The Bad Shepherd Read online

  Fochs’ pulse quickened. When he’d rehearsed this speech he’d had a vision of holding the information over Mitchell until he dragged Sterling Fremont out of an interview room with the name of his brother’s supplier. But Fochs knew that for this to work, he and Mitch would have to show some amount of trust. That would never happen as long as Bo was working with Jimmy Mac and lying to Mitch about the truth of the case to say nothing of the broader implications that Mitch had just identified. In truth, Bo had never considered those because he never imagined it would go that far, had not prepared himself for the possibility that it would. McLaren’s practice relied heavily on his contacts inside the department and District Attorney’s office. They wouldn’t want anything to do with McLaren if they found out one of his detectives supported a lawsuit against the department. Or, Bud would have to make a very public display of cutting his protégé loose in order to distance himself from the fallout. It’d be nearly impossible for him to make an honest living as a private detective in Los Angeles.

  He had no idea how he was going to unwind this with Jimmy Mac or what the attorney would do when he did.

  “You’re right,” he said, quietly. Fochs turned to resume their walk. The heat was blistering today. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and neck. Foch’s mouth was desert dry but that may not have been from the heat. Bo weighed the choice before him. If they didn’t listen to him and pivot the case, Jimmy Mack would certainly lose and Bo’s name would be dirt. Worse, it would be dirty. But, working with Mitchell would mean he’d have to trust Mitchell. Could he trust his former partner to honor his end of the bargain, to see this through if and when it became politically dangerous? What if Mitch had to choose again between his career and doing the right thing? Bo knew how Mitch thought, knew that he didn’t always separate those two things in his mind.

  Jimmy Mack was potentially dangerous, but that was a danger he’d created. It was his responsibility to manage. If they had a chance to close the case they started three years ago, Bo knew he had no choice but to take it.

  “I’ll back out of the suit and recuse myself,” Bo said at length. “If they decide to pursue it, I’ll let you know so you can do damage control. There’ll be some blowback on me, but I can manage that.”

  Mitchell nodded and gave a sad half-smile in acknowledgement but otherwise said nothing.

  “Sterling Fremont, Lorenzo’s half-brother, is the source,” Bo said finally. “He’s a Rollin’ 30. Street name is ‘Stir Crazee’. It was the Rollin’ 30s that killed those kids.”

  Mitchell’s face went slack.

  “Jesus Christ. Why?”

  “He didn’t give me a reason. At least, not one that makes sense to the world we live in. Said they needed to be made an example of. When I pressed him on it that they were kids, he said that if you’re in a Blood neighborhood ‘you’re not innocent, you’re just not guilty yet.’ They did it because they could, to send a message. They weren’t even beefing, near as I can tell.”

  Mitch hung his head for a moment and a bead of sweat coursed down the side. “So senseless.” Then, “so what’s the play?”

  “I think you pull him in as part of a Courtyard sweep, tell him that you’ve got information that it was the Rollin’ 30s and that he can tell you who did it or he can swing for it himself. Make something up about how the police are going to hang this killing on someone to avoid a gang war. Those guys all think that’s how the PD operates anyway; you won’t have to sell it that hard. Then see what he’s got to trade. That’s how you get him to kick loose on his brother.”

  “Think he’ll go for it? I mean, why single him out?”

  “He told me that word was starting to get out that Lorenzo was double-dealing on the set, and this is how I knew when he tripped up. Whoever his supplier was, it was outside of the gang, and they were starting to figure that out. Maybe that’s your angle: you’ve heard that’s happening again and you want to know about it before it goes wider.”

  Gaffney eyed his former partner for a long time. “Bo, I’m taking a huge risk here.”

  “I know. We both are.”

  “Its hardly the same thing,” Mitch scoffed.

  “Isn’t it? Its just a different kind of trouble. We go after these guys, you’re protected, you’ve got the entire police department backing you up. Someone wants some get back, I am one lone little Indian, kemosabe. Look, Mitch, I don’t think there’s another way and time is running out.”

  “OK, I’m in.” Mitch looked up to the palm tree above them. “I’ll need to start tonight.” He dropped his eyes back down to Bo. “As soon as I get Sterling to talk, I’ll call you.” He stood and stepped away from the bench they shared. “We’ll get them.”

  Fochs sat and watched Mitchell leave. So now they were partners again.

  And there was no turning back from it.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Mitchell burned three days looking for Sterling Fremont. He had to be careful, cruising around in Rollin’ 30s territory by himself, even in a slick back CRASH cruiser. The 30s had put a bounty on Mitch after Lorenzo. As far as he knew, it was still active. It was no problem to get the overtime authorized, and he used a cover story of working informants, but he’d had to refuse any offers to ride along from the other task force members so that none of them would see what he was doing.

  This was an incredibly dangerous gamble.

  By the second night, he’d begun to attract attention. Mitch caught the same car following him for several blocks before he eventually shook it. The knowledge of being watched left him with a cold feeling at the back of his neck. The long nights of searching for Fremont also gave him time to wonder what in the hell he was doing trusting Bo Fochs again.

  He pressed guys on the street and talked with other CRASH officers, careful to keep the Viking out of it.

  He worked leads, and he worked ‘round the clock, a full shift plus OT on the Courtyard task force and another shift for Task Force Fochs.

  By the third night, the tension of operating alone in hostile territory was starting to get to him. By the fourth night, the exhaustion of trace hours of sleep was settling in. Mitch was running on fumes when he caught Fremont walking to his car, a black ‘80 Impala, on the fifth night of his surveillance and followed Fremont to a 7-Eleven. Mitch made the grab as Fremont was walking out and had him frisked, cuffed and dumped him in the back of the unmarked. Mitch told the guy he wasn’t under arrest yet and whether he ended up that way was up to him.

  Mitch drove into the teacher’s parking lot at Hillcrest Elementary, in the Baldwin Village housing project, turned off the engine, and stepped out without a word. He opened the back door and ordered, “Get out,” when Sterling didn’t immediately move.

  “You can try to run, Sterling, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re so far into P-Stone territory you actually have a better chance of getting out alive riding back with a cop.” He paused. “We understand each other?”

  “The fuck is this?”

  Gaffney had looked around their perimeter, spending time on the trees and the spaces between buildings before he let Fremont out of the car. It was half-past ten, and there weren’t any exterior lights near the teacher’s lot. Satisfied they were as alone as a cop and a Crip could be in the middle of the Jungles, Gaffney focused his attention on Fremont.

  Gaffney stood back, hands on his hips, and studied Fremont. He was larger, more muscular than his brother, taller. Mitch understood from Bo they had different fathers.

  “Fuck you want with me?”

  Opening round was to play tough. “You and I, we need to talk. So I brought you to a place where I knew I would have your undivided attention. A place you want to be much less than a police station.” Mitch allowed a brief, smug smile and then dropped it, letting Fremont know who was in absolute control of the situation.

  “What we got to talk about? I don’t know you.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Sterling. I’m Detective Mitchell Gaffney.”

  Ster
ling Fremont said nothing. In the darkness, Mitch could see little but the whites of his eyes, burning orbs of hate floating in the darkness.

  “You’re lucky you got these cuffs on me, man, ‘cause I’d fuckin’ kill you.”

  “That right?”

  “I wouldn’t even take the money. I’d do you for free.”

  Well, that means the bounty is still on. Good to know.

  “The Courtyard Massacre, Sterling. We’ve got an informant in the 30s, and he said you know who pulled the trigger. You know who gave the order. You know where they hid the van. And you’re going to tell me, or I’m going to get into my car and leave. Loudly. Maybe I stop by on my way out and talk with some interested parties. You can find your own way back.”

  Fremont’s wide eyes darted to the corners, plainly looking for an escape route.

  “Before you get any stupid ideas about running, you should know that I ran track and played wide receiver for UCLA. I’m still one of the fastest police officers on foot, and if you don’t think I can run your happy ass down, you’re welcome to try.” Mitch waited a second. “Or, I could just shoot, and I think we both know how good my aim is.”

  But even as he said those words to Fremont he felt like he’d crossed a line. But it was more than that. This gangbanger pushing back on him, refusing to cooperate sent Mitch to an almost immediate, if not cold fury. If Bo was right, this kid knew the perpetrators of a mass murder and it’s not just that Fremont was holding out, it was that he didn’t even view the people killed as human beings. So, he used the one thing that would work with Sterling Fremont above all else.

  Mitchell did what needed to be done.

  Sterling said nothing, but Mitchell could see pure, cold hatred staring back at him. But he saw something else in Fremont’s eyes, and that was fear. It was recognition and it was belief.

  My father would be so proud, he scolded himself sardonically, knowing what Martin Gaffney would say about the conflict Mitch felt.

  Sweat beaded on Gaffney’s forehead, and a single rivulet slid down the side of his face, a muted twinkle in the halogen half-light of faraway streetlamps.

  “Who gave the order, Sterling? I’m not asking again.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Mitchell slammed his palms into Sterling’s shoulders, driving him off balance and bouncing him against the slick top. He grabbed the thin strips of fabric on the gangbanger’s wife beater and yanked forward.

  “That’s it, asshole,” Mitch growled. “Make some noise. Get all the goddamn Bloods out here, and we’ll just see what happens.” Mitch jerked Fremont up until their noses were about an inch apart. “Listen to me, you stupid fuck. I don’t care about you, and I didn’t care about your worthless brother. There’s going to be an arrest for the Courtyard. Tell me who did it, or I’ll just put all ten on you. You really think any jury is going to believe a goddamn word you say?”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “The fuck I can’t. You people think a life doesn’t count because of a red or blue bandanna, so why should I care if you pulled the trigger or not? Why aren’t you just as good as the next Crip. If you can justify killing someone because of a handkerchief, why can’t I lock you up for murders someone in your gang is responsible for? Using your logic, it’s all the same in the end, anyway.”

  Fremont stared hate but said nothing.

  Mitch softened his voice just slightly and let go of Fremont’s shoulders.

  “Tell me, Sterling. Don’t swing for someone else. Not like your brother did.”

  “What?”

  “We weren’t after your brother. We wanted the guy he was working for. Whoever that was hung Lorenzo out to try, and he got killed. Don’t make that mistake too. Tell me who killed those kids.”

  Fremont’s head sagged, and he lowered his chin to his chest. When he spoke, his voice was sullen, bitter. “It was three of ‘em. Q-Tip, White Dog, and Lil Loco.”

  Quincy Russell, Ivory Watkins and Shawn Dermott. Mitchell knew them. Those three were wanted in connection with a drive-by on Exposition the year before.

  “Thank you, Sterling. You did the right thing.” Mitchell took Fremont’s right shoulder to maneuver him away from the car door so he could open it, and guided him into the back seat, shielding the head with his hand. Mitchell started the car and wheeled out of the parking lot.

  His job wasn’t done, though. Mitchell had until he got back to Fremont’s car to make good on his promise to Bo. Would his former partner accept a “good enough”?

  No. Mitchell had seen Fochs react before, and that was quite a thing. He didn’t know exactly what Bo would do if he came back empty handed, but desperate as his former partner was Mitchell was sure he didn’t want to see it.

  “Sterling, one more question.” Mitch looked into the rearview mirror, but Sterling was slumped against the door. “A moment ago, I told you that your brother was working for a man, and that man left him out to dry. Got him killed. I think you know who that man is.”

  Nothing.

  “He put your brother in a situation that could only end with him getting killed. Maybe that’s what his boss wanted, sever all ties and make it look like it was us.”

  “It was you.”

  “Only because I had no other choice, Sterling. I didn’t want to shoot him. But someone told him to kill me to protect their operation. Who did that?” They passed out of the Jungles, and Mitchell guided the car up to Exposition. He was running out of time. He knew he couldn’t drag Sterling around Los Angeles all night until he decided to open up, and he had no crime to charge him with. If he dragged Fremont into a cell, and the punk called for a lawyer. Well, shit.

  “Sterling.”

  “Look, I told you enough already.”

  “No, Sterling, you haven’t,” Mitch said with the certainty of the tides.

  “We think this is all related,” Mitch said slowly. “We think that this guy, the one Lorenzo was working for, is pulling the strings and that the Courtyard was his way of clearing out the competition. He’s like Freeway; he sells to everyone.”

  “Freeway” was the street name of one of the largest drug traffickers in Los Angeles, possibly the entire country. The secret to his meteoric success was that Freeway didn’t play favorites. He sold to Blood, Crip, Piru, White Fence—anyone who came correct. In two years, he’d gone from being nobody to being the major player in the LA coke trade.

  “Apparently, the P-Stones decided they didn’t like his terms, and he sent the 30s to send a message,” Mitch said. “But things got out of control. You can help me end this before it gets worse. No one has to know. I’ll list you as a confidential informant, and only I will have your identity.” Again, Mitch’s eyes went up to the rearview mirror to see Fremont’s face to get what he could from the expression. “So, who did your brother work for?”

  Fremont remained silent.

  “You either tell me, or I haul you into a jail cell as an accessory to murder. How’d that be?”

  “Whatever,” Fremont said, talking to the window glass. “Safer in jail than if I tell you.”

  “Think so, Sterling? We’ve got four P-Stones in there right now that we brought in for trying to take matters into their own hands. They were just driving around looking for some Crips to shoot, assuming eventually they’d get the right ones.”

  The only sound coming from the back seat was Fremont’s breathing. Some people needed to sound out the words when they read; apparently he did the same thing with breath.

  Sterling bit: “Marlon Rolles. Marlon fucking Rolles, OK?” Sterling’s voice jumped up an octave, and he sounded frantic. “That shit cannot come back on me. You hear me, detective? He can’t know it was me, you understand?”

  “Marlon Rolles,” Mitch repeated, mostly for the benefit of his own ears. “Try again.”

  “How you think he gets his talent?” Sterling spat back, his voice wavering now. It sounded to Mitchell like Fremont desperately wanted to be believed.

  Mitch had
always assumed Rolles was still dirty regardless what the cover stories and the civic groups and his former parole office might say, but this was something else. A cold, dark truth began to settle in his bones. Inescapable conclusions quickly formed. The Next Chapter Foundation was a perfect blind. What better cover for a drug ring to operate right in the public eye and with their trust? If someone fell out or got caught, they could just claim they fell back into their old ways.

  But Fremont’s explanation was too clean. It couldn’t be that easy. There was no way this organization could operate a citywide distribution network under everyone’s noses and have someone like Sterling Fremont know who’s running it.

  Mitch slowed the car, parking beneath some of the large, bushy palms that helped give the Jungles its name. It was very easy to get lost in this place, between the snake-twisting streets, the overgrown trees, and the canyon-like walls of the tenement buildings. Mitchell was also quite aware that he was starting to draw attention.

  “Why we stopping?”

  Mitch flashed dark eyes in the rearview. “Because I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that someone like you knows who the people at the top are, and unless you can convince me otherwise, we don’t have a deal.” And that ends badly for both of us.

  Mitchell was once again reminded of something Deacon Blues told them during the original Fremont investigation, which was that these gangs did not operate like the Mob. The mistake that law enforcement agencies kept making was assuming that the only way for a criminal enterprise to function was to be a vertical organization with a clearly delineated echelons of command. Further, the organization must issue orders so that the head was difficult identify, let alone catch.

  LAPD, and by extension CRASH, believed this was how street gangs operated. They were not as savvy, not as sophisticated as their East Coast criminal forefathers, but the principles were the same. In fact, much of what was the modern street gang originated in Chicago as the Black Peace Stone Bloods, the gang that now ruled these very streets, a gang who had taken specific cues from that city’s rich history of organized crime.