Ghosts of Christmas Past (8 page)

Salvatore grabbed a pad from his jacket pocket and wrote
Flashbang grenade
on it. He showed it to both of them and added
Temporary hearing loss
and
We have to get out of here
.

Lucy took a depth breath, grabbed the pencil and wrote:
Who? Why?

SWAT outside
, Cassandra wrote.
Using a megaphone. They're yelling to surrender.
Ass
holes.

“Why?” Lucy asked again, though she didn't hear her own word. SWAT? If there were cops out there, Al wasn't with them. He'd never toss a grenade at civilians.

Salvatore pointed to himself. They wanted him. Had Schneider sent them and, if so, how had his boss found out Salvatore was here?

Cassandra wrote:
They can't get through the door. Rickey locked 'em out.

Lucy shook her head. “Only for now,” she said. This time, she thought she heard a whisper of a noise. Maybe her hearing was coming back.

If this was a SWAT team, they'd get in eventually. That steel door wouldn't hold up to serious firepower. She remembered that Al had refused to call in the SWAT team as backup when they confronted Jack and Jill. Al said the SWAT team was corrupt and followed the orders of people who bribed them.

SWAT couldn't be trusted. First priority: Get Salvatore and Cassandra the hell out of here.

“Stay with me,” she pointed to herself, hoping that her words made sense. “They're not getting Salvatore or you.”

SWAT weren't the only ones with flashbangs at their disposal. If they stepped inside this room, her alter ego would light
them
up.

Chapter Seven

Breaking into Johns' Fiesta presented Al with somewhat of a problem. Life was easier, he mused, when he could just use a slim jim on a locked vehicle. Instead, he had to go to his car and dig out his secret weapon, a master lock that somehow had managed to fall under the seat and was buried under empty coffee cups.

He probably should clean his car out.

“Captain, why do you drive this piece of crap?” Alvarez asked.

“Because no one wants to steal it. And when something goes wrong, I don't need a degree in electronics to fix it.” He pocketed the master lock fob and slammed his door shut. The old Chevy rocked. He should replace the shocks.

He walked back over to the victim's Fiesta and pressed the fob inside his coat pocket. The Fiesta chirped and the locks disengaged.

“You've got a master lock,” Alvarez said.

“Yep,” Al said.

“Where you'd get it?” she asked.

“From a Ford engineer. We went to school together.” His friend had cut and run from Charlton and into the suburbs. But, occasionally, he slipped Al something that could give him an edge. Like the master-code control and a lesson in how the new Fords tracked mileage.

“We should wait on the crime scene people to process the car,” she said.

“Time was when a detective could investigate all by himself. We could sit here a long, long time waiting for our crime scene techs. They've got their hands full in the museum. I'm not even sure the city's tow trucks are working right now or if we have the budget to pay for a private tow to the police impound lot.”

Still, he put on plastic gloves before he sat behind the driver's seat and pulled up the dashboard displays. The car ran on battery only, which meant it tracked trips. He punched up the GPS and…bingo. Last location.

Time for a field trip.

He locked up the Fiesta and walked back over to his car.

“Get in, Alvarez,” he said. “I might need backup.”

“Where are we going?”

“Wherever the stiff was before he came to the museum. Hopefully, that's where our victim met our murder suspect.”

“Captain, respectfully, that GPS is leading us to a street full of burned-out stores.” Alvarez opened the passenger door. She didn't get in. Maybe she didn't like his car.

She wrinkled her nose. She definitely didn't like his car. Noir never complained.

“How would you know about the neighborhood?” he asked.

“I have cousins who live nearby.”

“Well hell, we'll stop by and say hi on our way back,” he drawled. “Look, rookie, you want into investigation and real police work instead of being dicked around at your precinct? Then follow orders and get in my car.”

Alvarez got in the car, using her hat to push aside the empty Chinese food containers left over from a stakeout. “How long have these been here?”

“Who knows?” In reality, they were only from last night. But it was more fun to mess with Alvarez.

Alvarez used a cloth from inside her pocket to wipe down the passenger seat before she sat down. “What do we do when we get there, Captain?”

“Depends. For all we know, our victim and the suspect pulled up next to each other and talked through the car windows, and not much we can find out from that. Still, someone in the neighborhood might have seen them. You have to turn over a lot of rocks to find the right one.”

“Yes, Captain.” She looked in vain for the shoulder belt, only realizing at the last minute that his old beater had only a lap belt for the front seat.

She opened her mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it.

“You have a comment, Officer?”

“This car is shit,” she said.

“Drivable shit.” Al pulled out into traffic, reminded that Noir had told him to get shoulder belts installed too. He wished she was with him, rather than Alvarez. She had a knack for getting to the heart of the problem. As soon as he followed this lead to its end, he'd call her.

“But that's not the real reason you were reluctant to come, Officer. Spit it out.”

“I heard Captain Fixit was a hero,” Alvarez muttered.

“And I'm not what you expected, right?”

She nodded.

“Heroes are the ones who show up and do the job, not the ones who drive the neatest cars or have the best appearance.” Noir knew that. She'd seen right through him the first day. “You could be a hero, Alvarez.”

“Me?”

“All being a hero takes in the Double C is giving a damn and hoping that what you're doing makes a difference.”

She snorted.

He should ease off Alvarez, since part of the reason he was cranky is that it wasn't Noir in the car next to him.

“Besides, we're not having fun yet,” he said.

Al heard the police sirens a block from their destination. He hoped at first the local cops were here for something else, like a domestic or a trespassing complaint.

But he saw the SWAT team vans and knew they had to be after his suspect too. This was getting more messed up by the minute. Someone at city hall must have called in a favor and sent Petit and his goons to this neighborhood, maybe searching for Salvatore Giamatti.

“This is my damned case, asshole,” Al muttered as he parked his car sideways, next to Petit's unmarked car.

“Sir, is it smart to interfere with a SWAT operation?” Alvarez asked.

“It's
never
smart to interfere with
my
investigations.” Al popped the trunk, grabbed his shotgun and checked to make sure it was properly loaded. A sharp pain shot through his forearm, a remnant of the injuries from his first case with Noir. He flexed his fingers, remembering he'd forgotten his physical therapy exercises.

“If you think you can back me up, then come with me, Alvarez. Otherwise, wait in the car. This is gonna get messy.”

Alvarez fell into step behind him. “So are we having fun yet?”

“Not yet.”

He strode past the vans and the patrol cars with lights flashing. A uniform stepped up to stop them but Al flashed his gold shield, waved the shotgun and kept on going. He needed to get to Petit right now, before this became a fiasco.

“You are running an illegal operation. Open the door and come out with your hands up,” blared a megaphone held by Petit, head of SWAT.

The five-man SWAT team Petit commanded wore riot gear: rifles, helmets, and one had a grenade launcher. They'd surrounded what looked like a burned-out dry cleaners. Since it didn't have a second floor, Al guessed they were after someone in the basement.

“You'd think the flashbang would have scared them out, Lieutenant,” one of the team said. “I expected those squatters to run right into our arms.”

“A flashbang? You used a
flashbang
in an enclosed space full of people?” Al pushed past the team to confront Petit. A flashbang. Which could start fires.
Idiots.
“Why the hell would you do that, Petit?”

“We have a solid tip that an illegal and dangerous business, potentially drug manufacturing, is operating in the basement area below these stores.” Petit lowered the megaphone. “Get out of my operation, Fixit.”

“You tossed a grenade into a potential drug-manufacturing business that could contain flammables? Are you insane?”

Petit raised the shield on his riot helmet, his face in a scowl. As far as Al had ever been able to tell, that was Petit's permanent expression. They'd clashed many times. Usually Al had to back off because Petit had superior firepower.

Not today.

“I gave them warning,” Petit said.

“Knowing you, I doubt that,” Al said.

“Get the hell out of my operation and go back to playing with stiffs,
Lieutenant
James. Whatever business is being run down there, we have every right to shut it down.”

“So now we use SWAT for enforcing
zoning
laws?” Al asked.

Someone snickered behind Al, and he hoped it was a SWAT team member because that meant not everyone was on Petit's side.

Al lowered his voice. “Why are you really here? Who are you after? Who did your city hall masters sic you on?”

“I'm arresting those inside, whether you like it or not, whether I have to burn them out or not.” Petit stepped closer until their chests were nearly bumping.

“I'm ordering you to stand down,” Al said.

“You don't have the authority.”

“Remember? I'm
Captain
Fixit now,
Lieutenant
. One last chance. Stand. Down. That's an order.”

Petit spat in Al's face. “Get. Out. Now. Before you ‘accidentally' get caught in the crossfire,
Detective
Fixit.”

That did it.

Al drove his shotgun butt under Petit's chin. Teeth crunched. Petit spat out blood, his eyes rolled into his head, and he dropped to his knees on the cracked sidewalk.

Al held Petit steady so he didn't fall and knock his head against the concrete. That would sting, even if Petit was wearing a helmet.

“You just refused a direct order from a superior, asshole.” Al turned to the team. “Does anyone else want to question my authority?”

The five of them collectively took a step back.

“Good.” He pointed to the two on the end. “You two, take your lieutenant and transport him to the ER for treatment. Looks like he might need some dental work.”

Petit groaned and rolled onto his back.

“You clocked him good, Captain,” Alvarez said. “He might need to stay in the ER overnight.”

“Excellent idea. You two, suggest that to Doctor Leslie. Tell him Captain Fixit recommends it. He'll know what I mean.”

“Uh, yes, sir.” The two men stepped up. Between them, they dragged Petit over to his unmarked cruiser. Al didn't spare him a second glance. Leslie would keep Petit out of his hair for a bit. The doctor was good that way.

Al picked up Petit's megaphone and glared at the remaining SWAT team members.

“Someone run down this situation. Did you just fire a flashbang for the hell of it?”

“Uh, no, sir, Captain.” A kid stepped forward. God knew how Petit had gotten someone this green approved for SWAT. “Lieutenant Petit said a dangerous criminal was hiding out in an illegal flophouse. He was lying, though. He said we gave them warning. We didn't.”

“So you toss in something guaranteed to cause panic. Great strategy.”

The men shifted. “Uh, what next, Captain?” the kid asked.

“Know the name of this very dangerous criminal who requires a SWAT team assault?”

“Salvatore Giamatti,” the man answered.

Bingo. Petit must be part of the group benefitting from what was being stolen from the museum.

“Did you know Giamatti's a city employee? An office drone? You all descended on this place in riot gear for an
accountant
.”

While the remaining SWAT team murmured among themselves, Al held the megaphone up and directed it at the dry cleaners. “This is Captain Aloysius James of Major Crimes. I apologize for the zealousness of the officers. There will be no more flashbangs. I'm coming in to speak to you and ensure no one was injured.”

He handed the megaphone off to Alvarez. “Use your radio. Call this in to Major Crimes, tell them what happened. Detective Jacobs will know what to do.”

“Captain are you going down there
alone
?” she asked.

He leaned closer. “Do you trust SWAT to behave if both of us are gone?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Call Detective Jacobs,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yes, sir.”

Al grinned. “Cheer up, rookie.
Now
we're having fun.”

He strode into the burned-out dry cleaners. He gave Petit some credit; his team had cleared away the debris and exposed the cellar steps and the locked door at the bottom. They'd done some prep work.

It was an interesting place to go to ground.

And if there was some sort of illegal operation happening down there, it made sense as a meeting place to discuss some off-the-books business. Stolen city property? Al would lay odds it referred to stuff at the museum and either Salvatore had been involved in it or he'd discovered it and gotten in over his head.

In either case, Al needed the accountant alive, while Petit's assault had been guaranteed to end with his quarry injured or dead. That was likely the point. And who cared if others were caught in the crossfire.

More than Petit's head needed to roll for this.

No one shot at Al on his way down the steps. He supposed he should've worn his flak jacket. Petit had been too aggressive but that didn't mean coming down here was safe. The scene sure as hell wasn't secure. He hadn't wanted to take Alvarez and endanger her. Noir was the one he needed. He wished she were a cop. Then they could be together all the time.

Never happen, he thought. Better get used to working alone again.

He pounded on the steel door. “SWAT is in stand-down. Is anyone injured in there? Do you need help?”

He set the shotgun on a table just to the right of the door. “I just want to talk,” he repeated and put up his hands. He bet whoever was back there had a way to see out here. But he felt naked, alone and exposed.

The door squeaked open. “I'm Rickey. This is my place.”

The smell of the grenade mixed in with something else, something awesome.

“Is that pie?” Al asked.

“That's the finest pumpkin pie in the Double C,” Rickey answered. “My husband makes it.” The door opened a little farther to reveal Rickey, a middle-aged Indian woman wearing a do-rag to hold back her hair.

“I'd love some pie,” Al said, keeping his hands up. Holy shit. Petit had been about to send his team into a restaurant full of civilians.
I should've hit him a second time.

“Now ain't a good time for pie,” Rickey said.