Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle

by Rabid Raccoons

Chapter 25: Let's Make A Deal

David Sinclair's silence was louder than anything Colby Granger had ever heard. Granger slumped in the passenger seat of the sedan and waited for the inevitable eruption.

He was pretty sure there was going to be one — during all their years as partners, he'd only witnessed a full-out Sinclair explosion on two other occasions, so there was always a chance it wouldn't happen — bur the signs were all there, screaming loudly in the tense silence. The death-grip on the steering wheel. The rapid bobbing up-and-down of the left knee. The harsh, uneven breaths. The grim set of the mouth. The…

"SON OF A BITCH!" David suddenly yelled, letting go of the steering wheel long enough to bang a fist on the console. "SON OF AN EVERLOVIN' BITCH!"

Colby winced; glad they were parked at the moment. "It's not your fault" was so not going to fly, here. He swallowed, and finally settled for, "Break anything? Radio? Hand?"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

Granger bristled, straightening in his seat. "Hey. I'm just asking."

David didn't seem to hear him. "I can't believe we took Alan anywhere near the scene. Should've cuffed him to his stair banister, if we had to. What were we thinking?" Venomous sarcasm leaked into his voice. "That an Eppes could be trusted?" He snorted. "At least we know why Don didn't call us sooner; he inherited the Stubborn Ass Gene."

Colby continued to stare out the window, squinting into the darkness. His mind was still on the scene at warehouse – both Eppes brothers being carted out on stretchers, Robin looking bruised and dazed; Amita in tears. That wasn't even the worst of the images; Charlie, still unconscious as he was being lifted from a pool of blood, and Don's eyes – filled with pain, grief, and guilt as he craned his neck to look anxiously at his brother – kept rising to the forefront. He knew that similar images were on David's mind, too. Colby swallowed, opened his mouth to speak; then shut it again. He could point out that they'd made the decision to bring Alan along for his own safety, not wanting to leave him alone at the Craftsman and unprotected against any possible retribution or offensives by Tuttle or his men, but that would only serve as reminder that it hadn't mattered much. Even though they'd brought him along for his own safety, Alan had still been attacked and injured. Best not to acknowledge this conversation at all, he decided. "I hope Tuttle falls for this. Do you think we got here too late?"

Sinclair exhaled. "He's on foot. He's got to be still on his way here. LAPD pulled over his driver within five minutes of Alan's call."

Colby grinned. "Yeah, that was a thing of beauty. About time we caught a break in this damn case." He looked forward, toward the red Maserati parked a few car lengths ahead of them. "I still think one of us should be sitting in that car."

David followed his gaze. "We needed someone who could be mistaken for his driver – Arroyo- at first glance. Even in the dark, it's pretty obvious that I'm black and you're…from Idaho."

Colby took his eyes off the streets and turned his head toward David. "From Idaho? What the hell does that mean?"

"Just that I'd never confuse you with a skinny Latino, cowboy," David answered.

Granger huffed. "Not everybody from Idaho is a cowboy," he protested, turning his head to look out the window again. "Geez."

"Who still misses his childhood horse?" asked David, a hint of amusement finally entering his voice.

Colby pretended to pout, although he had to suppress a smile; it seemed he had successfully distracted David. "Dude. Are we having a Brokeback Mountain moment?"

David laughed out loud, and Colby finally allowed his own dimples to show. "Great idea Liz had to BOLO Tuttle's vehicles; lucky we already had a recent DMV listing."

"Cross-checking known Tuttle associates and employees was a good idea, too," David said. "Nikki had Arroyo's name before we even had a third ambulance for Alan." His voice grew despondent. "I still can't believe we ever thought bringing him to the scene was a good idea."

"His injuries aren't life-threatening," Colby pointed out. "He never even lost consciousness, and he raised all kinds of hell when they wouldn't let him over to the other triage area to see Don and Charlie. As if he could even walk, with a blown knee."

"We probably should have ordered a fourth bus," David mused.

"Robin and Amita refused medical transport," Colby argued. "It was all we could do to get them in a police unit."

"I'm not talking about them," answered David. "Liz and Nikki will make sure they're examined. I'm talking about us — Don is going to kill us."

Granger grimaced. "Yeah. Probably give us CPR after, so Charlie can kill us too." They fell silent, and Colby knew that despite all the banter about Alan, they were both wondering how the Eppes brothers were doing. Personally, Colby would gladly fend off attempted murder, if it meant that Don and Charlie Eppes came out of the debacle well enough to try it.

…...

Alan glared at the on-call physician.

"Absolutely not. I don't have time for an MRI, or a skull series, or anything else right now. I have a headache, my knee hurts, and I'll damn well live with both of those things as long as I have to. I want to talk to the physicians treating my sons. Get me a wheelchair, or I swear, I'll crawl down this hall."

The doctor suppressed a sigh. "Mr. Eppes, I beg you to be reasonable. Your knee is already swollen to twice its normal size, and even though you didn't lose consciousness during the assault, from your description of the scuffle, you could well have a concussion. I suspect cracked ribs, as well. What good will you do either of your sons if you can't walk? If a cracked rib completely fractures and pierces a lung? Or worse, if you ignore a serious head injury and have an inter-cranial hemorrhage? Besides, both men are being examined as we speak; it will be hours before any solid information is available. Let's put the time to good use, shall we?"

Alan crossed his arms over his chest, and narrowed his eyes, one of which was blackening rapidly from the head-butt to Tuttle's face. "Do not talk to me as if I were a child, young man. I'm not feeble-minded. If I can't see the boys or their doctors, I can see the girls. I spoke to them briefly at the scene; they weren't even transported by ambulance."

The doctor crossed his own arms over his chest, straddling his legs slightly. "Granted. They were transported to this hospital by police vehicle, however, and are both undergoing examination at this time." He narrowed his eyes, mimicking Alan. "If I'm not to regard you as feeble-minded, may I assume that 'stubborn ass' is an accurate description?"

Alan's eyes widened in shock; then narrowed again. "You have no idea," he promised.

The doctor didn't as much as flinch. "Neither do you, sir. Neither do you."

Alan processed that for a moment, until an idea occurred to him. "If I allow you to proceed with your tests," he negotiated, "will you be my advocate with all the other doctors and medical personnel, so that I get all the information on everyone as soon as possible? Something tells me you don't get the run-around very much."

A small smile tugged at the corner of the physician's mouth. "That would be correct," he affirmed. "I'm not just a doctor; I play one on TV."

Alan smiled in recognition. "That's where I've seen you! You're that doctor on the local news, the question-and-answer guy! Dr. Shapiro, right? I watch you every chance I get; weren't you promoted or something recently?"

Dr. Shapiro inclined his head slightly in agreement. "Or something. The hospital is currently searching for a new medical Chief of Staff - I'm the Interim Director. These people all work for me. At the moment."

Alan's smile widened. "My offer is on the table."

The doctor allowed his own smile to blossom. "I accept. Nothing I enjoy more than showing up on the weekend and scaring the hell out of everybody."

…...

LAPD Sergeant Antonio Scarpelli tilted the chauffer's hat low over his eyes. The decision compromised his vision, but he'd have to trust the FBI guys behind him – and his own partner, stationed in a dark doorway – to watch the streets. He needed to convince Tuttle that he was Arroyo; at least long enough for Tuttle to approach the Maserati – and maybe even get inside.

He was a little worried that Tuttle had already figured out the ruse and slipped through the net again; it had been almost an hour since Alan Eppes called Agent Sinclair. Arroyo, Tuttle's driver, had been apprehended near their meeting place no more than five minutes after that; Scarpelli and his partner, Joe Meese, had been at the warehouse and were quickly pressed into service. Still, by the time they met up with Arroyo and the Maserati, dressed Scarpelli in Arroyo's clothes — sending Tuttle's chauffeur off to Parker Center in nothing more than his boxers and a blanket — and finalized their plans, it had been well over half an hour since Eppes had overheard Tuttle's conversation. Scarpelli hadn't pulled the Maserati to the curb at 5th and Davis until 45 minutes into the hour that Tuttle had specified. Scarpelli glanced at the clock in the vehicle's console; he had been sitting here for almost 10 minutes; maybe Tuttle had gotten to the meet location before they had, and had gotten a good look at Scarpelli's face as he eased the car over to the curb.

Time continued to pass — as did at least a dozen pedestrians. Some of them looked at the fancy sports car in admiration, but most just walked rapidly past. An hour and twenty minutes after Eppes' call to Sinclair, Scarpelli began to wonder if the agents intended to make him sit here all night. He was sure that Tuttle had escaped again; hell, maybe he had even known that the old man was listening to his conversation, and had set them all up, even his own chauffeur. While they were all sitting here, Tuttle was probably catching the first international flight out of LAX. He began to wonder if the Bureau would be paying him for this overtime, or if LAPD would; then he began to fantasize about how he would spend the windfall.

Scarpelli was wishing for coffee when the driver's door of the Maserati was suddenly yanked open, startling him out of his reverie. Automatically, he started to look up, barely managing to stop himself before he gave himself away.

Not that it mattered. A strong hand gripped his upper left arm and started pulling him toward the street. "Unbuckle the damn seatbelt and get the hell out of the car," he heard. "Take a cab and head home. If anyone asks, you were there the whole time – you weren't working tonight."

Scarpelli hesitated. He didn't want to speak; Tuttle would know Arroyo's voice. He didn't want to get out of the Maserati, either. Should he just shoot the guy where he stood? Would that qualify as a good shoot, a self-defense use of weapon? His right hand left the steering wheel and moved toward the gun holstered under his suit jacket.

At the same moment, Tuttle leaned into the vehicle and unbuckled Scarpelli's seat belt for him. "Hurry up!" Tuttle demanded, backing out of the car and pulling on Scarpelli's left arm again. "I've got to make a stop on the way to the airstrip and pick up my pilot, and this car only has two seats! I don't need you to drive me, you idiot! MOVE!" Scarpelli, his mind still racing, allowed Tuttle to pull him out of the car. As soon as he gained his feet, he decided, he would make the arrest. Climbing out of the car, he turned and faced Tuttle, and began reaching for his weapon and his cuffs – but knew in a flash that his cover had been blown – and it was too late. Tuttle's eyes had widened; apparently he had realized that Scarpelli wasn't his driver, and he had gone for a gun as Scarpelli was turning. Tuttle had the jump on the draw by only a split second, but it was enough. His pistol was out, and aiming at Scarpelli's gut, even as Scarpelli's hand closed on the butt of his own weapon.

The report sounded louder than Scarpelli expected, but the expected pain in his abdomen was less. It felt more like fist than a bullet, and oddly didn't hurt that much, but Scarpelli's knees gave way at the impact, and Tuttle pushed him aside onto the pavement and jumped in the car. At first he thought the bullet had hit him in the vest, but as he groped for his gut he felt wetness – the bullet had gone underneath the vest. Damn. As the pain and shock began to spiral, Scarpelli had the dim perception of two FBI agents running toward them, with his partner sprinting from the doorway to join them – then saw the black FBI agent gesture and heard him shout something. There was a sound of screeching tires in his ear as the Maserati burned rubber, and then Scarpelli saw the agents reverse course, and run back for their vehicle, as they waved his partner onward. Meese dropped to his knees beside him, panting, his cell phone at his ear. "Hang in there, Tony," he breathed, and then he broke off and barked into his cell, "Officer down, 5th and Davis! Need a bus, now! Suspect fleeing the scene in a red Maserati, federal agents in pursuit, heading east on 5th! Hurry up with that bus!"

…...

Colby slumped as low in his seat as he could, and still see out the front windshield. "Shit," he breathed. "Why's he going for the driver's door?"

David, also slumped low in his seat, let his fingers rest on the door handle. "We've gotta take him before he makes Scarpelli," he answered urgently.

Granger nodded and started to reach for his own door, then stopped when he felt David's restraining hand on his arm. "Wait; I think he's made him already. He's got his hands on Scarpelli."

Colby looked through the windshield again, just in time to see Tuttle lean into the Maserati and pull Scarpelli out of it. "Oh, fuck. Gun. He's gonna kill him!" The report sounded even as he spoke, and then they were out of the car, and running toward the Maserati. Tuttle jumped inside, ignoring David's call to halt, and the car was peeling out of its spot at the curb almost before Scarpelli had slumped to the pavement.

Colby caught a peripheral glimpse of Scarpelli's partner, Joe Meese, coming from his position in the doorway, and David waved him on toward Scarpelli, yelling, "Take care of your partner, and call this in! We're going after him!" They abruptly changed course and charged back for the vehicle, and as they threw themselves into it, Colby could see the Maserati, already two blocks ahead.

David cranked the ignition and car surged to life. "Call it in; have all units hang back, but get eyes in the sky so we don't lose him. Let's see what else this asshole has for us."

…...

End, Chapter 25