Not one, but two threats on my life. Wonderful, Zeke thought. "My loyalty is to my client, Victor. Do what you want, but I've got work to do."
Zeke stood up, ushering Matty to do the same. "I take it you can cover the bill?" Zeke asked.
"My treat, of course. Watch your back out there," Victor said, "we wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."
Sure you wouldn't, Zeke thought.
“I guess that means no sandwich, then,” Matty said to Zeke.
He and Matty walked out to the street. Los Angeles nightlife had kicked into full gear. Entertainment executives and college students were singing drinking songs together on the sidewalk. Men and women shot the breeze while they smoked cigarettes outside.
"What the hell happened here?" Matty said as they walked up to the parking lot.
"Damn," Zeke replied. Someone had apparently taken a baseball bat to Zeke's Volvo. The bat was still lodged in its windshield. "This is . . . unfortunate."
"Who do you think did it?" Matty asked.
"Take your pick. Probably wasn't Mikulski, although I guess he could've hired someone to do it while we were inside. I have an idea, though." Zeke asked.
"No what do we do?"
"Fuck. I'll call a tow truck. We can Uber home."
"So . . . are you going to mention the 300-pound elephant in the room, or should I?"
"What do you mean?"
"The only person you know in the LAPD is your ex-girlfriend. Are you really expecting Molly to meet with you? After what happened?"
"She's our only option, Matty. I'll text her on the way home."
March 5th, 11:45pm
"One of our guys caught them going in the restaurant about 30 minutes after Mikulski and Wainwright," the voice on the phone said.
"Yeah, so what do you want me to do about it, Rebecca?" Jimmer asked.
"We sent Garcia's lawyer a message, but he's clearly made his decision," she said.
"What're you saying?"
"We want you to take Garcia out. We need to send everyone a message that the Inland Widows aren't to be fucked with. Especially after you let him kick your ass like that."
"I thought you told me to stand down?"
"And I thought we could work with Blackbird. But you know lawyers, they're always playing both sides, in it for themselves. I need you to take out Garcia?"
"Yeah? And what'll you do for me?"
Rebecca was silent.
"I mean, I'm not in great shape here. The kid sucker punched me, and then kicked the crap out of me. I spent a few days in the medical unit. My nose is broken, and I have a cracked rib."
"Excuse me, but so fucking what? You're huge. And we've got everyone in that jail doing our bidding—"
"Man, Vicki, things are different now. Everything changed when Alex took me down. I don't have the control that I used to."
"Then this is your chance to do something about it?"
"The guards are freaked out now. If they allow another fight between us, the warden will rain shit down on them. They'll be watching closely."
"We'll send you more money for the guards."
"Alex has friends now, too. Guys that used to work for me."
"Fairweather friends, Jimmer. They'll be in the wind once they see you coming. We can buy them off too, if we need to."
"And how do you expect me to do it?"
"We've added a special package to your normal delivery. Should have arrived this morning."
"What is it?"
"You'll know it when you see it. It'll get the job done. Call us when you're finished."
"And what if they stick me in solitary?"
"They won't. Too much to lose," Rebecca said, ending the conversation. Jimmer heard the phone click, followed by a dial tone.
He closed the flip phone he had been using, illegally, for the past few months. The Inland Widows had smuggled it, along with plenty of other contraband, into Twin Towers jail through an anonymous network of guards and administrative staff. It was an open secret at the jail.
Jimmer sat up in his bunk. He looked at his face through the shiny piece of metal bolted to his cell wall. You're too old for this shit, he thought to himself. He had been in and out of the system for years. He hooked up with the Inland Widows after his last stint in prison, out at California State Prison in Lancaster. Jimmer remembered meeting Vicki through a bible study program she hosted at the facility once a month. Great operation, he thought. While pretending to deliver free bibles to prisoners once a month, Vicki and a few other Widows would cut out the inside pages and stuff them with contraband. When she needed someone on the inside to organize delivery and collect payments, she turned to the biggest guy in her bible study. Jimmer.
Since then, Jimmer had run at least 50 distributors, and probably moved at least $10 million worth of contraband. He knew himself well enough to know that he wasn't book smart. But he had a knack for moving and selling illegal stuff. Plus, his size scared the other inmates. Sure, he had to smack someone around every once in a while to keep the other in check. But everyone always paid.
At least, they did until Alex came into the picture. Ungrateful mutt, Jimmer thought to himself.
A guard knocked on the door.
"Special delivery!" he said.
"Shut the fuck up Miller. Just give me the goods," Jimmer replied.
"Fine by me," the guard said, throwing a large, black gym bag onto the bunk. "Good luck selling it now, dipshit" he said as he walked out of Jimmer's cell.
Prick. Jimmer rooted through the gym bag. It had the usual contraband: cell phones, chargers, cigarettes, batteries, and drugs. At the bottom, though, were a pair of new tennis shoes. Inmates asked for shoes every once in a while, but it was uncommon. Jimmer took out the shoes. Nice, he thought to himself. They were probably his size. He looked them up and down, stuck his hand inside to make sure they were empty, which they were. He bent one shoe, to see if it was flexible. He was able to touch the toe to the back heel. He did the same with the other, but he didn't budge, it was stiff as a rod.
He took the shoe into his bunk and sat down. He looked at the back of the heel, where the sole met the fabric of the shoe. There was a small incision, maybe about half an inch, in the back of the shoe. Jimmer stuck his finger in the hole and pulled down. It was held together tightly, but it came apart with some work. He ripped the sole away from the shoe and a shank dropped onto his bed.
Jimmer picked up the shank. On one side someone had written 'Alex Garcia' in permanent marker. On the other side it said, "reclaim what you have lost."
March 6th, 8:10am
"I don't understand why you don't just buy a real car," Zeke said. He was riding on the back of Matty's electric scooter, holding Matty's waist and feeling every bump in the road.
"I like how the wind feels blowing through my hair," Matty replied. "Also, you still haven't paid me, so go pound sand."
They were driving up Academy Road in Elysian Park. The Los Angeles Police Academy was a stone's throw away from Dodger Stadium. Both were at the top of a foothill near the Santa Monica mountains, offering spectacular views of Downtown L.A.
"Where are we meeting her?" Matty asked.
"At the edge of the parking lot, behind the stadium."
"How did you convince her to meet with us?"
"Well," Zeke yelled above the scooter's motor, "she doesn't know it's us yet, and I told her that I didn't like the way we ended things. That I wanted to make things right."
"Oh jeez, Zeke, you're a real piece of work. Maybe it was Molly with the bat. God knows you deserved it," Matty said.
"I wouldn't have asked her if I didn't think it was Alex's only shot at acquittal. We need to figure out what's going on with Salter. Where there's smoke, there's fire."
Matty pulled into the Dodger Stadium parking lot. It was daytime and the parking lot was empty. There was almost no other flat, empty lots this big in Los Angeles. But it was a car city, and everyone loved the Dodgers, so the owners had no ch
oice but to keep the lot.
They zipped past the stadium and drove around the back. Molly was waiting at the edge of a parking lot, sitting on the hood of her black and white, taking in the sunrise over Downtown.
Matty parked the scooter and Zeke got off.
"What the hell is he doing here?" Molly asked.
"He's my associate."
"I know that, Zeke, but why is he here now?" Molly asked.
"My car is in the shop."
"The Volvo? That thing's a beast. What happened?"
"I'm having some client-related issues."
"That's what happens when you defend the bad guys, Zeke."
"Speaking of bad guys, I actually need to ask you about someone."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think a homicide detective might have been involved in my client's case somehow. As in, criminally involved."
"You're fucking with me, right?" Molly asked.
"No. I just—"
"You're a fucking asshole, Zeke Blackbird. I thought you wanted to meet to talk about our relationship. But now you're squeezing me for intel, about another cop no less. You're a piece of shit."
"I know, I know. I probably deserve some of that. And we can talk about how things ended, but it'll have to wait until later."
"That sounds familiar," she replied.
"Do you know a detective by the name of Salter? Phillip Salter?"
Molly was silent for a few seconds, deciding whether or not she would answer.
"If you had asked me about anyone else, I would've told you to screw off,” she said. “Seriously, you're not worth my time. But Salter, yeah, he's an asshole."
"What do you know about him?"
"He was an instructor at the academy when I was a cadet. A real hardass when it came to PT. But that was fine, all the instructors were. Headquarters only assigns the broken toys to instructor spots at the Academy. The officers no one else wants.
Salter, as it turned out, had gotten a little too obsessed with his female partner. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I know she rebuffed his advances, and it led to a physical altercation. They moved him over to the Academy after that.
It didn't help, much though. He was always ogling the female recruits. One of my classmates said he got kind of obsessed with her. Always asking her out, telling her she was beautiful. Fucking creep."
"So how did he make it back to Homicide?"
"His brother, Michael, is a big deal. Used to be a higher up at Headquarters. Deputy Commissioner or something like that. He probably pulled a few strings to get him reassigned after everyone forgot about what happened. We're short on officers anyways, departments can't afford to be picky right now."
"I heard that Michael is running a security company?"
"Yeah, Blue Shield Security. Started it after he retired. A lot of the traffic officers work there part-time, to pay the bills. I hear it pays well, and it's easy money."
"Does Salter work there?" Zeke asked.
"Probably. Dude drinks like a fish. And drinks in L.A. ain't cheap. Drives a nice car too. A dark purple Mustang. He's a Lakers fan, I guess. That car's too nice for a cop, though."
Dark purple mustang, Zeke thought to himself. Salter had been keeping tabs on Zeke that early morning in Little Tokyo.
"How is Salter involved?" Molly asked.
Zeke kicked a rock over the edge of Chavez Ravine. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but I'm working on the Francesca Cahill case?"
"What, as an intern or something?"
Matty choked on his soy latte and started laughing.
"Can you take a walk, Matty?"
"Sure thing, sorry," he replied, walking off toward the stadium.
Zeke turned back to Molly, "No, actually, I'm an attorney for the defense. The attorney."
"Ok. I guess that explains some of the radio silence then. Doesn't change anything, though."
"No, it doesn't," Zeke said. “Look, Molly. I'm really sorry how things ended. The truth is, I was never prepared be in a relationship with you. I was so busy with law school and the bar and finding a job. Honestly, I should've ended things a long time ago. I strung you along. And I'm sorry for that."
Zeke looked up at Molly's face. She was crying.
"I mean it wasn't all awful, was it?"
"No, it wasn't. In fact, it was mostly good. When I was there, present, it was really good—"
"I'm seeing somebody," Molly said out of nowhere.
Zeke felt like he had been punched in the gut. His feelings were unfair, he knew, since he had a few dates with Lexi. But to know that Molly had moved on with someone else was . . . tough.
"Yeah? Well, good for you," Zeke said, pretending that her news didn't hurt.
"Thanks," she said, pausing awkwardly. "So, what are you gonna do about Salter?"
"Not sure. I guess we'll need to talk to him. Have his number?"
Molly laughed, "Fuck no. We run in different circles. But I know where Blue Shield's office is. Michael hosts an annual Christmas party. Invites the whole damn LAPD."
"Where is it?"
"Glendale. It's in an old industrial park near the 5 and 134 intersection, across the river from the zoo. You know where that brewery is—"
"Yeah. We went on a few dates there. I remember," Zeke replied.
"Right . . . well it’s not too far from there, about one block west. In a royal blue building on Cutter Street. You can't miss it."
"Got it, thanks."
Zeke went in for a hug, but Molly stepped back.
"Sorry, but . . . I can't," she said.
"I get it."
She opened the door of her black and white. "And Zeke?"
"What?" he replied.
"Don't call me again." She got in the car and drove toward the west exit.
Zeke turned around. Matty was already back at his scooter.
"Brutal, Zeke. Absolutely, brutal," Matty said.
"I thought I told you to get lost."
"You did, but I got a call from Lexi. Sounds like she had a visitor last night, too."
Fuck. "Okay. I'm gonna head over to her place quickly. Meet me at the office in a few hours."
"How do you plan to get there?" Matty said, pointing to his scooter.
"Ah. I forgot about my car. Just drop me off, I'll take an Uber from Lexi's to the office. While you're waiting, call Blue Shield and make an appointment. I want to meet with Mike Salter."
"You got it. Anything else?"
"Yeah," Zeke replied, "I'm driving."
Chapter 10
March 6th, 10:15am
Zeke knocked on Lexi's door. She lived in a high-rise Downtown, near Staples Center.
"Hey, thanks for coming," Lexi said, opening the door.
"So this is what a law firm salary will buy you? Nice," Zeke said.
"I rent," Lexi said laughing, "and stop acting like you've never been here before. You and Matty have been here a bunch of times since we finished the bar exam."
"Yeah," Zeke said as he walked inside, "but . . . you've redecorated." Zeke looked at modernist artwork on Lexi's walls, brand new furniture, and 50-inch flat screen.
"I may have gone a little overboard after my first few paychecks," she said, "but can you really blame me? I'm from a lower-middle class neighborhood in the Valley. I've never known money like that. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Something stiff, if you have it."
"Whiskey okay?" she said, walking into the kitchen.
"Yeah, sure." Zeke looked out her windows, offering a view of Downtown's Southlake neighborhood, Staples Center, L.A. Live, and dozens of bars and fine dining restaurants. He went to sit on one of Lexi's new leather couches, but it was covered in legal papers, pens, her laptop and briefcase.
"I'm sorry about that," she said, "you can just move that stuff."
"No worries, I'll just sit over here," Zeke said, sitting down on the fireplace.
"How are things going with the Cahill case?" Lexi asked.
<
br /> "They're . . . going. I think one of the investigators on the case may have had a conflict of interest. We're trying to find impeachment evidence."
"I'm glad you came, then."
"Yeah?" Zeke said, taking a sip of whiskey. "How do you mean?"
Lexi paused. Zeke could tell she was reluctant to talk about what happened.
"Matty said that you had a visitor last night."
"I . . . did. I'm not sure how he found my apartment, I figured he could've followed me home from work. I usually take the metro, but I got off early yesterday, so I walked to enjoy the weather."
"He came to your apartment?"
"Yeah. Not sure how he got past the front desk," she said, drinking from her wineglass. "He knocked on the door about 15 or 20 minutes after I got home. I looked through the peephole, and didn't recognize him, but I figured he was delivering a package."
"What did he look like?"
"He was big. Really big. And he had a thick mustache."
Salter, Zeke thought to himself. "What did he want?"
"I couldn't tell at first. His breath smelled like hot gin, and he was stammering his words. I figured he was one of my neighbor's friends, and that he maybe knocked on the wrong door. I went to close my door, but he stopped it with his foot. He became irate and stomped into my kitchen. He ransacked the cabinets, looking for more booze. When he found a bottle of liquor, he poured himself a glass and collapsed onto the sofa. I noticed he had holstered gun when he sat down."
"Wow, I'm so sorry—"
"I was scared. I couldn't move. He started talking about 'the Department' and kept complaining about a woman named 'Franny.' I didn't realize it may be related to the Cahill case until he started asking me questions. About you."
Over the past few weeks Zeke's life had been threatened more times than he could count. But this was the first time his choices at work were affecting other people in his life.
"What did he ask?" Zeke said.
"He wanted to know if you and I had talked at all about the Francesca Cahill murder. If you had shared any details of your client's defense. I tried telling him that lawyers wouldn't normally share that type of information, but he made his low opinion of lawyers very clear."
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