The Bad Shepherd Read online

  Bo looked over at the wall clock. It was 6:30. He made fast stairs to the parking lot and climbed into his’69 Shelby GT500, the car that he’d bought with the money he’d stashed away during his time in Vietnam, the car that he spent months rebuilding as a way of healing the mental wounds of war.

  He drove.

  Chapter Eight

  Bo served his suspension with a chip that did not improve with time. Neither did the news that Mitchell would be taking the undercover role during the takedown, Hunter’s way of making sure the lesson burned in good.

  The squad assembled in a church parking lot off Santa Barbara Avenue, around the corner from Fremont’s house in the 4000 block of Second Avenue. Deacon was there as well to facilitate the introduction with Fremont.

  The church, its school, and associated buildings faced the street and wrapped around the parking lot so that you couldn’t see the lot from the street. The Rockstars were in plainclothes and tactical vests, except for Mitch. Sergeant Dave Ellison and three CRASH officers were also present. Despite Ellison’s reservations about their target, the raid was proceeding. They’d hoped to do the takedown at night so it would be easier for the boys to sneak around the back of the house, but Fremont insisted on a five o’clock meet. He’d probably done that just to make Richard Ranes drive all the way down here at rush hour. Hunter said some perfunctory words and handed it over to Ellison.

  The CRASH sergeant was a crew cut Viking in aviator shades. CRASH cops were all physically imposing; a couple hours in the gym each day was expected, and the tactical vests only added to their mass. Ellison hooked both thumbs inside his Sam Browne belt and started his briefing.

  “The Rollin’ 30’s Crip set is one of the most violent in the city. Life doesn’t have a lot of meaning down here anyway, but unless you are one of their homeboys it has no value whatsoever. I want to be clear on this; these guys are killers, every one. Be prepared for a firefight once Detective Gaffney identifies himself. Not saying it’ll happen, but be ready.” Ellison turned his attention to Gaffney.

  “Mitch, you especially need to be careful. For you to sell this you’ve got to be pushy but a notch below aggressive. You don’t want to push Fremont too far. I cannot stress enough how little these people think about the consequences of their actions. These are the guys who smoke at gas stations.”

  The other three CRASH officers nodded in time. Mitch said he understood, and Ellison continued, “Fremont’s main crew consists of about six guys, four of whom are usually at the house at any given time. As one of the larger gangs, the 30s are well stocked. They’ve got handguns and machine pistols mostly. They like sawed-off shotguns for drive-bys. We’re seeing an increasing number of MAC-10s, so be watchful of that.”

  “OK, thanks for that, Dave,” Hunter said. He looked to Bo. “Fochs, where are you going to be?” The entire team knew the answer to that question, but it was one of the ways Hunter stepped through the dress rehearsal.

  “I’m with Dom and Freddy at the back door. We’re sneaking through a side yard from Third Avenue. I’m in the lead with the shotgun; we’ll breech on your signal or Mitch’s distress call.”

  Hunter nodded. “Wood, Griffin.”

  Cliff Wood ran a hand through his wavy, blond hair and readjusted his sunglasses. “We’re going to be around the front left corner. We’ll go through the front door on your signal or Mitch’s call.”

  “OK, good. Sergeant Ellison?”

  “Lieutenant, my team will be in squad cars on either end of the block. I’ll be on the closer side at the corner of Santa Barbara. When we move in, we’ll roll Code Three and be in right behind Detectives Wood and Griffin.”

  Hunter nodded, pleased. He turned back to Gaffney. “Mitch, do a mic check when you stop the car. If they try to pat you down, resist. He presses you on it, tell him to fuck off and make to leave.”

  Mitch’s wire was taped to the small of his back where it would be hidden by the bulk of his clothing. Usually, people didn’t search for weapons there, so it was generally the safest place.

  “Got it.”

  Ellison added, “One more thing, fellas.” All eyes turned to the big CRASH leader. “These guys are starting to get smart about security. They’re putting deadbolts on the doors. If you have to breech, I recommend shooting first instead of the standard kick down.”

  Mitch pulled the black Ferrari 308 GTS up to Lorenzo Fremont’s house and parked it. Deacon sat next to him in tense silence. The two hadn’t exchanged word one since leaving the staging area on Santa Barbara. There was a metallic blue, late ‘70s Camaro on the street in front of the house. That was the Crips’ current hot car according to Ellison. Mitch got out of the Ferrari and buttoned his gray suit jacket. He shot his cuffs, exposing the gold and diamond cufflinks and gold Rolex. Mitch felt a hot flash on the back of his neck, knowing Deacon was rolling his eyes behind his back.

  Fremont’s house was on the southern end of the block about halfway up from Santa Barbara Avenue. Faded white paint peeled off the wood at the joints and the corners, and whole sections of color were just gone, exposing the wood beneath. The small lawn was sun-scorched and turned mostly a dead, yellow-brown. Bars on the windows; Fremont’s grandmother probably installed them. She was cooling her heels in a nursing home on Crenshaw, but her name was still on the deed. There wasn’t a front porch to speak of, just a waist-high cement wall made to look like stone. Wood and Griffin would have to crouch behind it for cover on their approach and hope the guys inside were too stoned for proper surveillance.

  Mitch took a deep breath. He turned back to the car, taking a quick look around to ensure there wasn’t anyone within earshot. Mitch looked to Deacon. “Are you ready?”

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  In their original plan, Deacon would have simply made the introduction over the phone, but Fremont was cagy and wouldn’t meet with them unless Deacon was in the flesh. That had taken some cajoling from Bo, but Deacon eventually agreed, knowing he had no other choice.

  Mitch walked up to the front door, left hand in his pocket absently fingering the Ferrari keys, Deacon in tow. He took another hard breath and walked slowly to the front door. He could hear music through it. Hard to make out, and he paused for a second to listen. Details matter, he told himself. Mitch had it in a few seconds, Marvin Gaye’s seminal album, What’s Going On? The soul singer’s father fatally shot him two months ago, just a few miles from here in the family’s West Adams home. Marvin Gaye, Sr., claimed self-defense, and given the traces of coke and angel dust found in his son’s system during the autopsy, that might even be true. LA’s Black community, like the larger world, was still in mourning.

  This shit can touch anybody, Mitch thought sourly. He wondered what Gaye would’ve thought about a bunch of Crips like this cranking What’s Going On? and completely missing the point. Peace, just not for people claiming red or LAPD.

  Mitch rapped hard three times, total cop knock. He cursed himself and gave two lighter taps.

  Deacon shook his head and shouldered his way in between Mitchell and the door. “Might make more sense for me to be first,” he said with a sneer.

  A lackey named Joonbug answered the door. Mitch recognized him from the CRASH intelligence photos.

  “Hey, Joonbug,” Deacon said. “I’ve got that friend I wanted to introduce Lorenzo to.”

  Mitch didn’t like the sullen emphasis Deacon put on the word “friend.” What’s he trying to pull?

  They stepped into the house. Music and marijuana smoke enveloped them. With the stereo playing, it might be hard for the others to hear him on the mike. Mitch already didn’t like the way this was going. There were five men scattered about the living room, passing a pair of joints between them. High as hell, and they still managed to look pissed off. Two of them had blue bandannas on their heads, one a Dodgers cap. All of them had some flash of blue. Mitch looked at each one, committing their appearances and locations to memory. He didn’t see any weapons or drugs except for t
he weed. Mitch heard the door close behind him. The click of the lock engaging behind was almost deafening.

  The room was starkly appointed. Whatever furnishings Fremont’s grandmother had left in the house he’d done away with. Mitch counted a couch, cheap walnut coffee table, and two chairs, one of which was a recliner. Nothing hung on the walls. The entire room was bathed in cheap yellow light. The windows were all closed, probably to keep the pot smoke in, and there was no A/C. It was stuffy as hell.

  “Fremont,” Deacon said.

  After a few breaths, the man in the middle seat on the couch leaned forward. He was wearing jeans and a skintight wife beater with BK’s on his feet. All eyes in the room went to him when he moved. He would be the leader. Fremont was tall, long legs and sinewy arms, an athlete’s body.

  Fremont looked Mitch up and down, and sucked at his teeth with a sneer.

  Deacon cleared his throat.

  “This is my associate, Rick Ranes.”

  Fremont remained in place on the couch and made no move to close the gap between them. He traded looks with the banger to his right on the couch, who nodded and stood. He moved over to the wall to Mitch’s left, standing near Joonbug. Mitch was now flanked.

  No one made any move to speak.

  Mitch stepped forward, needing to salvage this quick. “I’m not sure how much Deacon has told you about me, but I’m in the music business. A&R.”

  Fremont sucked at his teeth.

  “I find the new talent, and once I’ve got them, I need to keep them happy. Basically, I have to throw a lot of really bitchin’ parties.” He punctuated it with his best frat boy “ha-ha.” “That’s where you come in, my friend.”

  Fremont said nothing. He just stared with angry eyes.

  “So look, I’ve signed some of the biggest acts in the business. Right now, I’m on the Van Halen team. I’m sure you know what that means.” Mitch knew they absolutely would not. VH was one of the biggest bands in the world; they could sell out twenty thousand seat arenas on subsequent nights and have people waiting in the wings, but they might as well be from another planet as far as the young men behind these sullen stares were concerned. “They’re about to swing through Santa Monica on the Fair Warning tour, and Diamond Dave expects that I’m going to meet him backstage with a briefcase full of flake. This isn’t a man you let down. You know what I mean?” Mitch flashed a toothy smile.

  Fremont sucked at his teeth again but said nothing.

  “Now, my regular guy can’t get the kind of volume I need anymore. I knew Deacon from around the way and laid my problem out for him. He used to sell to the Eagles and knows all about high volume, but you already knew that. Am I right?” Mitch nodded with a smirk as he spoke. He got nothing from the audience. “Anyway, he told me he’s got a guy gets the best shit on the West Coast. Uncut. And he’s got quantity.” Mitch punctuated each syllable like he was dotting them with a pen. “So he squares the meeting, and here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Fremont said, arms folded across his chest.

  This wasn’t going the way Mitch envisioned. What he wanted was a deep breath and a hard second, but this wasn’t the time. For now, he just hoped that his skyrocketing heart rate wasn’t visible from the outside. “Well, I need a new supplier, and I understand you’re the guy. Or you can be.” Mitch let that hang in the air. “I’d like to see what you got. If my clients like it, I’ll buy all you can handle. I need a good, steady supply.”

  “I got that.”

  “You got ten, fifteen keys a month?”

  “I said I got it, White Bread.”

  “Ok, then, let me see.”

  “I said I got it.”

  “Yeah, maybe I got a million dollars, and maybe I don’t, but if I don’t see shit I don’t buy shit.” Mitch twisted toward the door. He cuff shot his right hand at the door. “Look, I came down here to do business, not to have my time wasted. I was led to believe that you were for real. If you’re not, then I’ll just go find someone who is.” Mitch took a step toward the door and shot an angry look at Deacon.

  The dealer put a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and leaned in. “Get it together,” he whispered harshly. “You panic you’re going to get us both killed.”

  “Back off,” Mitch whispered hard through his teeth. “I thought you knew what a bluff was.”

  “Yo, hold up, White Bread.”

  Mitch paused but only looked out the back corner of his eye to Fremont.

  “So you got something or not? And the name is Ranes, not White Bread.”

  Fremont exhaled. “Yeah. This way.” He turned around and walked out of the living room. “Yo, you guys hang out.”

  Mitch followed tentatively. This wasn’t good. He wanted Fremont to do the deal in the open so they could show the entire gang as members of a single criminal organization. He didn’t want some of them claiming they didn’t know what was going on because they couldn’t see it. Not to mention Wood and Griffin were on the other side of the front door. Now there’d be four armed Crips between him and his backup. “Where are we going? Why don’t we just do it out here?”

  “Cuz I don’t want to drag my shit all over the house, that’s why.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to drag my shit all over the house. Let’s just do it out here. We can all do a line if its right.” He gave a fake laugh.

  Fremont stopped in the hallway and looked at him hard. “Ain’t you never had a dog? Don’t shit where you eat.”

  “I’d like to have my man come with, that’s all right with you.” Mitch gripped the briefcase, his palm slick with sweat.

  “What you need him for?”

  “I’m fine here, Rick,” Deacon told him. “Just get it done.” Fremont turned around and continued down the hallway and led him into a back bedroom. Mitchell swallowed, breathed deeply, and followed Lorenzo Fremont down the dark hallway.

  Freddy and Dom crouched next to Fremont’s back door, pistols drawn. The Smith and Wesson K-38 was the standard issue firearm, although officers could choose their own after the boot year probation ended. The Rockstars all carried .45 Colts, preferring the larger magazine and the mule-kick stopping power. Bo stood opposite them with the shotgun. Yellow grass, neglected and dying in the heat, crunched under their feet. The backyard was a yellow-brown sheet, a dead zone. Weeds wouldn’t even grow here. The detective made the awning over the back door and stood, Bo on the left, Dom and Freddy on the right. Bo pressed his ear up against the door. He could hear the rhythmic thump of music, but distance and barriers distorted the sound. He couldn’t make out any voices.

  Rings of sweat pooled around Bo’s armpits, and the small of his back felt like a Louisiana swamp. It was pushing 95 with no breeze. He was sweating rivers under the tactical vest. Bo glanced to the others. Both nodded; they were in place and ready. Bo pressed his ear against the door again, trying to make out a sound. Bo gave a hard stare to the door, the one he was on the wrong side of. The paint was chipped, long faded from white to a dirty gray and flaking. He exhaled again to calm his nerves and looked again to his companions.

  The three gunshots shattered the silence.

  “Jesus!” Bo jumped in front of the door, took a step back and aimed the Ithaca just above the door handle.

  Freddy pulled his radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired!”

  Bo squeezed the shotgun’s trigger, and the door exploded into fragments. He kicked the remnants into the house, clearing the path for Dom and Freddy. They surged through the gap shouting “Police officers!”

  Bo followed, pulling the pistol grip up to his shoulder. They were in a dirty kitchen, moving quickly for the living room filled with four gangbangers all going for their weapons and Deacon Blues going for the floor. Pot smoke hung heavy in the air. The front door blew open with Wood and Griffin. The four men in the living room were trapped. Sirens filled in whatever pockets of silence remained in the air. Backup would be there in seconds.

  Bo pushed into the center of the room and shouted, “Put your w
eapons on the ground now!”

  Fractions of a second moved like hours. Bo stared down the gangbanger across from him, daring him to make a move. The look returned was blank malice.

  More orders to drop weapons filled the air.

  The air between them was hot and electric, a wildfire waiting for ignition.

  Then, one by one, the gang members lowered their weapons.

  The Rockstars swarmed in and dropped the gangbangers to the floor, snapping their arms back as they cuffed them. Through the open door, Bo saw a squad car screech to a halt in front of Fremont’s Camaro. The front of the squad car was on the front lawn at an angle, making it look like the crossbar in a lopsided “T.” Ellison and his partner were out of the car and up to the front door as the second CRASH unit rolled in, siren screaming like a banshee.

  Marvin Gaye blared out of the speakers.

  Bo looked around the room. Where in the hell was Mitch?

  Bo stepped back, shotgun barrel leading the way, and moved down the short hallway that connected with the space between the kitchen and the living room. The gunshots had come from the left when Bo was outside; that would put it in the back room. Bo moved quickly to the end of the hallway, swinging the barrel around first.

  He found his partner in the back bedroom.

  Mitch stood in a perfect firing-range Weaver stance, pistol smoking and leveled at the sprawled form of Fremont. There were three ugly red dots on Fremont’s chest, rapidly expanding as the blood rushed out.

  Lorenzo Fremont was dead.

  Chapter Nine

  Hunter lowered the radio when Bo and Mitch approached. The lieutenant walked up and put a steadying hand on his man’s shoulder. Gaffney was ghost white. “I’m glad you’re OK, Mitchell. You had me worried there for a bit.”