Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

“Okay, Harvey, that sounds good. Set it up the way you want, and roll on it.”

Krantz clapped Stan Watts on the shoulder, then turned for the door. He looked like Errol Flynn heading off with the Dawn Patrol.

Dolan said, “I want a piece.”

Everyone stopped, and looked at her.

“Captain, I earned a place here. I want this. I want to be there when we get this fucker.”

Krantz's jaw tightened, and he made the little jut. He wanted to tell her no so badly that he had cramps, but he was watching Bishop.

Bishop tapped his desk for a moment, then leaned back and nodded. “It's Harvey's Task Force, Samantha. I never force a commander to take someone he doesn't want.”

Krantz nodded, and jutted his jaw again.

“But I think you deserve a second chance. How about you, Harve? Think you could find room for Dolan?”

It was clear what Bishop wanted, and Krantz hated it. His jaw rippled with tension, but he nodded gamely. “We'll meet you in the parking lot, Dolan. You're welcome to come along.”

Everyone filed out as the meeting broke, Stan Watts and even Williams slapping Dolan on the back or shaking her hand. She accepted their congratulations with a wide, bright smile, sparkling eyes, and a flush of excitement that was breathtaking. Samantha Dolan was beautiful.

I would never again see her as happy.

When we got down to her car, Dolan opened the trunk, and tossed me a bullet-resistant vest. “Here. Gonna be small, but you can adjust the straps.”

I held it up to myself, then put it back in her trunk. “Not my color.”

“Your call.”

Dolan stripped off her shirt right there in the parking lot until she was down to her bra, then put on her own vest. All the people out on Los Angeles Street could see her, and so could the cops coming out of Parker Center, but she didn't seem to mind.

Dolan caught me watching and grinned nastily. “See anything you like, go for it.”

I waited in the car.

When Dolan was dressed, she got behind the wheel. “I've been thinking about all this, hotshot, and I'm putting you on notice. I'm not giving up on you.”

I looked at her.

“I'm not calling it quits just because you've got your Southern Belle. I want you, and I always get what I want. Maybe I'll put Scarlett O'Hara on notice, too. I intend to take you away from her.”

I shook my head and stared out the window.

“Be the best you've ever had.”

“Dolan, let's just not go there, okay?”

Her voice and her eyes softened. “I know you love her. I just gotta make you love me more.”

She looked away then, and I looked away, too.

We sat quietly after that with the air conditioner running until Krantz and Watts rolled out of the covered parking in their D-ride, Williams and Bruly behind them. Dolan keyed a small black radio. “I'm on.”

Watts came back, “Okay.”

Williams said, “Up.”

We pulled into line behind them, and eased out of the lot.

I said, “Hey, Dolan.”

“Mm?”

I stared at her until she glanced over.

“I like you a lot. I mean a lot, you know?”

She made a gentle smile that crinkled her eyes, but she didn't answer.

The plan was simple: We would proceed directly to Sobek's address, reconnoiter the area, then withdraw to decide what to do while waiting for two Rampart Division radio cars to come in as backup units.

Two blocks from Sobek's address, Krantz slowed as we passed an AM-PM Minimart, and called us over the radio. “We'll meet back at this minimart after we make the pass.”

Everybody rogered that.

“Dolan. You go in from this side, and we'll follow in a couple of minutes. Williams, swing up and come down from the north. We don't want to look like a parade.”

Dolan double-clicked her radio to roger, then glanced at me. “First smart thing that airhead has said.”

“Watts probably suggested it.”

Dolan laughed.

Williams swung up a side street as Dolan and I continued on by ourselves.

Laurence Sobek, also known as Curtis Wood, lived in a converted garage apartment in a depressed residential area less than one mile from Parker Center. An undersized house like a little square box cut into a duplex sat near the street, with a driveway running along its side to a smaller box at the back of the property, which was Sobek's conversion. A stocky Hispanic woman and three small children were in the front yard of the house next door, playing with a garden hose. The neighborhood wasn't unlike where his mother lived: Rows of small stucco boxes and older apartment buildings, mostly inhabited by immigrants from Mexico or Central America. Sobek's box was run-down and sad.

I said, “I make two doors, one facing the main duplex and another on the side. Looks like something's on the windows.”

“You see anyone in the main house?”

“Couldn't tell, but it looks quiet.”

“I didn't see a car.”

“Me neither. But it could be one of these on the street.”

We passed Williams and Bruly coming in opposite us, then took two right turns and went back to the AM-PM. The two Rampart radio cars were waiting when we got there. We pulled in beside them and left the engine and air conditioner running. Williams pulled in thirty seconds after us, and Krantz followed almost a minute after. We joined him at his car.

Krantz said, “We got the telephonic warrant, so we're good to go with entering the property. Stan, how do you want to play it?”

Dolan nudged me. There was Krantz, giving it over to Watts again.

Watts said, “Secure the duplex first. I want to get that woman and her children out of there. Put one of the radio cars on the house directly behind Sobek's conversion in case he makes a run out the back. The rest of us cover the doors and windows. If he doesn't answer the door, I don't want to break it down, 'cause then he'll know we were here. Maybe see if we can slip the lock, and if not maybe we can crack one of the windows.”

I said, “How do you want to approach the house?”

Krantz frowned at me. “Let us worry about that.”

Watts answered anyway. “I'd say two groups, one down the drive and the other from the side yard to the north. Again, we want to keep a low profile. If he's not home, it's best if he doesn't know we were here.”

Krantz gave the radio units their assignments, describing Sobek and giving them copies of the file shots the employment office had taken. He told them that if this guy came hauling ass through the yard they should consider him dangerous and act accordingly.

When the uniforms had gone back to their cars, Krantz turned back to the rest of us. “Everybody got their vest?”

Dolan said, “Cole doesn't.”

Krantz shrugged. “Won't matter. He's going to wait here. So are you.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is as far as you go, Dolan. I was fine with letting you tag along, but this is it. This is a Task Force operation, and you're not part of the Task Force.”

Dolan charged up to Krantz so fast that he jumped back, and Williams lurched between them.

“Take it easy, Dolan!”

Dolan shouted, “You can't do this, goddamnit! Cole and I found this guy!”

“I can do anything I want. It's my operation.”

I said, “This is really chickenshit, Krantz. If you felt this way, you should've made the play in front of Bishop.”

Krantz jutted the jaw. “I've inspected the scene and determined it's best for the operation if only Task Force members participate. We're going to look too much like an army back there as it is. If you and Dolan were there, we'd be crawling all over each other and the odds of someone getting hurt would increase.”

I smiled at Watts, but Watts was staring at the ground. “Sure. It's a safety issue.”