Only when Beemer and his unwitting partner had taken to the road, had the veteran given himself a chance to second-guess himself. The result of all his efforts of the last twelve hours were now in the unwitting hands of a broken-down meth head.
Yeah, but on short notice, what were you expecting, dumb ass?
Arguing with himself wasn’t going to get his frozen blood products overseas. The revised plan was this: the feds were on the lookout for a black refrigerator rig; that bastard, Rey-the-pool-prick, had tipped off the government and set up a place and time for Beemer’s apprehension. The rest was simple. Give the feds what they’re asking for: a big black fridge truck and a guy behind the wheel. By the time the government sorted through the error of its judgment and trust in the Granada Hills pool man, Beemer and his borrowed truck full of blood products would have crossed the border to Tijuana.
The transition from the westbound 118 freeway to the southern route of the 405 was a long, sweeping single-lane arc. Beemer could already see the heat waves distorting the horizon in a mirage effect. The disturbing image forced Beemer to reel in his focus back to the shiny, black beauty of a semi truck a mere eighth of a mile ahead.
Stay on point, Beems. Less than ninety minutes and you’re green and on your way to San Diego.
With the 405 acting as his artery straight into the heart of Long Beach, Beemer could back off a half click from the Peterbilt. He was just easing off the gas pedal when he heard an approaching whine. He instinctively checked his right side-view to glimpse a red spec in the parabolic mirror. No sooner had he heard and seen it than the spec appeared off his right fender—a vintage Porsche convertible at full throttle, its four cylinder, one-hundred-fifty-eight horsepower engine at maximum scream. The angle at which the old sports car shot out from off his starboard made it look as if a noisy red bug had just escaped from being crushed by the Freightliner’s front wheel.
“Fuckin’ asshole!” Beemer found himself saying aloud.
He had half a mind to dial the California Highway Patrol to report the dangerous son of a bitch. Just to keep the driver from wrecking and causing a traffic pileup that could put his just revised plan at risk. Then again, phoning any authority could place himself and the newly stolen Freightliner on the police’s radar.
“Didn’t even get the license tag,” Beemer reasoned with himself.
Soon, the near incident was shuffled to the back of Beemer’s brain. He had quickly returned his fatigued resources to the moment and the matter at hand, which was safely trailing the black Peterbilt to Long Beach Harbor.
If only Beemer had seen the Porsche’s vanity tag. Framed in a silly frame that read, “My other car is a pickup truck,” the sunny California plate spelled out a simple, but accurate moniker: POOLGUY.
* * * *
“JEEEEEEEEE-SUS!”
Rey Palomino spilled out from the cab of his Toyota Tundra. How he landed on his feet was a miracle, considering the three-foot drop into fresh tilled dirt that was fast turning to mud. It felt like his truck had been hit by a tsunami. But the reality was that in his moment of panic, he’d backed up over a fire hydrant.
A sign?
The morning had not gone according to plan and Rey was racking it up to a night without sleep. He had laid awake in front of the television, remote control in hand, constantly surfing for a program to take his mind off the situation he had placed himself in. Golf Channel, Discovery, Nat Geo, Cooking Channel, Tennis Channel, NFL Channel, ESPN, Bravo… None summoned sleep nor challenged his brain enough to dull the feeling that, by agreeing to use his brother’s shipping enterprise to illegally disguise a truckload of undisclosed product as frozen vegetables, he had set events in motion that had led to the deaths of three young people.
What would Danny have thought of you, Rey?
After Rey’s decision to phone the FBI, there had been three more phone conversations with Special Agent Dulaney Little. The first two came around 7:00 A.M., interrupting the über-tanned collection of morning news babes with their cleavage and giddy pre-packaged patter designed to jumpstart the viewer’s day with a dose of news and tease. Rey informed Agent Little that he hadn’t yet heard from the man calling himself Greg Beem. Then by around 9:00 A.M., Rey had convinced himself that the whole deal was off—Greg Beem had thought better of the situation, spooked even, and moved on to some kind of plan B known only to him.
That hopeful bubble popped an instant later when Rey’s cell phone chirped.
“Twelve o’clock straight up,” said Beemer over the phone without so much as a hello. “At your brother’s depot. We finish this and we’re square.”
“Okay,” said Rey.
“Repeat it back. Wanna make sure you heard me.”
“Twelve o’clock. On the nose, right?” said Rey, practically busting into a cough there was so much phlegm stuck in his gullet. “At my brother’s place.”
“Don’t be late.”
The entire call lasted less than ten seconds. Just the sound of Beemer’s voice sent waves of fear pulsing the strands of Rey’s nervous system. He looked at the clock, trying and failing to calculate the simplest of computations. The amount of time to get ready, drive south to Long Beach and wait for the FBI to arrest the bad man and his illegal cargo. Yet while Rey continued to stare at the IKEA kitchen clock as if it was going to tell him what to do next, he was strangely stuck in time and unable to function. The fugue ended when his phone chirped again. Terrified that it was Beemer, Rey fumbled to check the incoming number and recognized it as a plumbing subcontractor with whom he had been trying to connect. He sent the call directly to voicemail and redialed the mobile number Special Agent Dulaney Little had left him.
The game was on. The FBI was in charge. So what the hell was that sour feeling he kept tasting at the back of his tongue?
Deciding he would rather wait for the final outcome in Long Beach, Rey grabbed his truck keys and hit the road without a shower, a swab of deodorant or even brushing his teeth. The fast food junkie had a favorite drive-thru in mind where he could get a breakfast muffin, French fries, and a tub of Diet Coke. That’s when he saw the steeple. At the bottom of his street was a Catholic Church—St. Francis de Nome’s—otherwise known as St. Franks to the neighborhood kids. Danny used to play in the parish’s winter baseball league. And Rey would assist as coach.
The morning sun spiked through the church steeple. A question formed inside Rey. How long since he had confessed, lit a candle in Danny’s memory, or even prayed to the God he claimed to put before all others? That’s how Rey found himself wheeling his pickup into the parking lot, setting the brake, and dashing inside the church for a quick make-up moment with his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Rey recited three Hail Marys by rote along with the Our Father and lit nineteen candles for every year of Danny’s short life, his hands shaking so badly that he had needed six wooden matches. There was no time to even take a moment to breathe it all in, calm his nerves, or find solace in the surroundings—the crisscrossing arches and the fourteen brilliantly lit, sixties-styled stained-glass windows. Rey hurried back out into the parking lot. He turned the engine over, dropped the transmission into reverse, twisted the wheel and backed over the fire hydrant. The extreme high-pressure water fixture snapped clean off at the bolts and sent a geyser of high-pressure H20 blasting into the pickup’s undercarriage.
When the fire department rolled up, Rey was less chagrinned about his driving skills and more in a hurry to get the hell out of there. He handed over his driver’s license and insurance info, claimed he had some important business with the FBI, then vanished back up the slope to his house. When the LAPD dispatched a radio unit to knock on Rey’s door with a citation for leaving the scene of an accident, the kind tow driver assigned to impound the Tundra followed to return a kitchen-sized garbage bag full of personal items, including Rey’s wallet. But after the uniformed officer received no answer at the door, he made a note that the garage was wide open and empty.
; “Betcha he’s drivin’ his Porsche,” said the tow driver.
“What? You know the guy?” the uniform asked.
“No. Just got his truck hooked up to my truck. Check out the license plate frame.”
And there it was, the sibling to the license plate frame on Rey’s vintage Porsche. It read: MY OTHER CAR IS A PORSCHE.
22
Residents of Long Beach, like those of other seaside communities, were quick to grow tired of heat waves—even though the sunny days were usually accompanied by steady offshore breezes keeping the temperature about twenty degrees cooler than those oppressive heat indexes experienced forty miles inland.
“The locals are friggin’ melting,” said FBI Tactical Captain Zekemeyer, better known as Zeke to those in the Bureau. “They can’t take this shit.”
“Aren’t you local?” asked Dulaney.
“I live in Manhattan Beach,” said Zeke. “But I’m from friggin’ San Berdoo. And I got a long memory.”
It was 10:35 A.M. Zeke had just walked Dulaney through the gauntlet he had set up to safely “corral” the suspect.
“See?” said Zeke. “Day one. They’re all like, isn’t it so nice and warm? Then come day two of this shit. All appreciation is gone and all the beachies can barely tolerate the heat. But they don’t really complain because they know that any minute the ocean fan is gonna switch back on.”
Zeke snapped his fingers. Dulaney was already laughing.
“Day three? Total meltdown. Everybody is bitching and crying about everything from global warming to why they hate their neighbor. Happens twice a summer and it’s always a hoot.”
“I live in Reseda,” said Dulaney flatly, arriving at his Taurus, parked at the far edge of a Ralph’s supermarket lot. He found himself looking at the palm trees that trimmed the property, wondering if he could see the fronds beginning to flap in the breeze—a sign that the heat wave was about to end.
“If it wasn’t for the real estate boom,” said Zeke, “I’d still be living in the I.E. Me and my Suzy leveraged ourselves up and into a really sweet spot a block from the water. Best thing we ever did.”
Like Dulaney really wanted to hear about all of Zeke’s financial successes. He looked at his watch, noting that they were a notch more than an hour away from an arrest he hoped would go off without Murphy and his Law of Lousy Outcomes entering into the equation. For any success at all, the trucker they were so cautious about had to be the same suspect from the Kern County murder. On the drive to Long Beach, Dulaney had reminded himself that he hadn’t yet met face to face with the informant, Rey Palomino. Then during the walk-through with Zeke he had received two calls from Rey, explaining something about a slight delay and a fire hydrant. Whatever, thought Dulaney. Just get your pool-constructing ass down to Long Beach so we can ID the perp.
Thirty minutes later, Rey Palomino finally arrived, parking his vintage Porsche in the space next to Dulaney’s Taurus. The pool contractor was a thorn bush of nerves, tongue-tripping so badly over his words that it made Dulaney feel almost omnipotent over his own buried impediment.
Dulaney tried to put Rey at ease, then requested he move his car halfway across the lot and to pretty please sit and wait on his trembling hands until the FBI decided where they wanted to perch him. Rey, the good soldier, zipped his Porsche around the lot, settling on the idea of hogging a pair of spots to reduce the chance of his recent paint job getting chipped or dinged. Rey stopped, killed the engine, and set the brake.
“What’s the difference between a porcupine and a Porsche?” asked Dulaney, half to himself.
“I know this one but I forget,” said Zeke.
“With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.”
“That’s it,” Zeke chuckled.
“What do you want to do with him?”
“Let him chill until we need him.”
“Alright. What’s next?”
“Brief review,” said Zeke. “Because once we set the detour, we’re stuck with the plan.”
“Think I got it,” said Dulaney. “D.W.P. trucks and sawhorses, and orange cones set up the gauntlet. Traffic jam. Gives us time to paint a target on the unsub. We take him in the intersection.”
“So you were paying attention,” smiled Zeke.
“Just so you know, it was hard, considering all the scattered ass walking in and out of Starbucks.”
“All wearing their heat wave gear.” That smile had turned to a wide grin. “And people complain about this weather?”
“Gotta make some calls.”
“Radio?”
Dulaney reached into his back pocket and retrieved the small walkie-talkie the tactical captain had loaned him.
“Okay,” said Zeke. “Gonna check on my dispersion. Check back in fifteen.”
“I’ll be right here in my air-conditioned office,” joked Dulaney, slapping the burning roof of his Taurus.
Dulaney thanked God the Freon was still circulating in the sedan’s air conditioner. Two seconds after he had turned the ignition key he experienced a refreshing blast of cold air. It wasn’t even 11:00 A.M. yet and his body felt exhausted. That venti quad latte he’d ordered at Starbucks hadn’t given him the slightest boost. He wondered if he had accidentally been slipped some dreaded decaf. Then he wondered why the hell someone had even invented decaf.
I mean, seriously. What’s the Goddamn point?
While Dulaney checked the digital clock on his dash, he reviewed Zeke’s tactical plan. His initial reaction to the “gauntlet” approach was negative. Then once Zeke explained how his unit had been cut to a slim six tactical agents, understanding had begun to trump impatience.
The tac captain’s first thought had been to take the suspect at the Palomino shipping facility. But without permission from the owner, who was said to be fishing in Cabo San Lucas, control of the facility couldn’t fall to the feds without a court order. And there was too little time for that now.
Plan B involved mapping the two different routes to the site that trucks delivering cargo would be required to travel. By alerting the Department of Water and Power to investigate a potential water main leak, one trucking artery would be temporarily shut down, diverting all traffic through the southwest corner of downtown Long Beach. The slowdown would make it easier to both identify the truck driver and allow for a simple, six-man assault. The unsub would be surprised. Handcuffed. Questioned. And processed at L.A. County Jail.
Then came the rapping on his car window. And because the knuckles landed only inches from his ear, it startled Dulaney so seriously he recoiled with comical bug-eyes. He heard the cackles of laughter.
“Christ Almighty!” said Dulaney, rolling down the window.
“Should’ve seen yourself,” said Lilly, still having a hard time getting her words out between the fits of laughter. “It’s like your whole body just got Tased.”
“You did that right next to my ear.”
“Note to self. Special Agent Dulaney Little scares like a little girl,” laughed Lilly.
“What the hell are you doing down here?”
“You’re not gonna invite me into your cool, cool car?”
Dulaney glanced at the empty passenger seat, as if he half-expected to find it occupied. Then he reached across and pushed the door open. Lilly waltzed around the front end of the Taurus, slid herself into the car, then smoothed out the wrinkles in her pencil skirt.
“Hot hot hot,” she said.
“You’re in my car,” said Dulaney. “So answer my question.”
“Which question?”
“Why. Are. You. Here?”
“Supervising.”
“What? You don’t trust the Bureau to arrest one guy driving a refrigerator truck?”
“All the faith in the world,” said Lilly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t come down to Long Beach and watch.”
Crap, said Dulaney to himself, certain there was an angle on the case Lilly Zoller wasn’t divulging. And since shit usually traveled downhill, if something we
re to go sideways, Dulaney was sure he would be the one to get smeared first.
“I call bullshit,” said Dulaney.
“Call whatever you want,” said Lilly. “You’re assigned to the U.S.A.O. so whatever I say goes.”
Whatever.
Dulaney let his eyes speak his insubordinate thoughts. He readjusted the air conditioning vents in order for the boss lady to get an equal share of the cold air.
“I’m warning you, D.L., if you’re trying to make my nipples hard I can bust you for harassment.”
“Really?”
Lilly volleyed back with nothing but a wicked smile.
“Can I say something off the record?” asked Dulaney.
“Didn’t know we were on the record,” said Lilly. “But sure. What do you want to know?”
“Do you actually think that every guy in the downtown fed building wants to fuck you?”
Dulaney could tell the question pleased her by the way her eyes briefly widened.
“Only the black dudes,” said Lilly, pushing the provocative envelope.
“Oh, man. Now who’s harassing who?”
“So tell me what’s going on here,” asked Lilly, shifting gears. “Gimme the deets. Leave nothing out.”
* * * *
In the heat of the chase, Gonzo had nearly forgotten to step out of the car. She’d had two opportunities earlier. At a Reseda Boulevard stoplight, only minutes after Lucky had begun to follow the FBI agent. And at the bottom of the freeway off-ramp that eventually emptied into the City of Long Beach. But by then, Gonzo was invested. Like any other cop, she wanted like hell to know what was going to happen next.
It was 11:28 A.M.
Blood Money Page 17