Sabotage

By Jeff Gomez

Triple Trouble

Three cops went looking for one of their own. What they found was sabotage.

 

Los Angeles. 1978. For a trio of detectives, the City of Angels turns into hell.

 

There’s the Chief, a detective who’s been around for years and knows all the angles. There&rs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harrow Books
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733112833

Jeff Gomez

Jeff Gomez is the author of five books. He lives in California.  

Book preview

Act

I

The donut shop on Pico and Fairfax had always been the Chief’s favorite. He went there almost every day, either on his way into the station—picking up a few dozen for the boys rolling off patrol and the detectives about to start their day—or else on the way home so he could munch on a maple bar as he fought the traffic back to San Pedro. Today, he and his new partner were eating their breakfast in the parking lot from a white paper bag placed on the trunk of their plain wrapped 1976 Plymouth. Because this was only his second week as a detective, everyone’s been calling Bobby the Rookie. The Chief thought it’d be good to take Bobby out for donuts on the day of his first big bust.

Chief, these donuts are amazing.

Born Oscar Martinez, everyone called him the Chief because he’d been on the force for so long. He went through the academy in the early sixties and was just a few years shy of pulling the pin. Also, his head of gray hair made him look older than he was. Not that he minded. The Chief loved being the guy everyone in the department turned to for advice.

Stick with me, Bobby. The Chief took a big bite out of a donut, purple jelly dribbling down his chin until he lapped it up with his tongue. I’ll show you things.

Yeah, but we didn’t even pay for them.

The Chief had made a half-hearted attempt, beginning to reach for his wallet after asking for the half dozen, but the owner—a large guy with thick glasses named Tadlock—just smiled and waved him off.

You must have had your eating spots when you were in uniform.

Sure, said the Rookie. I never paid for a meal when I was on patrol. But I figured all that would change once I was pulling my duty in plainclothes.

There were plenty of places around LA where cops out of uniform could eat for free, if not half price. Either the owners knew you from your beat, or else they figured you for a detective by the way you dressed. And if that didn’t work, a cop could just flash his badge or gun while going for his wallet.

Tadlock’s an ex-boxer, the Chief explained, pointing to the donut shop with his nearly empty cup of coffee. They used to call him ‘Instant Death.’ Had a right hook that would just lay guys out cold. He made some noise on the circuit up north, but when he came down here for some bigger bouts, he got clobbered. He’s put on a few pounds since then, and his eyes are gone, so now he runs this joint. We park out here where everyone can see us, and he’s happy. He doesn’t get robbed, and we get free donuts and coffee.

Just then Tadlock came out with two more Styrofoam cups, steam coming off the black liquid. When he approached, Tadlock cast a shadow over the two detectives. His eyes, seen through the thick frames, were large and blurry.

Figured you guys could use another round.

Taking one of the cups, the Chief said, Thanks, Tadlock. You’re the best.

The Rookie took his wordlessly, waiting until the owner was back inside to speak again. I don’t know why he’s worried about getting robbed. Who’d pull a gun on him? He’s huge.

The Chief just shrugged as he chewed.

Bobby finished up a powdered donut and asked, So, what’s the bust today, Chief?

They’d only been partners a week, and it’d been pretty quiet. Things usually heated up in the summer. Tourists came into town and made easy victims, and college kids poured onto the beaches for three months of surfing and buying pot or pills. It usually added up to action. But not this year. It was already mid-June and they hadn’t managed a pinch since Bobby got promoted to detective at the first of the month. The Rookie couldn’t wait to make his first real bust.

A guy’s in from South Africa to make a buy. Heroin, said the Chief. "Name’s Wallace. British. A high-class dude, which is why we call him Sir Stewart Wallace, as a joke."

He been picked up before?

The Chief nodded. Up to now, we’ve only managed to pin small stuff on him. Little amounts here and there. But he’s not who we’re after. I want to find out who his source is. Where he’s getting the stuff.

The Rookie reached into the bag for another donut.

How are we going to do that?

The Chief waved his own half-eaten donut in the air as he spoke. He’d only taken a few bites out of it.

An informant gave me a tip last week. Said the deal’s going down this morning at a motel in Atwater Village. We’re going stop it before it happens. That should lead us to whoever Wallace is getting the stuff from.

How do you know it’s a good tip? This CI give you good information in the past?

The Chief looked around slyly, as if he didn’t want anyone to overhear what he was about to say. But they were the only ones in the parking lot. Inside the donut shop, Tadlock was talking to two guys from LAPD in uniform. Muffled laughter could be heard all the way to where the Chief and the Rookie were standing.

It’s not exactly a registered confidential informant, okay? He’s a guy I’ve been running off book.

The Rookie whistled, impressed. How’d you get that to fly with the lieutenant?

Now it was the Chief’s turn to grin. Hey, what the lieutenant doesn’t know won’t hurt him. The Chief relaxed a bit, adding, Look, if I bring in a solid bust, the lieutenant’s not going to care where I’m getting my information.

That’s why they call you the Chief.

As the Rookie took another big bite, the Chief turned and looked at the sun. It was already eighty degrees. The mountains and the smog seemed to trap the heat over Los Angeles, and all the concrete and cars didn’t help. The freeways were ovens, the crowded streets of Hollywood factories that generated heat.

The Rookie was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with two breast pockets and red stripes, ironed crisp, along with a tie. His pants were brown polyester slacks, straight from Sears. But the Chief was wearing a gray trench coat over a dark blue suit, along with a white shirt and tie. They both had sunglasses on, the Chief’s silver, the Rookie’s dark brown. In California, you wore them all day long. For the Rookie, who was raised on the East Coast, this was paradise. For the Chief, who’d lived in Southern California all his life, it was just another day.

Jesus, it’s hot, the Chief said.

Why’re you wearing that coat? The Rookie laughed. It’s going to be ninety degrees today. Don’t you watch the news?

I live down near the water. The Chief talked as he took off the coat. When I got up this morning, it was foggy and cold.

He lifted the bag of donuts so he could open the trunk of the Plymouth. Inside, he saw the standard gear: shotgun, shells, megaphone, handcuffs. He tossed in the jacket.

When he closed the trunk, he discovered someone new standing next to the car. The Chief jumped a little.

Cochese, Jesus, you scared me. But then the Chief relaxed again, taking a sip of his coffee. What brings you here?

Before he could answer, the Rookie—his face full of glazed donut—said, Have a donut. We got a bunch.

Cochese was wearing shades, as well as a tie and a short-sleeve shirt. His black hair was worn longer than the Chief’s or even the Rookie’s. The lieutenant didn’t like it, but as a detective, Cochese could get away with it. The bluecoats on patrol looked like they were from the sixties, with their hair short on the sides and back—some of them had flattops, as if Parker was still in charge—but Cochese definitely looked the part of 1978. He’d fit in at any disco in town.

Cochese shook off the offer of food and addressed the Chief. I’m looking for you, not donuts.

Cochese was from the South and, occasionally, he sounded like it. But rather than stand out, his slow drawl blended right in with the casual pace of California.

Me? The Chief sounded surprised. What for?

Shadrach’s gone missing.

Roy Shadrach, Cochese’s partner, had been the Chief’s partner years ago.

What’s old Roy gone and done now?

This isn’t a joke, Chief. He hasn’t been heard from in two days.

As the Chief thought about this, the Rookie reached into the bag for yet another donut. He ate half of it in one bite.

Maybe he’s just working on a case you don’t know about, suggested the Chief.

Could be, I don’t know, replied Cochese, pacing. I found his service revolver in a filing cabinet, so wherever he was going, he wasn’t expecting any heat.

Well then, there you go, said the Chief. He’s off somewhere bowling for dollars.

When Cochese didn’t laugh at the joke, the Chief turned serious and added, What’s the watch commander say about it?

Cochese stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked at the gravelly parking lot.

I haven’t told him yet. I’m trying to protect Roy.

From what? asked the Chief.

I don’t know, answered Cochese. Last week some case he’d been working on got cold, so Shadrach said he was going to kill some time with something else. Said he had a favor to fulfill, or a lead, or something. He didn’t tell me what it was.

When was that?

The detective looked up at the hazy California sky, trying to remember.

Friday.

Shit, Cochese, snapped the Chief. "So all you’re telling