The Bad Shepherd Read online

  Halliday appeared next to the booth as soon as the plate was done and lifted it from the table. “How was everything this morning?”

  “It was good, Mr. Halliday, you know that,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got a meeting here in a little bit. Appreciate it if you didn’t seat nobody around me.”

  “Sho’ thing.” Halliday patted Shabazz on the shoulder and walked up front and turned the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign around to face the door.

  Shabazz drummed his fingers on the table while he waited for the ten o’clock hour to hit. He didn’t agree with taking this meeting and had just about told Marlon that if he wanted it so bad, he should do it himself. Of course, you didn’t say that to the boss, as Shabazz damned well knew. Still, they had a rule about doing business with people they didn’t know. He had raised that point when this first came up, reminding Marlon that was exactly how Lorenzo got popped by an undercover cop. Rolles countered by saying they’d never expand if they didn’t start exploring new distributors.

  Not to mention, Freeway Rick was beating the shit out of them on the streets. They figured he was moving about 100–150 kilos each week. That was nearly double theirs, and he was starting to edge them out of the Crips. He was also doing this entirely without muscle. Marlon said they needed to expand if they were going to compete, let alone survive.

  Shabazz grudgingly agreed. They needed to expand, but it needed to be judicious. There was wisdom in not being the biggest. Cops, Feds, they all wanted to go after the headline, go after the kingpin, the biggest dealer. Marlon knew that Freeway Rick couldn’t continue to make the kind of money he was making without popping up on the LAPD or the DEA’s radar or both. As soon as that happened, they’d move in and carve up what was left.

  Shabazz trusted Marlon, always had. When he got out of prison, Marlon gave him direction, gave him focus and gave him trust. And Shabazz had made a lot of money because of it. He knew Marlon could see around corners, could think many, many moves ahead. Marlon was the best street general Shabazz had ever known, but he wasn’t sure about this guy or this meeting, particularly now. They’d largely gotten out of selling pure coke after Lorenzo was killed. The police simply didn’t care about rock, and they could concentrate their business in South LA where the risk of exposure was much lower. They had two small powder operations now, but only because it was legacy trade they kept going that still brought in decent cash. The dealer was a white guy in Hollywood who put them back in the clubs after they lost Fremont, though it was a just trickle compared to the old days. But this dude, the one Shabazz was about to meet, had sold Rolles on a high-volume, high-profile client base. Shabazz argued that’s what got them in trouble the first time, but Marlon wouldn’t hear it. He said they needed to diversify.

  After Fremont, they’d decided to get out of powder, by and large, to move things south, keeping it contained, isolated. Now, they were talking about going the other way? Shabazz shook his head.

  The guy walked in at 9:59.

  He was tall and wiry, but Shabazz could tell there was solid muscle underneath the loose-fitting t-shirt he wore. The guy had medium-length brown hair and the kind of chiseled features you only got by having body fat that measured in the single digits. The guy ignored the sign and walked straight to Shabazz.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Thank you.”

  The guy sat and pulled the Ray-Ban Caravans up to rest on the top of his head; behind them were a pair of piercing blue eyes.

  Shabazz laced his fingers together, resting them on the tabletop. “Get you a coffee? It’s good here.”

  “No thank you. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I appreciate your sitting down with me on short notice.”

  “We had you checked out, and we like what we see. So how is it that we can help you?”

  “I’ll be blunt because I know you’re busy. I used to move for a guy named Lorenzo Fremont. I was his connection in Hollywood. Business was very good, and we made a lot of money together. You may have heard that he took the hard way out.”

  Shabazz nodded.

  “Since then, I’ve been scrambling to keep my contacts alive. I’d been buying from Jimmy Z. But . . .”

  Shabazz nodded again and said, “Jimmy’s dead.”

  “He got greedy. He reached, and his Nicaraguan connection shot him. This is maybe a week, ten days ago. Now, I never met those guys, and he never told them about me, so I’ve got no way to talk to them. My supply is about to run out. If that happens, I lose my clients. My high-end clients. I’ve heard a little about your operation for a while now, and this seems like a good time to make a move.”

  Shabazz nodded. He’d heard about Jimmy Z’s getting the business, not much of a loss and good for their operation. The question about his health was entirely to see if this Ryan were on the level.

  “Sounds like people working with you have a habit of getting shot,” Shabazz said.

  “This isn’t a low-risk business. How many dealers do you lose a year?”

  Shabazz nodded and conceded the point.

  “You say you worked with Lorenzo?”

  “That’s right. Check around; people know me. I worked under a different name in those days though.”

  “Yeah,” Shabazz asked, trying to sound more annoyed than concerned. The mention of Fremont’s name put him on edge. “What was that?”

  “Deacon Blues.”

  Shabazz knew that name. This was the guy who moved most of Fremont’s product. He’d made them millions. In fact, Shabazz and Marlon had had a serious conversation about cutting Lorenzo out entirely so they could deal with this Deacon Blues without the middleman.

  They were contemplating their move when the LAPD beat them to the punch.

  Fremont shielded them from being discovered by the police. He served his purpose.

  “Thing is,” Shabazz set the cup down. “We don’t usually do business with people we don’t know.”

  Blues slid out of the booth and stood. “If you knew Fremont, then you know me. I need a new supplier, and you need back into Hollywood the way you used to be. I know all about your guy Vinnie Peal, and I know all of the people who tell him to fuck off. If you even want a fraction of what you had before, you’ll deal with me.” Blues reached a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, which he tossed onto the table. “That’s my pager. You know how to find me.”

  Chapter Thirty Six

  “You’re out of your goddamn mind, Bo! This time you have gone too far.” Mitchell’s voice was so loud it practically knocked things off the shelves in Bo’s house.

  Fochs was uncharacteristically serene, sharing none of Mitch’s bluster or rudderless rage. “You told me the department wasn’t going to do anything, Mitch,” Bo said in a calming way while stabbing the air between them with his finger as if clearing a path for the words that followed. “You said this was just going to get buried. Well, I’m making sure it doesn’t.”

  “I said it was going to get shelved until after the Olympics!” Mitch shouted back.

  “And what if something happens between now and then?”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Mitch said flatly.

  “Do you? You’ve got cops at the rec centers and the schools and the basketball courts? Because that’s where Rolles is working, which is to say nothing of the thousands of potential marks that are already flooding the city. We can’t wait, Mitch.”

  “All I said was for you to be fucking patient.”

  “I did what needed to be done.”

  “What’s going on here?” Kaitlin asked as she entered the room.

  Bo explained, “I had an old CI set up a buy with Rolles. The stakeout wasn’t getting us anywhere, and as I was sitting there, watching Rolles move around with impunity,” Bo chanced a sidelong glance at his partner, “I realized that the threat he presents during the Olympics is too great and we just can’t sit on our hands and wait for..”

  “Jesus Chris, we’re not sitting
around,” Mitch shouted, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking about the three of them or LAPD.

  Bo continued: “So I had the idea that I could set up a large buy, something so big Rolles has to jump and then we just reel him in. Rolles will have to go to his supplier. Mitch and I follow them to their connection and get photographs of that. We hand those to Mitch’s CO, and that should be enough to get the investigation wired up.”

  “You set up a $500,000 buy! Goddamn it, Bo! Where in the fuck am I supposed to get that kind of money?” Mitch thundered, shaking with rage. “I don’t have approval for any of this.” Mitch threw a hand across the table, sending papers flying. “Let alone a goddamn buy. What is the matter with you?”

  “Guys,” Kaitlin said mildly, but sternly. They argued right over her words. “Guys!” The former partners silenced as their heads snapped around. “Look,” she said with her arms out, “this is salvageable, but we’ve got to keep our heads. Mitch, you know the department probably won’t act on what we’ve got right now. Not with so much of their attention elsewhere. We’ve got a really good theory and some very compelling evidence, but this probably isn’t enough for them. You know that, and I know it.”

  She leveled her best schoolyard stare down on Mitchell, hands on her hips and then pivoted. “Bo, this is out of line . . .even for you. You should’ve told us about this. Mitch is already leveraged, and this sort of thing can get him in a hell of a lot of trouble and kill any chance we have of getting Marlon Rolles. Even if he weren’t your friend,” she added some hard emphasis to the latter, which both Bo and Mitch had a hard time diagnosing. “That’s out of line.”

  “Goddamn right it is. You went too fucking far this time, partner.” Mitch rubbed that last word with some old-fashioned spite.

  “Mitch,” Kaitlin barked, then mouthed “Enough.”

  Bo closed his eyes to took a deep breath. He was weary. In time he said, “You’re right, but you said it yourself, Mitch. We didn’t have enough momentum to get the department moving, so I thought I’d apply some.”

  “You thought you’d apply some?” Mitch asked mockingly. “And just who, pray tell, is willing to do this?”

  “Deacon.”

  “Oh, Je-sus Christ. He’s not a CI. He’s a goddamn drug dealer.” Mitchell’s voice rose almost to the register specifically reserved for hysterics.

  “Hold on, hold on!” Kaitlin shouted above the two of them and stepped in between, arms up. “Knock it off. Now, if you two are just going to use this as an excuse to crack open old wounds, I’m walking away right now.”

  Fochs put his hands on his waist and nodded. Gaffney hung a sullen look on his face but otherwise said nothing.

  “OK. Now, Bo, who is this that you set the buy with?”

  “He’s the informant who gave us Lorenzo Fremont.” Bo cast a sharp, sidelong stare at Mitchell. “I kept in touch with him over the years. He feeds me information time to time.”

  “And this guy, Deacon, he’s a drug dealer?”

  “Ex drug dealer.”

  “Fucking degenerate, fucking coward is what he is.”

  “They don’t get along so well,” he said, thumbing at Mitch.

  It had actually been Blues who had reached out when Fochs quit the department. Said he’d read about Bo’s ouster in the papers. Blues occasionally gave Bo information that he used in his own investigations or leads, which Bo fed to his friends still working narcotics. Deacon got out of the drug game after Fremont and his brush with LAPD. He later told Bo that was the wakeup call he needed. Deacon never disclosed to Bo what he did in Vietnam, though the detective could make a very educated guess. It seemed obvious to Bo that given his extensive (and nebulous) experience in Southeast Asia, the superior tradecraft and connections to narcotics traffickers Deacon had been most likely been involved with America’s intelligence apparatus, though in what capacity Bo still had no idea. Whatever it was, it left a stain on Deacon’s soul that he first tried to bury by trafficking himself. It was only when he met Bo, someone with a similar enough experience and background, but who chose a different path to deal with what he’d seen, that Deacon began to reconsider his life. It was not an immediate revelation, nor was it a complete change, but he was making strides. When Bo contacted him posing as a buyer, he got the distinct impression that Deacon was looking for some form of retribution.

  Fochs watched Kaitlin think the idea through, running the traps in her mind. Her eyes were alive. He knew her well enough to know now that she was running the angles down. A drug dealer and another link to the original Fremont case would be too much for her to pass up. The story line, from her perspective, was too good to be true. She grabbed a notepad and pen from the table.

  “Bo, tell me everything about this guy. Can we use this, his background, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. He keeps a pretty low profile. I don’t even know his real name.”

  Mitchell stared on his face with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

  “Look, I’ll need to talk to him first, before I agree to let you use anything.”

  Kaitlin shook her head vigorously, but was clearly excited by the prospect. “Of course, of course.”

  “Hey! I’m sorry to break up the scoop here, but aren’t we forgetting something? Like, under no circumstances am I going to bring this to my lieutenant.”

  “I know I should’ve told you about Deacon. But I knew if I had told you, you’d never have gone along with it.” Bo paused. “Mitch, we need him.”

  Mitch shook his head. “That’s always the problem with you, Bo. Whenever you think someone is going to object, you take the option off the table by doing it anyway. You didn’t even give me the chance to tell you why it was a bad idea.”

  Fochs cracked a sly smile. “But you would’ve,” he said in his long drawl.

  “You don’t know that,” he said. “But, that’s not the point, goddamn it. I hate to break it to you, Bo, but you’re not a cop anymore. You can’t go signing the department up for a half-million drug buy. I’ll remind you this entire fucking operation is unauthorized. That much money, we have to get approved directly by the chief. You know that.”

  Fochs nodded. “You’re right.” He saw a look of disbelief on the other’s face. “No, you are. You hit it. If I think someone is going to tell me no, I go and do it anyway so they can’t. I’m just afraid that the department is going to get in the way of doing the right thing again. I guess I didn’t want to give them the chance. I’m sorry. I know this puts you in a bad spot.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other.”

  “So are you going to pitch it to your LT?”

  Mitch’s hands flew wide again. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Of course not!”

  “Then how are we going to get Rolles? We made an agreement. Now you need to hold up your end.” Bo’s tone was flat, but there was menace behind it. “Courtyard bought you a few chits with the department; I’ll bet. I think it’s time you called them in.”

  Mitch returned Bo’s level gaze, eyes boring into his former partner.

  “This is different.”

  “Explain how.”

  “I’ll need to use your phone,” Mitch said through his teeth.

  “Of course.”

  Mitch stood and walked into the kitchen and dialed Lieutenant Zarcone’s home number. The CO picked up on the third ring. His wife knew that any call after nine p.m. was rarely for her and never good news.

  “Hey, Boss. It’s Mitch. Sorry to bother you at home and so late,” Mitch leaned out and looked to Bo and Kaitlin. Neither paid any attention to him, but Mitch lowered his voice anyway. “We’ve got to talk. Now.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Mitchell met his lieutenant at Parker Center. It took a day to get a meeting with the Narcotics Division Commander. Zarcone issued Mitch a neigh-legendary ass chewing for exceeding his authority to levels that the lieutenant didn’t even believe were possible. He made it clear that Mitch had just overdrawn any credit he’d
earned bringing in the Courtyard killers. Zarcone winked at him and told him that move took balls, something the department seemed in short supply of the last few years. Mitch took the compliment awkwardly.

  Together, they walked into Captain Phil Lindsay’s office, who had taken over the Narcotics Division from Hilliard. Lindsay, a career narcotics detective with considerable undercover time, was highly regarded in the bureau and on many short lists for promotion. Lindsay was tall, with a deep tan, close-cropped blond hair, and eyes that were dark, expressionless marbles. They started the meeting over coffee in Lindsay’s office with the captain praising them on the successful closure of the Courtyard Massacre. He also lauded them for the inclusion of narcotics detectives like Gaffney in CRASH and thought it should be adopted in all of the anti-gang units.

  “Now, with all due respect to you, Tom, I’m not above hiring talented guys out from other COs,” Lindsay said with a short laugh. “Mitch, we’d love to have you back in the division. There’s always a job here for you if you want it.”

  “Thanks, Captain. I really appreciate that. I’d like to stay where I’m at right now, though. We’ve started some things in CRASH that I’d like to see through.”

  “That’s a hell of a political answer,” he said. “You’ll do well at headquarters.”

  They all laughed.

  “OK, so what dragged you guys all the way up here to the center of the universe?”

  “Phil, I’m going to let Mitch do most of the talking. This is his show, but he’s briefed me up, and I’m convinced he’s onto something. I think there’s enough evidence here that we move forward with an investigation. We’re proposing a joint operation between Narcotics and CRASH. As you’ll see, this impacts both of us.”