kind. He kicked the half-million-dollar silver sports car in the rear-quarter panel with the sole of his Brogan. Click, clicky click. I could see the brownish divot he left from all the way across the street. He leaned down and looked carefully at the rear panel, seemed satisfied with his scuff mark, and walked brusquely through the rear door of Tito Morales's campaign headquarters.
I didn't know what I was witnessing, but anytime there's friction inside a criminal conspiracy, it's always a law enforcement plus.
At three-fifteen, the side door to the headquarters opened. Brian Devine and Tito Morales spilled angrily out into the parking lot. I started snapping shots. Lt. Devine was waving his fist at Tito in rage. Hardly a smart way for a Valley police lieutenant to treat L. A.'s leading mayoral candidate. Right now, Tito Morales didn't look much like a heroic crusader. He didn't look overly concerned with moral-A-T. He looked like he wanted to tear Brian Devine a new asshole. They stood in the shade at the side of the campaign headquarters, faces purple with rage, screaming at each other. Both men were totally out of control.
Then Brian turned, got into his gray Crown Victoria, and powered out of the parking lot, heading east on Magnolia. I ducked down as he roared past.
'Fuck you, codelincuenter I heard Tito scream after him, before heading back inside.
Chapter 19
Tito Morales and Wade Wyatt both came out of the headquarters together about fifteen minutes later. I shot some more film as they talked. After a minute in the parking lot, Tito got into his Mazda, Wade into the McLaren, and they took off in separate directions. I stuck with Wade Wyatt and the half-million-dollar McLaren because Morales was probably just heading back to the courthouse.
The Mercedes left Van Nuys and took the 101 Freeway heading east. As I drove through a warm summer afternoon, I was glad that the Alaskan cold front had finally passed through. Angelenos are spoiled by our weather, and this magnificent day was one of the reasons. The usually brown San Gabriel Mountains were cloaked with emerald green from recent rains. They framed the north side of the Basin, rising majestically into a cloudless, smog-free sky. Tonight, people all over the Valley would be snatching the canvas covers off their barbeques. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be one of them.
Wade transitioned onto the 5 Freeway and once he neared Sun-land, he shot down the off-ramp north of the Glendale-Burbank Airport. We were driving through a manufacturing district. In the forties, this was all World War II factory space where B-25's and other aeronautic weaponry had been designed and built under these same bow- truss roofs, then trucked a few miles to Burbank Field to be test-flown before being shipped overseas. Many of the same old structures remained, but most had been refaced and today looked almost new. The area was now zoned for light manufacturing, but the shoulder-to-shoulder placement of the buildings remained. They were lined up along Bradley Avenue like soldiers at parade rest.
Wade seemed to know where he was going and took all the corners way too fast, turning off Bradley onto Penrose Street. Then he slowed down before flipping the silver McLaren carelessly into a large, gated factory parking lot that fronted a line of new concrete, tilt-up buildings identified by a sign that said:
CARTCO
SERVING AMERICA'S CONTAINER NEEDS
WORLDWIDE
Wade Wyatt had his own parking place in the executive section. He lifted the McLaren's exotic gull-wing door and stepped out. The front gate remained open during business hours, the guard shack, empty. As a result, I pulled in unmolested and parked. The rear end of my Acura still looked like I'd just lost an elimination event at a destruction derby.
I watched as Wade, in his rock star leather pants and sports coat, entered a two-story structure marked business center-administration building.
This case was touching one of L. A.'s major power brokers, so caution now dominated my impulsive brain chemistry.
Wade had told me that his uncle owned this place. I certainly didn't want to add Aubry Wyatt's brother to my crowded I. A. case, but I was running out of time. If I wanted answers, I was going to need to take a few chances.
I looked at the huge container factory, which had to be at least ten acres under roof. I wasn't sure what I was after. Maybe this would turn out to be an elaborate dead end, but I learned long ago that when working a case, you should never force a result. The best things happen when you just follow your leads. I searched my memory for an old case that I could plausibly sling at these people to gain access without tipping them to my real motives.
Then I remembered the Four-thirty Bandits from five years ago. Three idiots were robbing mini-markets in one section of town at a few minutes after four-thirty every afternoon. I finally guessed that the reason for the four-thirty timeframe might be because they all got off work at four-thirty and went directly to the closest liquor store and stuck it up. It turned out I was right. By showing police artist sketches compiled from descriptions by the mini-market managers, to people who worked at companies in the vicinity of the robberies, I quickly located the automotive center that employed the gang and got the collar.
To make my ruse work, I needed a few props. I took a photo six-pack from a just-cleared murder case out of my briefcase, along with its incumbent folder. Then I walked around to the side of a loading dock where three skip- loaders were hefting pallets of raw cardboard sheets and stacking them next to a door.
'Help you?' somebody called out. I looked up and saw a man in a hardhat standing up on the dock off to my right. I went for my badge and flashed it quickly, not giving him any chance to read the ID card.
'Hi. Van Nuys Robbery Division. Talk to you?'
'Sure. Use the steps over there.'
I climbed up and faced a stout, muscular guy who didn't shave. Before I even started talking, he was impatiently tapping his clipboard on his leg in frustration.
'I need to ask you about some robberies that are happening at local mini-marts in the area. I wondered if you would look at this identi-kit and tell me if…'
He immediately held up a protesting hand, interrupting me. 'Don't show me. You gotta talk to Miss Pascoe in Operations.'
'She around?'
'Hang on.' He crossed the loading dock to an interoffice wall phone, dialed an extension and, spoke softly to somebody. Then he hung up and said, 'Wait here. There'll be somebody by in a golf cart in a minute. Miss Pascoe's over at the D-Center.'
I had no clue what a D-Center was. Demonstration? Development? Defecation? I waited to be surprised while he went off to supervise some guys stacking cardboard. Why couldn't I get a nice low-stress job like that?
While I waited for my ride, I watched several people enter the factory area. It had security worthy of the Pentagon's E-Ring. First, the employee would hold his or her ID pass up next to their face and stand in front of a camera lens. Then they placed a full palm and five fingers on a glass photo plate for a scan. Next the employee punched in a security code and spoke their name loudly into a mike before the lock buzzed and the door opened. All of this to protect a bunch of cardboard cartons? Go figure.
The golf cart finally arrived with a young girl in jeans and a sweatshirt driving. She motioned to me.
'You the cop?'
'Just the facts, ma'am,' I said to prove it. She frowned at me like I'd just thrown up in the pool. I guess Dragnet wasn't one of her iPod downloads. I got in the cart and off we zipped.
'Miss Pascoe is in with Mr. Dahl right now, so you may have to wait,' she told me tartly.
'Who's Mr. Dahl?'
'Who's Mr. Dahl?' Like I'd just asked who Brad Pitt was.
'Yeah. Who is he?'
'He's the owner. Duh. Roger Dahl. He started this place in seventy-three when he was only twenty. Roger Dahl like designed and manufactured the first FedEx package.'
