The Ruthless

by David Putnam

  Black Bart didn’t ask if I had told Wicks. In the six months we’d worked together on the sting, he’d come to know the way I worked. I nodded and left his office to go find Nigel.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I WALKED BACK the way I’d come through the warehouse area to collect my dog. Rodney Davis, an LAPD D-2, still sat on the floor behind the TW counter playing with Junior Mint, play-slapping his face. Junior whined and nipped at him with pure glee in his eyes.

  The other side of the counter, the public area, contained three rows of standard gray shelving that held cheap auto parts and supplies: car batteries, jumper cables, cases of motor oil and the like. All of it from China, used only as window dressing to disguise the operation, things nobody in their right mind would purchase.

  Rodney Davis wouldn’t answer to his other nickname, Stool Sample, a tag his good friend Black Bart had bestowed upon him. I never asked the story behind it and didn’t want to know. RD was the sting operation’s house mouse; he never left the environs behind the counter. He liked the thrill of the job but didn’t have the instinct, or if it ever came down to it, the emotional ability to pull the trigger. If out on a food run and some thug approached him and said, “Gimme your lunch money,” RD would comply without a peep. The way Wicks had always broken down the divisions of society, there were only two classifications of people: the victims and the predators. These two groups existed in the cop job, with civilians, and with the bad guys. RD just happened to be a victim who carried a badge.

  RD loved dogs, so he couldn’t be all bad. He handled the lion’s share of paperwork the operation generated, and there was a ton of it. He kept track of all the evidence, the money, the scheduled larger deals that happened over TW’s counter, and he collated and filed all the reports in thick three-ring binders. There were ten of them so far filled with six hundred and fifty-seven buys. We’d seized just under two thousand guns, and, counting Nigel’s Monte Carlo, fifty-six stolen cars. Everyone who did business with TW walked away with cash money in their pockets. RD was also tasked with identifying all the crooks, a monumental job in itself. No one would be arrested until the final takedown unless that person was deemed a threat to public safety. Then an anonymous call would be made to the appropriate law enforcement agency.

  Two other Los Angeles Police detectives worked as I did in the field as ropers directing unsuspecting crooks to TW. Two more Los Angeles County Sheriff detectives borrowed from Metro worked the office doing the deals and acting as cover and control and site security. They hung out in TW’s office with the one-way mirror, smoked, ate street tacos, and played gin. And through it all, RD did his best to keep up with us and keep us organized.

  When the sting started, Black Bart only let us bring in one sucker at a time to keep things from getting out of hand and to let us get used to working together. The other rule he had was that no matter how small the deal, at least two undercover cops had to be on the premises when a deal went down. Usually three or four stood close by.

  One of us always stood behind the one-way glass with a shotgun shouldered and pointed at the crook out in the lobby doing the deal. What Black Bart feared most was a rip. When you dealt with nothing but life’s bottom feeders, a holdup became a very real possibility. The crooks would view it as a freebie. Since we were hip-deep in nefarious criminal activity, or at least the appearance of such, they would easily figure that if they robbed us, we’d never call the police. This made our cash operation four or five times as dangerous as a regular undercover assignment in narcotics. The threat remained high, always there hanging over our heads.

  On a shelf right under the counter, resting on a piece of soft green felt, sat a pistol-grip 12-gauge shotgun with an extended magazine. Black Bart had also installed a button to electronically bolt the front door for anyone who did try to do a hit-and-run.

  After the first week of roping and bringing in crooks to sell their stolen property, word spread countywide. Soon we had walk-ins who brought everything you could imagine, items stolen from all over the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. Every day at eleven o’clock in the morning, a throng of criminals stood outside the door of TW waiting for it to open. They smoked and twitched and scratched, most all of them jonesing for their next fix.

  “RD,” I said, “let go of my dog. I gotta go.”

  He put his arm around Junior. “I don’t think so, big man. Junior wants to stay here with me; he told me so. Right, Junior?”

  I whistled. Junior jumped up and tried to break free. RD held on, his arms around his neck.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you; he’s going to nip your nose.”

  “He won’t. We’re pals, aren’t we, Junior?”

  I slapped my leg. “Come.”

  Junior again tried to pull away. RD held him for a second too long. He jumped back just as Junior whined and nipped at his face.

  RD released him. “Cripes, Karl, you didn’t have to sic him on me.”

  “If I’d have sicced him on you, you’d know it. Listen, at eight tonight, Leo Martinez from Sparkle Plenty is coming in with twenty handguns and eleven rifles. I forgot to tell Black Bart; would you mind telling him? I plan on being here, but if I don’t make it back in time, maybe he could have a couple of the other guys here to make the deal?”

  “Hey, I know Leo. I can do that deal myself.”

  I stared at him. He nodded. “Okay, I’ll tell Bart.”

  “Thanks, I’m beat. Bart left me in jail over the weekend, and I didn’t get any sleep. I’m going home to get some sack time but I’ll be back.”

  I moved around the counter and headed for the front door.

  “Hey, Karl?”

  I turned. Junior stopped and sat next to my leg, his head turned upward to see what I’d do next.

  “I heard what happened over at Southeast Division, what your old commander said to you.”

  The jailer had been eavesdropping and had told Bart about an ex-deputy who’d been arrested and then Bart had told Stool Sample. I didn’t know how to respond.

  RD lost his smile and said, “You don’t have to worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  I walked back to the counter with him still on the other side. “I don’t want you to do anything. It’s over. Done.” RD didn’t understand the relationship I had with Wicks; I wasn’t sure anyone would.

  RD shrugged, pasted on a fake smile. “I gotcha.”

  “Really, I’m not kidding.”

  RD’s work at TW kept him constantly on the move, but somehow he still found time for practical jokes, the kinds of pranks cops were known for. In fact, he’d pulled one too many and had gotten bounced from an already career-killing assignment working downtown forgery. Black Bart and RD had been friends for years, went to the same church, and ran in the same social circles. TW was RD’s last shot before his department dumped him in the Motor Pool checking cars out to the real cops.

  Last Christmas, while working forgery, RD bought a slew of ten-dollar coffeehouse gift cards and put each one in a Christmas card. He addressed and signed them as if they came from the captain of the division. He put them in the individual detective bureau mail slots, all except for two detectives who constantly made fun of him. The day he did it he made sure he stood next to the mail slots when those two detectives arrived for work. He pulled out the Christmas card he’d given himself and said, “Oh, look, a card from the captain. Hey, a ten-dollar gift card, that’s really cool.” The two detectives checked the other mailboxes and found everyone had received the coffeehouse gift card except them. They fumed for a couple of hours until they’d had enough. They stormed into the captain’s office and slammed the door. Yelling ensued inside the glassed office while RD told everyone in the bullpen what he had done. When the two detectives came out, all the others laughed. The two immediately figured out they’d been had by RD and chased him from the office. The next day, Black Bart got RD assigned to TW. That had been six months ago.

  “You sure?” RD said.

 
“Yes, I’m sure. Leave Wicks alone. He doesn’t have a sense of humor. Now I gotta go. Don’t forget to tell Bart about the deal tonight at eight.”

  He nodded. “You know, you spent the weekend in the can, and today, just walking into this place you hooked up a deal with thirty-one guns. The three days you were on ice, Jack and Frank combined didn’t do that well.”

  “I didn’t do anything for that deal, Leo ran me down.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  I turned and walked away. I raised my hand in the air as a good-bye. I didn’t want to leave. I really didn’t want to go home either. But my body demanded it. Sleep had become the worst part of my life. I had no control over my dreams. Guilt reigned king over those night terrors. Each and every time I nodded off, Albert and Olivia, with their ghostlike pallor, visited me. Both in eternal slumber with their eyes open. Their silent entreaties let me know I had failed them. I could only apologize again and again and wish like hell I had a chance to do it over. Only life didn’t allow do-overs.

  Instinct had told me what to do and I didn’t listen. Three years earlier, I had stalked and then grabbed Derek Sams out in front of a pager store on Central Avenue. I took him for a ride, intent on resolving the problem by dropping a sealed drum stuffed with his lifeless body into San Pedro harbor. He’d been going out with Olivia, dragging her down into the gutter. The day before I’d grabbed him, he had jeopardized her safety by taking her into a rock house where she’d been held against her will.

  But after talking to him, seeing the youthful exuberance in his eyes, I couldn’t do it. I let him go with the sternest of warnings and a very serious threat to his life. The moral compass Dad had instilled in me would not allow me to go through with the plan. The biggest single mistake of my life. I would much rather have had to live with his death on my conscience than the deaths of my daughter and grandson.

  I walked back to the Ford Ranger in a daze, no longer on alert for any kind of threat, no longer caring. I really did need some sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I PULLED UP in front of our house on Nord, the place where I’d grown up with my brother, Noble. I couldn’t live in my apartment in South Gate, not after what had happened there. Too many bad memories.

  Junior barked and scratched at the truck window. He’d seen Dad standing in the front yard. Dad had some kind of sixth sense that at times freaked me out. After I’d been gone for almost three days, how did he know I’d be pulling up at that moment?

  I leaned across Junior and opened the passenger door. He barreled out and ran toward Dad. Dad went down on one knee to pet and wrestle with him, all the while not taking his eyes from mine. He was upset about my three-day absence and had every right to be. An easy solution would be to tell him about TransWorld, tell him that I hadn’t really resigned as a deputy. If I told Dad and asked him not to tell a soul, I knew without reservation he would keep his word. And that was why I had to keep mine to Black Bart.

  I got out and tried not to trudge over to Dad and failed miserably. Junior sensed the shift in mood and stopped playing. His tongue lolled out as he sat next to Dad’s leg. He’d look at Dad then back at me.

  “Where you been, Son?”

  His question hit like a lash.

  When we were little, Dad had explained to us about truth, and how an omission or an economic truth could be deemed the same as a lie.

  “I don’t think you want to know.” My voice came out low and then tapered off.

  He glared at me. I wanted to melt into the ground.

  He finally said, “You weren’t in court today?”

  “That’s right. For some reason the judge put it over. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  He nodded. That wasn’t what he meant with his question. He knew I’d never miss a court appearance, not when it concerned Derek Sams.

  “You look like hell. Maybe you should go in and get some sleep. We can talk about this when you get up.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” A lump rose in my throat. He could’ve put the screws to me, and in my state of fatigue, I would’ve crumbled like a piece of blue cheese. I would’ve violated my code of honor and told him everything. I walked by, stopped, and put my hand on his shoulder.

  He gripped my arm. “Get some sleep, Son.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  I continued on and stepped up on the little wooden stoop at the front door.

  “Bruno?”

  I turned.

  “Judge Connors called.”

  Connors, unlike Wicks, had been a good friend, and every few days since Olivia passed, he’d call to see how I was doing. He also knew what I was capable of and was worried I’d go off the reservation chasing parties unknown who’d committed the most heinous act upon my family.

  “When?”

  “Friday morning, early. I haven’t seen you to tell you.”

  “Okay, thanks. Could you wake me at seven, please?” I could hardly keep my eyes open. I half-stumbled up the steps, through the living room, and down the hall to my room and fell on the bed. What I had failed to tell Dad guaranteed a nap filled with nightmares of evil deeds.

  Derek Sams didn’t go far to lose himself, about a hundred miles from Los Angeles to a city at the top of Cajon Pass called Victorville. With an elevation of four thousand feet, the night was bitter cold, and I could see my breath. With the ocean influence so close, that rarely happened in South Central LA. I’d tracked him through people on the street in Willowbrook where he sold rock and heroin and where he still kept in contact with those who sold for him. Nineteen years old, he had never learned right from wrong; he just knew how to lie and cheat to get what he wanted, what he needed to feel good in that fleeting moment and to hell with what came after.

  He’d come out of a fleabag motel called The Green Spot a block in off Seventh Street and cruised around until he spotted a Hispanic hooker on D Street who wore a dirty coat with fur trim and not much else underneath. He picked her up and brought her back to his room. Number seventeen painted by hand in white on a green door.

  I stood behind a telephone pole in the shadow of a streetlight, wearing a navy-blue nightwatchman’s cap and an army surplus green fatigue jacket, waiting until he had enough time to get his pants off. I’d been warned multiple times to stay away from the investigation. And as far as anyone knew, I was. I hadn’t come for the purposes of investigating.

  I stood in the cold doing a slow burn. A hooker, someone who could have hepatitis C or AIDS, diseases easily transmitted to Olivia. I clenched my fists. Derek was my seventeen-year-old daughter’s boyfriend, the father to my twin grandsons, Albert and Alonzo. Two weeks earlier, Albert had disappeared from our apartment in South Gate. South Gate PD had exhausted all avenues in the missing persons investigation, going so far as to polygraph both Olivia and Derek. They passed. But I knew Derek better than most. He was a sociopath and more than capable of telling a perfect lie while drinking a glass of whole milk. I’d waited until there was nothing more South Gate could do before I intervened.

  Then Derek had gone missing. He’d known I would step in.

  He should’ve been at home consoling Olivia and taking care of Alonzo when he just took off. And that’s when I found him in the high desert with a hooker.

  I left my gun in the car, afraid of what I’d be tempted to do. I checked my watch again: ten long minutes had lapsed, plenty enough time to conclude his business. I stayed in the shadows, going behind the cars in the parking lot, and moved up to the flimsy wood door that had been kicked in before. More than once. The frame had been repaired and not replaced. I took out a Buck knife and quietly stuck the blade in between the jamb and the plate and worked back the bolt. I eased the door open.

  On a swayback bed the naked Hispanic hooker straddled my daughter’s boyfriend, her hips moving back and forth. Derek laughed and reached around and slapped her naked butt cheek. “Come on, girl, move your ass. What do you think I’m paying—” He stopped. Through the open door the cold Decemb
er air penetrated the thick and smothering heat put out by the wall heater. He looked around the fleshy side of his night’s entertainment and saw me as I eased the door closed. His expression shifted from glee to pure terror. The hooker looked over her shoulder and said, “Take a number, mister.” She looked down at Derek. “Hey, what happened? Where’d you go?”

  I said, “Grab your clothes and take a walk.”

  Derek made his move. His hand shot out to the nightstand for the black automatic he’d put there just in case. I moved faster and put the knife to his throat, my other hand on the gun. His finger was already through the trigger guard.

  The hooker yelped. “Aye yai yai. Just wait, mister. Just wait. Don’t do nothing until I get out of here.” She swung off Derek, took up her clothes, and hopped trying to get her shoes on. She fled the room into the bitter cold, semi-nude in a flurry of brown skin and loose clothes. With the knife at his throat, Derek struggled into his pants while still lying on his back. I saw enough to know he’d not been using a rubber.

  I took the gun from the nightstand and held it on him as I backed up and closed the door. Derek sat on the edge of the bed trying to button the top of his pants. “You can’t do anything to me. I’ll tell O. O will never forgive you if you do anything to me. You know that.” He pointed his finger at me. “You know that.”

  I hit the release for the gun magazine. It dropped to the floor. I released the slide and tossed all the other parts. They clattered against the wall. I took a giant step and grabbed a hold of Derek by the ear. “Now you’re going to tell me what you did with my grandson.”

  “Ouch. Hey. Hey. Let go of me. What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything with him. He just went missing. We’ll find him. He’ll come home. I passed the damn polygraph, didn’t I? You were there, you saw it. I passed.”

  “A monkey can pass that test.” I dragged him over to the bathroom door. “I’m going to administer a different kind of polygraph, one that isn’t used near enough and should be on people like you. Do you know what the odds are in a child abduction that one of the parents did the deed?”