L.A. Boneyard (37 page)

The door to the bedroom was ajar. David entered it sideways, his duty weapon in his hands, barrel pointed at the floor. The shout of “Clear” came from the living room. A second voice called “clear” from the study. The bathroom proved empty too. Degrasses had rabbited.

David holstered his gun, and told everyone to stand down.

His cell rang. It was one of the unis he had sent to the garage to impound Degrasses’ car.

“The subject’s vehicle is gone from its assigned space.”

“He’s running,” David said. “Call the rental company. Find out what he was driving.”

“Detective.” A white-faced officer stepped into the room from the balcony. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”

David followed the man, already knowing what he was going to find when he stepped onto the balcony. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten. He lay on his back on a lounger, naked, spindly brown limbs criss-crossed with fading bruises. His thin chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. One thumb was tucked firmly in his mouth.

David crouched down on the carpeted surface and studied the comatose boy.

“I think he was drugged,” the officer said. “He seems to be breathing okay, but he needs an ambulance...”

“Call child services while you’re at it. We’ll let them figure out who he is.”

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Behind David, Konstatinov pulled out his rover and called for a bus.

“Sir,” the plainclothes officer who had found the boy crouched beside the lounger. He met David’s gaze. “I have four sons, the youngest one must be around this little guy’s age. I’ll stay with him until child services gets here.”

“Sure, Rafael. Take good care of him. If he wakes up, see if he can tell you who he is.” He tried not to look at the unmoving boy. “And see if you can find his clothes or a blanket. I’m sure Degrasses didn’t bring him up here naked.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take good care of him, sir.”

Back in the living room, the other officers were growing restless. They had come up here expecting to whip some ass, instead they found an empty room, and an unconscious victim.

David’s cell rang again. It was the same uni. They had the car rental manager on the line. Did David want to talk to him?

David stared out the French doors at the balcony, and the skyline of Los Angeles beyond. The manager was brusque, when he came on. “Yes, officer? How can I help you?”

“You can start by telling me what you rented to Harmon Degrasses. Tags, make, model, give me the damn VIN. Then you can tell me how to find him.”

“Mr. Degrasses is a regular customer of ours. He always demands the best vehicle we have to offer. In this case a Bentley Flying Spur.”

“Mr. Degrasses has permanently checked out of his hotel room, and is now considered a fugitive. It might interest you to know he left a young boy behind, who may or may not survive Mr. Degrasses’ treatment.”

“Oh dear, I’m sure we never imagined—”

“I don’t really care what you imagined,” David said. “All I want from you is a means of finding the man before any other young boys end up like this one. Now, can you help me?” He glanced at Bull, wondering if he could turn the guy loose on the manager, grease him up a bit, only to find his newest partner busy ogling the maid who had just come off the elevator.

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“Really, I’m not sure—” the manager stammered.

“I will get a warrant if I need to, but if any harm comes to anyone else, I will hold you personally responsible for it. What would you do if a client stole one of your ‘best vehicles’? Surely you’ve had to consider that before you started handing the keys over.”

“Well, yes. All our vehicles are equipped with Lojack systems. We can track them—”

“Then I want you to start doing just that. Tell me where.”

“I’m not sure I can do that without a warrant. If our customers knew we were handing over that sort of information to the police—”

“And what are your customers going to think when they hear you’re protecting a child molester and a murderer?”

“Murderer! You never said anything about murder.”

“I just did. Now I want Degrasses’ movements traced. And I want to know exactly where he is. Now.” David glanced at his watch. “I’ll be over there in ten minutes. You better have that information for me when I get there.”

He disconnected his cell and met Konstatinov’s gaze. “Let’s roll. The rest of you, be ready. We may need to scramble fast.”

Not wanting his partner to tag along, he said, “Bull, go back to the station. We’re going to need more firepower. You can get the gears started on that. Officer, let’s go.”

“Where?” Konstatinov asked on the way to the elevator.

“Car place first. Once we get a fix on Degrasses, we deploy our forces to track him down.”

“He may be armed.”

“I expect he is. So are we.”

They left Konstatinov’s partner to bring the cage car around.

Konstatinov climbed in beside David, who slapped a light on the dashboard and took off through early afternoon traffic toward Miracle Mile, and the car rental place.

David slammed on the brakes and angled the car up on the sidewalk on Wilshire, in front of the rental place. He left the
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lights flashing, and barely paused long enough to lock the doors, before he and Konstatinov stormed inside. Tired of being nice, and getting brushed off, David strode into the office marked Manager, past a phalanx of gaping staff and customers.

He flashed his badge at the man, who stood over the only man present not wearing a suit, who in turn was hunched over an IBM computer, staring at a map on the screen.

Without preamble, David asked, “Where is he?”

The guy with the suit and tie, his name tag saying Mr.

Dwight Stewart, stammered, “Casitas Avenue, southeast of Glendale Boulevard.” Stewart added an address.

Konstatinov used his rover to call the address in. Within seconds the results came back.

“Long haul trucking company.”

“His new stable.”

Stewart seemed puzzled. “Horses? I don’t understand—”

“You don’t have to.” To Konstatinov he said, “Get some unis out there. Alert SWAT.” Back to Stewart he barked,

“License plate, car color, everything you got.”

Stewart handed him a brochure featuring a Bentley Flying Spur, extolling its virtue as a prestigious vehicle. “It’s Silver Tempest, with a Portland interior, and of course, leather trim—

”

“I’m sure he’s the envy of every man who sees him,” David said. He barely glanced at the price: over ten thousand a week, with only fifty free miles. He swung around to face the manager, who winced and stepped back. “He ever go over his mileage limit?”

“No, why—”

“So chances are he didn’t take any out of town trips. At least not in this car.” David was thinking a mile a minute. “I suppose he could have rented another one, but why bother? He didn’t know we were on to him until we nailed Mikalenko. Then he knew the gig was up.”

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Konstatinov’s rover barked. “The officers are approaching the site.”

“Tell them lights and sirens off. Approach cautiously. We’re on our way.”

He threw the brochure back at Stewart who fumbled for it and watched it fall to the floor. No one made a move to retrieve it.

In the Crown Vic, he activated the sirens, as well as the party lights, and raced north on Glendale Boulevard, cutting over to Tyburn, and up to Casita’s, just south of the tracks that bisected L.A. The area was an uneasy mix of commercial, rail and residential. Some chatter on the line caught David’s attention.

He turned off the siren when he got closer.

He grimaced at Konstatinov. “There’s a school yard a couple of blocks southwest. We need some unis in there to evacuate. Do it by the book. Get your vest on.” David spoke into his car radio to the rest of the approaching units. “Suit up.

Don’t play hero. We’ve already lost one. Let’s be safe.”

By the time he and Konstatinov rolled into the front of the lot, reports were pouring in about families being evacuated, and surrounding streets blocked off. A chain link gate had been cut open, and the normally secured truck yard was open. While David listened, and formulated a plan, he pulled his Kevlar vest on and threw his jacket in the backseat. Beside him Konstatinov did the same. The sun was wending its way seaward, throwing tinted shadows between the crowded warehouse buildings and nearby tracks

Another call came over the radio. “Suspects vehicle spotted in rear of building. No sign of the suspect himself.”

David drove slowly around to the back, the car bouncing over the pockmarked pavement. Both he and Konstatinov scanned the lot repeatedly, watching for movement or people.

Already the bulky Kevlar vest was making its weight felt. It chafed his armpits. David spoke into the rover again. “Anyone else in the yard?”

A woman answered, “Negative. The area appears empty.

There are several trailers, and a half a dozen tractor trailers on
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site. There are two on the south side of the main structure that appear to have just arrived. Wait...” A second voice, probably her partner, said something David couldn’t catch. “Someone just got out of one of the tractor trailers and he’s walking around the back. There’s another man... I think it’s the suspect who’s meeting him.”

Suddenly David heard cursing. “Bangers! A brown Malibu just shot through the front gate into the yard. My partner recognized them as bangers. Probably soldiers. They’re armed.”

Seconds later: “A white panel van has entered the compound.

We’re throwing up roadblocks and closing down the street.”

“Call in an airship,” David said. He spotted the van before it rolled behind a row of trailers. The windows were blacked out; nothing could be seen of the driver, or any passengers.

“Man in a suit just got into the van. Someone exited the Malibu. They appear armed.”

“Come to guard the prince, no doubt,” David muttered. He keyed the mike open. “Proceed with caution. If they make you, try to pin them down until help can get here. Don’t be a hero,”

he repeated. Wasted words. There wasn’t a cop in the area who didn’t know what David had found in the hotel room or the fact that the man responsible for that, and for the death of a cop, was here, now. Most cops reserved a special place in hell for cop killers, even if they ultimately didn’t pull the trigger.

David was no exception.

This was going to be rough.

A second story window in the nearest warehouse blew out in a shower of glass. Sparks shot off the cracked pavement and cement abutments, pinging off brick and slamming into the hood of David’s Crown Vic.

“Get out!” David yelled and slammed on the brakes. A dozens more rounds came in rapid succession. The Avenues had arrived with their MK 46s in full war mode.

Monday, 5:25 PM, Casitas Avenue, Los Angeles
The hiss of nearby air brakes briefly drowned out the echo of automatic rifle fire. The raw stink of diesel and overheated rubber weighed down on David. Dust hung in the air and a low bank of menacing clouds blended with the smog. A row of feather-topped palms marked the opposite side of the property.

Beyond lay freight yards where trains rumbled by day and night.

Sunlight glittered off shattered glass and chrome.

The rear window on the Crown Victoria’s side blew out.

David threw himself out the door. He looked up long enough to see Konstatinov do the same, then a new round of bullets slammed into the pavement in front of him, kicking up splinters of concrete and dust. He pressed his cheek to the hot concrete and wormed around so he could free his gun. From under the car their eyes met; Konstatinov looked scared. David looked away. All he knew how to do was hide his fear. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it. Couldn’t help Konstatinov deal with his.

“They’re behind us,” he said. “To the left I think. Try to get around behind the car. We’ll use it for cover.”

Konstatinov inched along the pavement, up on his elbows, darting quick glances over his shoulder at the direction that shots had come. Before long both David and Konstatinov rolled to a stop, hips knocking together, under the protective rear fender of the Crown Vic.

“You stay here,” David said. “I’m going to circle around—”

“With all due respect, sir. I cannot do that. We must go together.”

David knew he wouldn’t win the argument and Konstatinov was probably right. With no idea of where the others were, he
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needed the backup. It wouldn’t do to repeat Jairo’s rookie mistake, or teach bad habits to the boot.

More shots rang out in rapid succession. Instead of moving off, David slid into a crouch and popped the car’s trunk open.

“Sir, what are you doing?” Konstatinov said when a series of bullets strafed the open trunk. Then silence.

Nothing moved in the yard. A stiff breeze skittered across the cracked pavement. Yellowed newsprint fluttered along a nearby rusting chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The acrid stink of gunpowder rode the air.

A new volley of shots broke the silence.

In reply David holstered his Smith &Wesson and grabbed the mounted Armalite .223 short-barreled assault rifle out of the trunk, and slapped a magazine into it. He looked along the rear sight of the short-barreled rifle, and leaving the trunk up, signaled Konstatinov to follow as he wormed his way toward the sound of the gun fire. Through Konstatinov’s rover, he could hear rapid fire reports from field operators. The armed Avenues were pinned down in the rear of the lot, up against the chain link fence, that separated the truck yard from the rails.

By now there was return fire, and his officers tried to cut down the cornered bangers. The gun fire from the automatic weapons grew sporadic. The bangers were finding things weren’t quite as easy as they had anticipated. Someone screamed. David prayed it wasn’t a cop. Off to his right, he heard a grunt, and the shuffle of feet on pavement. He swung onto his back, rifle raised, as an emaciated banger, obviously a tweaker, stumbled around the side of a shipping crate. An Mk 46 dangled from one hand.