the Viking Funeral (2001)

by Stephen - Scully 02 Cannell

  A uniformed police officer, a sergeant, moved past him on his way out of the substation, and Shane stopped him. "Hey, excuse me, Sarge..."

  The man turned.

  "I'm Shane Scully, detective three at Robbery-Homicide," he said as the man turned and walked toward him. Shane dug out his badge and showed it to the man.

  "I heard about you. You got a lot of ink last year."

  "Right." Shane smiled, trying to disarm what seemed like a negative attitude. "I notice all these Plain Janes here have a black dust of some kind all over them."

  The sergeant wrinkled his brow. "You working for the motor pool now?"

  "No," Shane said. "I was just wondering what it is."

  "It's burned jet fuel. These jets take off every minute or so, and they spew black exhaust. Gets all over the cars that live around here."

  "No kidding," Shane said, looking at a plane that was just taking off, climbing out past the terminals, trailing dark smoke out of four huge engines. "Got it," he said. "Thanks."

  Shane got into his car and pulled out of the parking lot. He didn't know what he was looking for, or even what he was doing. Maybe it was just the vast amount of free time he seemed to have on his hands these days. He drove aimlessly around the Los Angeles airport, picking neighboring streets, looking at cars parked at the curbs. The ones that looked like they'd been there for a while all had the same layer of black dust on their hoods, trunks, and windshields.

  Then Shane saw the green-covered fence.

  It was at the end of one of the streets near the airport and seemed to run for several blocks. He parked, got out, and moved up to the chain-link, which was covered with Highway Department green plastic so you couldn't see through it. He took out his pocketknife and cut a hole in the plastic.

  Inside the fence was a vacant neighborhood, just like the one he was in, only there were no cars on the street, no tricycles or toys strewn around on the brown, unwatered lawns.

  "Whatcha doin'?" he heard a voice behind him demand.

  Shane turned and saw an old man with a long, string-bean neck. His Adam's apple looked like a ball bouncing up and down on the end of a rubber band when he spoke.

  "What is this place?" Shane asked.

  "Noise-abatement area," the old man said. "They condemned all a'them houses 'bout two years ago, 'cause they sit right at the end a'the runway and the people who lived in them was all the time complaining about jet noise. Not that it's any better out here," he said. Then, as if to make his point, a jet took off, rising overhead, its engines screaming, trailing black exhaust.

  "See," the old man shouted over the racket.

  "Shit, that's loud."

  "They say you get used t'it, but y'don't. Fuckin' drive y'nuts. Can't never sell these here houses 'cause only a deaf moron would buy 'em. We built here in the thirties, 'fore there was an airport."

  "So, nobody lives inside this fence?"

  "Nope," the old man said. "Three square blocks, empty as a hooker's heart."

  "Nobody ever goes in there?" Shane asked.

  "Once or twice, some cops. Showed us badges; said they was using the neighborhood to practice clearin' barricaded suspects house to house. Only seen 'em go in there a couple a'times."

  "Any way to get in?" Shane asked.

  "There's a gate right up the street on the Florence side, but it's all padlocked."

  Shane nodded, thanked him, then got into his car and drove up the street to have a look.

  What he found inside that fence defied all reason, as well as most of the core values he believed in.

  Chapter 15.

  CRIBBING

  THE FENCE WAS topped by barbed wire.

  Shane slid the picks into the heavy Yale padlock and flipped the tumblers. The padlock jumped, clicking open in his hand. He removed it from the chain that was wrapped around the center posts, then pushed the gate open enough to get through. He could see recent tire tracks in the black dust at his feet.

  Shane reached down, withdrew the Beretta Mini-Cougar from his ankle holster, chambered it, and repacked it, tucking the weapon into a handier place in his belt. He moved into the deserted four-block neighborhood, then closed the gate behind him and relatched the lock the way he had found it.

  Every two minutes a low-flying jet screamed overhead, shaking the ground and the houses with a deafening roar.

  Shane steeled his nerves against the racket, slipping into the fenced noise-abatement area. A broken sign announced the street he was on as East Lannark Drive. He was moving slowly, cautiously from house to house, staying out of sight of the few unboarded windows, seeking cover behind chipped, unpainted garden walls or dead hedges. The effect of the neighborhood was startling: the houses had long been unattended, the lawns brown-- bone-dry from lack of water; hedges and trees were skeletal and dusty; only a few hearty weeds clung stubbornly to rock-hard flowerbeds. The entire neighborhood was covered with the same fine black exhaust powder, turning everything dingy and gray.

  Another jet screamed over him. Shane jumped in response to the shrieking roar of its four huge engines passing just a few hundred feet above his head.

  Shane followed the tire tracks on the dusty pavement, running from hedge to house to wall, his senses quivering, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for any movement--any sign of life.

  Could this be where Jody and his undercover unit are cribbing?

  The tire tracks he was following turned right into one of the driveways. The house was a standard forties wood-frame, shake-roof number that had once been cheery yellow with white trim. But the yellow had faded to a dirty cream and the once-white trim was now gray and peeling. Shane sprinted across the dead grass to avoid leaving footprints on the dusty pavement; he pressed flat against the east wall of the house. Somebody had removed the plywood that covered the front bay window looking out onto East Lannark Drive.

  Another jet took off and he jumped again, his frayed nerves unprepared for the ear-splitting roar. "Shit," he muttered. This was going to take a little getting used to.

  Shane crept up to the locked front door. He could see that it had a shiny new brass dead bolt. He felt exposed and didn't want to stand there trying to open the lock, so he left the porch and continued down the driveway, ducking under the kitchen windows, past the locked garage door, pausing to look in through the dirty windows. Cobwebs dominated the empty space inside. Nobody had been in the garage for a long time.

  He turned and moved silently up onto the back porch, where he found another new Yale lock. He pulled out his picks and in a few seconds had the back door open. Shane moved silently into the kitchen, closing the door softly behind him.

  Another plane screamed overhead, rattling his nerves and the kitchen cabinets.

  Late-morning sunlight streamed through dirty windows. A lone drinking glass was sitting in the sink next to a large nozzled bottle of Arrowhead water propped up on the counter. Shane tried the sink faucet, but as he had suspected, the water in the neighborhood had been turned off long ago. He picked up the glass, placing his fingers on the inside to preserve any fingerprints, and held it up to the window. He could see some latents smudged on the surface, so he put it down, reached into his pocket for an ever present detective Baggie, which all cops carry, then popped the glass inside, putting it in his jacket's flap pocket.

  Shane crept slowly out of the kitchen. He could not hear any movement in the house but pulled the Mini-Cougar out of his belt as he slipped into the small dining room.

  A large slab of plywood, which had probably come off the front window, was laid across two sawhorses, forming a crude dining-room table. It was littered with maps. Some were of a portion of South Central L. A.--the tangled narrow streets south of Manchester. In a separate box at the end of the table were half a dozen folded maps, all in Spanish. Shane picked them up. He couldn't determine what Latin American country the maps depicted. He hadn't heard of any of the cities. Somebody had written San Andresitos on one of the maps. Most of them appeared to
be of rural desert areas. He opened them and saw two towns marked with a circle: Maicao and Culcata. He set the maps back down in the box where he had found them, then continued out of the dining room into the living room.

  It was almost completely empty, except for one small camp stool and two Coleman lanterns. A small hibachi for cooking was set into the hearth where the smoke would go up the chimney. There was a corner-hanging lamp. Shane tried the light switch, but the power was also off. Shane kept his gun handy as he moved silently down a dark hallway into the bedroom, where he found a sleeping bag laid out on the threadbare carpet. Nothing else was in the room.

  The jackpot was in the bedroom closet.

  When Shane slid the mirrored sliding door open, he was looking at an arsenal of illegal weapons propped up against the back wall: an Uzi, complete with a Grumman laser sight, and two Heckler & Koch fully automatic machine pistols stacked next to two fully automatic AK47s. On the top shelf were boxes of 9-and 7.62-millimeter ammunition and a collection of thirty-round banana clips. Also in the closet was a black radio identical to the one he'd found at Mark Shephard's house. Shane took it down, set it on the floor and examined it. The dial was set to the same high-band UHF frequency: 367.23.

  He switched it on; a whispered voice immediately staccatoed in the small bedroom but was overcome by another takeoff. The jet engines rattled the windows in their frames as the plane screamed overhead. Once it was gone and silence returned, Shane heard:

  "Copy, W-6. There's a bird in your attic." A man's voice, whispery and coarse, followed by a hissing sound. Then a second voice crackled: "I saw him. Tell Sawdust we're in and watertight. Move the truck to the tip of the triangle. Hot Rod is holding the Alley. Inky Dink, gimme an update." Then he heard a black-sounding voice, low and resonant: "Pimp Daddy's in the house. Where's he get the white disco boots and them funky purple hats? Man, I gotta get me some a'dat."

  Then unmistakably, Jody: "Hey, Inky Dink, cut the cross-talk. Take care of business. We don't take these guys till they come out with the package."

  "Affirmative," the African American replied.

  "Hot Rod, gimme your twenty," Jody demanded.

  This time, a man with a Mexican accent: "I'm parked in the gas station across from the house."

  "Okay. Till the party moves, stay back. Everybody hold position. Be ready to jam."

  "Roger that... I'm parked and dark and ready to bark." The black voice again.

  Shane had heard this sort of broadcast hundreds of times on police tactical frequencies. It was some kind of field surveillance, probably on a drug deal. This radio, like the one in Shephard's house, looked as though it had some kind of scrambler attached. It weighed almost twenty pounds--too heavy to lug around while he searched the house, so Shane switched it off and put it back in the closet, placing it up on the top shelf with the ammo and banana clips. There he noticed several boxes of earplugs like the ones they handed out at the Academy shooting range, answering his question of how anybody could live in these houses with the constant noise pollution overhead. Shane momentarily debated inserting some to deaden the racket, but he immediately rejected the idea. It was better to have frayed nerves than a deadly surprise.

  He took out his small digital camera and photographed the arsenal in the closet. In the back, way down at the end, were two suits of Kevlar body armor. He slid the closet door closed, then moved through the rest of the house, photographing it all. The bathroom contained another jug of bottled water and some toiletries. When he finished, he exited the house and relocked the back door.

  Shane darted across the street, where he could see that another set of tire tracks had turned into the driveway of a house there. He walked toward the gray stucco Spanish-style bungalow, again staying off the pavement to avoid leaving footprints in the fine black powder.

  The back door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and walked into the pantry, then into the kitchen.

  Just as with the first house, it looked to Shane as if only one person was living here. But this place was a mess: paper plates and plastic cups were thrown on the floor; McDonald's wrappers and stale fries were kicked into the corner. Again, no furniture, but another hibachi was in the hearth. It didn't look as if these guys cooked and ate their meals together. The same general setup existed, except in this bathroom Shane found a hand mirror with what looked like a residue of powder on it.

  "Shit," he said softly as he ran a finger over the white dust, touched it to his tongue, experiencing the sharp, bitter taste of cocaine.

  Shane left the house and, following more tire tracks deeper into the neighborhood, found another, one block over on Sutter Street. Then he found a fourth and a fifth house. Crystal meth, cocaine, and uppers were in three of the last four bathrooms; more weapons and Kevlar vests were in the closets. He also found one more black UHF radio. Several of the weapons he discovered still had LAPD evidence tags wired to their trigger guards with old case numbers on them, telling him that this ordnance had been stolen from the munitions locker downtown, where confiscated street weapons were held after being used in court prior to being destroyed.

  He lost track of time as he wandered through the last house on Dolores Street. Every two minutes, without fail, another plane took off, rattling windows, roofs, and Shane's confidence.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, then heard the sound of a car engine. He looked out the side window of the house and saw a gray van pulling up the street, followed by several cars. One of them was the orange-and-black Charger he'd seen Jody driving on the San Diego Freeway.

  "Damn!" he said under his breath, cursing his lack of vigilance, as one of the cars pulled into the driveway of the house where he was hiding. Shane crossed to the front door. Through the small glass eyehole, he saw a tall, muscular African American man wearing a baseball cap get out of a Chevy pool-cleaning truck. He was carrying an assault weapon and a Kevlar vest. The man moved slowly up the walk toward the house. Then he heard somebody yelling from across the street:

  "Hey! Somebody's been inside my crib!"

  Shane turned and ran toward the back door, flung it open, and sprinted into the backyard.

  "Muthafucka's over here!" he heard the African American shout.

  Suddenly an assault weapon let loose close behind him, and as Shane darted across the yard, he felt a stream of lead stir the air by his head just as he ducked around the garage. He spun back in time to see the entire rear corner of the wood building turn into chunks of flying debris and stucco dust as more automatic gunfire chewed into it. He fired three shots blindly in the direction of his assailant, to slow him down and give him something to worry about. Then Shane turned and ran between the garage's back wall and a ramshackle grape-stake fence. He leaped up, grabbed the top of the wood rail, and flipped over, landing in another weed-ridden backyard. This one was also deserted, except for a rusting swing set on a cracked concrete patio.

  "Cut him off! He went over the back fence!

  Block the alley!" the voice behind him yelled. Shane heard footsteps slapping concrete in the driveway of the backyard where he was now trapped. He aimed his Mini-Cougar at a spot where he estimated the running man would appear, and waited. His heart was slamming so hard in his chest, he could see his gun pulsing at the end of his triangled grip.

  In a moment a huge man came around the corner of the house. He saw Shane and quickly brought a MAC-10 automatic pistol up to fire, but Shane was ready and got his round off first. The muscle-bound man went down screaming, his right thigh blown open, now firing his MAC-10 wildly, bullets sparking off plaster and concrete.

  Shane ran directly at him and kicked the man savagely in the head. Then he snatched the MAC-10 out of his weakened hand and sprinted up the driveway.

  Surprisingly, despite the gunfire, there was nobody out on the street. A red Ford Fairlane was at the curb, still idling. The fallen giant must have just left it there.

  Shane ran to the car, jumped in, put it in gear, and took off. He
accelerated up the street just as three men appeared at the intersection behind him and opened up. The Fairlane bucked and shook as magnum-force weapons fire poured into it. Suddenly, his back window and two rear tires exploded. He spun the wheel, taking the corner at the end of the block, squealing on ruptured rubber and sparking rims. He was now heading toward the padlocked fence at Florence Avenue.

  "SHIIIIIIT!" he yelled, flooring it. The car wobbled on blown, flapping tires. As it hit the chain-link fence, Shane was thrown into the dash. The car bowed the metal gate, then the tortured hinges popped free and the gate flew open. The Fairlane rumbled through, coming to a stop on Florence Avenue.

  Shane was immediately out of the car and running toward his Acura. In the excitement, he realized he had left the MAC-10 on the Fair-lane's front seat. Behind him he could hear several men shouting in confusion.

  "What the fuck's going on?" the old man with the stringbean neck asked, still holding his garden hose.

  "Get inside and call nine-one-one!" Shane yelled as he dove into the Acura, and took off in reverse. He shot backward down Florence, spun a reverse 180, then floored it again. The Acura's torqued engine and tires whined as he sped up the street, finally turning the corner at the end of the block.

  Chapter 16.

  THE DAY-GLO DAGO

  SWAT WENT THROUGH the houses," Filosiani said out of the side of his mouth. "Even called the Tech Squad to dust, but so far, it's clean as the board a'health."

  Shane reached into his pocket and withdrew the memory strip with the digital photographs he had shot inside the airport houses. "You have my word, and these pictures," Shane said as he handed it to the short, round, balding police chief.

  "Good going, Sergeant. This is what I like t'see." Filosiani was standing behind his desk in the chief's office at Parker Center.

  Shane looked around for a place to sit down. The last time he had been here, the office had belonged to Burl Brewer and was decorated with classic antiques. An amazing array of expensive charcoal line drawings depicting police officers doing their duty had adorned the walls. Shane had been told that the artwork was done by a famous L. A. artist from the thirties and that Chief Brewer had described them as a PR expense, paying more than thirty thousand dollars from the Police Department Public Affairs budget. Now they were gone... Sold by Filosiani at auction. The money, Shane learned, had gone to the equipment fund to order new second-chance Ultima flack vests--the latest and lightest body armor on the market. Now there was only a metal desk placed in the exact center of the room, with a secretarial chair behind it. No sofa, no occasional chairs, no artwork. Filosiani had put his phone and computer on a metal rolling table next to the desk. The walls were empty except for two framed diplomas: one containing his doctorate in criminology from New York University, the other his night-school law degree. A large bulletin board was leaning against the wall with the five LAPD division crime-stat sheets and an array of Polaroid pictures of the five division commanders, as well as shots of the administrative staff officers with their name and rank printed neatly below each one. Shane had seen military barracks with more amenities. Filosiani was a no-bullshit guy.