Of course it wasn't a shark, but I was scared, and I wanted to go back to shore. Pop wouldn't let me.
'That fish didn't bite you, bra. He kissed you. The old Hawaiians say that's a sure sign that you are at one with your aumakua.'
Pop proceeded to explain that according to Hawaiian legend, aumakuas were our heavenly ancestors, who were godlike and always watching over their family. It was a hard concept for me because I had never known who my family was. Then he smiled at me.
'Animals, even fish, know when you've found your true center. That fish is telling you that you're at one with your maker. He's one of God's creatures, and when you're right with God, he kisses you. You gotta relax, bra, and say thank you.' He was smiling as he told me this.
Of course, to a street-hardened throwaway like me, this was total bullshit. I was a tough guy, a cynic. For that reason, I never paid too much attention to Pop's Zen surfer chatter, and over the years I'd sort of learned to dial him out. But on this one thing, some part of me always wondered.
So sometimes when I was out on the board before sunup, I would try to do like Pop, center myself and Zen out. I was looking for inner peace, although I'd never felt any.
I was a little nine-year-old, mad as hell, sitting on a short board, dangling my legs in the water, trying to find an emotional center I was positive didn't exist.
But nonetheless, whenever I was backwalling, waiting for a big rhino, I would tone down the aggression and try to be at one with my aumakuas, whoever the hell they were, because I'd been dumped at a hospital and had no ancestors that I knew about. I'd sit there trying to feel good about myself and about a life where nothing ever seemed to be going right. I finally got to where I could sort of do it. At least I could go someplace else and leave some of that blind anger behind.
Then, one morning I was out there, feeling kinda spiritual. The sun was just coming up. Good sets were rolling in from Mexico. The sky was a beautiful red-orange. I was filled with a sense of well-being. For once I was almost happy.
And then it happened again.
A little fish, a perch or a bass, came up and nibbled my toe. I sat very still and wondered what force of nature existed that would put me at one with a tiny fish in this cold, vast ocean. Was there more going on in the universe than I had ever stopped to consider?
The next morning when I woke up, I began to wonder about God.
Chapter 45
The next morning my right arm was aching less and my left wrist was almost back to its normal size. I was feeling much better.
After I dressed, I went to my closet to get a new backup gun. I had two. The S amp;W. 38 caliber Airlight had a magnesium frame. Alexa said it was another underpowered pop gun just like my Taurus. Because I was going to serve a warrant on Rick O'Shea and because of my recent embarrassing history with him, I decided to pack heavv this morning and instead chose my Charter Arms. 357 magnum Pug. It shoots 124-grain JHP ammo and will drop a charging elephant.
I called Vargas and told him that we had a warrant and that Alexa and I were going to arrest O'Shea for murder. I had checked in with him as a courtesy and to try and put it back together. I never thought that he'd give me an argument.
'The rest of us talked it over,' he said. 'And we all want to be there when you slam the cuffs on.'
'It's a police action, Sabas. Its not a ride at Disneyland.'
'Don't insult me with shit like that,' he snapped. 'We all did this. We did it for Pop. This is our victory as much as yours, but you're not letting us have it.'
'Right.' I wasn't going to argue. 'Do me a favor and call Vicki. Tell her I'm on the way to her office right now to pick up her financial breakdown sheets. I'll be at Kinney and Glass in half an hour.'
I hung up. I couldn't believe he was angry with me over this. He wanted to take a bunch of civilians out to stand on the sidewalk and watch an arrest for first-degree murder? Didn't he know how stupid that was?
On second thought, I guess if you have a California law degree and you're still willing on a second's notice to hit a guy in the head with a tire iron, you're not exactly going to be posing for the cover of Lawyer Magazine.
I left Alexa in our living room; she was getting ready to head to the courthouse in the Valley. I agreed to meet her there by nine thirty.
Kinney and Glass was one of those big Century City high-rise outfits. Too much chrome in the sterile marble entry, which was also hung with huge, ultraexpensive, modern paintings that looked like they'd been done by some fifth-grade class with finger paint.
Amana and Frigidaire people who walked as if they had Ping-Pong balls stuffed up their asses passed me on their way into work. While I waited for Vicki, I wondered how a hotheaded woman who kept a short-nose Bulldog in her purse could survive in such a frosty environment.
Vicki finally came out and handed me the paperwork. 'Vargas thinks we should be allowed to watch this go down,' she said.
'Where did you guys get this idea that law enforcement is a game with rubber guns and whistles?' I said sourly.
'Vargas thinks it's his fault Walt got murdered. He's blaming himself.'
'Yeah, I get that 'cause I'm blaming myself too. But if I took any of you guys out there and O'Shea went hot and injured or killed someone, it would go down very hard. Ill stream some video on my iPhone, and we'll all watch it in a bar later, but I'm not taking you out there.'
'No, I think you're right,' she said. 'I agree with you, Shane. We're not cops. We're… we're… what the hell are we?'
'Pallbearers,' I said.
I made it to the courthouse in thirty-five minutes, which was great time. Alexa and I showed the judge the redone autopsy from Oakcrest, Vicki's spreadsheets, and the corresponding deposit slips from O'Shea's personal bank account and explained how this material was the motive for Pop's homicide. The judge agreed we had sufficient evidence and signed arrest warrants for felony business fraud and first-degree murder.
We left my car at the courthouse and took Alexa's because I was still having trouble driving. We exited the freeway in Calabasas, and I gave Alexa directions to O'Shea's large Spanish-style house on Lupine Lane. When we pulled up, there was a black and white parked on the side with two uniformed officers leaning against their front fender, waiting.
Given my history with O'Shea, I normally would have used a SWAT warrant-delivery team, but it usually takes a day to set that up, so we'd called the L. A. sheriff's department. As I walked up to the uniforms, I was hoping they would be enough backup.
I told the two officers how we wanted to serve the warrant. 'This guy is a professional MMA fighter. If you don't think he can hit, take a close look at me. Every bit of this is his doing.'
'We'll stay frosty,' the lead officer, a big linebacker-sized deputy named Davila, assured me.
'Okay. Let's go hook him up.'
We entered the property through the side gate and walked across the lawn to a path that led to the front porch. There was no sign of the maroon Escalade, but it was only a few minutes past 10:00 A. M., and I was hoping that it was still in the garage and that O'Shea was sleeping in.
I stood next to Deputy Davila, who rang the bell while Alexa and the other blue walked down the back drive to cover the rear entrance. Nothing happened.
We rang again.
Still no answer.
'This is a no-knock murder warrant,' I told Davila. 'Go ahead and kick it.'
Then I stepped back so he could do the honors. I'd done my share of solid door kick-ins, and the last thing I needed right now was to add a sprained ankle to my growing list of injuries.
The deputy and I both unholstered, and then he let fly with two kicks up by the brass handle. The big oak
