~ TWENTY-TWO ~

With the information Too Tall had provided, Josie figured their next target should be Eddie Small’s house in the Rampart area. She directed Behan to the location where she and Tomic had first encountered the property officer and they parked down the street. There weren’t any cars in front of the house or in the driveway. The shades were closed, most of them torn or hanging crooked on the rods. The lawn seemed to be decorated by gophers with mounds of dirt among the weeds. An ancient refrigerator and rusted gas stove had been left on the porch, completing the picture of a home that had been abandoned.

Josie took one of the police radios and got out on foot. From the neighbor’s yard, she walked quickly behind the house, ducking under the windows until she found one with a shade damaged enough to give her a decent view of the inside. The window was in the kitchen over the sink. She could see Stella sitting with her arms folded near a coffee table watching Eddie and Vern share what appeared to be a bottle of bourbon. There wasn’t much light in the room, but Josie could see apprehension on the face of the Mexican hype as she frequently glanced over at a wall clock behind her. Her impression was the usually stoic Stella was about to cry.

The drinkers were glassy-eyed, and the half-empty bottle told her they’d been at it a while. Eddie still wore a full cast on his leg. It was filthy, and a piece of plaster had broken off the bottom. He moved clumsily from the table to a counter with a metal crutch in one hand and his glass in the other. He was the only one talking, but Josie couldn’t make out the words. Vern was sullen and quiet. He sat beside Stella, glaring at her. A large backpack had been stored under his chair.

Josie moved carefully around the exterior of the house, peeking in other windows until she was reasonably certain no one else was inside before retracing her steps to Behan’s car.

“My guess is they’re waiting for something or someone,” Josie said when she was in the passenger seat again. “Vern’s sitting on a backpack like he’s ready to take off any second; Stella looks like a kid in a house of horrors expecting an axe murderer to jump out of the pantry; and Eddie . . . is Eddie.”

“No sign of Art or Butch?” Behan asked.

“They’re not there. Maybe Butch took Art to wherever Superman hid the rest of his stash,” she said.

“That doesn’t bode well for our blue-haired boy or Miss Stella. Once Art gets his hands on the coke, he really doesn’t need them anymore.”

“His entrepreneur days on the streets of Hollywood are over, that’s for sure,” Josie said and added quickly, “Let’s get the odd couple over here and arrest everybody. Stella will tell us where they’ve gone.”

Behan didn’t answer right away. She always relied on his instincts and expertise, but her sixth sense was agreeing with him that once Art had the cocaine, the rest of the players were expendable. From the look on Stella’s face, Josie guessed the street-smart addict had already calculated the slim odds of her survival.

“The best idea would probably be to wait until Art gets back but we don’t know for sure he’s coming here. They might’ve planned to meet somewhere else once he has the dope. One thing we do know is that between Art and Abby, they’re not leaving any witnesses around to testify. Get Curtis on the air, tell him and Donny to meet us here code three,” he said.

It took less than five minutes for Curtis and his partner to find the Rampart location. As soon as Curtis parked, he and Donny climbed into the back seat of Behan’s car. Behan explained everything he and Josie knew or suspected, but before he could finish, Curtis interrupted.

“Boss, did Tomic get hold of you?” he asked.

Behan shook his head and said, “He’s at the hospital, isn’t he?”

“He was, but Major Violators finally contacted him about the origin of that coke you recovered at Kent’s sister’s. They know exactly when the contraband was seized and when it should’ve been destroyed. It was a huge bust with over a hundred kilos. Better yet, they got Art, Kent, and Eddie’s prints all over the ten kilos you found,” Curtis said, grinning.

“Art’s toast,” Donny added. “The lab tested a sample from your ten kilos and it’s definitely part of the hundred kilos that should’ve been destroyed, same batch.”

Behan shifted his weight behind the steering wheel and turned to Josie, “It’s your deal, Corsino. How do you want to play it?”

“We’ve got to find Butch. He’s our best witness to Kent’s murder. Once Art gets his hands on that cocaine, he has no use for Butch . . . in fact, he’s a liability.” She hesitated just a moment before saying, “Okay, this is what we’ll do. Curtis and Donny, you knock on the front door, yell police, and kick it. I’ll be out back with Behan to grab Vern when he tries to run,” she said.

“What about the other two?” Donny asked.

“Eddie’s not going anywhere, and Stella has nowhere to run,” she said.

“Maybe you should get a couple of uniforms . . . you know, in case Vern decides he doesn’t want to be arrested,” Donny said.

“No,” Behan said emphatically.

Josie understood immediately. This was their business, their problem. Hollywood narcotics would clean its own house. They didn’t need baby cops with faulty memories and an underdeveloped sense of loyalty. Behan would do this his way and when it was over, create enough documentation to prove it was completely in policy. She knew all that and how close they might come to the line, but the memory of Superman’s battered body kept her from confronting him and insisting he do it by the book.

“We’ll have the shotgun,” she said.

“No, you will,” Behan said. “If he comes out that back door, wait until he clears the steps, chamber a round so he can hear it, and point that Ithaca center mass. Get close enough for him to look down the barrel.”

“What if he decides to shoot it out?” Donny asked.

“Then kill the sonnofabitch,” Behan said.

“Do you want me in the back with Corsino, boss, so you can hold Donny’s hand on the front porch?” Curtis asked.

“You’re a moron,” Donny said.

Josie laughed at the dig Curtis directed at his partner, but she understood it was partly aimed in her direction too. Curtis didn’t have confidence in her tactical abilities. He’d made that clear on plenty of occasions, and she was certain he wanted to be where he could jump in to save the day after the girl messed up the takedown.

“Get out of my car and give us a couple of minutes to suit up and get around to the back of the house before you start yelling and kicking the door,” Behan ordered, ignoring Curtis’s comment, but he was very aware of the dynamics in the Hollywood squad. In his way, the boss had just told Curtis he trusted her. Before they could leave, Behan added, “Be ready. Vern might decide to come out the front door when he sees Donny.”

Donny mumbled something that included the word “asshole” and slammed his door shut.

“He’s really pissed,” Josie said when she and Behan were alone.

“Yeah, I know,” he said smiling.

THE SHOTGUN was loaded and locked in the truck of Behan’s car. Josie put on a protective vest and grabbed a raid jacket, one of several he had crumpled up behind the spare tire. The jacket smelled of marijuana, engine oil, and body odor.

“Might think about tossing these in a washer once in a while,” she said, shaking it several times, trying to air it out before slipping it over the vest.

She removed the shotgun and checked to see if a round had been chambered. It hadn’t. The department made officers qualify with the shotgun once a year after graduating from the police academy and she always felt comfortable handling and using it. It was a weapon that could inflict substantial damage to the human body, but she figured dead was dead. Handgun or shotgun, if she had to use either one, the target would be center mass. The official line was cops should never shoot to kill, just to stop, but inserting a projectile of hot lead or 00-Buck traveling at least twelve hundred feet per second into a person’s chest usually had a predictably deadly outcome.

She never wanted to kill anyone, but the dilemma of whether she could pull the trigger when the time came had been decided in that moral/ethical part of her brain the day she signed papers to become a cop.

“Nobody cares what you smell like, Corsino. You ready?” he asked, closing the trunk.

She nodded, and they headed toward Eddie Small’s house through the neighbor’s yard. She carried the gun at port arms as she jogged ahead of Behan and took cover behind the same dilapidated car she’d used the first time she and Tomic had been there.

Only seconds passed before she heard the shouting, banging, and kicking at the front door. She stepped out from behind the vehicle, moved closer to the back door, and stood in the driveway, some twenty feet from the steps. The black-iron security screen flung open and Vern leapt from the small landing to the ground between her and the house.

He was carrying the backpack, but Josie could see the holstered semiauto handgun on his waist when he jumped. His adrenaline must have overloaded his brain because he didn’t seem to realize at first that she was standing there blocking his path. When he finally focused on the obstacle in front of him, he froze, dropping the backpack. Josie chambered a shotgun round, creating that unnerving sound of metal on metal signifying death was a trigger pull away. In one motion, she stepped closer, pointing the weapon at his heart.

“Hands up!” she ordered.

He didn’t move except his head turned slightly, his eyes searching the yard for signs of other officers. Behan came out from behind the car with his semiauto pointed at Vern.

“Don’t be stupid, Fisher. She’ll kill you,” he said calmly. “If she misses, I’ll do it.”

Vern Fisher slowly raised his arms and stared at the ground. She could see his shoulders slump and his body seem to deflate as she ordered him to drop to his knees. He complied when she told him to lie flat on his stomach with his arms outstretched.

“Officer Fisher, you’re under arrest for the murder of Clark Kent,” she said, moving closer where she could smell the odor of alcohol from his heavy nervous breathing. Behan holstered his weapon, handcuffed Vern, removed his weapon, and searched the subdued but visibly shaken officer.

As Josie cleared the shotgun, she noticed Curtis standing behind the security screen watching from the house.

“Is Stella okay?” she shouted at him.

“Just scared,” he said and walked away.

“Good job, girl. You didn’t let the suspect get away, kill your partner, or shoot yourself in the foot. Maybe you’re not a tactical imbecile after all,” she mumbled to herself.

“Let it go, Corsino,” Behan said as he helped the handcuffed man get off the ground and back on his feet. “You did good. That’s what matters.”

She didn’t respond because that wasn’t all that mattered. Having Curtis’s respect was important to her.