Paul Levine: Illegal

"Looks like a sports bar," Rigney said, checking out the five LCD monitors on the chief's back wall. It was the only wall not made of glass. The aquarium, six feet wide and twenty feet long, formed the wall with the bullpen. Glass block walls on either side separated the chief's quarters from adjacent offices.

The glass blocks multiplied the images on the other side. Cardenas often wondered if Uncle Sim was sending him a message there. Things are not always what they seem. Or, Someone's always watching. Or maybe, People in glass houses shouldn't peer too deeply into other people's lives.

Not that the place reflected Uncle Sim's taste. He did his business at his grandfather's rolltop desk with its hundred nooks and crannies, a piece of furniture as bulky as a battleship. For the Rutledge Municipal Building, Simeon hired a San Francisco designer, a noodle-necked young man who blew into town in black leather pants and a red silk scarf. By the time he left, Cardenas had an office where he couldn't scratch his nuts without being observed by meter maids crossing the bullpen to grab a demitasse from the gleaming titanium espresso machine.

That, too, hadn't escaped Rigney's notice. "You running a police station or a Starbucks here?" Sarcasm steaming like milk in a latte.

"We find that a pleasant atmosphere helps morale."

Cardenas nearly biting his tongue, thinking he sounded like one of those dweebs in Human Resources.

Rigney scanned the office as if he wanted to take prints off the artwork, starting with the granite sculpture of a horse pulling a plow.

Just what was the detective thinking? Cardenas wondered. The chief knew Rigney was a cop in deep trouble. A blown sting operation. A judge's suicide. Jimmy Payne's escape.

Rigney studied the chief through weary cop eyes. "So I'm still trying to figure out why you called L.A.P.D., asking about Payne."

"I had a report about this lawyer causing a scene over at the Rutledge corporate office. I ran his name, found the outstanding warrants. I called."

"But you ended up talking to Homicide, not Warrants."

"The call was misdirected. Maybe that's why the detective seemed so confused."

"Lou Parell may be fat and lazy, but he's not stupid. He says you never mentioned Payne was up here."

"Your detective is mistaken. Why else would I have called?"

"You tell me, Chief. Driving up here today, I kept asking myself: Why's this small-town cop mixed up with an asshole like Royal Payne?"

"All I know, Mr. Payne became agitated when he couldn't locate a woman he thought was working at Rutledge Farms."

"Where'd he pop up next?"

"He didn't. Hasn't been seen since he left the Rutledge office a couple days ago."

"So you never met him."

"Afraid not." Cardenas met Rigney's gaze. Turning away or blinking would make the lie too obvious. The less said, the better the chance the L.A. cop would leave town.

"Then you just dropped it? Never followed up, even though you knew about those warrants."

"Not my jurisdiction, and it's been busy up here."

"I'll bet."

Cardenas cursed himself for having made the call to the L.A.P.D. He needed Rigney here like a farmer needs a February freeze. But Uncle Sim had ordered him to do it. Charlie Whitehurst was right.

The old man's losing it.

"If Payne's still looking for that woman," the chief said, "he's probably checking out other growers. It's a big valley."

"And filled with a lot of horseshit." Rigney dropped into one of the soft leather chairs. He didn't seem in any hurry. "I pictured your office like something out of a black-and-white movie. Paddle fans, an old sergeant pecking away at a manual typewriter, a holding cell for the town drunk. But the place looks like Mission Control."

"I'm not following you, Detective."

"I'm just wondering, if the Attorney General started poking around in Hell's Little Oven here, what would he find?"

"An efficient police department, I suspect." Cardenas got up and walked to his glass-doored mini-fridge. He took out a pitcher. "Lemonade, Detective? Made from Rutledge lemons."

"No lemonade. No sarsaparilla. No peeing on my leg and calling it champagne."

Cardenas poured two glasses, anyway. "Seems like you're under some stress, Detective."

"No shit."

Another friendly smile. The lies weren't working; the chief decided to change his approach. He remembered some advice Simeon had dished out years ago, when he was still sharp as a cactus.

"Never been a horse that can't be rode. Never been a man who can't be sold."

"We get a lot of city cops who take early retirement and move up here," Cardenas said. "Got a couple working for us, couple more over at the Sheriff's Department. One or two even had some blemishes on their records."

"What the hell are you saying?"

"Just that a man should always be open to new opportunities."

"So I should move here and arrest artichoke poachers?"

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to make money in the Valley." Letting it hang there, like bacon dangling above the koi.

"Just how would I do that?" Rigney didn't jump at the bait, but he didn't swim the other direction, either. "Make easy money, I mean."

"You hungry, Detective? Clara over in Zoning makes the best B.L.T. s you've ever eaten."

Rigney studied him a moment, scowling. Then he answered, "Yeah, I'm hungry. In fact, I'm starving."

I must be dead, Payne thought.

If I'm not dead, why don't I feel any pain? Why don't I feel anything?

"Are you conscious, Jimmy? Can you hear me?"

Sweet voice. Quiet voice. Sharon's voice.

Yep. I'm dead.

He mustered all his effort to open his eyes. As easy as lifting a ten-ton truck by cranking a hand jack. But there she was, reddish-brown hair, honey-colored eyes looking down at him, filled with compassion and caring, and…

"You stupid bastard," Sharon said.

And maybe a tad of anger.

"Himmy, I knew you weren't dead."

Tino looking down at him, black hair falling into his green eyes.

"Hey, kid."

Where the hell am I?

Payne tried sitting up, felt a tugging, found a tube stuck into the back of his hand. An IV bag dangled from a cart. Putting two and two together and being decent at math, he figured he was in a hospital. If that weren't enough proof, the place smelled like laundry bleach.

"I told you not to come here," Sharon reminded him, in case he'd forgotten. "I knew something like this would happen."

"Why is everything always my fault?" he said.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're reckless and self-destructive."

"Himmy's a good man," Tino said. "I trust him with my life."

"Thanks, kid. As soon as I get feeling back in my right arm, we'll play some catch." Payne's lips felt dry and thick.

"How'd I get here? How'd you get here?"

"You came by ambulance," Sharon said. "I came after the local police chief called me."

"Javier Cardenas?"

"He found my card in your wallet. Asked if I knew who would do this to you."

"And you said…?"

" 'Lots of people.' "

Payne's laugh was a pitiful wheeze. "Cardenas knows who did it. Rutledge must have called him to scrape me off the ground. His way of saying, 'Don't bother filing charges.' "

"Simeon Rutledge did this?" Sounding suspicious.

"I'll kill the pendejo, " Tino said.

"Calm down, Ace," Payne cautioned. He gripped the bed railing, struggled again to sit up. The room whirled, and he sank back into the pillows.

Sharon adjusted the IV tube, which had twisted itself around Payne's forearm. He winced, thinking of the bullwhip.

"You're supposed to rest," she said.

"Screw that. There's something I gotta do." He looked toward Tino. "I think I know how to find your mother."