“Do it, Moses.”
By the time Reed drove by, the door was closed.
—
The next morning, the team reconvened at seven A.M.
Milo and the young D’s were in fresh clothes and had shaved. The rookies arrived slightly late, wearing backpacks and looking bleary.
Milo said, “Everyone knows about last night. Can I prove the female’s the lovely Deandra? Not yet and the male was partially hidden, no idea if he’s Bakstrom or Duke, they’re about the same size. But I’m declaring success and trying for warrants. Any thoughts?”
I said, “As far as we can tell, she never left the house. That sounds more like hiding out than just bunking there.”
“Or,” said Moe Reed, “she attends to her business during the day and we missed her.”
Milo said, “It’s possible, Moses, though I don’t see why she’d do that when nighttime would give her better cover. Either way, we’re shifting gears and switching to a daylight routine, with you two kicking it off.”
Indicating the rookies.
Eric Monchen said, “Same drill, sir?”
“A little different,” said Milo. “It’ll be drive-time, so you go with whatever the flow is but obviously don’t call attention to yourselves—gawking, doing anything a commuter wouldn’t do. Part of my warrant application is gonna include sticking a GPS on the bottom of Duke’s van, with installation tonight. You ready?”
Monchen: “Always, sir.”
Ashley Burgoyne: “Yes, sir. Who goes first, me or him?”
“Flip a coin.”
The two of them looked at each other and headed for the door. Burgoyne stopped. “Sir, do you foresee eventually breaching the premises?”
“Are you asking if you’ll finally get to do something exciting?”
“No, sir—” Slow smile. “Actually, yes, sir.”
“Breaching would be the goal, Officer Burgoyne. In the meantime, stay safe while you’re doing the uninteresting stuff.”
CHAPTER
40
At nine twenty-three A.M., Phil Duke left his house, got into his minivan, and backed out of his driveway. Reed and Binchy were on by then and Milo told Binchy to follow, Reed to keep circling.
The rookies had just returned from their shift looking eroded.
Eric Monchen said, “Damn, just missed it.”
Ashley Burgoyne said, “Maybe next time we’ll see the bitch.”
Milo had put together a stash of trail mix, donuts, and bottled water. “Nutrition, kids.”
Monchen said, “Um, sir, is there time for a healthy kinda protein breakfast?”
“Sugar and oil doesn’t work for you?”
Monchen’s up-and-down appraisal of Milo’s physique was rapid but telling. “I’d prefer something protein, sir.”
“Big T-bone.”
“Too fatty, sir, I was thinking an omelet, there’s a place up the block.”
“I know the place,” said Milo. “Sure, if you can ingest and digest and be back in forty-five minutes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Ashley Burgoyne said, “I’m totally okay with what you got here, sir.” She picked up a bear claw, took a big bite, wiped her mouth.
I’m the good kid.
Monchen shot her a nervous look, glanced at the trail mix. “I guess I could stick with nuts and get protein.”
Milo said, “Have your omelet, Officer.”
“Sir—”
“They make a humongous Denver over there, son. Just about the size of Denver. Also, a thing with chili con carne. Think of me when you’re eating.”
“Sir—”
“Vaya con huevos, kiddo.”
Monchen screwed up his mouth and left.
When he was gone, Burgoyne said, “He’ll probably do egg whites.”
—
Binchy followed the van to a Ralph’s on Olympic. Phil Duke got out with three empty fabric shopping bags, went into the supermarket, and emerged twenty-four minutes later. Three full bags went into the rear of the vehicle. Nothing else inside.
Milo said, “His own bags, eco-sensitive. Touching. What’s his demeanor, Sean?”
“Normal.”
I said, “At least we know there’s no body in there.”
“Three bags,” said Milo. “He could be shopping for one or two or who the hell knows how many. Stay on him. How about you, Moses?”
“Driving by the second time,” said Reed. “Nothing. Plants are nice in the sunlight.”
—
Ten minutes later, Reed radioed in, again. Duke’s second stop was a nursery on Sawtelle where he purchased three large yellow plastic sacks of what appeared to be topsoil. Those ended up on the van’s rear seat.
Next: a McDonald’s a few blocks south on Pico. Purchase in the drive-through. Two small bags.
Milo said, “Same question, grub for one, two, or three?”
Moe Reed broke in. “I see her, L.T. Smoking in the doorway. Relaxed—kind of posing, like she knows she’s hot. It’s definitely her.”
“Anyone watching her pose?”
“Not that I could tell, L.T.”
I said, “It really wouldn’t matter. She’s out to please herself.”
—
Phil Duke got back on Olympic and made a fourth stop at a Union 76 station where he put gas in the van and squeegeed his own windshield.
“Like a regular guy,” said Binchy.
Moe Reed said, “Just passed the house. Door’s closed, no sign of her. Can’t swear she went back in but she’s not visible on the street.”
I said, “Not a homebody, this is definitely a hideout.”
Milo said, “Bow out for the time being, Moses. Sean’ll stick with Duke.”
Ten minutes later, Binchy sounded like a kid at his own birthday party. “He went home, had his hands full with the bags and guess who opened the door for him? I took a chance and slowed, hoping they wouldn’t notice. I’m sure they didn’t, they were too busy, Loot. Making out, right there in the open. He’s standing there with the McDonald’s, she’s wearing like a black bathing suit top and Daisys and she’s full-on sucking his face, Loot. Want me to do another go-round?”
Milo said, “No, hand it off to Moses and come back here.”
To me: “Father–daughter, indeed.” Then: “God, I hope not.”
I said, “Maybe they’re kissing cousins.”
Ashley Burgoyne looked up from her glazed donut. “Gross.”
“Excellent,” said Milo, punching air.
Burgoyne stared at him.
“Not the gross part, Officer. The her-not-being-nervous part. Know why?”
“No, sir.”
“We like when bad people get all comfy.”
CHAPTER
41
Despite targeting an easygoing judge named Ronald Marquette, getting a warrant to search Phil Duke’s premises proved problematic. Nothing close to evidence on Duke for anything, let alone multiple homicide.
“Judge—”
“He gardens and shops? That’s prosecutable, I’ll have you arrest my wife.”
“The woman living there—”
“From what you just told me, there’s nothing on her beyond being sexy. Why’re you coming to me with thin gruel? This isn’t like you.”
“It’s been a tough one, Judge.”
“If this is the best you come up with, it’ll stay tough,” said Marquette. “Sorry, they’re taking a closer look at every scrap of paper we sign. I am not going to be one of those fools gets reversed for obvious error. Get me more and come back.”
“Judge, I’m willing to submit rape as my primary charge. Suspect Deandra Demarest was clearly I.D.’d by the victim, as was Suspect Bakstrom. It was a gang rape, extremely brutal, and the victim was a hundred percent on the identification.”
“Give me the details. Quickly, I’ve got a case in an hour.”
Milo began relating Vicki Vasquez’s story.
“Why didn’t you tell me this in
the first place? Woman raping another woman like that? Even the lefties will find it repellent, try finding a friendly jury. She’ll get put away for a long time, the murder doesn’t work out, be happy with that.”
“I’m happy, Judge.”
“No, you’re not. You never are. Fax it within fifteen or I’ll be unavailable until lunch recess. During which I’ll be eating and not taking calls.”
CHAPTER
42
Faxed, signed, returned. For all his peevishness, Marquette had approved a broad search.
Next step: how to get in there and do the job, safely.
The amended plan: the rest of the day and part of the evening, drive-bys of Phil Duke’s house would increase in frequency but be carried out at a greater distance: four cars cruising serially up the street perpendicular to Duke’s.
Too far and too distant to make out details but close enough to keep tabs on the core issue: Was Duke’s van in place.
If Duke or anyone else got into the vehicle and left, they’d be followed by the nearest cop while the three others continued visual surveillance.
Given no additional drama, entry to the house would take place at nine P.M., the team supplemented by two veteran patrol officers Milo had finally cadged from his captain. Both had SWAT experience but this would be more stealth than combat mission. Yes to vests and all-black clothing, no to helmets, heavy artillery, or a BearCat rumbling up the quiet street and panicking the neighbors or, worse, alerting the targets.
“This day and age,” said Milo, “it’d be on YouTube before we got to the door.”
He continued laying out the details.
Three armed and dangerous suspects were assumed to be in the house: the couple everyone was calling the kissing cousins since I’d thrown out the term and Henry Bakstrom, even though he hadn’t been spotted.
So far, no clarification of the relationship between Philip Demarest Duke and Deandra Demarest had surfaced beyond sharing a surname.
Milo finished and called for questions.
Moe Reed said, “With her making out with Duke like that, you really think Bakstrom’s still part of it? Especially in view of what happened to Waters.”
Milo said, “Maybe he isn’t, but romance alone doesn’t tell us a thing. Think about the three-way on Vicki Vasquez.”
“Hmm. Good point, L.T.”
“The major point—what I want you all to bear in mind—is that no matter how many people we find in there, assume every one of them to be murderous and unpredictable and be prepared for the worst.”
The rookies looked at each other, Monchen fidgeting, Ashley Burgoyne pleasantly animated.
Sean Binchy said, “With Ricki Sylvester still off the radar, there could be four suspects or another victim.”
Milo said, “That’s why we’re gonna do it like I just told you.”
No one argued.
CHAPTER
43
At nine thirteen P.M., Moe Reed, dressed in United Parcel Service brown, drove a UPS van to the curb and parked illegally. Retrieving a cardboard box, he checked the Glock in his jacket pocket, exited the driver’s door, paused again to study Phil Duke’s front door before walking up and ringing the bell.
I was in the back of the van’s empty cargo section, along with Officer Eric Monchen and one of the veterans, a three-striper and former Cal State Long Beach running back named Tyrell Lincoln.
The three of us wore radio earplugs. Monchen looked distracted and uneasy. I felt antsy and confined, sat still to hide it.
Tyrell Lincoln was equally inert but seemed genuinely serene, sitting up against the sliding cargo door that faced the street.
Milo, Binchy, Ashley Burgoyne, and the other vet, a bearish man named Marlin Moroni, had snuck around to the back of the house, aided by the absence of outdoor lighting and a sliver moon smirched by night-haze.
Reed’s body-mike transmitted his footsteps, the rumble of one passing car then another. Tyrell Lincoln sat up an inch straighter but remained expressionless.
Nothing for several seconds.
Then: a woman’s voice, barely audible, muffled by the wood of the door. “Yeah?”
Reed: “UPS.”
Creak. Louder clearer voice: “Well, hi, there. Kinda late for you boys to be out.” Throaty voice, syllables stretched, friendly. More than that. Creamy.
Lincoln’s eyebrows rose. He looked amused.
Reed: “Delivery, ma’am, needs to be signed for.”
“Wow. What time is it?”
“Nine fifteen, ma’am.”
“They workin’ you guys hard?”
“Ain’t that the truth. I don’t mind.”
“Bet you don’t.” Giggle. “Who’s it for?”
“Um…says here P. Duke.”
New voice, male. Stentorian. “Who’s there, baby?”
“UPS for you, Daddy.”
“I didn’t order anything from UPS.”
Reed: “Are you P. Duke? Shipment from Zappos?”
Duke: “What the hell’s Zappos?”
Deandra Demarest: “That’s clothing, Daddy. They got cool stuff.”
“I didn’t order any clothing.”
Reed: “Says here this address, P.—”
Duke: “I know what it says but it’s not mine.”
Reed: “Are you rejecting the shipment, sir?”
“I sure as hell didn’t order any—”
Deandra Demarest: “Why don’t we see what’s in it, Daddy? Maybe it’s a cute shirt or somethin’.”
Another giggle.
Phil Duke, softer: “You got me a shirt?”
“We-ell…don’t you like surprises, Daddy?”
“I mean sure, baby, but—”
Reed: “Sir, if you could just sign here on this screen, I’ve got a whole bunch more deliveries.”
“Yeah, sure, but I’m not paying for something I didn’t order.”
“Sir,” said Reed, “like the lady said, it could be a gift.”
Tyrell Lincoln’s head rose, as if his neck had been elevated by a mechanical hoist. He rose to a crouch. One hand took hold of the door handle.
Waiting for the code word.
Duke: “Where do I sign?”
Reed: “Right here, this little machine.”
Duke: “Everyone’s got a stupid computer—hey, where you going, baby? We got to see if you actually—”
“I need something to open it, Daddy.”
Reed: “Sign here, too, please, sir.”
“You need two?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grumble. “Like I need a shirt.”
“Hey, sir,” said Reed. “Think of it as early Christmas.”
Lincoln bolted the van.
Monchen and I hurried to the front, squinting as we shared the passenger window.
Too dark to see much but the earplugs told plenty, spitting out a grunting, panting scuffle.
Duke: “Hey—wha—the—”
Deandra Demarest, using a new voice, shrill as a screech owl. “Let go of him, you fuck! Let go you you fu—Daaaa-deeee!”
I rolled down the window.
Monchen said, “Is that okay? Don’t you need to be authorized?”
Talking right at my nostrils. Full-on taco breath from his food-truck dinner.
More than a desire for fresh air led me to stick my head out.
Monchen edged closer, muttering, “Oh, man, it’s happening.”
Tyrell Lincoln had positioned himself five feet from the front door, half crouched, hands out, as if ready to receive a pass.
Inert, as he watched the manic ballet in the doorway.
Moe Reed grappling with Phil Duke. Short struggle. Reed’s massive right arm clamped on Phil Duke’s wrist, flinging a good-sized man outward with the ease of someone flicking a dandelion.
Duke’s body beelined to Tyrell Lincoln’s left hand. Lincoln, without shifting any other part of his body, snagged Duke like a relay runner grabbing a baton. In a breath, Duke’s arms had been ben
t behind his back and he was facedown on his perfect lawn, cuffed.
Reed, no longer visible, had entered the house.
From his wire: “Police! Freeze! Police! Don’t move!”
“Go away!”
“Put that down now.”
“You’re a gangster, fuck you!”
“Put it down—”
“Fuck you—”
“Put it down and don’t move—no don’t come closer.”
“Gangster! Liar! Motherfucker!”
“Put that down! Freeze!”
A new sound intruded. Wall of noise that clarified as multiple voices. No words ascertainable, just a sawmill buzz of speech, growing louder.
Night of the locusts.
Reed’s voice louder: “Drop that now!”
“Fuck y—”
The roar separated into shouting. Reed, Milo, Deandra Demarest.
Reed, the loudest: “Drop it! Drop it! Drop it now!”
“I’ll fucking cut—”
Clap of gunshot.
Five more.
Milo: “Shit.”
Silence. Scratchy noise.
Reed: “She’s gone?”
Milo: “Yeah.”
Marlin Moroni’s basso: “For a box cutter. Stupid bitch.”
Binchy: “That’s what the 9/11 terrorists used. Main thing is you’re okay, Moe.”
A long stretch of audible breathing.
Milo said, “Who shot?”
Silence.
Then, a new voice. Girlish, tremulous.
Ashley Burgoyne said, “Did I do the wrong thing?”
CHAPTER
44
I got out of the van.
Eric Monchen said, “Hey, hold on,” but he followed me.
We passed Tyrell Lincoln standing over Phil Duke’s prone form.
Duke whined. “My arms hurt like a bastard.”
No concern about Baby.
Lincoln said, “Just hold it together, man.”
Monchen said, “Need me to watch him, Sergeant?”
“I’m fine.”
Monchen and I continued toward the front door. He said, “I don’t get how you’re authorized to do all this.”
I said, “Luck and interpersonal skills.”
—
Moe Reed stood in front of the doorway, big arms dangling, impassive.
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