No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (22 page)

He called the office from the hospital lobby Claire
had left him a message that she would be out of town for the next few
days. If he needed to get in touch with her, he could leave word at
the Bureau.

When he returned to the waiting room, a fictionalized
courtroom drama played out on the TV overhead. The show was
interrupted by an afternoon news break. Some liberal movie actress
was calling for a widespread investigation into the police force's
use of unauthorized weapons. Blackstone watched the interview in numb
disbelief. He'd like to take that bitch down to South Central and
drop her off. He'd come back in an hour, after she'd had a little
taste of life in a war zone, and see if she'd changed her tune.

He threw down his magazine and left the room. He
didn't know where he was headed, he just knew that he needed to be
alone to deal with his emotions. Walking quickly he took several
turns and then wound up behind the kitchen. Crates of wilted produce
were stacked against the wall. Steam rose from vents. An open
Dumpster emitted putrid odors.

Staring out to nowhere, fists balled in his pockets,
he thought of Alex not wanting to go on the call. Had he taken his
investigation too far? Was he too gung-ho, too fucking John Wayne?

No, he decided. This was the job. For the most part
tedious and boring, then life-and-death with no warning. They'd been
following a logical succession of leads. His reports would reflect
this. Would Sally understand? Would her children?

He replayed the crucial minutes of the shooting in
his mind. What should they have done differently? He had never
dreamed the suspect would open fire on them like that. There was no
reason for it. Expect the unexpected. Alex shouldn't have broken
cover. He had been careless and they had been hopelessly outgunned.

Blackstone kicked an empty can of whole tomatoes and
watched it wobble away A man in a white kitchen staff uniform stuck
his head out the door and started to yell something. Blackstone
turned and faced him. Whatever the man saw in Blackstone's expression
caused him to shut the door quickly and without protest.

Grease. The thought came to Blackstone suddenly when
Claire had come to his house, her hands had been lined with black
grime from changing her tire. What if the woman on the freeway worked
with cars or some sort of greasy parts? He pulled out his notebook
and made a notation. He stood there for another ten minutes, then
returned to the parking lot where he'd left his car.

"Jigsaw?" a voice said from behind him.
 
He spun around and confronted the haggard countenance of Sergeant
Mann. The sergeant looked even worse than Blackstone felt. Deep lines
creased the senior officers face; dark bags hung under his eyes.
"Sarge?"

"I'm still waiting for your report," Mann
said. " know how rough it is, to have your partner wounded, but
the job goes on."

"Yes, sir. I was planning to return to the
station and type up my notes right after I leave here. How's the
investigation going?"

"I've been on the phone all morning. The mayor's
on my ass, demanding answers. Heads are going to roll on this one."

"Have you found the kill bullet?"

"I don't know. I haven't been able to get back
to the house. From what I understand, the structure was pretty shot
up. Speaking of bullets, I need you to turn in your vehicle so we can
collect the evidence inside it." Mann's expression softened.
"Why don't you take the rest of the day off after you finish
your report? Get some rest. There's nothing more you can do here."

"Thank you, sir," Blackstone said. "You're
right, there's nothing more I can do here."

Blackstone returned to his car and discovered that he
had locked his door. Pretty funny considering that the rear and side
windows were all shot out. He shook his head at the force of habit
and brushed chunks of tempered glass off the seat.

He didn't drive back to work. The report would have
to wait.

Twenty minutes later, he was standing where he'd been
when he told his partner to radio in for tear gas. He faced the
house. There was a puddle of dried blood where Darnel Willis had
died. The front door where Willis's blood and brains had sprayed had
been removed from its hinges and taken away He made a note to follow
up on that.

Sawhorses strung together with yellow tape marked the
crime scene perimeter. A patrol car manned by two officers guarded
the house and kept the curious at bay While he watched, a woman who
appeared to be in her twenties, wearing a long gypsy skirt and granny
glasses, threw a bouquet of flowers towards the house.

He shook his head in disgust. She was honoring that
asshole. Making him into some kind of a martyr. That rapist,
woman-beating cop shooter.

A man wearing a blue parka emerged from the doorless
entryway Blackstone called to him.

"This is a federal investigation," the man
said, holding up a hand to indicate that Blackstone should stay back.

Blackstone showed the fed his shield. "t was my
partner that got shot."

"I'm sorry about that," the agent said.
"But I can't let you in here."

Blackstone started to say something, something
involving the man's mother, and then realized it would do him no
good. He returned to his ruined car and drove to the impound lot so
the boys in Firearms could do their thing. After being admitted
through the front gate, he was told to park wherever he could find a
space.

The stolen blue pickup from the Garillo case was
still there. He walked over to the truck and looked inside. The back
of the bench seat had been removed and the windshield had collapsed
in on itself. He opened the door and ran his hand along the back of
the seat cushion. Nothing.

Something brushed against the back of his head. A
business card had snagged on the roll of sheet metal where the roof
of the cab met the door frame. He plucked it loose, brushed off dried
blood, and was able to read the lettering: Happy Jack's Auto Repair.
How long had that been there? He put the card in his pocket and
walked across the street to the crime lab building.

He found Jeff Hagouchi perched over his microscope.

"I brought in my unit."

"How's Alex?" Jeff asked.

"Still under," Blackstone said. "If he
remains stable, they'll slowly wean him off the anti-seizure drugs."

"He's a fighter,"Jeff said.

"Sergeant Mann said the bullet that took out
Darnel Willis was more powerful than a thirty-eight. Did you get a
chance to check it out?"

"No. I never got to see it," Jeff said.
"The feds got there first. They were there all morning."
 
"Doing what?" Blackstone asked.

"They took the door, for one thing," Jeff
said.

"That's where the bullet that killed Darnel
Willis ended up."

"Why are they handling the investigation?"

Blackstone asked. "AD has their own
investigators. Something's going on."

"It's worse than that, buddy" Jeff said.
"The feds took the weapons that they found in the house and
issued warrants to confiscate all related material in this
case—including the bullet that wounded Alex. How are we supposed to
prove that Willis shot Alex?

It's all fucked up. Now they're saying that Willis's
civil rights may have been violated. I hope you covered your ass."

Blackstone stared at Jeff, but he wasn't really
seeing him. He felt like he had been a step behind for days and he
didn't like it. Opportunities always existed. You just needed to
remember to stop and look for them. When you're on the defensive,
scrambling backward, sometimes you forget that.

"What about that double homicide in Venice? We
received information that it ties in to the Garillo case. Did you get
a chance to ID those bullets?"

Jeff reached for a file and thumbed through it.

"Yeah, you're going to love it." He took
out a document and handed it to Blackstone. "They were 7.62 by
21 millimeters, but not armor—piercing."

"Did you tell the feds?"

"You know, in all this excitement, I might have
forgotten."

Blackstone read over the report, nodding his head. It
had taken him long enough, but he was starting to smell the setup. "I
play correspondent chess games," he said, looking at a spot
somewhere over Jeff's left shoulder. "I play against opponents
from all over the world. People I never see—only their moves."

"What's that—" Jeff started to ask.

"There's this one guy named Wang. He's a grand
master. Lives in Hong Kong. I thought I had him in a game we played
last year. I had his queen and both of his bishops. His king was
backed into a corner. The next postcard he sent me had a Chinese
pictograph on the back cover and then his move on the front. I didn't
know what the writing meant, of course, so I ignored it. I didn't
spend more than five minutes figuring what I was going to play next.
I had him and I knew it."

"Maybe you should go home, Jigs. Get some rest."

"The thing is, two moves later he put me in
checkmate. Later, I had the pictograph translated. The guy I took it
to explained to me that the pictograph was actually two symbols
superimposed: danger and opportunity He said it was the Chinese
concept of crisis."

"That's really interesting, Blackstone. But what
the fuck does it mean?"
 
"It means that it's
time to go on the offensive. Give me your car keys." He handed
jeff his own. "You never saw any federal warrant."

"How long do you think I can pull that off?"

"Hopefully long enough to dig the bullet out of
the seat of my vehicle and get a look at it under your microscope."

"What am I looking for?"

"Compare it to the bullets from the double
homicide, for starters. Just be sure you document everything."

"Anything else?" Jeff asked.

"Get ahold of Sergeant Mann and tell him what
the feds are doing."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to call in a marker," Blackstone
said. "All right if I use the phone in your office?"

"Help yourself, Jigsaw."

Claire Donavon had given him the number that rang
directly to her desk. She answered after the first ring.

"I've just been back to the house," he
said.

'You just caught me," she said.

He liked how she didn't play it cute by asking which
house. "Did your people retrieve the bullet that killed Darnel
Willis?"

"It's a little soon to know anything, honey I'll
be happy to call you in a few days when I get back into town. I
really am literally walking out the door."

"Claire, I need your help. My partner is in the
hospital. The department is under fire. We might have a riot brewing.
I need some answers."
 
"You're going to have
to trust me," she said. "You remember how I told you that
this case had certain delicacies? That still applies. Lives depend on
our maintaining a strict need-to-know policy on this investigation?

"Lives or careers, Claire? Forget
need-to-know,"  he said. " think I've earned a right
to know. Give me that much."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Honestly. But
your involvement right now is far too personal. I promise you that
when we get our lab results back, we'll share them with you. Until
then, there's nothing more to say

He hung up on her. Childish, he knew, but it had felt
good. That feeling faded when he realized that he'd forgotten to ask
her why she wanted him to publish the picture of John Garillo. He
tried to call her back; after twenty rings a recording came on and
told him to stop trying.

The next number he called was the one he found on the
bloodstained business card. A man answered,

"Happy Jacks, Jack speaking."

"Hi, Jack," Blackstone said in the
cheeriest voice he could muster. "Do you have a woman who works
there?"

"Munch? Shes not here;" he said.

Blackstone's stomach muscles tightened. Bingo.

"Will she be back soon? It's very urgent that I
reach her. "

"She's . . . off for a few days. You'll have to
try again on Monday"

"This is Detective Blackstone. I'm with the
Homicide Division of the Venice PD. It's imperative that I speak to
her. Do you have her home phone number?"

"Don't you guys talk among yourselves? What's
all of this about? Does this have something to do with that friend of
hers that was shot last Friday?"

"You know about that?"

"Not a whole hell of a lot. The guy was in here
a few hours earlier. Wanted her to do him some kind of favor, but she
don't mess with his kind anymore."

"Since when?"

"Hey I know where you're going with this,"
Jack said. "And you're wrong. I'd vouch for Munch Mancini any
day of the week. She shows up for work every day sober as a judge."

Blackstone wrote down the name and then looked at the
business card again. The shop was in Sherman Oaks. judging from the
address, it was close to both the 405 and the Ventura freeways.