Both are smiling wide, teeth flashing, wanting to be no other place in the world.
To the right of Luis is Bocco. Also on a knee, his jersey bears the number twenty-two, his right forearm resting along Luis’s back.
Opposite him, completing the trio, is Hector Lima. Picked to the opposite team, his jersey is green with white and orange numbers, a matching headband running across his forehead.
Arms folded across his chest, he is wearing a pouty expression, a result of his team going down and suffering the ignominy of a year’s worth of impending ridicule.
Standing before it, Lima can remember the moment as vividly as if it were only the day before. Hands on his hips, he stares at the image, recalling every detail from the afternoon, wanting so badly to experience it just once more.
And knowing just as surely that it will never be. No matter what he and the others now accomplish, if the building he is now standing in ever becomes the neighborhood centerpiece they hope for, it will be but a small replacement for the friend they lost.
For moments such as the one memorialized before him.
“I don’t know which one was happier, Luis or that damn dog,” Bocco says, stepping up in Lima’s periphery, his movements so quiet Lima wasn’t aware he was present.
Without bothering to take his gaze from the photo, Lima nods. Again, he takes in the smiling mutt in the foreground, Luis’s fingers buried into the thick fur along its neck.
“Definitely the dog,” Lima replies. “Luis might have won bragging rights for a few months, but that thing knew instantly he had a home for life.”
“Yeah,” Bocco says, his voice betraying the slightest hint of mirth. “Luis always did have a soft spot for strays, didn’t he?”
Whether he is still referring to the dog, or the two of them, Lima doesn’t feign to know. Falling silent, he stares a moment longer, seeing the three of them together, before the blast of his ringtone rips him from the memory.
Volume set to extra high, it reverberates through the empty space, bouncing from the vaulted ceiling, echoing around them.
Giving the photo one last glance, the immersion of the previous moment already gone, Lima turns to the coffee table dominating the center of the room. His sandals scrape against the tile floor as he makes his way over and checks the screen, a single pulse of adrenaline entering his bloodstream as he recognizes the name emblazoned across it.
“Spiers,” he says, cocking an eyebrow toward Bocco as he reaches down and takes up the phone.
Setting it to speaker, he accepts the call, ending the exaggerated noise of the ringtone, plunging them back into quiet.
“Lima.”
“I know,” Spiers grumbles on the other end, “I’m the one that called you.”
As fast as the adrenaline had set in a moment before, a matching shot of acrimony blows through Lima’s system. Drawing in a deep breath through his nose, he glances to Bocco, seeing the same reaction on his friend’s face.
“I was starting to wonder,” Lima replies. “Hadn’t heard anything since you came strutting in here like some badass a couple days ago.”
Over the line, it sounds like Spiers is on the move. The faint sounds of traffic can be heard in the background, along with the blowing of air from car vents.
Coupled with the strain in his voice, Lima can already guess that something is about to happen, that being the only reason for the abrupt end to the man’s disappearing act.
“Yeah, and you remember what I told you that day?” Spiers replies. “That you’d get your damn money?”
Lima can remember a lot of things the man said, most of it nothing more than self-importance and grandstanding.
Not that he’s interested in rehashing things word for word, the first time painful enough to endure as it was.
“So you have it?” Lima asks.
“Not yet.”
Again, Lima’s eyebrow rises as he casts a glance over to Bocco. “Meaning?”
A faint grumble rolls from Spiers, his words too low to be ascertained, nearly drowned out by the noise in the interior of the car.
“What was that?” Lima prods.
“I said,” Spiers answers, his voice and the vitriol underlying both rising in kind, “I’m on my way now to take collection.”
Dozens of questions spring instantly to Lima’s mind, one after another looking to poke holes into the flimsy story being cast his way.
Each one he pushes to the side, wanting to keep the man talking for the time being.
“And then you’ll bring it here?”
Chapter Sixty-Two
The elevation and the density of the trees around me give the impression of dusk arriving earlier than anticipated. Long past the point of elongated shadows, the world now exists in a semi-state of light, shades of gray cloaking everything.
With the dwindling sun comes the requisite drop in ambient temperature, the air cool against my exposed arms and shoulders.
What I wouldn’t give to be home in the desert right now.
Seated on the same perch I used earlier to call Spiers, I lean back against the base of the tree. On the ground beside me sits two cell phones. The first is the one used to make the call, the battery and SIM card both removed from the back. For good measure, I pummeled it a few times with a rock, the small screen shattered beyond use.
The second is the one connected to the tracking router. Lifting it to my lap, I thumb the device on, seeing his location has shifted somewhat in the last hour or so. Further to the west, he looks to be stationary, my best guess being that he has returned home to gather whatever he needs before heading my way.
Tucked on the outer edge of West Hollywood, he is a good thirty miles away, late evening traffic still being enough to make that a minimum of an hour by car.
Which is good, giving me plenty of time to make the final preparations to the spread around me.
The plan isn’t much different from what I pulled together in the woods outside of Ketchum exactly twenty-four hours ago. Since there is no way he’s had a chance to speak with his man or hear what happened, it’s impossible that he knows to be looking for it.
And it’s not like the situation has changed in the slightest. Spiers has a tracking signal coming in, operating under the assumption that we don’t know about it, and even if we did, there would be no way to remove it.
The call wasn’t so much about wanting to lure him to Montebello, but making sure that anybody he might have brought along gets sent that way.
Direct contact requesting a meetup is too much to ignore. Even more difficult is the promise of a substantial amount of cash he believes was illicitly stolen from him.
Especially considering that very thing is what allows his special unit to exist in the first place.
With everybody looking that way — his current side trip no doubt rallying them for that very thing — he can be free to come here. The promise of the signal originating from so close, and the thought of me being fifty miles to the south, makes for an opportunity he knows he’ll never get again.
The plan is a bit shaky, and I understand that. But I also know that this man isn’t seeing things clearly at the moment. Already he is blinded by a tremendous amount of angst from his wife stealing from him and running away, by the woman she hired shooting his partner and taking down two other men under his supervision.
More than that, he is dealing with no small amount of shame, the evidence smeared across his face every time he encounters a reflective surface.
And if there’s one thing I’ve never known someone in law enforcement to handle well, it’s the thought of shame.
Especially at the hands of a woman.
Right now, Spiers is seeing things how he wants and not how they really are. He’s not stopping to consider why Amy or her daughter might be hiding in the Angeles National Forest. He’s only seeing the tracking device and knowing that’s where he needs to be.
Just as he’s not considering my call as a ploy to draw off any
support he might have and allow me to gain the tactical advantage, instead only thinking this is his chance to finally even the odds.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Jensen Spiers could tell that Esme Lucas was not exactly thrilled to be hearing from him. Her voice bordered on ice as she answered the phone, her tone making it clear that it was not a conversation she wanted to be having.
Even if there was the slightest hint of acquiescence present, no doubt it meant to relay the fact that if her accepting the call meant he wouldn’t be stopping by West Covina General again, she was all for it.
What she probably didn’t realize was that Spiers felt exactly the same way.
The majority of the last few days spent sitting vigil by his partner’s bed had his back and knees all protesting mightily. Some of the swelling had receded from his nose, taking with it a bit of the omnipresent pressure, and the violent headaches of his concussion were finally starting to taper, though his dour mood remained.
As it would for the foreseeable future, he was quite certain.
Intent to keep the conversation short, Spiers got straight to his reason for calling. A simple request, he hadn’t gone into the particulars of the why, just wanting to know if it was possible.
In her distracted state, she had rattled off a response without barely a thought.
Just as he had hoped for.
The department-issued sedan Spiers drives is fine the vast majority of the time. Comfortable enough, it is easily identifiable, allowing him access when he wants it, ensuring he doesn’t have to deal with trouble when he doesn’t. It also comes with the added benefit of a company gas card, no small perk in a place with astronomical fuel prices like Los Angeles.
Besides, rarely is he ever completely off the job, the role of his unit one that can receive a tip or be called in to investigate at a moment’s notice.
If he’s going to basically sign over his personal life to them, the least they can do is cover a vehicle to get him back and forth.
With a wife that is visually impaired and a stepdaughter that won’t be of age for the better part of a decade, the only other car sitting at home is a restored 1957 Chevy. Parked under a tarp on the far side of his garage, it is the last remaining vestige of his parents, his entire inheritance dressed up in candy apple red paint and chrome.
Neither will work for what he needs to do tonight.
Instead, he was forced to make the call, asking his partner’s wife for a favor he knows he doesn’t have coming. Is even more certain she doesn’t want to grant.
The twin beams of his headlights sweep across the front of his partner’s home as he pulls into the driveway. Positioned to the far left on the simple concrete lane, he kills the engine and sits waiting, his thoughts returning to the images Hector Lima left for him the day before.
A bit of acrimony crosses his features as he checks the side and rearview mirrors, searching for anybody that might be lurking, any sign of a vehicle that doesn’t quite fit.
And much like on the drive in, he sees nothing out of the ordinary, the home just one of many along the bucolic street.
Reaching into the glove box, Spiers pulls out a small square box. Matte black in color, the shell is made of hard plastic, held shut by a silver hasp along the side.
Sliding it over onto his lap, Spiers pops it open to reveal a Sig Sauer p229. Picked up on a sting two months prior, the gun is unregistered, without a ballistics match anywhere in the records.
The gun is as close to untraceable as exists in greater Los Angeles. In the off chance anything is ever recovered from it, the best anybody could do is connect it back to the low-end dealer currently serving eighteen months in county lockup.
Where the man got such a piece — in a case, no less — Spiers has wondered more than once. What he intended to do with it, Spiers has contemplated just as many times.
Not that it matters now, those future plans cast aside in favor of something far, far more noble.
Snapping the case shut, Spiers keeps it on hand. Sliding from the car, he slams the door closed and shakes out the wad of keys in his hand. Twisting the small tangle until he finds what he is looking for, he extracts a tiny silver implement, clutching it between his thumb and forefinger as he heads for the door along the side of Lucas’s garage.
His head down, his thoughts in a hundred different places, he doesn’t notice as the door opens well before his arrival. As a shadow crosses the threshold, using the doorframe to prop himself upright.
Only when a voice asks, “Where we going?” does Spiers pull up.
Flinching slightly at the unexpected sound, at the sensation it sends through him, his eyes widen. His jaw sags, his voice catching in his throat, a dozen thoughts all wanting to be asked, none galvanized into a coherent sound.
“What?” Wilton Lucas asks. Upright for the first time in days, he leans heavily to the side, his features pinched and stressed, his entire body rigid. “You think I didn’t know exactly what you were up to when Esme said you asked to borrow the truck?”
Grunting, he shifts slightly, every movement slow and pained.
How the hell he is even out of bed — let alone the hospital — and standing here now, Spiers hasn’t the slightest.
Not that he’s about to turn down the assistance.
“How the hell did you get here?” Spiers mutters.
Waving a dismissive hand, Lucas replies, “Checked myself out, made Esme drive me home. She and Bryce are out picking up my prescriptions now, so we need to be moving.”
Every part of Spiers knows this is a bad idea. The man can barely stand, will likely be more of a liability than anything.
But he is his partner, and at the very least he can be an extra pair of eyes from the cab of the truck.
“You sure about this?” he asks, barely a whisper.
“No,” Lucas replies, his state allowing his candor to slide out unabated. “But I don’t see that there’s a choice. We both know she isn’t going near Montebello, and we both know that sedan sitting there is equipped with LAPD-issued LoJack reporting your every move.”
Nodding slightly, Spiers doesn’t bother voicing his agreement. They do each know both things to be true. Just like they both know they don’t have a choice in the matter.
And in the absence of such, all they can do is get on with it the best they can.
“All right,” Spiers whispers, “but I’m driving.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
The enormous rig backs slowly out of the driveway, a full-size bed and an extended cab resting on an elevated chassis. More than twice the dimensions of a normal truck, it is painted bright blue, the security light in the front yard shining the length of it as it passes from concrete onto the asphalt of the street.
The brakes moan slightly as it comes to a stop before accelerating in the opposite direction, the rumble of the engine echoing through the quiet neighborhood.
“Subtle,” Bocco whispers, his voice free of mirth.
Seated in the passenger seat, Lima watches until the red taillights of the truck disappear before nodding slightly, the same thought having occurred to him.
In the wake of Spiers’s call earlier, it was blatantly obvious that the detective was trying to set them up. Always before, any exchange of information or money had been done at a previously agreed-to location. Someplace void of cameras and prying eyes. A spot where both sides felt free to move about without fear of being scrutinized.
For that to suddenly change, for Spiers to demand that it occur at an unknown location in Montebello, was too much to ignore. The man was clearly up to something, grasping at straws to save a situation that had gotten far beyond his reach.
The instant Lima had gotten off the phone, he’d put things into motion. Grabbing Bocco, they had driven immediately to Hollenbeck — finding the lot empty — before continuing on to Spiers’s home.
From there, it had been a simple matter of following him to Lucas’s, the man too preoccupied to even bother lo
oking for a tail.
“Police vehicles all have tracking on them,” Lima says, the twin spots of the truck’s taillights still flashing behind his eyelids each time he blinks. “If he’s coming here to swap vehicles, means he doesn’t want anybody knowing where he’s going next.”
Grunting softly in agreement, Bocco says, “Looked like two silhouettes sitting in there. You think the partner’s out of the hospital?”
“Must be,” Lima agrees. “Just a couple days after getting shot.”
Again, Bocco grunts, this time nodding as well. “So they’re planning to finish this thing tonight.”
“Sure looks like it,” Lima agrees.
Right now, what that will entail, Lima can only guess at. On the phone, Spiers had mentioned the woman calling and wanting to make a trade.
Which could be the truth, explaining how he’d said as much with complete conviction and why he now needed his partner and a truck that couldn’t be tracked.
Reaching into the middle console, Lima pulls his phone over onto his thigh. Thumbing his way down to the call log, he enters the second entry in order, placing it on speakerphone.
A moment later, the line is picked up.
“Yo,” Monte replies, the word curt, as if he is distracted.
“What’s going on over there?” Lima asks.
“Posted up in a parking garage two blocks away,” Monte replies. “One floor from the top, we’ve got a concrete ceiling above us and a pretty clear view to the warehouse down the street.”
“You were dead on,” Dwayne adds, acrimony obvious. “Son of a bitch was trying to play us.”
Feeling the skin around his eyes pull, a scowl settling over his features, Lima glances to Bocco. Beside him, his friend has his left wrist draped over the steering wheel, his gaze aimed straight ahead. Deep creases line his brow, veins standing out along his outstretched forearm.
All telltale indicators that he is thinking the same thing as Lima.
“Cops?” Lima asks.
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