“Carter, it’s clear,” I yelled.
I expected some wiseass line about taking so long or my driving getting us into this.
But the only response I got was the sound of sirens in the distance.
26
Four bullets had hit Carter, two in the chest and two in the stomach. I blanched at the red puddle spilling out from beneath his body on the concrete of the freeway, his skin already a light gray as his system went into shock. He mumbled incoherently for a minute as I pressed on the bloody holes in his chest, before he shut his eyes and passed out.
Police and ambulances arrived in bunches. Traffic was rerouted. People were yelling and screaming. A helicopter grew larger above us, finally landing on the southbound side of the highway. The paramedics loaded Carter onto a backboard, passed him over the median to another set of paramedics. I followed them into the helicopter before anyone could suggest otherwise.
LifeFlight flew us to the UCSD Trauma Unit, a team of technicians working feverishly over his body in the cramped aircraft. I grabbed a towel off the floor of the helicopter and wiped the blood off my hands. Then I grabbed a handle suspended from the roof and tried not to throw up.
After I’d waited an hour outside the surgical unit, a doctor emerged and told me that Carter was a mess. Lots of internal damage, lots of bleeding. They were going to watch him in the critical care unit and see what happened.
I sat in a waiting room and tried to quell the nausea in my gut. I kept glancing at the dried blood under my fingernails, trying not to think about who it belonged to or why it was there. There is a certain uselessness that accompanies sitting quietly in a waiting area, and I was settling into it awkwardly when Liz got off the elevator.
She wore a dark green sweater and black jeans, black framed glasses on her face. I used to accuse her of wearing them to appear smarter, but they did look good on her.
A thick, short black man dressed in tan slacks, a white T-shirt, and a navy blazer trailed her. A T-shirt that read I’M A COP! would’ve been less conspicuous.
“Noah,” Liz said, sitting down across from me. “How is he?”
“Not good.”
She gestured at her guest. “This is my partner, Detective John Wellton. He’s working Kate’s case with me.”
We shook hands. Cool blue eyes stared out at me from skin the color of a Hershey bar, the contrast startling.
The fact that he couldn’t have been over five feet tall didn’t help.
“Good to meet you,” he said, not meaning it, his expression dour. “Sorry about your friend.”
He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. Almost made up for the fact that his feet wouldn’t touch the ground if he sat on the chair next to Liz.
“He still in surgery?” Liz asked.
I shook my head. “Came out about an hour ago. They need him to stabilize before they can do more. He’s in the CCU.”
She thought about it. “He’s tough. He’ll make it.”
“I know,” I said, hoping she was right.
“Mr. Braddock,” Wellton said, pulling a notebook from his pocket. “Did you get plates on the van that left the scene?”
“No, it happened too fast.”
He nodded, scribbling quickly. “How about the assailants? Recognize them?”
“No,” I said, glancing at Liz. “Looked like gangbangers, though. Teenagers. They were in the Cadillac. I couldn’t see the faces of the guys from the van.”
“Probably Costilla,” Liz said, leaning forward. “He’s used them as his little soldiers before. Cheap and nasty.”
I nodded absently. A gurney emerged from the elevator, surrounded by people shouting at one another. They disappeared quickly through the swinging doors.
“Can you give me descriptions?” Wellton asked, peering over the notepad at me.
I shrugged. “Teen, male, Hispanic. That’s about it.”
He looked at me, the chest puffing out again, annoyed. “That’s it?”
I glared at him, not wanting to relive the afternoon. “Take the kid I hit. Draw a picture. Make three copies. That’s what I saw.”
“How’d your buddy get hit?” he asked, scribbling again.
I looked at Liz. “Some bullets flew into him.”
Liz covered her mouth with her hand and avoided my eyes.
Wellton took a step in my direction. “Hey, wiseass, you left a crime scene to ride with your friend. Nobody hassled you about that. But now you owe us. I need some information from you. You can either talk to me here or I can take you downtown.”
I stood up. “You and what step stool?”
The notepad slipped from his hand to the floor and he put a finger in my gut. Probably aiming for my chest. I slapped it away.
Liz jumped up. “Alright, knock it off.” She looked at Wellton. “Give us a minute, John?”
He stared up at me, holding his ground. If I’d had a drink, I would’ve set it on his head. He took a step back, picked up his notepad, and walked down the hallway.
I pointed in his direction. “I will kick Gary Cole-man’s ass if I get peppered with any more questions tonight.”
“He’s wired a little tight,” Liz admitted. “He’s a good guy, though. He can help.”
I sat back down in the chair. “Whatever.”
She sat across from me. “Definitely gangbangers?”
I took a deep breath. “Looked like it.”
“What kind of guns?”
I pictured the ambush. “Automatics. Hung over the shoulder. They were just spraying. They weren’t good shooters.”
She nodded. “Sounds right.”
“You have the one I shot?”
“Yeah, but he’s in surgery,” she said. “You gave him a permanent limp. We have to wait.”
We sat there in silence for a few minutes, looking at everything but one another. I never would’ve said it, but her company helped.
“They lost her,” she said finally.
I looked at her. “What?”
“Kate was in the car with two of Costilla’s men in Tijuana,” she said, her eyes staring me down from behind the glasses. “Since they were on the Mexican side of the border, DEA took the coverage. We had her on the U.S. side.”
She shifted in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. “Costilla’s men must’ve nailed the tail. They shook them off somewhere in the downtown area and she was gone for three days.” She paused. “Until you found her. We were searching in Mexico when she was right here under our noses.”
I let that sink in. It hurt.
“Why was she there, Liz?” I asked.
She stood up. “I gave you all I’m giving you.”
I thought about it and nodded slowly. She’d said more than she’d needed to, especially when I had been a jerk in her office earlier. “Okay. Thanks.”
“We had to tow your car down to impound for investigation. I can have someone take you to a rental agency,” she said. “Come down to the station tomorrow. We’ll do the report then, alright?”
“Yeah.” I watched her walk toward the elevator. “Liz?”
She turned back to me. “What?”
“Thanks for coming,” I told her. “Carter would appreciate it.”
A tired smile formed on her lips. “No, he wouldn’t. But thanks for saying it anyway.”
She disappeared into the elevator.
27
I left my cell number with the hospital staff and asked them to call me if anything changed with Carter. I fought the guilt of leaving the hospital and let one of Liz’s officers drive me over to an Avis counter at the Embassy Suites on La Jolla Village Drive.
After fifteen minutes of paperwork and avoiding the various sales pitches of the rental agent, I walked out to the lot with keys to a Chevy Blazer. It had tinted windows and gray leather interior that still smelled new. I missed the aroma of salt and wax in the Jeep as I pointed the SUV in the direction of the Crier home.
When Kate and I had dated, I had dreaded going to her house. The size of it, the smell of the money, the disapproving looks all had made me uncomfortable. I didn’t have the nerve to stand up to it when I was a teenager, the guts to tell them I was good enough for their youngest daughter. Now, getting out of the Blazer, I knew that nothing in that house would prevent me from saying what I wanted to say.