Both of the men nodded. Reed looked disappointed.
Milo said, “What?”
“Not going to lie, L.T. From Bel Air to the beach is nonstop seven-figure houses. I like a pleasant drive as much as anyone but I’d rather be useful.”
“That’s if you take Sunset. Go with Pico and come back on Olympic.”
“Got it.”
Sean said, “Me, too?”
“No, you stay on Sunset. You can wear a blindfold through Beverly Hills but once you get into West Hollywood, there’ll be plenty to eagle-eye. Especially east of La Brea, plenty of the same kind of roach-palaces all the way to downtown.”
Sean said, “On it, Loot.” Bright-eyed and ready to go.
Reed tapped his foot. Alicia kept giving the board sour looks.
Milo said, “I know the whole search is iffy at best and with the black-and-whites having the BOLO, you could be thinking, why bother? But just getting the uniforms the info means nothing. Some officers pay attention, others don’t. The marshals are a better bet and no one’ll be happier than me if they find him. But we’re not extraneous because we’re focused.”
Alicia frowned but said nothing.
Milo said, “This is an open forum. What?”
She said, “Obviously, I’ll be giving it my all, L.T., but I’m just wondering why he’d stay in town.”
“That’s a very good point,” said Milo. “But since when do we limit ourselves to sure bets?”
Chapter 46
Three days of fruitless searching passed before Sean and Alicia were pulled off and assigned to a street mugging / attempted murder barely on the wrong side of the West L.A. — Venice border. Milo and Reed continued to look for the black Honda, but Milo’s captain was making noise about optimal use of Reed’s time.
The United States Marshals’ Fugitive Task Force, working with the FBI, did a commendable job of communicating with their units nationwide. The FBI also produced three unsolved shoot-to-the-heart deaths other than Nicole Fontenot, coinciding with Rooney Gilmore’s travels. Two in Atlanta, one in Biloxi, Mississippi, all associated with armed robberies.
The Biloxi victim was an Ethiopian immigrant working as a convenience store clerk, left on the floor of the business, shot once in the heart, the till empty, CCTV picking up a stocky hooded killer. The Georgia cases were both bartenders, one male, one female, ambushed shortly after closing time and relieved of the night’s take. No cameras.
Unlike the California homicides, bullets had been recovered intact, each time tracing to a .38 Smith and Wesson Police and Military revolver. A common weapon and lack of communication among three teams of detectives meant no attempt had been made to match ballistics. A rush job meant the FBI lab might get the results back in a week.
All in all, a well-coordinated effort.
It didn’t matter.
Inglewood police officers Armando Casagrande and Karen Brousse were doing their usual midmorning thing: patrolling a particularly annoying stretch of Imperial Highway in their spiffy new Ford Explorer. Annoying because the street was lined with by-the-hour motels and the businesses they attracted and that meant nuisance calls, lots of them. More street psychology than police work.
Casagrande and Brousse didn’t mind nuisances. Their previous assignment had been the night shift and they’d contended with tides of serious gang crap and more than their share of maimed and dead bodies. They’d applied for the transfer days apart. Not by chance, they were a secret item and joked that one day they might actually use one of the no-tell motels. If they could bring their own sheets.
One hour in, having just finished 7-Eleven coffees, they received a 415 call to a smoke shop two blocks from where they were chilling in the parking lot. About to read this morning’s BOLOs but that was boring and actually going out on a call was a lot more fun so they checked with Dispatch.
Attempted shoplifting and threatening behavior at a smoke shop. Probably another homeless mental case. They knew the store and the only thing you could easily lift were dinky edibles and a few bongs left on the counter.
When they got there, the owner, an emaciated goat-face named Otto Banks, was standing out front, moving his foot up and down and gesticulating with pipe-cleaner arms.
Armando Casagrande said, “Whoa, he should use his own stuff.”
Karen Brousse laughed, pulled up to the sidewalk, and asked Banks what the deal was.
“Guy lifted all my pipes and my sweet-treats, just scooped it into his pockets and told me not to report it or he’d blow my fuckin’ head off.”
That was another level.
Brousse said, “Did he show you a gun?”
“No, but he groped around in his pocket, you know? I’m not taking chances, I let him rip me off and called you. Go get him.” Pointing south.
“Description,” said Casagrande.
“Fat guy, white, er... knit cap, yeah a cap,” said Banks.
“Anything else?”
“Inked like a con, stringy beard on his chin. That enough?” Tapping faster.
“How old?”
“I dunno,” said Banks. “Forty? Also, he smells bad. Can you just get him? Please?”
“Clothing,” said Casagrande.
“Shitty,” said Banks. “Smelly green jacket — like a military whatever. Big pockets, he stuffed them, just cleaned me out. Are you gonna go get him or what?”
Brousse said, “Of course, sir. Anything for our citizens.”
Smirking. Armando loved her sass.
Brousse pulled back onto Imperial. “The old hand-in-pocket thing. We shoot the fools, turns out it’s a toothbrush we’re the bad guys. There should be a law against stupid.”
Casagrande said, “I hear that.”
She loved his agreeability.
They went south, checking the main drag and side streets, on the lookout for a fat white guy with pockets full of jelly candies and dope toys. It didn’t take long to spot him, walking stiffly but fast. More stocky than fat. Wide but solid-looking.
Head down, shoulders all bunched up. Black watch cap, olive-green army surplus jacket, soiled gray sweats, combat boots.
Brousse pulled up ten yards behind him, shifted to Park, and checked that her vest was on tight. Armando’s, as well.
He said, “Thanks, I’m fine,” and got out. “Sir. We need to talk to you.”
The guy stopped, rotated slowly. Flashed what he probably thought was a friendly smile that came across confused.
Casagrande muttered, “Definitely another mental case, okay, here we go.”
He approached, hand on holster. “How you doing, sir?” Using honey, not vinegar, his natural tendency plus it mostly worked.
The guy nodded and kept smiling. Then he slipped his hand under the jacket and toward his waistband.
Glint of metal.
Casagrande ran back, flung his door open, and crouched behind it. Creating a shield like he’d been trained.
Brousse did the same.
“Oh shit, Karen. He really is packing.”
Brousse did her authority-scream: “Drop the gun drop it drop it drop it drop it!” while Casagrande called for backup.
She rose from her crouch and peeked through the driver’s window. Kept shouting.
The guy seemed unfazed by the noise. Looked at her, shrugged, then let his eyes drop to the handgun he’d retrieved. Uncurling his fingers, he held the weapon in an open palm, as if offering a gift.
“Good,” said Brousse. “Now drop it and follow my instructions do it now.”
The guy nodded and lowered the gun.
Thank God. This would end easy.