“Roll that back,” I tell him.
Tyrone shakes his head at me. I could have done it myself. But I smile.
Casey reclaims his seat and swivels to the panels in order to change gears on the proper screen.
We watch as the man, in a blue jumpsuit comes out of the office to smoke a cigarette. Three times at the 1800 hour, then the 1900, and 2000 respectively. His mannerisms have been the same the entire time. I mention the obvious, “This video is looped.”
I have been off my game, all thoughts leading toward getting home to Reese. How fucking easy was it to pull the wool over my eyes.
A search of his person shows no badge or other identification on the screen in order to zoom in on.
In double time, we track the man’s movements until he steps out of the building around four thirty p.m. He heads to the carport; his Camaro is luckily beneath a lamp. Lime-green paint, carbon fiber hood. Camaro, year 2016. This idiot wants to be easily identified.
Casey zeros in on the plates…757RLF2.
Tyrone calls it in.
At fifteen past ten p.m., we have a team ready to enter the home of twenty-seven- year-old Hector Rodriguez.
For less than seven months, Rodriguez has worked at Spectrum Biopharmaceuticals. He’s also worked on the grounds of various other pharmacy companies from San Diego to Oxnard. No rap sheet. No gang affiliation.
Since we want to question Rodriguez first, uniform cops have pulled up to the curb as we do, to assist. We head up the porch of a tiny house in East Los Angeles. Though it’s dark, there are people, young and old, seated on the porches of the houses surrounding us. All eyes are on us.
Dim lights are on in Rodriguez’s place. The Camaro is out front. Clay pottery lines the porch.
As I take a step onto the porch, a loud rustling noise comes from the back of the house.
We’ve got a motherfucking runner!
Ty and I head back to the car, as the beat begins to spread out and run around both sides of the house to the back.
“Too damn late for running,” Tyrone grumbles getting into the passenger seat.
“Who’re you telling,” I slip into the driver’s seat, ready for action. “Which way?”
Gripping the roof railing, Tyrone glances out the window, then says, “North.”
I pull out from the parallel spot.
“We’re lazy as fuck, Rodriguez can’t be clocking but a quarter of a mile per hour,” Tyrone chuckles.
I cruise up Vancouver Avenue, and E Hubbert, peering left to right. “Did Rodriguez happen to turn the opposite direction?”
“Nah, couldn’t have. Maybe I misjudged his fat ass. No, wait there he is!”
The big guy was headed in the direction of Garfield High School. We pass by the cops, Tyrone shaking his head at their inability to catch Hector Rodriguez. My Audi veers off the street and stops catty-cornered over a sidewalk.
Just as I got out, Rodriguez picks up speed. His three hundred twenty-nine-pound frame heads toward me. No fucking way. Rodriguez’s chin lowers and his balloon sized head is targeting me like a spear. Our eyes connect in this game of chicken. His pupils are dilated, he’s so high, he won’t feel shit. And I gage his next move in a fraction of a second. There’s no going back for him. There are more patrol cops pounding the pavement for his ass. He aims to get past me, and then Tyrone on the other side. Fuck that, I’m taking him down.
As anticipated, Rodriguez begins to slide over the hood of my car. I grip his shoulders and force him back my way. Hector Rodriguez’s ass slams down on the concrete with a thud. In a trance, Hector headbutts me, bashing into my ribs, his fat head knocking all of the air out of me. While reading his Miranda Rights, I grab his skull and knee him in the mouth. Yeah, this tactic is dirty, but my ribs are on fire…
35
Reese
One day I had the wise idea to ask Milo the dumbest question ever, “Hey, Dad, why'd you call McGregor your partner and then talk about him with Vido and the guys?”
Dad pulled on his Italian slacks, then squared down to my height. “McGregor and I... uh, he's my partner by LAPD standards. Let's see,” he rubbed his hands together in thought.” You know how, you and I go to the shooting range?”
“Yeah,” I nodded face a goofy grin at the thought of target practice over being in one of those godawful pageants my mother forced me to attend.
“You're my fucking princess, doll. I always say when I'm not around I don't want you to depend on any motherfucker—”
“Milo,” mom butted in using the seedy voice she always utilized when he cussed too much.
Dad held up a hand. “Lemme finish, Lolita.” He then turned back to me. “We go to the range and as far as I'm concerned, Reese, you're gonna have as much balls as any one of these soldiers, running the streets. Now see, McGregor and I, we go get the bad guys. So yeah, it's nice to have someone whose got your back, but that ain't always the case.”
I nod sort of understanding, but in all actuality I didn’t comprehend much at all. So you train me because I might not have a McGregor. But what about Vido, he’s not friends with McGregor, I tried even though I wasn’t sure the two knew each other. I knew that at school, if one of the girls wasn’t friends, then she was nobody’s friend at all.
“Fuck no, they’re not good with each other,” he chuckles. “Now, Reese, you're a smart one. So listen, in my field, there ain't a thing wrong with a little taste. A little kickback or what have you. Having a partner over your shoulder hinders that.”
“She doesn't fucking understand, Milo,” mom said through gritted teeth.
“Babe, shuddup.” Dad turned back to me. “A kickback is like a uhhh… tip that a waitress gets from
