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Circle of Yellow: Book #5 in the Mike Montego Series
Circle of Yellow: Book #5 in the Mike Montego Series
Circle of Yellow: Book #5 in the Mike Montego Series
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Circle of Yellow: Book #5 in the Mike Montego Series

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Brenda Mackay, the mother of four, one an infant girl, was in love with Coyle when they married; but when he returned from Korea he was a different man. Not the boy she had married. Now he is cruel, belt-whipping their oldest son. Coyle moves them constantly to avoid law enforcement officials. Stuck in the woods of northwestern Montana, Brenda decides she’s had enough and makes an unsuccessful break for freedom. Coyle drives them to Los Angeles and finds a vacant house in Hollywood. He gets drunk, threatens the oldest boy with a revolver. When Coyle is asleep Brenda, scared and desperate, takes the revolver to hide it, but Coyle awakens. A shot is fired and Coyle is dead. Mike Montego, a newly assigned homicide detective gets the call. His senior partner sees the murder as an open and shut case. Montego having second thoughts contacts his lifelong mentor, an ex-homicide detective now a successful criminal attorney, to defend Brenda pro bono. Montego’s ex-patrol partner, a new Deputy District Attorney, is assigned to prosecute. It’s his first homicide case. Montego has misgivings about the charge of Murder One, but he must testify at trial. What occurs subsequently. . . .

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJess Waid
Release dateDec 2, 2014
ISBN9781311577474
Circle of Yellow: Book #5 in the Mike Montego Series
Author

Jess Waid

In his novels, Jess Waid draws upon his twenty-two years of experience as an LAPD cop. He worked the streets of Hollywood in the early 'sixties and retired as a Lieutenant II, in Robbery-Homicide Division. While his works are fiction, many of his characters are based on composites of officers he worked with. His stories, in many instances, are based on actual cases. Jess and his wife Barbara live in the Guadalajara area of Mexico.

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    Book preview

    Circle of Yellow - Jess Waid

    DEDICATION

    For all victims of domestic abuse, whether or not living in a shelter or living with their spouse

    Mike Montego novels

    by Jess Waid

    Shades of Blue

    459 - Framed in Red

    The Purple Hand

    He Blew Blue Jazz

    Circle of Yellow

    Kona Gold

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    The inspiration for this novel came from my beautiful and loving wife, Barbara. Her years of experience as the director of a homeless shelter provided the purpose for this story.

    "Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live."

    Dorothy Thompson

    First Lady of American Journalism

    AUTHOR’S NOTES

    At the time of this story, unfortunately, there were very few services for victims of domestic violence. As Circle of Yellow illustrates, police officers responding to family dispute calls have no idea what to expect on the other side of the closed door. Such calls are deemed most dangerous primarily because of the unpredictability of the spouses. These types of interventions are always dangerous. As such, protocol requires responding officers to separate the couple, and for one officer to take the batterer’s statement while the other takes the victim’s.

    During the period of this story, most incidents saw no arrests. First, if there were an arrest, the officers often saw the arrestee back on the streets before the arrest reports were completed. Second, strangely enough, when the batterer, the husband in nearly all cases, was handcuffed and taken to the squad car, the wife would often go berserk. Usually, because the husband was the breadwinner and she saw the imminent loss of income to the household. And third, there were those officers who tended to believe the account of the abuser, sometimes agreeing she had it coming—that it most likely was her fault. The bottom line in the large majority of instances, found the officers telling the abuser that if another radio call had them returning then it would be off to jail for the abuser. The veiled threat, however, seldom prevented future occurrences.

    Fortunately, things have changed in how the entire justice system views domestic violence. Also, the way law enforcement responds to such calls. Today, many law enforcement agencies have hired victim advocates who work closely with the patrol officers handling DV calls; the advocates are ready to provide immediate services to victims; this includes finding temporary shelter, medical treatment, counseling, and subsequent support during all future court appearances. The Los Angeles Police Department was among the first to develop a Victim Advocate Program.

    In late 1979, the LAPD was most instrumental in launching the California Sexual Assault Investigators Association (CSAIA). The author was the charter president of this organization. It remains very active. The primary purpose of CSAIA is to provide high quality training in the fields of sexual assault—prevention, detection, investigation, evidence collection and analysis, prosecution, victim services and support, incarceration and treatment of offenders, offender monitoring, as well as other closely related areas. This Association exists to promote and increase constructive relationships between investigators throughout the state and nation in order to aid in the rapid dissemination of information, as well as to form contacts and liaisons to further assist in the apprehension of offenders. This is done through effective investigation and prosecution of sexual assault cases in order to ensure that victims receive the highest level of service and sensitivity, and that offenders procure the maximum measure of the law.

    In 1981 The Domestic Abuse Intervention Program (DAIP) started in Duluth, Minnesota, largely founded by Ellen Pence and Michael Paymar. The DAIP developed what is widely known today as the Duluth Model, which illustrates the positive effects of a strong coordinated community response to domestic abuse. The DAIP has developed extensive educational materials including the Power and Control Wheel (see appendix) and has been instrumental in educating numerous communities in developing a multi-disciplinary approach to the problems of domestic abuse. For additional information go to: www.theduluthmodel.org.

    In 1994, the Violence Against Women Act was drafted in the office of Senator Joe Biden and signed into law by then President Bill Clinton. It provided funding for programs that would create coordinated community responses to domestic violence as well as multiple other services for victims. It also provided funding for innovator such as DAIP to provide education and training to judges, law enforcement, and other agencies and organizations that work with victims and abusers. Most communities now have shelters and services to assist women and children who are victims as well as intervention programs for batterers. For additional information go to: www.ovw.usdoj.gov, and/or check out the Violence Against Women Act on Wikipedia.

    CHAPTER ONE

    Any unit available, Six-A-Five is requesting assistance at Sixty-six-twenty-five Emmet Terrace, scene of a family dispute—any unit please respond and handle code two.

    Six Frank One will handle, Mike Montego quickly radioed.

    Upon hearing confirmation from the Radio Telephone Operator, the RTO, Montego said to his partner, Five must’ve caught a nasty one. So much for a quiet Sunday night.

    Bobby Diaz sped their unmarked green Plymouth four-door west on Franklin Avenue, saying, I hate these kinda calls.

    Yep, DV calls are too unpredictable.

    At Whitley Avenue Diaz cranked the wheel to the right sending them north. A block up the slight grade and a sharp left turn put them on Emmet Terrace.

    Just ahead at the bend in the narrow road, Montego spotted the Hollywood Division black-and-white police unit parked alongside an ornate gray-painted wrought-iron gate tucked into a tall privet hedge. The gate guarded a small grass-covered yard fronting a two-story Spanish style residence.

    Diaz braked behind the black-and-white and pulled the ignition key, killing the V8.

    Both cops in plainclothes worked the Felony Car Unit, and often backed up uniformed patrol officers. They hurried to the closed gate.

    Montego unlatched it and led the way to the front porch and the dark, eight-foot tall wooden entry door that stood partially open. Shouting and a sharp sound of glass breaking reached his ears.

    Pausing, they eyed each other, then nodded while un-strapping their holstered firearms. Hands resting on their gun butts, they quickly entered and moved to opposite sides of the wide dimly lit foyer.

    Immediately they spotted a blue-uniformed officer kneeling next to a distraught woman, her back against the wall, sitting on the floor. Her left eye looked swollen, blood trickled from her mouth.

    The officer had his handkerchief pressed against her stomach. Blood from her torso soaked it, and oozed over his fingers.

    Pressed against her other side she held a toddler with saucer-sized brown eyes and a quivering mouth, obviously scared. The small boy’s dark-brown hair matched his mother’s.

    Montego recognized the p.m. watch blue-suit, Johnny Underdahl. A glance around the large living room revealed no one else, only an overturned blue velveteen-covered armchair, some broken glass, and a frilly lampshade on its side.

    Underdahl yelled, Get us an ambulance, now!

    Johnny, where’s your partner? asked Montego while signaling Diaz to go radio for an RA unit, a rescue ambulance.

    Underdahl cast his eyes toward a closed door across the room. Lou’s in there with the husband—don’t know his situation. We’ve been to this place before—that’s why we called for backup before we went to the door—we heard shouting, then a scream, so we busted in. Before we could do anything her old man used a damn butcher knife on her. His name’s Harry Watt.

    How’d Lou’s ass get in there? Montego asked, jerking his head toward the closed door.

    Her husband, Harry, went berserk—no warning, he whirled on Lou—put the blade to his throat. I was down here trying to stop her bleeding, it was gushing. Lou tried to break loose—they bumped into that chair, Underdahl head gestured. Knocked the lamp offa the end table—Lou got dragged into the other room. I felt helpless. Couldn’t do anything, then the door slammed.

    He looked at the trembling woman clutching her toddler son.

    Only a knife—no firearm? Montego asked evenly.

    Yeah, that’s all I saw. Underdahl shrugged his eyes.

    Montego focused on the clearly frightened mother, she looked pale.

    What’s your name?

    Stifling a sobbing catch in her throat, likely swallowing some blood, she said, Laura, Laura Watt. She squeezed the boy even closer to her. This is my son, Mikey…he’s three.

    Working at staying calm, he bent down beside the boy, and smiling widely said, Howdy Mikey. My name is Mikey, too.

    The small boy snuggled closer to his mom, not making a sound.

    Still kneeling, Montego looked at Laura and, wincing slightly, asked, Do you have any guns in the house?

    She nodded jerkily, blood spilled from her mouth.

    Two revolvers. But none in where they are—it’s the den. At least I don’t think so. The guns should be upstairs in our bedroom…one in each of our nightstands. Her pain obvious.

    What’s in the next room where your husband took the officer? Diaz, rushing up, asked breathlessly.

    In the den? We watch TV in there.

    Montego, rising as he patted the kid’s head, eased out a breath. No need to tell Underdahl to keep the pressure on her stomach, he was doing the best that could be done.

    The RA unit better get here damn fast, or she’s gonna bleed out!

    That the only door into the den? he asked her.

    Laura Watt grimaced. No…there’s another one…it opens the garage.

    Is the garage accessible from outside?

    She slightly shook her disheveled head; a dark tress fell onto her bruised forehead.

    You need a remote switch…and the door in the den leads to the garage…it’s probably locked.

    We need the damn key, ma’am, blurted Diaz excitedly.

    Laura instantly cringed. Little Mikey squeezed more against his mother’s side, his wide eyes now focused on Diaz.

    Patting the boy’s head, Montego asked calmly, Laura. Is the key to the den handy?

    She seemed to relax some and then she glanced toward the kitchen.

    In the first drawer under the counter…key chain with a white rabbit’s foot…the remote’s in our Buick. Another one is hanging on a hook on the den wall…next to the door leading into the garage…the same key also opens the outside garage door.

    Montego, not hearing any sounds coming from the den, took that as a good sign. He spied a white-tiled peninsula counter, and went to it. Sliding out the shallow top drawer he found a soiled rabbit’s foot with an attached Schlage door key.

    He spun about and hurried back to the front room and gave Diaz a questioning look.

    You or me, amigo?

    Diaz immediately reached out.

    Montego tossed the key with the rabbit’s foot to him.

    To Officer Underdahl he said, Hang in there while we go speak with Mikey’s daddy. He winked at the boy, still wide-eyed. Smiling again, he added, Everything will be all right—you’ll see, son.

    Montego turned to Diaz motioning for him to join him near the den door.

    It’s too quiet in there, Bobby. He eyed the closed door. The guy’s up to something. We gotta get in there soon.

    He pulled out his treasured Bulova pocket watch, and said, We’ll go in through both den doors at the same time—let’s synch our watches.

    Diaz unstrapped his wristwatch.

    They adjusted the minute hands to match.

    Okay, you’ve got one minute to get to the outside den door, ’cause that’s when I’ll be busting inside from here, Montego said.

    Diaz re-strapped his watch as he rushed out the front door.

    Montego slipped the Bulova, the only thing of value his dad had ever given him, into his watch pocket and yanked down on his four-inch Colt Python, freeing it from its shoulder holster. He didn’t like having to rely on the heavy revolver. In most situations a little kenpo did the trick.

    But not always.

    His free hand casually touched his chest near his pounding heart. He then eyed the six cylinder chambers, even though he knew the piece was loaded; a double-check never hurt.

    He had reached the Godan level of assistant instructor in kenpo, the Okinawan-style martial art, thanks to many years of training with Yoshi Kono and his grandson, Kenji, who went by Kenny. Montego had lived with the Japanese-American family after six long grammar school years with a strict Christian family in North Hollywood. His move to the Kono’s lush, garden-surrounded home and dojo in Torrance occurred thanks to Eagon Quinn, a lifelong friend and mentor. The then-LAPD homicide detective, after seeing the fresh cut on young Mikey’s neck, courtesy of a Mexican bully, had felt a change of scenery would do him good, on multiple levels. Eagon immediately phoned the Konos.

    He re-holstered the blue-steel Python and brushed his fingers over the hairline scar on the side of his neck.

    Righting the overstuffed armchair, he tugged out of his brown blazer and draped the sports coat over the chair-back. Then, while stepping toward the den door, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the sweeping second hand.

    Ten seconds to go.

    A thumping noise sounded loudly from behind the door.

    He paused and listened intently. Hearing no voices, he checked his pocket watch.

    Two seconds.

    He slid it back into its snug home, grasped the brass doorknob prepared to kick his way inside, but the handle turned. He didn’t hesitate.

    A hard push swung it banging into the wall on his left.

    Instantly, he saw Lou sagging to the floor, his back sliding down against a far wall. Blood flowed from his waist area just above his black Sam Browne belt. His blue-steel six-inch service revolver was out of its full-flap leather holster.

    Harry, on his knees, loomed over the wounded cop, clutching a long, serious-looking blade in his left hand.

    Spying Montego, the big man whirled away from the wall and scrambled on all fours across the blue-carpeted room.

    When Montego realized what Harry was going after—Lou’s Smith & Wesson revolver lying on the rug—he sprang forward. But before he could reach it, Harry, rising, spun back toward him, the S&W in his right hand now about to send a slug on its way into Montego’s chest.

    A quick keriage, a forward kick, sent the gun airborne and Harry stumbling.

    Montego side-glanced at Lou, the wounded cop’s back propped against the wall near the garage doorway, before turning back toward Harry, now rolling to his left, still holding the butcher knife.

    Springing to his feet Harry waved the nasty blade threateningly before him, his quickness and agility surprising Montego who said in an authoritative voice, You don’t want to do this. Think of your little boy—Mikey looks up to you, Harry. He doesn’t want to lose his daddy.

    He hoped by using Harry’s name and reminding him he had a son would make him pause, sober the father a bit, maybe even consider putting down the knife.

    The wafting stink of booze accosted his nostrils. He flash-thought about his words to Mikey: Everything will be all right—you’ll see. Now he feared it would be impossible to keep that promise.

    The crazed, glazed look in Harry’s red-rimmed eyes confirmed what he’d just said hadn’t registered.

    Harry Watt had lost it—a reasonable man wouldn’t have disarmed and stabbed a uniformed officer, after all. Montego couldn’t tell, at a glance, how badly Lou was wounded, but he looked to be fading fast—hopefully from shock rather than blood loss.

    Drop the knife, Harry—I can shoot your ass and end this right now, no fuss, no muss. You really want little Mikey going through life without his daddy?

    He doubted that his words would have any more impact than his last attempt to reason with the guy. He wasn’t keen on shooting the deranged man with the wild eyes and military crew cut, but he sure as hell didn’t relish the thought of getting slashed and gashed, either.

    He made slow side-to-side moves, drawing the long blade like a magnet. Harry quickly switched the bloodstained knife to his right hand and made two wide slashing arcs, followed by reverse arcing moves. They definitely weren’t clumsy.

    Just as the second movement ended, Montego dived feet first and scissor-kicked Harry’s left leg, twirling violently as he did so. Harry landed on his right knee, hard. His knife-wielding hand struck the carpet heavily, but he managed to hold onto the handle.

    Twisting up, Montego grabbed Harry’s left wrist and wrenched it clockwise, forcing him to his right. His flailing right hand gripping the knife caught only air, inches from Montego’s chest.

    Harry, instantly spinning to his left, countered. His right hand swiped back toward Montego’s head.

    Forced to let go of Harry’s wrist, Montego ducked. He could tell the blond man had some training in hand-to-hand combat—key word: some.

    Before Harry could follow through with a second back-slash, Montego drove an uppercut into the guy’s stubbly chin.

    Harry, stunned, fell back a half step before catching his balance. Shaking his head, he spun low to his right while bringing his right hand and blade in a wheelhouse move toward Montego’s mid-section.

    Montego leaped back, the blade barely missing his gut; just then a noise from behind alerted him that Bobby had entered the room.

    Call another RA unit, then check Lou—stop the bleeding! yelled Montego, not taking his eyes off Harry’s glinting blade.

    He couldn’t see Diaz’ reaction but imagined he was torn—

    Help Montego, or help Lou.

    Don’t worry, Bobby—I’ll handle this asshole—go!

    Montego focused on two things: saving the life of his fellow cop, and making sure he didn’t end up with blood spilling out from his gut, too. Spying a peripheral movement to his left told him Diaz had gone into the other room to make the call.

    Harry, likely pissed at the word, asshole, lunged at Montego, his knife now held straight out in front of him.

    Mistake.

    Another upward keriage (kick) nailed Harry’s elbow. The knife flew free. The man howled.

    A follow-up kick caught his chin, snapping his mouth shut, likely breaking teeth while knocking him back against the near wall.

    Montego figured it would finish off the big lug.

    Wrong.

    Bellowing like a bull, Harry pushed off the wall and charged.

    Montego sidestepped as the enraged man rushed past, and chopped the back of his neck hard with a callused, bladed hand.

    Harry crashed into the curved wooden arm of a sectional sofa, blood spattered from his nose. He instantly grasped a cushion with his left hand and flung it back toward Montego while scrambling to his feet.

    Montego, batting the small cushion aside, dropped into a horse stance, prepared for another bull-charge.

    Harry, instead, went all prizefighter. Dancing on his feet like Rocky Marciano, he moved toward Montego, his anger-distorted face blanketed by blood.

    Montego, amazed at the man’s bullish tenacity, reluctantly fisted his hands realizing Harry apparently had been in the boxing ring more than a few times.

    After a flurry of flying fists, all barely blocked, Montego dipped and sent a pile-driving blow into Harry’s mid-section. Quickly stepping behind him, he threw his right arm across Harry’s throat and pulled him back and down hard. With his left arm locking onto his right wrist, he squeezed his right forearm against Harry’s carotid artery until the man stopped resisting.

    The fact sleeper holds were no longer authorized by the LAPD as too dangerous hadn’t stopped Montego. He felt he had no choice.

    Sometimes you gotta bend the rules.

    He released his hold and let Harry lie back, then he rolled him onto his stomach so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood. His nose now bled profusely.

    Gathering up both the S&W and butcher knife, Montego placed them out of sight on an upper shelf. He then rushed over to Lou.

    Bobby Diaz had yet to return from radioing for an ambulance.

    Montego pulled a folded handkerchief from his rear pocket, unbuttoned Lou’s uniform shirt, instantly sickened by the blood oozing from the gash, soaking what had been a white T-shirt at the beginning of the cop’s shift.

    He pressed the clean kerchief firmly against the wound, while murmuring, please don’t let him die.

    Moments later, Diaz rushed into the room, revolver in hand.

    Bobby, throw your bracelets on Harry before he comes to—then grab Lou’s piece off the shelf over there. He head-gestured.

    Diaz homed his firearm, then freed the Peerless cuffs hanging over his waist belt, and did so. He next scooted over and shoved the S&W into Lou’s full-flap holster, the suitcase as cops called it.

    Keeping pressure on the wound seemed to be stemming the blood flow, to Montego’s relief.

    It felt like an eternity before he heard the welcoming ululating siren dying down in front of the Watt’s residence.

    Once the emergency medical team had taken over, first looking after the woman, he joined Diaz and Underdahl watching Harry Watt, now conscious but groggy as he sat out on the front porch steps.

    You want the EMTs to check him? Diaz asked Underdahl.

    Nah, they gotta take care of Lou—if one of you guys will ride shotgun for me, I’ll take him to Hollywood Receiving for an MT, then book his fucking ass.

    Bobby’s wheelman tonight, said Montego. So I’ll get little Mikey and go with you, Johnny.

    That’s cool, Mike. I’ll get Mrs. Watt’s statement while I’m at the hospital.

    Following emergency surgery, Montego and Underdahl were allowed to speak to Laura Watt. They took Little Mikey into the recovery room with them.

    Laura gave them a weak dimpled cheek smile and a slight nod, then spoke softly to her son before glancing back at Montego.

    He shrugged and returned the smiling gesture.

    Underdahl’s method of getting her to open up and explain what had caused her husband to explode impressed Montego. Perhaps the heavy medication helped. It soon became apparent she needed to talk. The woman had plenty to get off her chest, and skillfully encouraged by Underdahl, that’s exactly what she did.

    Harry’s a Korean War veteran. He fought at the Kumsong River in July of ’fifty-three—one of the last battles in the war….

    She brushed her hand against a persistent fallen tress, fighting a losing battle.

    The same month the armistice agreement got signed.

    Montego, in junior high school at the time, had followed the war in the Citizen News. Every day after classes he’d checked the newspaper’s front page. Almost always he found a major story from the fierce fighting occurring on the frigid Korean peninsula.

    Harry lost too many friends over there. One was a high school buddy, Fred. She paused and glanced about. Looking back at Underdahl she continued, I knew Fred, too. I didn’t tell you, but Harry and I both went to McPherson high back in Kansas. He was a couple of grades ahead of me. He came back to McPherson after the war. I worked at a soda shop on Main Street. He came in a lot. We talked, and eventually he asked me out. We dated for several years before getting married.

    A happy expression flooded her face, quickly followed by a look of concern.

    I’m sorry—you officers don’t want to hear all this.

    Montego stepped over and placed a hand on her shoulder. Laura, we do need to hear this, for our report. It helps us to better understand your husband. It’ll help him, too. Please keep talking.

    She sighed. I don’t really know. For a long time, everything was fine…until we went to the movies and saw Pork Chop Hill.

    Montego remembered the film. It starred Gregory Peck and Woody Strode. Not a big spirit-lifter if you happened to be a Korean War vet, he imagined.

    I wish we’d never seen it, she swiped at the fallen tress. Afterwards, Harry started having quiet periods. He changed from drinking the odd beer, to whiskey and soda—too much whiskey. I was afraid he might lose his job at the machine shop.

    She sighed again and worked the fingers on her left hand. The IV tube on her left wrist hung in there and remained intact.

    When Mikey was born, Harry seemed really happy, he cut back on his drinking. She paused, letting out a breath. That lasted for a couple of years, then something happened at his job, I don’t know what. He wouldn’t say—but he went back to the bottle.

    She began fisting her hands. He stopped going to church, and when I told him I wanted the pastor to come talk to him, he blew up. She glanced over at Montego. That was the first time Harry hit me…about a year ago.

    Tears welled; soon they streamed down her cheeks. She dabbed carefully at her swollen eye.

    Tonight, he blew up over nothing. I can’t even tell you what got him so upset—all I said was I wanted to go to the evening services at the Presbyterian Church over on Gower. Reverend Blackstone was giving a sermon. I like his preaching…makes me feel comfortable.

    Montego pulled a tissue from a two-toned blue Kleenex box on the nearby stand and handed it to her.

    She took it and smiled a thanks, then a fearful look crossed her bruised face. What’s going to happen to Harry? Do you think that poor officer is going to be all right? She began sobbing. Oh dear God, please make everything okay.

    Bobby Diaz sat behind the steering wheel as Montego settled into the gray-vinyl passenger seat of the Plymouth four-door parked in the breezeway separating the police station from the small hospital. He lifted the hand-mic from its clip on the dashboard as he let out a satisfying sigh, glad his body had survived the tussle with Harry Watt. Tonight was his first shift back in the field since being shot several times and nearly killed. Whatever lingering doubts he might have had about his body’s readiness for extreme physical activity had gone poof with the first kick.

    Six Frank One, clear, he voiced into the mic, realizing a bit too loudly.

    The RTO handling Frequency One, which included Hollywood Division, responded Frank One, clear, in her sweet, distinctive voice.

    He re-hooked the microphone onto the dash-mounted clip, smiling at a distant memory, the time early in his career when a sergeant had taken him downtown to Communications Division, and told him to sit in a cubicle with an RTO, one of many small stations forming a horseshoe around an open area where the dispatcher operated. His job: feed the paper slips, each a request for police service filled out by one of half a dozen or more officers sitting in an adjacent room, to each RTO. Upon getting a phone call, the officer on the Complaint Board would fill out a form indicating the type of service requested; then he’d drop the slip into a narrow slotted trough with a continuous running belt. It, in turn, sped the slip to the dispatcher. A half-glass wall separated the two rooms and acted as a noise barrier.

    He’d been a rookie when he sat beside Momma Mary, the Sixth Division’s RTO, on that occasion. Sweet-voiced Mary Bloom had overseen his anxious efforts to handle incoming calls while scratching out the proper forms to pass to the dispatcher when a general broadcast to all frequencies was required. All forms were saved for record-keeping purposes along with all radio transmissions.

    The sergeant had told him that spending an hour or so in the cubicle would give him an appreciation of the RTO’s tough task, and serve to remind him always to be courteous whenever communicating over the radio from the field.

    Often, patrol cops got rude with the RTOs. it occurred, usually, when a field cop was in a hurry to receive a result to his request for wants-and-warrants-on-a-suspect, and the RTO didn’t get back to him promptly.

    The officers’ oral requests, documented on appropriate forms, once received by the dispatcher, were sent via a pneumatic tube up to Records and Identification Division, on the second floor in the Police Administration Building, PAB. This meant the RTO had no control of the time it took for a records clerk in R&I to look up a suspect’s file, jot down the necessary notation on the form, and then return it via the tube to the dispatcher, who would slip the information-filled paper back through a slot into the designated RTO’s cubicle.

    Bobby Diaz wheeled the four-door out of the breezeway and onto Wilcox Avenue, heading north toward the Boulevard of Renown.

    So, where does Señor Tonto want to patrol for the remainder of the watch?

    The Tonto tag started when Montego was a pre-teen, thanks to the Lehmans, his weekday foster parents. Whenever they caught him cussing, a piece of green Palmolive soap was stuck in his mouth; then they made him lay on his back with his mouth shut for fifteen minutes. He wasn’t even allowed to say gee or gosh as they sounded too much like Jesus and God to the strict couple.

    Finally, no longer wishing to suffer the nasty taste of green soap, he decided one day a trip to the library in North Hollywood Park was called for. He intended to look in an English/Spanish dictionary for a word or words that would sound like he wasn’t swearing when he was.

    His research resulted in finding tanto peor, meaning so much the worse. Not all that vulgar sounding, but it would have to do. He’d tired of searching.

    It took a while to get the words to roll off his tongue when he was pissed, but his foster parents thought his verbal outbursts amusing, and, thanks to their ignorance, not that it mattered, he kept at it. After a few weeks, he was mostly blurting out Tanto! as it was short and simple. His Anglo friends inevitably heard it as Tonto.

    And so the tag was born.

    Montego shrugged. You’ve got the wheel, amigo mio.

    CHAPTER TWO

    The noon sun looked like a light bulb glowing through a dirty shade, courtesy of the combo of smog and dense fog that had gathered along the shore in Manhattan Beach.

    Montego, glad to be traveling inland, glanced sideways at Julie. He enjoyed driving her forest-green Austin-Healey. The black canvas top was up, but he anticipated bright sunshine once they crested the camel-colored hilltop at Mulholland Drive, instant top-down weather. Once there, it was a short drive down the other side to Mulholland Terrace and Buckingham Palace, actually a ranch-style house.

    His blonde mother, Helen, after eight or so years of so-called dating, had married a fireman, Steve Buckingham. Last year, after Steve promoted to captain, they’d purchased the hillside place. It overlooked Studio City from the southwest edge of the San Fernando Valley. On a clear day, the northern view across the valley to the mountains of the Angeles National Forest was magnificent.

    He knew that Steve’s Platoon A had the 72-hour duty this Christmas Day. A holiday gift as far as he was concerned, as Steve wouldn’t be at home. Over the years he had learned to ignore his stepfather—so-called, because the man hadn’t legally adopted him—whenever possible, and to tolerate the way he endlessly fussed over the property. Thus Buckingham Palace.

    While the rather large place lacked a moat, it did boast a nearly Olympic-sized heated pool surrounded by Kool Deck, a mottled-beige cement coating laid over wet concrete that stayed cool enough to walk barefoot on, even in the not uncommon 100 degree-plus summertime weather.

    Julie had brought along her new two-piece bathing suit. Hot pink like her body, and he wasn’t necessarily thinking of her skin tone. He had a pair of neon-blue Speedo’s stashed in a hall closet at the house, ready to slip into whenever he dropped by to swim laps. His last time in the seventy-two-degree water was several weeks ago, when he’d first tested his body after being released from hospital. The doc had told him it was okay to swim as long as he didn’t over-exert himself.

    Finally, feeling close to being fully recovered from the three bullets that had slammed into him, he planned to jump back into his weekly 75-lap regimen. He enjoyed swimming in the ocean, catching a wave or three and bodysurfing back to shore, but something about the pool drew him to the chlorinated water. It reminded him of his days on the Hollywood High Sheiks swim team. He was a four-sports athlete in high school: football, track, baseball, and swimming. This, however, made for some awkward scheduling—if he hadn’t been so damn good at hitting the long ball, the baseball coach, Guy Wrinkle, might’ve sacked his ass, given all the practices he’d missed juggling his other sports commitments.

    His grades had suffered accordingly.

    These days, he attended a three-hour Monday night class at L.A. City College, working toward his Associate Arts degree in Liberal Arts. After barely passing his first exam, he realized he needed to learn how to study—so he did. Now, he had his sights set on a Bachelor of Science degree in criminology at UCLA, or possibly even USC, assuming he had the necessary bucks by then.

    Julie would soon have her Masters of Art degree from UCLA. He had to admit that her gung-ho approach to higher education probably had more than a little to do with motivating him to go to night school. But it would take him over a dozen years to attain her academic level.

    He tried not to think about that, it was too depressing. After all, he wasn’t in some sort of egg-headed competition with her. Hell, maybe he wanted to impress her father. Good luck there, amigo.

    One thing he knew for certain, his class at LACC was excellent prep for the day, coming soon, when he’d tackle the Big Blue Bible, the LAPD manual. It was a three-ringed tome, loose-leafed because the desk jockeys up in Planning and Research were continuously amending it. Those fifth-floor boys in the PAB cranked out consecutively numbered Special Orders like they were confetti to be tossed by the bagful at a big New Year’s Eve party. On top of this, there were the cartoon-illustrated Department Training Bulletins designed to explain the Special Orders.

    Enough said.

    All he knew was that he must be up on all the detailed crap they contained if he ever expected to pass the upcoming Sergeant’s Exam. That was foremost to becoming a detective-sergeant, and working Homicide. Meanwhile there were basic-rank slots in the Detective Bureau, and he hoped to fill one, sooner rather than later, even though it meant being low man on the totem pole. Having three white chevrons on your navy blue sleeve mattered, not that detectives ran around with stripes sewn on their suit-coat sleeves.

    He chuckled to himself as he wheeled the sports car up the hill, curving through the tree-lined shadows of Laurel Canyon, passing the Preston’s rather secluded manor. Moments after Willow Glen Road, they broke out of the layer of coastal fog.

    At last, sunshine, he said cheerily. There’s something to be said for living high on a hill.

    Yes, but it’s way too chilly for me to be jumping into the pool.

    By the time I’m done chasing you around the patio, babe, you’ll be ready for a cool dip.

    Julie squeezed his inner thigh, something she was wont to do, bless her horny little heart.

    My wavy black-haired, blue-eyed lover man probably would, too, she said, teasingly.

    Pulling into the curved, used-brick driveway and coasting up to the overlapping dark wood-planked-and-cream-colored-stucco house, he spied his blonde mother as she peered out the kitchen’s bay window. He knew she’d already prepared something for them to eat and drink. Likely, it would be something Christmassy.

    Inside the kitchen, sure enough, he whiffed and then spied a tin of frosted cupcakes with decorations resembling fir trees, snowflakes, and angels. He gave her a hug and pecked her lightly powdered cheek.

    Julie did likewise, before asking, Can I help you with anything, Helen?

    No dear, I’m about done in here, and please call me Mother. Since the weather is so pleasant, why don’t you kids make yourselves comfortable out on the covered patio? She dried her hands on her pale-blue apron. I’ll be right out with a pitcher of lemonade and cupcakes.

    His mother, always the gracious hostess, had him smiling. She didn’t like to be called Mom so it was Mother to her face, but she would always be Mom in his mind.

    He paced to the hall closet, retrieved his black racing-style swimsuit from the overhead shelf, and headed for the bathroom.

    It never ceased to amaze him how everything inside the house had its own space. Nothing ever seemed to be out of place. His mom always had been one to keep her previous small home neat and clean, but since her marriage she, or likely Steve, maintained the house like a museum. Montego expected to see everything under glass before too long.

    He snickered, as much at himself as at the thought. He knew he had trouble cutting Steve any slack, having never allowed himself to get close to the big guy. Steve was Mom’s husband, nothing more. Oh, on the occasional Saturday he’d gone to the racetrack with Steve, who fancied himself a handicapper, while Montego simply studied the horses as they paraded on the track pre-race, and silently picked the mount he liked. Every now and again, his horse won. Rarely did his picks run totally out of the money.

    He made a point of never telling Steve what horse he’d selected, after learning the hard way. The guy loved to rub it in mercilessly if his pick didn’t win. Besides, Steve won his share, being careful to never lose more than $48 on any given Saturday, and usually less. He claimed he only took that amount to gamble on the ponies. He was a $6 a race bettor, unless he was winning. Then, feeling lucky, he might risk the track’s money on an across-the-board wager.

    Grabbing a large white towel Montego left the guest bathroom, leaving his Levi’s and blue sweatshirt rolled and piled atop the garnet-colored woven-reed hamper. Out on the flagstone patio he bummed a sip of lemonade from Julie’s tall, flowery glass, and headed for the pool.

    I’ll warm up the water with my hot bod just for you, babe, he called back before jumping feet-first off the mottled coping.

    A chilling shock, even at 72 degrees, briefly caught his attention, but it felt damn good. He rose to the surface, and then stretched into a slow Australian crawl, slowly increasing his stroke tempo. After thirty-seven laps he realized he’d need to do a lot more cardio-conditioning before he’d be able to complete seventy-five again without dying of exhaustion.

    He climbed up the chrome ladder and snatched the bath towel off the deck. The air on his wet olive-complexioned skin felt brisk, so he decided to soak up some rays on the blue, plastic-webbed lounge chair.

    Just as he settled back, he heard his mother call out, Mike, don’t forget to clean the filter and check the pH level. We don’t want Steve getting upset. She then turned toward Julie, and he heard, My husband is rather particular about the pool.

    He knew all about Steve’s finicky ways, but he’d never known Mom to worry about the pool’s condition. It must be Steverino. What the hell was he telling her to have her acting the fuss-budget?

    Then there was the

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