I got out of my car, holding the gun down along my leg because I still didn’t know what he might try or what I might have to do when he tried it.
“On your knees. Fingers laced on your head.”
He did what I told him. Here we were in a small cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood where someone might step out for the mail or come home from school. I holstered the gun, snapped the safety strap, then stepped away from my car.
“What in hell are you doing?”
A voice behind me said, “This.”
Something hard slammed into the back of my neck and dropped me into the street. That’s when I realized the kid had not been trying to get away. I had not trapped the black Toyota in the cul-de-sac. He had trapped me.
15
THE NEW man was a muscular young guy with high and tight hair, bleached-grey eyes, and the brutal tan of a man who lived in the sun. He had the back of my shirt, dragging and spinning me to keep me off-balance, and punching down hard as I tried to roll away.
The man who hit me knew what he was doing. He moved fast to stay behind me, controlling me from behind as he punched me in the head. I didn’t reach for my gun, and I didn’t try to get up. You have a gun in a situation like this, you have to protect it; if the other guy gets it he will shoot you to death. And if you try to get up, you can’t defend yourself, so I fought from the ground. Picture the detective as a crab on its back.
The kid from the truck shouted something I couldn’t understand, then he was kicking me, but he wasn’t as good as his friend. He stood over me like a light pole without bothering to move. I hooked a round kick through his ankles, and swept his feet from under him. The kid landed on top of us as the blue Mustang flashed into view.
When the kid fell, I dragged him closer, trying to roll him onto the first guy. The first guy clawed me backwards, but the kid bucked up and broke us apart. I turned to get the first guy in front of me, but he drove into me with his head down like a linebacker. The Foo Fighter was running toward us to join in the fight.
I went over backwards again, but this time I tied up the first guy and pulled him in close. He should have kept driving through me, but he jerked backwards, trying to get away. He was pulling back so hard that when I let go he popped up like a target. I hit him in the throat and the mouth, then hooked the kid high on the cheek with an elbow. The first guy was getting up when the Foo Fighter slammed into his back like a battering ram. The first guy went down face-first, but the Foo kept going. Pike powered him through the first guy and along a graceful arc into the side of my car. His collarbone snapped.
Then Pike had his.357 and I had my gun, and all of it stopped.
Pike said, “Guess these guys aren’t cops.”
I sucked air, trying to catch my breath. My head throbbed. So did my shoulder, my back, and my right knee. The Foo Fighter held his shoulder, gritting his teeth like it burned. The kid was on his knees, his eye bloody and swelling. The first guy rose to a knee, watching Pike as if he wanted to go for more. The first guy was the oldest.
Pike said, “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Look winded.”
“Uh.”
“I got it.”
Pike moved on them the way he’d done a hundred times when he was a police officer, pushing them down as he gave the commands.
“Belly. Fingers laced behind your heads.”
They assumed the position. We patted down the Foo Fighter and the kid, but when I touched the oldest guy he shoved my hand.
“Don’t fuckin’ touch me, piece of shit.”
“You trash my office?”
“Fuck you.”
I planted a knee on the back of his neck and touched him anyway. None of them had weapons. I took their wallets, and matched the pictures on their DLs to their faces. The kid was Gordon Repko. He was eighteen years old. The Foo Fighter was Dennis Repko, who was twenty. The oldest was Michael Repko, age twenty-four. All three showed the same home address in Pasadena, California. Michael Repko was also carrying a military ID card, identifying him as a sergeant in the United States Army Reserve. That explained the high and tight cut and fierce desert eyes. They had frightened John Chen when he went to their house, and now they had frightened me.
I gimped to my car and leaned on the fender. I felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with fighting for my life in a cul-de-sac in the Hollywood Hills.
“Debra Repko was their sister.”
Pike lowered his gun, but didn’t put it away.
Dennis Repko said, “You got her killed, you fuck. It’s your fuckin’ fault.”
Pike said, “Mm.”
I looked from brother to brother and felt even more drained by the hate and fear in their faces. The Pasadena address was a nice one. These three kids had probably never wanted for anything, had a solid family, and attended good schools. Three angry white boys, wanting to dump their grief on the person they blamed.
“You trashed my office and followed me to get some payback. That what it is?”
Michael Repko said, “So what are you going to do, shoot us? Fuck you. I’ll fight you right here. Man to man.”
Pike said, “You just did. You’re on your ass.”
I went back to Michael, and squatted to look at him.
“I might have shot you. I might have shot your brothers, and I could still have you arrested. This was stupid.”
Gordon said, “She was our sister.”
Gordon, the youngest, was crying.
I took a breath and went back to my car. The first death threat had come even before Bastilla and Crimmens came to my office and hours before Marx went on the news. Since my involvement with Lionel Byrd hadn’t been mentioned in the news or by the press, I had a pretty good idea how these guys learned my name.
“The police told you I worked for Byrd?”
Dennis said, “They could’ve put him in prison, but you and some ass-licking shyster got him off.”
“Who told you that, Crimmens?”
Michael said, “Was that you or wasn’t it? I’d like to kick that lawyer’s ass, too.”
Levy.
Pike tucked the gun under his sweatshirt.
“What do you want to do?”
I went to Gordon, then Dennis. Gordon’s eye was swelling. Dennis had trouble moving his arm.
Dennis said, “Get away from me, bitch.”
I looked back at Michael.
“Gordon won’t need stitches, but he should get some ice. Dennis needs a doctor.”
Michael said, “Fuck you. No one gives a shit what you say.”
I tossed back their wallets.
“I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry she’s dead, and for what you and your parents are going through, but I don’t believe Lionel Byrd killed your sister.”
They came to their feet, Dennis bent to the side because of the collarbone. Gordon touched his eye, and seemed confused by the blood on his fingers. Dennis and Gordon watched their older brother, taking their cues from him.
Michael said, “That’s bullshit. The police said he did it.”
“Marx rushed the investigation so he could make a splash on TV. A lot of things got lost in the rush.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
I told them how Debra’s murder was off the time line, how the others had all been murdered on moonless nights. I told them how Byrd was so gimped up in recent weeks with his bad foot he could barely walk, and had been flying on oxycodone the night he died. I told them how Marx shut down the case even before all the forensics were run, and that no one had yet spoken with the most important witness in Yvonne Bennett’s murder-Angel Tomaso. I told them about everything except the blind tests. They would talk about the things I was saying, and they might even tell the police. I didn’t want the wrong people to know I knew about the blinds.
When I finished, Gordon, the youngest, sneered.
“What makes you so much smarter than the police?”
“Maybe I’m just lucky.”
Dennis said, “The cops didn’t tell us any of this.”