Children of the Knight (28 page)

Ryan glanced up from his research and took a swig of coffee that tasted three days old. “Justin still hasn’t texted you back?”

Gibson shook his head. “I don’t know, Ry. When his mother can’t handle ’im she sends ’im to me, and all we do is argue. Hell, the kid’s hardly home, and she don’t know where he goes, and he never answers
my
texts.”

“Can’t help you there, partner,” Ryan offered, popping some gum into his mouth. He needed to break this pencil-chewing habit somehow, and he figured if gum worked for cigarette smokers, it might work for pencil chewers too.

Gibson nodded. “Yeah, you and the ex were smarter than me and mine.”

“Does he keep in contact with Sandra when he’s out?” Ryan asked, more to help his partner than out of any real interest. Kids were nothing but potential criminals in his book.
Shouldn’t be seen nor heard till they turned twenty-one.

Gibson shook his head, taking a swig of his Diet Coke. He tried to eat pretty healthy, but this job made that almost impossible. He did swear off coffee three years back, but now had the Diet Coke addiction. It never ended.

“Isn’t he eighteen soon?” Ryan offered hopefully.

“Nope,” Gibson replied. “Two more years.”

“Too bad.”

Gibson sighed. “You know what bugs me the most?” Ryan looked up and pretended he was interested. “He’s embarrassed that I’m a cop. Says his friends give him crap about it.”

Ryan frowned and shrugged.
Was that a good response?
“Makes you wonder who his friends are, huh.”

Now Gibson frowned too. “Yeah, it does. He never brings ’em round. I don’t know, Ry. You bust your butt for these kids, and they don’t appreciate it. Hell, I’m out there cleaning up this city so his kids’ll have a better life, and he doesn’t even care.”

Ryan eyed his troubled partner a moment. “You know I know nothing about raising kids, but maybe yours doesn’t want you to spend so much time saving the city and save some of that time for him.”

Gibson jerked his head up from his Diet Coke to glare at Ryan, his temper threatening to flare. But he fought it down and swigged his soda.

“Go home, Gib,” Ryan offered. “There’s nuthin’ goin’ on here. Maybe Justin’s there, and you guys could go get a pizza or something.”

Gibson set down his empty soda can and reached for the photo on his desk. He gazed at the handsome young face of his son and realized how little he knew of the boy’s daily life. He set the photo down and rose from his chair, snatching his jacket off the back of it. “I am gonna head home, Ry. Call if anything pops.”

“Will do,” Ryan agreed, and Gibson was out the door in a flash.

Kids
, Ryan thought.
Thank God I don’t got ’em!

T
HE
nondescript warehouse appeared to be a bland and ordinary four-story building. That’s just how Mr. Ramirez and Mr. Lee wanted it to appear. Just one of dozens of similar buildings in Los Angeles that wouldn’t attract any particular notice from police or the populace at large.

Of course, “Ramirez” and “Lee” were not their real names, and to all the boys who ran their drugs on the street they were known simply as Mr. R. and Mr. L. Both men in the world at large were prominent, very successful, and
very
powerful businessmen.

Ramirez, third generation Mexican, made a fortune in real estate and land holdings. He had Mayor Villagrana in his pocket, and thus the mayor’s full cooperation. His overly generous monetary support of Villagrana’s campaign got Ramirez whatever he wanted when it came to skipping environmental standards or bypassing zoning laws. He
owned
the mayor. America was the best country in the world, he often mused—here money could buy you anything and anyone.

Mr. Lee, from Hong Kong, had been working with Ramirez for several years. Wildly successful in neo-capitalist China, he had gone into the drug business with Ramirez because it was astoundingly lucrative with very little overhead. As an importer of fine china and works of art, it was easy to smuggle the drugs past customs. A few well-placed bribes always did the trick. Ramirez had reasoned, rightly so, that all the incompetence from the Mexican drug cartels these days made them too risky a proposition for importing drugs.

But the US government hardly looked at China regarding drug trafficking, and, even when they did, the smuggling was surprisingly easy, and the overly bloated bureaucracy merely stumbled over itself with ineptitude. LA was such an addicted city that both men made a fortune under the table almost equal to what they made over it, without the annoying matter of taxes or tariffs to pay.

Of course, nowadays, many people ran little drug rings out of their own homes, so whenever possible, the partners subsidized these neighborhood operations, took the lion’s share of profits, and no one was the wiser because no one knew their true identities. Meth was very popular, and of course, cocaine and marijuana never lost their appeal. Ramirez, in particular, had been thrilled to see heroin make a strong comeback. A strongly addictive drug, it promised years of money rolling in from whoever used it, until the inevitable overdose, of course.

A sad, but necessary part of the business.

Sergeant Gibson’s son, Justin, stood before Mr. Ramirez, who was strikingly handsome in middle age with slicked back hair, finely chiseled cheekbones, and an extensive collection of gold jewelry. He particularly fancied a large, ornate, twenty-four carat gold ring on the index finger of his right hand.

As was his custom, standing beside Ramirez—he never sat in the presence of flunkies or dope peddlers—was Mr. Lee—small and sinewy, wearing exotic wire-rimmed glasses and dressed impeccably in an Italian business suit.

Alongside Justin was Dwayne, who’d bailed on Arthur’s offer to join his crusade, and who, despite Ramirez’s orders, had failed to kill Lance the night Arthur first appeared. That punk-ass little skater boy had refused Ramirez’s offer of employment. And
nobody
refused Ramirez.

The man had been very unhappy at first, and Dwayne had genuinely feared for his own life. But when both men heard about this mysterious figure in knightly armor, they’d become intrigued. At long last, something new under the sun, as the saying went. From that night onward, they’d been fascinated by the news reports of Arthur’s street fight with the LAPD and had instructed Dwayne, Justin, and all their runners to find out what they could about this man: where he hid out, what his plans were, what impact he might be having, negative or positive, on their street business.

“Anything new, boys?” Ramirez asked in that silky-smooth voice of his.

Dwayne shook his head, but Justin said, “My dad and his partner are trying to nail the guy, but can’t find his ass anywhere.”

“Darnell been goin’ and meetin’ the dude somewhere,” Dwayne offered, twitching and fidgeting, “with a bunch a his homies, but he won’t tell me nuthin’.”

“You should have accepted the man’s invitation in Griffith Park, Dwayne,” Mr. Lee stated in a cold, dispassionate voice, also glaring at Justin, causing the boy to squirm.

“Your second mistake in a matter of weeks, Dwayne,” Ramirez reminded him sternly. “Do not make a third.”

Lee snapped his fingers, and several young Asian men hurried forward with bags of white powder, which Dwayne and Justin quickly stuffed into their rather large backpacks. To make himself appear harmless, and to offset his boxer-like build, which intimidated many children, Justin always sported a child’s backpack with cartoon characters all over it, which amused Ramirez no end.

“Now, boys,” Ramirez concluded when they slung the packs over their shoulders, “I want more information on this so-called King Arthur, and I want it soon. He’s already stolen some of my gang members, and I can’t have that, can I?”

Both boys shook their heads uncertainly.

Ramirez flashed his perfect teeth. “Do not disappoint me.”

The boys nodded nervously, quite the opposite of the bravado they’d shown against a skinny fourteen-year-old boy all those weeks ago.

“You may go,” Lee commanded, and the boys needed no further urging. They turned and walked as fast as was prudent out of the office, practically ran down four flights of stairs, and bolted out the back exit into a small, unseen alley.