Bleeding Out (19 page)

Hobbs was pleased. Technical surveillance was his baby. The smaller the chips, the thinner the wires, the happier he was. Kennedy stood before him, decked up and tricked out like a terrorist package, but no one could tell by looking at her or patting her down. They tested the wire until Hobbs was satisfied, then they reviewed their game plan for the dozenth time.

Weather, the brass, placement, the wire—all of that was going through Frank’s mind as she watched Hobbs delicately unhooking Kennedy. She and Noah were chattering like Heckle and Jeckle, Hobbs and the techs were joking around, but Frank stood apart, nibbling at the scarred tips of her sunglasses.

She was nervous about this op, didn’t like how many elements were out of her control, but after hours of guesswork, hunches, and plotting the odds, they were finally ready to roll. No matter how much she tried, Frank couldn’t come up with a better plan. At this point, with so little to go on, and knowing that the perp would be out hunting soon if he wasn’t already, the gig with Kennedy was their best bet. Frank had marginal confidence in the young detective, questioned the odds of encountering their guy this way, and second-guessed her own profiling skills. She was extremely uneasy pouring this much resource into an operation based almost entirely on conjecture, but unless another body turned up offering more clues, it was their only choice.

Compounding her frustration was the increasing attention from the media and RHD. They’d been sniffing around the case, and Foubarelle was about ready to drop it in RHD’s lap. The only good thing about the attention was that no one wanted to look like the bad guy. All the agencies were cooperating, and manpower was being thrown at them like lifelines to a drowning man.

Frank sighed, feeling the pull of the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She wanted to knead them but thought better of it in front of Hobbs and his crew. Just as she discarded the notion, an obscure memory leapt from a dark corner: the end of the day, sitting on the couch, talking with Mag, Mag’s strong fingers digging into her neck, easing all of Frank’s knots.

Frank forced her mind to become a blank screen. Returning to the management of a homicide investigation, she asked brusquely, “We ready to roll here?”

Kennedy bellowed, “‘Roll o-o-n, Big Mama,’” cracking up Marquez and Noah, who thought she walked on water. Feeling like she was in charge of a kindergarten class, Frank stood icily apart from the merriment.

He was deeply into one of his fantasies, playing it out behind his locked door, when he heard the shot. His mother started to scream as he tore his helmet off. She was still screaming by the time he got downstairs. He took one look and couldn’t move. His father was sitting on the couch, half his face chewed off by shotgun spray. The son remained fixed to the carpet, as if he’d sunk roots. His mother just went on screaming. Eventually a neighbor came over and let himself in after his pounding went unanswered.

The neighbor quickly backed out the same way he’d come, gagging on his words. The police came and took the body away, and the boy’s mother retreated upstairs to her bed. The boy tied the sofa to the top of the car and dumped it in a trashy alley. His mother was still in bed when he returned home. He eventually asked if she was going to make dinner. There was no answer, so he fixed a bologna sandwich and ate it in front of the TV, where the couch used to be. Spots of blood had soaked into the carpet. He thought about trying to clean them up but dismissed the idea as too late, though he did wipe the wall behind the couch with some water and a sponge. He didn’t want the living room to start smelling.

Frank pulled into the parking garage at half past five. A light drizzle had misted her windshield all the way to work. As she yanked her briefcase out of the back she wondered if the rain was going to intensify. The Weather Channel called for morning drizzle turning to rain, but Frank wasn’t about to call off an op based on TV weather coverage. Glancing around the garage, she noticed Kennedy’s truck wasn’t there yet.

Frank slammed the little Honda’s door. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kennedy was late. Taking the stairs two at a time Frank felt a smug justification. She noticed lights on in the squad room and was surprised when she entered to find Kennedy standing at the coffee pot.

“Mornin’,” Kennedy chirped.

“Morning.”

Kennedy poured and asked Frank if she wanted a cup. Frank shook her head.

“Any problems last night?”

She was worried the perp might somehow get wise to their con and follow Kennedy home.

“No, ma’am,” Kennedy grinned. “The surf was great.” She extended a steaming mug. “Sure you don’t want some?”

Frank’s first instinct was to say no and walk away, but she
did
want it. She checked her vexation and accepted the mug without thanks.

“You should come out with me sometime. I’ve got an extra board. It’d be good for you—the ocean’s very therapeutic.”

Frank stared hostilely at the cocky young woman. Normally when she drilled people with her icy blues, they tended to turn away, but the smile in Kennedy’s brown eyes never wavered. Her happy-go-lucky boldness continued to irritate Frank. Feeling slightly off center, she swallowed her annoyance as Kennedy said, “I heard it’s supposed to rain today.”

“Might,” Frank agreed tersely.

The plan was for Kennedy to go into the drugstore if it started raining heavily. An undercover stationed at the laundromat would drop off clothes and a wig so she could change in the bathroom and leave undetected, and later that morning, that was exactly what happened. The bottom fell out of the sky, and Kennedy barely had time to cover her wired torso with a garbage bag before seeking the Rexall’s shelter. She came out a few minutes later with long dark hair, a raincoat and umbrella. The van picked her up at the Shell station.

“Yeehaw,” she said yanking the wig off her wet head as Noah drove away.

“Hey, don’t get water on this,” Marquez yelped. Kennedy pretended to shake her head over the instrument panel, and Marquez defended it with his body.

“Gotcha,” she grinned. They were still in high spirits as they walked into the station house. Marquez playfully asked Kennedy out for lunch, and Noah ribbed that the Lady Godiva wig had turned him on. Kennedy retorted that the burly tech really had a thing for peeping toms and it was the trenchcoat that had done it. They were still goofing off when they strolled into the homicide room.

Frank looked up from the bulletin in her hand. “How did it go?”

“Quiet as a church on Monday morning,” Kennedy volunteered.

“Except for that old lady who told you to get a job and almost hit you,” Noah snickered.

“Oh, Lord,” Kennedy groaned. “I’m out there worryin’ ‘bout serial killers and meanwhile little grannies are tryin’ to bash my head in!”

Kennedy’s
head
sounded like
hay-ud.
Frank had become used to Kennedy’s accent coming and going: the better the story, the heavier the accent. Frank debriefed with the op team, and just as she was about to send Kennedy back to Parker for the day, Johnnie slammed down his phone and jumped out of his chair.

“Hey,” he rasped, “I don’t know who that was, but somebody that’s pissed at the Tunnel. Says he’s back in town, dealing out of a crib on,” he grabbed the back of a receipt he’d written on, “Reston. 5500 Reston, Apt D.”

“You have a warrant?”

Johnnie pawed a big hand around the layers of paper on his desk and came up with the necessary document.

“Got two days left on it.”

“What else did your tip say?”

“Asked if we were looking for Timothy Johnston. I said, ‘The T-man? The Tunnel?’ He said, ‘That’s the man.’ I said, ‘Yeah, we’re interested in him.’ He said, ‘I know where he was.’ I said, ‘Where’s that?’ He gave me the address and I asked him why he was telling me. He said, ‘Do we want this mo-fo or not?’ I said, ‘Yeah,’ and he said, ‘Now you know where to find him,’ and hung up.”

The fifty-five hundred area of Reston was deep with Bloods who hated the LAPD, and Frank considered the possibility of an ambush.

“Did you recognize the caller at all?”

“Yeah, Frank. It was my dead grandfather calling from the grave…I don’t know who it was.”

Johnnie slapped the warrant impatiently and said, “Are we gonna move on this or not?”

She thought a moment longer, then replied, “Suit up. Everybody roll. Check out the Kevlar and thigh holsters. Get some jackets. Johnnie, put that warrant in your pocket.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yes, mother.”

Two years ago they’d gone out to bust a dealer who’d killed three kids who were working for him and ripping him off. As they were scrambling out of their units, Johnnie had patted his pockets. No arrest warrant. They had to call the bust off, and their man walked. They were still looking for him. Frank wouldn’t let Johnnie forget it.

Noah, Jill, Johnnie, and Frank were the only detectives in the office. And Kennedy.

“Suit up,” Frank said to her.

“Naw, Frank. She doesn’t need to go on this,” Noah interjected.

Frank turned to him.

“Why not?”

“Yeah, why not?” Kennedy echoed, facing him, fists on hips.

“It’s not her gig. We got enough people from here, we don’t need to be dragging in narcs from Parker.”

Frank tilted her head toward Johnnie’s retreating back and told Kennedy to go help him. She readily followed. Noah asked again, “Come on, Frank, leave her out of this.”

Frank had already started walking to her office. She had to let Foubarelle know what was going down, but now she paused.

“Is there something I should know about? A problem?”

“No. It’s just that this guy’s a bad dude, and Reston’s a really bad place. She shouldn’t have to help us with our dirty work. The four of us can handle it. And we’ll have back-up, too.”

Frank seemed to mull it over, but then hoisted him on his own petard.

“Would you be this concerned if Kennedy was a man?”

“Touche. But maybe I would. Hell, J don’t want to go there and it’s my case. I’d just rather leave her, that’s all.”

Frank shook her head.

“She’s going. I want to see Gidget in action.”

Frank went to make her call, hearing Noah hiss “Shi-it” behind her. She was amused by his concern, but Frank was eager to see Kennedy under pressure. Truth to tell, she wouldn’t mind seeing Kennedy sweat a little and have that damn cocky smile wiped off her face. It briefly crossed Frank’s mind that she was being petty again, but she didn’t pause to examine the thought and dialed her captain instead. When he didn’t answer, she stalked back into the squad room. Noah, on the phone arranging for back-up, looked grim. Jill seemed worried.

Frank crossed the room and asked her quietly, “Okay, Fire Truck?”

Jill smiled wearily, “Right as rain.”

She slipped into an extra-large flak jacket and Frank gave her a quick pat on the shoulder. Glancing at Johnnie and Kennedy, she recognized their excitement. Though her own composure was still unflappable, Frank was excited and slightly apprehensive. Busts like this were inherently risky and made the adrenaline flow. She mentioned her concerns about an ambush, briefly scanning Kennedy’s reaction, but the young cop’s enthusiasm didn’t waver.

“Can we try and draw him out of the apartment?” Noah asked.

“Are you kidding? Into this weather?” Johnnie laughed at the idea. “I say we just go in and take him.”

Frank sided with Johnnie. “We don’t know enough to draw him out. It’s a pretty mellow day, and he’s probably just hanging inside, chillin’. Unless it’s a set-up, I think we’ve got surprise on our side.”

Noah made a wry face as Frank outlined their strategy. The Reston Arms was a concrete, two-story apartment complex, with walk-ups and a balcony around the front. The front door was the only entrance, and depending on how Apartment D was situated, the back-up would cover the windows to the rear and/or side of the building. Technically, Noah and Johnnie would go in first because it was their case, but Frank wanted a better shooter up front. She and Johnnie would flank the door, with Noah and Kennedy behind them. Jill would back up the uniforms behind the apartment.

“Alright. Questions?”

Moving, Johnnie said, “Yeah. You buying lunch afterwards?”

“I thought you were on a liquid diet,” Jill shot back.

Filing out in their navy windbreakers, with LAPD stenciled boldly across their backs, they looked like a ball team taking the field. Outside, the rain fell straight and steadfast, a resolute army of droplets streaming unwaveringly to the ground.

“You sure these apartments aren’t inside?” Jill asked in the Mercury, squashed between Kennedy and Briggs.

“Don’t worry, you ain’t gonna melt.”

Frank could see the radio units following them in the side mirror. It felt good. They had the advantage of surprise and lots of manpower. Frank’s stomach rumbled. She was looking forward to lunch. She cut Noah a glance and could tell he was still upset. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and he hunched over it in bleak determination. He hated busts.

“What’s for lunch, Watson?” Frank asked.

He just shrugged, concentrating through the flapping wipers. Frank twisted around with a sharp glare for Kennedy. “Are you ready for this?”

“You know it,” Kennedy grinned, making three loud pops with her gum.

She apologized sheepishly when Jill said, “If my kid does that, he’ll never chew gum again.”

“How come he’s called Tunnel?” Kennedy asked.

“Cause he’s long and black,” Johnnie chimed.

As they approached Reston, Frank went over the plan one more time. The detectives squinted through the rain at the crumbling apartments. Five units stacked over five, spalling gray concrete dotted with bullet holes, rusted stairs at either end providing access to the upper apartments. Some of the windows were covered with tin foil or cardboard. Some were intact but cracked. A few held sagging Christmas decorations.

They parked on the street and scrambled through the maze of crumpled lawn chairs, sprung couches, and garbage. It was hard not to step on shattered Olde English or Cobra bottles. While Jill and two of the cops scrambled around to the back of the building, the other two stayed with Frank’s group. They took their positions under the balcony at the apartment’s door, hands loosely next to their holstered weapons, radios on. Johnnie pulled the warrant out with a flourish and winked at Frank.