L.A. Boneyard (33 page)

280 P.A. Brown

“
¡Joder!
I tell you. I tell you!” The homie screamed as his shoulders were wrenched back. “He here this morning. He meetin’ some dude going to give him some juice. He got a need.”

David didn’t need to ask for what. Just as it was obvious this guy was a tweaker, his buddy would be too. “Who was he going to meet? A dealer? He going to score some ice?”

“No, not ice. He gonna fence some stuff he got from a lick.

Then he gonna score some ice.”

“So he was meeting a fence here?”

“I said that dinn’t I?

Konstatinov’s rover spat out some rapid fire words. David glanced up to see the younger man listening intently. His gaze met David’s.

“They have located Detective Hernandez’s vehicle. In a dead-end alley off Drew, near Andrita Street. It looks like it has been trashed and someone tried to torch it.”

“Any sign of a struggle?”

Konstatinov listened some more then shook his head.

“Nothing to indicate a struggle took place in the vehicle, but then there is extensive fire and smoke damage.”

Hardly reassuring. David stared out into the ravaged yard, and trashed wheels, and wondered where Jairo was. He dragged the homie down the steps and handed him over to the other officers. “Take him in. I’ll question him later.”

He was about to call for a direct assault on the door when a rapid crack-crack-crack echoed from inside the house.

Automatic fire. Over their heads a window blew out, and on the street a woman screamed. Every one in the yard dropped to the ground. “Shots fired at officers,” Konstatinov shouted into his rover. “Requesting assistance on Drew, north of Estara Street.

We need assistance. We need assistance.”

David waved Konstatinov over and when he was at arm’s length he took the rover from him. “Officer involved shooting.

I need SWAT out here. We found an Mk 46 earlier.” Gun fire strafed the air. More screams and a car screeched down the L.A. BONEYARD
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street. “They’re firing automatic weapons. Possible hostage involved. A police officer. Out.” He handed the rover back to Konstatinov. “Take cover. We wait for backup.”

Together they wormed their way off the porch, taking dubious cover crouched beside the porch. No one moved inside the house. Was Jairo in there? Time moved in slow motion. Dust motes drifted by, light blurred and distorted his vision. Cracks in the boards underfoot seemed to swell and sway, his heart thundered in his chest. His breathing was hoarse.

Soon sirens filled the neighborhood, overriding the continued bursts of ammunition. The window above the porch exploded in a shower of glass, and shredded plywood, and duct tape that had covered the already broken pane.

SWAT’s armored van roared into the alley behind the house, followed by several Chevy Suburbans. A half dozen vested and heavily armed Rapid Response SWAT personnel swarmed out of the vehicles. One crawled over to consult with David. He introduced himself. “Wayne Garner. How many in the building?”

“Not sure. No sign there’s more than a single gunman. We had a witness who says my partner showed up this morning to fence some goods in a sting. No one’s seen him since.”

Both of them turned to look at the house. The SWAT

commander signaled his men to bring up the battering ram and a bullhorn. “No phone, unless someone’s carrying a cell.”

“Detective Hernandez might be, if he’s inside. But he wasn’t responding earlier.”

“We’ll go on the assumption he’s incommunicado.” He raised the bullhorn to his mouth and began speaking to whoever was in the house. “Hola, the house. This is the police.

Come out of the building with your hands behind your head.”

The only response was the thunk, thunk, thunk of automatic rifle. Puffs of drywall and the smell of wet firecrackers filled the cooling evening air. “I’ll take that as a no,” Garner said.

“Sounds like a SAW, maybe an MK,” he added.

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“We found one of those here earlier,” David said.

“Alongside a dead banger. I suspect the weapons are being supplied by an ex-Marine.”

Garner nodded at the intel. He threw a hand signal over his shoulder, and a teflon-suited officer ran in a semi-crouch past them and up onto the porch. He carried a battering ram slung over his shoulder, which he swung around, bracing it with both hands. “Knock, knock,” Garner muttered. The other man swung at the door, which cracked under the blow. A second swing sent the door crashing inward, splinters of wood flying.

“Go! Go! Go!” Garner and his team stormed through the door. David followed on their heels.

The interior of the small bungalow was hot, and dark, and stank of rotting food, urine and feces. Garner led the way through the house. As each room was declared all clear, David followed. He saw signs that at least two people had been in the room. Spent shells littered the filthy floor. Old food wrappers, and paper cups, soiled the threadbare rug that stank of urine.

Dust danced on weak sunbeams that flowed through the broken windows. In a splash of light, on the corner of the ratty couch, David saw a dark stain. He approached it, shoving his Smith & Wesson back into its holster, pulled on gloves and crouched down to examine the still wet spot. “We need forensics in here,” he said, standing up. He heard Konstatinov’s voice put the call through on his rover.

“Is that blood?”

“I think so. Don’t ask me whose, though.” They both knew who it probably belonged to. By this time a block of ice had settled in David’s gut. It was his fault Jairo was here. His fault Jairo hadn’t had the backup he should have gone in with. If he’d been the senior officer he should have been, Jairo would never have stepped out of line and engaged in dangerous behavior. And he’d never have come down here alone, trying to prove he was a good cop.

Someone yelled and a door in the rear of the house crashed open. A fusillade of bullets was just as abruptly shut down. A harsh male voice screamed Spanish invectives, then fell silent.

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SWAT led a handcuffed Latino man past David, followed by a second SWAT officer gingerly carrying an Mk 46 assault rifle.

David left Konstatinov to secure the crime scene while he hurried through to the back of the house. The structure was empty.

Where was Jairo?

He heard voices out in the living room, but didn’t look up when someone entered. It was Konstatinov. “The bus is on its way. No sign of Detective Hernandez?”

“I’ll find him.”

Konstatinov nodded. “We start back here?”

“Yes, we start back here.”

They began the same kind of methodical search they had conducted at Leland. But this time, instead of looking for proof of what had been going on, they were looking for something, anything, to tell them what had happened to Jairo.

David almost didn’t hear the sound. They had been through a bedroom, dragging closet doors open and even peering under beds. All David found were dust bunnies and one dead and desiccated rat. Then they moved into the next room, a kitchen only in the broadest definition.

It was a disaster. Whoever had lived here had never cleaned a day in their lives. Grease clogged the sink drains, and food and things David didn’t want to identify covered every surface.

Flies buzzed around, settling briefly to sample a tasty morsel, before moving off to a better smörgåsbord. The walls were ochre, suggesting a heavy smoker; whether tobacco or crack, he didn’t know. The table overflowed with cigarette butts, empty 8

balls and glass basing bowls. The floor under his feet was tacky.

David watched one enterprising fly try to climb inside the sink drain, after who knew what. He could hear it buzzing inside the pipes. A small cluster of flies collected around the cupboard under the sink. David saw the blood first. Then he heard a moan.

He wrenched the door open, and Jairo tumbled out into his arms. Blood flowed from a gun shot wound in his gut. His face
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had taken a severe beating. Behind him, Konstatinov shouted into his rover.

“Officer down. Need assistance immediately. I repeat, officer is down. Send a bus, stat.”

David cradled Jairo in his arms, and tried to assess the injuries. His face was a mess, but the wounds looked superficial, though there was a lot of blood. His abdomen, though, was another story. Blood continued to seep out past his hands that were futilely trying to stem the flow. Jairo’s breath was shallow, and rapid, and the pulse at his throat was thready. Shock. David dragged his jacket off and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“Take it easy, Jairo. Help is on the way.”

“G-got him?”

“Yes, we got him. Talk about it later.”

“Not a bad cop after all,” Jairo whispered for his ears only.

“Told you I didn’t quit.”

“Yeah, you did. I should have listened.”

“Not your fault...”

But it was.

Jairo reached up and touched David’s face, leaving a smear of blood over his cheek and lips. “Chris is a very lucky guy.”

“So’s your wife.”

“Don’t... don’t tell her.”

“You know I can’t do that. Someone will call her to the hospital. But you’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Jairo blinked several times, and a bubble of blood foamed out of his mouth. At least one of his lungs was punctured. One hand clutched at David’s, squeezing it when a rush of pain filled him.

“Hang on,” David said harshly. “Don’t you dare give up now. Where’s that guy who won’t quit? Don’t lose him now.

You have to hang on...”

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But Jairo’s eyes shut, and he sagged. David refused to let him fall to the filthy floor. He held him in his arms, ignoring the blood that was everywhere.

A brilliant flash of light startled David, who looked up in time to see the second flash from the photographer’s camera through the nearest kitchen window. Dark shadows and loud voices raised in protest faded away as some of Garner’s men dragged the news people away.

Through the roof of the house an LAPD airship moved overhead. An ambulance moaned to a stop outside. Feet thudded on the floor, shaking the flimsy house. David backed away from Jairo as four EMTs carrying a stretcher went to work. An oxygen mask covered his mouth, and a blood pressure cuff over his arm. “Blood pressure ninety over fifty, and falling. We need to start a fluid drip. Pulse is thready and faint.”

They hustled Jairo onto the stretcher, and with long practice, got him out the door and into the waiting bus. David picked up his gore-covered jacket from where the EMTs had flung it as they got to work saving Jairo’s life, and followed them out. Just before the door slammed shut, he heard one of the EMTs shout, “He’s arresting. Prep him—”

The ambulance peeled out. David jumped into his unmarked, slapped the bubble light on his dash, and took off after the bus.

He stayed on the ambulance’s bumper all the way to USC

County, where they hustled Jairo inside, shutting him out.

The vigil started.

Saturday, 8:10 PM, Cove Avenue, Silver Lake, Los Angeles
Chris checked his watch one more time. It couldn’t be right.

David wouldn’t be late on a night as important as this. Would he? It didn’t make sense. But then almost nothing David had done lately made sense. His life was in turmoil, and Chris still couldn’t figure out if it was a mid-life crisis, or something more sinister.

Could he have possibly grown tired of Chris?

He waited until eight-thirty, pacing almost the whole time, unable to sit. At eight-thirty-five, he dialed David’s cell, but it wasn’t active. “What the fuck...” Chris clutched the phone in his hand. “Where are you David? Don’t do this to me.”

When the phone rang, over thirty minutes later, he snatched it up so fast he knocked the slim, cream-colored device off the end table. It was only Des.

“You got the TV on?” Des’s voice was flat.

“No, I’m waiting for David. Why would I be watching TV—”

“You might want to turn it on. Channel 5.”

Chris put the phone down, and almost ran to the media room. He flipped the TV on and grabbed the cordless beside David’s chair. The TV flickered, then settled into a steady signal. He flipped over to the local news channel. “What am I looking at—?”

The screen resolved into chaos. Chris didn’t recognize the area, but it looked rundown. At least a dozen black and white units, and a huge black van, crowded around a small house that looked like it was falling apart. At the bottom of the screen were the words: Drew Street, Glassell Park. Chris was still confused. What was going on?

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The scene shifted to something more familiar: USC County hospital. What—?

Then he saw David, and his heart slammed into his chest.

David was standing inside the doors to the Emergency room, staring into the distance, completely unaware of anything going on around him. A blond uniformed cop stood near his shoulder, and it was obvious he was talking to David, though Chris doubted his lover was hearing much of anything.

“What happened? Was David hurt—”

The venerable Stan Chambers came on screen. “This evening, in troubled Glassell Park, SWAT was called in to rescue a police officer being held hostage by a known gang member. The firestorm that erupted has left one officer in critical condition.”

A camera cut back to Drew Street where a large, very loud Latino woman clutched a young child to her ample breast. “We was just watching TV when all this shooting started.
Pensé que
estuvimos muertos.
The police ignore us all the time, and this happens.” She clasped the child to her. “Our babies are dying.”

“Did you see what happened here?” a faceless voice asked the shaken woman, who vehemently shook her head.

“No way, I don’t see nothing. I ain’t no buster. Police need to clean up these streets. It ain’t safe for my babies.” She clutched the baby so hard it started wailing. “Gangbangers run things around here. It ain’t healthy to see too much.”

“No names have been released yet, but Celeo Perez Garza, AKA Podrido, AKA Podawg was taken into custody shortly after an ambulance was called to the scene. An LAPD detective was taken to USC County General. His name has not been released.”