The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset)

by Doug Richardson

  It was 11:28 A.M.

  Lucky’s Charger was parked in the alley next to a Radio Shack, partially obscured by a window replacement repair truck strapped with slab-sized panes. Gonzo, still in the backseat, had a semi-clear view of the Ralph’s supermarket parking lot and Dulaney Little’s Ford Taurus. She had observed the comings and goings of the uniformed tactical captain and the subsequent arrival of the petite, yet obviously confident, woman in the silk blouse and black pencil skirt. Not a cop, Gonzo figured. Nor FBI. Whoever the woman was, she was administrative…and in killer shape. Gonzo took a brief moment to imagine the lady’s workout routine. She even went on to her phone to tap out a personal reminder to renew her Krav Maga membership. Just glancing at the sharply-drawn woman made Gonzo feel thick and out of shape.

  Lucky flopped back into the driver’s seat.

  “You’re still here?” he only semi-joked.

  “Sticking it out to the arrest,” said Gonzo. “Then you’re driving me back to South Pas.”

  The bucket seat creaked as Lucky worked his way into the creases. Next, he unconsciously assisted his chin with extra force left and right to crack his vertebrae. The pops were violent and staccato like a quick volley of gunshots.

  “Looks like a six-man tactical squad,” said Lucky. “Two safety snipers setting up a crossfire. One on top of the parking garage over yonder. The other on the window cleaner cradle on the high-rise there. Other four are in vans flanking the intersection, so that’s my guess for the take down. Using some Water and Power detour two blocks over to create the squeeze play.”

  “Sounds to me like the feebs got this handled,” said Gonzo.

  Once again, Lucky didn’t acknowledge her words. As if he were calculating his own Federales equation.

  “Clocked four unknown players,” said Lucky. “Spinner in the black skirt—”

  “Spinner? What’s that?” Then Gonzo corrected herself. “Know what? Forget it. Don’t wanna know.”

  “Definitely not packing.”

  “Really? How could you tell?” asked Gonzo with a rhetorical snippiness. There was only one place to hide a weapon in that woman’s outfit.

  “My guess she’s the fuckin’ U.S. Attorney we missed yesterday—”

  “Woman in the elevator!” said Gonzo, making the connection with the snap of her fingers. “She was so flirting with you, remember?”

  “Yeah? Yesterday was such a blur she coulda been blowing me and I wouldn’t have…” Lucky stopped himself, knowing he had crossed the line. “Yeah. You get it.”

  “Who were the other unknowns?” asked Gonzo, switching gears.

  “Middle of the Ralph’s lot. One of your taco lovin’ brethren with decent taste in cars. Figure him for some kinda pool guy.”

  “Wow. Sheriff who’s a racial profiler,” sneered Gonzo. “Never saw that comin’.”

  “He’s Hispanic. And the tag on his retro Porsche reads: ‘Paul, double Ocean, Lincoln, George—’”

  “Pool Guy. Got it. Whatever.”

  “Guy’s a bag of ticks. Witness, informant, something.”

  “Moving on…” prompted Gonzo,

  “Ten o’clock. Street parking. Lexus with a pair of muscle heads with Kevlar under their shirts. All eyeballs, too. Not PD. Not Federales. Private somethings. No clue why they’re on the field of play.”

  “They with the perp you think?”

  “What for?” Lucky rubbed his face, screwing his fists into his eye sockets. “If they were with our bad guy both woulda gone rabbit by now. No. Interested party. Whatever. If they wanna tangle they’ll be easy enough to dodge.”

  “Dodge?”

  “Sorry. Tired,” said Lucky, rolling down his window. “Just waitin’ for the chopper.”

  Gonzo let loose a sigh. Yesterday morning she had been jacked up on visions of rotating off the street and into the LAPD flying corps. She could practically feel the controls in her hands. So how the hell had the last twenty-four hours soured her mojo and made her feel that her air support dream was so far away? She peeked up at the sky, wondering what kind of bird the FBI was using to track the wanted man behind the wheel of the black refrigerator truck. Oh, what surprise the feds had for that SOB. She checked the time on her cell phone then prayed the bastard was going to be on time. Assuming the arrest would be wrapped up by one, she’d have time to get home for a hardcore workout, a healthy meal with her boy, then homework for both mother and child. Travis with his school work. And Mother Bear with her nose stuck in the Los Angeles Law Enforcement Helicopter Training Manual.

  The LAPD’s fleet of helicopters flew out of their own heliport based atop a parking structure in downtown Los Angeles. The FBI, though, were required to rent a hangar for their two Bell and Howell Nightstalker choppers. The part-time unit was based out of Van Nuys Airport, a geographic bull’s-eye smack in the middle of the San Fernando Valley. So it was pretty much luck that shortly after pilot Mike Lowe took to the air that FBI Agent and designated observer, Gerry Bland, accidentally ID’d the black refrigerator truck.

  Bland had been testing the gyroscopically stabilized field glasses and camera, capable of recording digital still images in high definition from a mile away. Soaring at five thousand feet, Bland was getting settled behind his electronic viewfinder, making certain he could accurately read license plate tags while detailing to Pilot Lowe how just once he’d like to use the advanced tech to peep on some of the prick teases who worked on the federal building’s sixth floor. Bland had a connection in human resources who, for the simple price of copying him on every dirty photo, would gladly provide each and every necessary address.

  “What’s our truck?” Bland had asked.

  “Black-on-black Peterbilt hauling a fridge trailer.”

  “Well, kiss my pale ass,” Bland had said, eyes still stuck to the field glasses. “What are the chances we got two of the same semis?”

  “I wouldn’t put the odds too high. Mark the tags and and call the Chippies.”

  Chippies. Aka the California Highway Patrol. Bland made the call over the LARTCS (Los Angeles Regional Tactical Communications System) and, quicker than he could say “Peeping Toms Anonymous,” was piped in to the local CHP dispatch center.

  A northbound cop on a motorcycle interceptor, lurking for single passenger drivers abusing the HOV lanes, got the order and changed direction at Howard Hughes Parkway. Less than a minute later, he had picked up on the target truck about where aircraft on approach to LAX belch trails of exhaust as they cross over the freeway. His instructions were strictly DNA (Do Not Approach), so he slipped behind the left rear axle of another long haul truck with a refrigeration package—a dirty white Freightliner.

  23

  Beemer couldn’t stop sweating. But it sure as hell wasn’t because of the CHP officer gliding his Kawasaki off his left flank. If anything, Beemer was reassured. The bike chippy was using his stolen Freightliner to hide from the black Peterbilt, barely two hundred yards ahead. About every sixty seconds, the cop would peek out from behind Beemer’s left bumper to catch a glimpse of the targeted semi rig. After, he would dip behind and slowly edge himself over until he confirmed his visual from the right-hand stripe. Then the Chippy would repeat the moves, clueless that he was spitting close to Beemer and the second hot semi.

  But why the flop sweat? It wasn’t the Ritalin. He had popped plenty of those without an extra beat of his heart. A virus, maybe? Or possibly a consequence of his predawn hours inhaling that toxic goo he had stirred until his rotator cuffs burned? He could still taste the chemicals on the back of his tongue.

  His mind shot backwards to his grunt days in the Corps. Pouring diesel in a honey pot full of shit, setting it aflame and swirling it with a heavy broomstick until the desert sky was filled with carbonized feces. For days he’d have that gack in his sinuses, smelling it with every intake of air into his lungs.

  The bastards!

  Was there any love left between Beemer and the Corps? Maybe in some deep moral fibers that sti
ll wanted to believe in something…anything. Beemer reminded himself that introspection was for bitches who drank designer vodka and the fags dumb enough to marry ’em. Marines solved their problems with a full clip and no regrets. Or so Sergeant Ronny Scipio had said in that nervy hour before the final assault on Fallujah. He’d been in the front passenger seat of the unit’s Humvee. Beemer was behind the wheel, wad of bubblegum working between his molars, ready to plow into the mayhem and do some hella damage in the name of God, country, and his fellow Marines. He would have died that day for Sergeant Scipio or any one of his brothers in arms.

  Familiar feelings of betrayal crept out of the dark places in Beemer’s psyche and began to scratch at him. Like the first day of his court-martial. It was as if, on that cool morning in Charlotte, North Carolina, everybody in a uniform had locked arms in a conspiracy to lower the coffin lid and nail it shut with Beemer inside, leaving him to kick at the stuffing and run out of oxygen as they lowered him into the grave.

  A trap.

  Beemer wondered if he was driving head-on into another kind of trap. Thus the flood of memories. And possibly the cause for a perspiration so heavy it dampened his clothes.

  With permission from his client, Beemer’s military-assigned attorney had placed Beem’s entire mental health history into evidence. From boyhood through his brief incarceration. Each file proved consistent in diagnosis. The patient in question had a problem with impulse control induced by anger and/or severe anxiety, upon which critical thinking would take a backseat to negative action. The lawyer argued that the Corps had knowledge of Beemer’s history and had still accepted him amongst their ranks, even placing him in combat.

  In other words, why blame the jackass for braying? Or the snake for wriggling in the grass?

  Yet acquittal still appeared unlikely. Then, on the afternoon where the verdict was expected, Beemer was introduced to a government contractor who was known to hire directly from the Marines. In lieu of a court-martial, would Beemer be willing to accept a contracting job and return to Iraq?

  A deal was struck.

  Only eleven miles to Long Beach.

  Traveling at sixty-eight miles an hour, Beemer easily calculated that he would pull off at the 7th Street exit in about ten minutes. It would be maybe another five minutes from the off-ramp to the Palomino shipping yard.

  So close. So very very close.

  Once Dulaney received word from the tactical commander that the probable target truck was en route, he exited his vehicle and crossed the hot parking lot to Rey’s vintage Porsche. Only the pool man had slipped out of his convertible and into the air-conditioned supermarket to see if he could secure an iced coffee. Dulaney found Rey in line in the bakery section, a paper service ticket pinched between his fingers. An Indian woman in a maroon Ralph’s apron who could barely see over the countertop called out Rey’s number. She looked both left and right, called the number once more, then moved on to the next customer.

  It was 11:46 A.M.

  “He’s early,” said Dulaney, practically dragging Rey along.

  Rey was hustled across a boulevard already choked with detoured vehicles, up a busy sidewalk and through the doors of a three-story Sports Authority. They skipped the escalator and took the stairs. Rey was doing his best to keep up with the more athletic Dulaney. But that last half flight of stairs made his lungs scream for air.

  “Don’t have a coronary on me,” said Dulaney.

  “Out of shape,” was all Rey could apologize between gasps for air.

  “Good look from over here.”

  Dulaney led Rey through the hunting and fishing section to a broad span of tinted windows that offered a clean view of the intersection of Queens Avenue and Allen Street, a mere eighty yards away.

  “Know how to use these?” asked Dulaney, producing a pair of small binoculars.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Rey, accepting the specs and bringing them up to his eyes. With his index finger, he rotated the focus wheel until the stoplight came into sharp relief.

  “You think you can ID the guy from here?”

  “You know, I never said I got a good look at him,” said Rey.

  “Better look than anybody else.”

  “S’pose so,” said Rey. “He’s gonna be comin’ from which way?”

  “This way. Dead on. Right between these two palm trees.”

  Rey lowered the glasses and surveyed the landscape. Three medium high-rises squared against a park, a supermarket, and a Chevron gas station, with the Long Beach Harbor beyond and all those container cranes checking off the horizon like long-necked waterfowl built out of Erector Sets. And there, three stories up and defended by a heavy pane of tinted glass, Rey found his nerves settling. He’d become oddly at ease. Feeling safe, even. Rey was in the cradle of the FBI, who in a matter of minutes, would be arresting bad guy Greg Beem.

  “So whaddayou guys use?” asked Rey.

  “Use?” asked Dulaney. “Use for what?”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Rey, realizing he’d blurted the question without any context whatsoever. “When you—you know—take him away. Do you use regular handcuffs or those zip tie things I always see on TV?”

  Dulaney smiled.

  “Think regular old handcuffs will do in this situation,” said the FBI agent. “But that’s up to the tactical cappy.” Dulaney pointed out the Long Beach city work van parked on Queens. “See that yellow van?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When your man hits the stoplight, three guys in SWAT gear will pop out of there and—well you can’t see ’em from here—but just inside the office tower there are three more dudes. It’ll be over in twenty seconds.”

  “And the lady in the black skirt?” asked Rey. “She’s the one who offered the reward?”

  “What reward?” asked Dulaney.

  “For the guy who did the murders up north.”

  If Dulaney’s head had been on a spindle it would’ve spun.

  “There’s no reward,” said Dulaney.

  “Yeah there is. Was on the morning show.”

  Why deny it? thought Dulaney. He just didn’t want to believe it. But the instant the word “reward” sprang from Rey’s mouth, it stunk of Lilly. What did she know and why in Hades’ name hadn’t she told her FBI liaison?

  “Don’t know nothin’ but we got a bad guy to ID,” said Dulaney. “We’re gonna stop the big rig. You’re gonna ID him. Tac’s gonna do their thing and we’re all gonna get on with the weekend. How’s that for a plan?”

  “Yeah,” said Rey, nodding enthusiastically. “Sounds fine by me.”

  24

  Dave Wireman knew the moment was close. From where he’d parked his Lexus a half block away, he had been able to watch the federal unit set up their sting, cutting off one street and diverting traffic into a veritable gauntlet in order to capture the truck-driving killer. Eventually, as the tactical squad split into a pair of three-man teams flanking each side of the intersection, Dave sensed that direct action was a mere minutes away.

  “Stay with the car,” said Dave.

  “What do you think I been doin’?” said Terrell, his muscle-strung pal in the passenger seat.

  “I’m gonna video from the high spot over there.”

  Terrell twisted to his right, looking across the small city park that covered an acre between the idling sedan and the Ralph’s supermarket.

  “The big hook thing over there?” asked Terrell.

  “It’s an anchor,” said Dave.

  “Real anchor?”

  “Looks like a sculpture of an anchor,” said Dave, popping his door open. “I’ll climb up behind it. I should get an unobstructed view.”

  “Don’t wanna get closer?” asked Terrell.

  “Observe and report.”

  “I ever tell you that your shit’s boring?”

  “You gettin’ paid?” smirked Dave, mockingly waiting for an answer. And when none came, he simply reached behind the seat to grab the video camera. He let the door swing shut with
a luxury car thunk, then set a heading into the park toward a maritime sculpture seated atop a three-foot-high slab of gray concrete.

  “Your shit’s still dull,” said Terrell, paying little mind to Dave’s trajectory. Instead, he flipped his phone open and checked his Twitter statistics. He had fifty-three followers, down from fifty-five only two hours earlier.

  What a pisser.

  The noon hour neared and Terrell’s appetite was screaming to be quenched. He had pushed up the weight on his entire lifting circuit by fifteen percent that morning. He had handled most of it without much strain. But that extra set of squats left his quads burning and his stomach set to full growl. There was a Panda Express across the street and four doors up. Terrell suddenly imagined himself waiting out the boring arrest with a take-out box of steaming kung pao chicken. The aroma would be heavenly while he stabbed at the food with a pair of chopsticks and, if luck was on Terrell’s side, the Chinese concoction might even stink up Dave’s car for a day or two. There was, though, the risk of residual heartburn. He usually quelled that particular side effect of HGH injections with both waking and bedtime doses of over-the-counter antacids. But in his morning haste, he’d forgotten his baggie of pills. Vitamins and supplements, mostly. All part of the bodybuilder’s regimen for the ultimate physique.

  Screw it. The Panda is calling. So here I come.

  Terrell extricated his aching muscles from Dave’s Lexus, shut the door without locking it, then padded his way up the sidewalk, following his nose in the direction of the Chinese food franchise.

  The closer Shorty got to Long Beach, the more the pipe called to him. With the Peterbilt practically on cruise control, it wouldn’t have taken much to dip a couple fingers into his vest pocket, remove the three-inch glass tube, load the blackened tip with crystal meth pebbles, and put a flame to it. Yet there was another voice inside that begged him to resist. To prove he could finish one brief job without leaning on the drugs.