Then the guy’s smile vanished and his hand closed and his arm flew up and now he was aiming straight at her.
She ducked low. Ping. Ping. Metal and plastic vibrated.
Casagrande was off the radio, standing to the right of his door, his service revolver aimed straight at the guy. Who kept firing at Karen.
One more bullet hit her door. Then another. And another before Casagrande shot the guy. Aiming for center body mass like he was trained but missing and hitting him low in the gut. The shooter looked surprised.
Red spread on dirty gray cotton.
But he held on to his weapon and Casagrande, thinking of Karen, elevated his arm in correction and was about to fire again when the guy let the gun roll from his finger and clunk on the sidewalk. He stared at Casagrande, openmouthed, stood there for a second. His knees went first, bending, buckling, collapsing, then the rest of him. He fell on his face, blood spreading around his bulk.
Sirens were wailing. Karen Brousse thought, When did that start? She saw the stricken look on Armando’s face and motioned him back. Approached the bad guy, her gun gripped in two-handed Weaver stance.
Lots of blood. No movement. The fool’s head had landed on its right side, exposing a gaping mouth and five inches of thin, gray-brown beard. Poor Armando, first time he’d fired his weapon, other than at the range where she outshot him every time. Now he’d killed someone. Her baby would have to go through the OIS crap.
What she wanted to do right now was nudge the body with her toe just to make sure he was no longer a threat. But people had massed on the sidewalk across the street and one was phone-filming. If she touched the fool, even delicately, the internet would accuse her of kicking a poor, defenseless victim of police brutality.
No sign of the gun. Probably trapped under him. Why do that? For what? Jelly beans and bongs?
He looked damn dead but just to be safe she’d warn whoever came over to move him. And now his smell reached her and yeah, he did reek, stale and sour, like someone who’d slept in his clothes for a month. Those tats, definitely prison art. Up and down his neck and what she could see of the backs of his hands. Love on one set of knuckles, Hate on the other. No imagination.
She’d just turned her back to see how Armando was doing when four spiffy, black-and-white Explorers sped up and screeched to a halt. Adrenaline was starting to do its thing and she was draining. Let someone else take over.
The fool on the ground groaned.
She wheeled and re-aimed at him. Her heart felt like it had stopped. Then it started thumping like the power hammer in her dad’s machine shop.
The guy didn’t move. No more sound. Maybe what she’d heard was one of those weird after-death things, gas escaping, whatever.
Then she saw it. Rapid pulse in his inked-up neck. Each beat swelling the belly of a crude, black, snake tattoo. Like the hideous thing had just swallowed a mouse and was digesting. Creepy.
Her own heart raced faster. She stood there, hot, cold, hot, eyes blurring, starting to get nauseous.
But she kept her eyes on the snake as it pulsated. Fool was alive, unbelievable. Probably because Armando had shot low.
If he survived, fool would probably be shitting into a bag for the rest of his life.
Fine with her.
Though it would be paid for by the taxpayers and that sucked.
Crazy world but the one she’d signed up for.
A voice behind her said, “You’re covered, Karen.”
Three officers, all of whom she knew well but in her state, she had no clue what their names were.
One of them, a small Black woman, took Karen’s arm and guided her back. Name tag: S. Joyner. Oh yeah, Stella.
Karen said, “He’s still breathing.”
Stella Joyner said, “Very funny.”
“He is. Look at his neck.”
Stella did. Said, “Wow. A few hours ago, we got called to an eighty-year-old woman, home-invaded, beat up, died of a heart attack. And this guy survives.”
Karen said, “Life’s not fair.”
Stella Joyner said, “If it was, we’d be doing something else.”
Chapter 47
An Inglewood captain named Laquitha Morrison was smart enough to remember the BOLO and considerate enough to phone Milo. He was at my house when the call came in, assaulting a triple-decker sandwich and bemoaning the policeman’s lot.
“Sturgis.”
Morrison introduced herself and said, “We got your multiple murderer, Gilmore.”
“Fantastic!”
“But complicated,” said Morrison. “He’s at Centinela Hospital getting his bowel stitched up.”
She told the story.
Milo said, “What kind of gun did he pull?”
“Cheap Polish automatic,” said Morrison. “Why?”
“I was hoping for a .38 Police and Military.”
“Then you’ll be happy — I’m going to call you Milo, okay?”
“You can call me any damn thing you want, thanks so much for cluing me in.”
“Didn’t want you to hear it on the news,” said Laquitha Morrison. “Anyway, we found one of those, too. Thirty-eight revolver. Along with another cheapie .22, a .25, a sawed-off shotgun, three pairs of brass knuckles, one with spikes, and a bunch of knives. All in his motel room. We found the room because he had a three-day receipt in his pocket.”
“The car—”
“Black Honda, we found that, too, parked in the lot out in front of the motel.”
“Which motel?”
“The King Henry,” said Morrison. “Anything but regal. We did a forensic tow. Car was dead, our tow guy said it looked like a blown head gasket.”
Milo said, “Breakdown. That’s why he stayed in town.”
“Lucky for you, Milo.”
“Lucky for me you did all the work, Laquitha.”
“Aw shucks,” she said. “Anything not to get de-funded.”
He laughed. “Anything else in the room?”
“Whatever was found we took. You can wait for us to log it or come by.”
“The latter,” he said. “You’ve been great, again thanks. You mind if I pay Gilmore a visit?”
“Suit yourself,” said Laquitha Morrison. “I’m concentrating on all the OIS noise that’s sure to come. And supporting my people. The officer who shot him is a sensitive sort and people were phone-photoing the scene. Hope some prick doesn’t edit and warp.”
Milo said, “Gilmore’s implicated in my three murders and a good bet on four more. Can’t imagine anyone’s gonna turn him into a hero.”
“In a perfect world, Milo. But you know how it is, reality’s a concept, no longer a thing.”
Chapter 48
That afternoon, Milo and I drove to Centinela Hospital, where he used his badge to get us into the ICU.
In the movies, doctors are always warning cops about unduly stressing patients and displaying an overall hostile attitude to law enforcement. A. Singh, M.D., Rooney Gilmore’s attending physician, said, “Have your way with him but he’s been in and out of consciousness, good luck.”
“Prognosis?”
“Hard to say with a bowel wound,” she said. “He tolerated surgery okay but you never know how many bad little buggies have leaked out.”
“He say anything?”
“Mostly he fought the cuffs and cussed everyone out. He did tell one of the nurses that it was an Isis thing.”
“He sees himself as a terrorist?”
“People like that,” said Singh, “does it make a difference why they do the things they do?”
She led us to a room in a corner, separated from the others in the ward and tagged with a hand-lettered IPD/Special Circ. sign taped to the door.