by Paul Bishop
A traffic reporter sitting in the observer seat in a cruising news copter spotted the sudden decisive movement of the police air unit. With adept fingers, he flipped his copter's radio to the local police frequency and picked up the pursuit. The pilot was already turning to follow the police air unit.
The Toyota was almost a full block ahead of Alphabet and Brindle. Preston knew how to mash the accelerator to the floor, but compared to Alphabet, he knew nothing about driving. Where Preston swerved wildly to pass slower cars or avoid obstacles, Alphabet was smooth and easy.
Alphabet had his initial panic under control and was settling into a pursuit rhythm. Feeling was coming back to his gun hand, and his brain had kicked into action.
For her part, Brindle had the shakes under control and was competently broadcasting the pursuit as the cars flashed down Sherman Way. Juggling the radio mike and her gun, Brindle performed a combat reload, exchanging the partially used clip in the butt of her nine millimeter with a full clip from the pouch on her belt.
Preston took a wide turn through a yellow light from Sherman Way to southbound Tampa. Two black-and-white patrol units joined the pursuit behind the detective sedan, and all three blew the red light, sirens at full tilt, just as southbound traffic was entering the intersection.
“Stupid jerk is going to get us all killed,” Alphabet said.
Both Brindle and Alphabet knew they should have pulled their plain car out of the pursuit and let the marked patrol units take over, but neither verbalized the option. Manual procedures sounded great on paper, but in the real world things rarely worked the way the pencil jockeys with no hands-on experience expect them to happen.
Overhead, in the news copter, cameras were rolling, sending images of the pursuit directly back to their network. Television viewers all over Los Angeles were hearing sonorous tones enunciating, “We are interrupting our regular broadcasts to bring you a special report.” As the pursuit continued, other TV and radio station helicopters crowded the sky to tag along.
Preston had the Toyota weaving in and out of the thickening early afternoon traffic. Twice he took to the sidewalk to bypass stopped traffic. On the second occasion, the chassis of the small car crashed against the curb popping the last rusted joints on the exhaust system and dropping the muffler down to drag along the ground, sparks flying from the friction.
Alphabet was right behind his quarry. The Toyota was a gutless wonder, so Alphabet was not worried about losing Preston to a speed contest. Comparatively, the detective sedan had power to spare. The pursuit had become more a matter of time than anything else. How long could Preston run before he ran out of gas, made a mistake and crashed, or simply gave up?
Preston turned onto Ventura Boulevard heading east. Traffic was becoming heavier and he was having more trouble keeping moving through red lights and road work. Approaching the intersection of Ventura and Sepulveda, Brindle pointed out the window. “He's slowing,” she said. “Get ready to bail out if he makes a run for it.”
Alphabet stayed behind Preston as the Toyota took the turn onto Sepulveda and stopped in the middle of the road across from a gas station.
Brindle turned off the car siren. She briefly told the RTO the situation and then switched the radio over to P/A. Using the microphone, she gave instructions over the car's loudspeaker.
“Turn off your engine.”
Alphabet had his car door open and was crouched behind it with his gun out. Brindle was out on her side in the same manner. The patrol units assumed flanking positions.
“Turn off your engine,” Brindle ordered again. “Throw the keys out of the window. It's over.”
Preston still sat in his car, its hood pointing at the gas station, police cars arraigned behind it, helicopters circling like vultures above.
“Turn off —”
That was as far as Brindle got before Preston accelerated.
“Hell,” Brindle said, the word coming clearly over the open speaker.
The Toyota bounced over the curb. Sparks from the dragging muffler pin wheeled into the air like a fourth-of-July sparkler. With deliberation, Preston drove the Toyota forward at speed, crashing into the closest set of gas pumps. Before the gas pump's shear-off valve kicked in, enough gasoline spurted free to cover the Toyota. Sparks from the dragging muffler instantly found the fuel and blew the car into a fireball.
The Toyota's gas tank ruptured in the crash, and a second explosion tore the vehicle apart with Preston inside.
THIRTY TWO
“What's been going on around here?” Fey asked in exasperation. It was day three at RHD. “I leave you people alone for five minutes and the our unit splashes itself all over the national news.”
It was early morning and Fey's crew were the only detectives in the office.
The explosion of Preston's Toyota had been a perfect example of the if it bleeds, it leads mentality of the media. A suicide filled with flames and explosions at the end of a police pursuit with the cameras rolling was a news editor's dream. The scene had been repeated over and over in living rooms across the country.
“We tried to call you,” Alphabet said.
“Bah!” Fey shook her head, at much at herself as at Alphabet's pathetic salve. Her phone battery had been dead and she'd forgotten to charge it before leaving for San Quentin.
“We left messages on your machine at home.” Brindle tried to explain.
Fey had been so tired when she finally arrived home the night before, she had plopped straight into bed without even showering, let alone checking her phone messages. How was she supposed to know the world was falling apart?
It had been morning before she turned on the television while she was getting ready for work. Nothing better had come in overnight and the scenes of the gas station explosion were still the big story. Fey's throat had constricted. She couldn't swallow, and she'd felt light headed. This was not good.
She didn't bother calling anyone. She just got in the car and headed downtown.
She pointed a finger at Hammer and Nails. “Shotgun battles at high noon in the middle of the city streets.” The finger swung back to Alphabet and Brindle. “Chasing suspects until they decide to commit suicide by blowing up a gas station.” The extended digit continued its journey until it landed on Monk. “And where were you?”
Hammer and Nails were not about to correct Fey, telling her the shootout had been closer to late afternoon than high noon. Conversely, Brindle and Alphabet were not going to argue Ricky Preston's explosion had been limited to his vehicle and nothing more. The gas pump sheer-off valve had worked well, insuring the whole station didn't blow up. Everyone was glad to have the buck passed to Monk, no matter how unfair.
“I was at Hollywood Park checking on Jack Kavanaugh's fatal accident,” Monk said from where he was calmly sitting the end of the long squad room table.
“You shoot anybody while you were there? Blow up any stables?”
“Nope.”
“I asked you to keep this bunch out of trouble.”
Monk spread his hands on the desk in front of him. He didn't say anything further. He knew Fey well enough not to comment.
“You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs,” Alphabet ventured.
Fey looked ready to explode, but realized how unreasonable she was being.
She ran a hand through her hair and blew a deep breath out in a whoosh. “Were any of you hurt? You all scared the crap out of me.” She attempted a smile.
Tentatively, her crew smiled back.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm feeling guilty because I wasn't around. Let's break out the coffee, and see if we can figure out where we stand.”
The crew had been up most of the night dealing with the aftermath of their confrontations. The department's Officer Involved Shooting Team had been kept busy. In Fey's absence, which she would no doubt be hearing about, Whip Whitman had stepped in and kept things moving.
The Chief had put in an appearance — GOD coming down off his cloud, H
ammer had remarked — but he'd not seemed overly displeased. Low-key arrests might not catch as much heat from the media as shootouts and explosions, but then he hadn't ever expected Fey and company to be low-key. As long as the shooting scenarios were in policy, it was Press Relations job to handle spin control.
Sleeping late would have been a luxury all of the team would have enjoyed, but it clearly wasn't a choice. Their actions of the day before had opened new leads, which needed to be followed up.
Leaving Penny with Rhonda's mother was a good, if temporary option for Hammer and Nails. They realized it was not a long-term solution. If both of them were going to keep working, another plan needed to be found for Penny's care.
The baby's special needs complicated matters. Rhonda was still struggling with guilt and worry. She realized how dangerous their confrontation had been with MacAlister. Her mind was still considering the repercussions of what would happen if both she and Hammer had been killed.
As for Alphabet and Brindle, the death of Preston hit them hard. It was difficult not to think of themselves as the catalyst, even if the result had been unintentional.
At the long desk in RHD, Fey noticed the pair were sitting closer than normal, as if drawing strength from each other. Fey hoped that's all it was.
As other RHD detectives began arriving, full of questions and advice, Fey moved the crew into Whitman's office for privacy.
Fey took the lead, briefing everyone on her trip to San Quentin and her conversation with Eldon Dodge.
“He's implicating Judge Luther Flynn?” Hammer asked.
“It's an improbable story,” Fey said. “But if we can find corroboration, it may give us a direction.”
Fiddling with his coffee mug, Hammer said, “It could all be a wild goose chase.”
“Maybe,” Fey agreed. “But it seems a bit elaborate.”
“What's Devon Wyatt's stake in all this?” Monk asked.
“I'm not sure,” Fey told him. “He must have an angle, but I can’t figure it out yet.”
“We may have something,” Hammer said.
“How so?” Fey asked.
“When we booked MacAlister, he immediately started yelling for his lawyer. Guess who?”
“Wyatt.”
“The one and only,” Hammer said. “You're aware of MacAlister's history?”
“I know he's an ex-cop who retired in lieu of facing corruption charges.”
“He's a major bad-ass,” Hammer said. “He does mostly strong-arm work for high-price defense attorneys. He specializes in witness intimidation and getting dirt on the officers. He's on a permanent retainer to Devon Wyatt.”
“I don't see how it fits,” Fey said, “but it can't be coincidence.”
“Torture isn't his style,” Rhonda said. “He would have been more professional. However, he might have helped Ricky Preston grab Bianca Flynn. It would have been easier with two. Plus MacAlister's van is more functional for kidnapping than Preston's Toyota.”
“Where's the van now?”
“Impounded. SID is giving it the bumper-to-bumper treatment. We have a friend there who owes us a favor, so we should see results pretty quick.”
“What's MacAlister's current status?” Fey asked
“He's being given a little freeway therapy,” Rhonda said. “He was allowed to make his phone call, but since then he's been on the road.”
Freeway therapy meant after MacAlister was booked, he'd been transported to another jail within the system, left there for a short period of time, then shuffled on to another location. All of the shuffling could be justified in various insincere ways: The defendant needed to be booked into a jail where he could be seen by a doctor; The jail where the defendant was booked had become overcrowded and the defendant needed to be moved; The defendant was judged a suicide risk and had been moved to a more secure location for his safety. There were any number of ways to move a defendant and lose him within the system so his lawyer couldn't bail him out.
“Are you going to take a whack at interrogating him?” Fey asked.
“Yes,” Hammer said. “But I doubt we’ll crack him. Best to set a surveillance team on him after he bails. However, we need to go through the motions first, or he'll get suspicious.”
“Good,” Fey said. “I'll talk to Whitman about borrowing a team of Swoop Dogs.”
The department's Special Investigations Section, known as Swoop Dogs, had been termed an assassination squad by the media. Their main job was to follow known hardcore criminals until they committed a serious crime. When the crime went down, SIS swooped in. A target criminal and his cohorts were given one chance to surrender before the bullets started to fly. In most cases, the criminals didn't give up. In some cases the shooting started before SIS had a chance to offer surrender. It was a controversial unit, filled with officers who put their lives on the line every day, and loved it.
“Is Father Romero going to honor his agreement to let you speak to Bianca's kids?” Fey asked.
Hammer nodded. He'd explained earlier about the deal they cut to get to the kids. “His word is good.”
“You're going to have to see the kids in person to be sure who they are. If you do, then we have an obligation to return those kids to their father.” Fey said. “We'd be legally liable if you let Romero disappear them again.”
“Agreed,” said Rhonda. “But there is another option. We've talked to a DA specializing in child custody cases, and to the Department of Children's Services. Romero has agreed to put the kids in protective custody with DCS. The DA is going to reopen the abuse case and not let the father have custody until it can all be heard in court.”
“I know you two,” Monk said, speaking up for the first time. “What happens if down the line Mark Ritter gets the kids back?”
“I don't want to go there,” Fey said, holding up a halting hand. “We have too much else going on.” She pointed at Hammer and Nails. “You're going to follow up on MacAlister, and then Bianca's kids?”
“Yep,” Hammer said.
Fey turned to Alphabet and Brindle. “How sure are you it was Ricky Preston in the Toyota? And was he the guy we were looking for?”
Brindle shrugged. “The body was too charred to get a positive ID until dental records can be checked. The car was registered to Preston, and before he became a human torch, the guy driving it was a dead ringer for the publicity pictures we have, right down to the crew cut and dark glasses. Anyway, why else would he run?”
Alphabet said, “We had the publicity shot put in a photo lineup and showed it to the clerk from the Dollar Hardware Emporium. She immediately picked Preston out as the guy who bought the staple gun, hand saw, and table vice.”
Fey nodded. “Good enough for now. What about his pad?”
Alphabet placed his hand on Brindle's shoulder, and Fey noticed she didn't move away. “We went back to the post office box store and served the warrant,” Alphabet said. “That got us a good address on Preston,. We've secured it with two uniforms outside. We'll get a warrant this morning and see what's inside.”
Fey looked at Monk, patiently waiting his turn. “Sorry, I jumped on you,” Fey said, specifically seeking forgiveness from her second in command. “You know how I am.”
Monk's lips contorted in a wry twitch. “I do,” he said. “No problem.”
“How about the race track? Anything solid?”
Monk said, “I talked to the track security guy, Frank Bannon. Kavanaugh was persona-non-grata at the track. There were days when he was okay, but there were other days when he would start raving and causing a commotion. Bannon chased him off a dozen times, but Kavanaugh kept coming back. On the day Kavanaugh was killed, Bannon chased him into the men's room, but Kavanaugh beaned him with a toilet seat.” The group tittered. Other people's misfortune fed their dark humor. Monk continued with a smile. “Clearly, Bannon hadn't expected to be attacked. Kavanaugh got away and somehow got onto the track.”
“Anybody else see him or talk to him?”
&nb
sp; “Don't rush me.” Monk checked a small notebook he'd opened in one hand. “I interviewed a Mr. Horace Naylor. He's a regular bettor at the track and has a fetish for loud plaid jackets.”
“Can we skip the fashion commentary?” Fey couldn't help herself. There was always a curve in any investigation. Once you began to slingshot around it, the investigation picked up speed and you had to be there with it or it could pass you by. Experience was telling Fey she needed to kick into gear.
Monk waved a hand. “Kavanaugh had a collision with Mr. Naylor prior to being chased by Bannon. Naylor stated Kavanaugh was babbling about a railroad and trains, and some kind of game. Naylor took it as a sign. He bet on a horse named Chattanooga and won a bundle.”
“Figures,” Fey said.
“I also interviewed Don Pritchard, the paramedic who treated Kavanaugh after he'd been trampled. Pritchard claims Kavanaugh said a few words before he kicked his ashes, but they didn't make any sense. Something about training a game well.”
“Training? Not train?”
“Pritchard isn't sure. Kavanaugh could have said, 'train,' as opposed to, 'training.' But Pritchard said it didn't make sense to him either way.”
“What about the words a game? Any ideas?”
Monk shrugged. “Pritchard said the words were something about 'a game well.' Did Kavanaugh play any games?”
Fey felt she was on the verge of something, but she didn't know what. “He said something to Naylor about a railroad. We know there's a connection between Bianca Flynn and Jack Kavanaugh.”
She and Monk quickly filled the others in on the books and underlining found at Kavanaugh's apartment, and about the FBI's reaction to the money Kavanaugh left to Fey.
“By railroad,” Fey summed up. “Kavanaugh could have meant Bianca's underground railroad.”
“But he spoke about a train. It doesn't make sense in the context of the underground.” Nails said.
Fey turned back to Monk. “Give me Pritchard's interpretation of Kavanaugh's last words again.”