Т Паркер - The Fallen

I identified myself and ordered him to stop one more time. I caught up with him out by the pool house and took him down hard. He broke my grip with a nice turn of his wrist and struggled back to his feet. He made the spiked fence and I slammed into him as he tried to climb over, then fell to the ground and rolled once. He writhed away from me again. I picked myself up and clawed after him. But instead of running he stopped, planted his feet, and swung for my face. I leaned away from the blow and used his momentum to take him down again. I drove a knee into his back and used all my strength and weight to get his wrists together and finally cinch the plastic tie tight.

I stood up panting and really noticed what was going on around me for the first time.

The plan had worked. Our back-side interceptors were now marching off the girls and their johns two and three at a time. The lights on the cruisers bathed the scene in alternating flashes of red and blue and yellow, and the headlights of the transport van and the slickbacks cut through the scene with high beams powdered by the fog.

I recognized the San Diego fireman from one of Garrett’s videos. I recognized another face, though I still didn’t know his name. Carrie Ann Martier, wrapped in a white terry robe, looked at me as one of the Vice officers marched her past.

“Hi, Robbie,”

“Hi, Carrie.”

“Help me out here, will ya?”

“I would if I could.”

“All I did for you?”

“I’m cuffed too, Carrie.”

Then the wall exploded. A huge, headless shape blasted through a ground-floor French door, caught its foot on the broken glass, crashed to the patio, and rolled once. It came to its feet like a big, heavy cat and lowered the protective sport coat from its face. Chupa froze. He looked at me and at the other cops, then swung his immense arms and legs into rhythm and powered his way across the backyard toward the fence. He was limping badly. A Vice detective tried to tackle him but Chupa lifted him over his head and threw him into the pool. Another one climbed onto Chupa from behind but the big man shrugged him off. Another Vice detective drew down on him and yelled for him to stop but Chupa was already at the fence. A uniformed officer approached with his gun drawn but Chupa turned away from him and started climbing the fence topped by the elegant points.

I didn’t think he could do it. The fence was six feet high and built on an embankment. But he had already locked each of his big fists onto a spike, and he had more than enough strength in his arms to hoist his body toward the top. He hooked one ankle over the top horizontal railing. I could see the blood running off his shoe.

Then I saw Fellowes stumble through the broken French door, followed by Mincher. They looked at Chupa and lifted their already drawn weapons.

“Down from the fence!” yelled Fellowes. “He shot an officer! Officer down inside!”

“Bullshit, man, I got no gun!” yelled Chupa.

Someone fired over Chupa’s head and ordered him down. He had found a precarious balance, his feet stable on the top railing, his body bent over and wobbling. His big mask of a face glared down at us.

Another warning shot rang out into the night, humming into the darkness of the hills behind the house.

“Get down from that fence!” Fellowes yelled. “You are under arrest! You are under arrest!”

“Got no fucking gun, man. What’s wrong with you?”

Chupa let go of the spikes and stood. He raised his great arms for balance and his sport coat flared out, giving him a billowing grace. He began to gather and shift his weight for the jump down but the bloody foot either slipped or gave way, and he fell back down inside the fence and hit the ground with both feet. He was breathing heavily now, huge legs straining to keep him upright, his hands gripping the iron railings behind him.

Two officers moved closer, guns drawn.

“He’s armed!” yelled Fellowes.

Chupa found his balance. “Bullshit, man, I got no gun!”

“Drop the gun!”

He smiled. “I got no gun!”

“Drop the gun!”

And that was when Chupa whipped the pistol from inside his coat.

I drew down in an instant but it didn’t matter.

Chupa didn’t get off the round. A roar of gunfire collapsed him to his knees. He looked hapless and surprised. He fired one crazy shot into the air and another fusillade dumped him onto his face on the embankment. His back heaved and the blood gushed out through the bullet holes. He lifted his head, squinted out at us and into the flashing lights, then lowered his face to the grass and shuddered.

By 1:30 A.M. someone had found the main circuit breaker and turned it back on.

By 2:00, all of the johns and girls had been taken downtown. A small bunch of neighbors had gathered outside the driveway, and the fog had thickened.

By 3:00, the Coroner’s van had taken away the body of Chupa Junior.

By 4:00, Roger Sutherland and his Professional Standards Unit had confiscated the video cameras used to record the scene, completed their measurements and calculations of the crime scene, conducted interviews relating to the shooting death of Chupa Junior, and ordered all SDPD personnel to refer press and media questions to his office.

As it turned out, one of Fellowes’s Vice officers — Swanson — had gone down with a gunshot to the chest, but his armor had done its job. Mincher had witnessed the shooting: Chupa Junior had produced a small handgun from the pocket of his jacket and caught the officer as he burst into an upstairs suite.

McKenzie and I stood out back. The transport vans and cop cars were gone but the pool lights made the water bright and the yard lights issued a soft glow in the fog.

“You okay?” I asked.

“My nerves are shot and I’m sleepy.”

“Me too.”

Fellowes came from the house, slouching his way over to us.

“There you are,” he said.

“Here we are,” said McKenzie.

“I hate swimming pools,” said Fellowes. “They remind me of Samantha Asplundh. Take a walk with me, will ya?”

We followed him back inside the house, then upstairs. As I climbed the stairs behind him I understood that Fellowes, as directed by Sarvonola, had tipped off his influential friends so they wouldn’t get busted that night — Rood, Stiles, Vinson. And that he was covering his own and Mincher’s tracks by raiding the brothel. I understood that he had let Squeaky Clean get through the net so she could set up shop somewhere else. Jordan’s girls would take the fall for her — Carrie Ann Martier and the others. And I understood that we had killed a man who may or may not have taken a shot at a Vice officer, as witnessed by a traffic cop on the take along with Fellowes. I felt a deep sickness in my guts, like nothing I had felt before.

He motioned us into one of the suites. I saw that the door had been broken down.

The room was quite large. The furniture was leather and the carpet was dark and thick. Gas logs burned in the fireplace. One wall was a huge, mirrored walk-in closet. The bed was tossed — black satin sheets and pillows.

Mincher was there, leaning against the entrance to the bath. Two Vice detectives stood across from him and two more stood by the window.

“Shut the door,” said Fellowes.

Mincher shut the door. Fellowes went to the window then turned to McKenzie and me.

“You two should understand something,” he said. “We don’t know what happened to Garrett. Leave Vice out of it. We have our hands full with our own problems. Clear?”

“One of your problems was Garrett,” said McKenzie.

“No. He never said one word to us about anything he was doing. We had no problem with Garrett until you showed up. Listen, you fuckin’ crusaders — this is my turf. I allowed you to come along tonight so you would see what happens on it.”