L.A. Boneyard (38 page)

“Get down!” David shouted. The banger straightened, and swung the nose of his assault rifle up. David met it with his own. The concussion from the rifle threw his shoulder back.

But his aim was good. The banger looked surprised as he fell, a neat, almost bloodless hole in the middle of his chest. The Mk 46 clattered to the ground at his feet.

“Get that,” David said. Konstatinov retrieved the weapon.

One less toy for the bangers to play with. On all fours, the two L.A. BONEYARD
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scrambled toward the continued sound of gunfire. David spotted a uni outside his cage car, his own patrol rifle clutched in both hands, bobbing up and down to get a clearer view over the car’s hood. He saw David, and Konstatinov, and signaled that the banger was just on the other side. David nodded.

“The van’s moving, heading towards the gate.”

“Stop it. It’s Degrasses,” David shouted.

Sirens screamed, and more black and whites roared onto the lot. The call was out. Officers under fire. Every cop north of Inglewood was going to be answering that call. The white panel van, windowless, skidded out of the lot, its sides pockmarked with bullet holes. In the driver’s seat a figure was hunched over the dash as he tried to flee. David stood up long enough to pop a few new holes in the side. His next round aimed lower and two front tires shredded, laying rubber across the pavement.

The van spun around, and in the next instant flipped over onto its side, spewing safety glass and burning rubber. The flayed wheels continued to spin lazily as David crept closer to the overturned vehicle. He waved for Konstatinov to approach from the other side. The rear door opened, and a bandana’d banger fell out onto the pavement. David saw he was armed with what David swore was an Uzi pistol. Apparently nothing but the best would do for Degrasses’ crew. He jacked a new 10round magazine into his rifle and rolled into a crouch, leveling his weapon at the banger. Konstatinov did the same. Faced with the sight of two cops pointing death at him, the banger let his own gun slide to the ground. Having premium firepower didn’t count for much, if you didn’t have to
cojones
to use it.

“Where’s Degrasses?” David shouted. The banger looked away, but not before his gaze flicked toward the vehicle.

Waving Konstatinov to watch over the man, he slid sideways along the van until he came to the driver’s side.

He spun away and leveled his rifle at the smashed window.

“Get out of there. With your hands in plain view. Now.”

A brown hand came out of the window, groping for the door frame. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the banger stand. Konstatinov tensed, raising his weapon.

324 P.A. Brown

A young, battered Latino man tumbled through the window, onto the pavement. He scrabbled for his gun, another Uzi, but David kicked it out of his hand. “On the ground. Assume the position.”

The Latino proned himself. He twisted his head sideways and scowled at David. “What you doing, cuz? I was just driving.”

“Why?” David said. “It ain’t Sunday and this ain’t the park.”

He put his foot on the banger’s back, and shoved him into the pavement. “Where’s Degrasses?”

“He ain’t here.”

David could make out the corner of Degrasses’ rental car, still parked where he had abandoned it. If he hadn’t fled in that, where was he—he spun around and grabbed Konstatinov’s rover. “Where’s that Malibu?”

There was a flurry of voices, all of which ended in the same conclusion: the Malibu, and presumably Degrasses, had vanished.

“Cuff him,” David barked at Konstatinov, who slapped restrains over both bangers’ hands and feet. David scooted back to the Crown Vic, and slid into the driver’s seat. The car was still idling. He threw it into gear, ignoring Konstatinov’s cry to wait, and peeled out toward the open gate. He threw the rifle onto the seat beside him, and made sure his shoulder holster was within easy reach.

Behind him the shooting had died down. David hoped that was a good sign. Everywhere he looked he saw unis parading a string of what he assumed were Avenues to waiting cage cars.

Then ahead of him he spotted the Malibu spinning through the gate, onto Tyburn Street. A plume of dust marked its passage.

At the intersection he could see the barrier, and four black and whites blocking the road in every direction. Degrasses had to have seen them too, but he didn’t slow down. Instead he jerked the Malibu right, jinking around the nearest cage car, and clipping the hood of the black and white, bouncing off a telephone pole. Shots met this newest assault. A hole appeared in the Malibu’s trunk. David stepped on the accelerator, closing L.A. BONEYARD
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the distance between them. He aimed for the Malibu, and without slowing, tapped the bumper. Once, twice. The Degrasses’ vehicle skidded sideways, striking a second black and white, sending the crouched cops leaping out of its path.

Another round of shots took out the Malibu’s back tire.

Sparks flew off the shredding wheel as the vehicle continued to slide around. David nudged it again, fighting to keep control of his own car.

“Pull over, asshole,” he muttered as Degrasses goosed the gas and fishtailed the other way, barely missing a stop sign, scraping off the driver’s side mirror. Torn metal screeched. The driver’s side window rolled down and a hand reached through, clutching an Mk 46, which he fired in random spurts. David rammed his foot on the gas, and slammed into Degrasses’

bumper again, throwing himself against the wheel, and sending a jolt through his back. Not a good idea with no seat belt on.

He did it again, and had the satisfaction of watching Degrasses skid over the curb into a telephone pole. The Malibu crumpled around the thick pole, paused briefly then took off back toward the truck lot. The passenger’s door had been torn half off its hinges, and the window had popped out. The driver wore a blue bandanna and a hoody that concealed most of his face. Only his red mustache gave him away as Anglo. Not much of a disguise.

David threw his car into reverse. Tires smoking, he spun around, narrowly missing a street light, and bounced over the curb, then floored it after Degrasses. In the distance he could hear the pop-pop of renewed gun fire. Wisps of smoke boiled out of the crimped hood of Degrasses’ Malibu. David’s own vehicle wasn’t faring much better. The already lousy shocks were shot. Sound grew muffled, and under the hood he heard the thump sputter of a damaged engine. Something had been punctured in there. Small consolation that Degrasses’ wheels were in worse shape.

Degrasses’ gun came out again, and this time the shots were right over David’s hood. A single spidery hole appeared on the passenger’s side, plowing through the seat less than a foot from David’s right shoulder. He spun the wheel left, and the Crown
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Vic fishtailed toward the chain link gate still half blocking the entrance. He barely had time to throw up his arms when the car swung into the thick mesh. Headlights popped and tires blew.

The Crown Vic kept rolling in a full one-eighty, ending up pointing back the way it had come.

David scrambled out, Smith & Wesson in hand as he cleared the debris. The Malibu had also spun out, and now rested on three flats against the white bulk of a trailer up on blocks. The driver’s door opened, and Degrasses fell out, palms catching him from pitching onto his face. He rolled over, his Uzi in both hands, firing wildly even before he came to a stop on his back.

David threw himself down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Konstatinov raced around the trailer, his Beretta nine in both hands, as he swept the yard ahead of him.

“Drop the weapon and put your hands over your head,” he shouted.

Degrasses ignored him. He pulled the trigger, and a stream of bullets arced through the air toward Konstatinov.

“Get down,” David yelled, but it was too late. Konstatinov stumbled back, dropping his nine, before he crumpled to the ground.

David forgot Konstatinov, forgot Jairo, forgot the stream of death all around him. He dropped into a shooter’s stance, braced his Smith & Wesson on his knees, and drew down on Degrasses, who was frantically trying to ram another magazine into his weapon. He jammed it in, and swung the nose of the pistol up toward David, who took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

He held it down until the Smith & Wesson was hot in his hands, and the magazine was empty. He didn’t lower the weapon until Konstatinov staggered over to him, a scrape on his cheek bleeding profusely, his Kevlar vest dented in the center of his chest, his normally fastidious uniform ripped and bloodied. Gently he took the Smith & Wesson from David’s hand.

“Is over, sir. He is gone.”

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David blinked and met Konstatinov’s gaze. He drew back as cops began pouring in to the yard. The airship swooped down, and hovered over the crash site. David could make out Degrasses, lying in a heap beside his Uzi, the bandanna he had used as camouflage in his wasted run for freedom lying in a pool of blood by his right hand.

A news chopper from Channel 5 swooped in beside the LAPD airship, the dust it kicked up getting into David’s eyes.

He raised his hand to shield his face, blinking away the sudden rush of tears.

A female uni approached him. “Sir, we found something you’re going to want to see.”

David stumbled after her, dashing tears and dust off his face, knowing he was making a smeary mess. The female uni fingered her baton, and eyed him warily.

“It looks like they just got here around the same time we did.”

The trailer was opened, and inside, David could see at least a dozen women, huddled in the back of the trailer. Most of them looked shell-shocked. A few had obviously been crying. David looked around until he spotted Konstatinov, who looked as ragged as David felt. No time for that right now. Konstatinov ignored the EMT who was trying to get him to go with him to the bus. No time for that now.

“Can you talk to them?” David asked, also ignoring a second EMT, who wanted to check him over. “Tell them everything is going to be okay. They have to come down to the station with us, but we’ll get them something to eat. Tell them...” David shook his head, his vision blurring. “Tell them welcome to America.”

Tuesday, 10:20 AM St. Peter Claver Catholic Church, Pittman Street,
Simi Valley

The funeral was held under a cloudless California sky. The brightness was a sharp contrast to the somber gathering of uniformed officers, civilian mourners, and TV crews clustered around the entrance to the grounds. David, and three other men who had worked with Jairo since his Academy days, stood at attention as the hearse carrying Jairo’s body drove into the Simi Valley church yard. David’s dress uniform and white gloves chafed in the growing heat. Once the vehicle stopped, the four of them took up position on each corner of the black hearse. Behind and above them an honor guard of motorcycles and the missing man formation of LAPD airships muttered over the silence of the mourners. Jairo’s widow and the rest of his family, including his two young sons, huddled apart from the sea of blue that filled the cemetery.

Sunlight glittered off chrome, and the array of ceremonial rifles, the leather saddle, and boots of the riderless horse, and the laminated graduation photo of Jairo that most of those present had pinned to their uniforms. A stiff breeze blew off the distant Santa Susana Mountains, and set the funeral vehicle flags flapping. Overhead a redtail hawk rode the currents.

Beyond the gates of the cemetery cars were still entering the grounds. The streets leading to the ceremony had been closed to all but funeral traffic. Cops had come from as far as New York, Alaska and even Canada to attend the funeral of one of their own. The four guards moved off with the hearse, followed by the restless horse, making their way toward the burial plot where the white frocked priest waited in his vestments.

David’s gaze swept over the massed crowds, past the dignitaries, including the Chief of Police, the Los Angeles Mayor, and the LAFD Fire Chief, moving up the ranks of white
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grave stones, and green slopes to the edge of the cemetery. A pair of fire trucks had been brought in, their ladders crossed, holding a massive flag suspended and whipping in the wind. His gaze followed the hills up. That was when he saw Chris.

He stood above the funeral, dressed in black like the other civilian mourners, his slender figure standing stiffly, feet braced as though in a gale wind. He was too far away to see his eyes but David knew he was staring at him.

Since Jairo’s death David had made no attempt to contact Chris, and Chris had not called him. It was better that way.

David’s guilt rode him like a hair shirt. He had failed one person miserably; he couldn’t stand it if he failed Chris, too.

The ceremony ended. The Chief of Police spoke about the tragedy that had befallen one of their own. The rifle salute was fired, the flag folded and presented to Jairo’s widow, along with Jairo’s shield, then the casket was interred. She wept when she accepted them. Clinging to her legs her two sons stared wide-eyed around them, not comprehending what it all meant. Not comprehending that their father wasn’t coming home anymore.

As the crowd dispersed, and made their way back to their cars, David approached Jairo’s wife. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with fresh tears. He stopped in front of her.

“I’m so sorry,
Señora
Hernandez. If there’s anything I can do now or in the future...” He took a deep breath. “He was a good cop,
Señora.
One of the best.
”

The oldest boy, who might have been around twelve, though David was no judge of children’s ages, tucked ragged, chewed fingernails in his mouth and stared solemnly at David.

David knelt down in front of him. “I knew your daddy,” he said, awkward as hell. Kids intimidated him. “I was his friend. If you ever want to know about your dad you come talk to me.”

The boy vigorously chewed on his fingers, eyes wide and staring. His gaze flickered over the photo David had secured to his uniform, then stared at the Smith & Wesson David had donned as part of his formal uniform.