The Bad Shepherd

By Dale M. Nelson

Los Angeles, 1981, is a city about to tear itself apart.

 

LAPD narcotics detective Bo Fochs has uncovered a drug ring that stretches from the neon nights of the Sunset Strip to the deadly streets of South Central. It's fueling both sides of L.A.'s gang war.

 

But to stop this urban drug lord before the violence erupts and takes the city with it, Bo will have to navigate not only the brutal dangers of gang violence, but also the subtle dangers in the corridors of power. And in the process he'll learn that not all justice is blind.

 

The Bad Shepherd is the first book in an exciting new crime series that digs into the music, culture and criminal underworld of 1980s Los Angeles.

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What readers are saying:

★★★★★ "...outstanding."
★★★★★ "...a solid five stars."
★★★★★ "...noir-meets-rock & roll."
★★★★★ "...throbs with raw energy and intensity from beginning to end."
★★★★★ "A must read for fans of crime drama and the music, social climate and culture of LA during the 1980's!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale M. Nelson
• Release date: Oct 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9798223276661

Book preview

The Bad Shepherd

THE BAD SHEPHERD

DALE M. NELSON

DALE NELSON BOOKS

PART ONE

MAY–JUNE 1981

ONE

Bo Fochs stared through a telephoto lens at his informant sitting in a sidewalk café across Hollywood Boulevard. The man in the camera’s viewfinder reclined with a forced laziness while he white-knuckled the beer bottle in his hand.

Good, Fochs thought. You’re smart to be scared, Rik. Rik had one chance to convince his supplier that he was moving up in the world and that he needed a couple keys, like, right now. The alternative was felony possession with intent, and this was a guy who wouldn’t make it past signing his name at prisoner intake.

Rik Ellis was the entertainment manager at the Starwood Lounge, one of the more notorious of the Sunset Strip music clubs. The club’s notoriety was well earned, and it was a lightning rod for the Hollywood Vice boys. Rik’s job was to sign popular bands that kept the Lounge packed, but Rik wasn’t on anyone’s A-list, and none of the A&R guys that mattered even knew his name. Bands wanted one thing, exposure, and that meant crowds. Savvy bands knew that meant the right exposure. That meant going to the clubs that record company scouts frequented, which wasn’t the Starwood. Gazzari’s had its famous dancers, and no one really asked about what went on backstage. The Rainbow was, well, the Rainbow.

So, without the contacts, the reputation, or the scantily clad assets of his competitors, Rik used the resources at his disposal to entice people to play the Starwood, namely, coke.

Rik first popped up on the squad’s radar several months ago when Bo heard rumors that there was some nearly uncut cocaine on the street. They eventually traced it back to Rik. Bo learned through a guitarist whose band played the Starwood that Rik had trays of the shit flying around. Bo didn’t want to bust him at the club and risk blowing his identity on the Strip, so he’d worked to get himself invited to an after-party at Rik’s. They’d busted him that night with just under half a kilo.

Rik’s only salvation was that he bought in bulk, and he had no loyalty to anyone. He lasted an hour during interrogation. He rolled on his supplier for dropping the felony possession charge, not to mention the coked-out seventeen-year-old blonde that went into cardiac arrest on his living room floor. She lived, but barely. Bo made it clear that a jury would know that she was so high that she’d nearly stroked out before they got her to the ER where doctors administered an elephant’s dose of Diazepam to save her life. They’d also learn Rik's hands were all over her when she was too incoherent to do anything.

Rik dealt.

Fochs snapped several more test shots of his informant, decked out in a white linen jacket over a blue t-shirt and jeans and Ray-Ban Wayfarers like he was Roy fucking Orbison. He’d taken the ponytail out, and his wavy blond hair just about hit his shoulders. Satisfied with his establishment shots and position, Fochs stepped back from the waist-high stucco wall of the second deck of a three-story garage. It was the color of spoiled cream and smelled the same. His partner, Mitchell Gaffney, closed the door of their ‘78 Plymouth Fury.

Mitch rapped his knuckles on the roof of the car and took a few steps toward the stairs at the corner of their level. Gaffney was all height and sinew. He’d been a standout wide receiver and track star at UCLA and still one of the fastest men in the LAPD. Fochs was a surfer and spent most mornings before his shift paddling into the Pacific off a Santa Monica beach. Fochs was deeply tanned, lean and muscular.

I’m going to get in position for radio check, Mitch said.

Right on. See you on the other side.

Radio check, this is Unit One, Bo said after Mitch had a few minutes to get into position.

Mitch: Unit Two in position.

"This is Unit Three," Freddy Queen’s voice said after a quick burst of static.

"Four here. Read you guys loud and clear," Detective Dom Senna said. They were both in unmarked cars parked at either end of the block. These were undercover units, signed out of the impound lot rather than the standard unmarked prowl car that drug dealers could pick out in a hot second.

Through his viewfinder, Bo watched Rik stand and walk into the café. He lowered the camera as though the image it showed him was phony. What the fuck are you doing? You stupid son of a bitch. He spoke into the radio, All units, all units. This is Unit One. Subject has left the area.

Unit One, say again?

I repeat, the subject has left the table and entered the café. He is out of sight.

Bo weighed his options. He could pull one unit off the end of the street and circle around to the back of the café, cutting off Rik’s escape route. But if it turned out this was just a nervous bladder married to extremely bad judgment, they would leave one of his contact’s egress points uncovered. Bo couldn’t take Mitch out of position. He needed his partner in place for backup.

What on earth is this asshole thinking? Bo’s mind flipped through the possibilities. When Rik showed up on the squad’s radar offering nearly uncut cocaine at his club, the Rockstars knew they were onto something. There was no way someone like Rik could get his hands on powder that pure. Since then, they’d found others in Hollywood with the same coke. But no one could—or would—identify the dealer. Rik was their link. Without him, they didn’t have a connection to the dealer and whoever was supplying him. Somebody was trying to corner Hollywood’s cocaine market with nearly pure product and Fochs had spent the last seven months trying to find out who that was. Without Rik, they had nothing.

Unit Three, proceed up Orange and reconnoiter. Check out the alley behind the café. I want to make sure he’s not rabbiting.

"Roger."

Bo watched the blue Firebird make a right turn and disappear down the alley.

Long minutes passed, and Bo thought his watch was lying.

Rik reappeared from the café’s interior, wiped his nose once, and wove through the sidewalk tables to his own. Bo brought the camera up and sighted Rik immediately. As soon as he sat, a body detached itself from the stream of people trickling down the sidewalk. The man was tall, lean and athletic. He moved with a grace that was almost animal. He wore a gray t-shirt, blue jeans, aviator shades and a blue Dodgers cap pulled practically to the top of the glasses. Finally, he wore the shirt loose, but in the camera’s amplification Bo could easily see the tightly corded muscle beneath.

This was Deacon, just the way Rik described him.

Bo replaced the camera with the radio momentarily.

All units, all units, subject is in place. Bo took a photo of Deacon sitting at the table and marked the time in the log. Watching a conversation unfold when you know one half of the dialogue in advance is surreal, particularly when you couldn’t see the individual whose lines you knew. Bo only had Rik’s profile in his line of sight, so that he could get a full shot of the subject. But he could tell Rik was describing the party he was allegedly planning by the animated hand gestures and the bullshit smile.

This guy was good. Big sunglasses and a Dodgers cap broke up the profile and made it hard to get a handle. He looked at the table a lot, leaving no good angle on his face. Rik said something that pissed him off because he was pointing across the table at the promoter now, and Rik was spreading his arms wide in the universal It’s not me gesture. Deacon shook his head, and his mouth cracked in a mirthless smile. He pushed back from the table and stood. A cold pit formed in Bo’s gut; he wasn’t going for it.

Rik stood to shake Deacon’s hand, but the other guy just scowled. Rik tried to save the move by jerking his hand into a thumb’s up. Flake. Rik ran both hands through his hair, vamping like he was tying a ponytail. The symbol that Deacon had agreed to make the sale. Deacon turned and walked away in the direction he’d come.

This is Unit One. Unit Four, the subject is moving in your direction. Pick up the tail when he passes.

Copy that, One.

Rik watched Deacon walk away. He waited the requisite ten minutes, stood, and walked across the street. Jaywalking in downtown Hollywood was easy because traffic didn’t move, it leaked. Rik crossed the boulevard and found Detective Gaffney waiting for him. Satisfied that Rik was back in their control, Bo lowered the camera and began breaking it down.

What’s up with your little disappearing act? He heard Gaffney say. Bo looked up and saw his partner roughly dragging the promoter towards Bo’s position.

When they reached Bo, Mitch took the backpack, opened it, and visually verified the three envelopes were present. They’d count them before they let Rik go.

I had to take a piss.

The detective turned and continued on his way. Rik waited a beat and followed. He looked back at the café. Golden California sun baked the boulevard. Rik looked pleased with himself.

Fochs leaned in so his mouth was right next to Rik’s ear and said, You missed some. Don’t be that stupid ever again. There are people you can push back on and people you can’t. Which one do you think I am?

Rik hastily wiped his nose, clearing the trace off-white ring on the inside of his left nostril.

They drove to Hollywood station in silence.

Bo and Mitchell debriefed Rik in one of the interview rooms on the first floor. The partners rehashed the entire interaction in painstaking detail, transcribing everything Rik and Deacon said. They went through it again and again. Rik got frustrated. He was coming down, didn’t have the patience for this shit, but Gaffney calmly told him it was important that they got it all right. They were trying to build a profile on this Deacon Blues to see if they could determine his real identity. That would allow them to find out if he had a record. If he had any priors, they’d be able to go for a heavier sentence when they finally prosecuted him.

When they’d finished the transcription, they asked detailed, probing questions about the meeting. Rik had to describe Deacon’s demeanor, his mannerisms, and whether Rik thought he bought the ruse or was onto them. Then, they asked him all the same questions, just changing up the words a little. Sometimes, they’d trade up who asked what from one round to the next. They went at it for a long time.

The detectives told Rik they were going to set up the sting in the morning. They thanked Rik for his time, and then Fochs walked him out of the station, hoping the one thought on the promoter’s mind was wondering how long his luck would hold.

TWO

Bo’s stomach dropped, and his balls went the other way.

The tip of his surfboard dropped, and he angled back, shifting his weight so he cut across the wave. He rode the crest, slicing like an inverted L and leaning into it as it broke. Bo extended his left hand, tracing it across the inside of the pipe. Water crashed over top, a scintillating tunnel of shattered glass. He dropped the tip, accelerated and streaked to the top of the wave. Bo spun the nose and dropped back down over the break, crashing through the roiling surf.

Bo rode the wave into shore, toying with it. He cut a casual zigzag across the break and rode the wave out. When he’d lost momentum, he dropped and paddled, riding the last of the wave’s energy to the shoreline. Bo stood when the water was knee deep, picked his board up, and walked to the beach. He found his towel and ran it over his face and hair then turned around to watch the sapphire waves crest and crash. Surfers were territorial, and Malibu was his. He’d gladly make the hour drive to ride these breaks and watch the sun come up over the city as he surfed.

Zuma Beach made up the western edge of Malibu, tracing a long crescent up the coast. Steep bluffs dropped onto the long, curving stretch of bleached sand. The southern tip of Zuma connected with Westward Beach, where they filmed the iconic last shot of Planet of the Apes. The group Bo surfed this break with eventually took to calling themselves the Damned Dirty Apes. One guy worked in a surf shop and had access to a graphics company, so he had stickers printed up of Chuck Heston pounding the sand in front of the top half of the Statue of Liberty with You Maniacs! in bold red letters underneath. They all slapped them on the backs of their cars, their boards and damned near anything else they wanted to mark.

Bo sat in the sand and dried, watching the water crash upon the beach, refreshed, centered. The Rockstars lived by night. But even when they weren’t running a bust or a surveillance, they were out on the streets listening, vibing, staying connected. He checked the cheap digital watch he’d bundled up in his towel. It was almost 8 a.m. Technically, his shift was starting in a few minutes, but as a special unit, they were a bit more flexible with their hours.

Bo found his orange CJ-6 in the parking lot and tossed the towel in the back. He put his foot on the step and hoisted his board onto the rack, securing it with thick nylon straps. A six-inch lift kit and twenty-four-inch tires on something where you needed to access the roof rack probably wasn’t the brightest idea, but he loved this thing and had found nothing better for the beach. Bo checked the straps and did a quick walk around, throwing a quick glance at the Damn Dirty Apes sticker on his rear fender. Bo smirked; that joke never got old.

He climbed into the Jeep, cranked up the stereo, wheeled out of the lot and headed back toward Hollywood.

Hey, partner, Mitch said, dropping a backpack onto the table he shared with Bo in the squad room. Mitch had been out with some others trying to get background on their target while Bo stayed behind and wrote up the ops plan for Saturday’s takedown.

So, you want to hear about what your boy was up to all day?

Hit me.

I’ll tell you, dude; we sure can pick ‘em. Mitch popped open his Orange Crush. Senna follows him to the Santa Monica Airport. He meets a twin engine Beechcraft on the runway, trades a motorcycle bag for a backpack, gets in his car, and heads back into town.

We know who was on the plane?

Mitch nodded. Yeah, Dom copied the airplane’s tail number while it was on the ground. He called the airport today and got the flight plan, which he tracked back to their point of origin in San Fran. Guy on the plane was a Lewis Stanley.

No shit. Tell me Dom at least pulled the plane over.

Mitch laughed at the image of Dom Senna chasing after an airplane down a runway, Code Three with lights and sirens. Not exactly, Freddy made some calls in San Fran, and apparently Joe Walsh is playing a guest set at the Fillmore tonight.

We get an address?

Dom lost him once they got into town. Guy knows how to spot a tail. Dom felt like he got shook.

Bo nodded. And all this was after the Rik meet yesterday?

Yeah. We ran his plates today, but the name on the DMV registration was bogus. We’re checking it against known aliases, but I don’t think we’re going to get anything. This guy is good. He can duck a tail. Car is in a fake name too.

Bo shook his head, slowly. This was not standard procedure for a drug dealer, even a high-end one. Not to mention, where’d he pick up those skills? I think tomorrow is going to be very interesting, partner.

Headquarters brass knew the unit as the Special Narcotics Detail. Lieutenant Hunter, the squad CO, wanted to keep them off the books entirely or put them in the black hole that was the Intelligence Division, but the Detective Bureau commander wasn’t about to give up a lieutenant and six handpicked detectives to another unit, no matter the logic. Hunter relented and chose an innocuous title. Exciting names like CRASH or SWAT drew attention from both the public and the press. Hunter wanted neither.

Hunter got the inspiration for the Rockstars from a report in the LA Times by a local economist. He theorized there was at least fifteen percent more liquid assets in the Los Angeles branch of the Federal Reserve than there should have been for a city that size. This suggested a massive underground economy. While the economist couldn’t attribute that solely to cocaine, Hunter knew the designer drugs’ usage had exploded and, with it, the profits from selling it. He also knew from reports by the DEA and Miami-Dade Police that it was flooding into the country. Here in LA, the film and music industries were the two largest consumers of the drug, and both spawned cultures that certainly glamorized it, if not flaunted it outright.

Hunter’s theory was you target the biggest consumers, and you’ll work your way back to the biggest suppliers.

Enter the Rockstar Squad. The Rockstars worked the Sunset Strip music clubs and the recording studios posing as industry types, band members, producers, gophers, disk jockeys, agents, managers, and roadies. The Rockstars went to shows and conned their way backstage. They snuck onto tour buses and went to parties in the Hills. They developed intelligence and cultivate leads on who had the best product, where were they getting it, and how soon could they get more. They went undercover as buyers and power players to find out who was supplying the high-dollar clients, the bands, and the producers. They used that information to work their way back up the supply chains. There could only be a few distributors who had the organization and the reach to move that kind of product. The intelligence suggested that there a few large, capable distribution networks in Los Angeles and that they were getting their product from two or three importers who dealt in significant volume.

So, we all set for tomorrow?

Yeah, Bo said, thumbing through Mitchell’s surveillance report. It was thorough and precisely written. Bo typically deferred to his partner with the reporting. Mitch’s attention to detail was second-to-none. Even Bo knew Mitchell was the better detective. Mitchell spent long hours in study, even in his off duty time to hone his skills, whereas Bo operated on instinct. I handed the ops plan off to Top this afternoon, and he approved it. Captain approved all the artifacts for the Richard Ranes alias, but there wasn’t time to run it through the DMV to get the DL made.

Mitch shrugged. I doubt a guy that uses a Steely Dan song title for an alias is going to card you. Mitch stood and stepped away from the table. He twisted back around to face his partner when he was a few feet away. So, the guys are coming over around eight for beers then we’re heading to Gazzarri’s. Mötley Crüe comes on at eleven. Bring a six.

I think I’m going to hang back tonight.

Come on.

No, I want to be frosty for the takedown tomorrow. I’m going to take it easy.

Mitch held his gaze for a hard second and then broke into a smile. What’s her name?

Same one, he said.

Well, bring her along.

We’ll see. Now will you leave me alone so I can finish this up? He waved his hands over the pile of papers in front of him. There’s serious police work going on here.

You’d be done with that if you didn’t burn your morning surfing.

Bo held up his hand for a departing high-five that Mitchell returned. I’ll see you in the morning. Be ready.

OK. I’ll meet you for breakfast.

Bo nodded, and Mitch left him to his paperwork.

THREE

The house on Chelan Way in the Hollywood Hills was what the detectives would have described as post-modernist asshole: just shy of 3,000 square feet and nearly all of that pressed up against the two-story floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a staggering view of Los Angeles. It wasn’t just money that got you a place like this. You practically had to own your own gravity.

Rolly Rubinstein was such a man. He had produced a string of pop hits in the mid-to-late ‘70s and worked with everyone from John Denver to the Bee-Gees. The word was Rubinstein was already courting the Go-Go’s for the follow-up to Beauty and the Beat. The Rockstars busted the producer six months before and part of his plea bargain was that he’d help the squad out however he could and whenever they asked. Since they were using his house for a sting, Rubenstein’s lawyer had made certain this got him off the hook.

Rubinstein had a minimalist decorating style, off-white and light blue glass that he’d once told Gaffney and Fochs was to evoke a Mediterranean aura. That’s how people talked up here. Everything was auras now.

Bo walked Rik through the buy scenario. They’d done it twice before, but he wanted one more go so that Rik relaxed before Deacon showed up. Bo wore a double-breasted gray suit and power tie, looking every bit the yuppie asshole with his hair slicked back against his skull.

You’re going to answer the door and bring him in here. We’re going to have drinks laid out on the table here. Everybody is going to be nice and relaxed. Bring him into the living room. Just say ‘this is Richard Ranes’ when you introduce me. That’s it. I’ll hand him one of my cards, and we’ll sit down. I’ll take it from there. You are not to interact with him once we get started, do you understand me?

Yeah.

I’m serious, Rik. You say the wrong thing, and the deal could get blown.

I said I got it, Foxy.

Just Fochs, Rik.

Bo shot him a stern look, but the guy was edgy and looking everywhere but at Bo. The detective was increasingly concerned about Rik’s ability to perform after his unscheduled trip inside the café. The detectives harbored a shared fear that Rik would bolt out the back and cost them their shot at the next link in the chain. Bo brooked no deviation from his plan today.

Now, once we make the buy, I’m going to say, ‘Right on.’ That’ll be my signal to the other officers that the transaction is done. They’ll come out and make the bust. Stay out of the way when that happens. If there’s a problem, and I think it’s going south, I’ll say, ‘Far out.’

Bo gave it a second to sink in. Are we totally clear, here, Rik?

Crystal, Rik said snidely. Hey look, I gotta piss. Your rich friend got a bathroom?

Bo pointed it out. Rik got up and left the room. Bo followed him and took up station right outside the door.

Everything OK in there? Bo asked when Rik reemerged. Thought you might have fallen in. Bo covered the hallway with his body and stared down at the promoter, studied his face.

I’m a nervous pisser, OK?

Bo gave a short, sarcastic laugh. No one’s watching you in the bathroom.

The fuck I know, way you got this place wired, man.

Let’s hope that’s the only thing around here that’s wired, huh? Bo stepped aside and let Rik pass.

The promoter sat down on the white couch, leaned back into it deeply, and exhaled heavily. Hey, it was just a joke, man. I’m cool, seriously.

Maybe we don’t have a joke-making kind of relationship there, Mitch said from the kitchen.

Mitch walked back across the room and toward the study off the living room where he’d wait during the sting. If Deacon Blues tried anything during the buy, Mitch would be right there. Just a precaution since the other two officers were upstairs, but the few seconds could make all the difference. The partners exchanged a quick nod before he disappeared into the study.

Bo walked over to the giant windows and stood, captivated by Rubinstein’s view. Growing up in a place, it was easy to lose the beauty of it. You saw it every day, and maybe the appreciation wore off. Maybe you’d never get it at all. Was that why these assholes bought mansions up here, looking down on the city? Was it that LA was so grand that the only way you could take it all in was to see it from up here, or was it like a piece of art, something you hung on the wall and appreciated only when you wanted to? Or maybe the city was something one could only appreciate from a distance. Get too close, and you can see the stains.

Three hard knocks came from the front door.

The detective turned from the window. Go time.

Rik anxiously looked up at him. Bo nodded and aimed two fingers at the door. Rik stood and moved down the short hallway. This was tricky. He didn’t trust Rik and didn’t want him out of his sight. Bo believed Rik would not run but he could pass a clandestine word to Deacon. But it would also look odd for Bo to go to the door with him and he also didn’t want to spook Deacon.

Bo stayed on the couch and listened as Rik opened the door and exuberantly greeted the guest. Jesus, don’t oversell it, he whispered.

Rik reentered the living room with the man Bo sighted through his camera at the café. Hey, what the fuck is this, he said when he caught sight of Bo.

Bo set his drink down, stood and straightened his suit.

It’s cool, man. This is the guy I was telling you about.

You didn’t say anything about having a friend here, Rik. The man turned on the club promoter, who probably topped out at five-nine. Deacon Blues was a good two inches taller and clearly athletic, but it was a sinewy, predatory build.

He looked and moved like a jungle cat. Brown hair and eyes, aquiline nose, his face was thin but not chiseled. Bo recalled a comment Rik made in the interview room, I don’t know; he kind of looks like everybody. Bo got the description. He could easily blend into a crowd.

I’m sorry, is there a problem? Bo asked.

No, there’s no problem, Rik blurted out. Everything’s cool.

"Everything is not cool, Deacon said, punctuating it with a finger in Rik’s chest. You know goddamn well I don’t talk to people I don’t know. The fuck is this?"

Bo stepped around the glass coffee table and couch to close the distance. Well hey, guy, I’m Richard Ranes. He held his hand out, affable, all smiles right out of the company pamphlet. Now you know me.

Deacon tentatively reached his hand out.

Bo said, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Rik, here, he never tells me anything. Bo gave another textbook ha-ha, so precise it sounded timed.

Deacon Blues, the man said.

Don’t tell any of the guys coming tonight, but I love Steely Dan, Bo said, followed by another perfect ha-ha and a wink like they’re all in on the joke. Bo waved his arm toward the living room, get him into the room and away from the door. Deacon took a hesitant step forward. Bo watched the other man size him up, as if calculating odds. Bo gave him another one of those industry grins, all teeth and bullshit. So, are we cool, or are we cool?

They sat on the white couches. Deacon unslung the messenger bag he was carrying and set it on the floor by his feet.

So, Bo said. I’m not sure if Rik told you anything about what we’ve got going on tonight, but it’s going to be pretty exciting. Bo set his drink down on the blue glass, leaned forward on his knees, and tented his fingers. We’re signing QR. Part of this, I admit, is pure showmanship. I want to show these guys I can deliver for them. Bo said the latter part slowly, distinctly pronouncing each word. The other part is I need to show them I can throw one hell of a party. Which is where I hope you come in. Now, Rik tells me you have the best shit on the West Coast.

Deacon gave Rik a look that asked, What else did you tell him?

Now, is it Peruvian or Columbian?

Columbian, Deacon said after a slight pause.

Good man. Kind of like cigars, am I right? You want the best you go to the motherland. Tell me I’m wrong.

That’s right, was all he said.

What else is there to say? Rik added. I told you he had the best shit.

Bo ignored him. There was a flammable tension in the air. Like a gas station in a bad neighborhood. "I apologize for the short notice, but you know how it is in this town. The guys who win are the guys who can put the deal together in a few hours. I’m sure it’s the same in