“What is it you want?”
“We are the police, and we’re here on a life-and-death matter. Two small children have been kidnapped.”
She lost her scowl and her expression turned to one of care and concern. She could’ve almost been someone’s grandmother. Almost.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. The place reeked with five decades of tar from cigarettes. Tar impregnated the walls and curtains and carpet. The walls carried a yellowish tint over the old beige paint. On the end table next to the phone sat three opened Old Milwaukee cans of beer, the tall, 16-ounce cans. Next to the beer sat an overflowing ashtray with ash and butts piled high. Next to that, an open carton of Virginia Slims. Now up close, I smelled the alcohol on her breath and emitting from her pores.
“It’s those people in 207, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said, trying to keep the momentum going with a bluff. “How long have they been renting from you?”
“About two months now. I knew something was fishy with them.”
“Why?” Barbara asked.
The woman looked at Barbara. “I guess ’cause I never had problem one out of ’em. Everyone else, they make too much noise. The women use the place as a hot-pillow joint. And damn near all of ’em are late on the rent. Not those folks in 207. They keep to themselves and paid the rent up three months in advance, said they didn’t want to be bothered with it every month.”
“What do the children look like?”
Her face lit up. “Cute little boy and girl, nice and polite, brought up real good.”
“How long have they been here?”
“The children?”
“Yeah, the children.”
“No more than a week, I wouldn’t think. No, no, maybe four days, now that I think about.” She picked up the Old Milwaukie and took a long chug, her throat working hard to carry the load. She brought down the can. “Now that I think about it, there is something strange about ’em.”
“What?” Barbara asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I only seen three men with those children, never any women. Never thought about that until just now. That’s awfully odd, don’t you think?”
I looked at Barbara. “You satisfied?”
“I’m good with it. How we going to do this?”
“By that clock”—I pointed to the wall—“we have about ten minutes before the meet on the pier. We have to hustle before they confirm the cops are involved and make a phone call that will surely cause them to move the kids.”
“Why move the kids?”
“Just to be safe. If the cops are involved, they wouldn’t leave them in any one place too long. You good with a cold knock?”
“Sure.”
“I can’t go up there with you.” I said. “They’ve had a look at me already. You get the door open and I’ll come runnin’.”
“I’ll tell them I’m with Social Services and need to get a count on how many are living in their section-eight housing.”
“I’ll be up on the landing down at this end. You get the door open and give me the signal.”
Barbara headed for the door.
“Thanks, ma’am,” I said. “Please stay off the phone until we leave the premises.”
She nodded as she took another chug of her beer.
I walked out the door, the shopping center in plain view across the street. The layout in relation to The Langston Arms struck me as odd. Outside, I looked down the side along the concrete path in front of all the apartment doors and then looked back at the parking lot to the strip center across the street. I tried to imagine the point of view ten feet up on the second level. I turned and stepped back into the manager’s apartment. Barbara stayed right with me and stopped at the threshold.
“Hey,” I said, “put that phone down. What’d we just tell you?” The woman had not even waited until her door closed with us outside before she’d started to dial. She fumbled the phone back into the cradle.
“Do the people in 207 have more than one apartment?”
“Ah, yeah, sure, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Forgot all about it. I guess I’m getting old.”
I turned back to Barbara. “Come back in and close the door.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“HAND ME YOUR cuffs,” I said to Barbara. She didn’t question the reason and gave them to me. I stepped over to the woman. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
She turned around. “You can’t do this to me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You sure thought about it, though, didn’t you?” I ratcheted the cuffs closed on her wrists, wrists almost too narrow for the cuffs. If she worked at it, she could slip them.
“California Penal Code section 32, aiding and abetting a felony. To wit, kidnapping,” Barbara said. “If you’d completed that call, you’d have been exposed to a lot of years in the joint.”
“Now, which other apartment did they rent?” I asked.
“207 and 208.”
Barbara looked at me. “What if’s she’s lying?”
I picked up my shirt, showed the woman the Sig nine. “I’m going up there to apartment 208 to kick the door in. If it’s the wrong apartment and I shoot the wrong people, or if the crooks we’re looking for, tumble to what we’re doing because I hit the wrong apartment and someone, anyone, gets hurt, you become an accessory just like my partner explained. You understand?”
“Okay, okay, it’s 211. The other one is 207. They offered me a butt-load of cash if I’d call and warn them if the cops came sniffing around. I didn’t mean anything by it. I could use the cash, you understand, don’t you? I’m justa broken-down old woman living on a pension.”
“Now what?” Barbara asked. “We call in a SWAT team?”
I took the woman by the arm and sat her down in the recliner. “What’s your name?”
“My friends call me Millie, but you can call me Mrs. Jenks.”
“Mrs. Jenks, have you seen an older black man like me go to either one of those apartments? He might be walking kinda funny from an injury.”
“No.”
“What cars down in the front lot belong to 207 and 211?”
“You can figure that out easy enough. They don’t fit in.”
“What kind of cars?” Barbara yelled, getting tired of the delay as the clock continued to tick down.
“Take it easy. What a witch, huh?”
“Please tell us,” I said.
“It’s a gold Lexus and a black Suburban. My old man was in the car business until he fell off the roof drunk one Christmas putting up those damn Christmas lights. I told him, too. I said, ‘Herb, we don’t need none of those shitty-ass Christmas lights.’ He went ahead and put ’em up anyway. The dumbass. God rest his soul.”
“What now?” Barbara asked.
“You have a contract tow service to tow unwanted cars in your lot?” I asked Mrs. Jenks.
“Yeah, Bernie’s, the number’s over there on the wall.”
Barbara caught on, went to the wall, taking her cell phone out. She dialed, spoke, told them she needed a Lexus and Suburban towed right away, gave them the address and clicked off. “They’re in the area and less than five minutes out.”
“Okay, these guys are organized. They won’t come out of both apartments, not at the same time. I’m guessing only one guy outta one apartment,” I said. “I’ll take down the guy who comes out and then clear the apartment he came out of.”
“Right. Then I’ll take the other one.”
“Hopefully, I’ll have my guy down and the apartment cleared in time to be right behind you,” I said.
Barbara took hold of Mrs. Jenks’s phone and ripped the line from the wall. “Sit right there and do not move. You understand me?”
Mrs. Jenks nodded.
We went out the door and over to the stairs that led to the second level, walked halfway up the steps, and waited for the tow trucks.
Barbara reached inside her coat. She pulled her Glock .40 fro
m her shoulder holster and held it down by her leg out of view. “Fell from the roof, my ass,” she said. “That woman’s poor husband jumped.”
Barbara’s phone rang. She answered it with her free hand. “Yeah. Yeah,” she said. “We’re there now and about to find out. We’re across the street from, and catty-corner to, 913 Prairie, in Inglewood. Yeah, if you want to start this way. Love you, babe.” She clicked off.
“It was a no-show?” I asked.
She nodded, too intent on watching the upper landing to answer verbally.
“If the crazy woman no-showed at the pier,” I said, “they could just walk out of these apartments all on their own without the tow truck ruse. Or worse, they might not be in there at all.”
“That’s the way to think positive.”
Minutes later, two tow trucks chugged into the lot, swung around, and backed right up to the Lexus and Suburban, making plenty of the normal noises associated with snatching a car. I moved up past Barbara and onto the exterior walkway.
Three-quarters of the way down the walkway, the door opened, right about where I’d guess number 211 would be. Out popped the crazy woman from the pier, a towel in her hands, her hair flopping wet against her shoulders, turning her blouse dark. She went to the rail. “Hey, hey, you two fucks get the fuck away from our cars.”
I started moving at a fast walk right toward her.
The drivers, having dealt enough times with irate car owners, ignored her and worked faster.
“Did you hear me, you dickwads, leave the cars there. If I have to come down there I’m gonna—”
That lizard part of her brain must’ve kicked in, told her to look to the side.
She saw me. She didn’t look the least bit startled or scared. She sneered at me, then turned and fled into the room to arm herself.
I ran.
Her reaction, the lack of fear, and that sneer scared the hell out of me. This woman could handle herself. My big size-elevens pounded the walkway as I poured on the speed. One second. Two seconds. I reached the open door and went through, diving to the side. Wood from the door frame splintered as slugs thumped into it. A silencer. She used a silenced weapon. I rose up, my gun over the bed.
The woman stood with her feet apart, her arms extended as she brought the gun down to bear.
I fired.
The round caught her in the naval. Probably took out her spine. She wilted to the floor, her eyes still angry. The gun fell and thunked on the cheap linoleum. Her body twitched. She moaned.
No time for anything else. No children in 211. I backed out to the walkway. Two doors down, in apartment 207, Barbara yelled, “Put the kid down. Do it now.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
I DID A quick peek into the apartment and caught a glimpse of Barbara’s back in a slight profile, her gun extended, pointed at a man who held a small child. His gun was touching the child’s head, Barbara not more than ten feet away.
I stood with my back to the wall, trying to control my rapid breath. Someone would’ve heard my shot and called the cops. We didn’t have much time. I said, loud enough for them to hear, “I’m comin’ in.” I entered, the gun down by my side.
“Put the child down,” Barbara said again.
The man was of average height and weight, with jet-black hair down to his shoulders and intense blue eyes. He held an expensive H&K automatic to Rebecca’s head, my grandniece. The man kept his finger on the trigger, the hammer back on the gun, ready to fire. A pound-and-a-half trigger pull, that’s all that remained between life and death. A dangerous situation. The worst kind.
“I’m walking out of here,” the man yelled. “You’re both going to put your guns down and you’re going to do it right now.”
Ricardo sat on the bed closest to the man and cried.
“Mrs. Wicks,” I said to Barbara, “this isn’t at all what we thought it was going to be.”
She started to turn her head and caught herself. “What the hell are you talking about, Bruno?”
“They’re not your standard, everyday dope dealers.”
“Drop the guns,” the man said. “Now!”
“Bruno, talk to me.”
“The Suburban with the tinted windows, the sniper, and the woman in the next apartment, the way she acts and talks. She had a silenced weapon.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“They’re pros, Barbara, professional operators. This isn’t what we thought it was. There’s no way out, none.”
“Bruno?”
“It’s shark for dinner tonight.”
She didn’t hesitate. She took the shot. The gunshot filled the room with noise and a billow of white cordite.
The man’s head kicked backward. The round hit him solid on the cheek just below the right eye, a brain shot. She’d hit him exactly right and shut down all of his motor coordination.
On the way down, the gun came off target, off Rebecca’s head, and flopped to the man’s right as he wilted dead. His finger remained inside the trigger guard.
The gun in his hand hit the floor.
The gun discharged.
Barbara grunted.
She spun around. I caught her.
“No. No. No,” I said. “Barbara? Barbara.” I scooped her up and laid her on the bed. The children screamed in terror.
“Bruno,” Barbara said, “Get the kids out of here. I’m okay, I’m okay, just get the kids away from all this.”
I pulled her jacket open. Her blouse blossomed with red. A small black hole high on the left abdomen, just below the rib cage, oozed dark blood. Her hand grabbed my shirt. “Get ’em outta of here.”
“Stop it and lie still.” I applied pressure to the wound with one hand. She groaned. With the other I searched her coat pockets and found her phone and car keys just as the phone rang. I checked the screen.
Mack.
Shit.
I answered it. “Mack.”
“Yeah, buddy, you get the kids, okay?” He heard the kids screaming in the background. “What’s going on?”
“Mack, I’m sorry, it went down bad, real bad.”
“Barbara? Where’s Barbara? Let me talk to Barbara.”
“Gimme the phone, you horse’s ass.”
I handed her the phone and, still holding pressure, reached for the landline phone. I dialed 911.
The operator came on. “Police emergency, what are you reporting?”
“Shots fired, officer down. Officer down.” I dropped the phone on the nightstand.
Barbara’s eyes rolled up and her hand dropped the phone. I picked it up.
“Barbara? Barbara?” Mack yelled into the phone.
“It’s me again. I have help responding.”
“How bad, Bruno? How bad, damn you.”
“Mack, you’re going to have to hurry.” A lump rose up in my throat and choked me. “Hurry, Mack.”
Two cops ran in, guns drawn, blue uniforms from Inglewood who’d been dispatched to the first shot in the other apartment. I dropped the cell phone. “This is the chief of police for Montclair. She’s hit hard.” I picked Barbara up, an arm under her legs, and one under her arms. “We need to do a scoop and run if she’s gonna make it.”
One cop said, “I’ll drive.” He yelled at his partner, “Stay with these kids, contain the crime scene, and call Centinela hospital, tell em’ we’re rollin’ in hot with an officer down.”
He led the way out the door and down the walk. Time ticked by too quickly for Barbara and too slow for us.
“How far is it?”
“We’re good, it’s only two blocks, not even half a mile. We’re good. We’re good. Two minutes. We’ll have her there in two minutes.”
He opened the back door. I got in with her as best I could, my leg half out, the space too tight to do anything about it. “Go. Go. Go.”
He took off, driving crazy. The centrifugal force on the first turn leaving the parking area as we entered Arbor Vitae almost pulled us both out the open door. The Inglewood c
op spoke on his radio. Two more quick turns, and we entered the driveway to the hospital. He hadn’t exaggerated about the distance. He pulled up on the sidewalk, right up to the emergency room door, got out and came around. He helped me get her out. Her head lolled back, her eyes rolled up, only the whites of her eyes visible. Blood soaked her clothes and mine. Lots of blood. Too much blood.
The automatic doors swung open when we approached, just as the nurses came on the run with the gurney. We set her down, too rough, the gurney already moving back the way it had come.
I bent over, hands on my knees, and tried to focus on breathing.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
THE INGLEWOOD COP put his hand on my shoulder. “You good here? I have to get back and maintain that crime scene.”
“Yeah. Thanks man, you did great.”
The young cop smiled, got in his car, backed up, and left. Had he been more experienced, he wouldn’t have left me; he’d have secured me as a witness or an involved party.
Down the long drive to the hospital entrance, at the driveway to the street, Mack’s midnight-blue Honda skidded, the tires roiled with white smoke. He let off the brake and hit the gas as he made the turn. The Honda bounced violently, its headlights shooting skyward and then back down. The undercarriage banged and sparked. Two LAPD patrol cars in pursuit of him bounced the same way right on his tail. He’d picked up the cop cars in his headlong race from Santa Monica. They thought he was a vehicle-code violator who wouldn’t yield.
I stepped out a little from the building to let him see me and waved. He skidded to a stop, got out, and ran up. His eyes took me in, all the blood. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. I pointed to the door to the emergency room as the patrol cars stopped and the uniforms got out, guns drawn. They yelled at Mack to freeze. Mack ran into the emergency room.
The cops came around the open car doors to give chase. I held up my hands, but not too high to raise my shirt to expose the Sig in my waistband. “It’s okay, he’s a cop. He’s a cop. His wife’s been shot.”
They shouldn’t have believed me, but they did. They stopped by me and lowered their weapons. Barbara’s blood all over me, my clothes, my hands, some on my face, all of it gave my statement credibility.
The Squandered Page 23