Magnolia Moon

by JoAnn Ross

  “I suppose you figured all those flashing lights and sirens were just a parade?” Hugely ticked off, she slammed her knee into his back, holding him facedown while a pair of uniforms arriving from the other end of the alley grabbed his arms and legs.

  “The guy needs peppering,” said one cop, who had to be a rookie. It was obvious he was having a grand time with all this. Regan was not.

  “We don’t need it.” One absolute truism in police work was that you were always downwind from pepper spray. He’d find that out for himself, but Regan would just as soon not be in the vicinity when it happened. The perp’s elbow slammed into her rib cage, nearly knocking the air out of her.

  Once they’d finally gotten the suspect subdued, she said, “Congratulations. You win tonight’s grand prize by racking up at least a hundred moving violations. That doesn’t begin to cover the carjacking and motel robbery. And let’s not forget the original murder and rape counts.”

  Regan snagged one of his wrists. Ignoring the string of epithets, all colorfully graphic, several anatomically impossible, she caught the other wrist, then yanked on the plastic restraints. While she missed the decisive sound of the old metal handcuffs clicking closed, the ratchet sound of the plastic teeth was still damn satisfying.

  “What about my rights?” he shouted between curses. “I got rights, bitch.”

  She scooped wet hair out of her eyes. She was breathing heavily, but felt damn good. “You bet you do. Beginning with the constitutional right to be a boil on the butt of society. But in case you haven’t figured it out yet, even most of your homeboys draw the line at killing a little old lady who never did anything but give you a job cleaning up her yard and made you a glass of lemonade.”

  With the help of the others, she yanked him to his feet and recited the Miranda warning she suspected he’d first heard in grammar school. Then, ignoring the pain in her solar plexus and the burning of the slice on her arm, she walked him down the middle of the street to one of the cruisers angled at the curb.

  Tonight’s bust, as satisfying as it was, would create a mountain of paperwork. She’d be lucky if she managed a couple hours sleep before having to show up at the courthouse tomorrow.

  Six hours later Regan had showered, changed, and was hunched over her laptop keyboard, attacking the stack of report forms, trying to push yet more paperwork through the byzantine legal system.

  You never saw television cops doing paperwork. Homicide cops on TV only handled one or two cases at a time, and except for the occasional season-ending cliffhanger, always managed to wrap up the crime in an hour, minus time for commercials. In real life, a detective was forced to juggle dozens of old cases while struggling to stay ahead of the deluge of new ones.

  The motto of the LAPD homicide division was “Our day begins when yours ends.” What it didn’t mention was that it was not uncommon for a homicide detective to work around the clock.

  “So,” Barnie Williams, who was two months away from retirement and a house on the beach in Mexico, said from the neighboring desk, “this guy calls nine-one-one and says his wife saw a light on out in the garage. He looked out the bedroom window, and sure enough, there are some guys moving around in there, looking like they’re loading up stuff.

  “Dispatch explains that it’s Saturday night, cops are all tied up with more vital shit, there’s no one in the vicinity, but stay put and they’ll send someone out as soon as possible.

  “Guy says okay, and hangs up. A minute later, he calls nine-one-one again and says there’s no hurry sending the cops out, because he just shot and killed all the guys in his garage.”

  He’d succeeded in capturing Regan’s reluctant attention. “So, what happened?”

  “Well, the shit hits the fan, and it takes less than three minutes for half a dozen cars to pull up on the scene, including Rockford and me, Armed Response Unit, and a producer and cameraman from that TV show Cops, who just happened to pick tonight to ride around with a couple patrol officers.”

  “Jones from Rampart,” elaborated Williams’s partner, Case Rockford. He was leaning back in his chair, hand-tooled lizard cowboy boots up on the desk. “And that rookie with the Jennifer Lopez ass that even manages to look fine in blues.”

  “Her headlights aren’t bad, either,” a detective from across the room volunteered.

  “She spends her own bucks to have her uniform privately tailored,” offered Dora Jenkins, a female detective. “If she didn’t, her ass would look as big as Montana. As for the headlights, they’re silicone.”

  “No way,” Williams said.

  “Way. She got them back when she was a Hooters waitress. The restaurant loaned her the bucks for the surgery.”

  “Are you saying those Hooters girls aren’t naturally endowed?” another detective asked with mock surprise.

  “So what happened with the guy who shot the robbery suspects?” Regan asked Williams in an attempt to return the typically wandering cop conversation to its original track.

  “Oh, turns out they’re all alive, and the department’s own J.Lo and her partner get to make a bust for the cameras,” Rockford replied. “They’re happy as white on rice, but Barnie and I were majorly pissed, ’cause we were at the drive-through at Burger King and had just gotten our Whoppers when the call came in.”

  “I hate cold burgers,” Williams muttered.

  Rockford picked up the story again. “So Barnie gets in this guy’s face and yells, ‘I thought you said you killed them!’ The man just stands there, puffing away on a cigarette, cool as can be, and says, ‘I thought you guys said there weren’t any cops available.’”

  The story drew a mixture of laughs and groans. Wishing caffeine came with an IV option, Regan shook her head and returned to her typing.

  “Hey, Hart,” called a deep voice roughened by years of cigarettes.

  Since another Murphy’s Law of police work states that computers only delete reports when they are nearly done, Regan saved her work for the umpteenth time and looked up at the uniformed cop standing in the doorway.

  “What’s up, Jim?”

  “There’s a guy here to see you. Says it’s personal.”

  “Obviously he doesn’t know anything about cop shops.” She glanced around at the bank of desks crowded together, files that no longer fit on desktops piled onto the floor beside them, telephones jangling, computer keys tapping, the cross conversations that kept anything from being personal.

  “Should I bring him on back?”

  “No need,” a drawled voice offered.

  The cop spun around, one hand going instinctively to his sidearm; Regan stood up, pulled her .38 from the desk drawer, and quickly skimmed a measuring look over him.

  Six-two, one-ninety, blue eyes, brown hair. No scars, tattoos, or identifying marks that she could see. He was wearing jeans that looked faded from use, rather than any trendy stone or acid wash. His unabashedly becoming bomber jacket was unzipped, revealing a blue shirt that whether by accident or design matched his eyes; his leather boots were scuffed and, like his jeans, looked well worn. He was carrying a manila envelope.

  He didn’t look dangerous. Then again, neither had Ronald Lawson, that Robert Redford lookalike serial killer who’d finally been arrested by the FBI last summer.

  “How did you get back here?” It was her street voice, controlled, but sharp enough to cut granite.

  “Detective Kante was just coming in and was kind enough to show me the way.”

  A dimplelike crease flashed at Van, who’d just arrived with coffee from the espresso shop across the street.

  “Hey, he came with a letter of recommendation.” Van smiled up at the guy with the warmth of an old friend as she handed Regan the brown cardboard cup.

  “A recommendation?” Regan lifted her brow, the only one of the three not smiling.

  “From the FBI.” He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and held it out. “Well, to be completely accurate, Finn’s a former special agent. He said he worke
d with you on the Valdez murder.”

  Valdez was one of Lawson’s victims, which could only mean the letter was from Finn Callahan. Regan snatched it from his hand and skimmed the few lines, which were as terse and to the point as the special agent had always been, merely suggesting that she might want to hear Nate Callahan out. It was signed “Just-the-Fucking-Facts-Ma’am-Finn.”

  Since Finn Callahan wasn’t one for chitchat, Regan suspected he hadn’t told anyone about the late-night argument they’d had after eighteen hours of canvassing the UCLA area in record-breaking heat, searching for witnesses in the Lawson case. Finn’s cut-and-dried method of keeping conversation to the subject certainly allowed for more people to be interviewed, but she’d insisted that by allowing them to chat a bit, you often learned important facts the witnesses might not have realized they’d known. Regan rarely lost her temper, but too little sleep and too much caffeine made her blow up that night. She’d shouted at him, shoved impotently against his chest (the man was huge), and accused him of being Just the Fucking Facts Ma’am Finn Callahan.

  He’d surprised her by laughing, and instead of causing things to escalate, her accusation cleared the air. From then on, they’d worked out their own version of good cop/gruff cop.

  It had taken Finn another year to bring Lawson down, but the investigation had been a thorough one, with enough evidence gathered that had the killer been tried for the death of the UCLA coed, the DA would have won a conviction.

  “I didn’t know Finn Callahan had a brother.”

  “Actually, he’s got two,” Nate said. “There’s another you might have heard of. Jack. He writes books.”

  That was putting it mildly. Jack Callahan was a former DEA agent turned blockbuster best-selling author. Touted as a new generation’s Joseph Wambaugh, he’d soared to the top of the lists with his first novel. Regan had bought all his books for his women characters, who were more richly drawn than those written by most men. Especially former cops turned writers, who, even if they managed to make it past the Madonna/whore stereotype, too often seemed to portray females as victims.

  “With both an FBI agent and a DEA agent in your family, you should be aware that wandering around in a police station can get you shot.” Why was it the good-looking men were always the stupid ones?

  “I realize that, officer.”

  “Detective.” For some reason, Regan felt a need to establish rank in this case.

  “Detective,” he agreed. His blue eyes warmed; gorgeous white teeth flashed. “Which is why I enlisted Detective Kante’s help.”

  “Want me to throw him out?” the desk cop asked.

  Now that she knew the man standing in front of her was Finn’s brother, Regan could see the family resemblance. “No, that’s okay.” His eyes were a deeper blue than Finn’s chillier hue, his sun-tipped hair chestnut rather than Finn’s black, and his body lankier and more loose-limbed. He was also more casually boyish, but the masculine self-confidence was all too familiar. It had surrounded Finn like an aura, it emanated from the gritty black-and-white author photograph on Jack Callahan’s novels, and Nate Callahan, for all his outward, easygoing charm, possessed it in spades.

  She reached for the phone.

  “If you’re calling Finn to find out why I’m here, he won’t be able to tell you. Because he doesn’t know.”

  Regan folded her arms across the front of her black silk blouse, angled her head, and narrowed her eyes. “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t want to bother him with details.”

  Details. She already had so many damn details to deal with, she felt as if she was being nibbled to death by killer ducks. “Look, if your car got towed and you need help getting it out of impound, you’re out of luck, because we don’t do that here. Nor do I fix speeding tickets. If you want me to arrest someone, unless you’re talking about a murder, I don’t have the time to get involved, but you’re free to file a complaint with the desk sergeant.”

  She picked up a heavy blue binder. The murder book contained everything she’d gathered during the course of her investigation, and she’d spent the few hours between last night’s bust and this morning memorizing pertinent facts for today’s court testimony.

  He tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his heels, and appeared to contemplate the matter. Regan had participated in countless interrogations over the years, and had learned from some of the best cops in the business, but she’d never met anyone who could draw a pause out so long.

  “My car’s back home,” he said finally. “I don’ know anyone who’s been murdered, at least not lately, and except for the street crew that spent last night jack-hammering through the pavement outside my hotel room window, I don’t really have any complaints.”

  His slow, easy smile was a contrast to the thoughtful look he skimmed over her face. Even knowing that after all the surgeries she’d undergone, her facial scars were more imagined than real, she was still discomforted by such silent scrutiny. Especially from a man whose own face could have washed off a cathedral ceiling.

  “As for why I came, well, it’s a long story.”

  “Then you’re really out of luck. Because I have to be in court in thirty”—she glanced down at her watch—“make that twenty-five minutes. And counting.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll ride along with you, and we can talk on the way.”

  “The LAPD police force is not a taxi service. And even if I were willing to allow a civilian to tag along, which I’m not, there wouldn’t be any conversation, because I’ll be going over the details of my testimony on the way.”

  “Finn’s a stickler for details, too.” The nicks and scars on the hand he skimmed over his hair seemed at odds with his pretty face. “We can talk over lunch.”

  “I wasn’t planning to eat lunch.” She’d be lucky to score a candy bar from the courthouse vending machine. “So, why don’t we just cut to the chase, and you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Like I said, it’s a long story. And personal.”

  “I don’t want to offend you, Mr. Callahan, but unless you’ve committed homicide, I’m not terribly interested in your personal life.”

  “Not mine, chère. Yours.”

  Regan would have sworn there was no longer anything that could surprise her. She would have been wrong.

  “It won’t take very long,” he coaxed when she didn’t immediately respond. “If I wanted to dump it on you without any explanation, I would have used the mail and not bothered flying all this way. So, since my flight back home doesn’t leave until this evening, how about I jus’ come to the courthouse and we can talk after you wrap up your testimony.”

  His voice might be as smooth as whiskey sauce over a rich bread pudding, but she refused to be charmed. “They don’t have phones in Louisiana?”

  “Sure they do. Even in Blue Bayou. That’s a nice little town in the south of the state, down by the Gulf,” he volunteered. “I’m mayor.”

  “Good for you.” He was certainly the antithesis of the stereotypical sweaty, overweight, south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line politician wearing a rumpled white suit, seated on a veranda in a rocking chair, sipping from a silver flask of Southern Comfort. “And the reason you didn’t just pick up a telephone and call was…?”

  “I thought you’d rather talk face-to-face.”

  She really did have to get going. Judge Otterbein, a stickler for time, ran his courtroom with the precision of a Swiss watch.

  Once again he seemed to sense her thoughts. “I promise I won’t say a word on the way to the courthouse.”

  The room had gone unnaturally quiet. Aware they were drawing the attention of every detective in the bull pen, she reached for the gray wool jacket draped over the back of her chair. Moving with surprising speed for someone so seemingly laid-back, he beat her to it.

  “I can do that,” she muttered, taken off guard as he held it out for her.

  “Sure you can,” he said agreeably. “But my d
addy taught me to help a lady into her coat.”

  “I’m a detective, not a lady,” she reminded him as she slid her arms into the sleeves. “And your father might want to think about joining the twenty-first century.”

  “Now, that might be a little hard for him to do. Seein’ how he’s passed on.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not surprised Finn didn’t mention it, since my big brother’s not real talkative on a good day. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

  A less observant woman might have missed the shadow that moved across his lake blue eyes. Regan didn’t need her detective skills to spot the No Trespassing sign. Nate Callahan wasn’t that old, she mused as they walked out of the station toward the police garage. Maybe thirty, thirty-one tops. So, how long was a long time ago?

  Not that she cared.

  Since the remote hadn’t worked for weeks, she unlocked both car doors with the key. “Since I like and respect your brother, I’m willing to hear you out,” she said. “But until court’s adjourned, I have more important things to focus on. Say one word, and I’ll have to shoot you.”

  “Works for me,” he said agreeably as he climbed in beside her.

  “Fasten your seatbelt.” She jerked her own shut.

  Neither spoke as they cruised into the steady stream of traffic, engine valves rattling. Since the teenage Front Street Crip defendant was the son of a city councilwoman, this was one of her more high-profile murder cases. TV news vans, their satellite uplinks pointed sky-ward, lined the street outside the courthouse. Wanting to avoid an appearance on the six-o’clock news, Regan pulled into the underground parking garage.

  “I know I promised to keep my mouth shut, but you wouldn’t shoot me if I say jus’ one little thing, would you?”

  “What?”

  He turned toward her, putting his hand on the back of her seat. A standard seduction ploy that hadn’t worked since she was fourteen and Tom Hardinger had copped a feel while they’d been sitting in the back row of the Village Theater in Westwood, watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.