The Bad Shepherd Page 15

  “So, where are we heading?”

  “We’re going to see a friend.”

  “OK, Kojak.”

  “Sorry, I just try to keep this one on the DL.” Ellison wheeled onto MLK. “Guy’s name is Marlon Rolles.” The big cop let the name hang in the air between them.

  “Wait, isn’t he the anti-gang guy?”

  “The same,” Ellison said. “He is an OG. Was,” Ellison corrected. “Damned near coined the term. He was with the Original Harlem Gangsters back in the day before they turned into one of the first Crip sets. And he was a bad dude. I mean, real bad. I scuffled with him a few times back in my P-II days. Anyway, he goes up to Quentin for a stretch on an ADW rap. Finds Jesus while he’s in the can and starts talking to guys on the inside about dropping the life. Apparently, there was a pretty big brawl between the prison gangs up there, and the warden actually asked him to intervene, get them to knock it off.”

  “It work?”

  “Guess so. He keeps up this advocacy thing and starts working with the prison chaplain and some social workers to create a program to help get guys out of the gangs. This is while he’s still locked up, mind you. Parlays that and some good behavior into an early release. He gets out and starts the Next Chapter Foundation with a state grant and some private donors. Fucking Time Magazine wrote a piece on him.”

  Ellison trailed off for a bit, and Mitchell watched the urban sprawl pass by his open window. Hot, stale, dirty air rushed in with the smells and sounds of the street. It was a miasmic funk even at forty miles an hour.

  “What’s your connection with Rolles?”

  “He’ll slip me information on someone every now and then. If he hears something is about to go down and if he can share without its getting back to him, he will. When he learns about a new up-and-comer, he’ll let me know.”

  “What does he get in return?” Mitch asked. He wasn’t buying it, and the skepticism leaked through in his voice.

  “I try to let him know when I find guys on the street who might be open to a way out. I give him the names, and he does the rest. Most times they never know it’s me, though sometimes they do.”

  Ellison slowed and turned north onto Crenshaw. They weren’t far from the spot where they had found the group of Rollin’ 60s the night of the massacre. “People know that he occasionally works with the police, Mitch. That’s good for his rep. Just don’t go into his office acting like a cop, OK?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Ellison pulled the unmarked into a strip mall on the east side of Crenshaw. Only three of the six units were occupied. The Next Chapter Foundation was on the end. A Korean convenience store and a fairly questionable fried chicken joint occupied two of the adjoining stores. Ellison admonished Gaffney again that he was to remain quiet. The foundation’s reception area was small with chairs along the street-facing wall. A television playing local news hung from a ceiling mount. The tan walls were adorned with motivational posters showing young Black men in various stages of second chance. The carpet was dark brown and musty, and a receptionist sat behind a sliding window along the far wall, giving Mitch the impression this had once been a doctor’s office.

  Ellison approached the window, offering a very rare smile. “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Mr. Rolles.”

  “You got an appointment?”

  Mitch couldn’t see her behind Ellison’s mass, but he thought he could draw her face from her voice.

  “I do. Tell him Dave Ellison is here to see him.”

  “’K.” Mitch heard her key an intercom. “You can head on back.”

  “Thanks.” Ellison looked back to Mitch and motioned with his head to follow. They walked back through the foundation’s offices. To Gaffney it just seemed like a lot of angry faces with some social workers thrown in for good measure.

  Rolles’ office was on the second floor overlooking the street. The door was open, but Ellison knocked on the doorframe and waited for Rolles to look up from his work. The former gangster raised his head from whatever was occupying his attention and flashed a neutral smile when he recognized Ellison. Rolles stood. The man cast an imposing figure. Mitch put him at six-three or six-four and the lighter side of 250 pounds. Rolles’ head was shaved bare, but he sported a thick, neatly trimmed beard. He had wide, heavy eyes, and when he looked at you, it felt like his sight was smothering you.

  Rolles walked around to the front of the desk to greet them. “Hello, David. It’s good to see you.”

  Gaffney didn’t know what he thought Rolles would be, but not this. Maybe Mitch was expecting a ranting man in a dashiki or a black leather jacket and turtleneck. This was a linebacker with a business degree. Rolles wore a light green golf shirt, navy pants, and black loafers.

  Dave stepped forward and shook Rolles’ outstretched hand. “This is my partner, Mitchell Gaffney.”

  Rolles looked at Mitch and sized him up. He held the detective’s gaze until recognition flashed in his eyes. His pupils flared, but he just nodded slowly. “Mitchell Gaffney,” his voice rolled, sonorous and low. He extended his hand, and Mitch took it. Rolles held the shake for a time, repeating his name. It sounded like a rock dropped in an oil drum.

  Rolles took a step back and beckoned them into his office. He went behind his desk and sat, offering them the chairs in front of it. Afternoon light cast a bright glow on the window and desk, illuminating the space behind Rolles and darkening his facial features.

  Mitch looked around the office as he sat, the same brown carpet as the first floor with wood paneled walls. Something about the room didn’t sit with him, felt out of place but Mitch couldn’t figure what it was. There were framed photos of Rolles and various civic leaders and local celebrities hanging on the walls.

  “Now.” Rolles rested his elbows on the desktop, tenting his fingers. “How can I help you?”

  Mitchell really wished he could see Rolles’ face. He knew this wasn’t an interrogation, but as a detective he treated nearly every encounter as one.

  “We’re here about the Courtyard Massacre,” Ellison said, sighing heavily. “We were hoping that you could shed some light.”

  “This is exactly the thing I’m trying to prevent through my work.”

  “I think everyone would agree that this situation has gotten out of control.”

  Rolles bobbed his massive head slowly, sadly, but said nothing.

  “Let’s start with what you’ve heard? What can you tell me?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. The street is quiet on this one.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “It’s true, David. There is all kinds of talk, but none of it is useful. If anyone knows who is behind this, they aren’t saying anything. But people are scared; that much is true.”

  Mitch looked at his partner aware Dave was growing frustrated.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Marlon. What are you really hearing? We need to close this case before it touches off a war down here. Mitch met with the P-Stones yesterday, and they are getting ready to do battle. If they know who did it, they aren’t saying, and my fear is that they’re just going to strike out indiscriminately at whomever they’re beefing with.”

  “The street has a way of escalating disproportionately,” Rolles said, his voice strained. “I don’t agree with it, but I can’t say I blame the Stones for reacting. Those animals murdered children.”

  “Then help me get them. What do you know?”

  Rolles was silent, considering, brooding.

  “The night the massacre happened, Mitch and I rolled up on a pack of ‘60s way up Crenshaw, not far from the Jungles. They were too far outside their territory for it to be anything but a statement.”

  “You press them?”

  “Of course we did. They were the first people we talked to after the shooting. We even brought in a couple of the ones we’d seen that night for questioning, but they didn’t kick anything loose so we had to let them go.”

  Rolles set his hands on the desktop. He looked to h
is left, searching the pictures and citations on the wall for an answer.

  Mitch watched the massive shoulders rise and fall with the big man’s breathing. “All I can offer is this. I will put the word out. I’ll talk to people and see what I can learn.” He looked back at Ellison. “No one wants a war. I may be able to appeal to some of the people I know from the old days. I doubt anyone will finger one of their own, but maybe the gravity of the situation will help common sense prevail.”

  “Common sense, are you kidding me?” Mitch blurted out before he even knew what he was saying. Ellison’s head whipped around so fast it made a crack, his eyes on fire. “Ten people are dead, and you’re talking about common sense? How about putting the word out that if we don’t find out who is responsible, the police are going roll into South Central like an occupying army? We’re not going to have a full-on gang war right before the Olympics.”

  “What would you have me do, Detective?” Rolles said slowly and coldly. “Shoot a man?”

  Mitch’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “I remember your name now, Detective.” Rolles’ voice was low thunder. “I wonder, what would the outcome have been if Lorenzo Fremont had shown some common sense?”

  Mitch’s pulse raced, and he felt his palms moisten. His hands shook, and he clenched them as if to ward it off. “Maybe he’d be in your program.”

  Ellison gave his partner a cautious look. “I’m sorry for that, Marlon. Mitch is just nervous about the consequences for the city if we can’t bring this in. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Rolles stood. “I will call you as soon as I have something to share. In the meantime, I’d focus your efforts on the ‘60s. As you say, an incursion that far into P-Stone territory is a statement. If you need a little additional leverage, there is a house on Sixty-Sixth between Crenshaw and Eleventh you might want to check out.”

  “I’ll do that,” Ellison said, eager to get the meeting over with. He was clearly embarrassed.

  “OK, then. I’ll be in touch.” Rolles walked to the door. The message was clear.

  Mitch left the room so fast he almost left a breeze in his wake.

  Ellison had the car heading south on Crenshaw before he spoke. When he did, it was a quick and violent explosion of words. “What the fuck is the matter with you, Mitch!”

  “What the fuck is the matter with you? You hear what he said to me? ‘What do you want me to do, shoot someone?’ What the fuck is that about? I think about that night every day of my goddamn life. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t regret what happened, and I will not have some fucking ex-con gangbanger accuse me of shit. I don’t care what he’s trying to play himself off as.”

  Voice even, but still holding all of its earlier anger, Ellison said; “Calm down, Mitch.”

  “No, fuck that. How many people do you suppose he killed in cold blood, Dave? Pick a number. He’s going to judge me?”

  “Mitch—”

  “Pick a fucking number. Ten, fifteen. How many, Dave? How many people has your boy killed, and he’s going to say shit like that to me?” Mitch looked out the window, speaking to himself more than to his partner. “We should just roll down here and occupy the place anyway. Only way we’re going to stop what’s coming.”

  It didn’t seem relevant anymore to tell his partner that it seemed a little off to have an office without a filing cabinet.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Marlon Rolles brooded in silence for the last few hours, staring out the window at the growing flood of afternoon traffic on Crenshaw, fingers tented and pressed into the flesh just below his lip. An electric fan turned stationary circles in the stuffy air of his office, offering little more than the electric drone and providing no comfort. Marlon wasn't surprised that Dave Ellison came to see him today, was actually surprised it had taken this long. They'd traded information on and off over the years. The arrangement had suited Rolles well enough. Ellison would tell him whom CRASH was targeting in a particular investigation, sometimes-even turn over promising candidates for the foundation. All Rolles had to do in return was offer up the names of people he wanted off the street, the people he “couldn't help”.

  Rolles keyed his intercom with a large finger. “Jamaal, you come in here a minute?”

  “Sure thing.” Jamaal Shabazz appeared in his doorway a moment later. He sported a smaller frame than Marlon but still carried some heavy muscle and had a darker complexion. His shorter stature didn't make him that much less imposing, however. He also sported an Afro that almost didn't fit in the doorway. It was completely out of fashion now but Jamaal wore it to remind people that he was from the earlier, tougher generation on the street. Shabazz was dressed in a black golf shirt and khaki pants. Several chains hung around his neck. He and Jamaal had been brothers in every sense but blood. They’d come up together in the gang. Lost touch when they both went to prison but reconnected on the other side and rekindled their friendship. Jamaal was the only person Marlon could’ve trusted with the idea for the foundation.

  “What's up?”

  “The name Mitchell Gaffney mean anything to you?”

  Shabazz looked off to the side, “no, I don't think so.”

  “Well it should,” Rolles snapped. “He's the cop that killed Lorenzo. He was here,” Rolles put a hard finger on his desktop. “Today, with Ellison.”

  “Oh shit,” Shabazz said, drawing it out.

  “Yeah.” Rolles stood and faced the window, considering. After a moment he cocked his head to the side. “Put someone on him tonight. I want to know where he goes, who he sees, what he does, everything. I don't fucking believe in coincidence.”

  “You got it.”

  “Now, Jamaal.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Fochs shifted in his booth feeling like every nerve in his body was exposed. He knew he shouldn’t be here, and that bothered him, but not as much as the conversation he was about to have. Fochs sat in the Studio City Café in Burbank, just down the street from the NBC building. It was fifteen minutes to eight. This was a long shot, and he knew it, but one of the first things he learned as a detective was that sometimes you had to play the hunch, go on your intuition and take chances. Kaitlin Everett had no reason to talk to him, and he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t show. Their phone call had been brief with Everett’s voice clipped. Fochs wasn’t sure if he’d been hung up on or not.

  Fochs asked for a booth by the window and sat facing the door. He ordered a coffee from a waitress politely because it was still early and tried to occupy his thoughts until Kaitlin arrived, if she did. He really didn’t expect her to show. By eight, he’d finished his first cup of coffee and the waitress had been by twice asking if he’d like to order breakfast. By eight fifteen, Fochs was just taking up valuable real estate, and the waitress was looking at a one dollar tab. Fochs asked for another refill, to carry him to the bottom of the hour, at which point he’d admit defeat and leave.

  Kaitlin Everett arrived at eight twenty-five.

  They’d never met in person, and he’d known she was an attractive woman from TV. In person she was just south of stunning. Everett wore a white blouse and a tight gray skirt. Her dirty-blond hair fell past her shoulders. She saw him, recognized him, nodded slightly, perfunctorily, and strode over. Fochs stood when she arrived.

  “Good morning, Ms. Everett,” he said awkwardly. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Sheer curiosity, Fochs.” She sat without further invitation from him. That wasn’t entirely true either, and Fochs knew that as well. Getting her to show had taken some convincing and a hell of a lot of supplication.

  The waitress saw her arrive and appeared instantly, doubtlessly hoping this meant they’d finally order something. Kaitlin asked for a coffee.

  “So,” she said at length, her expression hard. Both of her hands rested on the table as if unsure of what to do with them. They had the air of a couple that had broken up and was trying to figure out what to do with the words they had
left to say. The waitress arrived with Kaitlin’s coffee. Fochs told her they’d be fine for now.

  “I never got a chance to apologize to you.”

  “I didn’t give you much of a chance,” she said, her words laced with irritation.

  “For what it’s worth, everything I told you was true. But I was wrong in leaking it to you. I should’ve known the department would retaliate.” He placed his hands on the table. “I guess I was a little too blind.”

  Everett nodded.

  Bo’s pain was obvious, and Everett seemed to pick up on it. When she spoke again, her tone had softened.

  “I appreciate that, Fochs. The station.” She punctuated her words with an acrid half-laugh. “Whatever PD told them they bought wholesale. It was six months before I was reporting again, but even then it was just human-interest pap. I didn’t do hard news for a year. I’m just now getting back to where I was. When it happened, they told me that I was short-listed for a network job, but that my name had been removed from consideration for lack of judgment. Apparently, my news director had lost some face with NBC and wanted to salt the wounds a little.”

  Neither of them said anything for a time. Fochs knew this was awkward. Lorenzo Fremont linked them since he had been the toppling point of their respective careers, though Everett at least seemed to be climbing back. For that, Fochs was grateful. Without it, the rest would be impossible.

  “So,” she said finally. “Why am I here? I know it’s not just to hear an apology.”

  Fochs nodded slowly.

  “You said on the phone that Lorenzo Fremont’s family has hired you?”

  “To prove their son was wrongfully killed and that the LAPD covered it up.”

  Everett actually whistled. “I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to pull that off.”

  “I’m not,” he said nonchalantly. “Or rather, if I do, it’ll be more like collateral damage.”

  Everett was clearly confused.

  “Mitch Gaffney panicked and shot Fremont. The family wants to sue the department for wrongful death. Fine.” Fochs shrugged, “I don’t care anymore. Fremont was always a sideshow.”