by Bob Hamer
"Hey, I've been at this long enough to know what I can get away with. I'll talk like my grandmother is gonna be on the jury."
"I thought she died two months ago, or at least that's what you said when you wanted the afternoon off," said Dwayne trying to defuse the budding tension.
"Oh yeah, that's right," said a smiling Matt Hogan. "She did, but her spirit still haunts me so I'll watch my mouth."
Pamela Clinton brushed a hair behind her ear and said, "I'm not so sure this should be worked out of my division. We have no proof Himmler has any neo-Nazi connections. He has not been on any intelligence briefing crossing my desk. I see no domestic terrorism allegations. This is a drug investigation more suited for the DEA or our organized crime division."
"You didn't have a problem signing off on the buy the other night," said Matt.
"That's because that piece of fiction you prepared assured me you would get Himmler to admit his involvement in neo-Nazi activities. As I understand it, he made no such admissions during the buy."
Matt gathered himself, took a breath, and answered in a calm tone, "No, but last night he ran, and just now in the hospital, he told us his cousin Jesse is buying weapons from Boris Gregorian and selling them to MS-13."
"Then I suggest we pass this off to ATF or again to our organized crime division."
Matt shook his head in disbelief. The two locked horns with increasing frequency, and Matt acknowledged he seldom tried to stay above the fray, but this wasn't an argument over some administrative directive from headquarters. It wasn't in his character to back down from bureaucrats for whom he had little if any respect. The rage loomed but he maintained control. His voice intensified, this side of anger. "Pamela, Flip Mitchell's wife was shot twice by the same people who killed a prominent African-American minister who also happened to be a member of the Los Angeles Police Commission. These same shooters dumped the body of a Ukrainian girl we now believe to be working an international prostitution ring, in all likelihood smuggled into this country, maybe even against her will. All of this ties into a man we believe to be supplying weapons, directly or indirectly, to MS-13, a group as dangerous as any terrorism organization we have in this country. And your only response is to pass this off to another agency."
Clinton leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and folded her hands on her lap. "I think you summed it up quite well. Nothing you said requires my division to work the case. I haven't heard any allegations of foreign or domestic terrorism. But I have heard gangs, organized crime, prostitution, guns, and drugs. Thanks for making my case."
Matt started to say something, but Jason Barnes held up his hand. "Enough. Pamela you make sense. Your arguments are noted, and thank you for pointing out the administrative issues."
She smiled, nodding.
"But . . ."
Pamela Clinton's smile faded, and the nodding stopped, her glare now aimed at the ADIC.
"The most important thing Matt said was Flip Mitchell's wife. This is a family issue. We will not farm it out to another agency. Matt is in your division. He brought this case to you. You opened it based on his memo, however craftily written. We aren't passing it to another division. Matt will work it off Dwayne's squad. You will manage it, and we will move to resolve the matter. Dwayne, do you have an issue with what I've said?"
"No boss. I'm onboard."
"Good. Let's move expeditiously on this," said Jason Barnes. "I can get the approvals through headquarters. This is family we're talking about. I want this city to know you don't attack an FBI agent's wife, even if you don't know it, and expect to walk away. I want these guys. So do it right and do it quickly."
"Got it, boss," said Dwayne.
"Pamela, I'll expect you to give me daily updates on this and give these two all the support they need," said the ADIC in the command voice he developed while in the Marines Corps.
She merely nodded in agreement without saying another word.
With that the boss rose from behind his desk, and everyone knew the meeting was over. Semper Fi.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Matt spent the rest of the afternoon completing the paperwork for the Himmler buy. Since it looked like Bobby was getting a walk, Matt stopped working on the complaint affidavit even though it was almost complete. He contacted Abby Briones, an FBI analyst assigned to the JTTF. Abby could perform miracles with a computer when it came to discovering information on the Internet: criminal records, credit and property reports, LEXUS/NEXUS, offshore accounts. If the information was somewhere in cyberspace, she could retrieve it. Matt ordered up profiles on Boris, Jesse, and just to be safe, Bobby.
Before heading home, Matt made a quick stop at the hospital; a new set of probationary agents guarded Himmler. He spoke to the agent outside the room. "How's our patient?"
"He's quiet now. I think the morphine drip kicked in. He may be asleep."
"Sorry to ruin it for you, but I need him to sign some papers."
The young agent shrugged his shoulders. He had hallway duty, so even if Matt awakened Himmler, it wouldn't impact the assignment, more suited to a sixth grader monitoring hall passes at the local elementary school.
Matt walked into the darkened room and nodded to the other agent who smiled.
Matt whispered, "I hate to do this to you, but I have to wake him."
Matt took two steps to the bed, grabbed the railing, gently shook it, and whispered in Himmler's ear, "Earthquake."
Himmler jumped and, when he attempted to sit up in bed, was thrown back down because his hand was cuffed to the railing.
"Oh, my leg, my leg!" he screamed, exaggerating any actual pain.
"Shut up. I need you to sign some papers."
Himmler moaned and reached for the morphine drip. "I'm not signing nothing."
"You want to go home?"
"Yeah."
"Then you sign the papers. Otherwise we file tomorrow. You go into the system, and your value to us is zilch. I need you to sign a waiver of your right to a magistrate hearing. Normally we have the hearing within twenty-four hours. By you waiving it, we can keep you here for a couple of days, and then when the doctor releases you, you get to go home."
"The doctor says I may be able to go home tomorrow or the day after."
"Great. Sign the paper, and you're out of here when the doc says so."
"And what if I don't? Maybe I want my constitutional rights. Maybe I want an attorney to review all of this before I sign anything."
Matt looked at the probationary agent and shook his head. "I bet they didn't teach you about guys like this at the academy. See, Bobby here is now a judicial genius. But it didn't come easy. Oh, he knew his alphabet, just not in order. Then he got educated. He was schooled at the Legal Institute of San Quentin where he trained for what was it, Bobby, four years?"
"Five and it was Pelican Bay."
"So after five years of sitting at the feet of some of the finest jailhouse lawyers our penal system detains, Bobby thinks he can play me."
Matt pulled out a second document, the incomplete multipage affidavit with Himmler's name in the caption. It was a complaint, charging him with three counts of manufacturing, possessing, and distributing a controlled substance in violation of 21 USC 841. Matt handed both documents to Himmler.
"Sign the one page and walk; otherwise keep the paperback version of my next book detailing your final days as a free man. If I have to file the affidavit, they will be pumping daylight into you for the next three decades, you understand. On this issue I'm pro-choice and it's your choice. I'm like those late night infomercials, Bobby. . . . This is a limited-time offer. The clock is ticking . . . tick, tick, tick."
Matt flashed a smile that faded as fast as it appeared. Then he handed Himmler a pen. Bobby hesitated but only for an instant. He signed the waiver and handed both documents back
to Matt.
"Wise choice. These guys will let me know when you get released. Then we start to work."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It had been a week since Bobby Himmler's buy-bust. He'd been out of the hospital for three days, was on crutches, and wearing a thigh-high brace.
He fumbled trying to maneuver his leg out of the cab of the pickup and dropped a crutch as he pulled the pair from behind the front seat. Matt, the lackluster humanitarian, wasn't exactly racing around from the driver's side to assist the handicapped informant. When Himmler finally exited the truck, the two headed to the entrance of the Chinese Gardens, a restaurant located on Roscoe Boulevard in the heart of Los Angeles' San Fernando Valley.
As they were about to enter, Matt spied a large health department "B" in the window near the door.
"B?" said Matt with apparent disgust. "You set this up in a B restaurant? What's the matter with you? We're on the government dime here. At least make sure the health department gives it an A rating for crying out loud. You're talking open lesions on the cooks and cockroach infestation. This is dangerous enough without adding ptomaine poisoning to my worries."
Bobby stammered with a response, "Bu, bu, but this is where he wanted to meet."
Matt cracked a smile at the clearly frustrated meth dealer.
"Are you just jerking my chain?"
"Maybe a little," said Matt. "It's better than a C."
They walked in the front door and headed to an empty booth near the back. Matt grabbed the seat facing the door. "I always get the Wild Bill Hickok seat."
"Huh?"
"The seat so my back's to the wall and I see everything that's going on. I never want my back to the action. That's my first rule. I get the best seat in the house. So don't ever leave me hanging if we're with the targets. I'll cover your back and mine, not the other way around, got it?"
"Got it, Kemo Sabe," said Bobby with a nervous laugh.
"That was the Lone Ranger, but don't forget or I might just put a silver bullet in one of your vital organs . . . and now I'm not jerking your chain."
Bobby understood the directive as they both sat.
Matt slid across the vinyl seat, positioning himself in the middle of the bench. Thank goodness for the near-matching duct tape; otherwise the seat would have clearly visible holes. Add another restaurant to Matt's list of undercover eateries to avoid. He and Caitlin would not be dining here any time soon to celebrate a special occasion.
"You slide all the way over. I want him next to you not me."
"But I don't have much room with this brace and the crutches."
"Give me the crutches," said Matt, conveying the notion Bobby Himmler clearly lacked problem-solving skills. "I'll put them against the wall."
Himmler knocked over the salt and pepper shakers as he lifted the crutches over the table, his hands shaking.
"Would you relax. Everything is going to be fine."
Matt looked around the crowded restaurant. Apparently the patrons weren't scared off by the B rating, and a cheap all-you-can-eat lunchtime buffet beats cleanliness for most of the blue-collar consumers. The walls were papered with red foil and Asian designs. Matt assumed most of the customers were from the industrial complex two blocks south of the restaurant. Knowing the San Fernando Valley was the porn capital of the world and several studios were housed in the complex, he also assumed some of these patrons were taking time away from their idea of art. Matt could only guess how proud the Founding Fathers must be, knowing the First Amendment protects such creativity and filth.
"We'll wait until your cousin shows up before we grab some food," said Matt.
Bobby's left leg, the one not housed in metal, twittered with the speed of a hummingbird seeking nectar, pounding at the bottom of the table.
"Would you relax."
"What if he doesn't buy the act?" asked Bobby.
"Then you go to jail. So unless you always twitch, I'd stop it before he arrives and concentrate on selling your cousin on the game plan we concocted."
Bobby was staring straight through Matt.
"I said, relax. You've been here before."
"I've never been a snitch before."
"No, but I'm not a cop, at least not today. You've introduced one bad guy to another. That's all we're doing."
Himmler wiped the sweat from his forehead. "But what if my cousin knows you?"
"Why would he know me? I've never arrested him. I'm sure he didn't catch my appearance on The View last week."
"What? The View? That's his favorite show!"
"Bobby, relax. I've never been on The View. You told me yesterday your neo-Nazi cousin never misses the show. Still can't figure that one out."
"Two words," said Bobby.
"And they are?"
"Elisabeth Hasselbeck."
"She's hot. That makes sense," said Matt.
Jesse Himmler entered the restaurant and looked around, seeking his cousin.
"I think he just arrived," said Matt.
Bobby took a quick, deep breath and turned around.
"Jesse, over here."
Jesse strode toward the back booth and gave his cousin a big embrace as Bobby awkwardly rose from the booth.
"Hey, bro, thanks for meeting with me," said Bobby.
"You get the license number of the truck that ran you over? What'd you do to your leg?"
"I broke it playing b-ball the other night."
"You, on a basketball court? Yeah, right."
"No, seriously man, Matt was there. He saw the whole thing." Bobby pointed to Matt. "This is Matt."
Matt extended his hand and noted the strength in Jesse's grip.
Matt smiled. "Seriously, LeBron here was going for a layup when some little Triad gangbanger chopped him off at the knees."
"Jesse, you shoulda seen Matt. He knocked that kid clear across the pavement. Guy thought he was Bruce Lee, and Matt made him cry."
"I didn't make him cry. . . . He chose to cry," said Matt with a wicked grin.
Jesse let out a belly laugh. "Thanks for looking out for Bobby. Never could take care of his self."
Bobby was embarrassed and gave a polite but nervous laugh.
Jesse said, "This one of your cellies from upstate?"
"No, Jesse, Matt's helping me with my business."
"Which business is that?"
Matt intervened. "I decided to throw a little cash into Bobby's painting business and keep his PO off his butt."
"Jesse, Matt's making me look legit to the parole officer."
"You gonna help him paint my mother's house?" said Jesse.
Matt smiled at the 6'3" 280-pound behemoth seated across from him. "That wasn't part of my business plan, but I don't like to argue with somebody who looks like he once played defensive end for the Raiders."
"So how you gonna paint my mom's house with a busted-up leg?"
"The doctor said I won't be laid up long. I promise I'll get to it as soon as I can."
"Where'd you guys meet?" asked Jesse.
"Through AA," said Bobby a little too quickly.
"Since when did you get sober?" asked Jesse.
"I've been clean twelve days now."
"You a drunk?" said Jesse looking at Matt.
Matt had to think quickly. AA wasn't part of the scenario. How was he supposed to hang out at a bar and not drink? Matt said, "My old man was a drunk. I'm willing to help anyone who wants to go clean and sober, but I'm not toting tea in the flask."
Jesse laughed again, turning to Bobby. "Does that mean we won't be seeing you over at Boris's place?"
"Jesse, I'm sober. I'm not nuts."
"Good. You were always fun as a drunk. Hope you ain't changed."
"So are you lik
e Bobby's sponsor?"
"No, just a friend who wants to do everything in my power to keep him clean," said Matt.
"Just make sure he paints my mother's house in something other than gunmetal gray, which is the only color he was allowed to use when he was at Pelican Bay."
"But gray is such a neutral color. It goes with everything," said Matt with a smile.
"Just not my mother's house," said Jesse. "She's been sick, and a fresh coat of paint will cheer her up."
"I'll do a great job, Jesse. I promise," said Bobby.
Jesse nodded as if the response was rhetorical. Matt was certain no one ever did anything other than their best when it involved Jesse Himmler.
"So, Matt, besides investing in my cousin, what else you got going?" asked Jesse.
Matt moved into his cover speech and lowered his voice, "I own some real estate around L.A. I've got a warehouse a few miles from here. Spend most of my time over there. Every once in awhile I'll pick up a truckload of overstock or remainders and move it for a buck or two. It all adds up. It's just a matter of market timing."
Jesse laughed. "Overstock? If you're a friend of Bobby's, then your overstock is someone else's crime report."
All three laughed now.
Matt said, "Yeah, I pick up some bargains every once in awhile. Manage to move them out under the cover of darkness and pocket a profit."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Matt and Jesse got up and headed toward the buffet. Matt said, "I'll bring you a plate. Anything you don't like?"
Jesse interrupted, "He was in prison. He'll eat anything."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Matt looked out at the waves as they came crashing ashore. The white foam glistened beneath the lights illuminating the shoreline. The restaurant at Paradise Cove in Malibu was one of his favorites.
"What are you thinking?" asked Caitlin.
Matt took another bite of his blackened ahi tuna as he looked back at Caitlin. Their eyes met. He let the flavors linger in his mouth and then said softly, "I'm glad you've got such bad eyes."