“It’s so much worse than that,” Bromilow said gravely.
“How so?” Birch demanded.
“You’re facing a major drug trafficking fall, Mort.”
As far as Clayton knew, Bromilow’s ploy was total poppycock. The lieutenant had sent Detective Armijo off with a half-dozen narco cops to illegally arrest citizens in the dead of night without probable cause. Narcotic cops had a reputation for playing fast and loose and covering up their maneuvers that violated the rule of law. What Bromilow had done tonight could easily be challenged in court if word of it ever got out. Clayton wondered what he’d do if he was subpoenaed to testify on Mort Birch’s behalf.
“That’s nonsense,” Birch said.
“Try to show a more cooperative attitude,” Bromilow replied in a chiding tone.
Birch replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Like I told these officers who brought me here, I rent this place out. Whatever is going on inside, I know nothing about it.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind us taking a look.”
Birch hesitated and shook his head. “Get a search warrant. I want a lawyer.”
Bromilow sighed and shook his head sadly. “Of course, but not just yet. You’ll be allowed to call a lawyer after you’ve been booked into jail.”
Birch nodded. “Then take me to jail. I’m freezing out here.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Bromilow said.
“Get what?” Birch answered.
“We’ve had a tail on you all night,” Bromilow said. “All those people you visited after you left here. Well, they’re talking.”
Birch gulped hard.
“So you and I are going to stay right here until I hear what they told my people.” Bromilow pointed in Clayton’s direction. “By the way, where can we find Brian Riley? Sergeant Istee would like to know.”
Birch glanced at Clayton. “Who?”
“Brian Riley,” Clayton said. “Minerva Stanley Robocker’s friend.”
“The teenage kid she hung out with?”
“That’s him,” Clayton said.
Birch shook his head vigorously. “How the hell should I know where he is? I met him maybe twice.”
Bromilow’s cell phone rang. He answered quickly, listened intently, thanked the caller, and disconnected. “Okay, Mort,” he said. “This is the way it’s gonna go down. I’ve got five people in custody who say you’ve been dealing drugs to them. That’s a major trafficking beef. Now, I’ve been in this cop business for a long time, so I know you’re a new player in town and maybe not totally clued into what happens when you get busted, convicted, and sent to the slam. But the bottom line is, you’re going to lose everything, Mort: your freedom, your Mustang, your condo, this house. Think about that, and think about what you can do to make your immediate future a little less bleak.”
Mort Birch’s bravado began to waver.
“I know you’re probably thinking you can make bail,” Bromilow continued, “and keep your freedom while the lawyers try to work some magic on your behalf. But I’m not going to let that happen, Mort. My people are going to work overtime from the moment you’re booked to find, tie up, and seize every asset you have, so that no bondsman will want to take a chance on you. And believe me, I’ll make sure the DA asks the judge at your preliminary hearing to set a hefty six-figure cash bond. Have you got half a million, six hundred thousand lying around?”
Mort shook his head.
“As a first-time offender who cooperated with the police, you might get a lighter sentence at a minimum security prison. Let’s say five years, but out in two and a half with good behavior. Plus guys don’t get raped that much in the minimum lockups.”
Bromilow paused to let his words sink in. “What’s going on inside the house, Mort?”
“It’s a marijuana factory,” Birch replied. “A pot hothouse.”
“How many people are inside?”
“Two.”
“Two Vietnamese men?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they armed?”
“Probably.”
“How do they figure in this?”
“They’re part of a West Coast gang that was buying me out. A week from now they would have been back on the West Coast with the grass from this harvest and the title to the house, and I would have been completely out of the business.”
Bromilow nodded sympathetically. “Sometimes it’s a damn shame the way things turn out. Do I have your permission to enter the premises?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Mort.”
Bromilow passed the word about the possibility of armed suspects to the officers and detectives on scene before hitting a button on his cell phone and requesting a SWAT team at his location pronto. He turned Birch over to a nearby officer and gave Clayton a concerned look as they walked out of the street and climbed into Bromilow’s toasty-warm unmarked vehicle.
“It doesn’t appear that we’re going to find who you came for, Sergeant Istee.” Bromilow blew into his cupped hands to warm them. “But thanks to you, we can score one for the good guys tonight.”
“Let’s see how it plays out,” Clayton replied, thinking it had been a night filled with all kinds of jokesters and tricksters and it wasn’t over yet.
Chapter Eight
Before the SWAT team arrived, the Vietnamese men inside the house tried to make a getaway through the rear patio door. They were quickly apprehended by detectives covering the backyard, put facedown on the ground, cuffed, and searched. Each of them was packing a semiautomatic handgun and carrying over five thousand dollars in cash. Their driver’s licenses didn’t match the names or the Motor Vehicle Division photos of the registered owners of the vehicles parked in the driveway. When questioned, they refused to talk or reveal their true identities.
Bromilow separated them, took their photographs with a digital camera, downloaded the pictures to his laptop, sent the photos to the DEA agent on duty, and asked for help in identifying the men. Then he had the suspects placed in different squad cars under the watchful eyes of uniformed officers.
Although Mort Birch had sworn that the two Vietnamese were the only occupants in the house, Bromilow decided to play it safe and wait for SWAT before attempting entry. From an officer safety standpoint, Clayton thought it was a wise move. But then Bromilow got stupid and started showboating, making appeals over a bullhorn asking all remaining occupants to exit the house, which served only to rouse more neighbors, who began gathering behind the cordoned-off areas at either end of the street.
As Clayton watched Bromilow in the middle of the street, entreating any additional unknown occupants to peacefully exit the premises, all he could think was that the lieutenant suffered from either blatant self-destructive tendencies, a grandiose need for attention, or both.
SWAT arrived, and as soon as they were set up, Bromilow, with a look of eager anticipation, sent them in full bore. Within minutes the SWAT commander gave the all clear. Bromilow, Clayton, and a squad of APD detectives swarmed into the house to find that all the non-load-bearing interior walls had been demolished; exhaust fans had been installed in the roof to ventilate, filter, and disperse the smell of the marijuana-laden air; all the exterior windows and glass in the house had been spray-painted black; and row upon row of high-tech hydroponic growing tables contained healthy-looking, mature marijuana plants. Bromilow estimated the house held a multimillion-dollar crop.
It was a sophisticated major marijuana factory, and Clayton and the APD detectives spent a few minutes examining how it had been put together. Electrical cords and water lines ran across floors and up stairways or were tacked against the remaining load-bearing interior walls. Strands of thousand-watt grow lights hung above the tables, and a network of tubes fed a nutrient solution to the plants. Narrow walkways separated the rows to maximize the growing space. Plants five feet tall and the high humidity made the house look and feel like a single-species arboretum.