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

by Doug Richardson

“Who wants to know?” asked Rey.

  “Someone who works with Special Agent Dulaney Little,” said the small ATF man.

  “What the hell?” Rey muted the television and held out his hand for the agent’s cell phone.

  “Just lemme know when you’re done with it cuz the battery’s almost dunzo.”

  “Hello?” Rey said into the phone.

  “Mr. Palomino?” said the feminine voice. “My name is Lilly Zoller. I’m an assistant United States Attorney. I believe we were introduced this morning down in Long Beach. You know. Before things turned upside down.”

  “Okay,” said Rey, not even trying to remember her. His mind was somewhere between mush and rice pudding.

  “I know you’ve been speaking to just about everyone from Justice,” said Lilly. “I want to know if you’ve made any arrangements for interviews outside of law enforcement.”

  “Nothin’ yet,” said Rey. “Everybody suggested I wait on that which is fine by me because I’m just a little overwhelmed by—”

  “I’ll get right to it,” interrupted Lilly. “I’m sure by now you know how this all began. There was a heist of some frozen blood product in Reno. Then on the way to shipping it somewhere, the man you met killed a young couple and a police officer up in Kern County.”

  “Heard somethin’ like that.”

  “One of the victims in Kern was a young actress,” continued Lilly. “Pepper Ellis. Have you ever heard of her?”

  “No. Don’t think so,” said Rey, still inhaling in half-breaths as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “The victim’s father is a man named Conrad Ellis. She was his only daughter and he’s quite distraught.”

  “Okay.”

  “Conrad Ellis is a friend of mine. And he asked me to phone you and ask if you’d make some time to speak with him privately about what you know.”

  “Talk to the girl’s dad?”

  “Exactly,” said Lilly. “Off the record. Just a private meeting between you and the grieving father.”

  “Sure, okay,” stammered Rey. “I could do it, I guess. But why’s he wanna talk to me?”

  “Can I be frank with you, Mr. Palomino?”

  “It’s Rey. And yeah, sure.”

  “Rey. Yes,” she began. “Conrad Ellis is a man of significant wealth and power. And I learned a long time ago that men with money and juice have their own way of doing things. This, I assume, is Conrad’s way of grieving. Only he doesn’t want to read about it in the news or hear from the FBI. He just wants to know what you know.”

  Rey had met plenty of rich people, having built a number of backyard pools for them. So yes. Folks with money could be pretty damned peculiar. Still, the request sounded strange until Lilly added a dollar sign.

  “Conrad Ellis, of course, is willing to pay for your time,” she said. “Now. As a government official, I can’t negotiate a fee for you. I can only make the introduction. But as we speak there’s a man named Garvin Van Der Berk on his way to your home. Conrad tells me he’s authorized this man to both negotiate an acceptable cash payment along with providing you transportation to and from Mr. Ellis’ Bel-Air home.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rey. “I’m tired. Did you say they wanna drive me to and from Bel-Air?”

  “Garvin Van Der Berk. You should tell your keepers to expect him.”

  “Right. Okay. And what’s your name again?”

  “I’m Lilly. I work with Dulaney.”

  “Yeah. How is he?”

  “Dulaney? I haven’t seen him. But I’m told he’s resting okay.”

  “You know, I was with him when it happened. You know. The explosion.”

  “We were all there,” said Lilly. “Remember. Garvin Van Der Berk.”

  34

  As it stretches east, Interstate 210 is comprised of eight lanes that nearly reach from Los Angeles to Palm Springs. But for the final eleven miles of its westerly route, the traffic artery jogs north along the edge of the Angeles National Forest. Mountains rise up on both sides and for a while those omnipresent city lights disappear. This was one of Gonzo’s favorite ribbons of Southern California blacktop. The roadway was rarely crowded. It turned gently through the low lying hills of scrub and oaks with a gentle rise and fall. Late at night, driving it at any speed was a little slice of peacefulness.

  Gonzo had let the Charger’s speed creep up to just shy of 100 MPH when, as they crested over a rise, distant brake lights flared. The cars ahead were all, in choreographed unison, braking in a hurry.

  “Ah, shit,” said Gonzo.

  Lucky sat up in his seat, trying to see beyond the cars to the cause of the midnight traffic jam. A quarter mile beyond, a tanker truck carrying fresh whole milk, had somehow jack-knifed and tripped on its side, splashing the freeway with twenty thousand gallons of pasteurized whiteness.

  In her rearview mirror, Gonzo saw a pair of CHP cruisers descending on the accident scene, their lighting arrays swirling red and blue. The cruisers rocketed down the road’s shoulder, trailed by two fire trucks and a mobile EMT unit.

  “Follow ’em,” said Lucky.

  Gonzo was already on board. She wheeled the Charger hard right until she felt gravel under the front wheels, then squeezed the Dodge between the stalled traffic and the guardrail. The amount of dust kicked up by the heavy duty tires of the fire vehicles made for a sandy brown fog, reducing visibility to barely three car lengths.

  “Keep up, keep up!” urged Lucky.

  “What does it look like I’m—”

  “Watch it!”

  Lucky needn’t have shouted. Gonzo’s right foot was already navigating from the gas to the brake pedal, forcing it down with every fast twitch fiber south of her pelvis.

  The wheels on the Charger locked up. The vehicle slid, fish-tailing slightly to the right. But not slowing in time to keep from impaling the brain trust in the unregistered Volvo wagon who’d snap-decided to sneak up the road shoulder. The impact spun both cars into the guardrail, pinning one to the other. Dirt billowed and settled in a spray.

  All forward momentum was, in a matter of seconds, retarded by a pair of cars in a messy, roadside tangle.

  “What’s your name?” asked Beemer, following closely as the beefcake electrician led him to the news truck.

  “I could tell ya,” said the electrician. “But names kinda take the spark out of it, dontcha think?”

  “See whatcha mean,” said Beemer, playing along. He’d assumed the hairy ape was the kind of gay man who enjoyed frequenting public restrooms for anonymous sexual encounters.

  Good on him. Good for me.

  “This one here,” said the electrician, stopping at the right rear bumper of a white and maroon van, festooned with all the de rigueur equipment for delivering up-to-the-second news video to an info-hungry public.

  “You stay there, Dukester.” Beemer carefully knotted the Yorkie’s lead to a nearby street sign.

  The electrician held the door for the stranger, half-grin creasing through his beard. Beemer stepped up, instantly assessing the space. His eyes landed on an Indian-bred uplink operator.

  “Break time,” said the electrician, gesturing with a head feint toward the open door. The uplink operator gave Beemer a cursory once-over, unable to disguise his disgust. The electrician gave a low chuckle then leaned forward to whisper in Beemer’s ear. “Union seniority has its privileges.”

  Beemer felt the man’s big arm around his shoulder, helping him squeeze left so the uplink operator could slip past.

  “Don’t go,” said an apologetic Beemer to the uplink operator.

  “Huh uh,” said the electrician. “Three’s a crowd and I don’t take my blow jobs with curry powder.”

  The uplink operator wanted to wince.

  “Now, that’s just mean,” said Beemer, edging to his right and blocking the uplink operator’s immediate exit. Beemer reached around, shut the door and latched it.

  “Seriously dude,” said the electrician. “Benji here’s straighter tha
n a honeymoon dick.”

  Beemer gave up a surprised laugh.

  “That’s one I haven’t heard,” he said, slipping the .40 cal out from his waistband, placing the muzzle up against the uplink operator’s skull, shielding against unwanted blood spray with his left palm, and squeezing off a single shot. Bam! Poor Benji’s motor was cut and he dropped.

  “OW!” shouted the electrician in a completely involuntary utterance. Before he heard the shot he felt the shock in the air and the fine spray of death against his face. Instinct repelled him backwards, tripping over his super-sized flip flops before he crashed to the deck.

  The rest had already played out in Beemer’s head. All that was left were two more pulls on the trigger. He stepped forward, fired a shot that first passed through the electrician’s palm, held out in an impotent defensive pose. The projectile tumbled and lodged in the electrician’s neck. The third and final shot was a coup de grâce to the victim’s forehead.

  Each report from the pistol offered little echo, unusual for a small space, but not beyond Beemer’s expectations. When he was prepping for the IED attack on journalists, he’d learned all about TV trucks and the acoustic deadening with which the interiors were normally equipped. The vans essentially served as portable sound studios for the Kens and Barbies of cable news, allowing for both video editing and audio recording on four sturdy wheels.

  Nobody heard the shots.

  Brimmed by a wave of inner cool, Beemer eased up to the cab, surveyed the exterior landscape, glad to discover the keys to the vehicle were dangling from the ignition.

  Next he needed to find the switch to lower the microwave mast. Then he would be obstacle-free to engage his flavor of the moment.

  Rey Palomino.

  Headlights splashed the side-view mirror as a car slow-rolled past on the left. Beemer automatically flicked his eyes toward it, then went back to looking for the mast mechanism. But he found himself doing a double take. The taillights of a silver Lexus flared as the sedan slowed to barely a half mile per hour.

  Trust your instincts, Beems. Why am I looking at this car?

  Spook school had taught him to trust the hairs on the back of his neck and arms. That sometimes an extra glance or double take was a sub-neural recollection. Somewhere, somehow he’d seen the car before. But where and why it would matter to him in the middle of hijacking a news van was a mystery.

  Silver Lexus. Big deal. Move on. There it is.

  The mechanism that controlled the hydraulic servos that raised and lowered the mast had a yellow face, pan and tilt buttons for the microwave dish, and a big red stop and start button for safety’s sake. Beemer quickly forgot about the silver Lexus and began figuring out how to lower the hundred-plus-foot telescoping arm.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Lucky punctuated his machine-gun outburst with an equal number of left fists into the Dodge Charger’s roof.

  Gonzo, roughed up from the collision, both hands gripped at ten and two on the steering wheel, felt the sting of a split lip.

  “Airbags,” she spit, almost resigned to the fact that some cops didn’t like the idea of anything impeding their escape from a wrecked vehicle to continue a chase. “You disabled the fucking airbags!”

  “’Course I did.” said Lucky, quickly giving up on his side of the car. “My door’s jammed. We’re out your side.”

  He was already climbing over the console, forcing Gonzo to shove herself into the driver’s door. It swung wide with a loud, uncharacteristic squeak. Once past her, Lucky circled to the front end of the Charger. Under the right fender was bad news. The wheel was bent and nearly folded under the axle. He grit his teeth, kicked at the bent tire, then took four long strides to the trunk, popped the lid, and removed a pair of bulletproof vests. He tossed one at Gonzo while slinging on a Remington pump shotgun with a ballistic bandoleer full of 12 gauge ammo.

  The Kevlar vest lay at Gonzo’s feet.

  “If you don’t wanna come,” said Lucky, “By all means stick around and trade insurance info with Gary Numbfuck.”

  Gary Numbfuck—aka the bushy gray-haired driver of the Volvo with the inebriated air of a relation to actor Gary Busey—was slow to exit from his vehicle. And when he finally stood before them, he was quick to lay blame on Gonzo.

  “What the crap?” said the Volvo driver, his unbelted cargo shorts barely hanging on to his hips. “You don’t look where you’re goin’?”

  “Where we’re goin’?” said Lucky. “See those cops and fire units go by?”

  “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t,” said the Volvo driver. “But I’m not talkin’ to you. I’m talkin’ to the bitch who was behind the wheel—”

  Lucky one-arm-racked a shotgun shell into the pump action’s chamber. That distinctive sound was enough to stop any drunk from running his mouth.

  “Straight up, dipshit,” said Lucky. “Your car drivable?”

  Did he hear the question? The Volvo driver’s eyes were still fixed on the shotgun.

  “Your car!” barked Gonzo. “Can you drive it?”

  “Want me to move it?” asked the Volvo driver, his attitude reversed into compliance mode.

  “Requisitioned by the LAPD,” said Gonzo, dusting off the bulletproof vest and marching past him.

  “Requi-what?” asked the Volvo driver.

  “Wait for the tow,” said Lucky, stuffing a business card in the Volvo driver’s aloha shirt. “Lemme know where my car lands.”

  With that, Lucky folded himself into the passenger seat of the Swedish-made wagon, slamming the door shut with a heavy clank. Gonzo hit the gas and the Volvo’s wheels spun and spit gravel.

  35

  Obediently, Dave Wireman had unplugged himself from his dark apartment, started up his silver Lexus and cut northwest across the central San Fernando Valley. Surface streets delivered him to the meeting point, a 7-Eleven convenience mart at the bottom of the 405’s Nordhoff exit. Garvin Van Der Berk was waiting for him, sipping a 44-ounce Big Gulp cocktail of Diet Coke and super-caffeinated Mountain Dew. The private eye was nearly unrecognizable in his faded denim, baseball cap, and gray L.A. Dodgers jersey. The two men conferred briefly, decided Dave would drive to the Granada Hills address, then both embarked in the Lexus for the ten-minute midnight cruise.

  On the drive from NoHo, Dave had decided to play things close to his vest. Keep his own counsel. Wait for Garvin to ask questions concerning the morning events in Long Beach. Leave it to the boss to inquire about the videotape he’d asked Dave to record.

  But once again, Conrad Ellis was all Garvin had on his mind. The detective took the entire short drive to bring Dave up to speed on Conrad’s newest request. They were to offer some witness named Palomino stacks of cash to entice him into a late-night interview with the eccentric mogul. Pieces of the story began to string together for Dave. The man he was supposed to have videotaped getting arrested was, in fact, some kind of terrorist who’d set off a suicide fertilizer bomb in downtown Long Beach. This Palomino guy was someone who could actually put a face to the obliterated bad guy.

  And Conrad Ellis wanted to have a chat with him.

  Upon arrival at the scene, Dave, an Angeleno who’d seen all kinds of news sieges in his years, was still surprised by the level of attention this witness was receiving. The eleven news trucks and accompanying civilian and police cars occupied most of the curb space. The peaceful, hillside neighborhood was lit up with the flat-white glare of television lights. Video cameras were mounted on tripods like turreted machine guns, each and every lens aimed at a home that could easily be described as a classic slice of American pie.

  Instead of seeking a legal place to park the Lexus, Dave decided it was late enough that nobody would give a rip if he blocked the driveway of the home directly across the street from the Palomino home. Garvin had already instructed Dave to remain with car while he made the cash appeal to the witness. If Mr. Palomino agreed to the terms, Garvin would call Dave and ask him to pull the car into the
drive, thus shortening the distance the witness would have to walk in front of the cameras.

  “Stay off your phone, okay?” reminded Garvin as he stepped out on to the asphalt.

  “Gotcha boss,” said Dave, deciding to dispense with the air conditioning and roll down all four windows.

  The air remained still and without a hint of breeze. When he hit the switch to retract the moon roof, Dave hoped that when he looked upward the leaves from the tremendous overhanging pepper trees would show signs of moving air.

  Reserve Police Officer Tanner Cooley would have preferred his usual volunteer duty—patrolling the hot spots of the Valley in a radio unit. The mix of summer, an unusually high heat index, and the first night of the weekend usually guaranteed plenty of action for the LAPD hobby cops. That and veteran street cops were perfectly happy to leave much of the gun chasing to the part-timers and volunteers.

  In the wake of the morning’s terrorist attack in Long Beach, he and the other reservists were called in and pooled for random assignment. Too bad for Officer Tanner Cooley he’d been assigned to babysit a bunch of news jockeys in Granada Hills. Not that he was feeling sorry for himself. His full-time job as a regional manager for a national fast-food chain provided him with a recession-proof job. Profits were up along with waistlines. The numbers in Tanner’s life had been treating him well.

  And Tanner loved numbers.

  He was an accounts whiz at his job. He could recite by memory the box scores and stat curves for the current season of his beloved San Diego Padres. And before he’d let his boots touch the pavement on those nights he worked as a volunteer cop, he’d commit to memory the license tags of recently stolen cars.

  What made the license plate on the silver Lexus so beguiling to Officer Cooley was that he hadn’t read it on a hot list. It had come over the computer system from Homeland Security as a vehicle possibly used to assist the suicide bomber in the Long Beach bombing. DHS had also noted it was not yet releasing the identity of the suspect.