The Reckless

CHAPTER ONE

SUMMER

I SAT ON the couch holding my four-year-old daughter, Olivia. As I often did, I caught myself staring at her, marveling at her beauty, her innocence, and her utter vulnerability. I held a love for her so pure that it rose in my chest and caused a little ache. She brought her perfect tiny hand up and playfully shoved my cheek. Come on, Pop Pop, be ungry. Be ungry.

I closed my eyes: the start of the game. She squirmed in my arms trying to get me to put her down on the floor so she could flee the now sleeping beast.

Oh no. Oh no. Let me go.

I set her down as she shrieked. Her legs pumped in the air. She took off as soon as her feet hit the carpet. I gave chase. She ran around and around the living room. I stopped. She waited, her eyes wide with excitement. I raised my hands as claws. She bent over, tucking her elbows into her tummy, and shrieked again.

In a much different, deeper voice, I said, Suddenly, I’m feeling kinda hungry.

She screamed and ran for cover. She didn’t make it. I scooped her up, swung her around once, and gently tossed her on the couch. She tried to back up, but I grabbed her leg and held her in place. No. No monster.

I slowly moved up the sleeve of her arm. I moved quickly, put my mouth there, and blew, my lips blubbering against her skin. She laughed so hard she lost her voice.

Dad came in the room dressed in his US postal uniform. Son, I wanted to tell you something last night, but you came home too late.

I stopped terrorizing my daughter and looked up. She patted my face. Come on, monster, you’re still ungry. Come on, monster?

Just a minute, baby girl. I know. I’m sorry, Dad. We were on a surveillance, and the target came home right as we were about to call it a night.

Did you get him?

A glimpse of last night’s violence flashed before me. The open eyes of the man wanted for murder lying in the street, staring at nothing—no breath, no heartbeat, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. The damaged grill of our car, inches away, steam and water hissing out as if the radiator were angry.

What did you want to tell me?

He knew I didn’t like to bring my work home. I worked on a violent crimes team. Describing what happened, saying the words inside my home, my safe zone, would somehow corrupt what I held most dear. And last night hadn’t gone well. We had to take the guy down hard—what Robby Wicks would call, Blood and bone.

Dad held up his hand and waved. That’s okay, never mind. I forgot the rule.

I got up. No, Dad, it’s not that. It’s—

No, Son, you’re absolutely right. I … I just forgot.

The doorbell interrupted. I stepped over to the door. That’ll be Mrs. Espinoza. She watched Olivia on days Dad and I both worked.

Son, wait?

I opened the door and took a step back, startled.

Ned? What the … What the hell? What are you doing here?

Ned Kiefer stood on my porch holding a small child.

I hadn’t seen Ned for years, not since the night I left him in St. Francis Hospital, beat to hell from the encounter with Willis Simpkins.

My mouth sagged open all on its own.

Ned stepped in. Hey, Bruno, you’re gonna catch a lot of flies with that mouth.

Ned, geez it’s good to see you. I mean geez … I hugged him as best I could with the little blond girl in his arm. What are you doing here?

That’s what I was tryin’ to tell you, Son. Ned came by last night and asked if he could use Mrs. Espinoza for a few days until he got settled with a new sitter. I told him you wouldn’t mind.

Ned moved deeper into the living room where Olivia stood watching, entranced with the little blond girl. Ned said, Hi there, Olivia, remember me from yesterday? This is Beth. I told you all about her and here she is. He set Beth down. The two children looked at each other. Olivia raised a hand to touch her, as if she didn’t believe Beth was real.

Beth looked exactly opposite of Olivia, with light skin, blond hair, and hazel eyes.

Olivia took after me with dark skin and brown eyes, though not near as dark as me.

Olivia was half-black, half-Caucasian. Her mother, the woman I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with, ran off without saying a word. She’d been my partner on patrol. That particular night came at us hard and heavy, bloody even for a hot summer night in the ghetto. Blood and bone. She’d resigned without a word to me, and I didn’t see her again until seven months later when she knocked on my apartment door and handed me Olivia. She said, I can’t handle raising a girl in this kind of world. I hadn’t seen her since. That was almost four years ago. Dad and I had been raising Olivia, loving every precious minute of it.

Ned straightened up and looked at me.

So, you have a kid? I said.

Yep, and they’re almost the same age.

You and … a—

Hannah, that’s right.

I was glad he’d said Hannah’s name and I didn’t have to. Although, I couldn’t see how he could’ve gone back to her. Not after that night several years ago when he and I caught her with another man at an apartment in South Gate.

I moved over and shook his hand. Congratulations, pal.

You, too.

I said, I guess we kind of lost track of each other.

Yeah, I caught that midnight transfer to Lakewood station after South Gate PD ratted me out to the captain.

Back then, I’d called Ned after his abrupt departure and left messages. When he didn’t answer them, I went to Lakewood station and hung around waiting to see him. He’d managed to dodge my every effort. I sort of understood what he was going through: guilt over breaking up our partnership and ultimately our friendship with his bonehead choices. When we found his wife, Hannah, with JB, Ned went a little berserk. At the time, JB was a deputy with us at Lynwood station, and a friend of Ned’s, which made it all the more hurtful. The number one rule in law enforcement was that you didn’t cuckold your brother in arms.

He dodged my every effort back then to reconnect. Even though I understood it, I still felt a little angry to have been cast aside that easily. We’d been close friends, and friends didn’t cut you adrift like that.

And here he stood, years later, as if nothing had happened.

CHAPTER TWO

WE WALKED OUT to our cars, parked at the curb in front of the house. Ned kept looking at me in a strange way. I stopped. Okay, what’s the matter?

What?

You’re looking at me like I got leprosy and my nose is about to fall off.

It’s just that … no, never mind.

Tell me.

You, ah … look different, and I … can’t figure out what it is.

I hadn’t said anything to him, but Ned had aged ten years, with more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. He’d also lost a small part of his youthful exuberance. Even so, Ned’s eyes still held that mischievousness that reminded me so much of our old friendship.

Ned snapped his fingers. I know what it is. You’re all grown up.

I shook my head. Thanks, partner.

No, no. You look more confident now, more like Andy Taylor, the sheriff of Mayberry. Confident, assured, in charge.

Again, thank you for that. I have to get to work. I got in my Ford Ranger pickup. Ned followed along and stood at the window. He said, So I guess I’ll see you tonight when I pick up Beth. He shot me that old Ned smile.

I couldn’t help it—I still liked the hell outta him. Maybe, but I don’t know. I’m working the violent crimes team now, and my schedule is really crazy.

Yeah, I heard that. How do you like working for the infamous Robby Wicks? Is he really as ruthless and quick on the trigger as everyone says he is?

I didn’t like that description, nor what people thought of Wicks, though I could easily see how they might think that way. Wicks did nothing to disassociate his image with the perception that he’d just as soon shoot you as handcuff you.

I started the truck. Good and bad, I said. There’s always the good and the bad no matter where you work. Wicks is great to work for. Best job in the department.

That’s great, Ned said. All you can do is hope that there’s more good than bad, right, partner?

That’s right, I said. So maybe I’ll see you tonight. Maybe we can go to dinner and catch up.

Yeah, I’d like that.

I pulled away. I didn’t want to ask him anything about his job. I’d heard the rumors that traveled around the department just like everyone did. Ned had finally worked his way out of his hole from patrol at Lakewood station and got promoted to detective on a street narco team, his life’s dream. He made it a full year before he pissed off the team sergeant, and got bounced to the narco desk at headquarters. A real pogue’s job, he answered the phone and handed out case file numbers to the narcs in the field doing real police work. I knew Ned. That job had to be dampening his soul from the inside out. Snuffing out his flame. If he stayed on the desk too long, he’d be broken, with no way to come back.

I stopped at the dry cleaners and picked up two sets of uniforms I kept on hand in my truck just in case. Next door to the cleaners, I grabbed a cup of coffee and an apple fritter. I got back in the truck and headed for work. The first bite of the fritter brought on a smile. Ned always ate snowball cupcakes, pink marshmallow-and-coconut-covered devil’s food cake. He washed them down with a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

I’d been rude to him, by flaunting my assignment to the violent crimes team. I hadn’t meant anything by it, but now it sounded elitist, especially given his desk job at narco.

* * *

Six months after the violent crimes team started up, Wicks called in a favor, and the team moved from Lennox station to an abandoned grocery store in Downey, one next to the Donut Dolly donut shop and a check-cashing place run by an ex-cop.

Wicks didn’t come right out and say it, but the team had to move away from the Lennox sheriff’s station because of me. In one of my first investigations as a detective on violent crimes, I went undercover into the Lynwood narco team to ferret out a group of dirty cops—deputies taking money for contract killings. At the end of the investigation, I shot the leader, a fellow deputy sheriff whom I’d grown to like and, in a skewed kind of way, respected a great deal. My bullet took him in the stomach, in the parking lot, at the back of the station. As a deputy, the violent act against a brother is something you didn’t easily come back from, an act that forever tarnishes your reputation, your soul. A kind of stigma that follows you like a dog’s tail infested with mange, making you never want to look back.

Wicks and the higher-up brass thought an off-site location would be better, easier to stay off the radar. Some of my peers didn’t understand what had happened and blamed me. The guy I’d shot had been popular with the deputies. Now he was doing twenty-five to life in a wheelchair, in Chuckwalla state prison, a prison located in the butthole of California. The saying went that if California ever needed an enema, they’d shove it in Chuckwalla.

* * *

I parked next to the China Gate in the same strip center, a restaurant not yet open for the day. I opened the door to our office. Eight desks, all with phones, sat in an island amid a vast unimproved slab of concrete floor. The place echoed every little sound. Seven men turned to look when I came in—Wicks had yet to allow a woman on the team. I checked my watch. I wasn’t late. I had five minutes left.

Up front, Wicks stood next to the group of six men clustered in chairs. Ned Kiefer turned around, smiled, and said, Hey, Bruno, thanks for showin’ up.

Everyone laughed.

Ned? Here?

What the hell was going on? He’d said nothing at my house when he dropped off his daughter, Beth. He’d not said anything on purpose, just to see the look on my face when I entered the office.

I wandered in, stunned at this sudden change of events. As I got closer, another deputy stood. It took a long moment for me to recognize him in street clothes: Levi’s, a short-sleeve print shirt, and work boots. Sergeant Coffman.

He was an ex-Marine who’d fought on Iwo Jima. He still kept his gray hair high and tight like in the Corps. And when he wore his uniform, he kept it pressed and clean, his black shoes polished to a high sheen. The whole package made him look like a World War II drill sergeant caught in a time warp. An absolute cliché, but he couldn’t be more genuine. He’d never retire. They’d have to take him out in a box. The guy looked around fiftyish, when he had to be in his sixties.

I smiled and stuck out my hand. Well, I’ll be damned.

The taciturn Coffman’s smile changed the whole concept of his wooden expression. He came toward me and offered his hand. Good to see you, Bruno.

We shook, his hand strong as ever. Are you two really on our team now?

That’s right, Coffman said. Just transferred in. Today’s our first day. Me and Ned both.

I couldn’t help but remember the last night I’d seen Coffman in the ER of St. Francis, hollowed out, shell-shocked, and asking how many men we’d lost in a long-ago battle from World War II.

Now that we’re done with old home week, Wicks said, you mind if I get back to the day’s briefing?

Sorry, Lieutenant. I took my seat.

As I was saying before Johnson interrupted, we have been asked to assist the FBI in solving one of their little problems. The FBI has heard about the effectiveness of our team and decided they need our help.

Johnny Gibbs, one of the original members of the violent crimes team, let out a low groan, and said under his breath, Not those assholes.

No one liked the FBI.

That’s right, Gibbs, Wicks said. Those assholes. This is a chance for some real good PR. Something we need.

Gibbs said, Aren’t we supposed to come up on Frank Duarte today? He’s wanted for three murders, in three different cities. Now that’s a threat to public safety if you ask me. I think the FBI can wait.

I watched Ned watch the exchange. He kept his mouth shut. This must be the new and improved Ned. That, or he wanted to bide his time, see where the cards fell, before he interjected what he really thought.

With our two new transfers, we have enough to do both, Wicks said. Gibbs, Johnson, Kiefer, and Sergeant Coffman will now be an independent team. Coffman will be the supervisor. The rest of you will stay with me, and we’ll go up on Duarte within the hour. Questions?

I liked Coffman and Ned but still couldn’t help feeling that the boss had cast me aside. I wanted to be on the manhunt for Duarte, not babysitting the FBI.

Wicks said, My team, you’re dismissed. Get started on the work-up for Duarte. Call all the involved agencies and get their reports. Coffman’s team, stay here a minute.

The others got up and left.

Wicks said, Bruno, don’t give me that hangdog look. This is a good gig I’m tossing you. You wait and see, you’re going to be eating this up with a spoon. He stepped over to Coffman and handed him a piece of paper. Report to this address in one hour, and don’t be late.

Yes, sir.

It’s downtown Los Angeles. That’s the office of the district US Marshal. You four are going to be cross-sworn as deputy US Marshals.

I couldn’t help it; I smiled.

CHAPTER THREE

COFFMAN PUT THE old team back together, making Ned my partner. We rode in silence, shaggin’ ass for downtown Los Angeles. I drove, weaving in and out. I didn’t think we could make it in an hour, with morning traffic. I lost Coffman minutes out of our parking lot. He and Gibbs could find their own way.

I kept my eyes on the road. You going to tell me how this happened? How you two got transferred into the team?

What I really wanted to know was how come I hadn’t known ahead of time.

If I didn’t know better, partner, Ned said, I’d think you were a little irritated.

What? No. Not at all. I didn’t mean to come off that way … Well, you could’ve told me this morning at the house.

Yeah, I guess that was a little mean. But you should’ve seen the look on your face when you saw me and ol’ Coffman sittin’ there in your office.

I stole a second and looked over at him. I thought they were trying to force Coffman out, make him take his retirement. That’s why they sent him back to work Men’s Central Jail.

Exactly. You believe they pay back all his loyalty and years of dedication like that? Bunch a bullshit.

Ned—

I looked at the road, dodging more cars for better position in the other lane as we headed straight up Alameda Avenue. I almost told him about what I’d seen happen at St. Francis hospital over three years ago. Coffman had been old then and slightly demented. Now, years later, he’s older, but is he more demented? Was he more of a hazard out in the field, in a high-profile job with a constant threat of violent confrontations? If he refused to retire, wasn’t he better off in a controlled environment, like in MCJ?

What? Ned asked.

Coffman’s got to be pushing, what, sixty-six or sixty-eight this year? Don’t you think—

Ah man, not you, too. Don’t you worry about Coffman. I’d put him up against the best sergeants in the department. You wait and see—when the shit goes down, Coffman will be there, covering your back. In fact, he’ll be climbing over us to get in the action. Loyalty, trust, and honor go a long way, and he’s got it all in spades. He was a Marine on Iwo, man, for crying out loud.

I let it drop. I trusted Wicks. If he thought Coffman capable, I’d go along with his decision. What happened with you? How’d you get on the team?

I didn’t do anything. I was just minding my own business.

Yeah, right. And?

Okay. A few weeks back, Wicks came into narco headquarters for a meeting and saw me working the desk. He said hi and then asked how long I’d been working the desk. I told him about a year. And that was it. That’s all he said. I didn’t even have a request in for his team. Next thing I know, I’m transferred. Believe me, I cannot be more surprised, or happier.

That’s great. It really is. I’m glad to have you back as a partner.

Me, too.

Did you meet Wicks before, when you worked the field?

Yeah, I did. I was working Lakewood in a traffic car. Of all things, me working TCs and handing out citations. One of the guys on Wicks’ team, Gibbs, he was in there this morning. He came off the freeway in a marked patrol unit. He exited way too fast, came off faster than the terminal velocity of the curve, hit the guardrail and tore up the whole left side of his car. They were working a surveillance, looking for some guy wanted for a bombing of a synagogue, or some shit like that. And Gibbs drove the patrol car in case the team needed the suspect’s car stopped, or if he ran.

I remember that night, I said. I wondered why Wicks and Gibbs fell out of the surveillance. We ended up losing the guy, and Wicks was really pissed about it. Gibbs isn’t known for his driving skills, but he’s a good man to have beside you when it goes to knuckles.

Right, right. So that night I caught the call to take the paper on the crash. Wicks was there. He said this was Gibbs’ sixth crash and, if reported, Gibbs would be bounced from the team. I told him that was too bad, because the damage wasn’t as bad as it looked, and it would only take about four hours to fix. All you needed to do was pull the two quarter panels and the two doors, and replace them. Simple. You should’ve seen Wicks’ eyes light up. Ned shook his head and smiled as he remembered the incident. He asked me if I was an auto-body man. I told him, sure, I could do it. He tells me not to draw a case number for the crash. Told me not to do a damn thing until he got back. He went to a pay phone and came back a few minutes later. He cleared it with my watch commander, who he knew, and we drove the damaged unit to a tow yard where he also knew a guy, and I fixed it. Took a lot longer than I thought. I had to primer the used replacement doors before I repainted them. At the end of the night, the car actually looked better than when they checked it out. Wicks said he owed me.

I nodded. Wicks always pays his debts.

Bruno, that desk job was eating me up, tearing my heart out. Wicks saved my life. I owe him big.

Yeah, that’s the other thing he does. Everyone on the team will walk through fire for him.

You know I will, with him on my back if he asks me to.

Like I said, good to have you in the car again, partner.

CHAPTER FOUR

WE DROVE FOR a few more minutes. Ned said, You ever catch that asshole Darkman?

I looked over at him. Who?

Ned smiled. Come on, man, you gotta know that’s what they call him?

No, who’re you talking about? But I knew. And no, I’d never come close to catching him. I didn’t even know his real name.

You know, that family killer from the back alley, the night we entered ol’ Willis Simpkins inta the Disney on Parade competition.

Ned had aired the words I didn’t want to hear. The anger from my inability to bring down the Darkman—years of pent-up anger and guilt continued to fester, creating a grim monster of regret. I couldn’t find him and knew I could if I only had a name to work with. I’d only seen his face for a brief moment that night all those years ago when he came out from behind the death house and into the alley. But I’d never forget those eyes, the mask of hate, how he looked at me. There was no doubt in my mind he’d been the one to shoot that family.

Ned said, Yeah, guys around the department call him the Darkman because of the way you describe him: the long dark raincoat, the black night watchman’s beanie, the dark alley. I can’t believe you haven’t heard that nickname. At least the whispers about how, whenever you get the chance, you go back out and shake the trees for the guy when you don’t even know his name.

No, I haven’t heard anyone sayin’ shit about it.

I’m sure it’s because everyone walks on eggshells around you when it comes to that little topic. You’ve been known to bite a head off here and there over it.