January Justice

by Athol Dickson

  After he drove away, I went to the Bentley. At six thirty my phone rang. “You out there?” she asked.

  “You bet.”

  “All night?”

  “Sort of. Simon and Teru stood in for a while.”

  “I love your friends.”

  “They seem to think you’re okay, too.”

  “I’m making blueberry pancakes. Want some?”

  “Just you try to stop me.”

  That day went pretty much the same way as the day before. I followed her to the Montes’s place and parked under the same tree. The oak kept a lot of the drizzle off the car, but enough of it came dripping down through the leaves and branches to make me leave the windows up. Maids and gardeners came and went up and down the road. The exact same model and color of Bentley drove by again. I thought it might have been Jack Nicholson behind the wheel, but the beads of water on the side window made it hard to tell.

  I had come prepared this time with a sack lunch from Olivia’s apartment. A banana, potato chips, and a ham and Gouda sandwich on sourdough, with sprouts. Also, a cold Coca-Cola. She had packed everything in a small plastic cooler. I answered the call of nature behind some bushes. It was good to be out of the car. I decided to stand beside the tree trunk and count birds. There seemed to be more crows that day. Maybe the drizzle brought them out. I watched them carefully, saw no trails of ashes, and decided my doctors would have been pleased. Every day, in every way, I was getting better and better.

  At 5:05, Olivia came through the gate again, waved, and turned right, toward the canyon road. I kept her in sight all the way to Venice. We met at her gate again, and as before, I went inside first, with the M11 ready in my hand. All was clear. She came in and changed clothes. She emerged from her bedroom wearing full-length jeans this time. The rain had dropped the temperature. It was too cool for shorts.

  In spite of the drizzle, we went for another walk, following the same route. I hung back again, although I didn’t like it. Across the neighborhood to Venice Boulevard, to the beach, to the pavilion, back up into the neighborhood, across the canals on Dell, then back to her apartment. If she wanted them to get to her, following exactly the same routine every day was certainly the way to do it.

  After dinner I checked all of her windows again. I made sure her portable phone was charged and all set to speed-dial me. I reminded her to keep it within reach no matter where she was in the apartment. I also reminded her not to answer the intercom or a knock at the door unless she was certain it was me.

  “They could pretend to be anyone,” I said. “Even the police.”

  “I remember what you said last night. Don’t worry.”

  There had been a break in the drizzle while we had dinner. The street was still shiny underneath the streetlight, but I could make out the moon overhead, so it looked like the clouds had blown on inland. I had managed to park in almost the same location, facing her apartment. Hopefully, if they had noticed the Bentley the night before, they would assume it belonged to a resident. The houses and apartment buildings in that area looked kind of seedy to me, but because of the location, they were selling in the low two millions, so a Bentley at the curb wasn’t completely out of the question.

  Fifteen minutes after I got in the car, a black Lincoln Navigator rolled slowly by. I sank down in the seat. Although the moon was out again, the Navigator’s windows were darkly tinted. There was no way to see the passengers.

  When it passed under the streetlight, I saw a lot of reddish mud along the sides. That was unusual in LA. The mud obscured the rear license plate, so I couldn’t get a number, but it reminded me of a mad fantasy, a river of blood seeping into the soil. I was pretty sure I knew where the Navigator had been. I removed the M11, checked the safety on the gun, put a round in the chamber, and sat there with it in my hand.

  It was an hour before they came again, from the opposite direction. I thought they might stop this time, but they were more careful than that. They rolled slowly past without a pause. I got a good look at the vehicle as it approached and made a note of the first part of the number on the front license plate. The second part was covered by the red mud.

  Chances were the third pass would be the one. I reached into the duffel bag Simon had brought to me the night before and removed two plastic twist ties. I got out of the car and hurried to her gate. I wrapped the twist ties around the leading edge of the gate and the adjacent steel post at the top and the bottom, effectively locking it down. I wanted to make sure they couldn’t get into the courtyard before I got to them, and I wanted to create a moment of distraction while I came.

  I went back to the Bentley, got in, and took out the M11 again. In case they had noticed me before, I slid low in the seat so they couldn’t put a round in the back of my head. I adjusted the rearview mirrors to let me keep watch from that position.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Half an hour. The black reflection of a car appeared in my rear view mirror. It came very slowly. I wondered if they had been smart enough to change vehicles. Probably. With the M11 in my right hand, I put my left hand on the door handle and waited.

  The car pulled to the curb behind me. I saw lights across the top and realized it was a patrol car. A cop got out of the driver’s side. A cop got out of the passenger side. I could only see their silhouettes in the mirror, but both of them obviously held sidearms. They advanced to my four o’clock and eight o’clock, stopped, and leveled their weapons.

  One of them shined a flashlight on my side of the car and said, “Police. Put both of your hands out through the side window where I can see them. And they’d better be empty.”

  I dropped the M11 into the space between the seat and the center console, twisted to the left, and showed him my hands. He approached carefully. “With your left hand only, open the door. Then get out. Leave the right hand where I can see it, and move very slowly, or I will fire.”

  I did exactly as he said. Once I was standing by the car, his partner came around to cover me while he told me to assume the position and frisked me. Three minutes later I was cuffed and sitting on the curb between their car and mine while they searched the Bentley. One of them walked past me carrying the M9 and the duffel bag. He got in their car and made a call on the radio. The other one came to stand beside me.

  “Officer,” I said. “I have a concealed-carry license. I’m in the personal-protection business. A woman named Olivia Soto lives in that building, and she hired me to keep watch out here tonight. She was attacked a few days ago and believes the same men might come back.”

  “I know who you are,” he said. “And I know who she is. Stand up and walk to the patrol car.”

  “You’ve got to listen to me. The men who attacked her have passed by twice in the last hour and a half. They’re driving a muddy late model black Lincoln Navigator. I didn’t get the full plate number, but it starts with 5DB. They’ll be back any minute now. This time they’ll probably break into her apartment and attack her. They’re armed, and they have military training. You guys need to get ready.”

  “Just get in the car,” he said, opening the rear driver’s-side door.

  “You’ve got to call for backup.”

  “Oh, we do, huh?” Gripping the chain between my wrists, he lifted it, putting strain on my shoulders. “Get in the car.”

  I got in. He left the door open. He said, “Malcolm Cutter, you’re under arrest for violating the conditions of your bail by carrying a concealed weapon and leaving the country, and for violation of a restraining order by approaching within one hundred yards of Hector and Doña Elena Montes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  “Listen, why don’t you just go over there with me and talk to Olivia Soto? She’ll
back up everything I’ve said.”

  “Do you understand your rights as I explained them to you or not?”

  “Sure I do. Now, will you please let me go ask her to explain what I’m doing here?”

  He closed the door and returned to the Bentley, where he and his partner stood around until another patrol car arrived. Two more uniformed policemen emerged from the second car. They spoke for a few minutes. One of them gestured toward Olivia’s apartment. I began to hope. Two of them walked across the street to Olivia’s front gate. I saw them press the button on the intercom. After a few minutes, I saw them try the gate. They came back across the street, spoke to the other two, and then came over and got in the car.

  I said, “She’s in there, but I told her not to answer unless she hears my voice.”

  One of them picked up the radio handset and told the dispatcher they were coming in with a prisoner in custody.

  I said, “You’ve got to believe me. She’s in there. And the gate isn’t really locked. I secured it with some twist ties to slow them down.”

  The patrolman in the passenger seat chuckled a little as the driver started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  “Please,” I said. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”

  “Of course we are,” said the driver. “We always do.”

  I looked back through the rear window. The second patrol car’s headlights came on. It pulled away from the curb, following us.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “You’re going to regret this when an innocent woman is killed. Please call Sergeant Tom Harper with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. He’ll vouch for me. You can get his cell number off my phone. Please.”

  “Plenty of time for you to make a call after we get to the station, buddy. Just relax.”

  “They’re going to kill her.”

  “Sure they are, buddy,” said the driver. “Sure they are.”

  47

  The handcuffs were inescapable, the patrol car’s doors were modified to open only from the outside, and the steel grill between me and the front seat was solid. I had no options, no way to save Olivia. The hopelessness was nearly overwhelming. It threatened to defeat all thought. I fought it as I had fought madness in the hospital. I had to keep my mind clear. There had to be a way.

  I said, “How did you guys know where I was?”

  Neither of the cops replied.

  “Somebody tipped you off, right? It’s the only way you could have known. You need to stop and think about who could do that. I told you these guys have already cruised by her apartment twice tonight. They spotted me. They’re the ones who called it in. They wanted to get me out of the way. They could have come after me themselves, but they knew I’d be trouble. Think about it. They’re using you. They’re murderers, and they’re using you.”

  The driver said, “I hate it when they won’t shut up.”

  The passenger said, “Yeah.”

  “You don’t want me to shut up. You need to listen. If you don’t, you’ll always regret it. Olivia Soto is in her apartment. She didn’t answer the intercom because I told her not to respond to anyone but me. She has taken a lot of money from these people. It’s dirty money. They want it back, and they’ll torture her to find out where it is.”

  The driver said, “This one is creative.”

  The passenger said nothing.

  I said, “Why would I care so much about it if it wasn’t true? I’m not asking you to let me go. I’m not even asking you to turn around. Just call it in. Get another squad car over there as soon as you can. I’m not asking for me. This is about her. Please. I’m begging you.”

  Neither of them said anything. The patrol car slowed and stopped at a red light at McLaughlin. I stared forward through the steel grid behind the officers, looking at the street ahead without really seeing it. I fought against the desperation. I had to stay calm. There had to be a way.

  A vehicle approached the intersection on the other side. At first it didn’t register with me, but then I realized it was a black Lincoln Navigator.

  “There they are!” I said. “That’s them, over there. The Navigator, like I said. Look at the mud. Look at the license plate. It’s just like I told you, 5DB. They’re going back to Olivia’s apartment. Please, you have to stop them.”

  The light changed. The Navigator rolled past us. The patrol car went ahead, the two policemen saying nothing.

  After we had traveled another half a block, the one in the passenger seat said, “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Oh, all right,” said the driver.

  We made a fast U-turn. The passenger reached forward and flipped a switch. I saw the flashing blue and red of the squad car’s emergency lights reflected in the side windows of parked cars as we sped by. Then he lifted the radio handset and advised their dispatcher that they were about to stop a suspicious vehicle.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

  They said nothing as we caught up with the Navigator four blocks away from Olivia’s street. We pulled up very close behind it. The Navigator stopped at the curb.

  “Listen,” I said. “There will be at least two of them, and they’re armed and very dangerous. Be careful.”

  “Just sit there and shut up,” said the driver, getting out.

  I watched through the front windshield as he and his partner approached the Navigator, one of them walking in the street and the other on the sidewalk at the passenger side. They had both unsnapped their holsters. They each moved forward slowly with one hand on their holstered sidearm and a flashlight in the other, aimed at the SUV. I kept thinking they should have drawn their weapons.

  The rear passenger side door opened. I saw one person get out of the vehicle. It was a small person, maybe a woman, although I couldn’t tell for sure in the darkness. The patrolman on the sidewalk seemed alert and suspicious. The person seemed to speak to him. The patrolman seemed to relax. He took his hand off his sidearm. I heard him raise his voice. Although I couldn’t make out what he said, his partner immediately relaxed as well, also removing his hand from his weapon. The cop on the sidewalk appeared to exchange a few more words with the person standing there, then he and his partner both turned and started walking back toward the patrol car.

  When they were about midway between the Navigator and their car, the two front doors of the SUV opened. Both of the policemen heard it and started to turn, but they were too slow. There were two muzzle flashes, one from each of the men who had emerged from the Navigator. Both of the cops went down. The two men from the Navigator walked forward and stood over them. One of the men, the one who had emerged from the passenger side, fired once more into the bodies of each of the fallen policemen.

  They spoke to each other for a few seconds, then they both looked toward the car. I ducked behind the front seat. Since the patrolmen had closed their doors, the overhead light was off. I didn’t think the murderers had seen me, but it was possible. I raised my head a little and peeked forward past the driver’s-side headrest. One of them was walking toward the car. His gun was in his hand. I ducked again, sliding all the way down onto the floorboard between the front and rear seats, as low as I could go. The front door opened. The light above came on. I waited for the shot.

  Instead, I heard a few metallic noises, and then the door closed and the light went off again. A few seconds later, I heard the Navigator engine start. I rose up to peer out through the windshield just as they drove off.

  I rolled onto my back on the rear seat and began kicking at the glass in the side door. I kicked with both feet at once, slamming the glass again and again with my heels. At first it seemed unbreakable, but after a couple of minutes, a spiderweb of cracks appeared.

  From the front seat, I heard my cell phone’s ringtone. It had to be Olivia, calling me on speed dial, knowing they were outside her apartment and counting on me to come.

  I kicked harder. The phone stopped ringing. I kicked and kicked, and finally the top part of the glass gave way. The
bottom pieces of the window held on stubbornly. It took another minute to clear them. I rose to my knees on the backseat, stuck my head and upper body out of the window, and pushed with my legs. With my hands cuffed behind my back, there was no way to avoid a hard fall onto the street.

  A sharp spike of pain shot out from my cracked ribs, but I rose to my feet as quickly as I could and ran to the fallen patrolmen. Even in the darkness it was obvious each of them had been shot in the head. I turned around and knelt beside the closest one, facing away from him. With my cuffed hands behind my back, working only by touch, I felt for his pants pocket. I figured the keys would be in the right front. I was wrong. I stood and moved to the other side of the body. I knelt again and found another pocket, then pushed the fingers of my right hand in and touched the keys.

  I made myself go slowly, drawing the keys out with my fingertips. When they were free of his pocket, they fell to the pavement. Groaning with frustration, I sat on the pavement and felt around blindly until I found them. It took nearly two minutes to select the proper key, fit it into the cuffs behind my back, and turn it.

  Freed of the restraints at last, I ran back to the patrol car. I got in and used another key from the cop’s pocket to start the engine. The emergency lights were still flashing as I burned rubber pulling away from the curb, heading for Olivia.

  Reaching for the radio handset, I noticed the dashboard video memory chip was gone. So that was why the guy had come over to the car. I lifted the radio handset and spoke into it.

  “My name is Malcolm Cutter,” I said. “There are two officers down. I think they’re dead.”

  The female dispatcher replied. “Repeat that.”

  “Two policemen have been shot by men driving a black Navigator. They’re in the middle of the block on Washington, near McLaughlin.”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Malcolm Cutter. They were bringing me in to the station. They stopped a black Navigator with a license-plate number that begins with 5DB. A muddy black Lincoln Navigator. The people in the Navigator shot them.”