“She dining alone?”
“So far. I’m out in the parking lot, in position to see if that changes.”
“Whenever you’re ready, take her down, Moses.”
“Re-ally,” said Reed. “So you got the evidence.”
“Got everything.” Milo filled in the details.
“Whoa. And I missed the party. Okay, so she’s my loose end, I’ll tie her up.”
“Any indication she’s packing?”
“Not unless she’s got something small in her purse.”
“One of our vics was killed with a .25.”
“I’ll remember that, El Tee. Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Live victims.”
Next calclass="underline" SWAT lieutenant Byron Bird, using a secure tactical band. Bird answered with a growling, “Yeah?”
Milo said, “I could use your help.”
“And here I was thinking you were offering me tickets to the game,” said Bird. “Let me give you some deep background, friend: Been up since three a.m., shitload of time wasted on a false-alarm dope raid. So don’t even talk to me about work, Milo. Going to the gym.”
“Got something more therapeutic than bench-pressing, Byron.”
“Like what?”
Milo told him the situation. Bird said, “Two tan-shirts, Lordy Lord. Where exactly at Mosk?”
“Family and probate.”
“Familiar with both those purgatories. Two divorces and my mother’s will. Okay, I’m déjà-vu-ing the layout in my head, those halls full of civilians … my thought is we need to be subtle. That’s French for just enough foreplay.”
The takedown team would be sixteen of Bird’s physically strongest officers in plainclothes.
“Eight for him, eight for her,” said Bird. “Last thing I need is my new girlfriend getting on me for the sexist thing.”
Laughing his way through the planning but not pleased at substituting muscle for staggering firepower. But getting any sort of a weapon into the court building without triggering a commotion would be tough, let alone showing up with the heavy artillery the swatters preferred.
The final arrangement: each of the sixteen officers would be limited to a single 9mm handgun concealed by a blousy shirt and relegated to last resort.
The primary weapon would be human bulk: blitz-swarming the Nebes after they left their respective courtrooms. As long as the bailiffs ventured far enough from onlookers to minimize collateral damage.
If the hallways were packed, the arrest would be postponed for a safer time and place.
“Just what I need,” said Bird. “Another pud-yank marathon.”
“Be optimistic, Byron.”
“Why?”
“I got live victims.”
“Good for you — but you also got those two dead ones so don’t be going all positive-thinking on me.”
Hank Nebe, exiting Nancy Maestro’s chambers an hour after the SWAT team was in place, went down easy.
“Shoulda seen the look on his face,” said Bird, radioing in the all-clear. “Like a geek who crapped his pants on a first date. Then he gets all smirky, don’t even try to talk to me, I want a lawyer. Not my problem, he’s on his way to Central Booking. That should get interesting, no? Man-in-tan processed by his compadres. All those po-lice-loving gangbangers.”
Milo said, “I think that’s called irony.”
“It’s called ef-you justice, Milo. You have any indication he did something to that baby?”
“Not so far.”
“ ’Cause if I knew he did something like that, I might’ve aimed a well-placed kick,” said Bird. “Either way he’s evil. Probably need to call in a shrink for your vics.”
“Thanks for the tip, Byron.”
“Okay, back to you when we nab Missus Evil.”
Ten minutes later, Bird was back on the line: “Got a problem, Milo. Her court got recessed two hours ago, some kind of stomach bug hitting the judge.”
“She show up?”
“We’re still checking.”
“Her car’s not in staff parking?”
“No sign of it yet. We’re covering every inch of the structure, including the visitors sections. Something happens, I’ll let you know.”
Milo hung up and rubbed his eyes. Settling behind the wheel of the unmarked, he pushed the seat back and stretched. I got in the passenger side.
I watched him fidget.
“What’s on your mind, Big Guy?”
“What Byron said, any indication the baby was abused?” His laugh was bitter. “Other than being locked up in a garage with her mother shackled to the wall?”
He phoned Reed again.
“No change, El Tee.”
“Yes, there is, Moses. Look out for the aunt. Her court recessed and she left the house in civvies, so it’s possible she never made it to the court building. She’s a deputy, is likely to be packing.”
Reed said, “Appreciate the warning, El Tee.”
Milo clicked off. “No, he doesn’t, but that’s one of the things I like about the kid.”
“Respectful.”
“I prefer deferential. Bet he always ate his vegetables.” He yawned, placed the cell phone on the dash, rolled the back of his head along the seat. Tugging his tie loose, he closed his eyes. “Hope to hell this doesn’t drag on.”
Just as he began to snore, I said, “Doesn’t look as if it will.”
CHAPTER 41
The Toyota was a dark gray blur at the far end of the block.
Rolling toward us at moderate speed. Coming to an abrupt stop well short of the hubbub fronting the beige house.
Swinging a quick three-pointer, it sped off.
Yanking the seat forward, Milo started his engine, jammed his foot on the accelerator.
No match between the Toyota’s four cylinders and the unmarked’s police-enhanced V8. Within seconds we were riding the compact’s rear bumper.
The driver — female, head topped by the curly do I’d seen on Willa Nebe — hooked a squealing right turn and raced along a side street lined with bungalows.
Milo stayed on her tail, NASCAR comes to Van Nuys. An errant pedestrian would be doomed but walking in L.A. is generally relegated to gym machines and this time that worked out fine for the citizenry.
L.A.’s also delinquent about maintenance unless some crony of the mayor or a council member has a sweetheart contract, so the asphalt was scarred by potholes and the Toyota hit a big one and bounced straight up and swerved left and rocked before settling. For a moment I thought that would end the chase.
The Toyota straightened, surged forward making an ugly sound. Sped faster.
Smooth sailing for three blocks before a cul-de-sac changed things.
The Toyota took the only option: quick left turn, barely short of the dead end, onto another side street.
Milo re-glued the unmarked to the Toyota for another four blocks of straightaway.
This time people were crossing: two women pushing strollers.
Bracing himself, he slowed. The Toyota didn’t bother to and the women jumped back, wide-eyed and openmouthed, avoiding obliteration by inches.
Milo looked everywhere, then forward, gunned his engine, narrowed, finally closed the gap. His gun remained holstered. In the movies, cops and bad guys race at Indie speed while shooting at each other. In real life it’s all cops can do not to die behind the wheel.
The Toyota’s bearings looked shaky but it kept going. Off in the distance, a stream of cross-traffic filled the horizon.
Van Nuys Boulevard. Once the pursuit moved to the busy thoroughfare, the risk factor would change in terrible ways.
If the Toyota made it to the freeway, we’d be on every local station’s live cam and anything could happen.