“I take it you have another idea?” Emily said.
Diaz nodded.
“Back in the late nineties, we had a scandal out here with a gang unit called CRASH. These CRASH cops went off the rails. They framed gang members, beat up on them. The sergeants used to give out awards if a gang member was shot.”
“Your point being?”
“These gang guys remember CRASH. In fact, more often than not, during an arrest they and their defense lawyers claim we’re up to our old tricks. I’m just thinking we might be able to use the rep of these crazy CRASH guys to put a little pressure on our friend Tomás.”
“What do you mean? You want to frame him or something?” Emily said.
“No, of course not,” Diaz said. “But what if we … I don’t know … pretended to?”
“Yeah?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Emily said.
I smiled.
“I don’t know, either, Emily. But the director did tell us to get creative, to think outside the box. Besides, we need information, not evidence. It would never make it into court.”
“Exactly,” Diaz said. “It would be a bluff all the way, but at this point, that’s all we got. We need to do something.”
“Fine,” Emily said. “You’re right. This is beyond everything at this point. Count me in. I think.”
“What do we have to do, Diaz?” I said.
Diaz pointed at a CVS pharmacy on the corner to our left.
“Pull in here,” he said. “I need to pick up a few things.”
CHAPTER 76
Death Metal was chugging from one of the garage’s four bays when we pulled into Beach City Customs’ parking lot.
Inside, there was a man in coveralls down on one knee, tack welding at the tailgate of a Toyota pickup truck, blue electric sparks crackling in time to the head-banging blast beats. Through the window of the paint room behind him, a guy in a full filter-breathing mask was airbrushing flames onto the gas tank on a large Japanese motorcycle.
Parker and I exchanged a glance when we saw the bike. The shooters who had taken down the LA County cops had escaped on big-bore Japanese motorcycles.
Without any ado, Diaz stuck his head inside the door of the Tacoma and killed the deafening devil tunes.
The welder stood and flipped up his mask, his pudgy brown face scrunched in wonder.
“You kidding me?” he said.
Diaz flipped his badge as he slammed the truck’s door. There was a tire iron on the ground beside the vehicle. It made a musical bing-bong off the concrete as Diaz kicked it across the garage.
“Let me answer your question with a question. Does it look like I’m kidding you? Get Tomás now,” Diaz said.
A broad-shouldered middleweight of a Hispanic man bounced out a door a split second later. He wore a tailored shirt and jacket over expensive jeans and had scar tissue over his eyes and cheekbones like ax cuts on a totem pole.
“Señor Neves, I presume?” Diaz said.
“Yeah? What?” he said with a stunned look on his malevolent face.
Tomás shrugged as we showed our tin.
“And?” he said.
“Señor Neves,” Diaz said with a courtly little bow, “I know you’re a busy man, but do you think it might be possible to speak with you for five minutes about a stolen car? If now’s not good for you, we could always come back later with a search warrant and put you out of business.”
“Why don’t you come back to my office?” Tomás finally said.
“Señor Neves, I thought you’d never ask,” Diaz said.
We followed him up the stairs, into a room with a spotless desk and a phone on it. There was a window in one wall and the cracked door to a bathroom in another.
“OK, here we are. Happy? So what the hell is this about? A stolen car?” Neves demanded.
“Jeez, dog. What is it with you? Could you be ruder?” Diaz cried. “This ain’t the hood. This is Manhattan Beach. You’re supposed to say shit like, Would you like a seat, Officer? Can I get you a cold drink, Officer? I mean, if you want to be a businessman, you should watch an episode of Martha Stewart or something.”
“Fine. Would you like a seat?” Neves said.
“There you go. No seat, man, but do you mind if I use your facilities to freshen up a little?” Diaz said, holding up his palms like a magician about to do a trick.
“Whatever,” Neves said.
“Thanks,” Diaz said, heading into the can. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.”
Diaz wasn’t two steps in when he stopped and turned. Emily and I had to suppress our laughter.
“What the-?” Diaz said loudly.
There was a loud scraping sound, and a moment later, Diaz came out with a stunned look on his face and something dripping in his hand. It was the bar of soap he had wrapped in red cellophane in the parking lot of the CVS. A small package that had a strong resemblance to a kilo of cocaine.
“What have we here, Tomás?” Diaz said, shaking his head in dismay. “Little advice, señor. When you hide something from the cops in a toilet tank, you should really remember to put the lid all the way back on.”
“Whoa,” Tomás said, stunned. He blinked a few times, then shook his lean face vigorously. “This ain’t happening. This is a joke, right? You’re putting me on, yo?”
“Yep,” said Diaz, throwing him up against the wall and ratcheting handcuffs around his wrists. “Wanna hear the punch line? You have the right to remain silent.”
“You planted that shit there! You planted that shit!”
“Yes, I did, Tomás,” Diaz whispered to him. “Want to know a little secret? Planting shit on scum like you is, like, my favorite hobby. Guess what? There ain’t no stolen car, and the gloves are off, bitch. Just got the word from up top, and I couldn’t be happier. CRASH times are here again!”
“You crazy, man. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your buddy Manuel offed an FBI agent, and you think it’s not going to come on you? What did you think was going to happen?”
“But I don’t know any Manuel! What are you talking about? I want my lawyer. Yo, get Terrence! Go next door and get Terrence!” he started yelling.
Through the window, I saw the welder run out of the garage.
“John?” I said.
“It’s OK. I got this,” Diaz said.
Diaz grabbed the gangbanger and kicked out his legs as he body slammed him onto the desk.
“Listen to me, and listen to me good,” he said. “Your lawyer isn’t going to be able to help you when I toss you in MacArthur Park Lake with these cuffs on, maricón. Now start talking.”
Tomás said something in Spanish then. Diaz said something back.
We all jumped when there was a sudden pounding on the door behind us.
CHAPTER 77
Emily and I immediately took out our guns.
“What is this? What’s going on in there? Tomás, are you OK? What’s going on in there? Open this door!”
“This is a police interview!” I yelled as I ripped the door open behind my gun. “Put your hands up now!”
I was surprised when I saw that the shocked-looking man standing in the doorway wasn’t a Hispanic gangbanger but a petite Asian guy wearing golf clothes and Clark Kent glasses.
“How dare you point a gun at me! I’m Terrence Che, Mr. Neves’s lawyer. Now, I demand that you tell me what’s going on this instant!”
“They’re framing me, is what’s going on!” Neves yelled. “They’re framing me, Terrence!”
Diaz rolled his eyes. “Shit,” he mumbled as he reluctantly uncuffed Tomás.
“Who are you people? Why are you harassing my client?” Che said as I put my gun away.
“Well, it’s kind of a long story,” Diaz said, handing the lawyer the wet bar of cellophane-wrapped soap as he gently pushed him to the side.
“And wouldn’t you know it? We’re late for a meeting,” Emily said as we exited the room.