by Tyler Dilts
“Taras Shevchuk?”
Pat pulled his mug shot and placed it side by side on the screen with a zoomed-in ATM photo. The two images looked like the same man.
“He has a checking account in his own name. He took out as much cash as he could two days in a row.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Yesterday afternoon at about three fifteen, and the day before half an hour earlier.”
“How much was he able to get?” Jen asked.
“Both transactions combined, eight hundred bucks.”
I didn’t figure he’d be spending much of it on gondolas. Tiffany would be disappointed.
But why would Shevchuk be hitting the same ATM in Seal Beach the same time two days in row?
“He hasn’t been seen at any of his regular hangouts for the last few days,” I said to Jen and Pat, “but he’s not running.”
“He’s hiding, though,” Pat said.
“But something’s keeping him local,” Jen said.
“Nearly local. If he’s staying someplace close to the ATM, he’s across the Orange County line.”
Jen raised her eyebrows. “That would turn the heat down a little.”
“But why wouldn’t he go farther?” I asked.
“Could it have something to do with the safe?”
Patrick said, “Did you ever find out what was in it?”
“No,” I said. “We’re still waiting on an answer from the Bentons’ lawyer. That was on our list for our interview with Bradley, but we didn’t even get close to it.”
Pat absentmindedly tapped his fingers on his desk. In the lull in our conversation, the noise seemed particularly loud.
“Jen’s right,” I said. “It’s got to be what’s in the safe. Otherwise, he’d be a lot farther away. Must be something that’s only valuable here.”
“Information?” she asked.
“Could it be something political? Something on the congressman? Maybe on Bradley?”
“Hang on.” Patrick’s fingers stopped. “We know Turchenko’s a dimwit. Even if Shevchuk is the brains, how sharp can he be?”
I thought it over. “True. Unless there’s some other connection. Some kind of loyalty.”
“Honor among thieves?” Jen sounded doubtful.
I didn’t think we’d figure it out then, so I changed the subject. “Think it’s worth sitting on the ATM for a few hours this afternoon?”
“I’m up for it.” Pat grinned. “You never take me out anymore.”
Two
ONE OF THE Wells Fargo branches in Seal Beach is located in a shopping center anchored by a Pavilions supermarket and a CVS pharmacy. Jen and I sat in her 4Runner and watched the ATM while Patrick was on the edge of the lot keeping a lookout on the front door of the bank.
Jen likes to shop in rich-people grocery stores, so I couldn’t really be blamed for giving her a hard time. “I can handle this if you want to go buy some soy milk and free-range chicken. Maybe a gluten-free scone.”
“I’d love to. Want me to pick you up some Cool Ranch Cheetos?”
“If there were such a thing as Cool Ranch Cheetos, I would be unbelievably turned on right now.”
People came and went. We’d arrived two hours before the time of Shevchuk’s earliest withdrawal, and it was now almost half an hour after his latest. It was a long shot that he would show, but it was all we had on him. Still, I was wondering how long we should wait, and I figured Jen and Pat were, too.
I called Pat and watched him across the parking lot as he answered his phone.
“What’s up?” he said.
“How long do you think we should give him?”
“A while yet. Might have been a coincidence that he hit the bank at such similar times.”
“How’s it going over there? Want to rotate? Come over here and sit with Jen?”
“Probably draw more attention than it’s worth. Let’s just sit tight for a while longer.”
We hung up and went back to watching the cars come and go.
When we were just about ready to throw in the towel, a battered Dodge Neon pulled into the lot. It stood out among the newer and more expensive local cars. It might have been the oldest in the lot. The driver pulled around the corner and parked a few slots away from Pat.
My phone rang.
“Bingo,” Pat said.
We watched Taras Shevchuk look over his shoulder, close the door of his car, and cross the parking lot to the ATM.
“I got him, too. Let him make the transaction so we get it recorded, then grab him,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
Most rifle bullets travel at a velocity greater than the speed of sound. Because of this, despite what countless movies and television shows would have you believe, even with a sound suppressor, they still make a considerable amount of noise because the projectile actually creates a small sonic boom that, while it doesn’t sound like what most people think a gunshot sounds like, it is still very distinctive and very loud.
We were both looking at Shevchuk when we heard the sharp shock of the ballistic crack, and half of his head exploded into a cloud of pink mist.
“Fuck!” Jen yelled.
On the other side of PCH, a Chevy SUV with tinted windows that was parked tail in next to an optometrist’s office hit the accelerator too hard and screeched its tires.
“Across the street! White Tahoe!”
Jen and I both jumped back into her 4Runner. We were moving before I even slammed my door.
The SUV had pulled into traffic heading south. There was a raised, grass-covered median dividing the highway. We either had to try to drive over it or into oncoming traffic.
“What are—”
Before I could even get the words out Jen had hit the brakes and the front end of the Toyota hit the curb and bounced up onto the divider. The truck shuddered and screamed, but it kept moving, and as soon as all four tires had bounced down onto the southbound roadway, Jen gunned the engine.
A few blocks ahead, I could see the Tahoe weaving in and out of traffic. The driver would have to decide soon whether to turn onto a side street or onto Seal Beach Boulevard, the last chance before an unbroken mile-long stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway.
I was hoping he’d go straight.
The late-afternoon traffic wasn’t heavy, but there was enough of it to slow us down. I was sure Pat would have already requested assistance, but just in case, I put in a 911 officers-in-pursuit call.
He turned left on Seal Beach Boulevard. That would take him north to the San Diego Freeway.
“Did you see? He’s northbound on—”
“I got him,” Jen said. She sounded almost as calm as she had when we were sitting in the parking lot.
I heard sirens in the distance, but I couldn’t tell what direction they were coming from.
Jen hit the left turn hard, and I felt my weight press into the passenger door. As soon as we were pointed north, I looked for the Tahoe. The Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station was on our right, and there was no place to turn on that side of the street. He passed the first left and took another hard turn onto Bolsa, still several hundred yards in front of us.
As we passed an elementary school on our right, I saw the first flashing police lights coming toward us about half a mile ahead on the other side of the road.
We followed the Chevy onto Bolsa, and as soon as we made it around the corner, I realized the Tahoe was out of sight. There were three residential streets within view of the intersection on the right. He could have taken any one of them.
“Go for the second,” I said. “Split the difference.”
The street we turned on was called Sea Breeze. It was typical of Seal Beach—upper middle class and quiet. We slowed down and resigned ourselves to the fact that we had likely lost the vehicle we were pursuing.
I heard sirens behind us, but when I turned to look, I didn’t see any lights.
“Right or left?” Jen asked as we approached the end of the block.
/> As she stopped, I leaned forward and looked both directions. “Right,” I said. “Looks like more cross streets.”
There was no sign of him.
Jen drove around the neighborhood. As we circled around and around, our expectation that we would come up dry grew with each corner.
Then we saw it.
On a short cul-de-sac called Coral Place, the white Tahoe was angled toward the left-side curb, its rear end extending out into the street, the passenger door wide open.
We parked about ten yards away. Jen turned on the 4Runner’s hazard lights, and we drew our Glocks as we got out.
“I’ll go,” I said.
“Got you,” Jen answered.
I couldn’t see much through the tinted back windows of the SUV. There were two shapes where the driver and passenger’s heads would be, but they were motionless, so I assumed they were the headrests.
As I closed in on the vehicle, sighting down the slide of my pistol, I had the feeling we were too late. That the shooter was gone and we’d missed our opportunity.
Ten feet behind the Tahoe, I moved to my left to check out the driver’s side. I didn’t see any movement, but the side-view mirror seemed to have an odd dark-red tint to it.
I circled wide around the passenger side and looked in the open door. When I did, I understood the odd shading on the mirror.
The driver was slumped dead over the steering wheel. The windshield and driver’s side were sprayed with blood and brain matter from the bullet wound in the back of his head.
The adrenaline rush was coming on hard, so I forced myself to stand still and breathe deeply. My pulse began to slow, and I moved closer to the vehicle and looked behind the front seats to be sure the shooter wasn’t waiting for us.
As soon as I was convinced that nothing was moving, I opened the rear door and looked inside.
Except for the suppressed M4 carbine abandoned on the backseat and the body of the driver, the big Chevy was empty.
I looked at Jen, shook my head, and saw the disappointment in her eyes.
Then the Seal Beach cruiser finally found us and screeched to a stop at the entrance to the dead end.
Jen and I held our hands high and wide.
The uniform was riding alone and rose out of the car with an uncertain look on his face and his hand on his weapon.
“I’m Detective Danny Beckett, Long Beach Police. This is Detective Jennifer Tanaka.” We held our hands up as he said something we couldn’t understand into the radio mic clipped to his shoulder.
A second or two later, we heard a garbled reply, and he seemed to relax. “Okay,” he said. “Just sit tight. Backup’s on the way.” But he didn’t move his right hand until two more squad cars rolled up behind him and we heard the guttural roar of a helicopter circling overhead.
Jen and I were still in the dead end with the shooter’s Tahoe an hour later when Ruiz arrived. We’d been in an odd kind of limbo, the locals recognizing and verifying our police status but still a little hesitant to cede any control over a crime scene in their territory. Once our lieutenant talked to their lieutenant, though, they backed down. And, honestly, they seemed relieved. Two murders was about ten years’ worth of homicide for them.
“The SUV’s stolen,” Ruiz said. “Owner’s on vacation in Hawaii. Didn’t know anything about it until we called him.”
“This is heavy-duty shit.” I gestured toward the open passenger door of the Chevy. “Professional. Weapon’s a suppressed M4. The shooter even capped the driver. What do we do with this?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Any sign of the suspect?” Jen asked.
“Nope. Helicopters didn’t see anything. And no luck with the canine unit.”
It didn’t seem like there was anything left for us to do there, so I said, “They find anything back at the bank?”
“Why don’t you head back there and see.”
Jen and I got in her 4Runner and retraced our route. She hadn’t spoken in a while. Every time she turned the steering wheel, the front end squealed as if it were in pain.
In the Pavilions shopping center, the whole southeast corner of the parking lot was cordoned off by dozens of LBPD and Seal Beach uniforms and a seemingly infinite supply of bright-yellow crime scene tape. There were already two news vans at the scene. The closest empty parking space was a block north of PCH on Main Street. With our badges in our hands, we got out and went looking for Patrick.
Half a dozen cops stopped us for ID before we got anywhere near the Wells Fargo. The closer we got to the center of the mass of people, the more familiar faces we saw.
We ducked under the tape and found Patrick with a veteran patrol sergeant. They were leaning toward each other and raising their voices to be heard above the clamor of the crowd.
He turned to us and I realized the color of his face was a shade or two lighter than usual. I wondered whether it had been witnessing Shevchuk’s murder or having to coordinate such a massive crime scene that was the cause. Probably a combination of the two.
“How you doing?” I asked.
He gave a confident nod, and I realized his paleness was the only sign of disquiet that was discernable.
“Fine. We got something.”
He led us over to the Dodge that Shevchuk had driven into the lot and spoke to a crime-scene technician who was leaning into the rear door of the car. “Show them what you just showed me.”
The technician pulled a paper evidence bag out of the box near his feet and held it open. He shone his light inside.
A plastic card in a paper slipcover was at the bottom.
“Is that a hotel key?” Jen asked.
“Motel,” the tech said.
“The Seven Seventy-Seven Motor Lodge,” Patrick added.
I felt a twinge of anticipation turning over in my gut. “How soon can you clear the scene?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Don’t wait for me. Go.”
Just over a mile south from the place where Taras Shevchuk made his last withdrawal is a stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway that runs through the picturesque little town of Sunset Beach. It’s full of big houses and seafood places and surf shops and cheap motels, and surrounded by a number of channels where people moor their boats right next to their waterfront homes. Because of the water, PCH is the only way in or out, and it has left the community feeling like a little seaside getaway somewhere up the coast far away from the border between Los Angeles and Orange Counties. Appearances can be deceiving, though, and the small population there is an odd mixture of the wealthiest OC denizens and VW-van-driving-beach-bum culture of all of coastal Southern California. In Sunset Beach, it’s not unusual to have a view of a million-dollar yacht moored on the private dock of a multimillion-dollar home from the window of your shithole motel.
And that’s exactly what the 777 Motor Lodge was.
Years ago, I attempted to stay there one night when I had too much to drink while watching the ultra-kitsch hula show at Sam’s Seafood, a retro tiki bar and restaurant, next door. Even though I was completely plastered, when I turned on the bathroom light and saw the cockroaches scurrying out of the sink, I wobbled back outside and called a cab.
As Jen drove south across the bridge over Anaheim Bay, I looked back at the LBPD squad car following us. “Did you see who’s backing us up?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“Remember Greg Adams?”
She shook her head, but I suspected she knew what I was talking about.
“From the Beth Williams case.”
A year ago, Adams, a rookie, had been responding to his first homicide. He’d made the mistake of stepping in the victim’s blood and leaving his own footprints at the scene. I’d insisted on bagging one of his shoes as evidence in the case. The watch commander made him finish out his shift doing paperwork at the station with only one shoe. To teach him a lesson. Some of the vets started calling him “Barefoot,” which, in the manner of cop
colloquialisms the world over, became streamlined and simplified.
“Think anybody’s still calling him ‘Foot’?” I asked.
“You should ask him,” she said.
When we pulled into the parking lot, I let the question go and asked Greg and his partner to wait for us while we talked to the manager.
The 777 had probably been a decent place a very long time ago, but now it was everything and less than I’d remembered from my one and only drunken visit. I did notice that Sam’s Seafood had become Don the Beachcomber, for whatever that was worth.
The office smelled like old sneakers and Thai food, and the manager was an aged East Asian man who nodded when we showed him Shevchuk’s photo.
“He makes too much noise. People complain.”
“We need you to let us into his room,” Jen said.
The man looked us over with traces of suspicion in his eyes. Just when I thought he was about to challenge us, his expression changed, as if his misgivings were blown away by a sudden breeze.
“Okay.” He took a plastic card out of his breast pocket, angled it in the light to get a better look, and put it back. “Upstairs. Second floor.”
He stepped around the counter and led us outside and locked the office door. I motioned for Greg and his partner to follow us. We all fell in behind the manager and passed a few ground-floor doors on the way to the elevator. The little man pushed the button and looked back at me. He looked surprised to see four of us. I guessed that he hadn’t noticed our uniform backup.
We all squeezed into the elevator. It was tight, but we made the best of it. Only had to go up one floor. I read the county inspector’s tag posted next to the door. “It says on this that we can fit ten people in here.”
No one else found that amusing.
The doors opened onto the second floor. The building was shaped like an L, and the elevator was in the inside corner. The manager led us down the long portion of the structure to the second room from the end. We divided up on both sides of the door. We all put our hands on our guns and unsnapped our holsters. No one stood in front of the window.
The manager watched us, and his hand shook as he pulled the card from his pocket.