Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6)

by James Scott Bell

  “Miscreant,” I said.

  “Quiet, Mr. Romeo,” Judge Frye said. “Not another word out of you. Please continue, Mr. Pound.”

  “This calls into question his credibility as a witness,” Seth Pound said. “This is crucial, as he is the only one offering testimony concerning an alleged attack.”

  Judge Frye paused a moment, then said, “You may proceed, Mr. Pound. And Mr. Romeo, no more objections from you. That’s up to Ms. Wynn.”

  I wanted to object to that, but decided to keep my mouth shut. For once.

  Preening like a pink flamingo, Seth Pound said, “What was your birth name?”

  “Michael Chamberlain,” I said.

  “And you were born where?”

  “New Haven, Connecticut.”

  “Subsequently, you changed your name, from Chamberlain to Romeo, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you change your name?”

  There is the truth, and then there is the whole truth. One of my rules is you don’t owe the truth to those who lie. A corollary is you don’t owe the whole truth to those who will weaponize it to pervert justice. I was not going to tell Seth Pound or anyone else that I changed my name after hunting down the man responsible for the murder of my parents. Instead, I gave him the short version.

  “I began to do some professional fighting,” I said. “I thought the name Romeo sounded better. Also, I’m a Shakespeare fan.”

  “I’m sure we’re all happy to know that.”

  “Objection,” Hope Wynn said.

  “Sustained,” Judge Frye said. “You know better than that, Mr. Pound.”

  “You have used your false name to deceive people, isn’t that true?” said Pound.

  “It’s not a false name,” I said.

  “Do you have proof of a legal name change?”

  I had an illicit driver’s license. I did not whip it out to show him.

  “No,” I said.

  Hope Wynn again objected and this time Judge Frye told the defense lawyer she’d heard enough.

  Pound said, “You testified you saw my client holding a knife against his forearm, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “He never changed the position of the knife, did he?”

  “No, but—”

  “You’ve answered the question.”

  “But I want to say—”

  Judge Frye said, “Just answer the question you are asked, Mr. Romeo. Ms. Wynn can follow up if she needs to.”

  “She’ll need to,” I said.

  Seth Pound turned a page on his legal pad. “You said on direct that you told my client to be quiet. In fact, you actually told him to shut up, isn’t that true?”

  “I don’t really remember.”

  “Do you remember giving a statement to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in that statement, didn’t you say you used the words ‘shut up’?”

  “I may have.”

  “And how many times was it that you slammed my client’s head into the floor?”

  “I wouldn’t say slammed.”

  “What word would you use, Mr. Romeo?”

  “Knocked?”

  “It was enough to render my client unconscious, was it not?”

  “Dazed was the word I used.”

  “Isn’t it true that you shot and killed a Nevada sheriff last year?”

  The little Nimrod had done his homework. And he was using the cross-examiner’s trick of quickly switching subjects to throw me off guard.

  I stayed on guard and said, “A corrupt sheriff and it was self-defense and I can connect you with the FBI agent who can so attest.”

  “Isn’t this a pattern with you, Mr. Romeo? A pattern of mayhem and death?”

  “Enough of this, Your Honor,” Hope Wynn said.

  “I agree,” said Judge Frye.

  “Mr. Romeo,” Pound said, his voice dripping with TV-drama revulsion, “you never saw my client holding a knife in an attacking manner, did you?”

  “He was about to,” I said.

  “Are you psychic?”

  “Objection,” Hope Wynn said.

  “Sustained,” Judge Frye said.

  Seth Pound didn’t miss a beat. “In point of fact you never saw my client holding a knife at all, did you?”

  That got some steam coming out my ears. “Of course I saw it. And everybody saw it after he hit the floor.”

  “After he hit the floor,” Seth Pound said. “No more questions.”

  The judge called for a fifteen-minute recess. Hope Wynn had no desire to talk to me. She disappeared from the courtroom through a side door. A deputy sheriff took Sammie Sand back to the lockup. Seth Pound went out to the hallway, holding a phone to his ear.

  I was free to go but wanted to see how this thing was going to wrap up. Almost always a judge binds a defendant over for trial. This seemed—at least to me—like a slam dunk. There were enough facts to get this bozo in front of a jury. Oh, joyous day. I’d get to testify again.

  I took a seat in the front row of the gallery and lowered my mask under my chin. The bailiff gave me a look, but in an act of human decency said nothing.

  Detective Coltrane Smith sat down next to me. He had his mask on, owing to his professional responsibility.

  “You’re sticking around?” he said.

  “Just curious,” I said. “How’d I do on the stand?”

  “I loved it, but I don’t think the judge did.”

  “I know the prosector wasn’t too pleased.”

  “They’re hard to please as it is,” he said. “Especially now.”

  “Now?”

  “New D.A. Not exactly a law-and-order type. You get into the D.A.’s office to put bad guys away. When you get orders from up top not to prosecute certain offenders, or go for certain enhancements, it doesn’t sit well. Same goes for cops. Getting harder and harder to do our jobs. It’s why L.A. is hemorrhaging officers.”

  “It’s the same in most major cities,” I said.

  “So let me ask you a question.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a private investigator, right?”

  I shook my head. “I investigate for a lawyer. You don’t need a license for that.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Cause I was thinking of getting my own ticket. Just wondering about the lay of the land.”

  “With your background I don’t think you’d have any trouble getting work. A good anchor client or two, like a big insurance company, and you’d be set.”

  “Awfully tempting, the way things are now.”

  “If you ever make the move, give me a call.” I gave him an Ira card.

  “You’re all right,” Detective Coltrane Smith said. He put out his hand. I shook it heartily. Some things are worth preserving, and the handshake is one of them.

  The bailiff announced that court was again in session.

  Judge Frye said, “After considering the evidence, the witness statements, and making my own assessment of the veracity of same, my ruling is that there is no probable cause to bind Mr. Sand over for trial. Accordingly, the People’s information is dismissed and the bond is discharged. The bailiff will see to Mr. Sand’s release.”

  Boom.

  Just like that.

  Sammie Sand gave Seth Pound a fist bump, then shot me a glare.

  Hope Wynn gave me a similar look.

  A little dazed and definitely ticked off, I emerged from the criminal courthouse onto Temple Street and found Sammie Sand waiting for me.

  With a bigger and older version of himself.

  His ex-con father, no doubt. His massive arms were tatted up and folded across his chest. He was shaved up top but had a thick, gray Fu Manchu mustache.

  I gave them a quick glance, then walked away.

  “Yo!” Daddy Sand said.

  I ignored him.

  “Hey!” Sammie said.

  I kept strolling along, turning left at Hill Street.

  A puffing Sammie Sand
ran past me, stopped. “We wanna talk to you.”

  Daddy Sand came next, walking fast.

  “No time, boys,” I said. “I’ve got to catch Judge Judy.”

  “Chill,” Daddy said. His voice was like a bucket of rocks. “What’s your game? How come you’re after your own?”

  “My own?”

  “What’s your color?”

  “Magenta,” I said. “Look out.”

  “Listen,” Daddy said. “We got to stick together. They’re coming for us. Don’t you know that?”

  “I’ve got no use for you or your spawn,” I said.

  “You’re gonna regret it.”

  “I regret this whole day,” I said, then gave Daddy a prison stare. “Which one of your sons is the sniper?”

  He frowned.

  “Which one shot the cop?” I said.

  There was no tell in his expression. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Because I’ll find out,” I said.

  “Find out what?”

  “That’s enough for today.” I started to move around Daddy, but he stepped in front of me. “You be careful now.”

  “Oh, so we’re starting with the prison threats?” I said. “Striking fear into my little heart?”

  Sammie spat a curse at me, bringing my mother into it.

  To Daddy I said, “If I ever so much as see his shadow, I’ll cut out his tongue and use it to clean my pans. That goes for the rest of the fruit of your loins. And you, too.”

  We locked eyes like a couple of lifers, waiting for the other to make the next move. Finally, Daddy wagged his finger at me, smiled, turned, and told Sammie to come on. They walked back up to Temple and disappeared.

  I walked half a block to the park area between City Hall and the Music Center. I sat on a bench and watched the people for awhile. Downtown was getting a bit more lively again, people walking around. Of course, they had to avoiding the homeless sleeping on cardboard and the shirtless schizophrenic screaming on the corner.

  At least no throats were being cut at the moment. We should be grateful for the little things.

  An old man in a wheelchair was being pushed by a nurse-looking lady. Both were masked up. His eyes were fixed and dull, any interest in life long since dead inside him. Riding out his days.

  Directly behind him, a shaggy-haired guy in his twenties skateboarded by. It was like the old man’s lost youth giving a final wave before the groundhog started delivering his mail.

  Two women, dressed like professionals, walking with purpose, talking with animation, came my way. I wouldn’t have paid them more than passing attention, except the one not wearing a mask looked familiar.

  She glanced my way, and smiled her recognition.

  She said something to her companion that might have been See you later. The companion nodded and walked on.

  Then Agent Holly Samara of the DEA came over to me and said, “Well, look who’s here.”

  Our paths had crossed before over a Mexican cartel and designer drug case. I’d be lying to you if I said it wasn't a pleasant path. Holly Samara looks like one of those agents that is played by an attractive actress on TV. You know, the kind that doesn't exist in real life. Except in this case.

  She sat on the bench. Her chestnut hair was cut short. It gave her an elfin look that was counterbalanced by intelligent brown eyes.

  “What brings you downtown?” she said.

  “I testified,” I said.

  “In a trial?”

  “A preliminary hearing.”

  “Do tell.”

  I gave her the short version. I left out the after meeting with Daddy and Son.

  “And what about you?” I said.

  “I had a meeting at the Federal courthouse,” she said. “I’ll be testifying, too.”

  She looked at her watch. “Let’s get a drink.”

  It was the perfect invitation for a time such as this. We went to a place Holly knew on 2nd Street.

  We sat at a table in the bar area. It was an L.A. kind of place with windows letting in plenty of sunlight.

  I said, “You favor Grey Goose martinis, if I recall.”

  “How sweet of you to remember,” she said.

  “I’m sweet for two minutes a day,” I said.

  “So I caught you at the right time,” she said.

  “The two minutes is almost up.”

  “Maybe we can do something about that.”

  She looked at me directly, and it was one heck of a look. As confident as if she had two hands on her Glock and was telling me to put my hands on the wall.

  The gaze was broken by a young server. I ordered the Grey Goose martini for Agent Samara, and a Corona for me.

  When the server left, Agent Samara said, “I like that you ordered the drinks.”

  “You do?”

  “It doesn’t happen anymore,” she said. “All the men in this town are too afraid. There’s been a mass emasculation.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “I think you’re an exception,” she said.

  “You have a direct approach,” I said.

  “I don’t like wasting time,” she said.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” I said.

  She smiled. “Keep going.”

  “Because I’m working a drug angle.”

  Her smile faded. “Oh.”

  “Vector Dust,” I said. “I have a client, a high school kid, caught dealing. I wonder if there’s a cartel involved somewhere.”

  She shook her head. “Not since the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Between organized crime here and the cartels in Mexico. The cartels import drugs through a porous border. It’s no accident that there’s a so-called crisis down there. It’s all part of the deal.”

  “The government’s involved?”

  She gave me a practiced shrug, one that said I can say no more.

  But she did say, “The Border Patrol is overwhelmed with the migrants, the women and children. It’s beyond their scope. That leaves other parts of the border open for importation of opioids. And then organized crime takes over through franchises.”

  “Franchises?”

  “Just like a McDonald’s. There are heads of local franchises who pay tribute to the crime families, and get to operate. That’s what you’re looking at.”

  “So a kid who is selling at a local high school is like a burger flipper. But he has a manager. And the manager has a franchise owner.”

  She took a breath in a way that told me she didn’t like the topic.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t discuss business,” I said.

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. “I’m full up with it. I almost said I’m fed up with it.”

  “A fed-up fed,” I said.

  “So many things wrong, under the surface, above the surface, from the brass and from—Hey, we said no business.”

  “How about those Dodgers?” I said.

  “Mike, how have you been? What have you been doing?”

  “Still working for Ira Rosen. Living in Paradise Cove.”

  “Nice.”

  “It can be, as long as people who want to hurt you don’t find you there.”

  Her eyebrows went up. They came down as our server placed our drinks in front of us.

  I clinked my Corona bottle on her martini glass and we drank.

  “I’ll tell you something, Mike,”Agent Samara said. “I think about you a lot.”

  “That’s got to be a real pain,” I said. “Like sciatica.”

  “I know you’re a loose cannon. And I’m sworn to uphold the law. That makes for an awkward relationship.”

  “Are we in a relationship?”

  “Like a soldier and a nurse who once met in a field hospital. Now, here we are again.”

  “You’re going to make me blush, Agent Samara.”

  “If you call me that again I’ll toss this drink in your face.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “Holly.”

  “Y
ou know, last time we talked you were a little ambiguous about being involved with someone. You can tell me if you are, and that’ll be the end of the personal side of things.”

  “I’m all about ambiguity,” I said. “Or maybe something else.”

  “What’s her name?” Holly said.

  “There’s no getting around you, is there?”

  “I’m good at my job.”

  “Sophie.”

  “You say that with a tone of resignation,” Holly said.

  “A good word,” I said.

  “I’ve been resigned, too,” she said. “Like you, I know that what I do is not exactly conducive to romantic attachments. You don’t think about that cost when you’re young. You just see the opportunity and walk through the door. At some point the door slams and locks and you look around and wonder what happened.”

  “You can always quit,” I said.

  “And do what?”

  “Something different.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  She sipped her drink.

  “Or I can find someone who is just as vulnerable as I am,” she said. “What are you doing the rest of your life?”

  It was a good question, one that cut me between the ribs.

  I said, “I think I need some time to mull this over.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” she said. “Let’s continue this conversation at my place. I’ll make you my famous pasta carbonara with pan-seared scallops.”

  “Famous the world over?”

  “At least from here to Downey.”

  “I’m being hunted by a killer right now,” I said.

  “You’ll never be safer than with me and my pasta and my Glock, and a nice bottle of wine.”

  “You make a good point.”

  “I always do,” she said.

  Holly Samara lived in a apartment building off Wilshire, over near UCLA. It was a tidy one bedroom, decked out in earthy colors—ochre, greens, deep reds, soft blues. A place for a busy DEA agent to come back to and relax. There was even a pot by the window with—

  “Begonias,” I said.

  “You know about flowers?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine.”

  Holly looked at me with a bemused smile. “You are full of surprises. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”