Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

“Amigo,” Decker said.

Pepe looked up.

“You’ve got a permit for this?”

No response.

“Didn’t think so. We’re going to borrow it.”

Knowing I was more familiar with the standard police issue Beretta, Decker and I exchanged weapons. He said, “You ever fire this thing, Renaldes? Because I’m going to take this into the lab and it could give you problems if it was used in a crime.”

“I fin’ it,” Pepe told him.

“Yeah, like you found these pharmaceuticals?” I held up the bag of pills.

Renaldes regarded me with tired eyes.

“Hey,” I said. “You play nice, we place nice.”

Decker took one of Renaldes’s belts, pulled the small man’s hands behind his back, and secured the wrists together. “Don’t take it personally.” He held one arm, I took the other, and together we spirited him to the door.

“Wha’ ’bout my dog?”

“If it doesn’t take too long, he should be fine,” Decker answered. “Let’s go.”

The Porsche had a micromini backseat. I squeezed in as best I could lengthwise; then Dad placed Pepe in the passenger’s bucket. We undid Renaldes’s hands, then retied them around the seat back. I had a gun, so did Dad. The Loo started the car and we were off.

In frank talk, we were kidnapping Pepe and that didn’t sit well with my inner child. It also gave me insight-just how easy it was to justify jumping the line. My father wasn’t crooked-I was sure of that-but he seemed to have no problem disregarding due process when it served his purposes.

So where did that leave me?

I stood loyal to my father, and to justify my uneasiness, I convinced myself that I was his imaginary angel sitting on his right shoulder, telling him when to rein it in.

I was holding a gun, prepared to use it if I had to, but the guy wasn’t giving us a lick of problems-just the opposite. He was a passive kind of guy who had lived in the same unit for almost three years. I was beginning to doubt that this wimpy guy was really involved in raping Sarah Sanders. I wondered if maybe Germando El Paso had reversed it for his convenience. Maybe Renaldes had been the lookout while Fedek and El Paso did the nasty. I kept that filed in the back of my head, should we ever make progress on the case.

“You getting hungry, Pepe?” I asked him.

“A leetle.”

“You be good and I’ll buy you some food after it’s over.”

He nodded, his fingers constantly wiggling against the binds that tied his wrists.

Decker was silent, driving deep into the industrial part of L.A. County, going east on the freeway to the address given to us by Renaldes. We passed a skyline of old buildings, some of them abandoned with shot-out or boarded-up windows. The sky was dull and smoggy and I had to fight to stay awake. I closed my eyes for just a second, then yanked open the lids when I realized I’d fallen asleep. Pepe apparently had the same idea. He was snoring, chin to his chest. I hadn’t noticed it before but he had a pencil mustache as well as a little swatch of beard under his lower lip.

As soon as Pepe had entered the picture, I hadn’t addressed my father by name or title. He had been equally circumspect with me. Even while Pepe snoozed, we didn’t chat; both of us knew people heard things in their sleep. It was a tense ride and I was dreadfully tired and sorely uncomfortable. Another ten minutes went by before Decker took the off-ramp into the heart of L.A. County industrial life. The air was thick with slag, smelt, and pollutants, and it hurt to breathe too deeply. The blocks were long-warehouse after warehouse-all of it monotonous and ugly.

The address Pepe had given us corresponded to a body-and-paint shop, and from what I could tell at first glance, it seemed to be a legitimate one. If it had been a chop shop, it would have been hidden. But it wasn’t. Also, there were no large semis, which provided the usual method for transporting stolen wares. But there were stacks of cars in an open lot, many of them in various states of disrepair. Nothing vintage, just worn and cheap. Renaldes jerked his head up and blinked several times.

He spoke to my father in Spanish. Dad nodded and parked across the street in another open lot. We sat for a moment, thinking about a game plan. Pepe had slumped low in his seat. Again he spoke in Spanish. I recognized anxiety in his voice. My father translated.

“He said the owners of this garage are subcontractors for some used-car sellers. They do the painting and bodywork for the dealers. Sometimes they smuggle the hot cars in with the legit cars. Sometimes the dealers buy them. They don’t ask questions.”

More Spanish.

The Loo said, “The guys have guns. He told me to be careful.”

Renaldes said, “ Habla con Señor Angus o Señor Morton. Yo no puedo entrar … I no go inside. Dey keel me.”

“Let him stay here,” I told my father.

“All right,” Decker said. “Just keep an eye on him.”

“I’m going in with you. They have guns, you need backup.”

“I’m not planning on a shooting match.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t planning on getting shot at, either.” I leaned over the passenger’s seat and flashed Pepe three 20s from this morning’s ATM withdrawal. I tore them in two and put half in Pepe’s pocket. “You stay there nice and quiet, you not only get to go home, but you’ll be sixty bucks richer.” To my father, “Can you translate that?”

“When it comes to money, I’m sure he understands.”

I gently thumped the back of my father’s seat. “I’m squished. Let’s go.”

He got out first, then gave me a hand. The parking lot was unpaved and all dust. The Porsche’s tires had churned up the dirt and it was still flying in the air as we walked toward the body shop.

“Let me do the talking,” I told Decker. “I’m less threatening and you’re a better shot if it should come to that.”

“What are you going to say?”

“Listen and you’ll find out.” We walked into the garage. Three cars were up on racks: a ten-year-old red Honda Accord, a six-year-old green Mitsubishi Montero, and a ten-year-old white Suburban, their underbellies serviced by two young Hispanics. One of them was holding a wrench. He saw us and wiped his sweaty face with the back of his arm. I showed him my badge. “I’m looking for Angus or Morton.”

He eyed me suspiciously, then shifted his gaze to my father. The sight must have had impact. He jerked a finger over his left shoulder.

“Thanks,” I told him.

He had pointed out a tiny office-an all-glass enclosure with two desks, two phones, one computer, and piles of color-coded paper. Only one of the desks was occupied. The guy working was as fat as a barn, with shoulder-length, matted mousy brown hair and an untrimmed goatee. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt that exposed arms inked with tattoos, starting at the wrists. He also had a tattoo on his neck and a tattoo on his forehead, both drawings different renditions of bulls.

Angus… bull. Ha, ha, I got it.

I rapped on the glass and held up my badge to the window. The Loo did the same. Angus got up and waddled over to the door. He opened it, his bulk blocking the entryway. He reeked of cigarette smoke; his fingernails were stained amber. “What?”

“You Angus?” I asked him.

“What?” he repeated.

“I’m looking for a car,” I said. “Bronze Nova, maybe a ’91 or ’92, lots of primer on the driver’s side. Tinted windows. In real bad condition, man. At least four bullet holes.”

“Don’t have it.”

“So then you don’t mind if we walk around to check.”

His eyes traveled up and down my body. His voice remained steely. “Yeah, I do mind. What do you want?”

“The car,” I told him. “The Nova’s driver had the temerity to shoot at me last night. I took it personally.”