“Yep. It was parked in front of a Chipotle on Topanga Canyon Boulevard.”
I waited for her to give me the rest of the story, but she fell silent. “And? Was Evan in it?”
“No one’s in it right now. They’ve staked it out and they’re waiting.”
“You still have an extra vest in your trunk?”
“Of course.”
I tried to tamp down the hope that was rising in my chest. I’d had too many letdowns in this case. Still, this looked good. The fact that no one had spotted Logan’s car all this time was some indication that it had been hidden. And who else besides Evan would’ve had access to it? He was probably living in that car. After all, he didn’t have much money, and this wasn’t a killer with any long-term plans for survival.
In less than half an hour we pulled onto the side street where the stakeout was being coordinated. A patrol officer started to wave us along, but when Bailey held up her badge, he pointed her to a parking spot nearby. A legal parking spot. She looked peeved as she pulled into the space. “You could ask him if there’s a fire hydrant around here,” I suggested.
“Shut up.”
We found the officer in charge, which turned out to be a lieutenant. A lot of firepower for a stakeout. Then again, this was no ordinary stakeout. Lieutenant Scott Braverman, whose buzz-cut blonde hair and muscled torso looked like a poster for a fitness video, was sitting in the driver’s seat of a patrol car with the door open.
Bailey held out her badge again and identified us. He scanned the two of us. “So now you Robbery-Homicide dicks carry around your own personal DAs?”
His tone was just the wrong side of snotty. This was not an uncommon attitude in the local divisions-they really didn’t dig the fact that RHD stepped in to take over all the hottest cases.
Bailey gave him a cold smile. “Not all of them. Just me. When was the car first spotted?”
Braverman’s lip curled. I could see he was dying to get into it with Bailey. But this was no time to indulge his baser instincts. He reined himself in with an effort and looked at his watch. “Just about forty minutes ago. The car’s parked in front of the Chipotle, but he could be anywhere on that corner.”
We’d passed the corner on our way here. It was the size of about four city blocks. Chipotle, a small Mexican fast-food diner, was on the outer edge of a complex that included two large grocery stores, a Petco, a FedEx store, three restaurants, and several specialty boutiques.
Bailey stood with her hands on her hips and looked toward Ventura Boulevard. “You have any officers inside the Chipotle?”
The lieutenant’s jaw muscle bounced. “No. I didn’t have any plainclothes available and I didn’t want to send any unis in there.”
Bailey looked at him steadily for a long beat, then nodded. “We’ll take it then-”
“You and…her?” He looked me up and down. “You’re kidding, right?”
Bailey turned to me. “You’re locked and loaded?”
I nodded. I knew she’d asked the question only to show I was a tough guy too, and I appreciated it. The problem was, Evan had seen both of us on television. He’d recognize us in a heartbeat. But I didn’t want to say that to Bailey in front of this jerk. So I followed her as she turned and headed down the block. I trotted to get alongside her so I could talk without being overheard.
“Uh, Bailey, that guy’s an asshat, but this might not be the best idea you’ve ever had.”
Bailey stared straight ahead and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. I thought of that about two seconds after the words fell out of my damn mouth.”
I started to chuckle and she shot me a look. I cleared my throat to stifle the rest of my laugh. “Too soon?”
“A sane person might think so.”
True, it wasn’t funny. We were about to walk into a tiny fast-food joint to confront a murderer who might well have more-and bigger-firearms than all of us put together. I opened my purse and kept my hand on my gun as we walked. We’d just turned onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard when a young man in jeans and a hoodie stepped out of the diner and headed toward Logan’s car.
Bailey whipped her gun out of the shoulder holster and shouted, “Police! Drop your weapon!”
At that moment, the rest of the officers, who’d been hiding behind the bushes that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk, sprang out with guns drawn and pointed as they shouted at him. “Put your hands on your head! Get down on the ground! Now!”
He put his hands in the air and slowly backed away from the car.
“Stop!” Bailey and the officers shouted. “Get down! Now!”
But he kept backing up until he bumped into the front door of the Chipotle. Then he reached behind, pulled it open, and slid inside.
77
We ran toward the diner, just steps behind the officers. Lieutenant Braverman came pounding up, bullhorn in hand, as the unis took cover behind cars and around the sides of the building. At least seven squad cars screeched into the parking lot and surrounded the restaurant. Four officers balanced assault rifles on the hoods of their cars and trained them on the front door.
Braverman raised the bullhorn to his lips, but before he could speak, the door opened, and a burly Hispanic man in a white apron and paper hat emerged holding the young man by the back of his jacket. His arms dangled helplessly, like a puppy held by the scruff of its neck.
The Hispanic man hauled him outside. “This the guy you want?” Braverman confirmed that it was. Before the lieutenant could issue a further order, the Hispanic man tossed him out as though he were a heap of garbage. He fell face-first onto the asphalt.
So much for Hotshot Braverman’s moment of glory. The officers swarmed the young male, and when they stood him up, we finally got a chance to move in and get a closer look. He was tall, skinny, and had long, dirty white-guy dreadlocks that looked like they might house a family of small rodents.
One thing was immediately clear: it wasn’t Evan. I hadn’t realized how much I was banking on this being the end of the road until just that moment. My spirits crashed and burned as I watched the officers load the now-docile suspect into the back of a patrol car. We followed them back to the local station.
I stared out the passenger window, feeling bitter and frustrated. “Maybe this fool has some connection to Evan or Logan.”
Bailey was in no better mood. “If he does it’s probably useless.”
When we got to the station, the guy-who looked like he was in his early twenties-was already set up in the interview room, one hand cuffed to a ring in the table. Two burly unis stood on either side of him, their hands on their weapons. Neither of them looked particularly concerned, and I could see why. The guy was a string bean, not a muscle in sight, and he was cowering in his seat, looking pale and sweaty. A paper cup of water was in front of him, and when he reached for it, his hand trembled so badly he spilled half of it on the table.
A detective came in and handed Bailey the booking form with his information. I offered my hand to the detective and introduced myself and Bailey.
He took my hand and shook it warmly. “Dwight Rosenberg, nice to meet you.”
“Where’s Lieutenant Braverman?” I asked.
“He’ll be here.”
“Good, I miss him.”
Dwight’s lips twitched. We weren’t the only ones who thought the lieutenant was a jerkweed. We sat down across from the suspect, and Bailey led off.
“Charlie Herzog. It says here you’re twenty-two, that you live with your parents and you’re unemployed. That right?” He nodded. “So how do you know Evan Cutter?”
Charlie licked his lips, which were cracked and dry. “I d-don’t.” He picked up the cup and gulped some water. “I d-didn’t have any idea who he was back when I s-saw him.”
Bailey waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she prompted him. “But you know who he is now.”