Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “What now?” she asked.

  “As far as?”

  “Your job. Will you go back?”

  I looked down at the tumbler cupped in both hands on my lap. It was down to ice and a wedge of lime, begging to be refilled. “Of course I will. This week was on the county—courtesy of my new shrink who is not at all hot like the old one.”

  She smiled.

  “Our team is off for the weekend, but I’ll be back at it Monday. There’s going to be a lot to do now, wrapping everything up. There’s still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  After a moment, I said, “I truly needed a week off though.”

  “I agree.”

  “Usually, I don’t. Believe it or not, I’m normally better off to stay in the game.”

  “At least you think so,” she said softly.

  I looked into her blue eyes, paused a beat and said, “You know, it doesn’t bother me that I killed him.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “In fact, I’m glad he’s dead. I’m relieved by it, honestly.”

  “Richard, I’m not here as your counselor.”

  “I know.” I took our glasses and left her on the balcony with the new wicker chairs, the wild flowers, and a planted Bonsai tree that looked like a miniature juniper and at times allowed a forest-like aroma to flood my senses. It would take me away from the city and all of her evils, if only for moments at a time. I should have bought one years ago.

  Katherine called out behind me that she was good, indicating she didn’t need a refill. I set the two glasses on the counter and briefly considered the implications if I did need a refill—if I wasn’t yet good.

  I returned with a fresh gin and tonic that she glanced at as I reclaimed my seat next to her. “Tell me, doc, what’s a shrink do when she experiences a life-and-death situation and the carnage that follows? I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like it, right?”

  She shook her head.

  “So, do you need to see a doc? Does it help? Are you a true believer?”

  “Are you?” she asked, staring off in the distance.

  A moment passed as I carefully considered my answer. “I’m not sure I’m a true believer of anything anymore, other than maybe life and death, good and evil. But you just played the role of my shrink and turned my question around on me. I honestly want to know; does it bother you what happened? You were there when a man was killed. Seeing something like that can cause trauma—”

  “I didn’t actually see it happen. I was on the floor.”

  “But you experienced it. You were there. You hit the floor. You heard the shooting and heard the screams and saw the aftermath. You felt the fear and for a moment must have wondered if you were going to die. That’s natural during these types of incidents. Then, when it was over, you saw a dead man lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Blood that I spilled. At least in part, I was responsible for his death.”

  Her eyes came back to me and narrowed as she retorted, “He tried to kill you. Us, maybe. It didn’t bother me that he was dead, or that I saw him that way.” She looked away, and her tone softened. “Maybe I was relieved that he was dead. Maybe that’s the part I’ve always missed about you guys and your shooting people. I’ve always expected my cops to have some sort of regret for taking a man’s life, yet it is seldom that I’ve seen it. I generally wrote it off to virility—”

  “The hell is virility?”

  She looked back to me and smiled. “Machismo. Manliness . . . It had never occurred to me that there was a true sense of relief, or gratitude. That you—or whomever—had encountered a deadly incident and survived, and were only grateful to be alive.” She looked away again, contemplating. “I believe this experience will have a profound impact on my ability to help officers going forward. And that’s a good thing.”

  “If you keep your job.”

  She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “It’s all a formality. The board will ask a few questions. I will provide the answers, and life goes on. I’m not worried about it.”

  “But if . . . What . . .”

  “Us?”

  “What?”

  “You trailed off. You were going to ask about us. What if we keep seeing one another. What if we date. What if there is a future, a relationship. How do I take my cop boyfriend—a former patient—to the holiday party, right?”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “I’m just saying, if we were to continue whatever it is we’re doing.”

  I sipped my gin and smiled as I thought about whatever it was we were “doing.” It was Friday evening, four days since the shooting in Chinatown, and she and I had spent parts of the week together. Monday night went into the early morning hours of Tuesday with the processes of officer-involved shooting cases: interviews, statements, debriefing, blood draw for blood-alcohol testing, and a lot of waiting and drinking coffee. Late Tuesday afternoon she had called and asked if we could meet. Privately, not at another one of my famous barrooms, she had said. I suggested my place. She declined, stating she had some concerns about that given the scrutiny I might be under after yet another shooting. So, her place it was. She lived in a modest townhome in an affluent part of Pasadena, not far from Burbank. It was warmly decorated and very obviously the home of a single woman. We had sat on her balcony and visited for a few hours over lunch and iced tea. The afternoon had turned to evening. The drinks turned from tea to wine and beer. We moved from the balcony to the living room sofa where comfort had offered closeness, and that too became something more. I stayed the night and it was comfortable for us both. Wednesday morning we went for breakfast and I called Chuck to tell him I’d be home in a couple hours. They were leaving for San Diego that afternoon and I was set to watch Elvis. Katherine politely declined my offer to accompany me to my apartment, stating she had a lot to do the rest of the week, which included makeup sessions for cancellations she had made Tuesday. It had been just a few hours ago, Friday evening, when I finally convinced her to come see me at my apartment. I had used Elvis as an excuse, though truthfully, I wanted her to see this part of me. The simple life of a middle-aged homicide detective and soon to be second-time-around divorcee. I had cleaned all week and bought some new furnishings and mentally made the decision to move on with my life. I still hadn’t heard a thing from Valerie, not a single returned phone call or message.

  What were we actually doing? Me and the doc. Was it something with potential for growth and sustainability? Or, was this the reaction of two survivors with no intimacy in their lives when they needed it most? Were we only drawn together as the result of a shared traumatic experience, a sort of bond of war? Were we two lonely souls who yearned to escape the realities of their near-death experience, and found comfort in one another’s arms?

  Floyd and I had been partners for years and had experienced many life-threatening experiences; our friendship had been cemented by each one. We were close now in the way of brothers. We were two men who had fought together. We knew one another’s darkest secrets, greatest strengths and weaknesses, and the few fears each had. The more violence and mayhem we experienced, the tighter was our bond, not dissimilar—I presumed—to what war veterans experienced. The unintended consequence was the narrowing of our inner circles. He and I spoke of it at times and both acknowledged there were no others we trusted with our closely guarded thoughts and emotions. I wondered if that was what Katherine and I were experiencing, a small slice of it. Maybe her more so than me. I needed the female companionship and I was sexually attracted to her.

  Whatever it is we’re doing.

  “Currently, I’m enjoying the evening with a drink and my favorite shrink. How could it be any better than that?”

  “Well, to answer the question you never did get around to asking, you are no longer my patient. We did not date when you were. If we date now, it’s just one of those gray areas that nobody ever really addresses. It happens. Even shrinks are human.”

  I grinned and took a long drink of
my gin. It went down smooth and made me feel better, more relaxed, less concerned with everything going on in my life. It allowed me an escape that left me in peace, enjoying her very pleasant company.

  In the silence that followed I heard Elvis whining outside. “Elvis.”

  “He probably wants in. He’s lonely. Does he live inside when they’re home?” she asked.

  I nodded. “He does. But he can’t get up and down the stairs to come into my apartment. Bad hips, I guess. He’s an old guy, like me. Though my hips are still okay.”

  She smiled.

  “So, he spends a lot of time at the bottom step waiting for me. I put a little blanket down there for him—you might have noticed it—so he’d have a comfy place to hang out, sleep.”

  “You could carry him up and down, bring him in, the poor baby.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me, but it was a great idea. I went out and brought him in. When I set him down inside the doorway, I straightened up and groaned while stretching my back. “Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea; he’s heavier than you’d think.”

  Katherine watched Elvis follow me out to the balcony. He circled three times before curling up at her feet and lying there contently, panting and drooling and looking about with baggy, bloodshot eyes. We had a few things in common, me and Elvis.

  She leaned down and patted the old boy on his head. “Elvis is such a cutie-pie.”

  41

  ON MY WAY into the office Monday morning, I called the desk to ask if anyone had seen Ray Cortez this morning. I had not been able to reach him at his desk or on his cell phone. Rich Farris picked up the phone. After harassing him for drawing desk duty again, I asked for Ray. Farris told me Ray was in a meeting with the sheriff. “The sheriff?”

  Yes, he said, THE sheriff.

  “What in the hell is going on? What has happened?” I demanded.

  “I’ve got no idea, man,” Rich said, “but your captain was running around the office with his ass on fire. Something’s going down, brother.”

  I thanked him and disconnected while shifting in my seat and picking up speed. This had to be about the Santa Clarita case. It just had to be. But what would bring the sheriff to the bureau? Usually, if he wanted a personal briefing on a case, the involved investigators would pull the knots of their ties up tight and find a suit coat and—along with the team lieutenant—accompany the captain to the big house on the hill. The administrative megalopolis known as Sheriff’s Headquarters. Or, the house of fairies, as I called it. The sheriff didn’t come to you. Almost never. I punched in Floyd’s number on the speed dial.

  “What’s up, Dickie?”

  “Are you at the office?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  I told him. He said, “Holy shit.” We both agreed to haul ass, and I told him he had failed us on the intel today. “No shit,” and we hung up.

  When I pulled into the lot behind the bureau I saw Ray hustling to his car. I stopped alongside him. “What’s going on, Ray?”

  He looked over at me through aviators and said, “Park it and jump in; we have to go!”

  The tires of my Crown Vic squealed as I swerved head first into the nearest available spot. It went against my grain to not back in, but this was clearly urgent. I grabbed my briefcase and suit coat—knowing the sheriff was somewhere nearby—and stepped to Ray’s car. It sat waiting at an angle, halfway out of its parking space, the wheels cranked and passenger’s door open. As I got in, Floyd pulled up and blocked our path. He flipped us off, never taking anything seriously, and Ray hit his horn and waved him out of the way. He jerked his car to the side and stuck his head out of the window. “What’s going on?”

  “Tell him to get in,” Ray said.

  “Park your car and jump in, hurry up!”

  His reaction equalled the urgency in my tone. He too pulled nose first into a nearby parking space and in a short moment was sliding into the backseat behind where I sat in Ray’s car, now with a serious expression. “What the hell is going on?”

  “We’re both about to find out. Ray?”

  Ray wheeled onto Eastern Avenue and picked up speed heading for the freeway. He glanced over at me and then into his rearview, lifting his head slightly to pick up Floyd in the reflection. “The shit has hit the fan. Chaney’s barricaded in his house.”

  I turned in my seat to look at Floyd. He smiled and nodded, indicating he was ready for action. Floyd spent his entire life preparing for action and praying it would come. Ray was checking his mirrors while passing cars and maneuvering through traffic.

  I asked him, “This is Chaney’s house we’re talking about? Our Chaney?”

  “Yeah, William Chaney, husband of our missing girl. Apparently there’ve been shots fired too. Smack-dab in the middle of beautiful Santa Clarita. SWAT’s rolling, the location is secured, they have a negotiator en route, and we have two birds up top. I’m sure the media is crawling and flying all over the place too.”

  “Jesus. What the hell happened?”

  “That’s the crazy part. Davey Lopes knocked on his door about an hour ago and apparently told him he was going down for murder, in the way only Lopes could. It didn’t go over well—”

  “Atta boy, Davey,” from the back seat.

  “Is that why the sheriff was at the bureau?”

  Ray glanced over. “You heard?”

  I nodded, but he didn’t see me.

  “Yeah, apparently Chaney has some powerful connections, the idiot governor being one, our sheriff another. I guess what happened is Lopes went there on a tear—let me back up. Did you guys hear about the corrections officer, the lady Lopes was going—”

  “Prison guard out of Pelican, was shot a week or so ago.”

  “Right. So, you guys heard she’s pulled through, right? She is out of the woods now, stable and doing good.” He craned his head again as he looked into the rearview mirror for an answer.

  Floyd said he had heard she was still critical, just the other day.

  “Well, Lopes now has her in witness protection and she’s rolling over on the mob, big time. I guess she’s hooked into them, has family members who are confirmed carnales. Apparently, our Santa Clarita case was a mob hit, hired by the husband of the victim, Chaney. She didn’t have a lot of details but said she had heard talk about it and knows that was the case.”

  “Jesus,” Floyd said, “he hired his old lady killed, had them cut her fucking head off?”

  He nodded. “That’s what this corrections officer is saying. So anyway, Lopes tells me this yesterday, and he and I drive out to talk to Chaney. Again, no answer. I tell Lopes the guy hasn’t been around since our first interview with him, that you and I have both tried coming out and he’s never here, and that we don’t know if he’s skipped town or what. Next thing I know, shit’s hit the fan. Apparently, Lopes drove out there by himself this morning and knocked on the door. He didn’t get an answer, and Lopes talked some shit, telling him he can’t keep hiding, that he was coming for him. You know how Lopes can get. Anyway, Lopes drives off but sits down the street watching for a while. A few minutes later, Chaney starts backing out of the garage. Lopes races in and skids up behind him, blocks him in, and bails out of his hoop. Chaney sees him, panics—”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “—and floors it back into the garage, throws his car in park, and runs into the house with Lopes on his heels. Lopes kicks the door and goes in behind him—I don’t know what the hell he was going to do if he caught him—but the guy is already going up a staircase when Lopes rounds the corner, and Chaney busts a cap at him!”

  “Wait, what?!”

  We were sailing through traffic now, the emergency red light and siren clearing a path in the number one lane of the Golden State freeway, headed north. I glanced over to see we were doing 80, average. Debris flew up from the pavement as Ray crowded the median, hinting for drivers to move out of our lane. He was saying, “Yeah, and Lopes returned fire, but then he backed out of the house, probably reali
zing this had gone to shit.”

  “Jesus,” Floyd said. “Did he hit this Chaney asshole, or do we know?”

  “We don’t know. I mean, this is just what we got from Lopes on the phone. That’s the crazy part too, all of this happens right as the sheriff came down to the bureau to have a piece of my ass, and the captain’s too, apparently. Chaney had called this morning and complained that we keep harassing him, said we were up there last night banging on his door and the neighbors were now talking about it, and in essence, we were tarnishing his good standing in the community. He claimed we’ve been stalking him, and now his neighbors all think he has something to do with his wife’s murder. Literally, the captain comes through the bureau and grabs me and is looking for Lopes—Lopes was helping me all last week while you were off—and I tell him I hadn’t seen Lopes yet this morning. He’s fuming and tells me to get my ass into the conference room. We walk through the front desk area and the captain yells for someone to get ahold of Lopes and get him in there.

  “I walked into the conference room and there’s the sheriff and his driver—that big redheaded kid who used to work SWAT—and the undersheriff, and some other asshole I’d never seen. Before we could be introduced, we get word that Lopes is in a shooting in Santa Clarita. I about shit.”

  Floyd was shaking his head, but still grinning. “This ought to be good.”

  I said, “All this just happened?”

  “Yeah, partner, like the smoke hasn’t cleared yet. Lopes backed out and was about to put out a call for help when the front desk called—trying to get ahold of him per the captain’s order—and he’s still panting from all the action. He tells Farris at the front desk what happened, which is where I got it from. When we all met up and tore out of there, the sheriff was still at the bureau. He might be on his way up to Santa Clarita now. This is a real mess.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, “That wasn’t Chaney’s wife in the car. It was Lisa Williams, confirmed by DNA, right?”

  “Unless Lopes had it right all along that there is only one woman, that Lisa Williams and Marilynn Chaney are one and the same.”