by P. A. Brown
David closed his system down, and made his way to his Captain’s office, wondering what was up. Fredericks never sounded happy, but this time he was clearly angry.
“Yes, sir,” he said even before he had shut the door behind him. He faced Fredericks across his oak desk.
“I just got off the phone with Men’s Central. Seems one of yours just went dancing on the blacktop with another inmate.
Sorry, he didn’t make it.”
David’s mouth went dry. He had two incarcerated there.
Which one? “Who?” he asked.
“A Valerian Mikalenko. Yours?”
“Yes sir, he was. He was giving us names of people involved in the human trafficking ring we recently uncovered.”
“A CI?”
“Not officially, sir. He signed a deal Ms. DeSoto drew up.”
“I’d hazard a guess someone uncovered him.”
“Yes, sir. How did it happen?”
“The usual. Beef in the yard, next thing you know it breaks up, but there’s one body doesn’t get up to join the rest.
Homemade shank from the kitchen.”
“What about my other buster?”
“Who might that be?” Fredericks asked, furrowing his brow.
“The doctor, Sevchuk. The one who turned Mikalenko.”
“No word on him—”
“I need to check. We have to protect him now. He’s our last tie...” David met Frederick’s gaze and frowned. “They know who did it?”
“Some little tweaker from Glassel Park. An Avenues soldier, I guess. At least that’s the affiliation we know about. He’d just been booked in on a weapon’s charge this morning.”
David felt ice invade his gut. “Avenues? From Drew Street?”
276 P.A. Brown
“You got something going on down there, Laine? I know you and your new partner caught the gangbanger 187 last week.
This involved?”
“I don’t know, sir. I do know Detective Hernandez was working on some leads in the area.”
“Where is Hernandez now?”
“I don’t know sir. He said he was going to meet someone down on Drew...”
“And he doesn’t know the case has been compromised?”
Fredericks looked even more thunderous, if such a thing was possible. “I suggest you talk to your partner and reel him in.
Get him out of there, Laine.”
“Yes sir.”
“Take a couple of cage cars with you.” Frederick picked up his phone. “I’ll call down to Central and get them to put the doctor in ad seg.”
David returned to his desk and tried Jairo’s cell. Out of service. That wasn’t good. Jairo was too good a cop to turn his cell off while out on a call, unless he suspected it would break his cover. He checked. Jairo hadn’t taken a rover with him, either. Next, he put in a call for a couple of uniformed teams to join him on Drew. One call went to Konstatinov, who readily agreed to meet David with his shop partner. Then he signed out his own unmarked, checking to see if Jairo had signed out a car this morning. He hadn’t, which meant he had taken his own wheels. Probably to blend better. A Crown Vic would stand out down there as much as a black and white cage car.
David beat the two unis to Drew. David quickly scanned the street but there was no sign of the white Firehawk. He called a third unit down to look for it. He parked his car outside the empty lot that had once been the Satellite house, the major drug center in this neighborhood, demolished by the city. Scraps of paper clustered around a scarred Eucalyptus tree, and the smell of smoke, and garbage, and car exhaust lingered in the air.
David could have sworn he smelled fire crackers. The street was empty, but he could feel eyes watching him. The open air drug market the street usually hosted had been interrupted by their L.A. BONEYARD 277
arrival. He thought of the automatic rifle they’d recovered earlier, and the Mk 46 Jairo had IDed Degrasses carrying. His spine twitched, as he thought of how many of those watchers were armed. Before exiting his vehicle he strapped on a vest.
He huddled around his car with the six uniformed patrol officers, and briefed them on what he knew. “Detective Jairo Hernandez was en route to this location for a noon meeting with an informant. I don’t have a location for the meet, just Drew Street.”
“Lots of alleys and backyards,” a graying sergeant said.
Beside him Konstatinov nodded grimly.
“We will find him, Detective,” Konstatinov said.
“So let’s quit jawing and do it,” his partner said, adjusting his belt and slapping his hands on his legs.
A crowd had gathered. Blank and angry faces watched the police fan out and begin their search. Rotting fence boards were ripped down and flashlights shone into darkened crawl ways.
The restless crowd followed them down the street. A few of the bolder ones shouted obscenities at them.
“Hey pendejo, go home. This our hood.”
David knew it was a useless gesture, but he strode out to confront the growing mob.
“We’re looking for someone. A detective who came out here this morning to meet with someone—”
“Yeah, a buster. You know what we do to busters.”
David eyed the hulking Latino with prison tats up and down his bulging arms. From his gray pallor, and bulked up form, David knew he’d only just been released. He got right up in the guy’s face, and was gratified to find he was looking down at him.
“You know who we’re looking for? You better tell us if you do, or I will come down on you like white on rice.”
“Oh, 5-0 don’t scare me. Chucha de tu madre—!”
David took another step closer and poked the homie in the chest, forcing him to retreat. “You listen, and you listen good, 278 P.A. Brown
because I will not repeat myself. Go home. Stay in your crib until someone tells you hibernation is over.” Another poke.
“Do not get in my face again.”
David spun around and left the stunned man, hoping he wasn’t armed.
Behind another run down, scarred building, David ducked out of the alley, when he spotted a footprint in the dirt beside a torn chain link fence. It looked like the imprint of a boot. Jairo had been wearing his Tony Lamas the last time David had seen him. He peered through the fence. Here the yard, for lack of a better word, though David had seen greener parking lots, was packed with cigarette butts and used condoms. More bootprints and one discarded nitrile glove. He crouched down and studied the glove. Nothing amiss about it. No blood. It was just there, where it shouldn’t be. Was it Jairo’s?
David donned his own and picked the glove up. Behind him Konstatinov approached. He saw what David had found.
“Is that the Detective’s?”
“No idea. Could be.” David pointed at the house they were behind. It was a one story structure with a sagging step and one broken, duct-taped window. A chromed out Oldsmobile sat on four flat tires, weeds growing through the engine block, the front window starred. A doorless fridge and a rusted out bicycle crowded between broken Olde English forties, Night Train and cheap tequila bottles. The back door of the house was shut, but dirt and dust on the porch had recently been disturbed. David could see footprints leading into the building, too scuffed to tell if they were from boot heels. He signaled to Konstatinov and his partner to follow. Hand on his Smith & Wesson, he edged up the stairs sideways, trying to present as small a target as possible. At the first window he pressed his face to the glass and tried to make out the interior. All he could see was more decay, and junk strewn through the filthy living room, devoid of any furniture except a threadbare sofa.
“Is that loudmouth still out front?” he asked Konstatinov who nodded. “Bring him back here. Cuff him if you have to.”
“Yes, sir.”
L.A. BONEYARD 279
The homie came willingly enough. But then a smart man didn’t argue with a pair of angry cops, with guns, and by now all the officers were getting their blood up. One of their
own was in danger.
“Who owns this place?”
“This dump?” The homie threw off Konstatinov’s hand and folded his arms over his chest, missing the tension his move generated. Konstatinov caught David’s eye and shook his blond head. The homie had been patted down for weapons. “Don’t know.”
“Who lives here, then.”
“Don’t—”
David was back in his face, so close he could smell the guy’s hot sour breath, and see the details of the small teardrop tattoo under his right eye. His face was cadaverous, and marked with broken pustules. He would have stepped back, but Konstatinov blocked his way. His face grew pale and tight.
“Police brutality. I’m gonna call the ACLU on your ass.
Chinga a tu madre—”
“Tell me who lives here and you can go fuck my mother.
Who lives here?”
“Celio Garza, everyone calls him Podrido.”
“He eme, ese?”
The guy gave him a look that said “Get real, this is Drew Street. ‘Course he’s a banger.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. He an Avenues?” David leaned closer.
He could have counted the pores on the man’s sweating face.
“What’s his affiliation? Who jumped him in?”
“Yeah, he Avenida, ese.”
“Was he around earlier today? Here? With another man?”
With his fear spiking, David swung the homie around and slammed him face first against the wooden door. He jerked the tattooed arms behind him and pulled out his cuffs. “Do you tell me what I need to know, or do I put these on you?”
280 P.A. Brown
“¡Joder! I tell you. I tell you!” The homie screamed as his shoulders were wrenched back. “He here this morning. He meetin’ some dude going to give him some juice. He got a need.”
David didn’t need to ask for what. Just as it was obvious this guy was a tweaker, his buddy would be too. “Who was he going to meet? A dealer? He going to score some ice?”
“No, not ice. He gonna fence some stuff he got from a lick.
Then he gonna score some ice.”
“So he was meeting a fence here?”
“I said that dinn’t I?
Konstatinov’s rover spat out some rapid fire words. David glanced up to see the younger man listening intently. His gaze met David’s.
“They have located Detective Hernandez’s vehicle. In a dead-end alley off Drew, near Andrita Street. It looks like it has been trashed and someone tried to torch it.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
Konstatinov listened some more then shook his head.
“Nothing to indicate a struggle took place in the vehicle, but then there is extensive fire and smoke damage.”
Hardly reassuring. David stared out into the ravaged yard, and trashed wheels, and wondered where Jairo was. He dragged the homie down the steps and handed him over to the other officers. “Take him in. I’ll question him later.”
He was about to call for a direct assault on the door when a rapid crack-crack-crack echoed from inside the house.
Automatic fire. Over their heads a window blew out, and on the street a woman screamed. Every one in the yard dropped to the ground. “Shots fired at officers,” Konstatinov shouted into his rover. “Requesting assistance on Drew, north of Estara Street.
We need assistance. We need assistance.”
David waved Konstatinov over and when he was at arm’s length he took the rover from him. “Officer involved shooting.
I need SWAT out here. We found an Mk 46 earlier.” Gun fire strafed the air. More screams and a car screeched down the L.A. BONEYARD 281
street. “They’re firing automatic weapons. Possible hostage involved. A police officer. Out.” He handed the rover back to Konstatinov. “Take cover. We wait for backup.”
Together they wormed their way off the porch, taking dubious cover crouched beside the porch. No one moved inside the house. Was Jairo in there? Time moved in slow motion. Dust motes drifted by, light blurred and distorted his vision. Cracks in the boards underfoot seemed to swell and sway, his heart thundered in his chest. His breathing was hoarse.
Soon sirens filled the neighborhood, overriding the continued bursts of ammunition. The window above the porch exploded in a shower of glass, and shredded plywood, and duct tape that had covered the already broken pane.
SWAT’s armored van roared into the alley behind the house, followed by several Chevy Suburbans. A half dozen vested and heavily armed Rapid Response SWAT personnel swarmed out of the vehicles. One crawled over to consult with David. He introduced himself. “Wayne Garner. How many in the building?”
“Not sure. No sign there’s more than a single gunman. We had a witness who says my partner showed up this morning to fence some goods in a sting. No one’s seen him since.”
Both of them turned to look at the house. The SWAT
commander signaled his men to bring up the battering ram and a bullhorn. “No phone, unless someone’s carrying a cell.”
“Detective Hernandez might be, if he’s inside. But he wasn’t responding earlier.”
“We’ll go on the assumption he’s incommunicado.” He raised the bullhorn to his mouth and began speaking to whoever was in the house. “Hola, the house. This is the police.
Come out of the building with your hands behind your head.”
The only response was the thunk, thunk, thunk of automatic rifle. Puffs of drywall and the smell of wet firecrackers filled the cooling evening air. “I’ll take that as a no,” Garner said.
“Sounds like a SAW, maybe an MK,” he added.
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“We found one of those here earlier,” David said.
“Alongside a dead banger. I suspect the weapons are being supplied by an ex-Marine.”
Garner nodded at the intel. He threw a hand signal over his shoulder, and a teflon-suited officer ran in a semi-crouch past them and up onto the porch. He carried a battering ram slung over his shoulder, which he swung around, bracing it with both hands. “Knock, knock,” Garner muttered. The other man swung at the door, which cracked under the blow. A second swing sent the door crashing inward, splinters of wood flying.
“Go! Go! Go!” Garner and his team stormed through the door. David followed on their heels.
The interior of the small bungalow was hot, and dark, and stank of rotting food, urine and feces. Garner led the way through the house. As each room was declared all clear, David followed. He saw signs that at least two people had been in the room. Spent shells littered the filthy floor. Old food wrappers, and paper cups, soiled the threadbare rug that stank of urine.
Dust danced on weak sunbeams that flowed through the broken windows. In a splash of light, on the corner of the ratty couch, David saw a dark stain. He approached it, shoving his Smith & Wesson back into its holster, pulled on gloves and crouched down to examine the still wet spot. “We need forensics in here,” he said, standing up. He heard Konstatinov’s voice put the call through on his rover.
“Is that blood?”
“I think so. Don’t ask me whose, though.” They both knew who it probably belonged to. By this time a block of ice had settled in David’s gut. It was his fault Jairo was here. His fault Jairo hadn’t had the backup he should have gone in with. If he’d been the senior officer he should have been, Jairo would never have stepped out of line and engaged in dangerous behavior. And he’d never have come down here alone, trying to prove he was a good cop.
Someone yelled and a door in the rear of the house crashed open. A fusillade of bullets was just as abruptly shut down. A harsh male voice screamed Spanish invectives, then fell silent.
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SWAT led a handcuffed Latino man past David, followed by a second SWAT officer gingerly carrying an Mk 46 assault rifle.
David left Konstatinov to secure the crime scene while he hurried through to the back of the house. The structure was empty.
Where
was Jairo?
He heard voices out in the living room, but didn’t look up when someone entered. It was Konstatinov. “The bus is on its way. No sign of Detective Hernandez?”
“I’ll find him.”
Konstatinov nodded. “We start back here?”
“Yes, we start back here.”
They began the same kind of methodical search they had conducted at Leland. But this time, instead of looking for proof of what had been going on, they were looking for something, anything, to tell them what had happened to Jairo.
David almost didn’t hear the sound. They had been through a bedroom, dragging closet doors open and even peering under beds. All David found were dust bunnies and one dead and desiccated rat. Then they moved into the next room, a kitchen only in the broadest definition.
It was a disaster. Whoever had lived here had never cleaned a day in their lives. Grease clogged the sink drains, and food and things David didn’t want to identify covered every surface.
Flies buzzed around, settling briefly to sample a tasty morsel, before moving off to a better smörgåsbord. The walls were ochre, suggesting a heavy smoker; whether tobacco or crack, he didn’t know. The table overflowed with cigarette butts, empty 8
balls and glass basing bowls. The floor under his feet was tacky.
David watched one enterprising fly try to climb inside the sink drain, after who knew what. He could hear it buzzing inside the pipes. A small cluster of flies collected around the cupboard under the sink. David saw the blood first. Then he heard a moan.
He wrenched the door open, and Jairo tumbled out into his arms. Blood flowed from a gun shot wound in his gut. His face 284 P.A. Brown
had taken a severe beating. Behind him, Konstatinov shouted into his rover.
“Officer down. Need assistance immediately. I repeat, officer is down. Send a bus, stat.”
David cradled Jairo in his arms, and tried to assess the injuries. His face was a mess, but the wounds looked superficial, though there was a lot of blood. His abdomen, though, was another story. Blood continued to seep out past his hands that were futilely trying to stem the flow. Jairo’s breath was shallow, and rapid, and the pulse at his throat was thready. Shock. David dragged his jacket off and wrapped it around his shoulders.