The Darker Hours

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “Boyce,” she said.

  “It’s me,” Jackson said. He continued without preamble, “If we really want to talk to Garza we’re going to have to enlist Emil. I can’t get a lead on Garza myself. And I can’t promise Emil will do it.”

  “I thought he owed you a favor.”

  “That’s Garza. I probably owe Emil more than he owes me.”

  “Can you set it up?”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Use that famous charm.”

  He hung up.

  Boyce put her hand on the door handle to open the door when she stopped. A young woman had been entering the Starbucks with her phone to her ear. As Boyce watched, the girl hesitated just inside, her hand with the phone dropped to her side. Then the phone dropped and hit the floor. The girl didn’t lean down to retrieve it. Instead she scuttled inside joining the other customers who stood awkwardly back away from the front door.

  Boyce looked through the plate glass toward the counter where the employees were. Two were back as far as they could get without going through the kitchen door. They were both females dressed in the Starbuck’s attire. The other employee was dressed like them except he was a young man. He stood at the register. Another man stood next to him, looking out of place. He had a ballcap and sunglasses. Now she saw the pistol in his hand.

  Boyce thought for a second. It was too far around to go into the back, and there was no guarantee the back door was unlocked. She would call for back-up but if she waited the arriving patrol cars might spook the guy inside and someone could get hurt.

  She pulled her phone and dialed the inside line to the watch office. A lieutenant she knew named Valerie Travera answered.

  “Val, this is Boyce. I’ve got a 10-31 and possible 10-32 at Starbucks in the Safeway shopping center.” She recited the cross streets.

  “I’ll send back-up.”

  “It’s a possible hostage situation. No sirens.” She heard Travera saying something else as she disconnected. Probably advice to wait for back-up.

  She stepped out of the Miata. Turning away to shield her movement, she took the badge off her belt and put it in her jacket pocket. She made sure the jacket covered the Glock on her hip. Through the plate glass she could see five customers gathered toward the back. All standing, looking toward the front. All looking helpless.

  Ball cap boy began to pistol whip the male employee. Boyce knew she had to move. Too many times a shooting was preceded with aggressive violent behavior. She moved to the door, putting the phone in her left hand. She brought it up and started talking as she opened the door.

  “I don’t care what she said,” Boyce said loudly. “She’s not in charge.” She moved to the counter not looking at anything but the stuff in the case. “Tell her to bring her own,” she said. Keeping her eyes on the muffins in the case, she leaned forward like she was studying them and said, “Can I get a latte and a croissant?”

  When she looked up, she was looking directly into the barrel of the gun.

  “Wha……,” she stammered, stepping back.

  “Drop the phone and get back against the wall,” the guy shouted. He was tall and rangy with thick curly black hair sticking out from under the ballcap. He had muttonchop whiskers down each cheek to his jaw line. He had no mustache or beard.

  She dropped the phone into her jacket pocket and backed away. She angled away from the other customers, ending up a good four feet from the nearest one. That’s when she learned her mistake.

  A young woman, standing at the other end of the group said, “Hurry up Charlie. Just get the money.”

  Boyce looked at her. She looked like a customer. A typical student type. Ripped jeans, tee shirt, purple ends on her shoulder length hair. Except she too was holding a pistol. It was loose in her hand, hanging by her side. The side away from Boyce. Now she pointed it in the general direction of the rest of the customers.

  Charlie said, “Why the hell don’t you just tell them my name? Jesus, you idiot. Go watch out the window.”

  “Sorry,” she said, chastened. She held the gun like she didn’t really know what to do with it. She moved over to the window. Boyce didn’t like how far apart they were, but it was better than her being mixed in with the customers.

  Charlie turned back to the male employee he had been beating. “Get all the money out.”

  “That’s all of it,” the boy said, almost crying.

  “In the back,” Charlie said, hitting the boy again. “You must have some in the back.”

  The boy had an arm shielding his head. “Down there,” he said.

  “What?”

  The boy pointed at the floor. “There, that slot in the floor. It’s a floor safe. Every two hours we put everything but coins and two hundred dollars in it. They empty it every night at closing. We haven’t put anything in there yet.”

  “Well, shit,” Charlie said. He turned and looked at the customers. None of them would look at him. Boyce watched the employee, watching Charlie without looking directly at him. Charlie thought for a moment then said, “Everybody empty your pockets and purses. Put everything on that table.” He was pointing at a table they were gathered around. They stood without moving, then one of the women emptied her purse and the rest followed.

  Boyce wasn’t carrying a purse, so she took her wallet out, careful to keep the Glock concealed.

  “Put your watches, rings and any jewelry on the table,” he barked.

  Boyce slipped her watch off and placed it on the table then moved back to where she had been. One of the other customers, a hefty middle-aged woman, put her purse on the table and moved beside Boyce. Boyce looked at the girl by the window. The girl was staring out the window. Boyce looked back at the man called Charlie. He was pushing the boy back to stand by the other two employees. Neither was looking in her direction. She pushed the customer away from her. The woman looked at her, surprised. Boyce curtly shook her head. She did not want any civilians close to her.

  Charlie shoved the Starbucks guy toward the other employees then searched under the counter. He reached down and came up with a bag.

  “Take this,” he said to the girl. “Put all their shit in it.” The girl hustled over and took the bag. She shook it open then moved to the table. She slid her gun into her back pocket, then began shoving all the customer belongings into the bag. A middle-aged woman with expensive hair moved back. She kept her left hand behind her. This caught the girl’s attention.

  “Let me see your hand,” she said. The woman hesitated. The girl pulled the gun from her back pocket and pointed it at the woman. “Now!” she shouted.

  The woman reluctantly moved her hand around to the front.

  “Jesus! Look at that rock.” She waved the gun in the woman’s face. “Put the ring in the bag.”

  “I don’t think I can get it off,” the woman said.

  “Get it off or Charlie will cut it off,” the girl said.

  The woman started to cry. She put the finger in her mouth and wet the ring. After tugging for a long moment, the ring came loose. She started to put it in the bag, but the girl took it. She put it on her finger.

  “Hey Charlie, look at this,” she grinned. “We’re engaged.”

  Boyce heard sirens in the background. So much for sneaking up on them. The girl with the ring ran to the window. She turned toward Charlie.

  “Cops,” she said.

  10

  Charlie looked at the girl. “Well shit!” He looked around, trying to decide what to do. “Go to the back and make sure the door is locked,” he said to the girl. The girl moved quickly across the room, behind the counter and disappeared through the swinging door to the back. This was Boyce’s chance, except Charlie was behind the counter and he was moving to where the employees were bunched. He grabbed the tallest girl and dragged her the length of the counter. His partner came back through the swinging door.

  “It’s locked,” she said. She moved the length of the counter, then back out onto the main floor. She loo
ked out the plate glass window. “Jesus, Charlie, there are a lot of them.”

  “What are they doing?” Charlie said.

  “They’re behind their cars. A couple of them have their guns out, pointed at us.” She turned and looked at Charlie. “What are we going to do?”

  “Can they see us?”

  “Hell yes, they can see us!”

  “Good,” he said. He grabbed the tall girl by the arm and dragged her out to where his partner was. “Get on your knees,” he said to the girl. She hesitated and he hit her in the head with his pistol. “Get on your knees,” he said louder. The girl sank to her knees, sobbing.

  “What are you going to do?” his partner said.

  “I want them to watch this, know we’re not fucking around.” Charlie put his gun to the sobbing girl’s head and thumbed the hammer back. They both turned to look out the window.

  “Hey!” Boyce said loudly. “I know how you can get out of here.”

  Charlie and the girl twisted their heads around, surprised. Charlie’s pistol moved with his head, off of the girl’s head. Boyce had her badge in her left hand, up and pointed at them. She had moved her jacket out of the way, her hand on the butt of her gun. “You can surrender,” she said.

  “What the …….,” Charlie said, bringing his pistol up.

  Boyce drew and fired twice, the bullets hitting Charlie in the chest. The bullets went through him and starred the window. He crumpled, dead before he hit the ground. Boyce put the Glock on the partner. She was frozen.

  “Drop the weapon,” Boyce said. “I won’t say it again.”

  The girl looked at Charlie, then back at Boyce. The girl employee began screaming. Charlie’s partner dropped her gun, shaking her hand like the gun was red-hot.

  “Turn around, face the window,” Boyce said. “Put your hands on top of your head.” The girl complied. Boyce pulled her phone and redialed the last number she had called. The secondary number to the watch office. Lieutenant Travera answered. “It’s Boyce. I’ve got the situation secured,” she said. “Tell your boys to come in but I don’t want them coming in hot. Tell them to not shoot anyone. Especially me.” She pulled the cuffs off the back of her belt and began to cuff the girl.

  The girl whined, “Ooooh, what am I going to do?” She was close to sobbing.

  “About ten to twenty,” Boyce said. The customer with the ring began to applaud. The others joined in.

  11

  Mid- afternoon Boyce and Danny Rich were called out to a shooting at Esteban Park. Reported as a gang shooting. Three kids dead.

  They each grabbed their rovers, the electronic devices that kept them in contact with dispatch and drove separate vehicles to the park. It seemed strange to Boyce that she had just been there. Detective Rich pulled in ahead of her and parked. The homicide wagon was already there. She moved in behind Rich. They were on the opposite side of the park from the pavilion and basketball court where she had talked with Spark and George. There were five patrol cars, lights flashing. The homicide wagon was pulled up on grass. Two of the bodies were covered with tarps, lying about four feet apart. Another covered corpse was in the street beside the curb. A late model Toyota Camry was several feet up the street, the driver’s door open. A middle-aged Latino woman sat behind the wheel. Dino DiMartini stood beside her, his notebook open, taking her statement.

  Since Danny Rich was the senior, Boyce followed him. They walked over to DiMartini. They stood, respectfully a few feet away, listening, not wanting to be a distraction. Boyce looked around the park. There were a few bystanders. Drawn by the activity and lights, they had wandered out of the homes that bordered the park. None were the kids she had seen before.

  It looked like DiMartini would be a while, so Boyce walked over to a patrolman she knew. His name was Walker. An ambitious young cop. Ready to move out of the patrol car and on to better things.

  “You got anything?” Boyce said.

  He grimaced. “When we pulled up, the only ones here were the woman in the car who called it in, and the dead guys.”

  “No kids hanging out?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why don’t you talk to the looky loos. See if anyone heard anything or saw anything.”

  “Sure,” he said. “But you know what they’ll say.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Boyce said. “Try it anyway.”

  “Roger that,” Walker said and turned toward the civilians, pulling his notebook from his back pocket. Boyce looked at the other patrolmen. One was female.

  “Why don’t you guys canvas the houses across the street. See if anyone heard or saw anything. See if there were any kids in the park at the time of the shooting.” They moved away.

  Boyce wandered back over to Danny Rich and DiMartini. They had moved away from the woman in the car. Both detectives were watching Boyce, waiting for her to get closer.

  When she did, DiMartini said, “Mrs. Reyes,” indicating the woman in the car, “says she was heading home from work. She works at APS. As she turned onto this street, she saw three men arguing. She was a block away.” He pointed at the two bodies closest together. “These two appeared to be hassling that guy.” He pointed at the body in the street. “She says one of these two shoved that guy down. He came up with a gun and both these guys started shooting with that guy shooting back.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled a pack of cigarettes. He lit one. “Nobody missed. At least not every time.” He knew Boyce and Rich, so he didn’t offer the cigarettes.

  “We know who they are?” Rich asked.

  He looked at his notebook. “Yeah, they all had driver’s licenses.” He pointed at them one at a time. “Juan Calderone, Felipe Garcia and Marcel Bing.”

  “They ganged up?” Boyce asked. “Too old to be Trey Aces. Too old to be hanging at this park.”

  “I haven’t run them yet,” DiMartini said. A homicide photographer moved close, angling for shots. They moved out of his way. The medical examiner and an assistant began to bag the bodies.

  “I’m guessing they are. At least Bing,” DiMartini said. “He has a Pistolero tat on the back of his hand. Base of the thumb. Also, on his neck. Probably some kind of drug deal that went bad.”

  “If they have driver’s licenses, where are their wheels?” Boyce asked.

  DiMartini shrugged. “No wheels,” he said.

  Boyce walked over to where Bing’s body was being bagged. “Hold it a moment,” she said. The guy stopped. Boyce reached into her pocket and pulled surgical gloves. She put them on then squatted down beside the body. She lifted his hand and looked at the tattoo. A pistol firing. She gently turned the guy’s head and studied the tattoos on the back of his neck. There were two pistols, firing bullets up the back of his bald head. She pulled her phone and took a picture.

  She stood. “Okay,” she said to the guy bagging him.

  “Send me that,” Danny Rich said. He turned to DiMartini. “Find any drugs?”

  DiMartini took a last drag on his cigarette and ground it under his heel. “Nothing. Just the shells. Bing lived long enough to empty his magazine.”

  “What are you going to do with her?” Boyce said, nodding toward Mrs. Reyes.

  “Set up a time for her to come in and make a statement. She says she has kids at home she can’t leave alone.”

  “You mind if I talk to her?” Boyce said. Rich looked at her.

  “Hell, it’s as much your case as it is mine,” DiMartini said.

  Boyce walked over to where the woman sat in her car, watching them. Boyce showed the badge on her belt and pulled a card from her jacket.

  “Mrs. Reyes, I’m Detective Boyce,” she said. “May I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “I have kids at home,” Mrs. Reyes said, worry in her eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boyce said. “We won’t keep you much longer. I’m just wondering if, when you pulled onto this street, you saw anyone in the park. Kids sitting in the pavilion or playing basketball?”

  Mrs. Reyes shook her head. “I
don’t remember. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was just thinking about getting home, then those boys started shooting each other.”

  “Were there any cars on the street? I mean moving. Maybe driving away?”

  Mrs. Reyes shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. By the time I pulled up here and stopped, those boys were just lying there. Not moving. That’s when I called 911.”

  “We appreciate you being a good citizen,” Boyce said. She handed the woman her card. “If you think of anything else.”

  “I’ve got kids at home,” she said, taking the card.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Boyce said. “I’ll see if the detective has anything else.”

  She walked back over to DiMartini. “When you run them, let me know what you get,” she said.

  DiMartini lit another cigarette. “What we’ll find are three assholes the city is better off without,” he said, blowing smoke out his nostrils.

  12

  Boyce came out of the precinct and walked to the parking lot and her Miata. As she turned into her row, she saw a man leaning against her car. It was Jackson. Further down at the end of the row was his Mustang parked in a no-parking area.

  Jesus, he irritated her, she thought.

  As she walked up to him, he was wearing that damned look on his face that made it appear he knew something amusing that no one else knew.

  “You’re parked illegally,” she said.

  “Won’t be long,” he said. “You have a date?”

  “Do I have a date?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, like heading someplace specific. Someplace planned.”

  “I was heading home for a long shower, a glass of wine and a good night’s sleep.” He was smiling. “Alone,” she added.

  “I talked to Emil.” he said. “I’m supposed to meet him at O’Malley’s for a drink.”

  “About Garza?”

  “Could be. Thought you might want to go along.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll drive,” Jackson said, pushing himself off the hood of her car.

  O’Malley’s was in the heart of the downtown business district. Located just a block from the light rail, on the third floor of a distinctly urban high-rise. Accessed by outdoor escalators that spilled out onto an open patio surrounded by upscale retail and expensive law offices. A popular spot for the high-end business types and the secretaries and clerks that took care of them. All looking to get happy before digging their automobiles out of the grubby by-the-month parking lots and fighting their way home through the unimaginable traffic. O’Malley’s lived up to its location with dark-wood bars and booths and an outside patio with real plants and a crisp wait staff. Everyone on staff was young and good-looking.