The Bad Shepherd Page 16

  “But you’re taking the job?”

  “Look, they want me to be an expert witness or something. I’m going to sign a deposition saying Fremont’s crew all testified to the fact that he was unarmed at the time and that he never carried inside the house. I’ll also state that, to the best of my knowledge, Mitchell Gaffney was carrying a backup weapon. I’ll try to prove that the weapon came out of evidence. The serial numbers were all filed off, but there will be evidence records.”

  “But that’s not why you’re doing it.”

  Fochs nodded. “That’s not why I’m doing it. Do I believe Fremont should’ve died? Not specifically. But I’m also not sorry he’s gone. Nor do I think the people of Los Angeles should pay a couple million dollars to a drug dealer’s family. What I do want is a chance to prove that Fremont was taking orders from somebody and that person is still active and polluting our city with his shit. He was dealing a lot of drugs. He was all over Hollywood and had his fingers in the music industry and in the studios. But a lot of that shit went to kids. Fremont wasn’t calling the shots, though, and the guy who was is still out there pushing product. I think that’s actually the better use of the family’s money, and that’s no bullshit.” He looked back to Everett who had a quizzical look on her face. “Bringing that to light is my closure.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “The department made Fremont out to be a goddamn drug lord. I mean, come on. He was a mid-level crew runner in a large Crip set. How was he ever going to get a straight line to Columbia?”

  “But—”

  Fochs nodded. “We know that’s possible, now.” Fochs placed a hard emphasis on the last word. “LAPD, FBI, DEA, all think the cartels are dealing directly with the gangs in South LA, but three years ago, those linkages hadn’t been made. By anyone,” he said with a hard, flat tone. “At least, we didn’t think they had. It didn’t even cross our minds that the South LA gangs would be getting into coke. Everything was going through Miami at that time and flown across, driven across, whatever. No one knew about a direct link between Columbia and South LA.” Fochs sipped again and the quality showed on his face in a slight twitch around the corners of his mouth.

  “OK, I’ll bite; how are you going to prove it?”

  “I’ve got some old leads to start with, things that were never pursued as far as they should’ve been. I admit all of this is a long shot, but I have to. That case cost me more than my job. I need to find out who was above Fremont to prove to myself that I was right, maybe encourage the right people to act. If they can catch that guy, then maybe all this was worth it.”

  “What’s my part in all this, Fochs?”

  She was direct. Bo had to give her that. He suppressed a smile.

  “The reason I contacted you the first time was that I thought if Fremont’s story were in the papers, public pressure would force the police department to continue the case. I have the same idea now. If we can prove that they were wrong about Fremont initially, maybe people will start asking questions, and the investigation will finally get the traction it needs.”

  Everett gave him a level stare. Fochs guessed she was a hell of an interviewer.

  “The family’s lawsuit is a pretty good excuse to have a story,” Everett said. “I’ll give you that. This wouldn’t work if it were coming out of left field.” Everett’s eyes went to the window for a time, but more quickly than he’d have expected, she turned them back across to him. “OK, I’m interested. If there really is something to this, I want the exclusive scoop.” Kaitlin’s voice was tentative, but resolved, testing the waters. “And it can’t be a hit piece. I won’t do the story if it’s just you getting back at the department that forced you out.”

  “I’m past that,” he told her in a heavy tone.

  “OK,” she responded, the tumblers in her mind already clicking into place. Everett looked at him, gathering her things. “I’ll take what you’ve told me to my news director; we’ll see where it goes from there.”

  “I understand. Coming to you was my way of trying to make it up.”

  “We’ll see. That prick of a news director, the one who came down on me because of the story left a year ago. We have short memories in my industry as long as you don’t fuck up in public.” Kaitlin slid to the end of the booth, holding a wry smile on her lips. “I’ll be in touch in the next couple of days. No promises, but we’ll see where it goes, OK?”

  Everett stood and smoothed out her skirt. Sunlight hit her face.

  Fochs dug out a couple dollars from his wallet and dropped them on the table in an unceremonious pile.

  “I’ve turned my dining room into a bit of a war room. Why don’t you stop by and see what I’ve got? Would actually help me to have a second set of eyes on this, let me know I’m not shooting in the dark.” Fochs gave her the address. She agreed to meet him later that night after she’d pitched her news director. They shook hands, Everett smiling, clearly excited by the possibilities.

  She said as she left, “Just be careful, Bo. Not all second chances are good.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Fochs left work early to clean up before Kaitlin arrived. He’d spent the day observing Kit Carson’s niece and making phone calls, inquiring about the ex-boyfriend. From what he’d been able to gather, the niece was in little danger. It sounded like Clint Downey was just the meathead bodybuilder and amateur football player people made him out to be. Oh, he was every bit the jealous, possessive louse Carson described him as, but there wasn’t the history of violence to back up Carson’s fears. He didn’t have an arrest record, and none of his neighbors dimed him out as a slugger. Fochs went back several years, interviewing past roommates, neighbors and any anyone else that Karen Carson suggested they talk to. He even spoke to people Downey played football against. No one thought Downey was the violent type. Temper, absolutely, but he had never acted on it. Still, Fochs knew what peace of mind was worth to people who paid for it, so the agency would keep at it.

  Fochs popped an Anchor Steam from the fridge and looked over his Fremont case files. Van Halen’s new record, 1984, was cranking from the hi-fi. Fochs was amazed at how much the scene had changed in the last three years. When he was working the Strip with the Rockstars, there was a feverish, almost desperate energy. The bands and the fans alike felt it. Just walking around the clubs in those days, you knew you were a part of something. By 1984, it was a full on movement. The Sunset Strip was the cultural epicenter of rock n’ roll. Kids throughout the country flocked here to join bands and make it big. Fochs sometimes missed the old days, the times when it felt like the Strip and the music played there was just their thing when bands like Ratt, Mötley Crüe, and Early Warning were local acts, guys you’d go have beers with or chase girls with after the show. Now they were opening for the likes of Van Halen, Ozzy Osbourne, legitimate stars in their own right.

  Fochs had never left the Strip. He still prowled the neon lit street most nights, moving from club to club, following the music and discovering new bands. He was still part of something. When he wasn’t surfing, he was actually out there more than when he’d been with the Rockstars. This movement had no age. Most of the bands were barely out of high school, if that, or in their early twenties. But some were a little older, not getting a break during punk, disco, or new wave and now going for another chance to break. Bo knew how that felt.

  There was a darker side to that, however. With the older crowd came means, and that typically meant greater access to vice. It had been electric in the early days, but it was a lightning storm now. The clubs, the Strip itself was fueled by a visceral energy. Most nights, Fochs was glad he didn’t carry a badge anymore. The brazenness of it was incomprehensible. In his day, people would sneak off to the bathrooms or at least try to be discreet. Now you could find coke stewards at most of the clubs, and they’d bring it right to your table.

  Interestingly, after the Fremont case, the supply line dried up. For a few righteous weeks in the summer of ‘81 there was actually a cocaine dro
ught in Hollywood. This only buttressed the argument that Fremont had been the guy. By then, Fochs was out of the department and didn’t much care. It wasn’t long before someone else filled in the void. Later, he’d heard from Narcos he’d worked with that in the latter half of ‘81 rock cocaine use exploded. With that came an equal surge in gang violence, as the sale and use were located almost entirely in South LA.

  Fochs hadn’t put that together until now.

  The group hadn’t been rolled up. They’d simply retooled and changed their product and their customer base. They shifted to operate in a place they knew the police weren’t looking at.

  As he thought on it, Bo realized a savvy organization could pivot from powder to rock, accepting some disruption to their cash flow. By keeping the production localized to South LA, where they knew the police were not overly concerned about rock cocaine, they could manufacture as much as they wanted, where they wanted and how. When the department finally caught on, they were fighting a wildfire that might never be back under control. Now everyone was manufacturing rock cocaine.

  Fochs finished his beer and set it on the counter, grabbing a fresh one from his fridge. He returned to pacing in his dining room, looking at the command center he’d established. Fochs prayed that Bud wouldn’t find out. He knew, now, that he was willing to risk everything he’d built over the last three years and his relationship with Bud McLaren. He also knew that he didn’t have any other choice.

  He’d be careful. Fochs would work on his own time, and Jimmy Mack agreed that Fochs’ involvement in the matter would stay secret. That in and of itself was a huge risk. He knew that the lawyer wanted nothing more than to parade the ex-partner of the man who killed his client in front of a jury, but Fochs was explicit. Eventually, the cagey attorney agreed. Fochs would work through Jimmy Mack and Kaitlin Everett.

  Kaitlin arrived at a quarter after six with a briefcase and a paper bag. Fochs’ nose told him she’d brought Chinese. “I brought dinner,” she said unnecessarily, more to fill the air. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I got a little of everything.”

  “Please, come in,” he told her, smiling brightly. Fochs ushered her in and took the bag of food. He set it on the kitchen counter and went for plates.

  “Don’t bother,” she said, with a slight, sheepish smile on her face. “I always eat it straight from the carton. Bad habit from college.” She reached into the bag and handed him a pair of chopsticks, then popped one of the containers.

  “Beer?”

  “Love one.”

  He pulled a fresh Anchor Steam out of the fridge, opened it, and handed it to her. After they each selected the meal they wanted, Bo led her over to the dining room.

  Kaitlin probed the contents with her chopsticks, leaning on her back leg as she tracked from the corkboard to the dry erase boards sitting on the easels, and from there to the papers he’d tacked to the wall and the mass of documents sitting on the table. Fochs studied her as she studied the room. She wore a white polo shirt bearing University of Florida around the school’s mascot and tight Jordache jeans. Everett was slightly taller than average, Fochs put her at five-seven. She had dirty-blond hair that fell past her shoulders in waves and sly green eyes that seemed almost to glow. He assumed that was some trick she did with makeup, but he really had no idea. Everett had a thin, patrician nose that turned up slightly, but just short of button, and a small mouth that turned down slightly at the corners making it appear slightly pouting until she smiled. Then her face lit.

  “Ok,” Kaitlin said, taking a napkin from the table and dabbing at the corners of her mouth. “Walk me through it.”

  Fochs set his container down and walked around the table. He started with the corkboard, which showed a recreation of Fremont’s crew. Each gang member’s name was written on a 3x5 card. Deacon Blues’ name had a star next to it, which Fochs explained meant he’d been turned. Rik Ellis’s card was below Deacon’s, also starred. Fochs walked her through the investigation, starting with what led them to Rik and the night Fochs busted him. He left out nothing, including his relationship with Daphne. Fochs knew that was a risk to his overall credibility, but he believed that was the only way Everett would understand his side of his eventual fall from grace.

  Talking about it still burned him.

  When he reached the part in the story where he was called to Rik’s house to find Daphne dead, Kaitlin gasped and put a hand in front of her mouth, whispering, “Oh, my God.”

  Fochs explained his actions calmly, almost surgically. He told her that he knew it was wrong and wasn’t trying to justify what he did. He’d thought about that night so many times since it happened, but he accepted the consequences, knowing that he owed Daphne that. Kaitlin asked her questions respectfully but probed him deeply for the truth. Did he love her? He thought so. Did that compromise the investigation? No, he didn’t see her as being part of it. Didn’t he see her as partially responsible? Fochs had asked Daphne to be careful, but she’d trusted that Rik wouldn’t serve spiked product.

  Kaitlin asked what happened to Rik.

  Fochs killed his beer. “Nothing, in the end. We needed him to keep quiet about the investigation, and he wouldn’t do that if he were pushing the brutality complaint, so they cut him a deal.” Fochs’ voice turned sour. “If he agreed to keep his silence and not press charges against me, he’d walk on the drugs and the manslaughter.” Fochs shook his head slowly and looked at the ground. The anger of that night rose and boiled up to the surface in a slow and hateful simmer, always tearing at his soul, never letting his mind rest. “So Rik walked. I’d see him out time and again. I usually avoided the Starwood, unless one of the bands I liked was playing there, but I would occasionally run into him. He was a smug little fucker, kind of rubbed my nose in it once I wasn’t a cop anymore.”

  “What an ass,” she said.

  “He was that.” Fochs saw her expression turn at the past tense reference. “Rik was the promotions manager, as you know.” Fochs walked back to the fridge and got two more beers. “Drugs were always free-flowing at the clubs, but we knew the Starwood’s owner, Eddie Nash, was a pretty significant mover. He eventually got sent up for that quadruple homicide on Wonderland Avenue.”

  “That was the one John Holmes was implicated in, right?”

  “That’s the one. Anyway, November of ‘81, I tipped off friends of mine in the Narcotics Bureau about what was going on at the club. In December they raided the place and found all kinds of shit. Most of the staff was rolled up, including our old pal, Rik. By now, he’d run out of favors with the LAPD. With his prior and heretofore unpunished activity, the judge threw the book at him. Treated him like Rik was trading on a favor. He got seven years at a state work farm. Thing is, Rik went in there with a bit of a stigma. Once he got into the system and word got around not only that he had a snitch jacket, which didn’t make him any friends with his fellow inmates, but he also killed a cop’s girlfriend, which didn’t make him any friends with the corrections officers. I understand he got a bit of a rough go. I can’t confirm anything, but I heard that the COs didn’t treat him very kindly and didn’t do much to help him when he got there. He’ll come out of jail, but he won’t be the same.”

  Kaitlin stared at him quizzically, not sure of what to make of the statement. Fochs offered no further explanation other than it was all in his record and that word gets around.

  That he’d helped spread that word went unsaid.

  “So, how do you want to attack this?” she asked finally.

  “The guy in that purple Olds is the key.” He’d told Kaitlin his theory about the OG that rolled by him that night, the one who scared Cutney into silence. Fochs admitted that it was incredibly thin, but it was the one thing he felt was never followed as far as it should’ve been. The man was never identified, neither could anyone explain to Bo, least of all Cutney, why he’d gone silent and refused to talk after seeing the man in that car.

  “I agree, but how to find him?”


  “DMV records are a long shot but the best place to start. I know roughly the year. We can start with that and narrow it down to the ones that are registered in South LA We can cross-check those with the paint shops down there that might’ve done the work. Again, another long shot, but those guys sometimes take Polaroids of their work and hang them up in the shop. It’s possible.”

  “I can take that on,” she said. “I’ve got some contacts at the DMV. I know some people in the department who can run it down too.” Now it was Bo’s turn to be quizzical. It was common for reporters to make connections with police officers, but usually they were out of Parker Center where the juiciest stories originated. “I’ve made some new friends in South since this Courtyard Massacre thing.”

  Fochs nodded. “Next up, we need to press Fremont’s former crew, the ones who are still around. I can use the lawsuit as a cover. I think the strongest link is with his little brother. He didn’t say it outright, but Jimmy Mack led me to believe that young Sterling Fremont is going to great lengths to outshine his brother. One of those guys has the name. If we can connect that name to the car, we can prove the head of that gang was doing a drive-by the night Fremont was killed to assess the damage.”

  “That won’t be enough for a story, or a formal investigation.”

  “No, it won’t. But it will give us the name. From there we can start unraveling the network. It’s got to start somewhere.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Fochs looked out his window at the buildings along Cahuenga and the Hollywood Hills beyond, still bathed in the pale light of the morning, bristling with nervous energy. Absently, he scratched at the base of his neck. His nerves always stood on end when he went long periods of time without surfing. He’d been working so much lately that he hadn’t had time to get on his stick and ride. Fochs sipped lukewarm coffee from the mug in his hand, mapping out his conversation with Jimmy Mack. Bo knew it would be impossible, or very nearly so, to prove that Gaffney shot Fremont that night. Even if they could bring this to court, all they would have was the word of a disgraced ex-cop with an obvious ax to grind against the word of his former partner, who was publicly honored for the act. Who would their witnesses be? Fremont’s crew? Each of them was a hardened criminal, gangster, and drug dealer, not exactly the stuff of great character witnesses.