No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (20 page)

Alex arrived at 9:45, a record-breaking fifteen
minutes early He got himself a cup of coffee and then joined
Blackstone in his cubicle to go over the day's agenda.

"You got anything crunchy?" Alex asked.

"Don't you eat at home?"

"Yeah, I just got a taste for something salty"
Alex reached into his pocket, but only found two toothpicks and a
pack of matches. "So how'd it go last night?" was his next
question.

"What do you mean?" Blackstone said.

"You and the G-babe. The two of you got together
last night, right?"

"Yeah," Blackstone said.

"What happened?"

"We played chess."

"Who won?"

"We both did." Before Alex could respond to
that, he added, "We played more than one game."

"Did she tell you anything?"

"I think we can pretty much bank on the
assumption that Jonathan Garillo was a federal informant. Claire
didn't deny the Oregon connection or that this involved the weapons
stolen from the National Guard Armory I told her about the guy with
the grenade"

Alex eyed him askance. "You gave her that?"

'Yeah, sure. Why not? I think Claire is the type who
remembers favors." He didn't add that she was a different kind
of agent than they were used to or how he came about that knowledge.

"By the way" Alex said. "The guy from
the bakery came down last night and looked at mug books"

"And?"

"The broad he saw with the baby wasn't Lisa
Slokum."

"Let's hook him up with a sketch artist,"
Blackstone said.

The phone rang and they both looked at it.

Blackstone picked up on the second ring and
identified himself.

"Thish is Angie," a woman's voice lisped.
"Remember me?"

"What is it?" he asked.

"I seen the guy" she said.

"The one that assaulted you?"

"Yesh. He's in Venish. I tried calling Bernie,
but he's off today"

"You got an address?" Blackstone asked.
"We'll take a ride over there."

"No, I jusht shaw him on the shtreet in front of
Numero Uno's. I could show him to you."

"Would you be willing to press charges? Testify
in court?"

"Yesh, just bust the guy"

"Give me your number, Angie. I'll call you right
back."

Alex Perez had stopped drinking his coffee and was
listening intently to Blackstone's half of the conversation. After
Blackstone hung up, Alex stared ahead—strangely quiet.

"What?" Blackstone asked.

"Nothing, what's going on?"

"That hooker that Bernie knows, Angela Shaw,
says she saw the guy that did her. She wants to roll over on him."

"Does it have to be today?" Alex asked.

"Is that a problem?"

"No, I guess not."

"What did it say?" Blackstone asked,
suddenly realizing the source of Alex's uneasiness.

"What?"

"Your horoscope."

"I know you think it's stupid," Alex said.
"But I'm telling you, nine times out of ten . . ."

"What did it say?" Blackstone asked again.

"I got it right here," Alex said,
retrieving a scrap of newspaper from his pocket. "Avoid
unnecessary risks at work. Update insurance coverage or licenses that
are about to expire. A Capricorn may have an unpleasant surprise for
you." He finished reading and looked at Blackstone expectantly

"Sounds like an insurance agent wrote that,"
Blackstone said.

"Yeah, well, before I left for work this morning
I checked my premium notices."

"And?"

"My life insurance note is due."

"Alex, I've told you a thousand times. You can't
take all that mumbo-jumbo to heart. It'll just mess up your head."

"All right, Jigsaw,"
Alex said, putting the scrap of paper in his wallet. "Let's go
bust this creep."

* * *

Blackstone dialed Claire's number, and then called
Angie back and told her to meet them at the Shell station on Venice
and Pacific. As an extra precaution, the detectives donned Kevlar
vests. The plan was straightforward. Alex and Blackstone would cruise
the vicinity with the woman in the back seat. Two other units would
be nearby waiting for radio contact.

"What did Claire say?" Alex asked.

"She wasn't at her desk when I called,"
Blackstone said. "I left her a message?

When they got to the Shell station, Angie was there
already standing by the pay phone and glancing nervously up the
street.

"Should I ask her if she's a Capricorn?"
Blackstone asked Alex before they exited the car.

"I already checked her rap sheet," Alex
admitted.

"She's a Virgo."

"Isn't that the virgin?"

"Yeah."

"Enough said."

Blackstone beckoned to Angie and she sidled over to
them, giving Alex the once-over. "Who's thish?" she asked.

"My partner, Detective Perez. Get in." She
did. "So you say you saw this guy outside the pizzeria on
Washington?" he asked, watching her in the rearview mirror. She
nodded an affirmative, her eyes shifting from side to side.

"Let's go," she said, wiping perspiration
from her upper lip.

Blackstone and Alex exchanged quick looks. "
shaw the dude hours ago. Where have you guys been?"

"Not so fast," Blackstone said. "We've
got some ground rules to cover." He waited until he established
eye contact with her in his rearview mirror. "Are you
listening?"

"What kind of rules?" she asked.

"First of all, you see the guy you just tell us.
You don't point and you don't shout. You got that?" He didn't
want the suspect alerted, especially if he were some hopped-up biker
freak loaded with heavy artillery

She started to say something, but Blackstone quieted
her with a look and held up a second finger.

"Two. If we spot him, you stay the hell out of
the way. You clear about that? I don't want you leaving the car."
And he didn't want any distractions if things got heavy

"I'm the victim here," she said sullenly

"I'm serious, Angie."

"All right"

"So run it back to me," Blackstone said.

"I make the guy" she said, "and then I
duck."

"All right. We're good to go." Blackstone
merged into the traffic headed southbound toward Washington. They
pulled up across the street from a small market three doors down from
the Numero Uno pizzeria. A steady flow of foot traffic streamed in
and out the store's doors. Angie studied the people, but said
nothing.

"Let's cruise the canals," Blackstone said
after twenty minutes. "Maybe he's staying at one of the houses
in there." He turned to his partner. "Keep a look out for
modified Harleys, too. Those bikers tend to hang in packs."

They cruised a narrow one-way street that took them
across an arched bridge. Angie straightened suddenly.

"There!" she shouted. "That's the shun
of a bitch."

"Be quiet," Blackstone hissed, slowing the
car to a crawl. The man she pointed to seemed unaware of them.
Blackstone wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. "The
guy in the blue T-shirt?"

“
Yesh."

Alex picked up the microphone, requested backup, and
gave their location and a description of the suspect—whom he also
described as possibly armed and dangerous.

"He's going back into the house,"
Blackstone observed. "Looks like Three-oh-Nine over the front
door. Single-story dwelling, attached garage."

Alex relayed this new piece of information on the
airwaves while Blackstone studied the lay of the land. The only car
parked on the road was three houses up. Its tires were low on air and
judging from the weed growth, it hadn't moved in at least a month.
The house that the suspect entered was on a canal, which meant that
his only route of quick escape was the narrow road running in front
of it. When the other unit radioed to confirm that they were in place
on Venice Boulevard, then he and Alex would approach the house.

A red Cadillac Sedan de Ville pulled up behind the
detectives' car. Blackstone waved the car to pass them. Instead, the
driver of the Cadillac parked and got out.

"What the . . . ?" Blackstone said. "Who
the fuck is this?"

"Champion," she said.

They watched the pimp—a white guy wearing a long
duster, snakeskin boots, and velvet pants—exit his vehicle and limp
towards them. Blackstone saw that Champions left leg was inches
shorter than his right. He used a cane with a silver handle that
thumped as he approached. Each time he stepped with his left foot,
his right hip shot out at a sharp angle. On his head he sported a
floppy velvet hat worn low over his left eye, which only added to his
slanted bearing.

"What's he doing here?" Blackstone asked.
She didn't have time to answer before Champion's hand was on the rear
door handle.

"That be him?" he was asking, pointing at
the same guy in the blue shirt who was now aware of the commotion
fifty yards away Champion whipped off his hat to reveal an Art
Garfunkel blond Afro. The suspect ran into the house.

Both detectives got out of the car. Their bust was
quickly going to hell.

"I kill the motherfucker," Champion said,
making a fist. A large gold Super Bowl IX ring shone on his right
index finger. "Mess with my bitch."

Blackstone decided he particularly disliked this guy
And what was with the black speak? He didn't hate white bad guys any
more than black bad guys, but this phony crossover shit annoyed him
deeply.

"You," Blackstone said, pushing a finger
into Champions chest, "will stay exactly where you are. One more
step, one more word, and I'm running both of you in for obstruction.
Angie, get back in the car." He looked over at Alex and saw that
his partner had drawn his gun.

"What do you think, Jigsaw?" Alex asked,
eyes shining with fear and excitement.

"He's not going anywhere. We'll wait for
backup."

The words were no sooner out of Blackstone's mouth
when they heard a loud cracking of wood and angry squeal of spinning
tires. The garage door of the house burst outward as a Mercury Comet
with Oregon plates and a Hertz bumper sticker barreled through it.
The car was still in reverse when it reached the street. The driver
hit his brakes, sending him skidding into a turn and raising a black
cloud of burnt rubber. The car paused briefly with the passenger side
facing the detectives. They could see the driver frantically working
the gearshift.

"He's running," Alex yelled, aiming his
gun.

"Halt," he shouted at the man in the car.
"Police."

The driver responded by pointing the business end of
an M- 14 at the detective and shooting out his own passenger window.
Alex ducked back to the shelter of his car and returned fire. The
popping of his .38 sounded woefully inadequate. He fired off six
rounds. One shot punctured the Comets front tire. The other live
peppered the side of the car, just denting the metalwork.

Blackstone also had his weapon out and shot at the
moving vehicle. He ceased fire when he saw the backup unit approach
from the north. The suspect was trapped. Both ends of the street were
covered and the back door opened to the canal. Blackstone took cover
behind a row of trash cans. The Comet abruptly shifted into reverse
and hurled back inside the garage. The driver jumped from his
still-moving vehicle, leaving his door open, and bolted back into the
house.

"Are you all right?" Blackstone called to
Alex across their unit's open doors.

"Yeah, yeah," Alex answered, his forehead
beaded with sweat.

"He's got nowhere to go," Blackstone
yelled, crouched behind the trash can enclosure.  "We'll
set up a perimeter. Call for SWAT."

Alex climbed back into the car and grabbed the
microphone. Blackstone heard his partner describing the situation to
Dispatch. Alex peeked over the dashboard as he relayed his
information. Blackstone heard the sharp whine of a bullet. There
wasn't time to move or warn. The action beside him unfolded in slow
motion. He saw the blossoming of fracture lines on the windshield and
Alex's head whip back.

He heard his own voice shouting, but it was too late.
The microphone fell from Alex's hand. His head lay back against the
seat, mouth slightly ajar, eyes half-closed, blood welling from the
wound above his ear. Angie screamed.

Blackstone sprinted the short distance back to his
car and pulled Alex down across the front seat. Another mistake, he
knew, to leave his own cover. Fuck it. He pushed his palm over the
now-gushing crease wound in his partners head. With his other hand he
picked up the fallen microphone and uttered the most dreaded code in
the police department. "Nine, nine, nine." Officer down.