guts tightened when she heard her next words.

  ‘Stop your work for now. You can return to it later. Find Grogan. Bring him in for questioning.’

  48

  Covarra brooded over Sala
zar’s suggestion. He snapped at his protective detail over every minor irritant. He got the Forest Avenue guards to line up again, raged at them and killed one more sentry.

  That didn’t pacify him.

  He pictured Panig Janikyan smirking at his troubles, and that made him furious.

  ‘I told you what you should do.’

  His deputy appeared in the evening, and only then did Covarra relent. He went to his bedroom and brought out the phone the attacker had given him.

  ‘There’s no bug in it. We checked,’ Salazar said when he fingered it suspiciously.

  The Street Front boss brought up the solitary number stored in it and, after a few moments, called it.

  * * *

  Cutter was half-asleep in the Tahoe when the phone buzzed.

  He was parked on the Via de Las Olas, a curving strip of road in Pacific Palisades. It fronted the ocean, where steep cliffs gave way to the coastal highway down below.

  There were a few other cars, most of them empty, their occupants out for a walk or taking in the natural scenery.

  He jerked awake and reached for his cell. Nope, that wasn’t the one that was buzzing. Alertness flooded him when he brought out the burner and checked the incoming call.

  Covarra!

  ‘Talk,’ he ordered.

  The Street Front boss started with a string of curses.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  He could hear the gang leader’s harsh breathing as he fought to control himself.

  ‘You don’t know who you’re tangling with,’ Covarra whispered. ‘My people are everywhere. They will find you. They will bring you to me. I’ll—’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  No reply.

  ‘Do you know where I am?’

  ‘Wherever you are—’

  ‘You don’t. You know nothing about me, but I know everything about you. Fear me.’

  Cutter hung up, pushed his seat back and went to sleep.

  * * *

  ‘Puto!’ Covarra swore and threw the phone against the wall. It bounced and fell to the floor in pieces.

  ‘What have you done?’ Salazar ground at him and hurried to pick up the pieces. ‘It’s destroyed,’ he said bitterly. ‘Luis!’ he called out to a guard. ‘Get me a burner phone,’ he ordered when the man appeared. The sentry disappeared and returned with a device that he handed over. The deputy removed its battery, replaced the SIM card with the one from the destroyed phone, and held his breath. ‘The number works,’ he said, with satisfaction.

  He turned to his friend and waggled his finger in remonstration. ‘You’re letting your anger dictate to you. That man is playing with—’

  ‘I’LL KILL HIM.’

  ‘Do that. But first, we need to find him.’

  ‘I WON’T CALL HIM AGAIN. IT WAS YOUR IDEA. DID YOU HEAR HOW HE SPOKE TO ME?’

  ‘He was right. We know nothing of him. Our men have been searching for almost ten days. Have we found him? No.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Covarra snarled. ‘You want me to ignore him? Do you know how weak that will make us look?’

  ‘No. I am saying bring him to us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By agreeing to meet. Tell him you are ready to talk, answer whatever questions he has.’

  ‘We’ll set a trap for him.’ The gang leader’s eyes lit up wickedly. He rubbed his hands unconsciously. ‘We’ll capture him when he arrives. Why didn’t you suggest this before?’

  ‘You were too angry to listen.’

  ‘I won’t call him right away. That will only make me look weak. Fuse,’ Covarra commanded his friend, ‘find a place where we can meet. Somewhere secure.’

  His lips curled in anticipation at the thought of capturing the attacker. Oh, the things he would do to the man.

  49

  Matt Lasko went to the massage parlor on Hollywood Boulevard, removed his shirt and lay down on the mattress, facedown.

  He winced when the masseuse rubbed oil on his back and dug her fingers deep. He closed his eyes and drifted off as the woman pressed and ground her fingers and the heels of her palms until his body felt loose and ready. She tapped him on the shoulder when she had finished and left the room.

  Only then did he get up and look at the man in the other bed.

  ‘Cesar,’ he greeted the bearded man, who was buttoning his shirt.

  Lasko unpeeled several bills from his wallet and handed them over to the customer, who slipped them into his pocket.

  ‘Tell me something useful.’

  ‘You know about that attack in Boyle Heights?’

  ‘Yeah. Who was behind it?’

  ‘It’s that bike rider who hit the boss’s house on Hubbard Street.’

  ‘You’re sure of that? What I heard, no one knows who that man is.’

  ‘Who else would it be? He seems to have a thing for Snake.’

  ‘Does Covarra know who it might be?’

  ‘No. He and Fuse have every street soldier trying to find out.’

  Lasko studied Cesar as he pulled on his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. The man, a Street Front shooter, was an informant he had cultivated from his LASD days. The parlor was one of several of their meeting places.

  * * *

  He had found the banger in an alley, shot up and unable to move. The man had clutched his arm when he was about to radio for help. ‘Help me,’ Cesar had gasped, recognizing his uniform. ‘And I’ll help you. No cops.’

  ‘I am a cop,’ Lasko had told him.

  ‘Take me to East LA, and I’ll owe you.’ The thug had given him an address.

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Because of who I am.’

  It turned out that Cesar was high up in the Street Front, a leader who ran his own cell in Central LA. He had been a loyal banger until Covarra had come across his sister in Juarez, smuggled her back to LA and installed her as his mistress.

  The relationship didn’t last long. He accused her of sleeping with other men and had her killed. That turned Cesar against him.

  ‘I killed one of the men who shot her,’ he panted that night. ‘But his round got me.’

  ‘Won’t Covarra suspect you were the shooter?’

  ‘No. I was masked, and anyhow, he thinks I’m down with what happened to my sister.’

  Lasko acted instinctively. He took the thug to an address, where a Hispanic doctor operated on the injured man and removed the slug from his body.

  Cesar recovered, and from then on fed Lasko vital intelligence whenever he could.

  * * *

  ‘There’s something happening, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t know. Fuse has asked us to stay close. Stop doing business for a while.’

  Lasko looked at him sharply. For a gang to stop selling product … that had to be serious.

  ‘No, don’t look at me like that. I don’t know anything more.’

  ‘Something to do with this attacker?’

  ‘Si, si. We’re talking about nothing else these days. I think Snake is setting a trap for him.’

  * * *

  Lasko hurried back to the LAPD HQ and tapped on the glass door to an office. He went inside when Matteo waved him in.

  ‘That’s NYPD Detective Difiore and FBI Special Agent in Charge Quindica,’ the lead detective said, introducing the women to him. ‘They’ve been working with the chief on some assignment.’

  ‘I saw them in the boss’s office yesterday.’ Lasko nodded his head in greeting. ‘You remember I told you about a snitch in the Street Front?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Matteo brought out a fresh toothpick and inserted it into his mouth. ‘He hasn’t given us any great intel.’

  ‘That might change.’ The younger detective grinned and relayed what Cesar had told him.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ Cruz grunted in disgust.

  ‘The gang’s stopped dealing,’ Matteo corrected him. ‘I wouldn’t call that insignificant. Stay on top of it and let u
s know what he comes back with.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you the best part—’

  ‘Does the gang suspect who this dude is?’ Estrada interrupted him.

  ‘Nope.’ His eyes flashed in excitement as he addressed the room. ‘Covarra’s setting a trap for him.’

  50

  Difiore waited until Lasko had left and turned to Matteo, who, at a warning look from her, dismissed Cruz and Estrada as well.

  She got an imperceptible nod from Quindica when it was just the three of them in the office and suppressed a smile. That’s how she works. She lets me do the talking.

  ‘Dade’s told us to suspend the task force temporarily, but we have too big a team for that. Let it continue its work. Peyton and I will focus on Grogan.’

  ‘Works for me,’ Matteo agreed. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Access to your ALPR and traffic camera network.’

  The Automated License Plate Reader was a system of streetlight pole-mounted cameras and patrol car cameras that collected license plates of passing vehicles and stored them in a secure database. The technology could track a vehicle’s movement over time, compare traffic to a list of stolen cars and those involved in criminal acts, and then alert officers.

  The system’s use was mired in controversy. Privacy and media bodies accused the police department of misusing the data, but the technology was there to stay.

  ‘Done,’ Matteo assented. ‘Let’s get him before he does anything worse.’

  ‘Worse than burning a house in a residential neighborhood?’ Quindica cracked.

  ‘You know him better than me. What do you think he’s capable of?’

  ‘Grogan can pull off anything,’ Difiore said soberly.

  * * *

  Cutter figured every cop would be looking for him. It was time to get off the grid, which wasn’t difficult for someone with his skills. He had a sufficient stock of burner phones. He had cloned his primary cell phone, which he had hidden in the Sycamore house, and had set up a system that allowed him to receive its calls on the device he carried.