by Paul Bishop
The momentum of his action swung MacAlister around. Rhonda had holstered her gun, but still held the shotgun in her weak hand. Seeing MacAlister's broad back turned toward her, she leapt on it, locking her legs around his waist and sliding the short barrels of the shotgun across MacAlister's Adam’s apple. She pulled back on both ends of the gun with all her might.
MacAlister flailed around, reaching back to claw at Rhonda's face, which she had buried in the big man's shoulder.
“I'll kill you!” he screamed.
Hammer was back on his feet. He used his grazed fists to pummel away at MacAlister's exposed abdominals.
Rhonda could feel her grip weakening. Her right arm was almost useless, and she knew she couldn't hold on to the shotgun much longer. Taking a chance, she let it clatter to the ground.
Moving with precision and speed, she wrapped her right arm around the front of MacAlister's neck and slapped the left side of his head with her left palm, driving the point of his chin into the crook of her right elbow.
With her right arm around MacAlister's neck, she grabbed her left shoulder with her right hand to secure it in place. She then brought her left arm up and over behind MacAlister's head and grabbed her own right shoulder. This movement effectively locked MacAlister into a hold where Rhonda's bent right arm was pressing tightly against MacAlister's carotid artery. There was no way to break the hold.
MacAlister was in deep trouble. He flailed desperately around and then fell to the ground with Rhonda underneath him. She hung on with reckless abandon, knowing if she quit, MacAlister would kick their butts.
Within a few real world seconds, opposed to the elongated hours it took in the hyper generated universe of physical confrontation, Rhonda's hold cut the flow of blood to MacAlister's brain. He began to do the chicken, flopping around like a landed fish, before his bladder opened and urine soaked his pants.
“Enough!” Hammer called out. His words barely penetrated Rhonda's intense concentration. He was pulling at her arms. “He's out! He's out!” Hammer repeated over and over.
Rhonda came back to reality and released her hold. Rolling MacAlister onto his back, Hammer used two pairs of linked handcuffs to secure MacAlister's arms behind his back.
“You okay?”
Rhonda nodded. She didn't have breath for more than her own one word query. “You?”
“Yeah,” Hammer said. He sat down on the curb next to where Rhonda was proned out. MacAlister lay next to them, unconscious but breathing.
A squad car rocked to a stop in front of them, its lights flashing and siren wailing. Two others weren't far behind.
“Next time,” Rhonda gasped. “Let's do something easier — running with the bulls in Pamplona, wrestling alligators, chasing King Kong up the side of the Empire State building, anything.”
“Kid’s stuff,” Hammer said through ragged breathing.
THIRTY
Detectives born under lucky stars are few and far between. Those who are, such as Hammer and Nails, always seem to be in the right place at the right time with the ball bouncing their way. They catch burglars stepping out of broken windows. Suspects for whom they are searching jump into the back seat of their police cars. Their clues closet is constantly replenished. They sneeze and suspects confess. They walk in on robberies in progress and disarm the villain before he's aware of their presence. If a gun is pointed at them it jams. If it doesn't jam, it misfires. If it doesn't misfire, the shot goes wild. And if the shot doesn't go wild, it never hits anything vital. Their luck never runs out or runs cold. They are blessed, and they have no understanding of the great majority of detectives who aren't.
Other detectives, especially those who have worked hard to get to the top of their profession, understand how large a part luck plays in police work. They admire the lucky star detectives, but often resent them because they are immune to the axiom crap happens.
To most detectives crap happens, and it happens most often when they are working hard, trying to bull their way through an investigation. When they are pushing the edge of the envelope, gambling their lottery numbers will pop up, Lady Luck simply goes back to watching over her favored few, leaving those depending on her to the whims of that other favored axiom, whatever can go wrong will go wrong.
Alphabet and Brindle were forcing their hand. Ricky Preston, the wanna-be stuntman who'd starred in Citadel Productions' Bad Blood, was being elusive. They went from the offices of Citadel Productions to the address for Preston's agent listed on the back of his publicity photo.
The office was in a five-story, gray brick building on the fringes of Beverly Hills. The agency was a stripped down operation, with a secretary whose bust size was larger than her IQ.
Fitz Culver, the agent wasn't much better. It was as if all of Hollywood was striving to fit a standard stereotype—secretaries chewed gum and had big breasts in tight sweaters, agents wore ill-fitting suits and grew pony tails to compensate for the bald spots on top. Creativity didn't seem to be a requirement.
Culver admitted to representing Ricky Preston, real name Rico Prestavanovich, but stated he could only contact Preston using the same pager number given to Janice Hancock, the Citadel assistant.
Brindle called the office and caught Monk on his way out to Hollywood Park. Monk entered Preston's real name in the computer and ran it every which way.
“I've got a driver's license with an address on Crenshaw.” He provided Brindle with the numbers. “His record shows several arrests for ADW and battery. One conviction. He did a year in county back in nineteen-ninety. He also has a conviction for lewd act with a child in ninety-two. He must have copped a plea because he only did three years in San Quentin before being paroled. He got off parole in ninety-seven.” Monk continued to give the highlights of the information regurgitated by his computer enquiries. “Preston is a registered sex offender, but he hasn't been in for his annual renewal since his parole was terminated.”
“Any cars registered to him?”
Monk rustled through the printouts. “He's got a Toyota Celica registered to the same address on Crenshaw. It hasn't been registered since ninety-seven.” He gave Brindle the license plate number. After looking up the VIN number of the car in a book published by the National Auto Theft Bureau, he was able to supply the car's color as green.
“Can you get a felony stop put on the vehicle?”
“As soon as we hang up.”
“Does he have any warrants?”
“Nothing I can see. But he's good to go on the failure to register as a sex offender charge. Should be enough to squeeze him.”
“Have to find him before we can squeeze him.”
***
The address on Crenshaw was a dead end. It was a halfway house used by parolees to provide a stable residence under the thumb of their parole agent. The house manager confirmed Preston split the day after his parole was terminated. There was no forwarding address.
“Even prison didn’t knock any sense into him,” the manager commented to Brindle. He had seen hundreds of men come and go from under his roof, but somehow he never lost hope for them.
“What do you mean?”
“Rico wanted to be in movies. A stuntman. He was always working out, always dreaming about his big break. I tried to help him get a real job, but dreaming was easier.”
“What about his conviction for child molest?”
The house manager shrugged. “I run a straight house. No drugs, no alcohol, and no sex on the premises. I found Ricky with a couple of kiddy porn magazines once. Threatened to throw him out and tell his PO, but he swore he'd fly right. Everybody deserves a chance, so I gave him one.”
“Any more problems.”
The manager shook his head. “Nope. He put in his time and split as soon as parole detached the leash.”
“Any ideas where he is now?”
“This is reality, baby. He could be anywhere. But wherever he is, he's probably trying to find a way to get himself back to the big house.”
Contacting Preston's old parole officer didn't get them any further. Irma Watkins kept tabs on Preston while he was in her charge. He didn't cause any problems, so she ignored him. She had more than enough tough cases to concentrate on. Once Preston's parole terminated, Irma closed the books and didn't think about him again. She didn’t know where he was, what he was doing, or where anybody who might be interested could find him. He didn't exist for her anymore.
That left the pager number.
Not wanting to page Preston and tip him off, Alphabet and Brindle had to find an alternative way to track him down. A contact in the phone company provided Alphabet with the name of the firm to whom Ricky's pager number was assigned. The pager business, however, insisted on a search warrant before releasing its subscriber records.
Getting the warrant only took an hour-and-a-half, but the results were frustrating. Ricky Preston's billing address led to a private mailbox business in Canoga Park, a rundown suburb in the northern end of the San Fernando Valley. The area was a jungle of heroin junkies, crack houses, and porn operations.
The Mail It Plus they were looking for was a small square in a dingy strip mall anchored by a corner liquor store on the west end and a coin operated Laundromat on the other. In between were a neighborhood bar catering to Mexican laborers, an insurance office, and a Ninety-Nine Cents outlet.
The store boasted a dirty reception area with a service counter and two walls full of locked metal boxes registered to private parties. The owner appeared Middle Eastern and was behind the counter dealing with a stack of UPS packages and Fed-Ex orders.
He recognized Alphabet and Brindle as cops and, although he spoke five languages fluently, had an immediate brain fart and forgot how to speak English.
Alphabet came at him in Spanish. The owner's brain fart expanded. He only remembered a little Spanish.
Brindle could tell Alphabet was working up to an explosion. However, she diffused situation, surprising everybody by speaking in labored, but passable, Farsi.
Before he was force to acknowledge the use of his own language, the phone conveniently rang, distracting the store owner's attention.
“Where did you learn to speak Farsi?” Alphabet asked, impressed.
“You don't want to know,” she said.
“Sure I do.”
Brindle shrugged, trying to make light of her explanation. “I worked undercover narcotics out of the academy. I was sleeping with the enemy. It was his language, so I learned it.”
Alphabet felt an rush of irrational jealousy. “You're not supposed to sleep with your targets. It's entrapment.” His vision of Brindle sleeping with an Iranian drug dealer made him feel sick.
Brindle shrugged. “You're not supposed to do dope with them either, but you do what you have to do to make the case.”
Alphabet didn't have time to respond, as the store owner hung up the phone and began jabbering with Brindle again.
It turned out speaking Farsi didn't help much. The owner began shouting about his rights in America and insisted on a warrant before providing further information on the box renter.
Brindle tried explaining he didn't have the right to insist on a warrant. Like hotel and motel registries, post office box rental records are not protected from police scrutiny. But it was to no avail.
Alphabet took Brindle aside to urge her to threaten to bring in drug sniffing dogs to go through all the packages and letters in the store, but Brindle’s cooler head prevailed. The store was in a rough area, and the owner would be inviting major trouble if the word got out he had cooperated with the police.
The detectives could have forcibly checked the store records, but it was quicker and safer to get another warrant. Being legally correct was no longer enough to avoid complaints or civil actions.
The second warrant took two hours to write and get signed. The judge who signed the first warrant was tied up in court, so another had to be found. Finally, however, with the signed warrant in hand, the two detectives returned to the Mail It Plus.
When they pulled into the parking lot, a green, rusted Toyota Celica, the muffler held up by baling wire, was parked in a spot close to the storefront. Lady Luck was trying to smile on them, but neither detective noticed.
“I know we started out in hot pursuit this morning, but it's getting distinctly lukewarm,” Alphabet grumbled, parking their detective sedan, with its cheap black wall tires and roof-planted antenna farm, in front of the Mail It Plus store's glass front door. It had to be a police car. It couldn't be anything else.
“More like tepid at this point,” Brindle agreed. She levered herself out of the car and followed Alphabet up to the store front. They were both tired, their initial enthusiasm for the chase waning as the long day proceeded.
They had not told the manager what specific box they were interested in, so they were not worried the manager would alerted Preston. It was amazing how many people tried to give the bad guys the edge. After all, the police only harassed innocent citizens, the newspapers said so.
“Let's get this done,” Alphabet said, reaching for the door.
Feeling ignored, Lady Luck disappeared.
Before Alphabet's hand could grab the door handle, the door opened, jamming the handle into Alphabet's outstretched arm with jarring impact. Swearing, he recoiled with pain running up his shoulder. He grabbed at his fingers. They felt broken.
Concerned, Brindle turned toward her partner only to be knocked down by a man barging out of the doorway. She rolled as she hit the ground, but a solid kick caught her in the stomach and lifted her off the curb. She scraped her hands and arms pushing herself off the ground.
“It's him!” Alphabet yelled.
THIRTY ONE
Brindle struggled to a knee, fumbling for her gun. When it wouldn't come clear of its holster, she realized she was trying to pull it free without opening the holster snap. Cursing, she took her eyes off the fleeing back of Ricky Preston and looked down to see what she was doing. The overdose of adrenaline coursing through her body was giving her the shakes. With both hands, she unsnapped the holster and slid out the nine millimeter Smith & Wesson.
“Shoot the dog turd,” Alphabet was yelling. He was reaching across his body, pulling at his own gun with his off hand, his normal shooting hand still useless.
“What good will shooting a dog turd do?” Brindle felt a hysterical giggle trying to pop out of her throat.
With her gun out, she started to limp after Preston. He was well ahead of her, entering his car. He turned the ignition and backed out of the parking spot at speed, crashing into the car parked behind him.
Brindle was at the side of the Toyota, but her mind had drawn a blank on the first rule of police work: No good deed goes unpunished.
Preston was a fleeing felon, a murder suspect.
Even though she could have legally shot Preston, Brindle couldn't shoot somebody who wasn't shooting back. Instead, she swung the butt of her gun, smashing the driver's window in a shower of safety glass.
She pointed her gun in a two handed grip, legs slightly spread, weight forward. “Freeze!” she yelled, her voice husky. The corny line sounded stupid even to her own ears. It was bad movie verbiage, but it was what cops said.
Preston didn't even flinch. He jammed the car into gear and accelerated forward, fishtailing the rear end as he turned into the parking lot lane. The rear tires of the car almost ran over Brindle's toes, forcing her to sprawl to the ground again.
This time, she rolled onto her right side, bent her left knee to lock her foot behind her right knee, extended her gun in a two-handed, modified Weaver grip, and cranked off two rounds. She saw one blow chips of metal and rust off the Toyota's trunk, and the other tear the rear license plate from its holder. Neither shot was fatal to the car, and it pulled out into the boulevard traffic like a crazed squirrel.
There was a screech of tires behind her, and Brindle rolled to the side against a parked car.
“Get in!” Alphabet yelled, reachi
ng across to shove open the passenger side door of the detective sedan.
Completely disheveled, Brindle hauled herself into the car, allowing Alphabet's acceleration to slam the door closed behind her.
“It is Preston, isn't it?” Brindle was trying hard to catch her breath and stop the shakes.
“Who else do you think it is? We were stupid, stupid, stupid!” Alphabet slammed his hand down on the top of the steering wheel in emphasis. “We parked right in front of the freaking mail box store.”
“How were we supposed to know he'd be in there picking up his junk mail?”
“Not the point. We should have anticipated the chance he might have been inside.” Alphabet pulled into traffic, cutting off several cars, and took off after the Toyota, which was two blocks ahead.
Getting focused, Brindle flipped down and activated the car's red light from its position above the rear view mirror. Alphabet activated the siren.
Brindle pushed the Rover radio into the unit's console and adjusted the frequency before keying the radio mike. She couldn't remember the team's new Robbery-Homicide unit designation, so she reverted to their old West Los Angeles handle. “Eight-W-seventy-eight, we are in pursuit in a brown dual purpose vehicle east bound on Sherman Way from Winnetka Boulevard.” She paused for the RTO to acknowledge.
“Eight-W-seventy-eight, roger. All units on all frequencies stand by, eight-W-seventy-eight is in pursuit in a brown dual purpose vehicle, east bound on Sherman Way from Winnetka Boulevard.” The radio telephone operator's voice was calm and assured. She went through this procedure several times a shift.
Brindle keyed the mike again. “Eight-W-seventy-eight, we are in pursuit of a possible murder suspect driving a green, mid-eighties, Toyota, no rear plate. It's being driven by a male white, blond, blue, 6'1, 190, unknown if he is armed at this time.”
“Eight-W-seventy-eight, Roger.” The RTO went on to broadcast the pursuit to all the other units on the frequency.
Patrol units across the West Valley Area turned up their car radios and began heading to intercept and assist in the pursuit. The police helicopter peeled away from where it had been hovering over a shopping center looking for car thieves.