the Pallbearers (2010) (25 page)

Pop proceeded to explain that according to Hawaiian legend, aumakuas were our heavenly ancestors, who were godlike and always watching over their family. It was a hard concept for me because I had never known who my family was. Then he smiled at me.

"Animals, even fish, know when you've found your true center. That fish is telling you that you're at one with your maker. He's one of God's creatures, and when you're right with God, he kisses you. You gotta relax, bra, and say thank you." He was smiling as he told me this.

Of course, to a street-hardened throwaway like me, this was total bullshit. I was a tough guy, a cynic. For that reason, I never paid too much attention to Pop's Zen surfer chatter, and over the years I'd sort of learned to dial him out. But on this one thing, some part of me always wondered.

So sometimes when I was out on the board before sunup, I would try to do like Pop, center myself and Zen out. I was looking for inner peace, although I'd never felt any.

I was a little nine-year-old, mad as hell, sitting on a short board, dangling my legs in the water, trying to find an emotional center I was positive didn't exist.

But nonetheless, whenever I was backwalling, waiting for a big rhino, I would tone down the aggression and try to be at one with my aumakuas, whoever the hell they were, because I'd been dumped at a hospital and had no ancestors that I knew about. I'd sit there trying to feel good about myself and about a life where nothing ever seemed to be going right. I finally got to where I could sort of do it. At least I could go someplace else and leave some of that blind anger behind.

Then, one morning I was out there, feeling kinda spiritual. The sun was just coming up. Good sets were rolling in from Mexico. The sky was a beautiful red-orange. I was filled with a sense of well-being. For once I was almost happy.

And then it happened again.

A little fish, a perch or a bass, came up and nibbled my toe. I sat very still and wondered what force of nature existed that would put me at one with a tiny fish in this cold, vast ocean. Was there more going on in the universe than I had ever stopped to consider?

The next morning when I woke up, I began to wonder about God.

Chapter
45

The next morning my right arm was aching less and my left wrist was almost back to its normal size. I was feeling much better.

After I dressed, I went to my closet to get a new backup gun. I had two. The S&W .38 caliber Airlight had a magnesium frame. Alexa said it was another underpowered pop gun just like my Taurus. Because I was going to serve a warrant on Rick O'Shea and because of my recent embarrassing history with him, I decided to pack heavv this morning and instead chose my Charter Arms .357 magnum Pug. It shoots 124-grain JHP ammo and will drop a charging elephant.

I called Vargas and told him that we had a warrant and that Alexa and I were going to arrest O'Shea for murder. I had checked in with him as a courtesy and to try and put it back together. I never thought that he'd give me an argument.

"The rest of us talked it over," he said. "And we all want to be there when you slam the cuffs on."

"It's a police action, Sabas. Its not a ride at Disneyland."

"Don't insult me with shit like that," he snapped. "We all did this. We did it for Pop. This is our victory as much as yours, but you're not letting us have it."

"Right." I wasn't going to argue. "Do me a favor and call Vicki. Tell her I'm on the way to her office right now to pick up her financial breakdown sheets. I'll be at Kinney and Glass in half an hour."

I hung up. I couldn't believe he was angry with me over this. He wanted to take a bunch of civilians out to stand on the sidewalk and watch an arrest for first-degree murder? Didn't he know how stupid that was?

On second thought, I guess if you have a California law degree and you're still willing on a second's notice to hit a guy in the head with a tire iron, you're not exactly going to be posing for the cover of Lawyer Magazine.

I left Alexa in our living room; she was getting ready to head to the courthouse in the Valley. I agreed to meet her there by nine thirty.

Kinney and Glass was one of those big Century City high-rise outfits. Too much chrome in the sterile marble entry, which was also hung with huge, ultraexpensive, modern paintings that looked like they'd been done by some fifth-grade class with finger paint.

Amana and Frigidaire people who walked as if they had Ping
-
Pong balls stuffed up their asses passed me on their way into work. While I waited for Vicki, I wondered how a hotheaded woman who kept a short-nose Bulldog in her purse could survive in such a frosty environment.

Vicki finally came out and handed me the paperwork. "Vargas thinks we should be allowed to watch this go down," she said.

"Where did you guys get this idea that law enforcement is a game with rubber guns and whistles?" I said sourly.

"Vargas thinks it's his fault Walt got murdered. He's blaming himself."

"Yeah, I get that 'cause I'm blaming myself too. But if I took any of you guys out there and O'Shea went hot and injured or killed someone, it would go down very hard. Ill stream some video on my iPhone, and we'll all watch it in a bar later, but I'm not taking you out there."

"No, I think you're right," she said. "I agree with you, Shane. We're not cops. We're . . . we're . . . what the hell are we?"

"Pallbearers," I said.

I made it to the courthouse in thirty-five minutes, which was great time. Alexa and I showed the judge the redone autopsy from Oakcrest, Vicki's spreadsheets, and the corresponding deposit slips from O'Shea's personal bank account and explained how this material was the motive for Pop's homicide. The judge agreed we had sufficient evidence and signed arrest warrants for felony business fraud and first-degree murder.

We left my car at the courthouse and took Alexa's because I was still having trouble driving. We exited the freeway in Calabasas, and I gave Alexa directions to O'Shea's large Spanish-style house on Lupine Lane. When we pulled up, there was a black and white parked on the side with two uniformed officers leaning against their front fender, waiting.

Given my history with O'Shea, I normally would have used a SWAT warrant-delivery team, but it usually takes a day to set that up, so we'd called the L
. A
. sheriff's department. As I walked up to the uniforms, I was hoping they would be enough backup.

I told the two officers how we wanted to serve the warrant. "This guy is a professional MMA fighter. If you don't think he can hit, take a close look at me. Every bit of this is his doing."

"We'll stay frosty," the lead officer, a big linebacker-sized deputy named Davila, assured me.

"Okay. Let's go hook him up."

We entered the property through the side gate and walked across the lawn to a path that led to the front porch. There was no sign of the maroon Escalade, but it was only a few minutes past 10:00 A
. M
., and I was hoping that it was still in the garage and that O'Shea was sleeping in.

I stood next to Deputy Davila, who rang the bell while Alexa and the other blue walked down the back drive to cover the rear entrance. Nothing happened.

We rang again.

Still no answer.

"This is a no-knock murder warrant," I told Davila. "Go ahead and kick it."

Then I stepped back so he could do the honors. I'd done my share of solid door kick-ins, and the last thing I needed right now was to add a sprained ankle to my growing list of injuries.

The deputy and I both unholstered, and then he let fly with two kicks up by the brass handle. The big oak door flew inward. No alarm sounded.

"Police!" I yelled out. Then we moved into the house.

Nothing. The downstairs looked like it had been done by a decorator with nothing out of place, like an expensive condo model.

"Let's clear this place," I instructed.

We let Alexa and the second deputy in through the back door, and began going room to room, covering each other, stepping inside and calling "clear," until we had checked the entire first level.

Then we went up the stairs. The second floor was completely empty of furniture. There was no sign of Rick O'Shea.

The master bedroom contained only a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and nothing else. I opened the walk-in closet, and it was obvious that O'Shea had left in a hurry. Hangers were strewn on the floor. He had also cleaned out his medicine cabinet and most of the dresser drawers.

"Shit," I said softly. "Bet he took off right after he saw my badge."

We finished searching the house and went downstairs to the front porch, where we all stood looking out at the half-acre front lawn.

"You need us for anything else, Lieutenant?" Deputy Davila asked Alexa.

"Nope. Thanks for the assist," she replied.

They walked back to their squad car and drove off.

"Want to hear plan B?" Alexa asked.

"We don't have a plan B."

"I do," she said. "I think I should go to Eugene Mesa's party on Sunday. I've been invited. There's a chance O'Shea will show up."

It was a good thought, but I couldn't protect her there because they all knew me and there was no way in hell I was going to let her go alone.

But as she'd already told me, she was my boss. That meant if I was going to prevent her from going to that party, I was going to have to come up with a much better idea.

Chapter
46

We all met again in Sabas's conference room, with its depressing view of the weed-choked backyard and empty pool. Five pallbearers plus Alexa were gathered around his folding table, sitting on uncomfortable metal chairs.

"I don't think it's safe for you to go to F. C. Mesas party alone," Sabas said after Alexa told him her idea. "Besides, my guess is O'Shea's probably on the run, heading to Mexico."

I didn't think he was in Mexico, and I'd spent the last hour working on a better plan.

"Alexa told us that Team Ultima has a challenge fight coming up and that it's out of town somewhere," I said. "When is that?"

"Don't know. Soon," she said.

"Suppose we could get in touch with that other bunch--team
-
whatever."

"Spartacus," Alexa said.

"Right. Team Spartacus. We check them out, see if they'll let us ride under their wing to that challenge match, wherever it is. Since it s out of town and because there's a big purse, mv guess is O'Shea won't miss that fight. We'll have a SWAT team in reserve, and once they're all there, we make our move."

Diamond said, "You really think Rick O'Shea is gonna show up at that fight?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"Is he stupid?" Vicki asked.

"Very," Alexa said.

Everyone turned and looked at me, waiting for me to fill in the blanks, so I ran it down. "We got a warrant on Rick O'Shea, but as far as I'm concerned he's just one of many. I think all the guys who train at the NHB Gym are dirtv. Chris Calabro and all the others who are running nonprofits are probably also embezzling from their group homes. That's how they're paying their bills. I don't know how much E. C. Mesa has to do with this, but if you ask me, he's involved."

"But what ties Mesa in, besides the fact the man owns that gym and manages its fighters?" Diamond asked. "That's hardly against the law."

"In police work you learn to trust your hunches, and my hunch says he's in this. I just don't have the connection yet."

As I looked around the table, I could sense that I was losing them. I was sitting here, wrapped in tape and fiberglass, looking like an extra in a war movie, trying to get them to follow me. I could subtly feel Vicki, Seriana, and Diamond turning from me toward Vargas. "Let's take it a step at a time," I said. "We start with Team Spartacus. We find out where they train, go talk to them."

Vicki and Seriana, who had become our unofficial phone committee, started making calls. It didn't take long to find the gym.

Team Spartacus had an address on Atlanta Avenue in Huntington Beach. They worked out of a private gym named, appropriately enough, Gladiator School. After a short argument with Sabas, I agreed to let everyone come as long as either Alexa or I did all the talking. He nodded, but didn't comment.

We headed out of the conference room and stood quietly as Vargas gathered his things.

"I gotta pee," Vicki announced.

While his three chica office warriors glared at me, all of the women, including Alexa, trooped to the bathroom in girl formation, leaving me and Sabas facing each other.

"I couldn't be doing any worse than you," he reminded me.

"Good point," I admitted. "But I feel myself on an upward trajectory."

After the women rejoined us, we started through the front door. As we walked down the path outside, Alexa put something into my left hand. It was a .38 bullet. Somebody had filed a deep X on the nose.

"Where did you get this?" I whispered.

She pointed at Vicki, who was heading down the path a few yards ahead, clutching her purse. "After she came out of the bathroom, I found it on the floor under the toilet," Alexa said softly. "I think she was in there reloading her Bulldog with homemade dumdums."