Jet Sweep Page 4

  The typical customer who rented an electric scooter seemed to be a teenager, even though there was a stated minimum age of eighteen. The ones who liked riding raved about what an exhilarating experience it was to tear through a street at twenty-five miles per hour, standing only on a thin piece of metal, unprotected from the elements, or from anything else, for that matter. The ones who disliked scooters were typically pedestrians who had nearly been run over by them, or tripped on one left in the middle of a sidewalk. Others knew somebody that got injured when a scooter crashed into a vehicle, a fire hydrant, or a tree. There was also some ongoing litigation between the company and a few parties who had been involved in accidents.

  The business details of WAVE were a little harder to discern. The company was technically headquartered in Delaware, which I presumed had something to do with an easement on paying taxes. The board of directors included Cody and Kristy Groh, and a quick internet search told me that Kristy was Cody’s sister. Also listed on the board were Ryan Concannon and Sean Danelo, his friends from Laguna Beach, as well as a few names I did not recognize. But then there was one that did jump out at me: Marcellus Williams, a former wide receiver at USC, someone I did not coach but did have an experience with years ago. He hired me to unravel a nasty situation with a notorious sports agent. Marcellus was still playing in the NFL, and after a two-year stint with the Jacksonville Jaguars, he had spent his recent seasons with the Chicago Bears. A quick scan of his background showed he owned a lakefront condo along Chicago’s gold coast, and beach houses in Boca Raton and Malibu. All were valued in the millions.

  I called WAVE again to see if I could get through to Cody, but again, I only got as far as his voice mail. I left another message, asking him to call me as soon as he could. I also got through to Dr. Rosenbloom and apologized for having to reschedule my appointment. She seemed a little miffed but agreed to squeeze me in tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, in her Beverly Hills office. I went home for a quick dinner of Costco chicken leftovers with Gail and Marcus, took a shower, then headed down to meet Detective Rainey, and ultimately Mr. Stoner, down in Playa Vista.

  There are not many new developments in Los Angeles. This is a city that has been thoroughly mined for real estate prospects over the past century, and with it came an explosion in population growth. With that came a proportional decline in the quality of life. More people, more traffic, more crime, and more headaches. Unlike most big cities, L.A. expanded horizontally, into a region of interconnected suburbs without much of an urban core. There were few high-rise apartment buildings, and public transportation was a joke. They finally installed a light rail system, making a paltry attempt to reduce freeway traffic. But since they didn’t elevate the rail in the way that a city like Chicago did, L.A. was now loaded with urban railroad crossings. This served to only make congestion even worse, as long lines of cars had to stop for minutes at a time, just to let the trains pass through. The trains only went to certain parts of the city, so not many people rode them. It was a colossal failure at every level and the nightmarish traffic was one of a number of reasons leading to more people departing L.A. than were coming here to live.

  The freeway was wide open at 8:00 p.m., and I arrived a few minutes ahead of schedule. Playa Vista was a growing community, wedged in between Culver City and Westchester, just north of LAX airport. This had long been a commercial district, with a business park and some big-box stores like Home Depot and Target nearby. But over the past few decades, a rash of apartment and condo complexes had sprouted along Jefferson Boulevard, giving the area something of a neighborhood feel. Add in some movie theatres and restaurants, and a community had formed.

  Beethoven Street was a few blocks away from the Home Depot. It was a wide street, with a good three or four buildings on either side. These were all one or two-story structures, entities that had been warehouses in an earlier time. As the price of commercial real estate escalated, the warehouses gave way to video production companies, ad agencies, and even a private elementary school. Throw in a couple of startups like WAVE and you had the making of true urban gentrification. The sprinkling of Mercedes, Audis, and Lexuses only reinforced this upscale swing.

  But at this time of day, there weren’t a whole lot of cars parked on the street, and only a few were still sitting, isolated in the WAVE parking lot. The building was two stories, with columns out front, and made to look like it still might be a manufacturing plant. There were a series of blue industrial lighting fixtures by the entranceway, and the parking lot was brightly lit. Large letters spelling out W-A-V-E were hung down from the roof.

  I parked on the street and waited. I wasn’t sure where Detective Rainey was, but I figured he would find me. It took a few minutes, but he finally did, driving up in an unmarked black sedan, stopping parallel to my Pathfinder. Joe Hartwick was in the passenger seat. Rainey yelled over him.

  “Made it okay, huh?” he barked.

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Here’s the plan,” Rainey said. “We’ve got two unmarked cars hidden. As soon as anything goes down, we’re all over this. We’ll be blocking off the street. You’ve got my cell. When this Stoner guy makes contact, you call me and let me know what the shot is. I’m parking around the corner. Got it?”

  “Okey-doke,” I responded. Rainey and Hartwick sped off down the street, parking under a tree, across the street from the WAVE parking lot, where they were somewhat camouflaged. I turned on the radio and listened to two innings of the Angel game. The Tigers were winning.

  At 8:45 p.m., a black Ford Mustang pulled in front of my Pathfinder. After a few minutes, Ted Stoner got out and walked toward me. He was wearing the same black leather jacket, even though the evening was mild. The black Metallica t-shirt was replaced by a yellow one promoting a local gym called Super-Fit. I turned off the radio.

  “On time, I like that,” he said.

  “So glad you’re pleased,” I answered absently.

  “You should probably get out of your car. I’ll need you to be positioned near the parking lot entrance, where I’m gonna be. If you see anyone coming in through the entrance, I want you to signal me.”

  “Signal you how?”

  “Maybe raise your right arm. Make a fist or something.”

  I stared at him. “Sounds really well thought out. Hey, let me ask you a question.”

  “Don’t worry, I got your cut.”

  “That’s nice, but that wasn’t my question. I want to know what’s going down here tonight.”

  “That’ll be clear soon,” he replied.

  “Look, I need to know what I’m getting into here,” I said.

  “Like I told you yesterday. Nobody’s gonna get hurt.”

  “Then you should be able to tell me.”

  Stoner shook his head no. “Sorry. My client doesn’t want anyone but me in on it. But you’re not in danger. Like I told you, you’re just the lookout.”

  “And just how do I know someone else isn’t going to get hurt?” I asked pointedly. This had looked like a ridiculously sketchy assignment from the beginning, but now it was starting to feel dangerous. I had thought of backing out, but I kept returning to the realization that even if I scuttled Stoner’s plans tonight, he could always resurface next week with someone else. At least I had LAPD backup, the reason for which was equally sketchy. But the whole scenario was bothering me in a way I did not like. Not much was clear. But someone, possibly Cody, was in some trouble, and I thought it was better that I was here than not here.

  He reached into his pocket and handed me some crumpled bills. “You’ll have to trust me. There’s no risk, dude. Just do your job and quit worrying. And quit asking so many questions. Go on, get out there.”

  With that, he walked back to his Mustang, got in, and pulled into the parking lot. He drove across the length of it and did a U-turn, positioning his car so it was pointed toward the entrance, possibly so he could make a quick getaway. I looked down at what he had handed me, which turned out to be four w
ell-traveled one-hundred-dollar bills. Nowhere near half of the five grand. So much for honor among thieves. I wondered how I’d explain this to Detective Rainey, but that was a matter for a later time. I put the bills into a plastic bag and stuffed them in my pocket.

  Out of my Pathfinder, I walked along the sidewalk until I reached the entrance to the parking lot. There was a grassy area between the parking lot and the street, with a few gum trees planted here and there. I positioned myself next to a tree so that it blocked Stoner’s view, and pulled out my phone and tapped in a number. Stoner was out of hearing distance, but I lowered my voice anyway.

  “Yeah?” said Rainey.

  “It’s Burnside. He stationed me near the entrance of the parking lot.”

  “Yeah, I got eyes, I can see you. What’s the shot?”

  I didn’t bother to express my opinion on his choice of words, but I had a cold sense that a shooting was about to take place.

  “He wouldn’t say, but I’m getting a bad feeling about this,” I told him.

  “Yeah?”

  “His car is positioned so he can pull up, shoot someone and keep going right out of the entrance.”

  “Uh-huh. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I propose that the moment someone emerges from the building that you hit the gas and pull into the lot, tires screaming. Make a lot of noise, distract him, and get him to think twice about what he may be about to do. Which is kill someone.”

  “Uh-huh. Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because if we break it up before something happens, we’ve got nothing. Sure, we can take him in, but it’s catch and release. Maybe he’ll do the same thing next week.”

  “Maybe you can find a way to keep him off the streets for a while.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Rainey said. “I’ll tell the cruisers that if something happens, we’ll block off the entrance.”

  I shook my head. “The carnage may be done by then.”

  “Not my problem. You got a better plan, call me,” he said and hung up.

  I jammed the phone back into my pocket and tried to figure out what to do. There were no good options. I pulled out my phone again and called the WAVE main number, but it just rang and rang. I called Johnny Cleary, hoping he might have Cody’s cell phone number handy, but he did not pick up.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the front entrance open. A man and a woman who looked to be in their twenties walked out. They took a couple of steps. I didn’t know quite what to do, but I felt I had to do something. I took off toward them on a dead sprint. I waved my arms and yelled out for Cody. He stopped and looked at me, and then I heard the roar of an engine and screeching tires. Suddenly, the Mustang careened forward and headed toward us.

  “Get down!” I yelled at them.

  The two of them looked at me blankly, frozen perhaps, not sure of what to do or why to do it. Everything was happening fast. Six gunshots rang out in rapid-fire, with orange flashes coming from the Mustang. Some dust flew off the side of the building and a piece of smashed stucco fell to the ground. Cody and the woman crouched and put arms over their heads.

  The Mustang spun across the parking lot and headed for the exit. At the same time, two black sedans pulled into the entrance of the parking lot, blocking the Mustang from exiting. Stoner jammed on the brakes, and then quickly pivoted and swung his vehicle toward the grassy area where I had been standing seconds before. He sped the Mustang between two trees, and it bounced on the small hilly patch and landed haphazardly on Beethoven. One of the black sedans backed up to try and block the Mustang, but Stoner swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid him. He screeched tires again and sent the Mustang flying back onto the street toward Jefferson, bursting through the intersection. He narrowly missed colliding with a pickup truck and then disappeared, the roar of the car’s engine fading fast into the night.

  Chapter 3

  “What the hell just happened?” Cody Groh yelled, looking around wildly.

  “I’m trying to figure that out, too,” I said as I approached. The unmarked police car that had tried to block the Mustang suddenly emitted a loud siren and turned on its flashing red and blue lights. It took off after Stoner, but to me, it looked like a worthless effort. The Mustang had a solid head start, a big engine, and a driver who would likely violate any traffic law to secure his escape, no matter how many innocent people he put in harm’s way. Short of a helicopter overhead, Stoner was likely going to disappear into the wind.

  “Coach Burnside?” Cody said, peering at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Long story,” I replied, and noticed Rainey and Hartwick heading toward us at a slow trot. I turned back to Cody. “Did you get my messages?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been planning to call, things have just been hectic.”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  Cody looked down as if to ascertain whether or not he was okay. He stood a shade over six feet tall and had neatly combed blond hair. He wore a green WAVE t-shirt, with the words CATCH THE WAVE in a small font, and a caricature of a dog riding a scooter in the ocean, like a surfer might handle the Banzai pipeline. His thick, muscular arms stuck out of the sleeves like telephone poles. Cody had gotten a little sturdier since we recruited him out of high school, but he was never lean. One of the misnomers about sprinters was that they needed to be rail-thin. That was mostly true of distance runners. Guys like Cody, who excelled in the hundred-meter dash, only needed to be fast in short bursts. In Cody’s case, we wanted him to put on some additional bulk, to be able to absorb the hits he’d be taking. We also thought it would help his blocking, but that was a skill he never quite mastered.

  “I think so,” he said, looking up again. “What about you, Kristy?”

  The pretty young woman next to him nodded, eyes wide, as she smoothed her long black hair back. She had dark eyes and a slender build. “I think so. Just a little shaken up.”

  Rainey and Hartwick reached us and looked around, surveying the scene. Rainey pulled out his phone and barked a few commands, mostly directing the ballistics team to get out here on the double. He flashed his gold shield and suggested we go inside the building. Cody quickly unlocked the main door. We walked through a tony lobby with a huge, lime-green WAVE sign hoisted on one wall.

  Cody led us into what was probably a break room, but it was unlike any break room I’d seen before. The walls were made of exposed brick, and one had an 80-inch TV affixed to it. There were ping pong, foosball, and pool tables scattered around the room. Bowls of individual servings of Skittles, energy bars, and trail mix sat nearby. Burlap sacks of fair-trade coffee were lined up next to an elaborate coffee machine. A Sub-Zero refrigerator, complete with a glass door, held dozens of cans of soda and beer, individual containers of chocolate milk, and flavored water. An ice dispenser sat next to it. On a nearby counter was a half-full bottle of Tequila and two empty bottles of Chardonnay. Empty plastic cups were scattered about.

  “By the way,” Cody said as he and Kristy sat down uneasily at a table, after picking up a few empty cans of Mountain Dew and putting them in the trash bin. “This is my sister, Kristy. She works with me here. She heads up tech.”

  “Uh-huh,” Hartwick said absently. “You get a look at the shooter?”

  Both Cody and Kristy shook their heads no. “It all happened too quickly,” he said.

  “I noticed you have video cameras out front,” Hartwick said. “Where can I take a look at the footage? We might be able to get a read on the vehicle’s plates.”

  “I can get that for you in a minute,” Kristy said.

  I sat down with them at the table. Rainey and Hartwick remained standing. I pulled a copy of Stoner’s photo from my pocket and unfolded it. “This guy look familiar?” I asked.

  They both shook their heads no.

  “Any idea who might have done this?” Rainey asked.

  “No,” said Cody. He looked at Kristy, who had a placid expression on h
er face, maybe due to shock. Rainey looked at me. I thought of shaking my head no also, just to get in the spirit of things.

  “Wait a minute,” Cody said, starting to get his bearings. “You two are police detectives. Why are the police already here? Right on the scene?”

  Rainey paused. “Someone phoned in a tip. Something bad was going down here tonight. We’re here because of orders from the Captain. His name’s Jim Joffino. Pacific Division, LAPD.”

  “You mean you knew this was going to happen?” Cody asked, eyes starting to arch. “And you just … let it happen?”

  “We didn’t know what was about to go down,” Rainey responded, “so there’s nothing we could have done.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cody said. “I don’t know why anyone would want to shoot me. I haven’t done anything to anyone. We run a company that rents scooters. We make people happy. They like riding them. This is crazy. I feel like I need to be hiring an armed bodyguard right about now.”

  I cleared my throat. “No one was trying to kill you, Cody.”

  Kristy gave me a strange look. “Did we just imagine a car driving by and firing shots at us?”

  “When you go back outside,” I said slowly, “take a look at where the bullets struck. A good six feet over your head. The shooter was maybe twenty feet away from you. Even a bad shooter would have gotten a lot closer than that. They weren’t trying to kill you. Scare you most likely. But if they wanted to harm you, they would have. Or at the very least, come closer.”

  There was palpable silence around the room for a good five seconds as my words sunk in. There was a collective whirring of brains, as they tried to process this. Soon, Rainey’s phone went off. After five seconds on the line, he hung up and motioned to Joe Hartwick. Excusing himself, he told us to stay put, and the two detectives walked back outside. Cody and Kristy looked at me.