CHAPTER 19

The cop with the bandana was named Micelli. He put Pike into a gray sedan and me into a black-and-white, and then they drove us to the Seventy-seventh. Micelli rode in the sedan.

The Seventy-seventh Division is a one-story red brick building just off Broadway with diagonal curbside parking out front and a ten-foot chain-link fence around the sides and back. The officers who work the Double-seven park their personal cars inside the fence and hope for the best. Concertina wire runs along the top of the fence to keep out the bad guys, but you leave personal items in your car at your own risk. Your car sort of sits there at your own risk, too. The bad guys have been known to steal the patrol cars.

We turned through a wide chain-link gate and rolled around the back side of the building past the maintenance garage and about two dozen parked black-and-whites and up to an entry they have for uniformed officers and prospective felons. Micelli got out first and spoke with a couple of uniformed cops, then disappeared into the building. The uniforms brought us inside past the evidence lockers and went through our pockets and took our wallets and our watches and our personal belongings. They did me first, calling off the items to an overweight property sergeant who noted every item on a large manila envelope, and then they did Pike. When they did Pike, they pulled off the hip holster for his.357, the ankle holster for his.380, an eight-inch Buck hunting knife, four speed-loaders for the.357, and two extra.380 magazines. The overweight sergeant said, "Jesus Christ, you expecting a goddamned war?"

The uniform who did Pike grinned. "Look who it is."

The sergeant opened Pike's wallet, then blinked at Pike. "Jesus Christ. You're him."

The uniformed cop took off Pike's sunglasses and handed them to the sergeant. Pike squinted at the suddenly bright light, and I saw for the first time in months how Pike's eyes were a deep liquid blue. My friend Ellen Lang says that there is a lot of hurt in the blue, but I have never been able to see it. Maybe he just hides it better with me. Maybe she sees his eyes more often than I.

Micelli came back as they were finishing and I said, "Play this one smart, Micelli. There's a detective sergeant in North Hollywood named Poitras who'll vouch for us, and an assistant DA named Morris who'll back Poitras up. Give'm a call and let's get this straight."

Micelli signed the property forms. "You got connections, that what you telling me?"

"I'm telling you these guys know us, and they'll know we've been set up."

Micelli grinned at the property sergeant. "You ever hear that before, Sarge? You ever hear a guy we're bringing in say he was set up?"

The sergeant shook his head. "No way. I've never heard that before."

I said, "For Christ's sake, Micelli, check me out. It's a goddamned phone call."

Micelli finished signing the forms and glanced over at me. "Listen up, pogue. I don't care if you've been hamboning the goddamned mayor. You're mine until I say otherwise." He gave the clipboard to the property sergeant, and then he told the uniforms to bring us to interrogation. He walked away.

Pike said, "Cops."

The uniforms brought us through a heavy metal door and into a long sterile hall that held all the charm of a urinal in a men's room. There were little rooms on either side of the hall, and they put Pike into the first room and me into the second. The rooms sported the latest in interrogation-room technology with pus-yellow walls and water-stained acoustical ceilings and heavy-duty soundproofing so passing liberals couldn't hear the rubber hoses being worked. There was a small hardwood table in the center of the floor with a single straight-backed metal chair on either side of it. Someone had used a broken pencil to cut a message into the wall. In interrogation, no one can hear you scream. Cop, probably. Detainees weren't allowed pencils.

They kept me waiting for maybe an hour, then Micelli and a cop in a gray suit came in. The new cop was in his late forties and looked to be a detective lieutenant, probably working out of homicide. Micelli took the chair across the table from me and the guy in the suit leaned against the wall. Micelli said, "This conversation is being recorded. My name is Detective Micelli, and this is Lieutenant Stilwell." You see? "I'm going to ask you questions, and your answers will be used in court. You don't have to answer these questions, and if you want a lawyer, but can't afford one, we can arrange for a public defender. You want someone?"

"No."

Micelli nodded. "Okay."

"Did you call Poitras?"

Micelli leaned forward. "No one's calling anyone until we get through this."

Stilwell said, "How do you know Lou Poitras?"

Micelli waved his hand. "That doesn't mean shit. What's it matter?"

"I want to know."

I told him about me and Poitras.

"When I finish it," Stilwell said, "Okay, but what were you doing down here?"

"I got a tip that a REACT cop named Eric Dees is involved with a gangbanger named Akeem D'Muere and I'm trying to find out how."

Micelli grinned. Stilwell said, "You got proof?"

"A guy named Cool T gave me the tip. He was a friend of James Edward Washington. Washington is one of the dead guys."

Micelli said, "That's fuckin' convenient."

"Not for Washington."

Micelli said, "Yeah, well, we got a little tip, too. We got tipped that an asshole fitting your description and driving your car was down here trying to move a little Mexican brown to the natives. We got told that the deal was going down in an abandoned building off the tracks, and we went over there, and guess what?"

"Who gave you the tip, Micelli? Dees? One of the REACT guys?"

Micelli licked the corner of his mouth and didn't say anything.

I said, "Check it out. Twenty minutes ago I saw Akeem D'Muere put a gun to James Edward Washington's head and pull the trigger. I'm working for a woman named Jennifer Sheridan. Akeem D'Muere has a mad on for her, and he said that she's next."

Stilwell crossed his arms. "Two of the dead men found in the garage were named Wilson Lee Hayes and Derek La Verne Dupree. Both of these guys had a history of trafficking in narcotics. Maybe you were down here to meet them and the deal went bad. Maybe you and your buddy Pike tried to rip those guys off."

I spread my hands.

Micelli said, "You own a 1966 Corvette?" He gave me the license number.

"Yeah."

"How come there was a half kilo of crack in the trunk?"

"Akeem D'Muere's people put it there."

"They dumped eight thousand dollars' worth of dope, just to set you up?"

"I guess it was important to them."

"Eight-Deuce Gangster Boys buy and sell dope, they don't give it away. No profit in it."

"Maybe it wasn't theirs. Maybe Dees gave it to them. Maybe it came from the LAPD evidence room."

Micelli leaned forward across the table and gave me hard. "You're holding out for nothing. Your buddy's already come clean."

"Pike?"

Micelli nodded. "Yeah. He gave it to us. He said you guys found a connection for the dope. He said you thought you could turn the trick with the Eight-Deuce for a little extra cash. He said that after you set the deal you got the idea that you could just rip these guys off, then you'd have the cash and the dope. Maybe sell it three or four times. Really screw the niggers."

I gave them the laugh. "You guys are something, Micelli."

Stilwell said, "If you don't like our take on it, how about yours?"

I gave it to them. I told them about Mark Thurman and Eric Dees and Charles Lewis Washington. I described how I had been followed, and how Pike and I had boxed Riggens and Pinkworth at the Farmer's Market. I told them about Dees warning me off. I told them about the meeting with Cool T, and Cool T putting us onto the park, and the Eight-Deuce Gangster Boys lying in wait for us. Micelli squirmed around while I said it, like maybe he was bored with the nonsense, but Stilwell listened without moving. When I ran out of gas, Stilwell fingered his tie and said, "So you're saying that Dees set you up to get you out of the way."