by Ty Patterson
‘Have you tried his phone, ma’am?’
The NYPD detective’s eyes flashed before the chief answered. ‘This isn’t our first gig, Vargas.’
He ignored her and directed his reply at Dade. ‘I’m guessing you called me to check if we met. Sure, we did. About two weeks ago, in the LA Times building.’
‘He say why he was in town?’
‘Yeah, about those killings. I think Matteo or Cruz told him about them. He caught the next flight from New York.’
‘He say how long he would be in town? What he would be doing?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Terry …’ The chief’s voice was silky smooth. ‘You wouldn’t be holding anything from me, would you?’
‘No, ma’am,’ he lied smoothly. The chief was his friend, but so was Cutter.
‘Who else does he know in town?’
Vargas hesitated. Should I tell her about Chad? Duh! He berated himself. She knows him, too. No point in holding back his name.
‘Chad Liu, ma’am. He—’
‘Of course,’ Dade straightened. She turned to Difiore and Quindica. ‘Liu and Terry were in Delta. That’s how they know Cutter. Our paths crossed in Afghanistan. The four of us stayed in touch. We used to meet for dinner at my place whenever he was in town.’
Vargas could have sworn there was a wistful look in the chief’s eyes.
‘Chad.’ The LAPD boss nodded at the women. ‘He might know something.’
‘Why’s that, ma’am?’ Difiore asked.
‘He’s a weapons dealer.’
* * *
Cutter hunched over the work table as he cut strips of C4, shaped the explosive and inserted them into the loops on a makeshift coat. He straightened after a while and wiped sweat off his forehead. Took a swig of water and returned to his painstaking work. A timer, detonating cord, a deadman switch lay strewn nearby, ready to be assembled.
He squinted at his phone when it buzzed. A number he didn’t recognize. He ignored it, but it kept ringing.
He sighed, wiped his hands and took the call.
‘Yeah?’ he barked.
‘You know who I am. Don’t say my name.’
‘Gotcha,’ he replied, recognizing Terry’s voice. ‘What’s up?’
‘Cops suspect you. Stay loose.’ And with that he hung up.
Cutter put the phone back on the table and rubbed his eyes. Nothing’s changed. I knew LAPD would come for me.
He surveyed the table, looked at the gear he had laid out and got back to work.
He had found the engineering workshop in Reseda after making several calls. It was ideal for his purpose: a for-hire place, rented by the hour, and well-equipped with wood and metal-working machinery.
All he needed was a soldering iron, a big table, good lighting and privacy, which the workshop had.
Three hours later, he groaned and stretched. Winced as his back muscles protested. He brought out a cold wrapped lunch and ate in silence. Checked his phone. No messages from Covarra. He looked up Zohrab’s location. The banger was at the same safe house in Little Armenia. Looks like Janikyan feels secure there.
He burned the food wrappings and wiped down all traces of his presence. Carefully lifted the device he had manufactured, locked the workshop and went to his Durango.
A thin smile played on his lips as he drove back to Central LA.
He had his get-out-of-jail-free card.
It was in the vehicle’s trunk.
A suicide vest.
56
Difiore folded her shades as she and Quindica walked up to the reception desk of Chad Liu’s gun range in Culver City.
The front office was a box-like room, with a woman behind the counter. She beamed at the arrivals as she checked their suits. ‘Let me guess, it’s not the range you’re looking for … not dressed like that.’
‘We’re here for Mr. Liu.’ Difiore didn’t return her smile.
‘You have an appointment, ma’am?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll need to make one.’ Beaming Woman’s cheerfulness didn’t fade. It looked like she was used to stone-faced visitors.
‘We won’t.’ Difiore flashed her badge. ‘He’ll see us.’
‘Help yourself to coffee, snacks.’ The receptionist pointed to a side table on which was a flask and a plate of biscuits. ‘I’ll check with Chad.’
She disappeared to an inner office and returned shortly. ‘Follow me.’
She led them around the counter to a small hallway and opened the door.
Chad Liu, short, bald, was inspecting a gun when they entered the store.
‘What’s this about?’ he asked when Difiore did the introductions.
‘Cutter Grogan. Where is he?’
‘Cutter? I’ve no idea. Why? What’s he done?’
‘Mr. Liu—’
‘Chad, please,’ the former Delta operator said with a smile.
‘Mr. Liu,’ Difiore repeated, ignoring his suggestion. ‘We know he met you. We know you and he are close. Where is he? The LAPD’s looking for him. It would help if you cooperated.’
The grin faded from Liu’s face. He put the weapon back in a glass case, locked it and turned to his guests.
‘I met him, yeah, about twelve, thirteen days ago. He was in town. Some friend of his died and he was here to attend to those formalities.’
‘You met him just that one time?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Mr. Liu, lying to the cops—’
‘Detective Difiore, don’t patronize me. I know what the LAPD can or cannot do. I met Cutter once, that’s all. I don’t know anything else about him.’
‘Aren’t you two close?’
‘We are.’
‘Don’t friends meet more than once? Especially if one of them is out of town?’
‘I met him just once.’ Liu folded his arms across his chest.
Difiore narrowed her eyes at that and saw Quindica’s almost imperceptible nod. That’s a defensive gesture. He knows more than he’s letting on.
‘This is your store, Mr. Liu?’ Quindica slipped into good, conversational cop mode as she went around the shop, inspecting weapons mounted on the walls or in their glass cases. Each gun was tagged with make, model, price tag, and mounted-on attachments.
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s the gun range?’
‘Through a door from the reception area.’
‘You sell just about everything here. Rifles, hunting weapons, handguns, knives.’
‘We carry a wide variety of gear.’
Difiore suppressed a grin when Quindica frowned. It was an act that came naturally to them. The detective went into badass mode while the FBI agent took a softer approach.
‘This is everything you sell?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Any other showrooms?’
‘This is the only one for business. I have a smaller one at my home, but those weapons aren’t for sale.’
‘Where are the drones?’
‘Drones?’ Liu blinked. ‘I don’t sell them. I sell guns and knives, nothing else.’
‘What about grenades? Smoke bombs, ANM14s … I’m sure you know what they are.’
‘Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I sell guns. I have a gun range. That’s all I do. Oh, yeah, I sell houses too, on the side.’ His eyes crinkled with amusement as he gave them a searching glance. ‘I’ve got showings on a three-bedroom house in the Santa Monica Mountains. It’ll fit the budget of an LEO. Interested?’
* * *
‘He knows much more than he’s letting on,’ Difiore snarled when they returned to their unmarked vehicle.
‘Uh-huh,’ Quindica replied.
‘We should bring him in for questioning.’
‘He won’t say anything more.’
‘We should tap his phone, get a warrant—’
‘You think he and Cutter wouldn’t have thought of all that? They would have taken precautions. These dudes were in the dee
p black business for a long time. They know every little trick.’
‘You seem to be taking it well. Cutter’s out there—’
‘Your face.’ Quindica burst into a laugh. ‘You should have seen yourself when he offered to show us that house! Admit it, the good cop/bad cop routine didn’t work on him.’
Difiore glared at her as she drove out angrily and then smiled reluctantly.
‘I bet Vargas knows more than he told us, too.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dade, too?’
‘No. Cutter wouldn’t compromise her.’
‘He’s got loyal friends.’
57
The vengeance business was best suited for solitary people. It fit Cutter to a T. He was the sole operator in his Fixing business in New York. Arnedra Jones had been his partner, but she looked after the commercial side of it.
He drove to Venice Beach on a whim as he awaited Covarra’s call and people-watched. Fitness enthusiasts on Muscle Beach, kids playing in the sand, indulgent parents keeping an eye on them, couples content with each other’s company.
He shoved back memories of Riley, ordered an ice cream and savored it slowly as the Earth continued rotating and revolving and people went about their business until the call came at seven pm.
‘Get to Boyle Heights,’ Covarra hissed.
There must be some school out there that teaches gangbangers to talk like that. Menacingly.
‘What’s there?’ he mumbled as he licked his spoon clean. A young kid looked back at his cup longingly as his mom tugged him past. ‘Nope, I’m not sharing,’ he called out.
‘What?’ the gangster snarled.
‘What’s in Boyle Heights?’
‘Don’t you want to meet?’
‘Oh, yeah, that. What time?’ He was deliberately flippant, to make the Street Front boss feel unsettled, which could get him to make mistakes.
‘Ten pm.’
‘You bangers realize you could get a lot more done in the daytime? It’ll attract less attention.’
‘WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’
Cutter winced and grinned as he held the phone away from his ear. ‘Whereabouts in Boyle Heights? Will someone be holding a sign?’
‘Be near the river. I’ll call again.’
* * *
‘He was making fun of me.’ Covarra looked up in disbelief at Salazar. ‘As if it were a joke to him.’
His deputy stroked his chin as he thought about it. ‘He might come with the cops.’
‘No.’ The leader shook his head decisively. ‘I spoke to Santangel. Cops suspect this puto, Cutter Grogan. They think he’s carrying out all these attacks. He was one of those women’s friends.’
‘One man is doing all this?’
‘Si, he was a soldier. Some kind of special forces. That’s why he was so good at those previous attacks. Grogan won’t be with the cops. They are looking for him, too. He won’t be with Janikyan’s men. I checked with Toros. The Armenians have no involvement at all. He’s alone.’
‘What kind of name is that? Cutter!’
‘Forget the name. When I’m done with him,’ Covarra said darkly, ‘he won’t have a face.’
* * *
Cutter switched to the Durango, loaded all his gear in it and drove to Boyle Heights. Near the river, he said. That’s a big stretch of neighborhood from Aliso Village to Soto Street Junction in the south.
He cruised the area—residences, offices, industrial units, parks … Covarra’s rendezvous could be anywhere.
He parked underneath a tree and watched a couple gather kids’ toys from their front yard and go inside their house. He brought out his laptop and logged into Werner. Got it to search for industrial units and warehouses.
The program threw up many.
Can’t search them all.
He got it to eliminate those whose ownership was clear. The list shortened. Those that were currently empty. The number of names shrank. However, he knew that figure wouldn’t be accurate. A well-organized gang would show activity at their units.
He shut down his screen and yawned. He was near the Arts District, facing the river, Aliso Village to his right.
Cutter decided to go left.
I’ll go to the neighborhood’s boundaries and turn back.
* * *
Matt Lasko finished his dinner at a food truck, wiped his hands and got into his unmarked vehicle at Soto Street Junction. He had no plan in mind. He intended to drive around until Cesar called. Matteo had instructed him to alert the task force the moment he knew what was going down.
It might be nothing, he grumbled as he fired up his vehicle and drove up the river.
* * *
Cutter’s phone rang at eight pm.
‘Yeah?’ He didn’t recognize the number.
‘I had two visitors today.’
Chad. He recognized the voice.
‘LAPD?’
‘Nope. Detective—’
‘Difiore and Quindica?’ he guessed.
‘Yeah. You know them?’
‘Yeah. Friends, though the detective would deny that.’
‘Friends?’ Chad snorted. ‘They seem to be out to nail you. They wanted to know if I knew where you were, if I sold you anything—’
‘They might be monitoring your calls.’
‘I’m using a burner, and I’m nowhere close to home. I turned righteously indignant,’ he chuckled. ‘Told them I sold guns, nothing more.’
‘They won’t believe you.’
‘I don’t care. They can get a search warrant and they’ll still find nothing. I emptied my garage the moment you burned that house. I moved my stock to another location.’
‘Be careful.’
‘You do that.’
Friends. Cutter shook his head. He was grateful for having them in his life. Looks like Difiore hasn’t discovered the phone I planted.
It didn’t surprise him. He had noticed her bag was stuffed with her belongings and the scarf hadn’t shown signs of recent use. She’ll find it only if she digs deep. Few people emptied their bags out regularly. A busy cop? Not a chance, he smiled to himself.
* * *
Cutter was on the Olympic Viaduct, on the rail tracks, looking at the river flowing along its paved bed.
Fifteen minutes to ten.
He watched the lights play out on the water as the smells of debris and human waste assailed him.
He was walking back to his Durango when Covarra called.
‘There’s a unit on Jesse and Rio Street. Be there. Alone.’
Cutter hung up and stuffed the phone into his pocket.
I’m less than ten minutes away.
Matt Lasko was in Aliso Village when Cesar called.
‘Jesse Street and Rio. An industrial unit at the intersection,’ the snitch told him softly. ‘Ten pm. Word is, Snake will be there himself.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I’m on the outside perimeter, on the street. All I’ve been told is to look out for cops or the Armenian Bros.’
‘I’ll get there.’
‘You can’t come in a cruiser.’
‘I’m not in one.’
Lasko picked up his radio and made to call Matteo. Held back. I don’t know what’s happening. Let me get closer, have a look, and then I’ll call.
* * *
Covarra went out on the street and stood at the intersection. He looked up and down in the night. His men were spread out, dark shadows under the street lights. No vehicle could approach without their knowing.
His escape was well-planned, in case cops or the Armenians showed up. A convoy of vehicles would race down Jesse Street, toward Whittier, and draw pursuit.
That would be the decoy.
He, Salazar and his guards would run towards the river, wade through it, get to Sixth Street, where getaway vehicles would be waiting.
It was an escape route he had used before and was confident would work.
It’s Grogan who won’t be escapin
g.
58
Cutter parked his Durango on Clarence Street, between two refrigerated trucks. He used the cover to outfit himself. The Glock went into a holster at his waist, the Benchmade into a thigh-strapped sheath. Spare magazines in his pockets.
He fastened the suicide vest around himself carefully and held the wired button in his left palm. Depressed it with his thumb and applied tape over it to seal it in position.
He was in the same sideburns look he had used when he had attacked Covarra on his bike. He won’t recognize me in any other disguise.
He removed his phone, wallet, every other belonging, and dropped them in the Durango. He locked the vehicle and walked towards the rendezvous.
He felt empty, the way he always did when he was in or heading toward action. He knew there were only two possible outcomes to the night.
I’ll either be dead, or I’ll know what happened that night in Beverly Hills.
Cutter saw the first sentry when he entered Rio Street from Seventh. The entire neighborhood was an industrial area. Packing companies, cold-storage outfits for meats, warehouses, workshops, automotive bodyshops.
The guard stood arrogantly in the center of the street as he approached, holding an AR-15 in full view of whoever passed. There was no one else but Cutter on the road, however.
‘Stop,’ the banger commanded. ‘Spread your hands out.’
Covarra’s here, Cutter thought in satisfaction. Street Front wouldn’t have this kind of security if he wasn’t.
He drew his Glock with blinding speed and lunged forward to jam it against the stunned hood’s mouth.
‘Stand back,’ he snarled. ‘No one touches me until I am in front of your boss.’
‘But—’
‘Call him. Tell him that’s my condition. Otherwise, I walk away.’
Covarra wants me as badly as I want to meet him. He won’t let go of this opportunity.
The shooter stood undecided for a moment before he cursed, turned his head away and made a call.