Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  * * *

  ‘Chief,’ she greeted the LAPD head when they arrived at the scene. Dade nodded wordlessly. Her eyes were narrowed; the skin was drawn tight over her bones.

  ‘He was shot three times.’ She turned to them and, with her back to the rest of the cops, let emotion show in her eyes. ‘He’s critical. Was barely alive when the medics arrived.’ She drew a shuddering breath, got hold of herself and straightened her shoulders. The LAPD boss was back.

  ‘Do they know?’ Difiore bobbed her head at Matteo, Cruz and Estrada, who were some distance away, conferring with cops.

  ‘About my relationship with Lasko? No.’

  ‘Who were the shooters?’ Quindica checked out the warehouse, walked down the intersection of Rio and Jesse, squinted both ways and returned.

  ‘Street Front, possibly, but this part of the city, at this time of the night, was deserted. No witnesses. Vance’s got his task force checking out public cameras and also those mounted on buildings. We’ll know more in the morning.’

  ‘What was Lasko doing here?’

  ‘He was chasing down a lead.’ Matteo came over, wooden-faced. Only the rapid rolling of the toothpick in his mouth indicated his anger. ‘He has a snitch in the gang. He called me in the evening and told me he had received word that something was going down. He was going to check it out and alert us.’

  ‘Going down? What? A drug deal?’ Quindica asked sharply.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ the detective said, shrugging. ‘He didn’t say. I was busy with Cruz and Estrada, chasing down another lead. I should have told him to take backup. I thought nothing about it when he didn’t call. I should’ve …’ he trailed off bitterly when Dade squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘He and I were in the LASD. However, I found out only recently that he was one of my informers in the Blue Brothers. I cut him a lot of slack. I figured if he could survive dirty cops, he could handle himself. I should have got more cops to go with—’

  ‘Stop!’ the LAPD chief told him firmly. ‘There’s no point beating yourself up.’

  Matteo raised his head when a shout came to them. He hurried to where a group of cops and technicians was bunched around a pickup truck.

  ‘What is it?’ Difiore breathed out when she, Quindica and Dade joined him.

  ‘We found a gun,’ said the detective, whose eyes glittered when he addressed them. ‘It was beneath that vehicle. A Glock.’

  62

  Difiore sensed the undercurrent of tension when she and Quindica entered Dade’s office. She glanced at the FBI agent, who nodded imperceptibly.

  She felt it too.

  Matteo, Cruz, Estrada, several other officers from the task force, facing the chief.

  ‘Covarra was in that warehouse,’ the lead detective briefed them in a clipped voice when they occupied their seats. ‘We got that from some of our informers. We’ve also got some camera sightings from a neighboring unit. Images are blurry, but there’s no mistaking the gangster as he ran to his ride.’

  ‘What was happening in that place?’ Difiore asked. He and his team must have been up all night. Dade dismissed us around two am, but she, Matteo and the others were still at the scene when we left.

  ‘They must have captured Lasko somehow and brought him inside that warehouse.’ Matteo acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He nodded to one of his officers, who fiddled with his screen and projected a blank screen on the wall.

  ‘That’s the footage from CCTV.’ Matteo grunted as a video began playing.

  Several figures ran out of the warehouse and headed to vehicles.

  ‘That—’ the lead detective used a laser to circle one man when his officer paused the footage, ‘—is Covarra. The man behind him is Salazar.’

  The video resumed to show the bangers’ rides disappearing out of the screen. Just when Difiore thought that was all to the footage, a shadow emerged from the warehouse and went out of sight.

  ‘Male,’ Matteo said, ‘that’s all we could make out. He had his head bent and used the cover of vehicles to conceal himself. We don’t have a good view of him.’

  ‘Didn’t the cameras capture anything of the gangsters’ arrival?’ Quindica asked when the footage ended.

  ‘Nope. Those cameras are programmed to swivel periodically and cover the front and side yards of their unit. They must have been facing a different direction when the bangers, Lasko or that mystery man came.’

  He uncapped a water bottle and drank deeply. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and resumed his briefing.

  ‘Lasko was found with a jacket draped over him. Technicians are still working on DNA traces, but it doesn’t look like there are any. The wearer was probably wearing gloves. We played around with the timeline,’ he continued. ‘It looks like Mystery Man was the one who called 911. He seemed to be the last person in the warehouse, with Lasko.’

  A man’s voice came on when the officer played an audio clip.

  ‘A COP’S BEEN SHOT ON RIO STREET. HE’S IN CRITICAL CONDITION. HURRY.’

  Difiore looked at Quindica, who shrugged. It wasn’t a voice they recognized. She turned to Matteo and was struck by his body language.

  He knows something.

  ‘That Glock we found,’ the cop paused dramatically, ‘was fired into Lasko. Our lab’s been up all night, our technicians liaised with the hospital … there’s no doubt. Whoever pulled the trigger, shot our detective with that weapon.’

  ‘Any suspicions who that shooter is?’ Dade asked tautly.

  ‘No suspicions, ma’am. We know who it is. The Glock had prints on it that we traced easily. It was Cutter Grogan.’

  63

  ‘WHAT?’ Difiore couldn’t control her shout.

  She felt Quindica’s nails dig into her thigh and got hold of herself. She swallowed and put on her game face. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Matteo looked at her impassively. ‘His prints are in the system. The Glock had a clear set on it. There’s no doubt. On top of that, the 911 caller, we ran audio recognition software on it. That was Grogan. He disguised it; that’s why none of us could place it when we heard him.’

  ‘He shot Lasko and then called for help?’ Difiore asked in disbelief.

  ‘Looks like it. If I was a betting man, I would say that jacket on Lasko is his, too.’

  ‘Tell them about that, too,’ Cruz reminded the senior detective.

  ‘Tell us what?’ Dade questioned Matteo sharply.

  ‘Ma’am, that jacket had traces of C4 on its inside.’

  A murmur of voices swept through the room and died away when Dade raised her hand.

  The police chief’s voice was controlled when she addressed Matteo. ‘Find Grogan and arrest him.’ She dismissed the meeting with a shake of her head and indicated with her eyes for Difiore and Quindica to stay back.

  * * *

  ‘Do you believe it?’ she asked when they were alone.

  Her eyes were bottomless pools of unreadable emotion when Difiore looked at her. Did her voice tremble just then?

  ‘That the Glock fired into Lasko, yes, ma’am. That Cutter shot him …’ She laughed scornfully. ‘Cutter Grogan is a vigilante. He doesn’t play by the rules. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to send his ass to jail—’

  ‘Spoken like a friend.’ Dade’s smile had no humor in it.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Difiore said quietly, taking no offense at the chief’s interruption. I know how I come across, as if I hate Cutter. ‘There’s nothing Peyton or I wouldn’t do to help him if he was in trouble. Cutter shooting a cop? No. He didn’t do it. There has to be another explanation. Lasko—’

  ‘Isn’t in any condition to talk. He was operated on last night, but remains intubated. He’s living on machines,’ Dade said bitterly.

  ‘You believe it?’ Quindica asked her cautiously. ‘That Cutter shot him?’

  ‘No.’ The chief shook her head firmly. ‘But we can’t look past the evidence, and I can’t grant him any favors.’ She squar
ed her shoulders and gave them a steely look. ‘Go, get him. Help Vance arrest him.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Difiore got to her feet and hesitated. ‘That C4, ma’am …’

  ‘I know.’ The chief rubbed her eyes wearily. ‘I don’t know what he’s gotten himself into. Cutter has a gift for getting out of tight spots. I don’t know how he can extricate himself this time.’

  * * *

  It was eleven am when Cutter woke up from his dreamless sleep. He lay on the bed for several moments as the events of the night returned to him.

  His body still ached, still felt as if a champion boxer had used it as a punching bag.

  That’s just what happened, he snorted grimly. He didn’t know how many bangers had hit him. I bet all of them in that room took a hand.

  He got up gingerly and took a few steps. He didn’t black out. He washed his face and showered carefully, and after filling his empty belly with a cold breakfast, felt human.

  It was time to address what had happened the previous night and work out his next moves.

  He went to the TV and turned it on to find that Lasko was in the hospital—still alive, but barely. The host said Cutter Grogan, New York resident, was wanted in connection with the shooting of the cop.

  They found the Glock!

  The journalist went into his background, why he had been in the city, said that the cops were also hunting for Covarra and speculated that Cutter had some kind of showdown with the Street Front and had shot Lasko. He turned off the screen when a talking head came on the air and offered more theories.

  There was nothing he could do about the arrest warrant. Only the Street Front bangers or Lasko could clear him; the former wouldn’t want to, and the latter couldn’t.

  Deal with it, he told himself bleakly.

  He dealt with it by pushing it to the back of his mind.

  What about Covarra? He said he didn’t kill Arnedra and Vienna. Can I believe him?

  Cutter closed his eyes and recollected the gang leader’s face. The hate in it as he stood in front of his captive.

  He was angry. He was surprised when I asked him on Sadler Avenue, too. He meant it.

  He swore loudly in the house as his frustration surfaced. I’ve been in LA just over two weeks and I’ve got nothing to show for it.

  If Street Front didn’t kill them, who did? Can’t be the Armenians. Covarra said his men chased those gangsters away. And Arnedra and Vienna weren’t around during their shootout. He didn’t mention their presence.

  I’ve been going after the wrong suspects all along.

  64

  Zeb Carter looked up when Beth and Meghan joined him on the Malibu hotel’s manicured lawn.

  ‘You know about Cutter,’ the younger twin stated flatly as her eyes flickered over the newspaper he had been reading.

  ‘Nothing else on TV but him and that cop’s shooting. Has he made contact?’

  ‘Nope.’ Meghan shook her head. ‘He called us two days ago, wanted GPS trackers. We arranged those for him, along with a portable cell tower.’

  ‘He knows we’re in town?’

  ‘He thinks we’re in New York.’

  He sipped his tea and placed the cup back in its elegant saucer.

  They had needed to get away from their home city, to decompress after their last mission. LA had been an easy choice to make. It would place them close to Cutter, whom they could help if he needed it.

  The Fixer wasn’t with the Agency. However, he was a very close friend and there had been more than one occasion when they had rescued him from tight spots. Not that he knows about our intervention, Zeb thought while smiling absently.

  His mirth faded when the newspaper headlines caught his eye.

  ‘Any news?’ he asked the sisters, who caught on immediately.

  ‘Lasko’s in the same condition,’ Beth answered. ‘Unable to talk, unable to clear Cutter.’

  That their friend had shot the cop wasn’t something they had even needed to debate. They knew him very well, were confident he hadn’t done it.

  ‘Where’s he right now?’

  ‘He’s gone off the grid.’

  ‘Stay close to your phones. He’ll—’

  Beth’s phone buzzed. Her eyes widened when she picked it up and turned the screen to them. ‘Someone calling from Romania,’ she murmured. ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Cutter,’ she said, putting the call on speaker, ‘how’s the fugitive life treating you?’

  * * *

  Cutter couldn’t help grinning.

  He was wanted by the cops. Street Front bangers would be searching for him. His body was a mass of bruises and hurt, yet Beth’s voice cheered him up.

  ‘I take it you heard,’ he replied drily.

  ‘You’re hard to ignore when every TV channel is showing your photograph and narrating your backstory.’

  ‘Cutter, what went down?’

  That’s Zeb. Looks like he’s with the twins.

  ‘So, it’s not Covarra?’ Meghan broke the silence when he finished briefing them.

  ‘Nope. Which is why I called. Can you check if LAPD has made any progress on their investigation?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  He heard keys clacking, the soft murmur of the sisters talking to each other.

  ‘Still the same,’ the elder twin announced. ‘Street Front’s the main suspect. Nothing much has changed. Oh, yeah, they found Vienna’s car, burned, in a parking lot in Laguna Beach. They don’t know how it got there. No prints, no blood, no DNA, nothing recoverable from it. That’s the most recent update. We’ll message you if they’ve made any progress.’

  He thanked them and hung up before they could offer any help.

  He searched the house and found a notepad in a drawer. Drew a timeline on it.

  Vienna and Arnedra’s phones’ last ping to the cell towers.

  Reports of a shooting in the Beverly Hills house.

  Their vehicles fleeing.

  Time of death.

  If they weren’t in the house during the bangers’ shootout, where were they?

  Who killed them?

  He had to start his investigation all over again, with fresh eyes.

  And, stay alive and evade arrest as well.

  65

  Cutter was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when he heard a dog bark loudly. He paid it no attention initially. Probably a neighbor’s animal.

  It barked again, accompanied by a startled exclamation.

  He peered through the window that overlooked the backyard. The rental property was on the corner of Gavina Avenue and Tibbetts Street in Sylmar, the northernmost neighborhood of the city. Situated in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, the sparsely populated community was once home to olive farms, which had given way to residential construction. It was a popular destination for hikers and horse riders.

  There!

  He could see past the wooden fence into the neighbor’s driveway, where an elderly man faced the avenue. The owner shushed his dog when it barked again and hurried inside his house.

  What was that about?

  Cutter wiped his hands on his jeans and went to the front of the house. He looked out of a side window, from which he could see the street, and spotted a helmeted, uniformed figure cautiously coming up the street.

  Cops!

  He moved even before his brain had translated what his eyes had seen.

  He grabbed his backpack and swept the contents of the table into it. Zipped it up and slung it over his back. Picked up the gym bag that contained his weapons and his jacket, and ran to the bedroom. Checked that there was nothing in it and then broke out of the rear door and into the yard. Hurled himself over the fence just as he heard shouts from the front of the house.

  Cutter landed on the rear neighbor’s driveway. Sensed movement to his right and saw two cops less than ten feet away.

  Their weapons were rising when he flung the gym bag at them and followed with a dive. One of them got out a startled yell before the hea
vy bag hit him and then Cutter was on them, lying bodily across them, smashing their helmets on the ground.

  Can’t kill them, can’t shoot them.

  He got to his feet, picked up the bag and raced toward the neighbor’s garage. Darted into the narrow passage alongside it and toward another fence. He scaled it and ran into another backyard.

  They’ll trap me in this neighborhood. Not many homes here.

  He ran between houses and saw a few startled faces when he leapt over fences and hedges as he heard the growing clamor of shouting and sirens wailing on Gavina Avenue.

  Sweat was pouring from him when he reached Graber Avenue. Smack in front of an approaching patrol car, which swerved to a squealing stop.

  Cutter didn’t pause, didn’t slow, didn’t take time to think.

  He yanked the driver’s door open, grabbed the cop behind the wheel and sent him sprawling into the street.

  ‘KEEP OFF THAT RADIO,’ he yelled to the second cop in the passenger seat as he threw his gym bag in the rear, half-seated himself, floored the gas and U-turned wickedly, narrowly missing the officer on the ground.

  ‘GET OUT,’ he told the cop with him.

  He risked a quick glance when the officer didn’t respond.

  He seems to be a rookie. He’s terrified.

  He leaned across to unlock the door and flung it open. ‘ROLL WHEN YOU LAND! IT’LL HURT LESS,’ he yelled as he pushed the cop out unceremoniously and sped away.

  He hung an immediate right on Rajah Street and then on Tucker Avenue, searched desperately for an empty driveway, uttered a prayer when he found a deep one.

  He drove into it, parked and switched off the engine. Climbed out, grabbed his gym bag and ran to the end of the street, where a white fence separated the neighborhood from the rocky wildness beyond.

  Dense chaparral to his left, several yards away, and in the distance the looming foothills.