'Listen, Scully. Get your ass over here, pronto. This is huge. You're gonna love this.'
'Now? It's after one in the morning!'
'Fuck yes, now. Come on, man. Oh, shit!' I heard running again and more heavy breathing, then Jack said, 'Hey, I gotta get moving. I guess I won't be on Hauser after all. Get your ass in gear and come in this direction. I'll call back.' Then he was gone.
'What was that all about?' Alexa said. She was now propped up on one elbow, watching me as I quickly dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt, then stepped into my flip-flops.
'I don't know. It's Jack. He says he's got something. He needs me to pick him up in Park La Brea. He was running, out of breath.'
Alexa frowned. 'I don't like the sound of that.'
'Neither do I but I'll handle it. Stay here. I'm gonna use your car. Is your new little Beretta automatic still in the glove box?'
'Yes. Did he say what was going on?'
'No.' I leaned over and kissed her. 'I told you these people were gonna make problems. I told you that, remember?'
'I remember.'
She was still frowning as I ran out the door.
I wanted to use Alexa's BMW because I wasn't sure what Jack was up to and something told me that rolling around in a black and white department slick-back might be a little too high profile. It was the first of about six bad decisions I made in the next half hour.
Alexas backup. 25 automatic was in the glove box as she said. It was a tiny, palm-sized, Beretta Bobcat with a seven-shot clip and a pop-up barrel that took an eighth cartridge in the breach. The way it worked was the escaping gas on the first shot chambered the subcompact so you could fire the rest of the clip. When I checked, I found the gun was empty. No box of shells. I should have gone back inside for my own gun, but I didn't. Mistake number two.
I took off in the BMW instead, and by going Code Two I made it to Park La Brea in under twenty minutes. I was on 6th Street when my cell rang again. It was Jack.
'I'm almost there,' I told him.
'Not on Hauser anymore,' he panted. He was running again. 'I'm gonna try to get into Pan Pacific Park. Meet me there.'
'Jack, what the fuck is going on?'
'Can't really talk right now, dude. Later.'
Just before he disconnected I thought I heard sirens in the background.
'Please don't let him be running from the cops,' I pleaded to Alexa's dashboard.
I made it to the park. Between the buildings of the Park La Brea apartments, I spotted the giant Mesa Investment Group sign a few blocks south on Wilshire. I heard sirens getting closer, and the premonition of disaster struck. I should have turned around and gone home, but I didn't. Call that mistake number three.
I pulled Alexa's BMW to the curb, got out, left the car, and ran into the park.
I moved quietly through the semi-lit darkness. As I got closer to the small amphitheater, I heard a low whistle. I turned, and there was Jack, dressed as he was that afternoon, hiding behind a Dumpster, his face bathed in sweat. The police sirens in the background were definitely getting louder.
'Where you parked?' he whispered urgently. 'We sorta need to jet out of here, man.'
I could have arrested him right then, but I didn't. And of course, that was number four.
'What the fuck is going on, Jack?'
'Scully, you're gonna kiss me when you see what I got. I solved Pop's murder, but right now, we gotta book.'
He started running back in the direction I'd just come. 'Let's go. Where you parked?' he said as he sprinted past.
'Jack, what did you do?' I was loping along about ten yards behind him trying to stay up.
'I did what you should have done. I fucking broke this case wide open!' he yelled over his shoulder as he ran.
Then we were lit by a flashlight. The second it hit us, I knew it was one of the new department-issued mini- Maglites. Cops hated them because they put out a narrow beam.
The mini-Mags were just recently issued because of a lawsuit against the city filed by some special-interest group claiming that our old, foot-long, three-pound Maglites were unauthorized weapons. The idea was that the new ones were too small to use as bludgeons.
'Police! Stay where you are,' the cop holding the mini-Maglite shouted.
'Let's go! This way!' Jack said veering right.
'Jack, come back here!' I shouted.
He suddenly spun around and headed back toward me. It was the first time I'd asked him to do something where he'd actually complied. Then I realized it wasn't me who'd turned him, but a fully lit X-car with its siren blaring. It careened around the corner and was charging across the grass right at us.
'Shit!' Now I actually started to run from my LAPD brothers. Mistake number five.
Jack flew past me, heading the other way, yelling, 'Let's go! We gotta get outta here!' I made a grab for him but missed.
Then it got really strange. Four more squad cars rounded into view and suddenly there were cops everywhere. All of them, out of their units with guns drawn, shouting at us. Jack and I were running around in the park, veering right, then left. The cops kept turning us, coming in on all sides. A big game of capture the flag with guns, batons, and Mace.
Jack was chased down and cornered first. Four cops descended on him, maced him, and started doing a bad-boy bongo on his head with their aluminum PR-24s. I was suddenly tackled from behind by two patrolmen, slammed to the ground, right onto my already-beaten face. I felt the cut on my forehead open up again. I tried to resist, and of course that was mistake number six.
I got maced for the effort, busted in the head, and finally, mercifully, I was handcuffed and it was over.
'I'm a cop!' I shouted. But even as I yelled this I knew it was going to be a hard sell. Both of my eyes were running thanks to the point-blank shot of Liquid Jesus. I had reopened the gash in my forehead and new blood was pouring down my cheek. Hie way I was dressed, in torn jeans and flip-flops with blood everywhere, the cop thing wasn't close to going over.
I was pushed into the back of a squad car. I looked over and saw Jack Straw in another black and white a few feet away. The insolent smile was finally gone. At least my brother officers had accomplished that much. He'd been pummeled and maced. His lip and head were bleeding.
Bad as all of this was, I could barely believe what happened next.
Chapter 11
The uniforms left me cuffed and sitting in the back of the black and white while they dealt with jack. Like most complete assholes in custody, he wouldn't stop running his mouth. He was saying all the dumb-ass things arrestees had been saying since law enforcement began.
'This is police harassment. You had no right to hit me. Wait'll my lawyer gets through with you.'
Shut up, Jack, I thought.
They took his wallet, and one of the cops headed to another car to run him. They told him to be quiet or they were going to write him up as a 5150, which is our code for a head ease. They threatened to call the EMTs and have him tranquilized. None of which slowed him down at all.
Finally, a weathered old Hispanic sergeant with five hash marks on his sleeve and whose nameplate said S. Acosta dropped anchor in the backseat beside me.
'Okay, sparky, what's your story?' He was already tired of me and we hadn't even started yet.
'I'm Shane Scully, an LAPD homicide detective.'
