Milo said, “That’s why we’re gonna do it like I just told you.”
No one argued.
Chapter 43
At nine thirteen P.M., Moe Reed, dressed in United Parcel Service brown, drove a UPS van to the curb and parked illegally. Retrieving a cardboard box, he checked the Glock in his jacket pocket, exited the driver’s door, paused again to study Phil Duke’s front door before walking up and ringing the bell.
I was in the back of the van’s empty cargo section, along with Officer Eric Monchen and one of the veterans, a three-striper and former Cal State Long Beach running back named Tyrell Lincoln.
The three of us wore radio earplugs. Monchen looked distracted and uneasy. I felt antsy and confined, sat still to hide it.
Tyrell Lincoln was equally inert but seemed genuinely serene, sitting up against the sliding cargo door that faced the street.
Milo, Binchy, Ashley Burgoyne, and the other vet, a bearish man named Marlin Moroni, had snuck around to the back of the house, aided by the absence of outdoor lighting and a sliver moon smirched by night-haze.
Reed’s body-mike transmitted his footsteps, the rumble of one passing car then another. Tyrell Lincoln sat up an inch straighter but remained expressionless.
Nothing for several seconds.
Then: a woman’s voice, barely audible, muffled by the wood of the door. “Yeah?”
Reed: “UPS.”
Creak. Louder clearer voice: “Well, hi, there. Kinda late for you boys to be out.” Throaty voice, syllables stretched, friendly. More than that. Creamy.
Lincoln’s eyebrows rose. He looked amused.
Reed: “Delivery, ma’am, needs to be signed for.”
“Wow. What time is it?”
“Nine fifteen, ma’am.”
“They workin’ you guys hard?”
“Ain’t that the truth. I don’t mind.”
“Bet you don’t.” Giggle. “Who’s it for?”
“Um... says here P. Duke.”
New voice, male. Stentorian. “Who’s there, baby?”
“UPS for you, Daddy.”
“I didn’t order anything from UPS.”
Reed: “Are you P. Duke? Shipment from Zappos?”
Duke: “What the hell’s Zappos?”
Deandra Demarest: “That’s clothing, Daddy. They got cool stuff.”
“I didn’t order any clothing.”
Reed: “Says here this address, P.—”
Duke: “I know what it says but it’s not mine.”
Reed: “Are you rejecting the shipment, sir?”
“I sure as hell didn’t order any—”
Deandra Demarest: “Why don’t we see what’s in it, Daddy? Maybe it’s a cute shirt or somethin’.”
Another giggle.
Phil Duke, softer: “You got me a shirt?”
“We-ell... don’t you like surprises, Daddy?”
“I mean sure, baby, but—”
Reed: “Sir, if you could just sign here on this screen, I’ve got a whole bunch more deliveries.”
“Yeah, sure, but I’m not paying for something I didn’t order.”
“Sir,” said Reed, “like the lady said, it could be a gift.”
Tyrell Lincoln’s head rose, as if his neck had been elevated by a mechanical hoist. He rose to a crouch. One hand took hold of the door handle.
Waiting for the code word.
Duke: “Where do I sign?”
Reed: “Right here, this little machine.”
Duke: “Everyone’s got a stupid computer — hey, where you going, baby? We got to see if you actually—”
“I need something to open it, Daddy.”
Reed: “Sign here, too, please, sir.”
“You need two?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grumble. “Like I need a shirt.”
“Hey, sir,” said Reed. “Think of it as early Christmas.”
Lincoln bolted the van.
Monchen and I hurried to the front, squinting as we shared the passenger window.
Too dark to see much but the earplugs told plenty, spitting out a grunting, panting scuffle.
Duke: “Hey— wha— the—”
Deandra Demarest, using a new voice, shrill as a screech owl. “Let go of him, you fuck! Let go you you fu— Daaaa-deeee!”
I rolled down the window.
Monchen said, “Is that okay? Don’t you need to be authorized?”
Talking right at my nostrils. Full-on taco breath from his food-truck dinner.
More than a desire for fresh air led me to stick my head out.
Monchen edged closer, muttering, “Oh, man, it’s happening.”
Tyrell Lincoln had positioned himself five feet from the front door, half crouched, hands out, as if ready to receive a pass.
Inert, as he watched the manic ballet in the doorway.
Moe Reed grappling with Phil Duke. Short struggle. Reed’s massive right arm clamped on Phil Duke’s wrist, flinging a good-sized man outward with the ease of someone flicking a dandelion.
Duke’s body beelined to Tyrell Lincoln’s left hand. Lincoln, without shifting any other part of his body, snagged Duke like a relay runner grabbing a baton. In a breath, Duke’s arms had been bent behind his back and he was facedown on his perfect lawn, cuffed.
Reed, no longer visible, had entered the house.
From his wire: “Police! Freeze! Police! Don’t move!”
“Go away!”
“Put that down now.”
“You’re a gangster, fuck you!”
“Put it down—”
“Fuck you—”
“Put it down and don’t move — no don’t come closer.”
“Gangster! Liar! Motherfucker!”
“Put that down! Freeze!”
A new sound intruded. Wall of noise that clarified as multiple voices. No words ascertainable, just a sawmill buzz of speech, growing louder.
Night of the locusts.
Reed’s voice louder: “Drop that now!”
“Fuck y—”
The roar separated into shouting. Reed, Milo, Deandra Demarest.
Reed, the loudest: “Drop it! Drop it! Drop it now!”
“I’ll fucking cut—”
Clap of gunshot.
Five more.
Milo: “Shit.”
Silence. Scratchy noise.
Reed: “She’s gone?”
Milo: “Yeah.”
Marlin Moroni’s basso: “For a box cutter. Stupid bitch.”
Binchy: “That’s what the 9/11 terrorists used. Main thing is you’re okay, Moe.”
A long stretch of audible breathing.
Milo said, “Who shot?”
Silence.
Then, a new voice. Girlish, tremulous.
Ashley Burgoyne said, “Did I do the wrong thing?”
Chapter 44
I got out of the van.
Eric Monchen said, “Hey, hold on,” but he followed me.
We passed Tyrell Lincoln standing over Phil Duke’s prone form.
Duke whined. “My arms hurt like a bastard.”
No concern about Baby.
Lincoln said, “Just hold it together, man.”
Monchen said, “Need me to watch him, Sergeant?”
“I’m fine.”
Monchen and I continued toward the front door. He said, “I don’t get how you’re authorized to do all this.”
I said, “Luck and interpersonal skills.”
Moe Reed stood in front of the doorway, big arms dangling, impassive.
He said, “Sorry, Doc, no entry, they’re still clearing room by room.”
Monchen stepped in front of me. “I’ll help clear.”
Reed didn’t move. “Not necessary, everyone’s got a gun out, we don’t want surprises.”
“Oh,” said Monchen. “So what should I do?”
“No one’s called it in, yet. You know the code, right?”
“Sure,” said Monchen. Far from certain. “Should I call from the van?”