The Bad Shepherd Page 2

  “Dom lost him once they got into town. Guy knows how to spot a tail. Dom felt like he got shook.”

  Bo nodded. “And all this was after the Rik meet yesterday?”

  “Yeah. We ran his plates today, but the name on the DMV registration was bogus. We’re checking it against known aliases, but I don’t think we’re going to get anything. This guy is good. He can duck a tail. Car is in a fake name too.”

  Bo shook his head, slowly. This was not standard procedure for a drug dealer, even a high-end one. Not to mention, where’d he pick those skills up? “I think tomorrow is going to be very interesting, partner.”

  Headquarters brass knew the unit as the Special Narcotics Detail. Lieutenant Hunter, the squad CO, wanted to keep them off the books entirely or put them in the black hole that was the Intelligence Division, but the Detective Bureau commander wasn’t about to give up a lieutenant and six handpicked detectives to another unit, no matter the logic. Hunter had relented and chose an innocuous title. Exciting names like “CRASH” or “SWAT” drew attention from both the public and the press. Hunter wanted neither.

  The inspiration for what would eventually become the Rockstars first came to Hunter when he read a report in the LA Times by a local economist who theorized there was at least 15 percent more liquid assets in the Los Angeles branch of the Federal Reserve than there should have been for a city that size. This suggested a massive underground economy. While that couldn’t be attributed solely to cocaine, Hunter knew the designer drugs’ usage had exploded and with it the profits from selling it. He also knew from reports by the DEA and Miami-Dade Police that it was coming into the country like it was borne on a river. Here in LA, the film and music industries were the two largest consumers of the drug, and both spawned cultures that practically emulated it, if not embodied outright.

  Hunter’s theory was you target the biggest consumers and you’ll work your way back to the biggest suppliers.

  Enter the Rockstar Squad. They worked the Sunset Strip music clubs and the recording studios posing as industry types, band members, producers, gophers, disk jockeys, agents, managers, and roadies. They went to shows and conned their way backstage, snuck into tour buses, and went to parties in the Hills all to develop intelligence and cultivate leads on who had the best product, where were they getting it, and how soon could they get more. They worked undercover to find out who was supplying the high-dollar clients, the bands, and the producers and then used that information to work their way back up the supply chains. There could only be a few distributors who had the organization and the reach to move that kind of product. The intelligence the squad gathered so far suggested that there was a small number of large, very capable distribution networks in Los Angeles and that they were getting their product from two or three importers who dealt in significant volume.

  “So, we all set for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” Bo said, thumbing through Mitchell’s surveillance report. It was thorough and precisely written. Bo typically deferred to his partner with the reporting, Mitch’s attention to detail was second-to-none and even Bo recognized that Mitchell was the better detective of the two of them. Mitchell spent long hours in study, even in his off duty time to hone his skills, whereas Bo tended to operate on instinct. “I handed the ops plan off to Top this afternoon, and he approved it. Captain approved all of the artifacts for the Richard Ranes alias, but there wasn’t time to run it through the DMV to get the DL made.”

  Mitch shrugged it off. “I doubt a guy that uses a Steely Dan song title for an alias is going to card you.” Mitch stood and stepped away from the table. He twisted back around to face his partner when he was a few feet away. “So, the guys are coming over around eight for beers then we’re heading to Gazzarri’s. Mötley Crüe comes on at eleven. Bring a six.”

  “I think I’m going to hang back tonight.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, I want to be frosty for the takedown tomorrow. I’m going to take it easy.”

  Mitch held his gaze for a hard second and then broke into a smile. “What’s her name?”

  “Same one,” he said.

  “Well, bring her along.”

  “We’ll see. Now will you leave me alone so I can finish this up?” He waved his hands over the pile of papers in front of him. “There’s serious police work going on here.”

  “You’d be done with that if you didn’t burn your morning surfing.”

  Bo held up his hand for a departing high-five that Mitchell returned. “I’ll see you in the morning. Be ready.”

  “OK. I’ll meet you for breakfast.”

  Bo nodded a response, and Mitch left him to his paperwork.

  Chapter Three

  The house on Chelan Way in the Hollywood Hills was what the detectives would have described as “post-modernist asshole”: just shy of 3,000 square feet and nearly all of that pressed up against the two-story floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a staggering view of Los Angeles. It wasn’t just money that got you a place like this. You practically had to have your own gravity.

  Rolly Rubinstein was such a man. He had produced a string of pop hits in the mid-to-late ‘70s and worked with everyone from John Denver to the Bee-Gees. The word was Rubinstein was already courting the Go-Go’s for the follow-up to Beauty and the Beat. The Rockstars busted the producer six months before and part of his plea bargain was that he’d help the squad out however he could and whenever they asked. Since they were using his house for a sting, Rubenstein’s lawyer had made certain this got him off the hook.

  Rubinstein had a minimalist decorating style, off-white and light blue glass that he’d once told Gaffney and Fochs was intended to “evoke a Mediterranean aura.” That’s how people talked up here. Everything was “auras” now.

  Bo walked Rik through the buy scenario. They’d done it twice before, but he wanted one more go so that Rik had a chance to relax before Deacon showed up. Bo wore a double-breasted gray suit and power tie, looking every bit the yuppie asshole with his hair slicked back against his skull.

  “You’re going to answer the door and bring him in here. We’re going to have drinks laid out on the table here. Everybody is going to be nice and relaxed. Bring him into the living room. When you introduce me, I want to just to say ‘this is Richard Ranes,’ that’s it. I’ll hand him one of my cards, and we’ll sit down. I’ll take it from there. You are not to interact with him once we get started, do you understand me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m serious, Rik. You say the wrong thing, and the deal could get blown.”

  “I said I got it, Foxy.”

  “Just Fochs, Rik.”

  Bo shot him a stern look, but the guy was edgy and looking everywhere but at Bo. The detective was increasingly concerned about Rik’s ability to perform after his unscheduled trip inside the café. In those moments, the detectives all shared the very real fear that Rik was going to try escape out the back of the café and cost them their shot at the next link in the chain. Bo brooked no deviation from his plan today.

  “Now, once we make the buy, I’m going to say ‘right on.’ That’ll be my signal to the other officers here that the transaction is done, and they’ll come out and make the bust. Stay out of the way when that happens. If there’s a problem, and I think it’s going south, I’ll say ‘far out.’”

  Bo gave it a second to sink in. “Are we totally clear, here, Rik?”

  “Crystal,” Rik said snidely. “Hey look, I gotta piss. Your rich friend got a bathroom?”

  Bo pointed it out. Rik got up and left the room. Bo followed him and took up station right outside the door.

  “Everything OK in there?” Bo asked when Rik reemerged. “Thought you might have fallen in.” Bo covered the hallway with his body and stared down at the promoter, studied his face.

  “I’m a nervous pisser, OK?”

  Bo gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “No one’s watching you in the bathroom.”

  “The fuck I know, way you got
this place wired, man.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the only thing around here that’s wired, huh?” Bo stepped aside and let Rik pass.

  The promoter sat down on the white couch, leaned back into it deeply, and exhaled heavily. “Hey, it was just a joke, man. I’m cool, seriously.”

  “Maybe we don’t have a joke-making kind of relationship there,” Mitch said from the kitchen.

  Mitch walked back across the room and headed toward the study that was off the living room where he’d wait during the sting. If Deacon Blues tried anything during the buy, Mitch would be right there. Just a precaution since the other two officers were upstairs, but the few seconds could make all the difference. The partners exchanged a quick nod before he disappeared into the study.

  Bo walked over to the giant windows and stood, captivated by Rubinstein’s view. Growing up in a place, it was easy to lose the beauty of it. You saw it every day, and maybe the appreciation wore out over time. Maybe you’d never get it at all. Was that why these assholes bought mansions up here, looking down on the city? Was it that LA was so grand that the only way you could take it all in was to see it from up here, or was it like a piece of art, something you hung on the wall and appreciated only when you wanted to? Or maybe the city was something that could only be appreciated from a distance. Get too close, and you can see the stains.

  Three hard knocks came from the front door.

  The detective turned from the window. Go time.

  Rik, still on the couch, anxiously looked up at him. Bo nodded and aimed two fingers at the door. Rik stood and moved down the short hallway. This was tricky. He didn’t trust Rik and didn’t want him out of his sight. Bo knew Rik wasn’t going to run but he could pass a clandestine word to Deacon. But it would also look odd for Bo to go to the door with him and he also didn’t want to spook Deacon.

  Bo stayed on the couch and listened as Rik opened the door and exuberantly greeted the guest. “Jesus, don’t oversell it.” He whispered.

  Rik reentered the living room with the man Bo sighted through his camera at the café. “Hey, what the fuck is this,” he said when he caught sight of Bo.

  Bo set his drink down, stood and straightened his suit.

  “It’s cool, man; this is the guy I was telling you about.”

  “You didn’t tell me about any fucking guy that was going to be with you, Rik.” The man turned on the club promoter, who probably topped out at five-nine. Deacon Blues was a good two inches taller and clearly athletic, but it was a sinewy, predatory build.

  He looked and moved like a jungle cat and was tanned, not bronzed. Brown hair and eyes, aquiline nose, his face was thin but not chiseled. Bo recalled a comment Rik made in the interview room, I don’t know; he kind of looks like everybody. Looking at the man, Bo understood that was a surprisingly accurate description. This was a man who could very easily blend into a crowd.

  “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” Bo asked.

  “No, there’s no problem,” Rik blurted out. “Everything’s cool.”

  “Everything is not cool,” Deacon said and punctuated it with a finger in Rik’s chest. “You know goddamn well I don’t talk to people I don’t know. The fuck is this?”

  Bo stepped around the glass coffee table and couch to close the distance. “Well hey, guy, I’m Richard Ranes,” he held a hand out, affable, all smiles right out of the company pamphlet. “Now you know me.”

  Deacon tentatively reached his hand out.

  Bo said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Rik, here, he never tells me anything.” Bo gave another textbook “ha-ha,” so precise it would have to be timed, and that was the point.

  “Deacon Blues,” the man said.

  “Don’t tell any of the guys coming tonight, but I love Steely Dan,” followed by another perfect “ha-ha” and a wink like they’re all in on the joke. Bo waved his arm toward the living room, beckoning Deacon to come in, getting him into the room and away from the door. Deacon took a hesitant step forward. Bo watched the other man size him up, as if calculating the odds to some unknown bet in his head. Bo gave him another one of those industry grins, all teeth and bullshit. “So, are we cool, or are we cool?”

  They sat on the white couches. Deacon unslung the messenger bag he was carrying and set it on the floor by his feet.

  “So,” Bo said. “I’m not sure if Rik told you anything about what we’ve got going on tonight, but it’s going to be pretty exciting.” Bo set his drink down on the blue glass, leaned forward on his knees, and tented his fingers. “We’re signing QR. Part of this, I admit, is pure showmanship. I want to show these guys I can deliver for them.” Bo said the latter part slowly, distinctly pronouncing each word. “The other part is I need to show them I can throw one hell of a party. Which is where I hope you come in. Now, Rik tells me you have the best shit on the West Coast.”

  Deacon gave Rik a look that asked, What else did you tell him?

  “Now, is it Peruvian or Columbian?”

  “Columbian,” was said after a slight pause.

  “Good man. Kind of like cigars, am I right? You want the best you go to the motherland. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “That’s right,” was all he said.

  “What else is there to say?” Rik added needlessly. “I told you he had the best shit.”

  Bo ignored him. There was already a flammable tension in the air, like a gas station in a bad neighborhood. “I apologize for the short notice, but you know how things go in this town. The guys who win are the guys who can put the deal together in a few hours. I’m sure it’s the same in your business.”

  “That’s about right,” Deacon said. He looked a little more relaxed, though he was still perched forward on the couch. Ready to spring.

  “This deal tonight is going to mean some big things for me. I like to take care of those around me. Rik, here, helped me sign the band so he’ll be coming with, of course.”

  “Fuckin’ A, right.”

  Bo tried not to roll his eyes and wished Rik would just stop talking. What the hell was the matter with him? “Unless all those rumors I hear of him still listening to disco are true,” he said, following with a perfectly timed “ha-ha.”

  “I can see that,” Deacon said.

  “Hey, fuck you guys. Neither of you knows shit about what—”

  Bo held a steadying hand up. “Hey, just playing with you, guy. I owe you a lot, and I always take care of my friends.” Bo looked to Deacon. “Which is where you come in. As I said, I’m about to make some big moves, and that means I’m going to need a reliable supplier. I only ever buy from one person, and I don’t do business with people who don’t impress me. You’re here because Rik said you can deliver, and if that’s true, well, we can be in business for a long time. I pay top dollar for two things: quality and security. So tell me, Deacon,” Bo put a lot of weight on the name. “Are you my new guy?”

  Deacon reached down and pulled the flap of his messenger bag. Bo, casually as he could, put his right hand on his thigh near his concealed weapon. The dealer leaned forward, blocking Bo’s view. The detective’s fingers twitched. Bo could see Rik fidgeting in his seat out of the corner of his eye. Deacon drew his hand out of the bag and set the white brick on the blue glass tabletop. Bo didn’t relax until he saw Deacon lean back in his seat.

  “There it is,” Deacon said, looking at Bo rather than the brick. “This is completely uncut. The price is 90,000.”

  “Rik said it was 80,000.” What was this guy’s game? Nobody jacked the price that much overnight.

  “Yeah man,” Rik spoke so fast it came out as one word. “He fuckin’ said it was eighty, Richard. Swear to god, man.”

  Bo patted the air with his left hand but didn’t take his eyes off Deacon. “No worries. This is all just negotiation. It’s cool.” Bo put his attention back to the matter at hand. “If that’s 100 percent pure, I’ll go eighty-five. That’s, what, 20 percent over street value?”

  “No way, man, he’s fuckin’ ri
pping us off.” Rik grabbed Bo’s arm. “He fuckin’ said eighty, man.”

  Bo finally acknowledged the agitated, excited club promoter. “No one’s ripping anyone off. Why don’t you go get the money? My briefcase is in the kitchen. I’d also like you to get a knife, so I can test the product.”

  Rik stood. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that. Yeah.” The first floor was one large, open bay, except for the powder room and the study where Mitchell sat waiting. Rik walked around to the kitchen situated against the far wall with an island in the center. Rik found the briefcase and picked it up, setting it on the blue marble surface of the island. Then he went rummaging through the drawers.

  “Sure you want to trust him with a knife?” Deacon asked.

  “He’s fine. Just a little jumpy is all.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Rik doesn’t handle pressure well.”

  Rik returned with the briefcase and a huge kitchen knife. He set it on the glass top table, and cradled the briefcase full of money like a baby. Bo looked down at the knife.

  “Christ, Rik. I just want to open the bag; I’m not carving a turkey.”

  “Hey that’s what there fucking was, man.”

  Bo made the “easy boy” air pat. “OK, OK. How about you have a seat?”

  “No, I’m good. I’ll just hold onto our money.”

  Bo picked up the knife and went to pop open the bag, but Deacon but a hand over it before he could. “Not until I see the money.”

  Again, not taking his eyes off Deacon Blue’s, Bo said, “Show the man our money.”

  Rik looked unsure of what to do for a second, and then rotated the case so it was parallel with the ground. Cradling it with one arm, he flipped the catches, practically bending over the thing to do it. Finally, he pulled the lid open and tilted it down so Deacon could see the stacks of bills inside.

  The dealer rotated his hand off the bindle like a magician revealing a trick. Bo picked up the brick, held the knife on its side, and pushed in until the plastic popped. Bo pulled the blade back, clumsily, spilling a little white powder onto the glass table. This would’ve been a lot easier with the pocketknife he usually carried for this sort of thing, but that would’ve seemed a bit out of character. Richard Ranes was the kind of guy who had things handed to him. He licked the middle finger on his left hand, ran it over the small pile of coke on the knife blade and tasted it. He paused for a moment, looking every bit the connoisseur mulling over a fine product. It was pure. His tongue went numb almost immediately. Finally, Bo nodded. This was all for show. An actual field drug test required scientific equipment that no one but a cop would have. He set the knife on the tabletop, spilling the rest of the small pile onto the blue glass. He pointed two fingers from his left hand in Deacon’s general direction, cueing Rik to make the buy.