the Pallbearers (2010)

by Stephen - Scully 09 Cannell

  Chapter 39

  I called Vargas to talk about Jack and the FBI development. We arranged to meet for a late lunch in Torrance, where he had a hearing at the courthouse. I had some time to kill before then, so I decided to run by Huntington House first to see if Vicki was making any progress with the financial records.

  Alexa had decided to go downtown to Parker Center and head off the FBI by convincing Tony to go on offense. There was a fair chance she could talk our chief into stonewalling the bureau.

  Of course, the problem was that I'd lied to Sergeant Acosta and Lieutenant Moon and now Jack was gone. I had a hunch on how to get him back but wasn't quite sure I wanted to. He was actually in a pretty good place right now to help us.

  A gnawing feeling of gratitude for Jack had been building in me for the last two days. He was unorthodox, but he had guts. He was moving forward and risking everything, including his life and freedom, because he wanted to get some justice for Walter Dix. You had to respect it.

  When I got to Huntington House, nobody was in the office. I walked the campus, once again flooded with memories of my time there. I never found Diamond or Vicki, so I finally got back into the MDX and headed out. I had just turned onto Western Avenue when I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw O'Shea's custom maroon Escalade ducking in and out of a line of traffic. Somehow I had missed seeing the car at Huntington House. It wasn't in the main lot, so O'Shea must have been parked on a side street and saw me coming out. He was about three car lengths back.

  I had to decide very quickly how to play this. I didn't know if I wanted to pull over right now and confront O'Shea on a city street, taking a chance that this polypeptide junkie would park another right cross on my forehead, or if I wanted to try and be more devious.

  Given all that had happened and the short time line I now found myself on with the FBI, being devious seemed like the better plan, even if it wasn't the bravest.

  I was sure I couldn't outrun him in my Acura, so I started to search my mind for a terrain-friendly spot nearby where I could obtain a tactical advantage.

  Then I remembered a maze of little short streets and cul-de-sacs by the Torrance Municipal Airport, which was only a few miles away.

  I accelerated through a yellow light and headed in that direction. In the side mirror I saw the Escalade plow through the red light, blaring the horn, narrowly missing some oncoming traffic. I drove as quickly as I could, weaving through traffic.

  I was just passing the airport on my right, when suddenly the Escalade moved up fast. It slammed into my back left bumper, executing a pretty good pit maneuver, which spun my car. I went off the road onto the shoulder and finally came to a jarring stop half on the road, half off.

  I opened my door and stepped out as Rick O'Shea exited his car.

  He was coming at me fast from about ten yards away with an ugly expression on his face.

  "What's wrong with you?" I called out angrily, looking at the damaged front fender of his Escalade, then at the paint-scarred left side of my bumper.

  "Get the fuck away from me," I said, trying to get to the .38 strapped low on my ankle. I was reaching down, trying to unhook the flap on the holster and draw my gun, but I already knew I wouldn't have near enough time.

  What came next was so fast I didn't even know what happened. O'Shea took me down in less than a second with some sort of complex Brazilian jujitsu move, then, like a break-dancer on his back, wrapped himself around me.

  His legs gripped my torso while he simultaneously pulled me toward him and twisted my arms up in some kind of joint-ruining arm bar.

  I was suddenly helpless. He held me there, pinned and totally compromised. Then, like an anaconda squeezing its prey, he slowly began to apply pressure.

  O'Shea's complicated holds were tightening, bending my joints the wrong way, shooting unbearable pain through my entire body.

  He had his mouth next to my ear and whispered, "Are you getting the point, friend?"

  "Okay, enough," I pleaded.

  He put more pressure on my left elbow, bending it further backward. My right wrist was screaming in pain.

  "This is so you won't forget."

  He bore down hard, and I heard a snap. My right forearm exploded in pain. Then he unwrapped himself, stood, and patted me down. He quickly found my gun and then my badge case. When he opened it, he cursed softly.

  "You're a cop?"

  "Yeah," I whispered through gritted teeth.

  "Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, then stepped back and threw my Taurus Hy-Lite and shield twenty feet away before sprinting back to his car. He pulled out and drove off, squealing his tires as he went.

  I remained on my back, lying very still. I was cradling my throbbing right arm in my aching left hand.

  I was supposed to be tough. I had a rep around the LAPD as a hard guy to put down. But I'd been in two scraps with O'Shea and I'd lost them both. Elapsed time on both contests--less than fifteen seconds. Pretty damn pathetic.

  I finally got to my feet painfully, holding my arm. My left wrist was aching, but at least it wasn't broken.

  After I got the pain under control, I somehow picked up my badge and got my gun back in its holster. I needed to get to a hospital, but I'd be lucky if I could even drive.

  CHAPTEII 40

  I managed to drive myself to the nearby Torrance Medical Center and went inside. There was a doctor there whose son was on Harvard Westlake's football team, and he'd set Chooch s finger after he broke it on a blitzing linebacker's helmet while throwing a pass during the last game of his junior year.

  Dr. Raymond George was listed as on duty. Kveryone from school called him Dr. Ray.

  I spoke to the admitting nurse and told her I wanted to see him and that I needed to get my arm set. I was directed to the waiting room of the ER and was given patient insurance forms to fill out, which was a severe challenge using only my left hand.

  I needed help on some of the more involved written stuff and kept pestering the nurse for assistance.

  While I waited, a woman who looked like she'd been in a bar fight helped me dial my phone. I cradled my swelling right arm in my lap, held the cell in my left hand, then put it gingerly to my ear.

  Alexa answered a few seconds later by saying, "Whats going on, babe?"

  I filled her in on what had happened with O'Shea and told her where I was. When I finished, she said, "He broke your arm?"

  "Don't make me say it again. I already feel like a total pussy. T he guy has taken me out twice in two days and hasn't even broken a sweat."

  "I'm on my way."

  "Not necessary. I'm okay, sorta. I'll meet you at home. How are you doing with Chief Filosiani?"

  "I haven't even been in to see him yet. Maria's trying to fit me in between appointments."

  "Stay there. I'm okay. I'll call you when I get out of here."

  Dr. Ray met me in one of the ER exam rooms. He was a tall, skeletal guy with an infectious smile. I showed him my arm and told him I missed a step and fell down some stairs.

  "Let's see what you did," he said. "Gonna have to take a picture."

  He numbed the arm and took X rays. Once he got them back, he showed me the results.

  "You have a hairline fracture," he said, pointing to a slight crack in the bone visible on the X ray. "It's gonna need a cast."

  He opened a cabinet and pulled out some fiberglass casting tapes and put them in a bowl of water to moisten. Then he began to wrap the waterproof cast liner, starting down by my first knuckle.

  "I need to be able to use my hand," I told him.

  "Shane, to keep this stable I should immobilize the entire arm, wrist to shoulder," he said, holding the dripping tape in his hand.

  "Yeah, but I need to be able to fill out my police reports. I'll be careful. I'll keep it in a sling."

  He looked at me skeptically.

  "Come on, you immobilize my whole arm and my boss will pull me outta the field and stick me on a desk answering phones. Don't do that to m
e. I'll die of boredom."

  Reluctantly, Dr. Ray acquiesced.

  When he was done, the cast went from just above my wrist, almost up to the elbow.

  "You have to leave this in a sling. The arm needs the support."

  "No problem," I said.

  Then he checked my swollen left wrist and declared it a sprain.

  "This is gonna be sore. I'm going to prescribe something for the pain."

  "I don't want it," I said. "I deserve the pain."

  He left the room to get the sling. As soon as he was gone, I got off the table, limped to the medical supply cabinet, and stole a fiberglass tape roll, jamming it down into my pocket. I had a devious notion of how to use it.

  Dr. Ray came back with the sling. He fitted it around my neck and put my broken right arm inside, adjusting the straps.

  "Pay the front desk," he instructed.

  I went out and gave them my card. The computer hummed and blipped. My broken arm ached like a bitch.

  Chapter 41

  I had a voice dial on the MDX, so as I carefully held the steering wheel, I recited Vargas's cell number. Miraculously, I got him on the phone.

  After I told him what happened, he said, "Are you telling me O'Shea beat you up again?"

  "I'm getting real tired of saying this more than once."

  I hesitated for a minute, swallowed my pride. "Look, we're running out of time. I got the FBI circling because of Jack. O'Shea knows I'm a cop and that's bound to produce bad results. We need to get the pallbearers together and pool our knowledge. If it's not too much trouble, I'd really appreciate it if we could meet at my house."

  "What about Diamond?" he asked after another long pause.

  "Invite her. She's okay."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. O'Shea didn't know I was a cop 'til he found my badge. If Diamond was in on it, she certainly would have told him."

  "I'm glad."

  "Me too."

  We set up the meeting for an hour from now. It would allow me time to get home, take some ibuprofen, ice my wrist, and try to get my head to start working again.

  It was hard driving with one hand, but I made it. My sprained left wrist was throbbing almost as badly as my right arm by the time I pulled into my drive.

  I put the MDX in park, which was no easy task with the wrong hand. Then I got out and lumbered into the house. I opened the refrigerator, fumbled some ice into a bowl, took it to the counter, and spent a frustrating ten minutes trying to get the cubes into a baggie. I tore off some adhesive tape using my teeth and made a clumsy icepack compress for my left wrist.

  Next, I went into the bathroom, put the roll of fiberglass gauze in the medicine cabinet, and took the ibuprofen. As I was clinging to the sink, I got a distressing look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

  I won't bother to describe my appearance except to say it was startling.

  The pallbearers all showed up at a little past five. We sat in my living room. I stretched out painfully in the lounge chair, and then we discussed my broken arm, swollen wrist, and how Rick O'Shea had changed my tires for the second time in two days. I told them not to worry, it wasn't going to happen again. They settled into chairs in my living room and regarded the remark skeptically.

  "Shane, you called this meeting, so I guess you're on," Sabas said.

  Diamond, Vicki, and Seriana also sat there, waiting for me to dispense some wisdom. I almost couldn't summon enough energy to start talking.

  "Some stuff happened since we split up," I began slowly. Then I told them about the gift Jack had left for me in my mailbox. I handed Sabas the SD card, and he loaded it into my computer. They all watched it, then turned to face me.

  "Mesas house?" Vicki asked, and after I nodded she said, "Hes got a long board just like Pop?"

  They spent a few minutes discussing that, and I gave them my theory about Pop and E. C. Mesa maybe being surfing buddies. Then I told them how Alexa and I had culled the Rolodex and about last nights trip to the house on Avalon Terrace, which led to the underground fight at the Hayloft. Lastly I filled them in on everything Alexa had learned at Mesa's table. After I finished, the room was quiet.

  Sabas finally said, "I thought we agreed we were gonna all work this together. You couldn't make a call and let us in on what you were up to?"

  "It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment decision," I defended. "We were only going to check it out but when we saw that party, it sort of developed into something else."

  "You aren't the only one who needs closure on Pop's murder, Shane. We're all hurtin'. You gave us your word if we let you call the shots, you wouldn't freeze us out. But you went ahead and did this on your own anyway."

  I'd had a bad morning. I was starting to get annoyed. "It was late, almost eleven P. M. when we got there," I said. "Last time I called and woke you up you chewed my head off."

  "Boys, boys, boys," Vicki said. "Let's stop bickering and deal with what Shane and Alexa found out. What's it mean?"

  "I don't know," I admitted, taking a breath to cool down. "Haven't a clue. But we need to review everything we know. See how quickly we can unpack this and figure what the elements were that really got Pop killed."

  So we began.

  Some of it was just theory, some of it was feelings. A lot was sad memories and regrets about Pop.

  Diamond kept asking why E. C. Mesa might have that big, rhino-chaser cigar-box board in his garage. Seriana wondered if it could be a coincidence.

  "In law enforcement, the rule is never trust a coincidence," I told her.

  Vicki said, "The suicide note seemed like hooey even when we still thought Pop had killed himself. Now that we know he was murdered, it's gotta be bullshit."

  I got up and limped over to the desk and found my copy of the note. I handed it to Vicki and lowered myself painfully back into the lounge chair.

  She began reading a few parts aloud. "'Got pulled down by leash drag ? 'Sorry about the yard sale? Tf you need the reason, tap the source, Walt? That doesn't sound right to me at all. Who writes a last note that sounds like that? But if somebody was forcing him to write it, Pop might have been trying to send a secret communication."

  "You mean maybe it's like a code or something?" Diamond said.

  Vicki looked at us and nodded. "If he knew he was going to die and somebody was making him write this, then maybe he was using all this surf lingo to tell us something."

  I didn't give that idea much credence. We were beginning to grasp at fringe theories.

  "Here's something that's been bothering me," Seriana said. "Why the six of us? I loved Pop, and I certainly owed him, but I don't think I was more special to him than a lot of other kids who were at the home when I was."

  "Most people don't pick their own pallbearers," I said, nodding. "But Walt wrote that letter a week before he was killed, naming the six of us."

  "Why would he do that?" Vicki asked.

  "Alexa thinks Pop must have already known he was in some danger the week before he was killed and chose his pallbearers because he knew the kind of people we are."

  "Which is?" Diamond said.

  "Well, except for you, Diamond, we Ye nonconformists who don't do what were told. Alexa thinks maybe Walt picked us because in the event he got murdered, he knew we wouldn't accept the official version of his death and would keep looking until we found out what really happened."

  "That's one fucking smart lady you got there, hoss," Vicki said.

  "So you buy it?" I asked, looking around the room at everyone.

  "I've also been wondering the same thing," Vargas said, nodding. "I always felt special in Walt's eyes, but then so did everyone else. I keep thinking, out of all the hundreds of people who went to Huntington House, why was I one of six that he wanted to carry his coffin? I feel the same as Seriana. There were so many others that he could have chosen."

  Diamond broke the silence that followed. "So what's our next move?"

  "I was waiting to go back and look at Pop's house until
the coroner assigned a homicide number to the case," I said. "My idea was to take a forensic unit over to his house and redo the entire crime-scene investigation."

  "Come on, that's nuts," Sabas sniped. "It's been a week and a half. There've been cops and newspaper people traipsing through there. That's a totally contaminated site."

  I didn't have much patience for his tone. Despite a promising start after that fight at the gym, we were now getting on each other's nerves.

  "I agree," I said, struggling to control my irritation. "So instead of waiting, let's go now. We knew Pop better than the cops who investigated this. Let's use our knowledge of him to see if we can find something they missed."

  I rode with Sabas in the yellow truck. Halfway there, he looked over, staring at me with vato eyes. In that moment I could see remnants of the little nine-year-old shooter who had killed to protect his drug turf.

  "Don't freeze me out," he warned. "Next time you torch me like that, I'll just take this into my own hands."

  "Sabas, I wasn't leaving you out. We turned up the address on Avalon Terrace late at night. We didn't know there'd be a party and that Jack would be there. Why can't you cut me a little slack?"

  "Why should I? Lookit you, you been getting beat worse than a birthday pinata. You ain't inspiring much confidence."

  I decided not to argue with him. Despite all the mistakes I'd made, I felt I was on the verge of something. The answer seemed near. It was like the feeling I always got as a kid on sunrise patrol just before a big set rolled in.

  As we neared Walt's old bungalow, in my subconscious I could hear Walt talking to me, using that crazy pidgin Hawaiian. Paddle hardf bra. We be in da zone fo shur.

  The crinkly smile, the seawater-blue eyes, counting on me to get him to shore.

  Chapter 42

  Pop's house was a white bungalow with a red tile roof in a middle-class neighborhood not too far from Huntington House, and it was exactly as I had remembered. After his wife, Elizabeth, died, Pop had continued to live there alone.

  He always kept the hide-a-kev in the same place--inside the feed drawer in the base of a large wooden birdcage that now hung empty from a chain on the far end of his front porch.