Т Паркер - The Fallen

Everyone had armor. Fellowes seemed especially uncomfortable in it, and in fact the vest looked too small for his long torso. I wear an older, Kevlar II vest made by Point Blank, which fits me very well and is highly rated, though weighty and no longer considered cutting edge.

Behind us were four cruisers and two slickbacks, with a total of twelve armed and armored officers. Four of them were females from Vice; two were female patrol officers. It’s easier for women to arrest women because there is less likelihood of excessive force or groping accusations, though sometimes women peace officers have trouble subduing a violent suspect alone. Bringing up the rear were two transportation vans and four uniforms to take the girls and the johns directly to jail.

I turned to watch one van, two cruisers, and two unmarked cars pull to the roadside, then bump off into the darkness. They would use county-maintained fire roads and come in the back way. According to Fellowes, they would get to their destination sooner than the rest of us. They would park as close to the back of the Tuscan mansion as possible, then move on foot and take positions around the backyard and pool house.

The rest of us would divide into two groups, roll right up, and block both ends of the house’s circular front driveway. Some of us would spread out on foot to cover side doors and windows. The rest of us would go in, serve our warrant, and start cuffing people. Fellowes would do the knocking and talking, though I suspected we might end up breaking down the front door.

I looked out at the moon, a curve resting on its back in the gauze of fog and darkness. McKenzie checked her Glock, then holstered it and snapped the strap. I was aware of my grandfather’s Colt 1911 A1 up against my ribs.

Fellowes told us what they’d found out about the brothel. He told us that his Vice detectives had discovered that the Eden Heights house was actually owned by a Los Angeles — based financier who had never occupied it. It was managed by Sorrento Property Management and rented out month to month to Preferred Financial Services for seven thousand dollars. Preferred Financial Services was a company owned by Jordan Sheehan & Associates, Investments. There was no formal rental agreement on which her name appeared.

“I hope she didn’t smell us out,” said Fellowes as we slowed for the off-ramp. “She isn’t stupid.”

I figured that Fellowes had made sure she smelled us out, or we wouldn’t be marching in right now. I figured that Jordan Sheehan was far, far away from Eden Heights at this moment, likely at Indigo, where she would be seen and remembered. I figured that she had arranged to let Chupa take this fall. I figured that Fellowes would not be telling the press who the actual renter of the Tuscan behemoth really was. I didn’t think we’d find much of the A-list here tonight, but rather the second-echelon johns who actually paid for their Squeaky Clean fun.

“I hope I can cuff her myself,” said McKenzie. She leaned forward toward Fellowes as she said this, stepping on my toe with her duty boot to let me know that she understood Jordan had taken the night off.

We all had extra plastic wrist restraints, which are quickly accessible inside a belt or waistband. Two of our officers would carry video cameras to record the procedure. We wanted a clear record to help establish our case and to protect us from the storm of criticism that can come when police actions are questioned. Of course, our behavior had to be perfect, which can be difficult when people are screaming, running, or resisting arrest.

At least we wouldn’t have to pull off to the side of the road and wait for someone with the gate code to come in or out of Eden Heights. Fellowes had gotten the code from Liberty Ridge Protection, the private security company that maintained the gate to Eden Heights.

We waited while Mincher punched in the code. The elaborate wrought-iron gate swung open and the Suburban rolled forward. We started up the road slowly so the others could catch up. A moment later Mincher kicked the big Suburban into a trot, and we headed up the hill.

We passed down the wide street and through the handsome neighborhood. It was like driving through a life-size travel brochure for a Mediterranean paradise. I saw the Tuscan mansion up ahead, its fountain throwing streams of water into the air, the windows aglow with muted light, and the sharp reflections coming off the cars parked along the big circular drive.

McKenzie leaned forward, then sat back and took a deep breath. We knocked fists for luck. Chupa Junior stood on the porch in a swatch of light, took one look at us, then vanished inside.

“We’ve been made,” said Fellowes.

Mincher punched the Suburban to the far entry and swung sideways to block it. Two cruisers pulled up around us to seal it off. I glanced back to the first entry and saw our cruisers and slickbacks throttling the entrance, doors swinging open.

We trotted up the drive, Fellowes leading the way. The blue water splashed in the fountain and I could smell the damp sage from the hillsides. Our video shooter flared off to the side and kept pace with us, camera rolling.

Captain Fellowes knocked three times, waited a few seconds, and knocked again. Standing on the driveway behind him I saw a light come on upstairs, then another. Doors slammed. Voices touched the walls inside.

Fellowes signaled. Mincher and another officer slammed the battering ram into the fancy door. The brass burst off the wood, the door twisted open like something wounded, and Fellowes stumbled inside.

I heard shouting from the back of the house. Fellowes and three men ran down the foyer then branched off to the left. McKenzie and I followed but went right. A door slammed open in front of me and a young man shot out, saw us, and ran the other way. He wore a suit but carried his shoes and socks. Behind him tumbled a barefoot young woman with her dress almost on, her hair in her face, and a wild glint in her eyes as she tried to follow him down the hall.

I charged past the woman and caught up with the john halfway across the game room, yelling at him to stop. He didn’t, so I brought him down. We crashed hard into the leg of a billiards table and I could hear the balls clack apart up on the felt but I swung the guy’s wrists behind him and put a tie around them. He did not meaningfully resist. I ran back to find McKenzie in control of the girl, who was cuffed and demanding to see her lawyer immediately.

Two of our uniforms appeared to escort our suspects to the transport van.

More shouting from the back of the house then, but I couldn’t tell what was being said. In a suite off the hallway McKenzie and I surprised a couple still trying to get enough clothes on to run away. The man was middle-aged and plainly terrified. The girl was a very young Latina in a red slip. Her hair spread into a shiny black fan as she tried to sprint past me for the door. McKenzie took her down and they spit and argued in frightening Spanish while I let Middle-Aged put on his pants and shirt.

Suddenly the lights were out. A woman screamed upstairs, and a man yelled. A gun went off somewhere in the back of the house — a small-caliber handgun, 22 or .25 was my guess.

Two more quick pops rang through the chaos. A man screamed in pain.

Middle-Aged broke away from my grip and ran down the hall.

I yelled at him to stop but he didn’t. I saw his silhouette round the end of the hallway and head for the game room. I clambered in behind him, remembering where the billiards table was but miscalculating the jukebox location. I crashed into it, managing to stay upright. The French doors stood open at the far end of the room. I could see the faint moonlight outside and the shimmer of the pool on the window glass. Middle-Aged blundered outside and headed right.