by Robert Ellis
But everything had changed over the last ten seconds.
Matt knew that it was about him now—who he was as a person and his ability to rise above the fray.
He turned Grubb’s body over, pulled the needle out of his arm, and slapped him across the face. When the man didn’t open his eyes, he stripped off Grubb’s shirt and rubbed his knuckles over his chest bone as hard as he could.
Grubb wasn’t responding, and that feeling came back in waves. The idea that he was being tested for something he didn’t understand.
He could see himself eyeballing the man’s lips and fingertips and noting that they hadn’t turned blue yet. He could see himself checking for a pulse, then lowering his head to Grubb’s chest and listening to his breathing. Grubb’s vital signs had slowed down significantly but were still functioning.
He pulled out his phone and punched in 911. Once he’d spoken with the dispatcher, he gave Grubb another hard look and thought it over. Response times in LA varied because of traffic congestion. Given the time of day—the height of rush hour—it was entirely possible that the EMTs wouldn’t get there for more than ten minutes. As Matt weighed the odds, he thought about that Narcan kit he kept in the back of his car ever since he’d worked narcotics.
No doubt about it. Grubb didn’t look like he had ten minutes.
Matt jumped to his feet, found the kitchen empty, and burst into the ally. Sprinting around the corner and down the narrow road, he reached Broadway and ran into the street. The car horns started, followed by a lot of angry, loud voices. But as Matt grabbed the Narcan kit, what concerned him most was the din of the city. He didn’t hear a siren. Not even the faint hint of a siren somewhere in the distance.
He let the thought go, then raced back across the street, down the road, and up the ally. Rushing through the kitchen, he pushed the door open and hurried over to Grubb’s body.
That sensation was back. That feeling that someone was standing over his shoulder watching him.
Matt ripped open the kit as if on autopilot. The plastic delivery device wasn’t much more than a syringe without a needle. He pried the yellow caps off, then grabbed a cartridge filled with the antidote naloxone, removed the red cap, and screwed it into the barrel of the syringe. Tilting Grubb’s head back, he sprayed half the drug into his left nostril, then hit the right nostril with the rest.
Seconds clicked off. After almost a minute nothing had happened, and Matt felt a chill rocketing up his spine.
He slapped Grubb across the face again. When he didn’t get a response, he gave him another hard slap, but the man was just lying there like a rag doll. Matt took a deep breath and exhaled. Setting the timer on his watch for three minutes, he grabbed another cartridge of the antidote and prepped the syringe with a second dose.
The wait for his alarm to go off was hard to handle. He could see his fingers trembling as he held the syringe in his hand and wondered how three minutes could take so long to get here. As he wiped the sweat from his forehead, he became aware of a siren approaching. But the relief only lasted for a second or two. When the timer on his watch started vibrating, he knew that he couldn’t wait.
And he knew what he had to do.
He tilted Grubb’s head back and sprayed a half dose into his left nostril. The dining room doors burst open behind him, and the overhead lights switched on. Matt looked over his shoulder as a pair of EMTs began rushing toward him. He turned back to Grubb, inserted the syringe into his right nostril, and pushed the plunger all the way through the barrel.
“Heroin,” Matt said in a loud voice. “He OD’d ten minutes ago.”
A female EMT knelt down beside him. “How many doses have you given him?”
Matt turned to her and saw the concern showing on her face. “Two,” he said. “Three minutes apart. No response. Nothing.”
The EMT eyed Grubb for a moment, then gave her partner a long look. “We’ll take over from here, Detective. Please step back.”
Her partner rushed in with a canvas bag, showing the same concern on his face. Matt began to wonder if something was going on beyond Grubb’s overdose. A stethoscope came out, and after a moment of probing the man’s chest, the female EMT gave her partner another grave look. Matt watched them trying to revive him but could see it happening before his eyes.
Grubb was dying.
The dining room doors snapped open with a punch. Matt turned and saw two men in suits with hard faces storm in with their badges up and out like a pit bull’s tail. They looked like seasoned detectives, both of them in their fifties—the kind of guys who’ve seen everything in the world two or three times over and have no time or interest in talking about it. Matt didn’t have to read their IDs to know that everything in the case had changed, and these detectives were from the LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division.
“Are you Jones?” the meaty one said in a gruff voice.
Matt nodded as they approached.
“I’m Jack Raines, and this is my partner, Billy Hudson. You’re out. The case was bumped up to RHD.”
“When?”
“About ten minutes ago. What’s that behind your belt?”
“His gun,” Matt said.
Raines reached for the gun and pulled it out. “Better leave this here with us, Jones. Your best bet is to get some medical attention. Once you’re fixed up, we’ll need to talk. As a matter of fact, I’ll have an officer drive you to the hospital and bring you back.”
Matt sized Raines up, noting his white hair and goatee, his steely blue eyes and tanned skin. He didn’t like the man’s tone or attitude.
“I can drive myself,” he said.
Raines shook his head. “Not tonight, Jones. Tonight, we’re doing it my way.”
The female EMT seemed to know who had just taken charge of the case and turned to Raines.
“This guy’s DOA, Detective. This guy’s dead.”
FORTY-TWO
The cop they’d picked to drive Matt to the hospital seemed young and nervous. As Matt opened the passenger door, the cop protested.
“I’m sorry, Detective. But you’re gonna have to ride in back.”
Matt didn’t say anything. When the cop opened the back door of his black-and-white cruiser, Matt slid onto the seat thinking it felt a lot like he’d just been arrested. He turned away from the cop without asking his name or even reading the plate pinned to his shirt. He was too angry and had no intention of talking to the guy.
He turned to the window and gazed across the street. Cops had already shut down the block and stretched crime scene tape at both ends of Bamboo Lane. An evidence collection truck from the Forensic Science Division had arrived about five minutes ago, along with a handful of crime scene techs. But even more strange, two additional teams of detectives from RHD were on site. Matt had seen them enter the restaurant as he and the young cop crossed Broadway.
It didn’t feel like a test anymore. Grubb was dead, and Matt had lost control of the case.
After what happened tonight, he understood that the situation had become radioactive. But why would it take six detectives from RHD to investigate a heroin overdose? Why had Raines insisted that Matt be escorted to the hospital and driven back? Why didn’t Raines and his partner, Billy Hudson, trust him enough to get his face cleaned up and return to the crime scene on his own? And why was he sitting in the back seat of this cruiser instead of the front?
Matthew Trevor Jones.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. As the car pulled away from the curb heading south for USC Medical Center, he watched the city go by in a jumbled blur.
He’d lost the case. His case. And he’d let Sophia Ramirez down—a fifteen-year-old girl—he’d let her down.
Matt tried to shake if off but couldn’t. After ten minutes he saw the sign for the emergency room and watched the cop pull in front of the entrance. When Matt tried to open the back door, he realized that he’d been locked in. He gave the young cop a heavy look, trying to maintain his cool even though he was st
ill enraged.
“Open the door,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”
Matt grimaced. “Let me tell you how this is gonna work tonight, Officer. I’m going in that door to see a doctor. You’re gonna go to the hospital’s front desk over there to find out how my partner’s doing. Then we’ll meet back here. Got it?”
“They told me that I have to stay with you at all times.”
Matt shook his head. “Open the goddamn door, kid, or I’m gonna mess with you. Open it and do it in a hurry.”
The cop looked frightened again, but the door clicked, and Matt climbed out of the back seat.
“Now go find out how my partner’s doing. Denny Cabrera. And don’t come back until you do.”
Matt walked away from the cruiser, the cop staring at him from behind the wheel. When the door to the emergency room slid open and he saw McKensie waiting for him in the lobby, he knew that the night still had legs and wouldn’t end soon.
“They took our case,” Matt said. “RHD stole our case.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Jones. Follow me. You’re already checked in. They’re waiting for you, so let’s go.”
Matt followed McKensie past the front desk and down the hall into a large room. The lights had been dimmed here, and doctors and nurses were sitting behind a counter in the center of the room monitoring about twenty patients in beds separated by thin walls. A young nurse greeted them as they entered, pulled the curtain open in the third bay on the left, and pointed to the bed. As Matt sat down, she stepped closer and examined his face.
“It’s not that bad,” she said. “This is from shattered glass, right?”
He nodded.
“It looks like most of it grazed your skin and kept going. But I don’t want to stain your shirt. Let me get you a smock, and I’ll be right back.”
The nurse crossed the room and vanished down a second hallway. Matt noticed his supervisor staring at the TV mounted on the wall.
“Your partner’s in surgery,” McKensie said.
“How is he?”
McKensie turned, his face showing concern and worry. “You’re not gonna see him tonight.”
“Is he okay?”
“His arm’s broken, but they seem to think that’s an easy fix.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
McKensie gave him a look with those emerald-green eyes of his. “His leg, Jones. It’s broken in two places. They said that it’ll be a long time before he can walk again.”
A moment passed as Cabrera’s fate settled into the small room. Matt turned to his supervisor and tried to get a read. The concern and worry showing on McKensie’s face seemed worse than before. Something was wrong. Something more than the weight of Cabrera’s injuries.
“What is it?” Matt said. “Why are there six detectives from RHD investigating a heroin overdose?”
McKensie lowered his eyes like he couldn’t hold the gaze. “Cause of death won’t be determined until his autopsy tomorrow morning.”
“But I was there. I saw it. Grubb overdosed.”
McKensie didn’t say anything for a while. When he spoke, his voice seemed unusually quiet. “It might be more complicated than that, Jones. You could be in trouble. They’re gonna debrief you at headquarters. I’ve asked Burton to be there.”
“But what happened? What’s going on?”
Matt looked up. When he followed McKensie’s eyes to the television, he began to feel more than uneasy. It was city councilwoman Dee Colon, holding a press conference outside police headquarters. Enlarged photographs of Lane Grubb and Matt had been set on a pair of easels to the left and right of a portable lectern.
“Turn up the sound,” Matt said.
“You sure?”
Matt nodded. “Turn it up.”
McKensie grabbed the remote attached to the bed and raised the volume. Matt forced himself to listen.
Colon was just stepping up to the microphone with a crowd of people behind her. Like most power mongers, she stood before her audience and looked them over for a while. When she finally began speaking, she came off smug and self-righteous—a real woman of the people whose tone of voice was cut with plenty of sarcasm.
“In all my years in public service,” she was saying, “in all my years of fighting for the people of this great city, I have never seen such a miscarriage of justice in my life. Here we stand tonight, just two weeks into the new year, and this good man, Lane Grubb, is dead because a member of the LAPD fell asleep at the wheel. That’s right, Lane Grubb, a taxpayer, a respected member of the business community here and in New York, a childhood success story by anybody’s count, is dead tonight because LAPD detective Matt Jones didn’t do his job. And that’s not an exaggeration. He didn’t do his job. Let me put this in perspective for you fine people, the people I work so hard for every single day. A teenage girl is brutally murdered. There’s a maniac out there. A sex killer. And what’s Detective Jones up to? To tell you the truth, nobody’s really sure. We know he’s bothering some of the best and brightest people in business right now. We know he’s running around the city telling everybody that he’s a big shot and he’s in charge. So where do we stand? I say this to you. If Detective Jones had listened to his superior officers and focused the investigation on hunting down the sex maniac who killed this teenage girl, Lane Grubb would be alive tonight. You heard it from me, and you know I always say it the way it really is. I speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. Lane Grubb would be alive today, but he isn’t because Matt Jones killed him.”
McKensie hit the “Mute” button. “I can’t listen to this crap,” he said. “She knows damn well that the girl wasn’t raped. Her office requested a copy of the autopsy report from the chief two days ago.”
Matt shrugged but didn’t say anything. Instead, he concentrated on controlling the rage burning through his body. The adrenaline rushing through his veins. He’d always taken pride in his ability to read people. He’d always trusted that feeling in his gut, and tonight was no different. As he had watched Colon speak, he could tell that the entire press conference had been scripted. She’d looked into each camera on cue. She’d changed her tone of voice on cue. And she’d stared at the photo of Grubb and even wiped a fake tear away on cue.
He chewed it over. He tried to understand what could possibly motivate someone like Colon to be what she had become. He knew money and power played a big role, a defining role, but guessed that something had been added to the mix. Something more twisted. More perverted. After a while, he surfaced and found McKensie still watching the press conference even though the sound had been muted.
“How could she possibly know that Grubb’s dead?” Matt said.
“What are you talking about, Jones?”
“Grubb died, what, an hour ago? His body is still laid out on the floor at the crime scene.”
“So what?”
“So how did she know he’s dead?”
“News travels fast, I guess.”
Matt shook his head. “Somebody’s talking to somebody,” he said. “I’ll bet she’s got somebody on the inside. A lot of somebodies. And I’d bet she’s got something on everybody.”
“If she didn’t, she would have been indicted a long time ago.”
Matt glanced at Colon on the TV monitor, then turned back to his supervisor. “So what do you think she’s got on the chief?”
McKensie turned and gave Matt a long look but didn’t say anything.
FORTY-THREE
Matt walked into Interrogation Room 3B at the police headquarters building in downtown LA. Raines and Billy Hudson had told Burton he could watch through the one-way glass but couldn’t enter the room. This seemed odd because Burton worked as a prosecutor, not a defense attorney, and had become an integral part of the case.
Raines tossed a legal pad on the table by the pitcher of water and paper cups, then pulled out a chair. “If you want anything, Jones, now’s the time to
speak up.”
Matt stared at the detective as he sat down. He didn’t like the guy, but now he realized that he didn’t trust him either.
“No thanks, Raines. I’m good.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled as Hudson closed the door, pulled a seat away from the table, and sat down behind his back. Matt may have been a rookie, but he knew exactly what Hudson was trying to pull. He knew that the detective would never say anything. Hudson would just sit back there like a thorn in Matt’s side, trying to play with his nerves and hoping that he’d make a mistake. The idea that this was going to be a friendly conversation now seemed ludicrous.
Matt turned back and gazed across the table at Raines. “So why does it take six of you guys to investigate a drug overdose?”
Raines laughed. “We’ll get to that, Jones. Make sure you’re ready when we do. I just need to know a couple of things first.”
“What things?”
“You were the last one to see Grubb alive, right?”
Matt had considered some of the pitfalls he might face as McKensie drove him from the hospital and they left that young cop behind. If Raines was trying to trap him, his first question seemed to be the most likely way in.
“Do I need to speak up, Jones? You were the last one to see Grubb alive, right?”
“Maybe,” he said.
The answer seemed to bother Raines. “What are you talking about, Jones? What maybe? You were the last one to see him alive. Yes or no?”
Matt shrugged. “Maybe,” he repeated.
Raines was upset now. He shouldn’t have been showing it, but he was.
“Is this how it’s gonna be all night, Jones. You’re gonna pull stuff like this out of your rookie ass? You’re not gonna have the professional courtesy to help us figure out what happened?”
Professional courtesy. Matt grimaced and stood his ground.
“That depends, Raines. That depends on a lot of things, like the reason you won’t tell me why it takes six detectives from RHD to investigate a heroin overdose. I was there. I saw it.”
