Avenged Read online

  Carly nodded and stood on the top step to wait for him. She let her mind wander over the past eleven years. She’d always only wanted to be a police officer, a patrol officer. Had the dream run its course? Was it time for detectives?

  “Edwards.”

  “Yes.” Carly turned to face Sergeant Barrett.

  “You and Joe have a DCC down in the construction area. Walk around the yard for a bit first thing.”

  Carly nodded and was about to ask if they were to look for anything in particular, but Barrett had already gone back inside the station.

  “Why do they call it a district car check anyway?” Joe asked as he turned left out of the lot and headed for the construction area.

  “I think it comes from the old days. Beat cars were district cars, and they were given special assignments—DCCs, or district car checks. You know cops hate change, so it stays the same.”

  “Hmph. I guess BCC just wouldn’t have the same ring to it.”

  They reached the construction yard quickly. Since the marina was part of their beat, Carly and Joe had walked the area many times. The yard was also patrolled by private security 24-7, but Carly never thought they were as vigilant as they were paid to be.

  Joe stopped at the gate, and Carly got out to unlock it and pull the gate open so he could drive through. Once she was back in the car, Joe drove to the far end and parked at the old marina, where the pier with a boarded-up Walt’s restaurant would stay until an environmental impact study could be prepared, outlining the ramifications of its removal. From Walt’s north, a beautiful new seaside shopping plaza was taking shape. It would be connected to the inland Apex shopping complex by a pedestrian bridge over Seaside Avenue.

  As they got out to walk around the yard, Carly told Joe about the DA, her frustration about the upcoming trial, and Nick thinking she needed a change. “I know I’m not tired of my partner, but . . .”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute.

  “It’s not a bad thing to think about change,” he said finally. “Sometimes I think about doing something different.”

  “Detectives? What detail?”

  “Narcotics would be my first choice, but I think it would take too much time away from my family. Violent crimes would be interesting. Don’t feel guilty about wanting a change; you’ve been in a pressure cooker over Burke. And the closer the trial, the higher the heat.”

  Carly rubbed her face. “Don’t remind me.”

  She stopped as they reached the stairway leading up to the new pedestrian bridge. “I, uh . . . I had no idea they were almost finished.” Her stomach fluttered.

  Joe chuckled. “I hear they’re on track to finish in less than three weeks.”

  A dedication ceremony was scheduled for when the pedestrian bridge was complete. The bridge would be called the Teresa Burke Memorial Pedestrian Bridge in honor of the late Las Playas mayor.

  Carly shivered as they continued past the bridge toward partially finished restaurants and shops, not afraid to admit that yeah, she was nervous. Her nerves jumped and tingled when she thought about it, much different from the trial anxiety.

  “The thought of the trial is frustrating and irritating, but the thought of being singled out in a huge public ceremony is downright scary,” she said.

  “Hey, without you, Burke would have gotten away with murder and Londy would be in prison right now. Have Burke’s lawyers given any hints as to their defense strategy?”

  “So far I think they’re just trying to make me look wrong. They also reiterate every time they can that Burke is a victim; his wife was murdered. He may have been a poor bookkeeper, but he’s not a murderer.” Carly imitated Burke’s lawyer with the last sentence and drew a smile from Joe.

  Bang. A sharp, distinct gunshot close by cut off her next comment. Her hand flew to her gun.

  Bang. Another sounded, and before she could speak, a third.

  She looked at Joe, intently peering into the darkness. Carly pulled out her radio to advise dispatch. “Can you tell where they came from?” she asked him before she keyed her mike. “Flanagan said the protestors wanted to go out with a wallop. You think some nut in there has a gun?”

  Joe shook his head. “Sound echoes here, but I think that came from farther out, near the Catalina dock.”

  Carly keyed the radio. “1-Adam-7, we heard what sounded like three gunshots, possibly from the Catalina dock area. We’ll be investigating. Please advise if you get any calls regarding possible gunshots.”

  “10-4, Adam-7. Be advised, we’re getting a call now. Stand by.”

  They hurried back to the black-and-white. Joe started the unit and turned for the gate. By the time Carly pushed the gate open, dispatch said they had one call about possible shots, a complaining party who lived in the old marina. The CP also thought the shots came from Catalina Shores.

  They weren’t that far away. The new Catalina Shores terminal was attached to the north end of the marina complex but on the other side of Sandy Park. There was also a large hotel, the Bluestone, between them and the park. It was encircled by construction fencing and was dark and unoccupied at the moment.

  “The CP called from a cell phone.” Carly read more information sent from dispatch on the computer screen as Joe turned north on Seaside. “From a marina employee. It’s Jarvis; he lives aboard a boat. Says he heard three distinct gunshots.”

  “I know Jarvis,” Joe said, making a face. He slowed as they rolled past the park. Now calm, none of the protestors seemed concerned about anything. “He sleeps at work during the day. Why doesn’t it surprise me that he’s up now?”

  A longtime marina patrol officer, Jarvis had a well-earned reputation as a slug.

  “He doesn’t want contact; just called to make sure the beat car checks it out,” she read.

  Joe sighed. “I doubt we can blame Oceans First; they’ve mellowed out.”

  Carly’s gaze roamed and her ears strained for any noise out of the ordinary. But other than the hum of the black-and-white and the sound of the water in the distance, the night was quiet. When Joe turned left onto the ramp to Catalina Shores, Carly unsnapped her holster.

  Marina Access Way ended at the Catalina Shores parking structure and dock, a business that ferried people back and forth to Catalina, twenty-four miles across the channel. This was the only part of the renovation that had finished early.

  Carly picked up the radio to announce that she and Joe were 10-97, on scene. Carly had seen no traffic or headlights anywhere. They reached the parking structure attached to the Catalina Shores pier, and again Joe slowed so they could listen. During business hours a parking arm would be down and drivers would have to pull a ticket to get in. At this time of night, the arm was up, and from what Carly could see, the lot empty. She knew that a section of the lot on top was marked off for long-term parking, for those people leaving their cars to spend more than a day on Catalina and for Catalina residents who wanted to keep a car on the mainland. She couldn’t see up there at the moment.

  Yellow fog lights illuminated a good deal of the area in spite of a lingering haze. Joe cruised slowly. Both he and Carly had their windows down, and heavy, foggy salt air swirled in. Joe brought the unit to a stop at the drop-off area as Carly advised dispatch they would be out of the car.

  After sliding her nightstick into its ring, Carly waited for Joe to meet her on the passenger side of the car. They both carried flashlights but didn’t need to turn them on as they walked up the steps to the ticket offices. Then Carly saw the foot.

  Hand out, she stopped Joe. “Here.” Sliding the flashlight into her sap pocket, she drew her weapon. The foot stuck out from behind a stone bench.

  “Hello?” Carly called as she and Joe separated slightly to come at the person from different angles.

  There was no response to her hails.

  And as she made her way around the bench, she saw that there wouldn’t be.

  Three bodies lay partially hidden behind the bench, facedown, hands secured be
hind their backs. They’d been shot execution style.

  2

  “JOE, THIS ONE ISN’T DEAD.” Carly knelt beside the first body, which was twisted a bit sideways. The rise and fall of his chest, though shallow, was unmistakable. She’d seen a lot of death in her career. A dead body always took on a deflated, waxy appearance. Carly understood why the Bible called the earthly body a tent. When life vacated a body, it looked like something as void and empty as a flattened tent.

  “What?” Joe knelt next to her. “That has to be reflex.” Even as he spoke, he had his radio out, telling dispatch they had three shooting victims and requesting an ambulance.

  Carly shone her light on the victim’s head wound, emergency-aid training flooding her mind. He was definitely breathing, so no CPR was needed, but she wanted to be sure he kept breathing. She found a weak pulse, and before she could ask, Joe leaped up to retrieve their first aid kit.

  Pulling on disposable gloves, she did what she could to stop the victim’s bleeding and make certain his airway was not obstructed. She cut the plastic ties around the man’s wrists, knowing the medics would need access to his arms.

  Man. As she studied the face, she realized that the victim was barely a man . . . and she knew him. Hector Macias was just eighteen. She looked at the other two victims, and her breath caught in her throat as she realized she knew them all. Fighting emotion that would hinder her ability to think clearly, Carly bit her bottom lip and looked away from the faces. The hole in Hector’s head was obvious, and the amount of blood spreading on the ground beneath him made Carly flinch. She might be patching up the already dead. Still, she kept at it.

  Assisting units arrived and began helping where Joe assigned them. The scene and Catalina launch were completely searched and secured. Carly knew that if the person or persons responsible were still here, they would have seen them. Marina Access Way was one lane in and one lane out. Yet only a few minutes had passed since they heard the shots. We probably missed them by seconds, she thought.

  Fire Station 1 was close, and medics showed up quickly to relieve Carly. She stepped back to remove the gloves and collect her thoughts. By now, the assisting units were scouring inside the perimeter for any evidence or clues. Sergeant Barrett pulled up just after the medics.

  “Your buddy is outside the tape, raising a ruckus because I won’t let him come closer,” Barrett told Carly as he walked up to survey the scene.

  Carly shook her head and said nothing. Her “buddy” was Duncan Potter, the younger brother of a corrupt police officer Carly had been forced to shoot and kill in self-defense. A photographer by trade, Duncan carried a mobile scanner tuned to the local police frequency and had taken to following Carly and Joe to big calls, snapping photos. She’d confronted him once, and he’d told her that his sole mission in life was to document for the world that she was dishonest.

  Since Potter was a stringer and had legitimate press credentials, he had a right to access as long as he didn’t interfere. Barrett justified keeping him away from this one because homicide wasn’t yet on scene.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen such a blatant gang killing,” the sergeant said as he lit a cigarette.

  Carly and Joe had made that same observation. Spray-painted all around the bodies was 9SN crossed out with the numbers 187, the California Penal Code section for homicide. Above every crossed-out 9SN were the letters PAPZ. The paint was still wet. Goose bumps rippled down Carly’s arms as she recalled the conversation she’d had with Londy Akins just last week. A former member of the Ninth Street Ninjas who’d turned his life around, Londy had landed his first job as a barista at Carly’s favorite coffee shop.

  She and Joe responded to a vandalism call at Half Baked and Almost Grounded. Someone had thrown a metal newspaper stand right through the front door. The shop had also been marked with graffiti, much like what she and Joe saw sprayed around the three shooting victims. Except there the Ninth Street Ninjas marked it up, and their markings were not crossed out.

  “You have any idea why 9SN would tag this shop?” Carly had asked Londy.

  “They say they didn’t,’’ he said. “I asked. But someone wanted us to think it was the Ninjas.”

  Just like here, now, someone wanted to be certain the Playboyz were blamed for the shooting. Why?

  Las Playas had two main downtown gangs: the Ninth Street Ninjas and the Pine Avenue Playboyz. The downtown commuter line neatly divided the two rival neighborhoods. When Carly first came on, before the rail line went in, there were two other gangs who claimed to control Las Playas—sects of the big LA gangs—and they were in the middle of a bloody gang war. But arrests and the rail line had calmed things down, and the violent LA influence had disappeared. The Ninjas and the Playboyz filled the void. Carly knew both gangs were heavy into drugs and auto theft. But with the exception of an occasional tagging war, things were quiet.

  “It’s overkill,” Carly said almost to herself, pushing the interaction with Londy to the back of her mind and stepping a bit away to take in the grisly scene.

  “Since when are gangsters subtle?” Barrett said with a puff of smoke. “Your beat takes in Ninth Street; did you recognize the victims?”

  Carly nodded, the sting of knowing the kid she’d patched up returning. He’d just turned eighteen, and the last time she’d arrested him, she’d warned him that adult crimes would cost him a lot more time than juvenile crimes. He was a smart kid with an easy wit. The waste of it all weighed on Carly like a heavy load. What was he involved in that brought him here to be executed?

  “We’ve arrested them all at one time or another.” She looked at Joe, who hiked a shoulder.

  “It’s either auto theft or tagging with these guys,” he said. “They’re all Ninjas.”

  “Hector, the one breathing, goes by the name Crusher,” Carly continued. “Martin Cruz uses the moniker Rojo, and the third is Diondre Baker, or D.”

  The third one also gave Carly pause. She’d seen him two weeks ago away from work. He’d been at church. D. had attended an outreach put on by her church’s youth ministry. Londy helped organize many youth outreach events for the church, working tirelessly to get kids from his neighborhood out of gangs and into church. He had brought Diondre to the event. But what dug into Carly like a sharp spur was the impression she’d had that it hadn’t taken much to get Diondre to church. He’d wanted to change, to get away from the gangs.

  So why was he here, two weeks later, with a bullet in his head?

  “Why would they be here?” Joe asked, crossing his arms. “This is far from both gangs’ turf.”

  “Who knows why these morons do anything,” Barrett hissed.

  He’d been in a bad mood all night. Carly had noticed that during the squad meeting. She wasn’t going to ask what was wrong. Things had been frigid between them since Carly’s former roommate and best friend, Andrea, had broken up with Barrett. Carly was happy about the breakup; besides being married, Barrett was old enough to be Andrea’s father.

  The medics rolled by with Hector, headed for their rig.

  “You guys have anything to tell us?” Carly asked.

  The senior medic shook her head. “Sorry; it’s a miracle he’s still breathing. That bullet went through and through.” She dragged her finger across the side of her head, from the back to the front. “I doubt he’ll wake up, but—” she shrugged as they pushed Hector to the rig—“who knows?”

  “I made the necessary notifications,” Barrett said as the medics pulled away. To Carly that meant homicide was on the way. Barrett threw his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. Abruptly he turned. “You guys sit tight. Corley is solo tonight; I’ll have him go to the hospital to get an update on the kid. Three units are assisting you down here; cut loose whoever you don’t think you’ll need. And I’ll tell that idiot Potter he has to sit tight until homicide gets here.” He strode to his car. “I’ll be at the station if you need anything.”

  “He’ll be in
a snit for a while, I bet,” Joe said as they watched the sergeant’s car drive away.

  “Why? What’s he all bent about?”

  Joe turned to her and said, “You haven’t heard?” When Carly shook her head, Joe continued. “His wife filed for divorce and suitcased him. I think he’s renting a room at some dive hotel on Seaside.”

  Carly’s first thought was that Barrett had gotten what he deserved. Wincing at the mean-spirited idea, she mumbled, “Sorry, Lord,” under her breath and walked to where she could lean on the fender of their patrol car. She blew out a breath and pulled a roll of breath mints from her pocket. She really wanted coffee but knew that wouldn’t be possible for a while.

  Joe stood next to her. She handed him the mints after she took one. For a minute they munched in silence.

  “This will bring Nick out, won’t it?”

  Joe’s voice shook Carly out of her brooding and she had to focus. He was talking about this triple shooting.

  She nodded, thankful for the subject change. Nick had just been named the gang detail supervisor. It was an assignment he relished and for a time had thought he’d never get. He’d been shot in the hip in the line of duty a little over a year ago, during the mayor’s murder investigation. His rehabilitation had been long and hard, but finally, three months ago, he’d been cleared for full duty. Captain Jacobs had asked him to interview for the slot in gangs. The gang sergeant planned to retire and Jacobs said he wanted a squared-away sergeant to replace him. Flattered, Nick put his card in and got the job. He’d just spent a week at a gang school in San Luis Obispo and was as excited as Carly had ever seen him about his new assignment.

  Folding her arms, Carly forced her thoughts back to the scene now encircled by yellow tape. “I just hope his first assignment as gang sergeant doesn’t put him right in the middle of a gang war.”

  3

  CARLY AND JOE WERE RELEASED from the crime scene an hour after their EOW. While they’d waited through the early morning hours, Carly had realized that more often than not lately, the job itself did leave her feeling aggravated, not challenged. Like standing around a crime scene while everyone else worked, patrol work had become tedious. Was that just spillover from her worry about the trial or was it because thinking about the trial made her feel like working hard at this job didn’t guarantee success?