The Bad Shepherd Read online

  “It’s Bo.”

  She smiled as her pulse quickened. “What’s up?”

  “I talked to Sterling Fremont.”

  “How’d that go?” Kaitlin turned around and looked back at the recording console, absently wrapping the phone cord around her index finger. There was an excited, almost anxious tone in his voice. He sounded like a teenager who had just found a case of beer and didn’t know whom to call first.

  “He knows, Kaitlin.”

  “He what?”

  “He knows who the source is, who his brother’s supplier was.”

  Kaitlin was speechless, thinking through the possibilities. Jesus, what if Bo were right? Could she get that on tape? When Bo asked if she were still there, she said, “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking. Are you serious? How do you know?”

  “He’s a cagey little bastard, you know; he didn’t come right out and say it.”

  “Because that’d be too easy.”

  “Right. He said the gang knew he was dealing and was going to take Lorenzo out because he wasn’t sharing any of the profits. He said his supplier got wind of that and started turning off the spigot, cutting his losses. He knows who that guy is, but he won’t tell me. I think he’s either working for him, or he’s too afraid to say his name.”

  “So how are you going to get him to talk?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “I know you well enough by now to know that means something drastic.” She could picture him on the other end of the line shrugging his broad shoulders and flashing an “aw shucks shrug.”

  “So how are you going to get him to tell you who the source is?”

  “Leverage,” Fochs said. “I think he knows who was behind the Courtyard Massacre too.”

  Kaitlin almost dropped the phone. “Get out.”

  “I’m serious. He knows. He knows who did it. He didn’t say it in as many words, but you know about reading people as well as I do. Smug little bastard was bragging about it. Said the Bloods in the Courtyard had to be made examples.”

  “OK, Sherlock, I’ll bite. How are you going to get that from him?”

  “Leverage.”

  “I could’ve guessed,” she said dryly.

  “Press him on the Courtyard murders and get him to give on his brother’s source, or he’ll be taken in as an accessory. If they don’t find the actual shooter, they can make it out like he’ll carry the whole rap himself.”

  Kaitlin’s eyebrow perked up. There were some gaps here. There was something he wasn’t telling her. After a few seconds, she said, “But you’ll need the police to do that. You can’t threaten him with criminal action. You can’t interrogate him either.”

  “You are correct. Fremont’s afraid. The only way he’s going to talk is if I can find something he’s more afraid of. I can trade his knowledge of the Courtyard to get someone in the department to pull the name of Lorenzo’s supplier out of him.”

  Bo was quiet on the other end for a long time. Kaitlin could hear the sounds of the street behind him. He was at a pay phone. He must have just come from the meeting with Fremont. The fact that Bo hadn’t revealed the rest of the plan told her that it was because there was something about it that he didn’t want to vocalize. Saying things aloud had a way of making them true.

  “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?”

  Bo answered after another long street noise filled pause. “He’s in CRASH. I also know that he was pulled into the Courtyard task force. This is what he does. I can trade Fremont’s boss for the Courtyard. PD needs to close that thing in a hurry. If I offer one for the other, he’ll do it. There’s nothing more Mitch wants than to be a hero.” Fochs got quiet for a time. He exhaled heavily, and she realized the kind of weight he’d put on himself.

  “But, is this right, using Gaffney like this?”

  “I’m not using him, Kate. I’m offering something he needs in exchange for something I need. He’ll get valuable intelligence on the Courtyard Massacre, maybe even close it down. I get to find out the name of Lorenzo Fremont’s supplier. Everybody wins.”

  That was too smooth of an explanation. This was clearly something that Bo hadn’t come up with just now on some South Central street corner.

  “But what happens when Gaffney finds out you’re working for the Fremont family? This blows up as soon as he finds out about the trial.” Now, it was her turn to be silent and think. “Bo, you can’t play him like that, it’s not right.”

  “He sold me out to distance himself from the damage I was causing. Didn’t want any association with me to get in the way of his career. That wasn’t right. I’ve been trying to steer Jimmy Mack away from Mitch anyway. I never thought that argument had any traction. Its possible that this trial just dies anyway for lack of evidence. Then, it doesn’t matter.”

  Kaitlin guessed that Bo was trying to justify his actions to himself, convince himself that he could use Mitchell the same way Mitchell had used him.

  “This is the only way I see that I can get Fremont to talk, and I don’t have any other leads as to who the source would be. We’re out of options.”

  “Bo,” she said, her voice tentative. “If you’re sure.” Or, Kaitlin mused this was less about Bo using Mitch as it was Bo reconciling with himself that this was truly the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Kaitlin had known him long enough to have a small idea of what it was doing to Fochs to have to take this step.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Mitch stepped out of the car into the blistering sun. He walked around to the trunk and pulled out their heavy canvas deployment bags, leaving Ellison’s on the hot pavement. “Dave,” he called over the car after he’d closed the trunk. His partner was unlocking the shotgun from the center console. Ellison pulled his bulk out of the car, shotgun over his shoulder. He turned his bull’s head to Mitch.

  “What?”

  “Bag’s back here,” he snapped.

  “Take it into the locker room for me. I need to go talk to the lieutenant.”

  Mitch swore under his breath and picked up the heavy second bag. Not a goddamned thing had happened on their patrol, so Ellison had nothing to talk to the task force commander about. Mitch thought about just leaving it there and letting Dave figure it out on his own while the bag baked in the sun. But the Viking was still his supervisor and could make this into an issue if he wanted. He’d let the outburst with Marlon Rolles slide, and though Mitch hadn’t violated any regulations with that stunt, he had certainly pissed off and possibly alienated a very valuable source of information. A palpable tension had clung to the air between them since the meeting.

  Once he’d stowed the deployment bags, Mitch joined Dave at their table in the task force. Ellison was briefing the commander on their progress, or lack thereof, and Mitch could see from the sour look on Dave’s face that it wasn’t going well. Mitchell opened up the mimeographed casebook and buried his face in it while he tried to ignore the conversation happening at the other end of the table.

  The book was something that the RHD boys brought with them based on their “murder books.” Whenever a homicide case was opened, the detectives kept a running record of everything they found, witnesses interviewed, case notes, everything in chronological order. They’d used the same technique here. At the end of each shift, each team would compile any updates they had and hand them off to rookie patrolmen or reserve police officers detailed to the task force, who would mimeograph copies, hole-punch them, and leave the updates on each team’s table.

  There wasn’t anything substantial in the updates, but they were supposed to look at it daily, and it gave him an excuse to look like he was doing something other than eavesdropping on Ellison’s conversation. He was thumbing through the book when a P-III patrolman detailed from the station walked over with a couple sheets of yellow message paper. “Detective Gaffney?” he asked.

  Mitch flicked his eyes at the man’s nametag, hoping he wasn’t caught. “Hey, Paul. What's up?” He was, and
the introduction came across fake.

  “You had some calls this afternoon. Guy called twice, didn’t leave a message. Just said he’d try you again later.”

  “OK, thanks.” Mitch took the pair of notes from the patrolman and leafed through them. They just read, Unnamed caller for Detective Gaffney, will call back later.

  Dave had finished with the lieutenant and was walking back to their table. He didn’t look happy.

  “That was fun,” he said, pulling up a chair.

  “What’s the latest wisdom from the murder police?” Normally, a remark like that would’ve gotten at least a smile from the other officer. CRASH officers were an elite, handpicked unit, and each of them believed they were doing righteous work, the Lord’s work. They waged a guerilla war against a force that had them outnumbered and outgunned every day. No other unit in the department had to face the same challenges day in day out. The thirteen-year-old kid that you’d bought sodas or maybe even some smokes for in exchange for information one day might pull a MAC-10 on you the next. That kid who called you by whatever nickname you’d picked up on the streets, whom you’d talked to about the Raiders or Return of the Jedi, would just gun you down because he was trying to make his bones, or because he just wanted to see what happened when he pulled the trigger. Life meant that little down here. The RHD guys quipped that one didn’t check into work until someone had checked out, but CRASH officers lived every day on either side of that line.

  “This is serious, Mitch,” Dave snapped.

  Gaffney shrugged it off. Ellison was obviously in a funk that Mitch wasn’t pulling him out of.

  “The lieutenant is putting most of this on us.” Ellison shook his big, neck-less head. “He says RHD will bring it home, but they need us to show them the way. We need to show them where to look. Apparently the speech you gave his boy on your trip into the Jungles stuck.”

  Mitch could sense the irritation in Ellison’s voice. What the hell was he supposed to do, let the RHD guy go into the fucking Jungles half-cocked, start pushing OGs around? That’d get them far.

  “I’m going to see Marlon Rolles. Alone. Hopefully he’ll still talk to me after your little wig out.”

  The phone on the table rang, and Mitch answered. Whoever the caller was, he was thankful for the reprieve.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Mitch didn’t have time to go home first and make it up to Hollywood, so he showered at the station, changed into the jeans and polo shirt he’d worn in that morning, and headed north. His mind raced. He hadn’t spoken to Bo since the day he quit the force, and those words hadn’t been pleasant. Fochs had said he hoped Mitchell burned in hell, and if Mitch needed any help finding the way, Fochs would be more than happy to oblige. Mitch didn’t care much for what people thought of him, but Bo had been a friend—even more than that. A partnership was a sacred trust. This was a person to whom you entrusted your life and who did the same back.

  Sometimes it was the simple mechanics of police work; you got paired up with someone for a deployment period and then someone else the next. But with undercover work, it was a different bond. Watching his friend fall so hard had not been easy. There was a time when he’d trusted Bo with his life. You don’t make that kind of commitment, couldn’t make it, without a deep and lasting bond. It’s a brotherhood. Walking away from Bo, as he was falling, caused Mitchell physical pain, but it was a sacrifice that had to be made. Mitchell knew that. Bo made mistakes, and those things had consequences. Once he realized that his friend couldn’t be saved, Mitch knew the only thing he could do was make sure that he wasn’t in the blast radius himself. Mitch wasn’t proud of his own actions and there were times in the low hours of the night that they haunted him, but he also knew that they were necessary.

  He thought a hundred times about reaching out to Bo over to the years, but talked himself out of it hundred and one.

  So Bo Fochs was the last man he’d ever expected to hear from. He said curtly that he might have information on the Massacre and would Mitchell be interested to hear what he had to say.

  Mitch was wary, certainly, but he was also backed against a wall. The task force wasn’t getting anywhere, and South LA was about to tear itself apart. They had to find a way to stop this thing before it happened. How Fochs could possibly have information on this, he didn’t know, but it was worth a shot.

  They had agreed to meet at the Rainbow.

  Mitch parked off Sunset and walked toward the bar, now regretting the decision—not the decision to meet Bo, just the location. There was big medicine about this place. Mitch hadn’t been on the Strip since he’d left the Rockstars. Part of him wanted to get away from the scene, and part of him just wanted to get away. Mitch also knew that Fochs was still pretty active in the scene, which was something he should avoid. He knew in the first few months after Fochs’ downfall that he would be dangerous. Mitchell had moved out of the house he shared with the actresses and got his own place in Silver Lake.

  Memories flooded back as he stepped into the Rainbow with its entryway plastered with handbills for bands. Some he recognized from local airplay, but most were totally foreign to him. Still, only the names changed. Instead of Ratt, Quiet Riot and Mötley Crüe now it was Steeler, LA Guns and Warrant. Hard memories flooded Mitch’s mind. He and Mitch burned numberless hours in this and the other clubs along the Strip, rocking out and chasing leads, chasing women, headbanging. The memories bore a heavy weight and had a bittersweet taste, as excellent a time as that had been he couldn’t think about it without thinking about how it ended in the destruction of a friendship and Bo’s career ruined—whether he did it to himself or not, Mitch never wanted that for him.

  He approached the hostess and asked for a table for two outside.

  It was quiet now, but it was still early. In about five hours this place would be filled to the rafters with light and sound and rockers. The Rainbow was still the epicenter of the Strip scene, which effectively made it the center of the musical universe, especially with the Whisky and the Starwood now closed. When they weren’t on tour, David Lee Roth or most of Mötley Crüe would be here, likely at Table Fourteen, which was reserved for the heavy hitters. Allegedly, the Rainbow also had one of Hollywood’s finest collections of luxury watches and other assorted jewelry. Rockers rarely, if ever, carried cash, so when it came time to settle the bill, they’d just hand over the Rolex or the Omega on their wrist and call it a deal.

  “You look really familiar,” the hostess told him. “You didn’t used to play here, did you?”

  Mitch smiled somewhat sadly. “No, but I was in here a lot a few years ago.”

  “That must be it. Well, welcome back,” she said, mouth twisting into the ever-sparkle that hospitality workers the world over flashed when they’d stopped listening to anything you said. She led him to a table on the patio. He ordered a beer and waited. The bottle arrived, and Mitch sipped at it, more for something to do with his hands. Mitch had known he’d be nervous but was surprised at how much. If Bo had given him time to think about it, even a couple of hours, Mitch would’ve found a way to back out. That’s what had made Bo such an effective undercover. He had this instinctive way of reading people and always seemed to know how to bend people to his will. Mitch wasn’t nearly as charismatic and knew it. He always seemed to come off hard even when he didn’t intend it.

  “Hey, man.” A light hand touched his shoulder.

  Mitch looked up at the sound of the familiar, but ubiquitous drawl. Now he understood why P-II Paul couldn’t place the accent when he was taking the messages down. Mitch stood, and they shook hands. “Hey, Bo. You look good, man.”

  “Thanks,” he said slowly.

  Mitch studied his former partner. He wore faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a white and red ring tee sporting “Flash” across the front. Freddie Mercury had popularized that t-shirt on their ‘80–’81 tour after Queen scored the B-movie adaptation of Flash Gordon. Bo’s sandy, blond hair was much longer now than when he had been o
n the force, and he was deeply tanned. It was obvious to Mitch he wasn’t missing many waves. The ever-present boyish glint had left his eyes, however. Fochs seemed sad, tired. He had the look of a man who had lived some long nights.

  “May I sit?"

  “Of course,” Mitch said and signaled for the waitress for a round of beers. The former partners stared at each other for a few moments, each unsure of what to say. The last words they’d shared had been hard.

  Both men appeared relieved when the server arrived with their beers.

  “You’re working as a private eye, I hear?”

  “That’s right. Bud McLaren’s group. Gordo Hunter set me up with McLaren after I left.”

  So their old lieutenant was “Gordo” now? His relationship with Hunter was never the same after that meeting in Captain Hilliard’s office. The lieutenant didn’t trust Mitch any more after that day, that much was plain, and it wasn’t long before Mitch cashed in his chit with Hilliard to get transferred over to CRASH. Hunter treated the detective like he’d violated some sacred pact among cops when all Mitch had done was offered a clean, expedient solution to everyone’s problem.

  “It’s a pretty good gig. Most of our work is right here in Hollywood. Plus, Bud lets me set my own hours, so most mornings I can make the first couple of breaks before I head in.”

  Mitch nodded.

  “You remember Early Warning?”

  “Yeah. They got a deal, right?”

  “Yup. Their album is pretty good. They’re opening for Van Halen on the next leg of the 1984 tour.”

  “No shit. Good for them.” Mitch was genuinely happy. He remembered them as being some solid guys and good musicians. One thing he learned working the Strip was what a moon shot it was to get an album deal, let alone have a hit.

  “Yeah, well I’ve signed them up for the McLaren Group to provide security for them.”

  “What, like on the tour?” Mitch found himself smiling. That was every music fan’s dream job, to follow one of their favorite bands on tour and see what went on behind the scenes.