And without fail, no matter how good they are at their job, at some point they are forced to sit down across from them and answer for their actions.
Whatever they may be.
For Jensen Spiers, that boss is Captain Wade Lucille.
Lucy to most anybody that has known him for more than a few days, he is a lifer in the Drug and Narcotic Unit, a man that started out working the beat and quickly found his niche. Regarded by many in the city to be a subject matter expert, he was never given any reason to transition, ascending to his current rank in record time.
If not for his absolute refusal to move downtown — which he has now done twice and counting — his climb would still be going.
And not a single person could claim his racial status had a thing to do with it.
Arms folded, he now stands beside Jensen Spiers’s sedan outside The Sundowner. Long and lanky, he is dressed in slacks and a polo, running shoes on his feet. His hair has receded into a widow’s peak and has a spot peaking through at the crown, his general look reminding Spiers of Samuel L. Jackson around the time he appeared in Patriot Games.
Leaning back against the sedan, Lucy stares up to the second floor, the place still abuzz with criminalists. Dressed in white paper suits, they move in and out of the room, stanchion lights setting it aglow from within.
“Good God, what a mess,” he mutters.
Matching the pose, Spiers is in no mood for a lecture. Already, he can feel the morphine from earlier wearing off. His entire face is throbbing. Like the doc predicted, his vision is slightly blurred.
So badly, he wants to go home and crawl in bed and wake up to last Monday.
“Yeah,” Spiers mutters.
“How’s Wilton?” Lucy asks.
“Took two,” Spiers replies. “Lower abdomen and right shoulder. Should make a full recovery, but it’s going to take a hell of a long time.”
Time that neither one of them have. Not right now, and not in the six or eight months it will take for him to teach his body how to be a cop again.
Time that will mean Spiers has to work with someone else.
“Thank God he’s alive,” Lucy answers, repeating the same expected answer that everybody has been saying all afternoon.
Words Spiers is tired of hearing, one more round of it enough to make him scream with rage.
The required pleasantries aside, Lucy glances up to the second floor before glaring sideways at Spiers. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Do I even need to ask what you two dumbasses were doing up here?”
Since the moment he’d come to while lying in the room not fifty feet away, Spiers has been expecting this question. The first of probably many just like it, he’s shaped and massaged the answer as much as he can, hoping it will be enough.
“Got a tip from a CI this morning,” Spiers replies. “Low-level pusher I know that said one of his guys brought a date here for some extracurriculars last night. Said they came up the stairs and walked past, looked like something out of Scarface going on in there.”
“And you believed it?” Lucy asks.
Letting a beat pass, long enough that his boss picks up the fact that he doesn’t appreciate the accusatory tone being lobbed his way, Spiers says, “Wasn’t sure. Guy’s been pretty good, but like I said, this wasn’t eyes on. He was passing secondhand info, thought we might be interested.
“Didn’t want to get a damn SWAT team together for what might be nothing, so I called Wilton and we rolled up.”
It was thin, but far from the worst explanation Spiers had ever given. A hell of a long way from the sorriest he’d ever heard.
If years on the force had imparted anything, it was the importance of instincts.
The last ten months had proven how willing other cops were to let things slide when they thought he was acting on them.
“So we get here, front desk girl says she hasn’t seen anything, but it’s been grand central up there. People coming and going for two days straight.
“We walk up, knock and announce, all hell breaks loose.”
The last part was a pretty big jump from reality — especially his interaction with the girl at the desk — made possible only by the fact that there are no cameras on the grounds of The Sundowner.
With good reason, no doubt.
Shooting a quick glance up to the room, Lucy shakes his head. Using his backside, he pushes himself away from the car and takes a few steps out before turning to face Spiers, hands on his hips.
“And so far, no drugs or money?”
Matching the man’s glare, Spiers shakes his head. “Not a thing.”
Exhaling loudly, Lucy looks away, watching the evening traffic roll past. “And two busted cops.”
The sarcasm is plain in his tone, as is the frustration.
Which was something else Spiers had been expecting. For ten solid months, nobody had minded while his team was making headlines for bringing in huge scores of product and cash.
Now that one had turned out in the negative, things were already starting to trend south.
“Look,” Spiers says, wanting the conversation to be over, for the captain to go away so he can get back to doing what he needs to, “I don’t know what was going on up there. I do know the minute we announced and attempted to enter, we were swarmed.
“We’re both lucky we’re not dead.”
Leaving it there, Spiers falls silent. He’s officially played the biggest trump card he has for times such as this, the mere mention of a dead cop being enough to stop even the most ardent of accusations.
Not his favorite move to make, and one he’d rather hoped to save until at least after his first years running the SID, but he doesn’t have a choice.
Desperate times or some such bullshit.
Letting out another sigh, Lucy keeps his gaze turned toward the road. A faint breeze kicks up, ruffling the collar of his shirt, bringing a whiff of fried food with it.
“You got anything yet?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The back door to the Explorer is already open as I step out of Shag’s shop. Since going inside, the sun has all but disappeared from the sky, just the faintest glow persisting to the west. With its setting, the temperature has dropped a half-dozen degrees, promising more to come.
Beneath the open door I can see a pair of polished boots and the lower leg on a pair of black cargo pants.
Nothing more. Not that I need to.
Letting the door to the cabin swing shut behind me, I take two steps out onto the sand and stop. Crossing my arms, I wait as Mikey pulls back from the interior of the Explorer and swings the door shut. Looking my way, a faint grin crosses his face, disappearing as fast as it arrived.
“Did you have a damn shootout inside the car?”
I know he is here doing me yet another solid, though I’ve heard enough of his attempts at humor in the last twenty-four hours. I haven’t missed them the last three years, and I definitely won’t miss them as soon as this is over and he’s out of my life again.
Instead of saying any of that, I merely remain silent.
“Looks like Beirut in there,” he says, taking a step forward and folding his arms. Making no effort to hide the once-over he gives me, his gaze stops at my eyes. “You good?”
Earlier today, I went after two grown men and the only mark on me is the black eye I got from giving Rosales a free shot in the ring last night.
“The blood isn’t mine.”
Bending at the waist, Mikey looks to the shed. “She all right?”
For a moment, I want to protest how he even knows about her. I want to tell him that’s none of his damn business, to never so much as think about her again.
Much like my earlier remarks about his attempts at humor, the feeling passes quickly.
This is more of an example of my own social shortcomings than his. And it isn’t like he wasn’t the one that took the incoming request from Amy to begin with.
“Doc says he’ll get her fixed up,” I say. “The
re was a struggle between her and some guy when I got there. They tumbled through a cheap-ass nightstand. Thing splintered, damn near impaled her.”
A pair of lines pull slightly near his right eye, the sole sign of a response at all.
“This guy wouldn’t happen to be the cop that was shot and transported to West Covina General today, would he?”
I’m not sure if he’s again goading me, another spike of ire rising internally. Staring at him in silence, I wait for some sort of visual cue. The crack of a smile, a smirk rolling his head back.
None comes.
“No,” I say, which is technically true. Anybody else, and I would leave it there. I wouldn’t want or need to share another detail.
But Mikey mentioning it at all tells me he’s heard chatter. And that means information I can use.
“That was his partner.”
“Hm,” Mikey grunts, nodding slightly.
“How much heat?” I prompt.
“Usual,” Mikey replies. “Last I heard, he pulled through the surgery.”
Of course he did. I was careful to put the bullets in places that would take him out of action today, not permanently.
If that was the goal, both rounds would have gone into his left chest plate. A third would have split his eyes.
Lord knows his steroid-inflated body gave me plenty of big targets.
“You know how everybody gets about these things,” Mikey continues. “Brother-in-arms, justice will be served. Same old shit.”
Same old shit is right. They act as if they haven’t gunned down plenty of people themselves in the last ten years, but one of them takes a round or two and the sky is falling.
Waiting to see if there is anything more I will add, Mikey nods. He hooks a thumb out to the side, motioning toward the dirt track we had driven on to get back here.
“Ramon is out front with a new ride. We’ll take this one, leave the keys above the visor.”
I nod, the expanse of the full-service package managing to surprise me once again.
“I won’t ask where you’re going,” Mikey says, clearly seeing right past the original request to drive to Nowhere, Oklahoma, “but there’s a couple different sets of plates in the back. All clean.”
Pausing, he cracks a quarter smile and adds, “Apparently folks in some places don’t like Californians. Go figure.”
For the first time in I can’t remember how long, I actually allow myself to smile in return.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The house is built in the traditional Spanish villa style. White stucco walls and overlapping red ceramic tiles on the roof. Arched doorways and wrought iron over the windows.
Two stories tall, it stretches almost the entire width of the lot. A multicar garage is attached to the side.
The yard is natural grass, cut short, trimmed out around every tree and the flower beds lining the front. A security light stands at the corner of the front walk, illuminating the driveway and main entrance.
A trio of towering palm trees are spread evenly across the front.
If Hector Lima were to guess, he would imagine a swimming pool out back. A veranda overlooking it. Deck furniture and an oversized grill making it a space for people to hang out.
In total, an idyllic picture of the California dream. The very thing thousands of people arrived in Los Angeles every year hoping to attain.
And damned near none of them actually did.
Especially on a cop’s salary.
“Place looks deserted,” Bocco says. In his usual post, he has parked on the right-hand side of the street, forcing him to look past Lima to the house.
Deserted isn’t necessarily the word Lima would use, though he gets what Bocco is going for. Despite the security light out front, there is not a single sign of life anywhere.
No illumination behind any of the windows. No flickering glow of late-night television. Not even a car sitting in the driveway.
“You think he’s running?” Dwayne asks from the back.
Lima can’t imagine Spiers would be stupid enough for that. He has to know there isn’t a place in the city that he can go that they won’t eventually find him.
And as a cop, it’s not like he can just one day disappear.
Especially not with some of the things he has worked so hard to keep buried.
“Doubtful,” Lima says.
After hustling the two men from beside the playground, Lima had allowed the adrenaline to get the better of him. It had filled him with unbridled confidence, made him feel like coming over and banging on the front door, doing the same thing to Spiers, was a good idea.
Now, sitting out front, taking in the full scope of the neighborhood, he knows better. If his community has people like Consuela Ramirez giving watch, he can only imagine how many folks on this block are tucked inside their homes staring at them right this instant.
A decent bet is that the car tags have already been jotted down. That somebody will be phoning Spiers at any moment, if they haven’t already.
Messing with him, showing up at On Tap to roust him, is one thing.
Drawing unwanted attention from the greater LAPD is quite another.
“How you want to play it?” Bocco asks. “We going in?”
They will but not yet. And not like this.
They will get their point across, but they had to be smart about it.
“Not right now,” Lima says. Turning his attention away from the home, he stares out through the front windshield. Sees there are still a few houses with lights on, not having yet turned in for the night. “I’ve got a better idea first.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pulling up to the man’s driveway hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. He’d merely stood leaning against the side of his truck, as if he were waiting for the mailman to show up with an important package.
Not once did he seem out of sorts when he saw the chunk of wood protruding from Amy’s side. Or when he positioned her on the operating table and proceeded to remove it.
Throughout all of it, he had seemed as calm and even as his background would indicate. Like a man that had been through some of the worst shit the world had to offer. A person that had stood on the field of battle, things blowing up around him, nothing in his hands but medical supplies.
But now, I can see the agitation. I can tell by the red hue of his face. The glow of sweat on his skin.
The way in which he opens and closes drawers, mashing them shut with his thick arms.
Finally finding what he’s after, he grabs out a vial of pills and turns back to me. The item looks tiny in his enormous hand as he holds it up before him, shaking it my way.
“I cannot stress enough how bad an idea it is for you to move her tonight.”
I know it’s a bad idea. Hell, it blows right past bad into being a terrible idea.
But so is staying here. Even with a different car, we are still technically in the greater Los Angeles area. And we’ve got a very pissed-off police force out trolling the streets, looking for the three females that shot one cop and beat the hell out of another.
To say nothing of whatever the reason is for Amy reaching out to me originally.
Her goal in doing so was to get out of California. To steal away, putting distance between herself and her daughter and whatever I walked in on this morning. I have to honor that. I have to respect her wishes and get her away somewhere safe.
And that means getting her out of here under the cover of darkness. It means driving through the night and arriving sometime in the morning, pulling up to the place where they can both be safe.
“I get that,” I say. “This isn’t my idea, it’s hers.”
I thrust a finger toward the glass wall beside me, toward Amy’s form still encased in blankets, a series of monitors hooked to her. Just hours removed from surgery, she hasn’t stirred since we first arrived almost ten hours before.
Based on Shag’s reaction, I’ll be surprised if she does so in the next ten either.
“Look,” I say, letting my hand drop to my side. “I get it, but I’m not the one in charge here. You’ve worked with Mikey before, you know how this stuff goes.
“A client comes in and pays for a very specific service. We provide it. Just like I’m sure things today aren’t your favorite, but Mikey keeps you on retainer for whenever they come up.”
I have no idea if this true, but all evidence points to it being as such.
Nobody willingly keeps a working medical facility in their backyard just for fun.
The pills still clutched before him, Shag extends a finger. His lower jaw sags open, a lecture about to be unleashed. Twice he points, false starting on telling me exactly what he thinks, before letting it go with a sigh.
I’m right. About Mikey and moving her and all of it.
This is a shitty situation. All we can do is make the best of it with the information we have.
“You see these spots of blood on my jeans?” I add. “They’re from a pair of LAPD cops. Guys that had her and her daughter pinned down when I showed up.”
I can feel my eyebrows rise, each word spilling out more than I intend to share but needing to be heard just the same. All day I’ve been holed up in the shed, aching to be on the move again. In the absence of physical activity, my mind has been able to run rampant, thoughts piled up one after another.
All waiting to be unleashed.
“So the sooner I get her away from here, the better. Otherwise, she’s going to have troubles a lot bigger than a punctured kidney.”
Another sigh rolls out of the man as he drops his hand to his side. The color drains from his face, the first hint of defeat visible on his features.
“Keep her as flat as possible,” he says. Gone is the previous vitriol, replaced by a detached cadence, a doctor doling orders to a patient. Rotating the bottle in hand, he thrusts them my way. “Make sure she takes these twice a day until the bottle is gone. They’re antibiotics, will keep infection down.
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