Powder Burn

by Ty Patterson

  Jerry Dade, her husband, a man who had a ready laugh and quick wit, the perfect foil for his wife.

  No dinner invite this time.

  Previous visits to LA had always included several visits to her home and at least one gathering with Chad, Terry and Lisa and their families.

  He understood her position.

  I would’ve done the same if I was LAPD’s chief.

  He sat there with the two urns as the city went about its business around him.

  The sun went down and painted the sky orange. Another group of mourners came to the crematorium, and he watched as some of them wept silently.

  He had done some of his crying at Meehan’s. His grief was still there, though, and he knew from past experience that it wouldn’t ever go away.

  Bearing the weight of it would get easier, however.

  Easy. That reminded him.

  Covarra and Salazar didn’t know about him. Not yet. They would.

  16

  ‘Sir.’ Lisa Dade addressed Bart Jamison, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who was on a big screen in her office, on a video call. ‘I’m onboard. You’ll get no pushback from the LAPD.’

  ‘Great.’ He smiled. ‘You have my A-team,’ he said, nodding at the visitors in her office. ‘They’ve done this before.’

  ‘I heard about that, sir.’ She hung up after a few pleasantries and turned to her guests.

  ‘We’re ready to rock … boss.’ Special Agent in Charge Peyton Quindica grinned at her.

  ‘None of that, here.’ She chuckled. ‘You know our backstory?’

  ‘Peyton doesn’t stop talking about it.’ NYPD Detective First Grade Gina Difiore rolled her eyes. ‘82nd Airborne, Afghanistan, you were her captain.’

  ‘I was lucky to have her.’

  ‘And, she you, ma’am.’

  ‘Lisa,’ the LAPD chief said, waving away the formal address. ‘When we are alone. Fill me in on how this came about? Jamison gave me the broad outline, but I want the deets.’

  ‘Peyton had been investigating white supremacists, I was looking into racial crimes. Our cases merged and the commish, Rolando—’

  ‘I know him, good man.’

  ‘Yeah, he and Jamison created a joint task force with wide powers. I got assigned to it, worked with Peyton—’

  ‘She’s modest,’ Quindica interrupted. ‘We wouldn’t have achieved what we did without her.’

  ‘I gathered that,’ Dade said drily. ‘Weren’t you New York’s SAC?’

  ‘I still am,’ the FBI agent said with a grin. ‘However, my boss has created this new role for me: countrywide oversight.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ The LAPD chief meant it. She knew how hard it was for women to come up the ranks in male-dominated law-enforcement agencies. To overcome the casual sexism, what passed for banter in the locker rooms.

  ‘LAPD’s the next police force we are focusing on.’ Difiore broke through her musing.

  ‘You’re still NYPD?’

  ‘Yeah, assigned to the FBI until Peyton’s had enough of me.’

  ‘I’m proud to have you,’ Dade sighed, ‘but let’s not underestimate what you’re taking on. We have about nine thousand officers and three thousand civilians.’ She sighed again. ‘Will we have some supremacists among us? Heck, yeah. Will they collude with criminals? I don’t know.’

  ‘Which is why we are here.’

  ‘I’ve assigned you a floor, the one below this one. Work stations, whatever you need.’

  ‘We’ve got our own staff. They’re—’

  ‘Trusted. I know. I get it. I told Jamison there would be no pushback from me, no hostility, no turf wars. I mean it. You get any of that from my people, come to me. However, I think you’ll still need a few people here to help you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll get my best detective to work with you. I trust him—’ Dade broke and frowned heavily. ‘Let me ask him.’

  ‘Vance.’ she spoke into her phone. ‘Can you come to my office?’

  ‘Vance Matteo,’ she introduced the detective to her visitors. ‘He’s with GND, has the best clearance rate in the department. Not only that, he’s been with the LAPD for over fifteen years. He knows just about everyone, how we work, our culture. He’s also heading a joint task force with BHPD, investigating criminal gangs in Los Angeles and Beverly Hills.’

  ‘That’s Peyton Quindica, SAC with the FBI; that’s Gina Difiore, detective with the NYPD. She’s working with Quindica, however. On a joint task force.’

  ‘Task force?’

  ‘Yeah. To look into white supremacy and nationalism in the country’s largest police forces. You heard what went down in New York. We are next in their investigation. Which reminds me … I was thinking of assigning you to work with them. However, aren’t you leading that task force with BHPD?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, but I can work with Quindica and Difiore too.’

  ‘I want your full attention on that one,’ Dade barked.

  ‘You’ll get that, ma’am. Cruz and Estrada are on that task force as well. Both of them are good cops. Way I see it, I won’t be needed full time here, with the FBI’s task force, will I?’

  ‘Nope,’ Quindica assured him. ‘We will need your insights, guidance, but we can work to your schedule.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’d love to help them.’

  ‘This has to remain confidential. Not even Cruz or Estrada should know.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve assigned them the lower floor. Get them set up, their own access, you know how it works. I need a few more minutes with them.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She turned to Quindica and Difiore when Matteo had left.

  ‘You need to know something,’ the NYPD cop said before she could start.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Peyton and I … we are in a relationship.’

  Dade smiled. ‘I figured that from your body language, both of yours. Why did you think you had to mention it?’

  ‘We’re professionals. It won’t be a problem—’

  ‘Gina, stop. I appreciate your telling me, but it doesn’t change anything for me. Your relationship, that’s your business. You’re great cops and we are here to clean up my department, are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am—’

  ‘Call me by my first—’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, you told us, but we prefer it this way. We’ll be informal outside the office.’

  ‘I told you she’d react like that.’ Quindica grinned at her partner.

  ‘Enough of that,’ Dade interrupted them. ‘Cutter’s in town.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Difiore’s smile disappeared as she leaned forward. ‘Peyton told me all about it.’

  ‘Vance’s task force is investigating that killing. I met him yesterday, told him to stand down and let us do our jobs.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘I know. But I think he’s smart enough to not screw up an LAPD investigation. In any case, his presence has nothing to do with your task force.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Difiore growled. ‘Cutter Grogan is a man who can fight with his own shadow.’

  * * *

  ‘What was that about?’ Cruz looked up when Matteo entered their office.

  ‘Boss needs my help with something else.’

  ‘You’re leaving the task force?’

  The detective closed the door to their glassed-in office and checked that no one was watching them through the windows. The sensitivity of the task force had won them their own space, which they shared with Estrada. Who hadn’t arrived yet.

  ‘This can’t leave you. No one else should know about it,’ he told his partner sternly.

  ‘You know how I am with secrets.’ Cruz zipped his lips with his fingers.

  ‘I am advising an FBI task force that’s looking into white nationalists in the LAPD. It won’t be full time. Our gang task force takes priority. It’s a good move for us. They might find something that could be useful fo
r us here.’

  Cruz nodded, satisfied. ‘Nothing on that shooting in Boyle Heights. No one saw anything, no one heard anything.’

  ‘That’s the way it usually is.’ Matteo picked up his mug and sipped his coffee. Made a face when he found it had gone cold. ‘CIs?’

  ‘Nothing from any snitches.’

  ‘Moe, Dime and two others, right?’

  ‘Yeah, the dead bangers. Moe and Dime were senior foot soldiers in the Street Front.’

  Matteo got to his feet, yawned and stretched. He rocked on his heels as he closed his eyes and thought rapidly. ‘No progress on those AR-15s. You think it could be the Armenian Bros retaliating?’

  ‘Only one way of knowing.’

  ‘Yeah, talk to our informers and see what they say.’

  17

  You couldn’t just walk into the Street Front’s hideout and ask to see Covarra. He didn’t run a medical clinic where walk-ins were allowed. Those who went to see him often required healthcare services, however.

  I’ll have to find a way to get him out of that house, Cutter mused as he sat at his screen and logged into Werner. His search led him to his first stop.

  * * *

  Isaiah ‘Issa’ Limon was lounging against his ride at the far end of the LAX-it lot, from where travelers picked up their cabs or app services rides. It was next to Terminal One of Los Angeles International Airport, a new development to reduce traffic congestion at the airport.

  ‘Off duty,’ the driver said, waving Cutter away as he approached.

  That’s a joint he’s hiding between his fingers.

  ‘I don’t want a ride,’ he told the tall African-American. ‘You want to make some easy money?’

  Limon snorted. ‘No such thing, dude.’

  ‘This one is. It pays thirty grand. Ten, up front, balance on completion.’

  The figure got his attention. He stuffed his phone away and straightened against his vehicle as he studied the speaker, who was in a new disguise.

  Brown wig, long sideburns, crooked teeth, a scar on his forehead. A look could either be forgettable or memorable. Cutter had gone for the latter. Middle-aged spread at his belly, nothing special about his clothing, shades that concealed the dark contacts in his eyes.

  ‘For doing what?’

  ‘Driving a car.’

  ‘I do that already. This babe,’ Limon patted his ride, which had seen better days. ‘Don’t need your money or the sweat. I bet there’s some criminal activity involved.’

  ‘Yeah. You’ll need to crash into a car.’

  ‘Nope. Not—’

  ‘You’re a convicted felon. You did time for possession and dealing. You got your driver’s license and signed up for this ride share outfit using a fake address and Social Security number.’ There were no secrets from Werner. ‘You’re still dealing. You sell weed to your passengers. On top of that, you’re behind on your alimony payments. I can make one call to the cops and get you back in prison. Thirty grand for doing what you do every day or … you know the alternative.’

  ‘Who are you, dude?’ Limon scowled at him. ‘How do you know that? Are you a cop? A Fed? Is this a setup?’

  ‘How I know is not important. Search me.’ Cutter spread his hands wide. ‘No wire on me. You’ll find a driver’s license in my wallet. That’s fake, as false as yours. You’ll find one grand in my pocket, which is yours. You can keep it as a sign of good faith on my part. But I need to know right now. Are you in or do you want to be a guest of the state?’

  ‘Just what’s this about?’ Limon asked suspiciously. ‘No killing, kidnapping, drugs, nothing of that sort. I’m trying to stay clean.’

  ‘By dealing on the side.’

  ‘I’ve got costs!’

  ‘Are you in or out? I can find someone else while you spend time with the LAPD.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. Your crash will not kill anyone.’

  ‘You can’t guarantee that.’

  ‘Nope. But if you’re wearing a disguise, your car’s untraceable, there’ll be no blowback on you.’

  ‘I can’t use this ride.’

  ‘I’ll get you one.’

  ‘Just who are you, dude?’ Limon repeated. ‘Are you from some gang?’

  Cutter peeled off a bunch of bills and counted them. ‘One grand.’ He handed them to the driver, who took them readily. ‘Nine grand, right here, right now, if you agree.’

  ‘Tell me what I gotta do.’ The driver slipped the cash into his pocket.

  Gotcha!

  * * *

  The second driver was hanging out on Hollywood Boulevard, discreetly dealing to tourists from his ride-hailing vehicle.

  ‘You could go to prison for that.’ Cutter climbed into the backseat after the ‘customer’ had left. ‘What was that? Coke? Oxy?’

  ‘HEY!’ Ruben Garrido whirled on him in anger. ‘ARE YOU A COP?’

  ‘If I was, you’d already be cuffed.’

  ‘THEN, GET OUT.’

  ‘You want to make thirty grand?’

  The driver took less time to be persuaded than Limon.

  * * *

  Cutter took both of them, separately, to car dealers and bought them used rides of their choice. He paid with a credit card that had a dummy address on it, linked to an account that had sufficient funds in it.

  He gave them two earpieces and taught them how to operate them and then gave them wigs, cheek pads, false noses and gloves.

  ‘Hang around East Hubbard Street,’ he told them. ‘I’ll tell you which vehicle to smash.’

  ‘You sure this will work?’ Limon asked him doubtfully.

  ‘All you gotta do is ram your car and run away.’

  They could do that. Besides, thirty thousand dollars was a very persuasive amount.

  * * *

  Cutter removed his disguise and returned to Chuck’s. The bodyshop also sold customized bikes to enthusiasts, and one half of the dealership was a glass-enclosed showroom.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a rider.’ Chuck came out and joined him as he surveyed a Ducati Panigale. ‘That’s one heck of a machine.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. But I don’t want a memorable ride. He wanted something more familiar and moved to a Kawasaki Ninja H2R.

  ‘That’s fast and powerful. Three hundred and ten horses in that engine. That’s standard. I modded it to three-fifty.’

  I want a quick getaway.

  There were other bikes at Chuck’s. Hondas, Triumphs, Suzukis; he checked all of them out but kept returning to the Ninja. I’ve ridden those. I know how they handle.

  ‘Off the books sale?’ he asked his friend.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘You still do those gun rack mods? For an HK?’

  ‘Yeah. Side of the tank. You planning on something?’

  ‘Buying this bike.’

  18

  Cutter chose to attack just after noon. He figured Covarra and Salazar, having nothing to do but hide in their house, would have a big meal and follow it up with a siesta.

  That would slow their responses. He hoped it would lower the guard of their men, too.

  ‘You’re in place?’ he called Limon.

  ‘Dude, stop asking me that,’ the driver snapped in his earpiece. ‘I’ve been hanging out here all morning. This beard’s itchy. I’m sweating under this jacket.’

  ‘Your Ford’s got air conditioning. You checked it out yourself when we bought it yesterday.’

  ‘It’s not cool enough—’

  ‘Stay alert,’ he cut in before Limon resumed his complaining.

  ‘Ruben?’ he switched frequency and called Garrido. ‘Estas listo?’ he asked in Spanish. Are you ready?

  ‘Si,’ the driver replied and hung up. A man of few words.

  Cutter checked the mirrors of his Durango. He was on Hubbard too, parked well away from the gangbangers’ hideout. The Ninja was parked on the street behind him. Traffic passed him without slowing. An elderly couple pushed
a shopping cart on the sidewalk; a mom walked home with her daughter.

  He lifted the drone from the passenger seat and inspected it. Two stun grenades in the claws, which he could operate remotely. Both of them gave a louder bang than standard equipment. That was Chad’s doing.

  He checked himself out. His sideburns disguise. Gloves on his hands. Black leather riding jacket. His armor beneath it. Zipper down partway, for easy access to his kydex-holstered Glock. Another Glock strapped to his back. That would take longer to draw, however, since he would have to reach behind, thrust his hand down the back of his neck.

  The HK was strapped to the side of his bike, covered with a leather flap that was Velcroed to the tank. A quick pull and twist and it would come free. He had practiced the maneuver several times until he had gotten the draw down to a couple of seconds.

  Explosives, stun and tear-gas grenades in pockets down the side of his combat trousers, spare magazines and the Benchmade.

  He waited until the clock turned to two pm, checked his mirrors again and launched the drone through the window.

  He got out quickly and locked the Durango. Hustled to the Ninja and fired it up as he strapped the control screen to the top of its tank. He buckled the helmet and idled as the UAV flew over Hubbard, its feed coming on the screen.

  He nosed forward as he navigated the craft and slid behind a parked Mazda when he came within eyesight distance of the residence’s gate.

  Two guards. A similar number at the back alley.

  The killing at Moe’s must have gotten Covarra to beef up his security. Sentries patrolled the front and back gardens, and the thermal imaging from inside the house told him there were thirteen hostiles in total, three of whom seemed to be women.

  Same as from my recon run.

  ‘Any moment now,’ he called Limon and Garrido. ‘Get closer to the Hubbard and South Sadler intersection. Be ready to travel either way.’

  He waited for their confirmation and, at two-forty-five pm, let loose the first stun grenade.