Patterns of Brutality: Erter & Dobbs Book 2

by Nick Keller

  “Stand back,” Bernie said, then pulled his .45, pointed it toward the doorknob and let rip three shots like rapid-fire cannon bursts. The door blew open in a spray of splinters and Bernie stepped in frowning, gun leveled.

  The room went into panic. There was a guy standing on the bed with his jeans pulled down to his thighs, ass exposed, waving piss back and forth like a fire hose. Iva was beneath him between his feet balled into a fetal position, getting urine-splashed. At Bernie’s entrance, the guy screamed cupping his dick and staggering off the bed, piss spraying through his fingers. He fell into one of his buddies knocking him over. Liquor bottles scattered.

  To Bernie’s left, another dude went from laughing to screaming and wheeled himself over the hotel chair. To the right, a fourth guy crashed into the window as if to escape, jostling the blinds and falling to his ass.

  After a moment, everyone stared up at him, faces going pale, eyes as big as beach balls, hands in the air. Bernie glanced at Iva on the bed. She was naked, half-wrapped in the hotel sheets, bleeding from cuts on her face and smelling of piss. There were red marks on her legs which would soon turn purple. Huffing like an insane bull, Bernie made eye contact with each of the guys. They were young and clean cut… and scared shitless as they stared back at Bernie.

  “Fuckin’ college pukes,” he sneered. He jabbed his gun down in his breast holster and slipped his jacket off handing it back to William. “Cover her. Get her to the car.” He jacked his gun again and pointed it at the fellas.

  William went to Iva and laid the coat over her helping her into a sitting position. He cringed. The scent of piss struck him like a fist. She was drenched in it mixing with the blood on her face. “Can you stand?” he asked. She nodded, clearly dizzy, and got shakily to her feet. When her hand came out from under the pillow, William saw she held a cell phone in a death grip. William put it together. She had texted Bernie with a desperate 911. She had needed help, and Bernie was there—fucking fast. William got her to her feet and said, “Okay…”

  “Just get her downstairs.” Bernie barked out the order.

  “Okay…” Slowly, he helped her from the room and out the door. Bernie took a step back and swung the door shut. It settled into what was left of the jamb.

  “Who’s party is this?” he said.

  The guy to his left said, “What?”

  Bernie jerked his pistol over. “Who paid?”

  “Uh—I did,” the guy said, getting to his feet with his hands up. “My—my father did.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus. You go to school around here?”

  “Yeah—we’re students.”

  “Where?” Bernie said.

  “What?”

  Bernie thumbed back the hammer on his gun and sneered, “Kid…”

  “W—West L.A. University!”

  Bernie shifted to the punk on his right. His cop’s intuition sensed a wave of animosity coming from over there. He leveled the .45 at the punk’s face. The guy’s eyes changed, went soft. He backed away as Bernie said, “You ever hear make my day, punk?”

  “Huh?” He put his hands up.

  “You gonna do something?” Bernie asked him.

  “No, sir.”

  “Better prove it, else I’ll put a fucking bullet in you.” The kid took a step back. “Wallets on the table.”

  “Sir, please…”

  Bernie swiveled his gun at him. “You want to go first, you little shit?”

  The punk shook his head vigorously. Bernie tapped the table with the barrel end of his .45. It made a heavy sound inspiring them to shuffle their wallets and drop them on the table. They moved back to their respective spots. Bernie snatched the wallets up, then angled the gun at one of the punks at the other side of the bed—the one with his cock still in his hands. He’d run out of piss. “You there. Can you get that little pecker of yours hard again?”

  “Huh?”

  Bernie gave him a serious no-bullshit look.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Do it,” Bernie said.

  “How?”

  “Smack on it, boy!” Bernie yelled, jabbing the gun at him.

  The guy screamed, “Okay okay, please don’t shoot please please pleasepleaseplease!” and started yanking on it hard and fast, crying like a child who just lost his cookies. His thing was never going to get hard, but Bernie was enjoying his terror.

  “Sir, we won’t do it again. We—we’re real sorry,” the guy on the left said, his voice high, his throat tight.

  Bernie looked at him slow, like a storm front coming. This was the guy who paid for Iva’s services. This was his party. Bernie said, “Damn right, you’re sorry. ‘Cause when he gets that little pecker of his hard again, I’m gonna make him stuff it up your butt. And your buddies here are gonna watch. Otherwise—I don’t know, man—I might go happy on my own trigger here.”

  The guy’s face drew into a rictus look of terror, and he started crying. “Oh please no. Please, sir…”

  Bernie caught the first hint of sirens. They were a mile away down Eastern Avenue, but they were coming. The three rounds he’d used to blast the door open had gotten someone’s attention. He grinned and said, “I know who you jaggoffs are. I know where you live. You ever hit a woman again, or if you ever piss anywhere but a toilet—so much as piss on a tree—I’ll put every one of you little bastards in the morgue.” He slipped out the door, took a few steps and hauled ass.

  16

  THE DOBBS HOUSEHOLD

  They pulled out of the east end of the hotel lot as two black-and-whites came sliding up into the west end. Stepping on it, Bernie left the scene in his dust. He looked back over his shoulder and said, “How’s she doing?”

  William was in the backseat with Iva’s head cradled into his lap. He dabbed blood off her brow and cheek with a rag. “I don’t know, Bernie. There’s indications of a concussion. Slight, but…”

  “Baby, are you okay?” Bernie said.

  Iva grunted rolling her eyes over.

  “Is anything broken?” Bernie said.

  William answered, “No, I—I don’t believe anything’s broken.”

  Bernie’s lips went tight. After a moment, he came to a decision. Ripping the wheel to the left he said, “We’re getting her to the hospital.”

  “No, Bernie. No, no hospital,” Iva said.

  “Baby, you need medical attention.”

  “No hospital. Please… no.”

  The Crown Vic came to a stop and Bernie looked back. His eyes went from Iva back to William. “Okay, we’re taking her to my place.”

  WILLIAM HAD NEVER BEEN to Bernie’s. He owned a small brick home with arched windows in the garage, Spanish style-roofing and a plain, but well-kept yard over in Hacienda Heights. They pulled into the drive. Bernie flipped William the keys and leaned into the backseat cradling Iva like a small child. In his big arms, he carried her up to the door as William unlocked it.

  “I got booze in the fridge and basic cable. Make yourself at home,” he grunted, then disappeared down the hallway to the left carrying Iva with him. William looked around the living room. There was a half brick wall by the front door, some interior rod-iron railing leading into the kitchen and wood panel walls. A coffee table was cluttered with magazines, an over-filled ashtray, a few empty beer bottles, yesterday’s dinner plate and a collection of remotes. A set of couches sat in the dim light, both old and leather. The place was livable, definitely utilitarian.

  Clearly a bachelor’s pad.

  There probably hadn’t been a woman here in years… except maybe this Iva, whoever she was. William heard a bathtub faucet turn on at the back of the house. He made a sound like, “Huh.” So, this was Bernie’s place.

  BERNIE PLUGGED the drain when the stream of water got hot. With the caring touch of a lover, he unwrapped Iva’s naked body from the jacket and cradled her up setting her down in the bathtub. Her body seemed to melt into the warmth of the water as it filled
all around her. He rested her head against the tile, snatched a bottle of men’s shampoo and squeezed a healthy amount into the water stream.

  “Ain’t got no bubbles, baby. This’ll have to do.” The churning water began to lather up. He mixed it with his hands to help it along, then he flapped out a wash cloth from his bathroom drawer, soaked it in the water and rubbed her forehead with it wiping away blood from her hairline.

  “Those bastards,” he said.

  She put her hand on his arm. “I’m okay now, Bernie. I’m with you.”

  “That’s right, babe,” he replied.

  When the tub filled and the bubbles swooned around her up to her neck, he cranked off the faucet. He looked deep into her eyes. Her pupils pinned in on him. No concussion. “How do you feel?” he said.

  “Better.”

  “Okay.” He ran his palm through her hair. “I’m going to come check up on you in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  He moved to the door but she called out, “Bernie?”

  He turned.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  He gave her a nod and said, “I’m glad you called.” He left the door open just a hair as he walked out.

  Bernie went into the living room and sat at the couch across from William. They shared a moment, each absorbing the situation. William finally asked, “Do you love her?”

  Bernie said, “Yeah. Yeah, I love her.”

  “Is she a prostitute, Bernie?”

  Bernie said, “She ain’t no prostitute. She’s an escort.” He softened, showed restraint. “But not anymore. Not anymore.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s…” he thought a moment. “She’s my secret, Will.”

  William said, “If the department finds out…”

  “I know,” Bernie said.

  William nodded understanding and said, “Well, now she’s my secret too, then.”

  ONCE IVA FINISHED SOAKING and retired to the bedroom, Bernie got William back home. Evening was approaching when Bernie returned, poured himself a glass of Jack, Coke, and ice, and sat heavily on the couch. Iva came in wearing one of Bernie’s bathrobes. It swallowed her. He patted the couch next to him and she sat down leaning into his big body as he reclined back. They didn’t say anything and she could feel his big breath move her up and down. Bernie said, “You want to talk about it?”

  “I’ve been roughed up before.”

  His words were tinged with all the injustices of the world as he said, “It ain’t right.”

  She reached over taking his drink, sipped on it and handed it back. After a moment she murmured, “They said… I was too old. They said I wasn't worth the money.”

  He was quick to answer, “They’re wrong. You’re worth more than they got.”

  In her world, it was a strange compliment and it made her grin. Then she whispered, “They said other things.”

  “Don’t listen to them. You’re with me now. That’s all that matters.” He stroked her clean, damp hair with one hand, sipped with the other.

  “Did you fuck them up?” she asked.

  “Well,” he gave a humored humph, “they ain’t never gonna take another piss without thinking of me first.”

  “Did you scare them?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Did you make them think they were going to die?”

  Bernie sighed and admitted, “Honestly, babe, I didn’t know if I was going to kill them or not. I think I had them pretty convinced.”

  “And they were scared?”

  “Real scared.”

  “And they’ll never forget it?”

  “Never. I promise you,” he said.

  “Good,” Iva whispered. “I hate them.”

  He stroked her hair and said. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.” She was quiet for a long time. Bernie said, “Iva?”

  “Yeah?”

  He took a big breath lifting her up with his belly and said, “I want you to stay with me. Look, I think it’s time. Yeah, it’s time for you to just move in here.”

  “With you?”

  “That’s right. This is a good home. It’s my home. It could be yours, too.”

  “What will we do, Bernie?”

  “We’ll figure something out, just like everybody else.”

  She paused, hanging on her own decision, and whispered, “Okay, Bernie.”

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Yeah.” She lifted her head and they made close eye contact. “You’re right. It’s time.” She took his drink, sipped, handed it back.

  “Good.” He stroked her hair some more as she laid her head back on his chest.

  After a long, silent moment, she asked, “What about the service, you know—Mr. G?”

  Bernie itched his head and said, “Mmm—you let me take care of Mr. G.”

  17

  NEIMAN GETS THE CASE

  Mark Neiman sat at his desk. Despite the fact there was never a shortage of things to do, he felt restless. His current case was an arson investigation. Someone had burned down a marketing design boutique over off San Pedro—the fashion district. He was starting to suspect a disgruntled employee, though he hadn’t ruled out the shop’s owner. He’d followed every lead he could but it was going nowhere. He was at a dead end. This was where the true investigating started—the questioning, the poking around, the sliding puzzle pieces together, even where they didn’t fit. He called this chewing concrete.

  “Neiman,” someone called.

  Mark turned around. It was Captain Heller standing half in and half out of his office door. He motioned him over. Mark got up and went into his office. “What’s up?”

  “What’s your load look like?” Heller said.

  “I’m still chasing down that design shop arson case. Leads haven’t panned out, so I’m going to have to…”

  Heller stopped him with a hand and said, “What else?”

  “Table’s clean.”

  “Okay, give it to Jackson, put him in touch with the arson unit. I got something else for you. A body.”

  Mark’s eyebrows went up. Maybe the chewing concrete could wait. “What’s it look like?”

  “Murder.” Captain Heller sat down behind his desk. “You know a Detective Smyth up at Hollywood Station?”

  “I know two.”

  “With a ‘Y’.”

  “Yeah. Black dude.”

  “That’s right. Something just landed on his desk. I want you to assist.”

  Mark paused, then said, “This is Central. What’s it got to do with us?”

  “He’ll explain.”

  “Where do I need to be?”

  “The scene. Few miles west of the 101 on Mulholland. It’s fresh.”

  “Mulholland.” He whistled, impressed. “I’m on it.”

  WHEN NEIMAN EXITED 101 onto Mulholland, he could see the lights flashing through the trees before he arrived. They were yellow. Not P.D. or L.A. Fire. They were city vehicles. It made him curious. He rounded the bend and came to a police unit sitting on the side of the road with a Hollywood maintenance vehicle. A cop flagged him down. Mark pulled to a stop flashing his badge.

  “Detective Neiman with Central.”

  The cop said into a walkie, “We got a Detective Neiman with Central.”

  “You’re clear,” a voice said.

  “Okay, sir, you can go.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We got the eastbound lane closed off. Controlling the two way traffic.”

  “A wreck?”

  The cop shrugged. “Beats me. This is as far as I got.”

  “Huh.” Neiman proceeded up the curve until the road straightened out. A block down was a fire truck, ambulance, more squad cars. They were all pulled off to the eastbound lane allowing cars to get through slowly on the westbound side. Guys were buzzing around, some in uniform, others were clearly coroner’s office with their suits and rubber gloves.

  He pulled on to the shoulder and killed the engine.
The fire engine was one of the big quint trucks, a huge diesel monster, with its overhead extension ladder swung out over the gully. They were rigging a basket pulley—a series of cables attached to a winch stretching down into the trees, drawing a gurney down to the scene. Mark knew what it meant. There was a body down there, and they were getting ready to transport it up the incline.

  He popped his trunk and went around pulling out a pair of Nike outdoor shoes and kicked off his loafers. They were three hundred dollar shoes and he wasn’t about to get them dirty. He tied on the Nikes and headed down toward the gully. Guys were coming up, sweat beading off their foreheads.

  “You got Smyth down there?” Mark said.

  They thumbed him down the hill saying, “Yeah. Go on down.”

  There was activity about two hundred feet down. He could see it through the trees. Above his head he could see signs of where something big and heavy had flown through the upper canopy. Something like a car. It wasn’t uncommon. Drunk millionaires’ kids screaming around the bends in Mulholland late at night and slewing their Maserati’s and high-powered Lexus RCs right off the road tended to happen in this pocket of the world. He said heh. This was looking more like an accident than a murder scene.

  Once he picked his way closer he could see the rear end of what used to be a Mercedes sitting in the trees with a dozen forensic people and firemen working. There was a tall, lean black dude in sharp suit pants and a pressed white Oxford standing off to the side with his hands on his hips. He looked grim. The breeze tugged on his blue tie. He looked up and acknowledged Neiman with a nudge of his chin, then he came up to meet him.

  “You Neiman?”

  “Yeah. Detective Smyth?”

  “Derrick.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Thought so.” He looked down and saw Mark’s tennis shoes. “Heh—good idea,” he muttered. “Glad you showed.” He extended a hand. Smyth was a sharp looking guy with chiseled, African features that would suit a magazine cover—the perfect looking detective for Hollywood Station.