James Patterson - Gone

If I had any last doubts about the feds’ commitment, they were thoroughly extinguished when FBI Director Joseph J. Rohr himself attended the task force’s morning briefing via Skype. Instead of micromanaging the meeting, Rohr surprised me by listening intently and asking pointed but intelligent questions about logistics and manpower.

He seemed determined that we have every resource we needed. Moreover, instead of harping on ass-covering attention to protocol, the surprisingly witty former marine fighter pilot practically begged us to think as creatively as we could in tracking down Perrine.

After a few false starts, it was decided that the task force’s new prime directive would be to laser-focus on the gangs in LA who were known to be closest to Perrine’s Los Salvajes organization. That meant going with both barrels after MS-13.

So on the second morning after the murder, Emily and I were teamed up with a short, extremely intense bullnecked cop named John Diaz, who was a ten-year-veteran detective of the LAPD’s Gangs and Narcotics Division. After the briefing, Diaz took us immediately from Olympic Station to a place called Langer’s Deli, in the MacArthur Park area of Westlake. Though it was a pretty gritty inner-city neighborhood, as we sat at a window booth above the palm trees, I spotted a grand, white prewar building.

“Why does that look familiar?” I said to Diaz, pointing at it.

“That’s the Bryson Apartment Hotel,” Diaz said with a nod. “It’s the building Fred MacMurray drives past in the beginning of Double Indemnity. ”

“Right,” I said excitedly. “With a couple of slugs in his belly.”

“Exactly,” Diaz said, nodding again. “Actually, MacArthur Park has a long history of gunshot wounds in real life, too. A lot of drugs, a lot of gangs. They drained the lake back in the seventies, and you wouldn’t believe the number of guns they found. They say this is where MS-Thirteen was started in the eighties by Salvadoran immigrants.

“Speaking of which, I called a guy who might be able to help us on an MS-Thirteen lead. He’s a friend, so I’ve been reluctant to ask him for any info. The worst insult you can make to these guys is to ask them to be a snitch. But after what happened to that lady agent, this shit is obviously not business as usual. He’s on his way here now.”

We were ordering pastrami sandwiches when a UPS truck pulled up outside. The brown-uniformed Hispanic driver who stepped out and lit a cigarette had a goatee and more than a few tats.

“And here he is now,” Diaz said, standing.

“That’s your source? The UPS guy?”

“Oh, yeah. Me and Pepe go way back to my old neighborhood. My uncle’s a district manager at UPS, and I actually pulled some strings to get him the job when he got out of jail a few years ago.”

“Is he MS-Thirteen?” I said.

“No, Pepe’s Eighteenth Street, MS-Thirteen’s rival. But don’t let the uniform fool you. Pepe’s in the game up to his tattooed neck. He knows everybody. You guys sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

Diaz went out and hopped into the truck, and we watched as it pulled out. The sandwiches had just hit the table when the truck hit the curb again. Diaz came back in, smiling. He clapped his hands and rubbed them as he sat back down.

“OK, the suspense is killing me,” I said. “What can Brown do for us?”

Diaz spread a napkin on his lap.

“We need to speak to a guy named Tomás Neves. He’s an MS-Thirteen shot caller who’s done quite well for himself, apparently. In addition to moving a lot of weight, he’s a partner in one of those custom car shops down in Manhattan Beach where the rich people live. Pepe said something this big would have to go through Neves. He usually rolls into his fancy car joint late in the afternoon.”

“Excellent,” I said, lifting my massive sandwich. “First lunch, then it’s time for an episode of Pimp My G-Car. ”

Beach City Customs was south of LAX on the Pacific Coast Highway, in a commercial section of Manhattan Beach known as the Sepulveda Strip.

Diaz quickly tapped me on the shoulder as we were about to pull into its parking lot.

“What’s up, John?” I said.

“Wait a sec. Drive around the block, would you?”

“OK,” I said, continuing on and taking the corner past the body shop.

“How much do you want to find this guy Perrine?” Diaz said. “I mean, how much, really?”

“He put out a hit on my family, John,” I said, looking at the LAPD cop in the rearview. “I want him as badly as humanly possible.”

“I figured,” Diaz said. “See, this guy Tomás is going to be hard-core and definitely not stupid. If he’s helping out Perrine, there’s no way he’s going to voluntarily come with us to be questioned. There’s no way he’s going to cooperate.”

“I take it you have another idea?” Emily said.

Diaz nodded.

“Back in the late nineties, we had a scandal out here with a gang unit called CRASH. These CRASH cops went off the rails. They framed gang members, beat up on them. The sergeants used to give out awards if a gang member was shot.”

“Your point being?”

“These gang guys remember CRASH. In fact, more often than not, during an arrest they and their defense lawyers claim we’re up to our old tricks. I’m just thinking we might be able to use the rep of these crazy CRASH guys to put a little pressure on our friend Tomás.”

“What do you mean? You want to frame him or something?” Emily said.

“No, of course not,” Diaz said. “But what if we … I don’t know … pretended to?”

“Yeah?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Emily said.

I smiled.

“I don’t know, either, Emily. But the director did tell us to get creative, to think outside the box. Besides, we need information, not evidence. It would never make it into court.”

“Exactly,” Diaz said. “It would be a bluff all the way, but at this point, that’s all we got. We need to do something.”

“Fine,” Emily said. “You’re right. This is beyond everything at this point. Count me in. I think.”

“What do we have to do, Diaz?” I said.

Diaz pointed at a CVS pharmacy on the corner to our left.

“Pull in here,” he said. “I need to pick up a few things.”

Death Metal was chugging from one of the garage’s four bays when we pulled into Beach City Customs’ parking lot.

Inside, there was a man in coveralls down on one knee, tack welding at the tailgate of a Toyota pickup truck, blue electric sparks crackling in time to the head-banging blast beats. Through the window of the paint room behind him, a guy in a full filter-breathing mask was airbrushing flames onto the gas tank on a large Japanese motorcycle.

Parker and I exchanged a glance when we saw the bike. The shooters who had taken down the LA County cops had escaped on big-bore Japanese motorcycles.

Without any ado, Diaz stuck his head inside the door of the Tacoma and killed the deafening devil tunes.

The welder stood and flipped up his mask, his pudgy brown face scrunched in wonder.

“You kidding me?” he said.

Diaz flipped his badge as he slammed the truck’s door. There was a tire iron on the ground beside the vehicle. It made a musical bing-bong off the concrete as Diaz kicked it across the garage.

“Let me answer your question with a question. Does it look like I’m kidding you? Get Tomás now,” Diaz said.

A broad-shouldered middleweight of a Hispanic man bounced out a door a split second later. He wore a tailored shirt and jacket over expensive jeans and had scar tissue over his eyes and cheekbones like ax cuts on a totem pole.