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

by Doug Richardson

  Lucky rolled an empty office chair from the dispatch room onto the sidewalk that separated the back of the station house from the motor yard. He propped his boots on the bumper of a black-and-white, rested his head on a knob of concrete coping, and hoped to coax his body into a nap. His low back pain was manageable, but hardly vanquished. A fistful of Advil would probably last him through the rest of the shift, but that would require him to fill his stomach with something starchy—like the free pizza—which would surely lead to an uncomfortable shift in his ballast.

  Lucky’s plan to lower his eyelids was spoiled when he glimpsed Atom talking up his trainee. The boy wonder seemed to have Shia trapped in a cinder-block corner near the outdoor barbecue pit and tiki bar named after a fallen deputy. The only prop that separated Shia from the towering movie director was her drooping paper plate and the pizza she carefully picked at with her fingers.

  He’s a hound.

  So what? thought Lucky. Lots of men were. Cops especially. And surely Shia knew as much. Between time in the Academy and then working the jail, she was certain to have been dubbed the hot girl—attractive to a fault and accustomed to a dog pile of male attention.

  Yet there she was—his trainee—nearly cowering under the come-on moves from their Hollywood ride-along.

  Politics wise, the movie director reeked of hands-off. He was rich, famous, and connected to top Sheriff’s brass. If it weren’t for the station house backdrop and Shia in uniform, Lucky would have sussed the duo’s pick-up bar posture as another horny guy hitting on another uncomfortable girl. Was he correctly reading the trainee’s body language? Or was the moviemaker so persistent that he figured it was only a matter of time before he turned her non-verbal rejection into a consensual roll in the hay?

  Then Shia flicked a glance in Lucky’s direction.

  Was it a check-in with her T.O. or a call for help? Lucky attempted a reread on the situation. Shia was a big girl. If she felt harassed there were both official and unofficial remedies, the latter being something as simple as a knee to the groin or a reminder that she was a trained bundle of badass. Then again, maybe she’d assumed the politics were such that rebuffing come-ons by the clearly connected ride-along might come with early and unwelcome career consequences.

  Again, Shia flicked her soft brownies.

  Please save me from this asshole.

  Lucky found his frame of view suddenly cramped with deputies—young Gil Rodriguez in his drooping uniform partnered with a top-heavy cop with a name tag that read F. Petrie. The larger of the pair, who stood no less than six-foot-five, put such a strain on his shirt the creases had nearly been erased.

  “Hey, Lucky,” said Gil. “You met Franco Petrie?”

  “Just now,” said Lucky, offering his outstretched palm. “Deputy.”

  “Deputy,” replied Petrie, “welcome to The Grid.”

  “Is that the line for booking or the free clinic?” joked Gil, gesturing inside and overstating the obvious.

  Lucky forced a polite smile.

  “So they got you on training?” asked Petrie, seeking conversation.

  “Plus a ride-along.”

  Both deputies pivoted to take in the cornered Shia. Even the young deputies stiffened slightly at the obvious macking underway at the hands of the film director.

  “Hey, cowboy!” barked Lucky, following with a penetrating finger whistle. Atom perked and unconsciously obeyed, instantly twisting himself in Lucky’s direction. “Meet a coupla more of the good guys.”

  Atom pasted on a practiced grin and strode over, open hand as ready as a politician’s.

  “Atom Blum,” the director introduced.

  “Movie dude. Directed all the Road Rage flicks,” erred Lucky. On purpose.

  “Kill,” corrected Atom, “Road. Kill.”

  “Love those movies!” pimped Gil. “I even got me the PlayStation games.”

  “You workin’ on somethin’ about the Sheriffs?” asked Petrie.

  “Might be workin’ on finding my next leading lady,” puffed Atom. “Unless you can tell me that all your female sheriffs are as hot as Deputy Saint George.”

  “She’s sure as shit’s a step up,” replied Gil. “Know what they used to call Compton Station? The Dog Pound.”

  “No shit,” laughed Atom, as if he’d just logged himself a moment of real cop talk before turning back to Lucky. “Seriously. You got five months ahead sittin’ next to that? Hope you’re not married.”

  “And if I was?” asked Lucky.

  The trio joined in a nervous, knowing guffaw.

  “I getcha,” muted Atom. “Five months, shit. What I would pay for five hours with that.”

  “You’ve been introduced,” shifted Lucky as he straightened from the chair. “Why don’t you young studs share your stories with Hollywood’s finest?”

  Lucky stretched, adjusted his utility belt and left the movie director with Gil and Petrie. His exit served as punctuation.

  “What’s your movie about?” begged Gil, eager as hell to be included.

  “Dunno yet. Love story in a black-and-white?” teased Atom. The deputies laughed with the director at the sexual possibilities. “You guys ever do it? Not with each other. You know. In a police car. With a lady deputy? Or not a lady deputy?”

  The deputies traded distrusting looks as if to test the other on how much off-the-record funny business they were willing to share.

  “Hey. Get this,” switched Gil. “Some shit hardly nobody knows. Couple nights back, Air Support is flyin’ up ’round Malibu way, checking on a stolen car report when they light up this Lambo parked at some scenic turnout. They’re slingin’ the spot and they light up this ass-clown at the bottom of a ravine. Pants ’round his ankles. Big ol’ hard on.”

  Atom’s face dropped into that of a slack-jawed statue. Was he really hearing what Gil was passing along?

  “You’re shittin’ me,” laughed Petrie. “Was the dude by his-self?”

  “When they found him he was,” continued Gil. “Supposedly there was some swimsuit honey up there doin’ him when he crack-over-tits falls into the ravine. Drunk as a monkey.”

  Atom felt his knees weaken. The flush of blood rising beneath the skin on his face. Good God, had Lucky been waiting to spring this? Was it some kind of joke sent along by Assistant Sheriff Paul McGill—his supposed top-brass friend who’d promised to forever fix the embarrassing episode?

  “Really?” Atom forced after his fake chuckle. “They say who the dipshit was?”

  “Man, I must know twenty deputies up at Temple Street,” answered Gil. “But this guy’s gotta be somebody or know somebody cuz there ain’t no written report—no names—no nothin’ cuz Christ knows I asked.”

  “And if you could find out?” asked Petrie.

  “I’d go find the dude and ask to be his wingman,” laughed Gil. “I mean, imagine a girl hot enough to be worth that kinda spill? That dude’s gotta be a pussy magnet.”

  “Drives a Lambo,” agreed Petrie.

  “Wow,” was all Atom could manage, nearly wheezing his sigh of relief. Not just from learning that his identity was still intact, but also over his decision to leave the Lamborghini in his Malibu garage and drive his Range Rover to the Compton station instead.

  Shia splashed water on her face and, for a minute or so, appreciated the cooling quiet of the ladies washroom. A lingering low-rent perfume left an annoying sting in her nostrils. One of the dispatchers, she figured, recalling a squat woman named Sunny with a mop of black curly hair and a pronounced curve to her back.

  Spinal scoliosis.

  One bugger of a deformity.

  Wear as much of that stinky scent as you want.

  Shia made a mental note to schmooze the mostly female civilian staff just so they’d view the new trainee as a deputy who didn’t see herself as a cut above.

  She dried her hands, swung the door open, and was surprised by the voice behind her.

  “You alright?” asked Lucky. He was leaning on the w
all, arms crossed.

  “Fine,” replied Shia. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Checking in. That’s all.”

  “You mean Mr. Impressed with Himself?” Shia asked. “Not a problem.”

  “No complaints? Formal or otherwise?”

  “He’s just one of those guys. Gets slapped a lot. But probably gets laid a lot because he’s not afraid to get slapped.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Not like he’s droppin’ roofies in my coffee,” shrugged Shia, referring to the date rape drug Rohypnol. “Handled way worse than him… Asked me to model for him. By his pool. So lame.”

  “Maybe he’s seen enough for the night. Kick him loose.”

  “Said I’m good. Jacked for our arrest.”

  “Your arrest.” Lucky offered his fist. Shia softly knuckled him.

  “Let’s get some more,” she gamely offered.

  18

  Lucky swung the black-and-white into a wide right turn from East Greenleaf onto Sante Fe, the steering wheel gliding underneath his fingertips as if he were the maestro of all road-weary Ford Crown Vics. He set his sights on a closing pair of oncoming headlights, readied his tactical flashlight and snapped a quick beam at the unknown driver of a panel van. The man behind the wheel—African-American, middle-aged, and scowling from the invasiveness of Lucky’s curiosity, appeared as if it was all he could do not to return a middle finger.

  “Think that guy feels just a little harassed?” joked Atom from the backseat.

  It was painfully obvious Atom loathed dead air. Every peaceful moment seemed shoehorned with his shallow observations, most of which Lucky ignored.

  “Seriously,” pressed Atom. “Is it harassment? You know? The flashlight thingy?”

  “Legally?” replied Shia. “No.”

  “But say you live here,” continued Atom. “I mean, lucky for us we don’t. But say you did. You’re black. Every time you drive by a cop car you get a face full of candlepower?”

  “Might feel harassed,” argued Shia. “But how I feel and the law. That’s two different things.”

  “I’d sure as shit feel harassed,” admitted Atom. “See that guy’s face? He was hacked off.”

  “After 2:00 A.M.,” infused Lucky. “You’re driving a panel van in a high crime area? Odds increase that you’re up to no good.”

  “Maybe the guy was driving home from his job,” pressed Atom.

  “Just a flashlight,” defended Shia. “And maybe the next car we lamp is fulla van-jacking thugs following Mr. Hacked Off to his home where his wife and babies are sleeping. See where I’m going?”

  “Hear ya,” said Atom. “But, come on. Isn’t any wonder why minorities feel oppressed by the police.”

  “That what your next movie is about?” asked Shia, hoping to shift the conversation.

  “I’d tell ya,” joked Atom before dropping a tired punch line. “But I’d have to kill ya.”

  “That might be considered a threat to a police officer,” matched Shia.

  “Flirt all you want,” teased Atom. “But you won’t get it out of me before I get it into you.”

  Eyes on the rearview mirror, Lucky caught the twisted grin on Atom’s face a split second before swiveling right to catch the reaction from his trainee. He expected something akin to an eye roll as she shrugged off or just endured another overtly sexual pass. Instead, Lucky saw Shia practically wince, inhale, then release air through secretly grit teeth. Shia didn’t even chance a look in her training officer’s direction. Embarrassed. As if her tolerating Atom’s overt crassness was somehow her own fault.

  Lucky eased back on the accelerator until the black-and-white was rolling under twenty miles per hour. Next he quietly slung his seatbelt across himself until the tongue clicked in the receptacle. Shia picked up on the cue and followed suit, the retractor on her restraint unwinding in hushed ticks until the telltale metallic snap of the lock.

  “Hey,” said Lucky to the movie director. “Got a question for ya.”

  “Fire way, Sarge,” replied Atom, clueless that Lucky was not a sergeant.

  “In the movies, you got something called a screen test, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Atom. “For actors usually. Big screen doesn’t suit everybody. So we use screen tests to see how an actor comes across.”

  “No shit,” said Lucky. “Did you know us poh-lice? We got ourselves somethin’ called a screen test.”

  “Really?” asked Atom, hoping for some insider LA Sheriff’s juice. “What’s that?”

  “I’d tell you,” mocked Lucky. “But I’d have to kill ya.”

  Atom wasn’t quite certain whether or not Lucky was joking. Following the awkward pause, he decided to risk a laugh. Lucky and Shia relieved Atom with their own chuckles, joining in the fun.

  “Naw,” said Lucky. “Just kidding. Why don’t I just show you?”

  “Show me?”

  “A screen test. Sheriffs’ style.”

  “You’re gonna show me a sheriffs’ screen test?”

  “Only if you ask me to.”

  “Fine. I’ll bite,” said Atom, getting slightly impatient. “Please show me how LA Sheriffs do a screen test.”

  Lucky lifted his right hand and gave a come-closer gesture. Two fingers, beckoning Atom to lean closer to the mesh partition that separated the radio unit’s front and back seats. Atom shifted and leaned forward.

  “Closer,” said Lucky.

  “Close enough?” asked Atom, only inches from the wire.

  With the sole of his boot, Lucky struck the brake. Hard. The shift in gravity sent the boy wonder’s face slapping against the acrylic partition. The sound was akin to that of football players colliding.

  “OW, FUCK!” howled Atom, his body recoiling into the backseat, hands cupping his face.

  “Screen test,” quipped Lucky.

  “Not fuckin’ funny!” blasted Atom.

  Shia covered her mouth, trying with all her might not to sound out her pleasure.

  “Now, that’s harassment,” said Lucky. “But only if you’re a suspect. Good thing you’re not a suspect. Cuz it mighta been a lot harder.”

  “Fuckin’ A I’m not a suspect!”

  “No. You’re a ride-along. And you asked for a demonstration.”

  “You’re an asshole!”

  “Affirmative.”

  Atom glimpsed Shia’s shoulders, bubbling up and down as she continued to stuff any sounds of her laughter.

  “Oh, yeah?” bitched Atom. “It’s funny to you?”

  “Only laughing because all trainees get screen tested,” fibbed Lucky.

  “She got…” pointed Atom. “He did this to you?”

  “All trainees,” repeated Lucky.

  “Screen Test Society,” recovered Shia, getting a grip on her amusement. “S.T.S.”

  “Fuckin’ club?”

  “Consider yourself initiated,” nodded Lucky.

  “Think my nose is broke,” Atom moaned.

  “Pay attention,” chirped Lucky. “You have now been instated in a secret society of sheriffs. You tell anybody else about this, we’ll just state the facts. That you requested a screen test.”

  “Didn’t ask for my nose to get broke!”

  “Looks manly on you,” teased Shia. “Like you just scrapped your way out of a cage fight.”

  “Screen Test Society,” waned Atom.

  “Secret society,” reminded Lucky.

  And there it was again. An unsettled pause. The boy wonder shifted his perspective from Lucky to Shia then back again. Were they messing with him? Or were they truly welcoming him into a clandestine club of cops?

  Atom pushed out a defensive chuckle, not wanting to give away how much his face hurt or that he wanted to cry. He could taste the old bitterness at the back of his tongue. All the childhood slights he harbored were queued to rush in—reminders of why he chose to make movies and live such an over-the-top, over-compensating lifestyle. The director didn’t require a paid psychologist to dissect
his motives nor was he ever one to apologize for anything to anybody. In Atom Blum’s playbook, saying I’m sorry was for pussies, peons, and as soon as he had his way, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputy Lucky Dey.

  Part III

  Wednesday

  19

  Eagle Rock. 4:04 A.M.

  What Cat Rincon would have paid for more than two hours sleep. As it was, two hours was as good as it would get. Unless of course, there came some giant leaps in science. Sixteen years earlier, when a UCLA sophomore, she had been diagnosed with severe melatonin deficiency. In the years since, she’d tried everything from supplements to sleeping pills, but nothing agreed with her. The only regimen that worked was intense exercise. Sometimes up to three times a day. Cat had learned to live and thrive despite her malady.

  She had awoken shortly after three. Try as she might return to slumber, she eventually conceded defeat, snatched her iPad, and caught up on social media posts before padding into the perfectly restored bathroom to shower under spray of eighty-two-degree water. Like a summer afternoon swim in a black-bottomed pool. Cooling, but without that freezing, shocking sting.

  Instead of toweling off, she opted to air dry, crossing into the small, but wide-open living space originally penciled by famed architect, Pierre Koenig. The thrusting glass and steel structure, built in 1960, was designed to minimize both square feet and angles and maximize the surrounding views. Cat’s recently restored house was a hilltop residence with panoramic vistas of the lower San Rafael Hills. The sprouting humps and junior-sized valleys were conveniently two short miles northeast of downtown LA.

  Cat stood fully naked at that vast floor-to-ceiling window, air-molecules working to evaporate the water beads from her chestnut skin. She stared out at those Hobbit-like mounds, none taller than two-hundred-and-forty vertical feet, haphazardly arranged like molehills stretching from Griffith Park to Pasadena. Each mound was dotted with domiciles, old and older, with twinkling lights fueled by electricity delivered exclusively by her beloved Department of Water and Power.

  And all you bastards get to sleep.