The Bad Shepherd Read online

  “Can’t say that I blame them,” Kaitlin said. “They killed ten kids.”

  “Eight kids,” Mitch corrected. “The two gangbangers don’t count, not to the public.”

  “Yeah, well, it was good work all around,” Bo said. He caught a whiff of the mood changing and steered the conversation in another direction as fast as he could. Fochs knew she interviewed him during the original Lorenzo Fremont case, and he got the sense that something had passed between them, but he didn’t press the question. Kaitlin and Fochs had been seeing each other almost every day since that first night.

  Theirs was a fast, intense relationship. How much of that was the excitement of the case and how much of it was genuine emotion, Bo couldn’t tell. He’d asked Kaitlin that question once, and she said with a sly grin that she’d be willing to bet she’d outlast his interest in Marlon Rolles. They both agreed that it was best for their collaboration if Mitchell didn’t know. It didn’t need to be any more complicated than it already was.

  “So, speaking of trials,” Mitch said. “You hear anything back from that attorney?”

  “Oh yeah,” Bo said with a cold laugh. He pushed himself back from the table and walked into the kitchen. Mitch heard the refrigerator door open, bottle pop and Bo remerged with a beer in his hand. “When I told him that I had to back out over a conflict of interest he practically lost his mind. I told him, basically, what you told me on the street that day, Mitch. That if the trial actually went forward that I’d be burned with every cop in L.A. and that wasn’t good for business.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said it thought it was a little fishy that I didn’t come around to that way of thinking until after I got him to put me next to Sterling Fremont. Said he wasn’t going to pay me and that I could go to hell. Usual breakup stuff.”

  Bo smiled but Mitch knew there was nothing behind it. Backing out of that case had legitimately troubled Bo. Mitch saw that Fochs liked working with that quirky lawyer. There was something else in Bo’s response that he couldn’t quite put a finger on but decided not to pursue it.

  “Well we’ve got a lot of work to do,” Bo said, changing the subject, “so how about we figure out what we’re going to do next?” Bo asked.

  “Sounds good,” Kaitlin agreed. She finished her glass and set it down on the table, pushing it away from her with her long, lithe fingers. She pushed herself back from the table. “Bo, do you have any more beer?”

  “I’ve got another bottle of wine,” Mitch offered.

  “We’ve got to roll our sleeves up and get to work, so that means beer. Celebration’s over.”

  “Yeah, there’s a six of Anchors in the fridge.”

  Mitch was growing increasingly nervous about this part of the plan but did his best to hide his apprehension from his partners. He honestly didn’t know how to ride the momentum of the Courtyard into an investigation into Marlon Rolles.

  His father would caution him that this was not a time for risk by pursuing a case no one was asking about. But he owed Fochs. He wouldn’t have gotten the Courtyard without Bo. And it was the right thing to do. Mitchell may not have had Bo’s crusader mind, but that didn’t make him love what drugs were doing to his city, to its people. Rolles was a cancer . . .worse, he was a parasite, invading the host and pumping it with poison.

  Mitch knew that there were risks worth taking but it was a question of how. Even though the case had been wrapped, the fallout from the massacre had not. Now that the shooters identities were public, there was talk of all-out war. Mitchell tried to focus on delivering his end of the bargain, but that was tough. Convincing his CO that he needed to pick up a narcotics investigation that no one was talking about while trying to prevent complete chaos before the Olympics would be an impossible sell, but try telling that to Bo.

  In the two and a half weeks since Sterling Fremont fingered Marlon Rolles, the three of them worked tirelessly to understand Rolles’ organization. Starting with Fremont’s revelation, they had deduced Rolles was using the Next Chapter Foundation as a front. Here was a “reformed” criminal with deep ties into the community and gang society. He pulled at-risk youth from the gangs and got them involved in high school completion programs, jobs, sports—whatever it took to get the individual to turn away from the street. Rolles was flipping the kids he was “turning around” and putting them back on the street selling drugs for him. His cover was perfect. If they got caught, Rolles could just say the kids relapsed into their old life. Whom would people believe? The community, the city, Christ, even the police were playing right into his hand. All of them nominated kids that should join his program. Rolles must view them as prospects, an opportunity to draft new talent.

  Once they had Next Chapter identified, they started looking at the places where Rolles placed his kids: the schools, the sports programs, and the part-time jobs. Then they looked at the arrest records and narcotics reports around those places. There appeared to be a higher concentration of drug dealing clustered around many of those sites, but nothing was conclusive. All they’d found was enough evidence to validate a speculation, nothing to make a case. Without turning one of those dealers, they had no way of connecting them with the larger organization.

  There were ways to get the names of the youths in Rolles program, but the question then concerned what to do with it. Gaffney wasn’t in a narcotics squad and didn’t work in the units near those suspected clusters. There still wasn’t any evidence outside Sterling’s off-the-record confession that even hinted Rolles was involved in something like this.

  They knew that the only way was to prove Rolles’ complicity. They had to catch him making a deal.

  “Ah, before we get too deep into this. There’s something I need to tell both of you.”

  “What?”

  Mitch cleared his throat. “Things have gotten really bad since the Courtyard broke. People are talking about all-out war. Solving that case may actually have made things worse. It’s gotten to the point where we’ve got multiple units each shift trying to intercept Bloods before they go into Crip territory for a drive-by. Once the gang got identified, all of the Blood sets are talking about wiping them off the face of the earth. Crips are threatening counter-attacks except the 60s. They were apparently involved, diversion or whatever, and didn’t expect the blowback they’re getting so now they’re threatening the 30s too. I couldn’t draw this shit out if I had a map. We just got put on alert.”

  “What are you saying, Mitch?” And why didn’t you bring this up as soon as you walked in the door?

  “I don’t know yet. I’m just concerned that maybe they’re not going to let me start an investigation on Rolles right now.”

  “We have a deal, Mitch,” Bo said, voice hanging on the edge of warning. “Remember? You don’t get to back out just because you got what you need.”

  “Look,” Mitch said with his hands up. “I’ll push it as hard as I can from my end, but you have to understand the situation. The Olympics start in three weeks. The division, if not the whole department, is worried about a city-wide gang war.” Mitch found the steel for his voice. “You have to understand there isn’t much appetite for an investigation that has nothing to do with keeping a lid South Central.”

  Mitch could read Bo’s face. Fochs couldn’t believe it. Mitch had just described in detail how he was going to support their investigation, and now he was backing out?

  “Every day we wait, he gets to pump more of this shit onto the street. Not to mention, our source is scared shitless of the guy. You saw that firsthand. What happens if Rolles finds out Fremont leaked to us? Or worse, if things are as bad as you say there are down there, Fremont gets caught up in this shit and gets killed. Where are we then?”

  Mitch’s face darkened. “Look, you’re right. I’m not arguing that. I’m just telling you what the reality is.”

  “The reality, Mitch, is that I went out on a limb for you. I made that case for you, and I expect that tomorrow you’re going to talk to yo
ur lieutenant and tell him you’ve got a lead on a major trafficking network in the Southwest Area and you need to pursue it.”

  “And when I tell him that,” Mitch’s voice climbed violently, loudly, “he’ll tell me that’s Narcotics’ job and that I should be worried about a fucking gang war.”

  “Guys!” Kaitlin stepped in between them, arms out. “Look, we’re all a bit keyed up here. We’ve all got a lot riding on this. Mitch, I hope you appreciate that Bo handed this to you. Closing the Courtyard Massacre is going to mean big things for us, and we all know it. You owe him.” She turned to Bo. “But Mitch is in a tight spot. He can’t go against his superiors, and they’re not going to listen to a word his says if they think he’s pushing an agenda. You know that better than anyone.”

  She pushed air out, and her bangs lifted. “I can appreciate how both of you feel, but we’re not going to tear each other apart because of it. I think we should call it a night and get some sleep. Mitch will agree to take what we’ve got to his lieutenant in the morning and see what they’ll do, which may mean handing it over to Narcotics—which we all agreed to in the beginning. But we also need to be prepared for the fact that this might have to sit until after the Olympics. OK?”

  Mitch nodded, obviously relieved. Bo mouthed a mechanical agreement.

  “Guys, the important thing is that we get him,” she said. “If it takes a little longer, then,” Kaitlin’s eyes fell on Bo. “Then it takes a little longer. Ok?”

  Bo nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Mitch. Patience for this sort of thing was never my strong suit.”

  Mitch reached out and squeezed Bo’s shoulder. “I know, bud,” he said softly.

  “I’ll start on the surveillance tomorrow,” Bo said.

  Mitch nodded.

  “OK,” Kaitlin said and traded a fast glance with Bo. She picked up her purse and moved toward the door. Mitch followed and walked her to her car.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Fochs sat inside the Mustang parked on Crenshaw with a pair of binoculars in his lap half a block down from the Next Chapter Foundation. Midday sun left the interior of the car just south of broiling, and Fochs wondered which was hotter, the car or himself. Bo knew it was risky, not just bringing Mitch in on this but also handing him both of the key pieces at once. Bo knew there was no other way to coerce Mitch into acting, but he also knew it was a dangerous play. If Mitch decided not to follow through on his end, all Fochs could do was leak how Mitch learned the truth about the Massacre. That would be a departmental speed bump at most.

  Bo exhaled heavily, hoping to exorcise the boredom and the frustration with the hot air in his mouth. He closed his eyes just for a second. When the fresh air rushed into his lungs, Fochs opened his eyes and the malaise returned. This is how sailors lost at sea must have felt, he thought.

  In their Rockstar days, they’d pass the time by quizzing each other on music trivia, what stadium was KISS’ Alive II recorded in? What was Van Halen’s name before they were “Van Halen”? Where did John Deacon get the bass riff for “Another One Bites the Dust”? Or they’d play a game of their own creation called “showdown” where they’d pick a genre of music—often one of the obscure subgroups—and take turns naming off bands until one of them couldn’t come up with an answer. This inevitably led to humorous arguments over what was in a particular category and what wasn’t. Rock and roll was Bo’s religion. For him, it wasn’t simply the music, but the culture that surrounded it, the raw almost primal energy. Bo was present for the rebirth of rock. It was something he and Mitch had shared, walking the Strip as Rockstars. He struggled daily to not view that memory as somehow tainted now.

  Bo found when he thought about the old days now his mind immediately went to how they had ended. A dark, angry pit formed in his stomach. Sometimes, when they were together and the old banter rekindled, Bo could almost forget what happened between him and Mitch. They slipped right into the old behaviors, their former roles resumed, and the bad memories faded into the background like a mild hangover, persistent but manageable. But as soon as they were apart the dark thoughts edged in around his memories. The losses of those three years piled onto each other and that house fell in on itself. It was the aftershock of their friendship. Now, Fochs could just sit here in a hot car in the July sun and stew.

  At a quarter to eleven, two men walked out the front door of the foundation. Fochs picked the binoculars off his lap: Rolles and Shabazz. They climbed into a red mid-‘70s Tornado and pulled out onto Crenshaw. Fochs put the Mustang in gear and followed. He tailed them for most of the afternoon while Rolles went to three different speaking engagements. The first was a neighborhood organization and then a church. Fochs snuck in and caught part of the second speech, delivered in the Crenshaw High School gymnasium filled with summer school kids. There were two uneventful stops in between that looked like community glad-handing. Finally, they headed back to the foundation and stayed there for another two hours.

  Shabazz left the building alone just after six, taking the Tornado. Fochs got out and ran across the street when Shabazz was out of sight. There weren’t any other cars out front, so he ran around to the back of the building, going the long way and avoiding windows. Rolles’ lavender Super 88 was gone. Shades were drawn in the office, so he couldn’t see if anyone was still inside. Rolles had slipped him.

  This was not a proper surveillance. They needed shifts and multiple teams on the building to cover all of the exits, plus rolling surveillance to follow them to their supplier and either an asset on the inside, which was unlikely, or a wiretap. These things were hard to come by in an unsanctioned investigation.

  Bo also knew that Mitch was right, in part.

  The department simply wasn’t going to act, not now. They were again looking to solve a PR problem and not the long-term threat. Everything Fochs learned during their original investigation told him that Rolles’ organization was one of largest and most sophisticated narcotics trafficking and distribution operations in Los Angeles. They were tied directly into a Columbian supplier and had managed to penetrate the music and film industries and the Sunset Strip music scene. When that had rolled up, Rolles shifted his business south, retooled, and converted his operation to producing rock cocaine. South LA was going to tear itself apart, it was just a matter of time. Retaliation for the Courtyard Massacre was just a convenient excuse. What they were doing, really, was going to war over territory. That was Rolles true danger—he was an agnostic supplier. The one truth in what he preached was that Rolles didn’t care if you claimed red or blue, he sold to all sides and with a steady stream of high quality product all the gangs needed to do was beat each other out of the prime locations. Those spots that were on the seams of gang territory would become warzones, the money at stake was just too great.

  Bo knew that the only way to make the LAPD pay attention to Rolles was to show them just how dangerous he was. The longer Rolles and his network was in play, the more entrenched they would become. Bo also doubted that with the department’s all consuming focus on Olympic security, they couldn’t possibly also maintain an effective deterrence against the gangs. Which was to say nothing of the fact that the dealers were probably salivating over the prospects of thousands of potential new customers as the world flooded South LA.

  Yes, they had agreed that if the department wasn’t going to move forward with the Rolles investigation before the Olympics, they’d wait it out. Be patient. But all that was before Bo’s revelation that there was a true potential, however slight, for catastrophe if Rolles was allowed to continue.

  Bo knew that he had to act.

  He’d stopped short of the objective once before and Rolles was allowed to escape, to reorganize and was now more powerful, more dangerous, than ever. Fochs would not allow the department’s bureaucracy and PR risk aversion to get in the way of doing the right thing, the necessary thing.

  Sometimes, even good men needed a push.

  It was time to make a phone call.

/>   Chapter Thirty Five

  Dee’s soul food joint on Crenshaw was maybe a half-mile from the foundation and Rolles’ favorite place to eat. The restaurant was named after the owner’s late wife, whose fried chicken recipe he was still trying to reproduce the way she had made it. It also served as Rolles’ unofficial headquarters for certain meetings. They were never anything dangerous, nothing that would get the owner, Marcus Halliday, in trouble or cause him to guess at Rolles’ true nature. It was good for Marlon’s image to be seen eating and meeting in the community. All he ever asked for was privacy, and in return he kicked Halliday an envelope every month. Paying him for his time, Marlon always said. Sometimes Rolles met people here he was trying to recruit. The foundation spooked some guys, but meeting on neutral ground, particularly Dee’s, was easier on everyone. Marcus tried to refuse the money at first, saying helping Rolles, however little, was payment enough, but Rolles wouldn’t hear of it. Halliday never had children of his own, but his nephew had been a P-Stone Blood and went out a bad way. Most times, the money went to Halliday’s church.

  The interior was that ubiquitous, 1970s brown that all dive diners seemed to be painted, and the booths and stools were gold. Halliday, who had grown up old school and wouldn’t tolerate any gang business in his restaurant, hung a small handwritten sign over the cash register, “Coloreds, But No Colors.”

  Shabazz stared out at the morning traffic on Crenshaw as he ate. Most days, Shabazz had his breakfast here. Marcus was there at six every morning to get ready to open by eight. Rolles and Shabazz had a standing offer to come by before they opened, and Halliday would cook them whatever they wanted. Rolles didn’t come by as much as he did before work. Boxing was another thing he had picked up in the joint, and he spent his mornings at a local gym sparring, hitting the bag, or skipping rope. He tended to watch what he ate too. Shabazz pushed the empty plate away and washed it down with the rest of his tea. He couldn’t drink coffee, never had a taste for it, though from what he understood from people he wasn’t missing anything at Dee’s.