Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “Snuggles.”

  “Uh-huh. And so he stays under the boat for a few hours, afraid to come out. When he leaves, he takes the puppy with him. That’s his story, anyway.”

  “Jesus. You think a kid’s going to make up that kind of a story, just to keep a puppy? I mean, that’s a wild imagination for a kid. How old is he?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Dickie. He’s ten. Cute little kid with green eyes.”

  “Black?”

  Floyd nodded.

  “Remember that redheaded kid on Elm Street? He was a blood gang member. A redheaded, freckle-faced, Eastside Bishop.”

  “Yeah, I remember him. He was an asshole too. But an easy one to nail when he committed a crime.”

  We both chuckled.

  “Anyway, I don’t know about this deal. I want to believe the little shit, but I can’t find any murder memos that match his story. Have you heard anyone brief anything that sounds remotely similar, two guys in ski masks? Some type of market or maybe a liquor store robbery? I haven’t seen anything on the news either. You would think something like that would make the news.”

  I shrugged. “South L.A., bud, not many murders make the news. But no, I haven’t heard of any cases like that. Nothing even close.”

  “I wonder if he didn’t see this shit on some movie, or came up with it while playing video games. I mean, two white guys doing a number at a South L.A. stop-and-rob? When have you heard of that happening?”

  “He couldn’t tell you where it happened?”

  “No. He said he had never been out of the neighborhood before. He had run away and only confessed to doing so on the condition we not tell Mrs. Nathan. He doesn’t want to go to juvie.”

  “How’d he get back home?”

  Floyd frowned at me. “Mrs. Nathan. She’s who brought him in.”

  “No, jackass; how’d he get home that day, after the murder?”

  “Oh, right. Well, ya see, that’s the other thing; he says he took a bus back. He sat at a bus stop until one arrived that had Watts displayed above the windshield. The driver let him on for free when he told him he was lost and needed to get back to Watts.”

  “With Snuggles.”

  “Right.”

  “I always thought that was interesting, how you’d see buses that advertised going to Watts. I mean, where do they come from, and why would you ride a bus to Watts?”

  “That’s the key: where did it come from? I need to work on that, but you know what a fun puzzle that will be. I have a feeling I’m going to be chasing my damn ass in circles trying to prove it didn’t happen, all because some goddamn hose-jockey had to call when I’m on the desk. Do you see why I hate firemen?”

  “Did he say how far the ride was, or how long it took?”

  “I asked, Dickie. Don’t be thinking I’m missing shit just because I’m not partnered with Dickie Clouseau Jones anymore. He doesn’t know, crazy as that may sound. I think he said he fell asleep on the bus or some bullshit.”

  “You’ve checked with LAPD, right?”

  Floyd nodded.

  “What about Long Beach?”

  “No, not yet.” He pulled a notebook from his briefcase, thumbed to a blank page not far from the front cover, and made a note.

  “How did he get to where he went, when he ran away from the foster home? On foot? Bike? Did he steal a car or what?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I assumed it was nearby, you know, walking distance.”

  “Right, but he rode a bus home. If it happened.”

  “If it happened. I just assumed it wasn’t too far away from his house. We always found them somewhere nearby.”

  “I don’t miss handling the runaways and missings.”

  As I said it, a few names and faces popped into my head, kids I’d gotten to know while working station detectives on those very streets. Some of the kids I had tried to help; others I had been dispatched to confiscate and relocate from abusive homes to state custodians. Many of them would never make it out of the ghetto alive; we all knew that. Those who had outlived their life expectancy generally didn’t make much of their lives. Every once in a while you’d hear a success story, but it seemed those were rare.

  I thought about a boy named Prince who had been one of Mrs. Nathan’s fosters. He had been born to a crackhead and was immediately taken away from her and thrust into the state’s custody. The system. Like this kid Floyd was dealing with, Prince was ten years old when we met him. Floyd and I were working station detectives and handling a runaway juvie case. Mrs. Nathan had reported it. One of the foster kids was missing, presumed to have run away. Prince volunteered to show us all the places we might find him. He took us the long route to each location, savoring his time riding around with two detectives. He was an enthusiastic, bright boy, and I had taken him under my wing after that night, to an extent. I had tried to mentor and guide him along the right path in an effort to give him a chance in life. But one day, he too was gone. Mrs. Nathan had said she was unable to deal with him anymore, so he was moved to a new “home.” Sent off somewhere else in the system.

  “Remember Prince?”

  Floyd grinned. “I thought of him during this ordeal, and damn near asked Mrs. Nathan what had ever come of him. Didn’t think I’d want to hear the answer though, if she even knew. I liked that kid.”

  “I checked on him from time to time after that night he rode around with us. Even took him a Christmas present that next year. Not long after, I stopped by and Mrs. Nathan said he’d been moved. Said she couldn’t deal with him anymore, that he was getting into trouble at home and at school. I thought I told you about that.”

  Floyd didn’t respond; he just gazed at nothing for a moment and I could see the anguish in his hazel eyes. We were like that, able to read each other; we had been that way for years. He was likely wondering what became of Prince, and maybe wondering what would become of this boy with the green eyes who says he saw a murder, but might be spinning a wild tale.

  My phone vibrated against the desk. I looked to see it was Katherine calling in. As I pushed the button to send the call to voicemail, I noticed the time; it was nearly ten already. I broke the silence a few moments later. “What’s this kid’s name, your would-be runaway?”

  “Cedric. Cedric Stanley Staley, the third. How do you like that?”

  I smiled and stood from my desk. “Well, good luck with Cedric the Entertainer. I’m out of here.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for all the help, asshole.”

  2

  Lt. Joe Black asked if I would join him in the kitchen for a cup. I felt my eyes narrow as I instinctively questioned the motive. “Sure.”

  I set my briefcase on my desk and glanced at Raymond Cortez who sat watching and listening. We had been partners for the last six months, ever since I returned to work. I had been off for a year, recovering from being shot during the arrest of a killer in East Los Angeles. When I returned, my long-time partner and friend, Floyd, had been assigned to work with a new guy. Mongo. And Floyd was no longer available to be my partner. I had hated the idea of returning and having so many changes in my life. I was going through my second divorce, Floyd was no longer to be my partner. I had been reassigned from Team Two to Team Five. I don’t do change well.

  As if that wasn’t enough, I had begun dating my shrink, Dr. Katherine James.

  Though I missed being partnered with Floyd, it had been a delight working with Ray. We worked well together, and it would be difficult to find a nicer man in the office. The only challenger might be Joe Black, the lieutenant of Team Five. The move to Five also seemed to have changed my volatile relationship with my captain, James Stover. That was an unforeseen benefit. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that me and Floyd were split up, or whether Joe Black ran interference for me with the captain. Or both. Either way, the captain wasn’t on my ass all the time as he had been in years past.

  Ray only shrugged to indicate he had no idea why Joe had invited me back for coffee. I shrugged
in return and followed Joe to the kitchen.

  I stopped next to him at the coffee station and he poured me a cup. I accepted it without speaking, my mind racing. The possibilities seemed endless, none of them good. Floyd and I were defendants in a federal lawsuit that was about to begin, litigation involving the man I had killed 18 months ago. Six months ago, I was involved in two other shootings, one of which resulted in the death of a serial killer. But the last five months or so had been relatively quiet. No shootings, no wrecked cars, no fights, riots, or confrontations with the brass. I couldn’t guess what this was going to be about.

  Joe Black poured a cup for himself and suggested a nearby table by nodding in its direction. We took seats across from one another. Joe watched me as he took his time with his first sip, his eyes giving me no indication of the direction we were about to go.

  “What’s up, Joe? What did I do now?”

  He smiled. “Why, Richard, you haven’t done a thing wrong. No, no, quite the contrary. I’m very pleased with your performance, and I really enjoy having you on my team—”

  “But?”

  He took another sip, and again took his time with it. He sat the steaming Styrofoam cup on the table between us and watched it as he ran his finger around the brim. After a moment, he looked me in the eyes. “Richard, how would you like to take on a new body?”

  “A new guy?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Someone from another team.”

  “No, a new body, but not a guy.”

  Jesus. “Oh, a female.”

  He nodded.

  “It wouldn’t be the best thing for me right now, boss, to be perfectly honest. I’ve really gotten comfortable with Ray, and I enjoy working with him. Also, well, I’m in a new relationship—”

  “The doctor. Doctor James.”

  I wondered if he were reminding me of the precarious situation that I was in as a way to gain the upper hand in the conversation. I nodded. “Yeah, Katherine. Look, Joe, it’s not just that. I mean, yeah, it can be tough on relationships when a guy has a woman for a partner, we all know that. We’ve seen it time and again.”

  He didn’t agree or disagree. He waited for me to continue.

  “I don’t know that I’d want to work with a woman just now, in part because of that—my relationship with Katherine—and because I don’t want to lose Ray as a partner. Who is she, anyway?”

  “Josefina Sanchez.”

  I laughed. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “I know of her. Everyone does.”

  He cocked his head.

  I continued. “She’s the one responsible for the sheriff’s department’s version of Rodney King.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t believe you never heard of it. She was caught on film beating some dude with her baton. It was broad daylight. The dude was on the ground but not complying, kind of like King. Her partner was trying to handcuff the guy and was on top of him, covering his torso. So all she really had access to was his legs, and the guy was wearing shorts. A huge black guy with legs as big around as telephone poles. She teed off on him like she was chopping wood. Must’ve hit him fifty times, alternating from one leg to the other. Well, of course there’s a lawsuit, and the department probably paid out a couple million. You never heard about that? It was on the news non-stop back then, a few years back. The media compared it to the Rodney King beating.”

  Joe Black shook his head and waited.

  “Another time, she runs over a guy in an alley—”

  “She did what?”

  “Runs over a guy. She’s got a ride-along with her, some kid who’s looking to get on the department. But he apparently changed his mind after eight hours with her. Anyway, they’re on patrol down in North Long Beach, and she goes to drive through an alley, but there’s a mattress on the ground. The alley’s too narrow for her to go around it, and she doesn’t want to back out. I guess she doesn’t want to get out and move the goddamn thing either, so she runs over it. The kid riding with her—he tells the papers this later—says he hears a muffled scream. As they continue driving away, he’s watching in his mirror and sees the mattress moving. He says something to Deputy Sanchez and she stops the patrol car. Now this old black guy is stumbling to his feet, holding his head and groaning. She stops the car, jumps out, and yells at the guy. ‘Frazier, get your fucking ass out of this alley or I’ll take you to jail.’ And they drive off.

  “The kid—this ride-along—is beside himself, but doesn’t say anything at the time. He’s probably just trying to survive the shift, thinking the broad’s crazy. A few hours later, a 902R call comes out, assist rescue—”

  “I realize it’s been a few decades, Richard, but I do remember my radio codes.”

  “Well, she takes the handle on this 902R and they roll code three. When they get there, there’s a couple of paramedics and a handful of firemen surrounding some guy sitting on the curb. This is several blocks from the alley where she had run over this Frazier guy, so she doesn’t even think about it being related. Sanchez and her ride-along walk up and she sees it’s Frazier. He’s still holding his head, but now the whole side of it is matted in blood, and his shirt is soaked too. He looks up at her and starts to say something, but the paramedics tell him not to talk, they tell him to be real still. Well, she apparently knows what he’s about to say, so she turns and heads for the car, tells the kid, ‘Let’s go,’ and they get the hell out of there. The patient ends up telling these paramedics what happened, that he had been sleeping in an alley when the crazy lady cop ran over him.”

  Joe Black watched with disbelief in his eyes. “You’re sure about all of this?”

  “You can’t make that shit up, Joe. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I’m just telling you because if I have to work with her, I don’t want Stover blaming shit on me. That’s all I need, to be partnered with some crazy, half-cocked female partner who stirs shit up. I’m surprised sometimes that I have lasted this long just working with that idiot, Floyd.”

  “If what you say about her is true, how did she keep her job?”

  I shrugged. “Hispanic female. What can I say?”

  “But even then, I mean, it just doesn’t make sense. How did she make it here, to Homicide? Something doesn’t seem right, Richard.”

  “You’re asking me, Joe? You guys are the ones who put these transfer lists together, you and your fellow lieutenants, and that genius captain of yours.”

  “That’s for the deputies; she’s a sergeant, and there is no list. We were just told she’s coming.”

  “A sergeant?” I chuckled while shaking my head. “Where the hell is she coming from, anyway?”

  “Compton Gangs.”

  I swigged the rest of my coffee and stood up from my chair. “Well, Joe, I have to be honest. I don’t want her, and I don’t want me and Ray split up. That’s my feeling on the matter, but I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I want to stay on your team, Joe. You’ve been good to me, so I’m not going to fight you on it. But I really don’t want to take her if you can figure anything else out.”

  Joe’s brows crowded his eyes as he nodded, clearly troubled by the information he had just received. I thanked him for the cup and began to walk out as my old partner Floyd glided in with his ever-present ear-to-ear grin.

  “What are you doing, Dickie, kissing your lieutenant’s ass again?”

  I wasn’t in the mood. “Yeah, that’s it, you know me,” I grumped.

  We stopped to face each other, and his grin was gone. “What’s up your ass?”

  I glanced over to see that Joe had gotten up from the table but was taking his time with moving out. I lowered my voice. “I guess I’m getting another new partner.”

  “No shit? Who are you getting?”

  “That crazy broad, Sanchez. Josefina Sanchez.”

  He laughed. “Oh, dude, that is outstanding! Josie. She rocks. You know her, right?”

  I turned
to walk back toward the squad room and Floyd followed my lead. “I know of her.”

  “She’s hot. But don’t make a move on her, I heard she kicked Kevin Greinke’s ass at an off-training party for making some moves on her. She’s supposed to be kind of badass.”

  “Badass? Really?”

  He chuckled. “She kicked Greinke’s ass.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “What are you all uptight about, Dickie? I think it would be cool to have a hot chick as a partner.”

  “I just don’t want a new partner, period. I enjoy working with Ray, and you know me and how much I love change. Also, with the things I’ve heard about her, seems to me she’s a bit of a loose cannon.”

  He stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You’re a loose cannon, dickhead, and yet here you are.”

  “Was.”

  “Okay, maybe. But give the girl a break, she’s a hero.”

  “Hero? Let’s not get carried away. She beat some dude who was down on all fours and ran over some cluck in an alley, an old wino who never hurt anyone in his life. Oh, and kicked some drunk deputy’s ass. That’s not my definition of a hero.”

  “And saved an LAPD copper’s wife.”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You never heard about it?”

  I shook my head. “Apparently not.”

  “Jesus, dude, it was legendary. There’s a pursuit—I think she was working Lakewood at the time, maybe Gangs—and the bad guy bails out and runs into a supermarket, Albertson’s or something. It was early in the evening and the place was full of shoppers. This asshole had done a robbery somewhere, jacked a car, and was armed with a rifle of some sort, some sawed-off job with pistol grips. He runs into the store and she’s the first through the door after him. She follows the eyes and fingers of all of these terrified shoppers, indicating which way the asshole went. She chases him through the store, up one row and down another. She rounds a corner and this guy with the rifle has grabbed a hostage, some broad who turns out to be an LAPD cop’s wife. He’s got the gun up to her head. Sanchez draws down on him. He’s yelling for her to drop her gun, but she’s walking straight at him telling him, no, you drop your fucking gun—just about like that, too, from what I remember hearing. Yates and Brown handled the shooting, you can ask them about it. Anyway, the cop’s wife—who had probably been schooled by her old man—sees this is likely to go hot, so she drops as far as she can with him still holding onto her, kind of slumps like dead weight in his arms. It gives Sanchez enough of an opening—a split-second target opportunity—and she takes her shot. Two shots, actually, a quick little double-tap. And the asshole is down, DOA. Now that’s big balls in Cowtown, Dickie.”