He stared for a long moment and seemed to be scrutinizing me. Mongo swiveled around to pay attention too.
I continued: “The smaller of the two carries a little twenty-gauge shotgun, something that doesn’t have a lot of kick. So far, she hasn’t hit anything, as far as we know. Is she a bad shot, or is she reluctant to kill?”
“Wait a minute here, Dickie. What makes you think it’s a woman?”
“One of the prior robbery cases Josie pulled indicated there were two suspects, a man and a woman.”
“Didn’t you say they were wearing masks? That’s why you were originally interested in it, right?”
“Right. But there’s a witness who said the smaller one spoke, and she’s a woman. We almost wrote the case off as being unrelated until I started thinking about it. Especially after you and I saw that car down there with the pellet holes in the trunk. I’m convinced she purposely fired to miss the kid. Cedric.”
Floyd was nodding. “Could be.”
“They didn’t recover any pellets in Ho’s autopsy, either. We should have the autopsy on the old wino from the parking lot in the next day or two. If each of them was killed by multiple two-twenty-three gunshot wounds, and no shotgun pellets, then I think I’m onto something. We know she fired that shotgun inside the store and again outside in the parking lot. Yet she isn’t hitting anything other than walls and parked cars. I find that interesting. It makes me think it’s a woman who doesn’t want to be a killer, she’s just going along with her partner.”
“I think you’re going soft on me, Dickie.”
“I think we may have another Patty Hearst in the making. You’re going to want to be part of that, aren’t you?”
At 2200 hours Monday night, Farley and Morgan of the army’s elite CID team parked their cars on opposite sides of the home of Grandma Ortiz in North Long Beach. Each had a radio tuned to a simplex channel that would allow direct communication between them without the use of a repeater. This was preferred when working in close proximity for a number of reasons, primarily the absence of interference or monitoring by others.
Farley settled in and leaned his seat back which allowed him to sit low in the darkness of his sedan. He keyed his mic and sent a test transmission. “How do you copy me, Jimbo?”
CW2 James P. Morgan answered up. “Gotcha loud and clear, Chuckie. Over.”
They sounded like teenaged boys playing a game of prowling. It was by design; there wouldn’t be any talk on the radio that could allow anyone listening to know they were military personnel on a mission.
“What do you think the odds are she’d approach through the alley?”
“If she shows up, I’d bet she walks right through the front door. Tina’s got balls.”
Farley nodded slightly in the darkness of his sedan, thinking about his partner’s fondness for the fugitive. Morgan had never said as much, but Farley knew it was there. It had always been a big part of Morgan’s motivation to keep the file open. To what end, Farley didn’t know. Either way, her life was over, as far as Farley could figure. Either she had died in the turbulent waters, or she hadn’t. Morgan would either never see or hear from her again, or she would surface and be a prisoner for the rest of her life. Farley hoped his friend and teammate had prepared himself for either scenario. Two soldiers had been killed in the search-and-rescue efforts after their vehicle overturned and was swept away during the floods. The army would judge her and her accomplice harshly if ever they were captured.
Farley took a sip of his coffee and secured the cup in its holder. He picked up his case file and retrieved the two photographs of the absconders. After looking around outside of his car and not seeing any movement or activity, he cupped his hand over the red lens of a small flashlight and illuminated first one and then the other army file photos of Sergeant Hollingsworth and Private First Class Ortiz. He went back and forth and recommitted the images to memory.
With the light turned off and the file set aside, Farley continued sipping hot coffee in the darkness with an army-issued Sig Sauer pistol P228 on his hip and an M4 carbine readied across his lap. Ortiz may be a cutie, but she was in the company of a dangerous and violent man. CW3 Charles Farley did not expect an apprehension of either one to be accomplished without a violent confrontation.
17
The door flew open. Travis Hollingsworth grabbed his pistol from the table in front of him and came up ready to fire.
“Jesus Christ, Carlos, what the hell are you doing coming in like that? You’re lucky I didn’t drop you.”
“Where’s my sister?”
Travis shrugged. “I don’t know, she’s been barricaded all day in her room. Moody little bitch sometimes.”
“I seen the kid.”
“What kid?”
“The one from that market. The one that kicked you in the nuts and ran out, and Tina tried to shoot but missed.”
Travis sat up on the edge of the couch. Fumbling to lift a cigarette out of its pack, he asked, “Where?”
“At the market. I went by there again, figured I’d scout it out some more at night. I was wondering about those armored cars, if they come back at closing, you know? That’s when I seen him.”
“How do you know it was the same boy? Did ya see his eyes?”
“His eyes?”
“Yeah, he’s got green eyes. Little negro with green eyes. There can’t be too many of them.”
“I wasn’t close enough to see his eyes, but he was with a couple of detectives. I’m sure it was him. I had a pretty good look when he ran by the van that day. Same kid, I’m telling you.”
Travis fell back into the cushions of his couch, deep in thought. He’d made it clear they needed to find the boy and take him out, and he had hinted that maybe it would be Carlos’s job to do so. Carlos needed to get his hands bloody. It would be the kid, or the storeowner. Maybe both. You had to eliminate witnesses, and that’d be a good job for Carlos. If he could handle it.
“Was it the same detectives that was there when Tina watched?”
Carlos frowned. “How would I know? I wasn’t with Tina when she saw them. But they were detectives, no doubt about that. One was a pretty boy, the other looked like a fucking sumo wrestler, big Hawaiian-looking dude.”
“Did the other have a hat?”
He shook his head. “No, nobody had a hat.”
“She said one of ’em wore a fedora, like an old-style detective.”
Carlos was still shaking his head when his eyes drifted away from Travis and toward the hallway behind him. Travis turned to see Tina leaning against the corner, covering herself with her arms. She wore gray sweat shorts and a scant undershirt with no bra. Travis held his gaze on her as she chimed in on the conversation: “That might have been the one, the pretty boy you describe. But I didn’t see no Hawaiians. The other guy was a white boy with a hat, like Trav said. An old-time detective or a Chicago gangster. Mean looking. He wasn’t cute like the other one.”
Travis frowned at her. “Cute?”
She rolled her eyes at him but didn’t respond. Travis turned back to Carlos who had lowered himself onto the other couch. “So, were you smart enough to tail them, see where the kid lives?”
Carlos smiled. “Of course.”
Tina got a sick feeling in her stomach as her brother, the fool, told Travis about following the detectives a few miles north to a home near Firestone Boulevard. He said he could find it again in the daytime easily. Travis told him good, they’d go have a look tomorrow, and if given the chance, they’d eliminate a witness.
She changed the subject. “What about the armored car deal, anything new on that?”
“Nah, nothing tonight. But I can go back out during the day tomorrow and have a look.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Travis eyed her suspiciously. “Maybe we’ll all go.”
She needed some time with her brother. She had an idea of how to get rid of Travis and save Carlos from becoming a savage killer. She didn’t like the
idea of Travis having Carlos kill a little boy. She hated the whole idea of a little boy being murdered, and she wouldn’t have any part of it. In fact, she’d stop it if she were able.
She nudged her shoulder against the wall to push herself into a standing position, and walked toward the kitchen as she replied. “Your big white ass would blow it. You stay here and watch your damn war movies. Carlos and I will handle the scouting. This isn’t Oklahoma.”
It was nearly midnight by the time Josie Sanchez decided to call it a night. Her partner had been gone nearly an hour. Floyd and Mongo had left with him, everyone seemingly tired from a long weekend. Only a few hardy souls remained. So it was quiet, and Josie took advantage of the tranquility and put her nose to the books. She had gone over the armed robbery reports again looking for any detail she might have missed before, and then she went through her notebook again and studied each note of all of the activity so far on her first murder case. All of the notes other than those taken at the autopsy; she didn’t feel the need to relive that just yet. But now her eyes were tired, and she was hungry, and tomorrow would be another long day. It seemed, so far, that all of the days here were long.
She pushed her chair under the desk and collected her purse and briefcase and started for the door. Just as she turned to push it open with her backside, the door flung open and she fell into the arms of a man who felt thick and solid and smelled like beer.
“Whoa,” he said.
She regained balance on her own two feet and stood facing him. It was Davey Lopes, one of the detectives assigned to the Unsolved Homicides unit, and someone whom she had known before coming to the bureau. “Shit, I’m sorry!”
His smile seemed devious to her. “Hey, it’s okay. I just happened to be in the mood for a dance myself.”
She looked away. It was obvious he had quickly moved to the realm of flirtation; they always did. Josie had been used to it her whole life. On the department, it had been no different. It started during the application process with the creepy background investigator wanting to visit with her over and over to “clarify” a few things with her, and generally wanting to have those meetings at night. Then the academy came along, and two of the six drill instructors were quick to show their interest in her. One of the two had had the audacity to ask her out before they were halfway through the eighteen-week regimen. She resented him for it, knowing if she didn’t play it perfectly, he could make her life difficult. Graduation was never guaranteed in the sheriff’s academy. When she worked custody, she oftentimes wondered who was worse, the inmates or the deputies. She had never quite decided. Patrol came along, and first her training officer and then the training sergeant both gave her their best shots. Both were married, and as with the other instances, Josie handled them perfectly. Which is to say that all of them had been given clear boundaries and made to believe she meant business. All with a bit of a smile though, to leave them confused enough to not be vindictive. Once all of her training was behind her though, there were few smiles offered at the pigs who made their moves. Especially the married ones. She might be best known for the male deputy she beat up at an off-training party. The rumors made it much worse than it actually was though. The deputy had been harassing her all evening and finally walked up behind her and rubbed her ass. He was drunk, and Josie had had enough. She had turned and punched him squarely on the jaw and he had dropped. It was the only time in her life that she had punched a person like that outside of sparring at the kickboxing gym where she trained. That had sent a message county-wide. Maybe Lopes was deaf.
“I don’t dance, thank you.”
He stepped back and held the door open widely. “No offense, Sanchez. I was only joking. Have a lovely evening.”
The door closed behind her as she stepped past him into the parking lot. She stopped, turned back, and opened the door. Lopes was twenty feet away now, his back to her. “Hey!”
He stopped and turned to face her, and nodded his head as if to say, “What’s up?”
“You want to get a beer somewhere?”
18
As the sky showed its first signs of light after a long and quiet night in North Long Beach, CW2 James P. Morgan was jolted from his dozing by a sudden pop and crackle followed by his superior’s voice.
“. . . still awake over there, Jimbo?”
He shook the sleep from his head and cleared his throat. “Yeah, you bet. What’s up Chuckie?”
“I’m about ready to peel off. Ridley and Montoya are just a couple minutes out. I just got off the phone with Lazarevic who said there’s nothing new cooking on their end. They met for coffee and a quick briefing this morning.”
“Sounds good, boss. I’m ready to get some shut-eye.”
“Me too. Listen, I’ll sit here until they’re in place. Go ahead and ease on out, so we aren’t leaving at the same time. I won’t be far behind.”
“Okay, boss. See you tonight.”
“Yeah, you bet. I’ll give you a call around twenty-one-hundred or so, and if you’re up for it, we can meet for a cup or a bite to eat before starting our shift.”
Morgan thought about his boss’s use of military time over the radio. He thought he’d water it down with his reply. “Okay, that’s nine o’clock, right?”
A moment of radio silence lingered. Then a click of the mic, but nothing said. Finally, “Yeah, Jimbo, nine o’clock or so. Ten-four, good buddy, over and out.” The accent was thick and might be described as redneck.
Morgan smiled as he set his radio aside and started his car. He moved his M4 off of his lap and placed it on the seat next to him where the grip and trigger were within arm’s reach. He pulled away and drove past the house where Private First Class Ortiz had lived before joining the army, and he wondered what secrets the modest home held.
Lopes opened his eyes and kept his head steady as he scanned his surroundings. The ache in his head was sharp and his memory dull. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he was sleeping outdoors on a chaise lounge, nor did he have a clue about where he was. Slowly he lifted his head to see he was dressed in his slacks and t-shirt. He looked left and right. There was a pool and Jacuzzi to one side and a patio set to the other. His shirt, tie, and suit coat were thrown haphazardly over a patio chair, his shoes were on the concrete beneath it. He saw two beach towels draped over the backs of other chairs, but he had no recollection of swimming. Or anything else, for that matter. Where the hell was he?
As he gathered his clothes, he found his gun and badge partially concealed beneath the dirty socks that sat atop his wingtips.
Where was his phone?
He checked various pockets but couldn’t find it. When he sat to slip on his shoes, he found the phone with his left foot inside the corresponding shoe. The first thing he checked was his call log. The last call he had received was at 11:30 p.m. and it had gone unanswered. Maria L. showed on the log, rather than the number. She was his new informant.
Well, sort of. Maria Lopez was a former corrections officer who had been involved with the Mexican mafia through family ties. Lopes had met her on one of his many trips to Pelican Bay State Prison where he squeezed certain inmates for information on various cases. They, too, were informants. He didn’t know it at the time, but the corrections officer, Maria Lopez, had been providing information to the carnales—the brothers of La Eme. Davey Lopes, on the other hand, had made a career out of investigating the Mexican mafia, and he had sent many of them to prison for the rest of their lives.
Davey Lopes and Maria Lopez had had a romantic interlude the night they met. Shortly after that, she had come to L.A. to see family. And Lopes. But as he was driving to pick her up from her grandmother’s home in Whittier, Maria was shot by two young gangsters as she sat waiting on the front steps. A hit had been put on her for reasons neither she nor Lopes had yet discovered. Maria was nearly killed, and Davey Lopes became her handler. She would give him everything she knew about the mob, and she would testify against her own family members in exch
ange for immunity and protection. Lopes had taken care of securing Maria and her two young children nearby while her debriefing on the mafia continued. That turned out to be a full-time job. It wasn’t easy keeping people alive, safe, and happy, when the mob is trying to kill them.
Meanwhile, Davey Lopes was working hard to keep her at arm’s distance, and it was no easy task with the young Latina beauty.
Staring at the phone, Lopes knew he hadn’t spoken to Maria Lopez, and so he was comforted knowing he hadn’t done something extraordinarily stupid with an informant.
He looked around the backyard which was encircled by tall block walls. The nearby houses had windows with a view of the pool and patio, which made him thankful he was partially clothed. He scanned his phone again, checking text messages and going deeper into his call log. He recalled sending Maria’s call to voicemail, intentionally not answering her late-night call, though it had been tempting. As he pondered that for a moment, he recalled running into Sanchez at the office. Literally. He began smiling as memories of drinking with her in a nearby pub returned.
Lopes opened his map app on his phone to see where he was. Downey. A residential neighborhood not far from Imperial Highway. Easy enough. He’d find his car and head for home and pray nothing unforgivable had taken place.
Jesus. Sanchez? Lopes shook his head as he went through a side gate and found his car in front of the house. There was another sedan in the driveway, and it was obviously a county car. A department-issued, Homicide Bureau car. No doubt, Sanchez’s. Lopes smirked and shook his head again. Someday, maybe he’d learn. Not likely anytime soon though, he conceded to himself.
Tina drove, and her brother rode shotgun with his L.A. ball cap sitting low on his head, shading his face against the morning sun. She glanced at him from behind the wheel. “You need to shut up around him.”
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 78