Sims wanted to get as close as possible to the Desmond household. He knew there would be, if not a straight-out stakeout, at least a near constant patrol in the area. Maybe even a cop planted inside the house, though he doubted that, knowing the Desmonds.
That day, the subject of a massive manhunt ate peanut butter sandwiches washed down with Hennessy. He even watched old sitcoms: Happy Days, Good Times, The Jeffersons. He spent another sweaty night at the Royal Viking, and he finalized his plan.
The next day, wearing the Dodgers cap, sunglasses, and two sweaters over a brown shirt and pants, he boarded a southbound RTD bus on Alvarado. At Washington Boulevard he transferred to a westbound bus to Western Avenue where he caught a southbound bus heading for Gardena. No one had noticed him. Fellow passengers paid him no mind. They had their own problems.
An idea had come to him when a UPS truck passed him the other day on the big, sweeping transition from the Harbor Freeway to the Santa Monica Freeway. He knew there were always a lot of “Big Brown” trucks coming and going around Western and Artesia since they had a major facility two blocks away.
He headed that way and made his headquarters in what was becoming an urban dinosaur, a public pay phone booth, on the edge of an Arco station. He lifted the receiver and pretended to talk while he scanned for a UPS truck. There was a Del Taco right across the street and a Wendy’s twenty feet from the phone booth.
After more than a hour, Sims saw what he was looking for. A UPS truck pulled into the parking lot behind Wendy’s. The driver did not use the drive-through, either because the truck couldn’t fit or maybe he just wanted to sit inside, enjoying that rare sit-down meal for a UPS driver who usually are on the run. Must’ve finished his route early.
Sims caught a break when he saw the driver was a woman, a small one at that. When she was done, she headed back to her UPS truck. About thirty seconds later, she was tied up in the back, her mouth wrapped in tape, being quietly assured she would not be hurt. “Just please don’t try to jump out. I will not hurt you. Just sit still for twenty minutes, and this will all be over. Do you know who I am?”
She nodded.
“Okay, then. Then you know I am only dealing with people associated with Big Evil. So you can relax—unless you’re a friend of Big Evil?”
She shook her head so violently she nearly pulled a neck muscle.
He took Artesia onto the 91 East and exited at Central. He headed north on Central, through and past West Compton, under the 105 Freeway, to the stretch of road Detective Waxman had taken to visit him. He passed the Nickerson Gardens, passed his bank, passed the park. At 94th and Central, Sims dialed 911 on the UPS driver’s cell phone. “I just saw the Evil Killer get out of a car on 94th and Central and go into that market there. I am sure it is him.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“Do I have to give it? I’m afraid. I am sure it is him.” He hung up and tossed the phone out.
Though 911 had received more than three dozen such leads, this call was sent out on a special frequency set up yesterday solely for Evil Killer information. Patrol cars in the area, even those parked near the Desmond house, sped toward 94th Street. As Sims continued north on Central, he saw three cruisers zooming south. Sims turned left onto 89th Street.
A UPS truck was not a familiar sight in the Eighty-Nine Family ’hood, but it wasn’t as if a spaceship had landed when Sims pulled the “Big Brown” P-600 UPS truck to a stop in front of Cleveland and Betty Desmond’s house. Dodgers cap pulled low over his forehead, sweaters off, he quickly got out and knocked hard three times on the heavy metal security door.
Fifteen seconds later he heard a “Who is it?” He knew the voice. He tried to disguise his. “UPS delivery for Cleveland Desmond.”
“Just leave it,” Betty Desmond said.
“That’s fine.” Sims left a box he had grabbed from the UPS truck on the porch and began slowly walking back to the front gate. When he heard the door open, he did not look back. When he heard the security door open he did not look back. By the time Betty Desmond had bent over to pick up the box, Sims was at the gate, but, suddenly, he spun and dashed back to the front door. Before she could scream, Sims had Big Evil’s mother back in the house with a gun pointed at her chest.
“Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Desmond. So sorry about Terminal.”
“Bobby.”
“Let’s compromise and just call him dead boy with the mashed-in face. Just to let you know, in his last moments he suffered very much, but not like I have.” He walked her through the house. No one else was there. He pushed her hard down onto a couch. “Sit down. I have some calls to make. I will kill you in an instant if you move or yell. I think you know I’m capable.”
“What do you want? You’re sick. What did I do to you?”
“Your son killed my son, and now he is paying the price.” He pulled out a piece of paper and began dialing. After five phone calls—to police divisions at Southeast and 77th Street, the Times city desk, Channel 7 Eyewitness News, and his estranged wife, a call that didn’t go though, Sims was ready for the Revenge’s last act.
In fifteen minutes, the circus came to town. The SWAT team was there. Hostage negotiators. At least thirty cruisers. The media throngs had been pushed back more than a block. The square of Central, Manchester, 92nd and Wadsworth was cordoned off. But LaBarbera and Hart let me in. It was rare, but not unheard of, to let a reporter inside the crime tape. I had been inside several times, but never on such a dramatic scene. My friend and old pod mate, sexy Carly Engstrom, wearing knee-high white leather boots, was on scene, too, and yelling at Johnny Hart. Apparently, cop reporter Morty Goldstein, who never left the office, had told her to get down here, and the city editor agreed. Hart, eager to score points with Carly, walked over, took her by the hand, and led her under the crime tape to where Sal and I were with the others.
“Mikey, this is so exciting,” she said and squeezed my hand.
“It is now that you’re here,” I said.
“You’re right about that, Lyons,” said Hart. “But, keep your pretty head low. You hear me. Do not, under any circumstances, act like Lyons.”
Carly laughed.
The lead hostage negotiator decided he would have LaBarbera take first crack at Sims since he was so familiar with the case. LaBarbera was handed a small megaphone. “Mr. Sims, this is Detective LaBarbera. You want to get at Evil, but you are not getting at him from there. Give up and go to Pelican Bay.”
“Shuddup. Don’t lie to me. I’ll go to San Quentin and you know that. Killing a judge and D.A. I’m not stupid. If you speak again, she’s dead.”
LaBarbera, not wanting to push a maniac, gave up the megaphone. Hart shook his head. “Great job, Sal. Whaddya get in hostage negotiating class? A D minus?” I had to muffle a laugh. To me, a D minus is the worst of all grades. It indicates that you tried and sucked.
I was huddled safely behind the stolen UPS truck with LaBarbera, Hart, Kuwahara, Engstrom, several SWAT unit members, and the lead hostage negotiator. I could tell Kuwahara was pissed at his detectives for allowing me to get in close, but was too busy to deal with that now—until I opened my mouth.
“Maybe I should tell him I’ll trade places with her,” I told the group.
“Shut the fuck up, Lyons, or so help me—” said Kuwahara. “No, no, just get out of here now. Go. Back away. Now!” Having no option, I obeyed, taking a couple of crouched steps away.
The SWAT unit snipers did not have a good shot. There was no good angle into the house. Back in the mid-1980s, the Desmonds, fearful of drive-bys into their kitchen, which faced the alley, had not only boarded up the kitchen windows, but had them cemented shut. This eliminated several angle shots.