Chapter 29: Favors
Roy DeSoto was reading a magazine, enjoying some quiet time to himself, while Joanne was having a rare evening out with a friend and the kids were miraculously in bed a bit on the early side. He was planning on turning in shortly, as he had a shift in the morning. Just as he reluctantly put his magazine down, trying to follow the advice he gave to his kids about getting to bed at a sensible time so you wouldn't be sorry on a school morning, the phone rang. He instantly felt anxious—it wasn't terribly late, only nine o'clock or so, but most people they knew worked on fairly early schedules, and didn't call past early evening. So, it was with some mild anxiety that he picked up the phone on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Roy? It's Dixie McCall—and I promise, it's nothing really serious."
"Hi, Dixie—what's going on?"
"Well, Johnny and Mike kind of need a favor."
Roy's mind spun—he'd heard about Mike's setback with the screws, and he'd heard about the troubles they'd been having. And of course, there was always the possibility that his ex-partner had gotten hurt on the job. "Okay—what happened? What can I do?"
"Well," Dixie hesitated slightly, not knowing how much of the story Roy knew. "Well, Johnny's in for observation, to start with. He took a blow to the kidney, and cracked a couple ribs, and he's passing enough blood that we need to keep an eye on him for a little while."
"Geez," said Roy. "What happened? B-shift was on today, so it wasn't on the job, was it?"
"No," Dixie replied, again hesitating. "Roy, some thugs beat him up in an alley this evening. He and Mike are pretty upset about it—I don't know how much you've talked to Johnny recently, but …"
"I talked to him enough to get a nasty picture," Roy said, fury building. "I heard about the tires, and the letter, and the phone messages, and some things that happened at Mike's office. But this is a whole new level. Is it the same people?"
"Johnny's pretty sure it is, from what they said to him, which he isn't repeating."
"Dix," Roy began, but found himself unable to continue speaking.
"He's going to be fine," Dixie said soothingly. "You know I wouldn't say that if it weren't true. Kel just wants to make sure that the bleeding in the kidney subsides before sending him home, all right?"
"Yeah," said Roy, though inside, he was screaming 'no, it's not all right, damn it!' "But Dix, I'm home alone with the kids—Joanne's gonna be out till late, and I can't come in to Rampart. I just can't."
"It's okay, Roy—Johnny's resting comfortably. I actually called you for a different favor—Johnny doesn't want Mike staying at home. Not with those thugs still out there. And to be honest, Roy, I'm afraid I agree with Johnny on this one. These guys have crossed the line into blatant violence."
"Mike can absolutely stay here," said Roy. "I"ll make up the bed in the spare room, and it's all his. Or theirs, when Johnny gets out."
Roy could hear Dixie's sigh of relief over the line. "That's great, Roy. It might be a while till he gets to your place—he went home to pick up some things for Johnny and himself, and he's coming by here again next, of course—but thanks. I'll send him over as soon as I can."
"I'll be here. And if Joanne were home, I'd come over right now. And I have a shift tomorrow, so I probably won't make it in. I'll be sure to call sometime tomorrow, though."
"He'll appreciate that. I'm guessing he's not going to want to talk about any of the things that've been going on, though."
"No," Roy replied, "I'm sure he won't. But we always seem to find plenty to talk about."
"Mike had a hard time getting him to shut up, actually, so you'll probably have some interesting conversations if he's still on painkillers."
"Oh, definitely," Roy said. "I'll count on it. Anyhow—say hi to Johnny if you see him again this evening, and thanks for not hesitating to call—you know Jo and I will always help out with any of the guys."
"Thanks for helping, Roy. I'll talk to you later."
Roy put down the phone, and went upstairs to start making up the bed in the spare room. While he was working, he thought about how he could possibly explain to his teenaged son and eleven-year-old daughter what had happened. He had sworn early on never to lie to his children, but he also didn't want to expose them to such ugliness. He sighed, passing the doors to their rooms. Better they know an ugly truth at a tender age, he thought, than learn as adults that their parents were too afraid to talk to them about real life.
~!~!~!~!~
Mike pulled the truck up to the house, and left the headlights on to light a path as he went to the front door. He had very mixed feelings about not staying at his own house for the night. On the one hand, he truly believed that by staying elsewhere, he was somehow letting those bastards win. But on the other hand, he knew he wouldn't sleep a wink, and, excessive anxiety aside, it wasn't out of the question that Johnny's attackers might not be done for the day.
Once inside, Mike turned the AC off, so the empty house wouldn't be sucking down energy. He gathered some comfortable hospital wear, toiletries, and some light reading for Johnny, and packed a couple days' worth of things for himself. He grabbed his cane, which he'd forgotten earlier, and was regretting not having had. He checked all the doors and windows, but stopped himself from checking them again. He loaded the bags into the truck, got in, and started the truck. The dashboard clock read 9:25.
Mike looked across the street at Mrs. Daniels' house, and turned the truck off again. She'd told the deputy she'd be up till ten, and there were still lights on in her house. Mike got out of the truck, walked across the street, and rang the bell.
Mike saw the peephole darken, and then brighten again. The door opened, and Mrs. Daniels' concerned face appeared.
"Mike? Come in. What's wrong?" she asked.
"I'm really sorry to bother you at this hour, but I just wanted to let you know a couple things. They're keeping Johnny at the hospital for a little while—he'd kill me if I told you the details, but they need to keep an eye on him for a bit, and for once he's not making a fuss about it."
"Oh, the poor dear! Even though I don't know him all that well, I'd bet he just hates it there."
"You've got that absolutely right. He should be fine—but he's in a lot of pain, and they need to see a few lab results get better before he can come home."
"Oh, my. Well, please send him my best. Will he still be there tomorrow? I'll take him some food—I know he likes to keep well fed, and hospital food doesn't do that, now, does it?"
"No, ma'am, it sure doesn't. He's at Rampart—it's a little farther than Henry Mayo up in Santa Clarita, but he knows the people there, so it's a little easier for him."
"Now, I hope you're going to tell me that you're staying somewhere else tonight, young man," Mrs. Daniels said.
"I am," Mike admitted. "To be honest, I don't like the idea of leaving, but I like the idea of sticking around even less, so there we are."
"Why don't you give me the number where you'll be staying, just in case something comes up around here? You know I'm not going anywhere—well, except to Rampart, of course." Mrs. Daniels handed Mike a pad and pen from near her phone, and Mike wrote down the DeSotos' names and numbers.
"I'm pretty sure this is where I'll be," he said, handing the paper back.
"Oh, and Mrs. Jenkins asked me why the sheriff had been around so much. I have to confess, I didn't tell her the entire truth—I told a little white lie, and just said that you boys had been having some trouble with pranksters. But she told me she'd keep an extra sharp eye out, and you'd better believe she will, too. As will I."
"Thanks a lot, Mrs. Daniels—really. I appreciate it. We both do."
"I certainly hope they catch those thugs soon," she replied.
"Yeah. We do too. We're pretty much at the ends of our ropes," Mike admitted. "And now Johnny's gonna be off work for a few weeks, too, and I can't even begin to tell you how crazy that's gonna make him."
"Have faith—it'll all work out in the end."
Mike silently disagreed with the "faith" part, since he didn't personally believe there was much of anything to have faith in at this point, other than shitty human nature, but he knew she meant well, so he responded in kind.
"Thanks. Have a good night, and thanks again for all your help."
"Good night, Mike."
Mike got back in his truck, and began the drive back to Rampart. Again. Forty minutes of mind-numbing driving later, he pulled into a visitor's spot, and decided to go in through the ER rather than the main entrance. Squad 51 and an ambulance were parked in the bay. Mike struggled to remember which shift would be on tonight, but the complex calendar had gotten lost in all the other things Mike had to keep track of. All he could be sure of was that the squad wasn't manned by Johnny and Roy. Cane in one hand, and Johnny's bag in the other, he slipped in through the ER entrance and went in search of Dixie, who would surely know where Johnny had been taken.
Oddly, the ER was dead quiet. Nobody was in the waiting room, and nobody was at the nurses' station. Mike decided to peer into the staff lounge to see if Dixie was in there. He poked his head in the door, and saw Craig Brice and Bob Bellingham sitting at the small table. B-shift tonight, then, Mike concluded, as he hastily retreated, not wanting to start an awkward discussion. He decided he'd be better off going back to the main entrance, and checking with the admissions desk. He went back down the ER corridor, heading for the double doors back to the main lobby of the hospital.
"Mike!" a voice called from the other end of the hall. He turned, and saw Dixie emerging from the elevator. "I just took him up—come on, I'll show you up to his room."
Mike gratefully joined Dixie in the elevator.
"Thanks, Dixie. I just had a close encounter with Bellingham and Brice—I don't think they saw me, though."
Dixie laughed. "They're perfectly fine gentlemen, but I can bet Johnny wouldn't want them to know he's here, so I understand your trying to escape." She pushed the "5" button, and the elevator lurched upwards. "Oh, you're all set with the DeSotos—Roy said they're happy to have you."
"Thanks. That's a relief, actually. I'll just say good night to Johnny, and then head right over. I know they turn in early—I'm probably already keeping them up."
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened on the fifth floor. Dixie led Mike to room 521. "I'm afraid he's got a roommate," she said, "so I'll just pop in first to make sure it's okay for you to come in."
Dixie knocked and entered the room. Johnny's roommate, a middle-aged fellow with an arm and a leg in casts, was already sleeping. The curtain was drawn around Johnny's bed already.
Dixie stepped back out to the corridor. "His roommate's sleeping, so just sneak on in," Dixie said. "And Roy said just to come when you can, and knock instead of ringing the bell. He said he'll be up."
"Thanks, Dixie. I really appreciate everything. I know Johnny does too."
"You're welcome," she said. "I'm selfishly glad he wanted to come here instead of Henry Mayo. Tell him I said good night." And with that, Dixie headed back to the elevator, to return to her slow evening in the ER.
Mike slipped quietly into room 521, and found the opening in the curtain around Johnny's side of the room. Johnny's eyes were closed, but it didn't really look like he was asleep.
"Hey, love," Mike whispered.
Johnny's eyes opened. "Hiya," he smiled sleepily. "Dixie says you're all set at Roy's."
"Yeah. I brought your stuff—you want anything from it now?"
Johnny frowned. "Nah. Might as well sleep in this stupid thing," he said, indicating the hospital gown he was wearing, "since they're gonna be prodding me all night anyhow. And can you believe," he continued, "I have to pee in a pitcher, so they can measure every drop? And any time I drink anything, it has to be in front of a nurse, so she can measure it exactly?" He shook his head. "But hey. I guess I don't really care."
"You sound a little less doped up," said Mike. "Are you feeling okay?"
Johnny nodded. "Yeah—the first stuff started to wear off, and they gave me a little less this time. I guess I kinda overdid it, huh?"
"It's possible," Mike said. "But it doesn't really matter—I mean, you were really hurting, so I'm glad you took something. That's what it's for."
"Yeah, Well, sorry if I said anything weird." He looked up anxiously. "Did I say anything weird?"
Mike tittered quietly, trying not to wake the roommate. "You very kindly gave me permission to call you gorgeous, beautiful, and hot."
"In front of people? Did I say that in front of people?" Johnny asked, struggling to sit up, and then giving up and flopping back down. "Ow."
"No. Just in the truck," Mike replied. "Don't worry—I managed to stop you when I thought you were about to say something embarrassing in front of people. Most of the time."
"Oh," said Johnny. "Yeah—that's right. You're my brakes."
"You bet." Mike sighed. "Another shitty day, Gage."
"No day is that shitty when it's with you."
Mike rolled his eyes at Johnny. "You're definitely still high."
"Yeah."
"But gorgeous, beautiful, and hot, too."
Johnny laughed, doubling over. "No fair—no making me laugh."
"Sorry." Mike smoothed Johnny's hair off his forehead, and gently kissed him above his swollen eye, and then on both cheeks, and finally on the lips. "I better go."
"Yeah." Johnny pulled him down for one more kiss. "I'm glad you're staying at Roy's."
"Me too. Love you. See you tomorrow. Is it okay if I come by on my lunch hour?"
"You bet—as long as you bring food."
"It's a deal." Mike kissed Johnny one more time. "G'night."
~!~!~!~
Mike arrived at the DeSotos' house at around a quarter to eleven. He parked the truck in front of the house, and knocked quietly at the door. Roy answered the door a few seconds later, dressed in a robe over pajamas.
"Hi, Mike. C'mon in."
"Hey, Roy. Thanks a lot for putting me up—sorry I kept you up."
"Don't worry about it—I wasn't really all that tired anyhow. How's Johnny doing?"
Mike shook his head. "He's—well, he's got three cracked ribs, but what they're keeping him in for is a bruised kidney. Dr. Brackett said something about it maybe already being scarred from when he ruptured his spleen a few years ago?"
"Yeah," said Roy. "Man, that was touch and go for a while," Roy recalled, shaking his head. "But yeah—the left kidney is just behind the spleen, so it almost certainly took some damage from the impact of that car, too. So I'm not surprised Brackett is worried."
Mike paled. "He, uh, didn't sound that worried," he said shakily. "More, just, precautionary. Roy, is he worse than they're saying? I mean, nobody told me it was that bad—though I guess there really was a lot of blood in his pee. A lot. All right, that's it—I'm going back to get some straight answers." Mike turned back to the door, but was stopped by Roy grabbing his arm.
"Mike. Calm down, all right? I mean, the worst that could happen is—"
"What, Roy? What's the worst that could happen?"
Roy sighed. "Look. Come sit down, all right?" He led Mike into the living room, and pushed him gently into a chair. "Here's what they're doing. They're probably just keeping track of how much liquid goes in, and how much comes out. Okay?"
"Okay," Mike said warily. "He was complaining about having to pee into a pitcher."
"And if they know how much is going in and out, then they can tell whether the amount of bleeding from the kidney is subsiding, which they couldn't tell if they didn't know how much it was being diluted, all right?"
"Yeah—but what were you thinking of, just now? The worst that could happen?" Mike's eyes were wide, and his hands were clutching the arms of the chair.
"Mike, the worst that could happen—which almost certainly won't, all right? The worst would be if the kidney was bleeding too much, and they couldn't repair the bleeding, they would have to take it out."
"Oh, God," said Mike. "See? I should go back."
"Now hang on," said Roy. "If Dr. Brackett thought it was bleeding that much, he'd have sent Johnny in to surgery first thing, okay? Did that happen?"
"No, but—"
"Did he even mention that?" Roy asked patiently.
"No, but—"
"He would've, if he thought it was likely to happen, okay? Dr. Brackett is the bluntest guy I know, and he wouldn't beat around the bush, especially with a guy like Johnny, okay?"
Mike didn't answer.
"Okay?" Roy repeated.
"Okay," said Mike. "But Roy, what if he didn't tell Johnny, because he didn't want to alarm him, or because he thought Johnny was so high he wouldn't get it anyhow, or, or …"
"Look," Roy said. "That's not how Brackett works. Plus, you have Johnny's medical power of attorney, right?"
"Right," Mike nodded. Roy knew that perfectly well, since he'd been the keeper of that power for many years, and happily transferred it to Mike a few years ago. Unlike Roy, though, Mike had never had to make any medical decisions for Johnny.
"So even if he'd thought Johnny was too drugged up to make decisions for himself, which, by the way, I'd like to hear how you managed, he would've asked you."
"But what if he didn't know I had power of attorney?"
"He knew. I told him when Johnny transferred it from me to you. But if he'd forgotten about that somehow, and thought it was still me, then he would've called me," Roy said calmly. "And he didn't. All right?"
"Okay," Mike said, letting out a breath. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Roy said. Johnny had mentioned once, in passing, that Mike tended to get, well, overly anxious sometimes, and could talk himself into obsessive worrying, but this was the first time he'd seen it in person. "But I'm sure if you had any questions, you could call Dr. Brackett right now and he'd answer gladly. Do you want to do that?"
Mike thought for a second. "No. I think you straightened me out. Thanks."
"Any time," Roy said. "Now, let's have some tea or something, and then call it a night."
"Okay," said Mike. "Are you on, tomorrow?"
"Yeah. You?"
Mike nodded, as they went into the kitchen. "Monday through Friday, nine to five. Well," he amended, "seven thirty to four, actually."
"How's the arson unit working out for you these days?" Roy asked, trying to keep Mike's mind on something safe.
"Good, actually. I didn't think I'd like it as much as I do. But it's good. We're working on that supermarket fire from a couple months ago—remember that one, near Palmdale, that went to five alarms, and the whole block went?"
"Yeah, I do," said Roy. "Way out of my area, but I bet every guy in the department heard about that one."
"Well, I can't say too much about it—we go to trial next week—but we're all hoping the bastard gets nailed. I'm still pretty new at this, but the other guys say it's looking good."
"That's great, Mike. Do you think you'll have to testify?"
"Not for this one. I'll sit in on some of the trial, though, because pretty soon they're gonna have me going in that direction."
"Wow." Roy poured boiling water over tea bags in two mugs. "I don't know if I could do that."
"The funny thing is, Roy, I don't mind talking in front of people if it's about technical stuff. Work stuff. I mean, while I was on light duty, they made me teach some pump operations units at the academy, and at first I thought I'd pass out from nerves, but once I remembered I knew what I was talking about, and they were only gonna ask me about that, and not about anything personal, it didn't bother me." Mike shook his head. "Weird, huh?"
"From the guy who was famous at our station for two-word sentences? Yeah. But good for you, Mike. Good for you for getting into something new, and taking it by the horns."
"Well, at the time, Roy, it was either that, or take medical retirement, and go stark staring mad from boredom. So taking the bull by the horns seemed less scary, actually. Plus, well …"
"What?" Roy asked.
"Never mind," Mike said.
"Okay …" Roy was dying of curiosity, but knew not to pry. "This is chamomile, by the way. I have no idea if it's true, but Joanne says it's supposed to be soothing to the nerves. She makes it for us every night."
"Huh," said Mike. "Smells all right. Kinda, flowery or something." He took a sip. "Very mild."
Roy laughed. "When Jenny was little, she misunderstood the name, and thought it was "can of mild." It's mild, the tea bags come in a can—totally reasonable."
Mike laughed. "That's cute."
They took their tea back to the living room.
"What I was going to say, was, I knew I needed something to keep me busy, so I wouldn't go nuts," Mike said quietly, "but I didn't care—not at the time. I didn't care if I went nuts or not. But I knew Johnny did, so that's how I was able to take the bull by the horns. I was petrified—but I did it for him," he concluded, almost in a whisper.
Roy sat silently for a moment. "You guys are good for each other," he said.
"Yeah," Mike said. "Yeah, we really are. And right now, Roy?" Mike looked up from his tea, right at Roy. "If I found those guys that hurt him, I'd take 'em apart. I honestly don't think I could stop myself."
"You could," Roy said. "You might not want to, but you could, and you would."
"I would? What's one reason I'd want to stop?"
"I'll give you two," Roy said. "One is, you wouldn't lower yourself as far as them. And two, Johnny wouldn't like it."
Mike froze. "No," he said, putting his mug down on the coffee table. "No, he wouldn't, would he. I knew that, too. I'm just so … mad."
"I don't blame you," Roy said. "You guys have gotten a bad deal—from society, from the department, from an idiot driver who was too busy rubbernecking at a wreck to see a guy in reflective turnouts holding a big orange flag, and now from a couple of jerks who've gotten way out of line."
Mike couldn't disagree, but didn't have the energy to add to what Roy had said, so he just nodded and sipped his tea.
"He'll be fine, Mike."
"I know."
The front door opened quietly, and Joanne stepped in.
"Roy, are you still up?" she asked in surprise as she entered the living room. "Mike? What—oh, no," she said, realizing why Mike was likely here. "What happened?" she asked, sitting next to Roy on the sofa.
"He—Joanne, the guys who have been giving us all this trouble? They followed him, and they dragged him into an alley, and beat him up pretty bad," Mike said, rubbing his brow. "He's at Rampart, at least overnight—he's got some cracked ribs and a bruised kidney, and they need to keep an eye on the bleeding for a while."
"Oh, no," she repeated. "Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry. That's just—" she couldn't finish. Tears sprang into her eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm not a crier, really, but that's terrible. I'm so, so sorry."
"He's gonna be okay, Joanne," Mike said, believing it this time. "I know he'll be okay."
"He always is, isn't he," she sniffed, laughing a little despite herself. "Though he has seemed to keep himself out of trouble since the two of you got together."
"Until now," Mike said. "Huh."
"What?" Roy asked.
"Oh, I just remembered something he said a long time ago—way before my accident, back when I'd dislocated my shoulder, which seemed like such a big deal at the time, but looks like nothing now. Anyhow, I said something about how he was always taking care of me, and he laughed and said he was sure I'd get my turn. Well, I guess it's my turn," Mike said sourly.
"I wish we could do something—tell us what we can do, Mike—we'll do anything we can to help," Joanne said.
"You guys are doing something—you're giving me a convenient, safe and friendly place to stay."
"But that's nothing, Mike—we're happy to have you, and Johnny too, when he gets out, for as long as you want," said Joanne.
"That's not all you're doing. The really big thing you're doing," Mike continued, "is you're raising your kids not to hate people for any reason. And right now—that's the biggest thing I can imagine."
~!~!~!~!~
"Mr. Gage?"
Johnny woke up suddenly, the pain in his ribs and kidney reminding him instantly where he was. He couldn't see out of his right eye, which had swelled shut overnight. He made do with peering through his left eye, and saw a nurse standing next to his bed.
"Mr. Gage?" she repeated.
"Yeah. I'm awake," Johnny said groggily. The room was dark, except for a small bedside lamp the nurse had apparently turned on. He had a headache—but that was nothing unusual for waking in the hospital.
"I've got your next dose of pain medication, and I also need to get a urine sample."
Johnny groaned and sank into the bed. "All right—do I at least get a little water to wash these down with?"
The nurse handed him a minuscule paper cup containing at most an ounce and a half of water, and another cup containing two pills. "I'm sorry; we have orders to keep your fluids down to a minimum, to let that kidney rest."
"Yeah, I know, I know," Johnny grumbled. He put the two pills on the back of his tongue, and sipped the water to swallow them, praying the small amount of liquid would get both the tablets all the way down. He returned the two cups to the nurse, sat up, and swung his legs off the side of the bed. "What is it, like two a.m.?" he asked, letting his blood pressure adjust to his being upright.
"About that," said the nurse. "Can you get to the bathroom on your own, or do you need a hand?"
"I can do it," he said. The nurse handed him a plastic jar with a lid.
"Don't forget, the rest still needs to go in the pitcher," she reminded him.
"Yep." Johnny made his way into the bathroom, turned on the light, wincing at the glare, and closed the door. He followed the nurse's instructions, and noted that maybe, just maybe, this sample looked a little less bloody than the last one.
"Here ya go," he said, handing her the jar. "Hot off the presses."
"Thanks for cooperating," she said. "Sorry I had to wake you."
"'s okay," Johnny said. He rolled back into the bed, thought of Mike sleeping in the DeSotos' spare room, with the floral patterns that Mike would surely hate on the bedspread and curtains, and was asleep again almost instantly.
"Huh," the nurse said. "He wasn't difficult," she thought, thinking of the dire warnings she'd gotten from co-workers who'd tended to this patient in the past. "Far from it. A total puppy dog. Didn't even come close to hitting on me, either. "
~!~!~!~!~
Elenora Daniels woke with a start, unsure what had brought her to wakefulness. She put on her glasses, and looked at the bedside clock. Four a.m., she thought. Not a good time for anything. But, awake is awake, she thought. Plus, I'm pretty sure I heard something. Time for a look-see out the ol' front window.
As she made her way to the front of the house, she was sure she heard a metallic clanking sound—something like a metal can, perhaps. She peered through a small opening in the living room curtains, and immediately stepped back.
The silver Honda was there again—she was sure of it. She went quickly to her phone table, and grabbed the pencil and paper she kept there. She knew she couldn't stop whatever they were doing, but she also knew nobody was at the house anyhow. She strained her neck and her eyes as hard as she could, but only got the first two symbols from the plate: F9. Maybe it would be enough.
She put down the pad, and went straight back to the phone, where she had the deputy's card ready and waiting.
"L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Price speaking."
"This is an emergency," Mrs. Daniels said. "I'm calling from 14319 Harrison Street, and somebody is doing something to my neighbor's house, across the street at 14318 Harrison. This may be related to an ongoing incident, and I was given this number to call."
"Is that the Stoker/Gage residence?"
"It is, and I know for a fact that nobody is home. The car in front of the house was the one that followed Mr. Gage earlier. There are two men outside the house. I can't see what they're doing over there, but—" There was the sound of breaking glass. "They just broke some glass. It's still too dark to see exactly what they're doing."
"Ma'am, stay inside your house. I'm sending a car right now. Can you give me your name and number please?"
Mrs. Daniels supplied the information, hung up the phone when the deputy told her to, and waited.
Two minutes later, the silver car pulled away from the house across the street.
Three minutes after that, a black and white sedan pulled up in front of the house, lights blazing and sirens screaming. The officer in the passenger's seat trained a floodlight on the house. Mrs. Daniels could see the damage now—bright pink paint had been thrown all over the brick front of the house, and the plate glass window in the living room was shattered.
~!~!~!~!~
Mike limped in to HQ a little later than usual—closer to eight o'clock—but still earlier than most of his colleagues. There was a pink message slip clipped to his door, with the "Urgent" box checked: "Mr. Stoker—please call Deputy Price ASAP."
"Shit," Mike said. He sat down at his desk and dialed the number on the message slip.
"L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Price speaking."
"Deputy, this is Mike Stoker returning your call."
"Mr. Stoker, I'm afraid there's been an incident at your home overnight."
Mike couldn't think of what to say.
"Mr. Stoker?"
"Yeah. I'm here. What kind of incident?"
"Your neighbor, Mrs. Daniels, phoned us at 0410 stating there was a silver sedan in front of your house, and that there were two men doing something at the house. We arrived at 0416 to find that the intruders were gone, but the large living room window had been broken, and that paint had been thrown on the front of the house."
"Fuck," Mike swore loudly. "Just—damn it. That's just the last fucking straw. I guess I'll go home and put a board up over the window or something."
"No need—Mrs. Daniels explained your situation—that Mr. Gage is in the hospital, and that you were staying with friends near there, so we took care of boarding up the window."
Mike's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Seriously? That's … extremely kind. Sorry I lost my temper."
"Understandable. Don't worry about it. The good news is, Mrs. Daniels was able to get part of the plate number, and she confirmed the make and model of the vehicle, so there's a fairly good chance that we should be able to get the owner in for questioning today."
"That woman is a saint," Mike said instantly. "I'm calling the Pope today to tell him." He thought for a second. "Are you allowed to tell me who the car is registered to?" he asked.
"Let me see … James Torrelli. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"Not a thing." Mike had a sudden inspiration. "Hang on a second—I have my Department HQ phone book right here—but that would be too easy, wouldn't it." He thumbed through the booklet. "Nope, no Torrelli that I can see at HQ."
"We'll pick him up," Price said confidently. "Also: is Mr. Gage in the hospital as a result of yesterday's assault?"
"Yes," Mike said. "It turned out he had some bleeding from his kidney, and they need to keep a close eye on it."
"Do you think he would be up to signing a release form?"
"A release form? What for?" Mike asked.
"We'll be increasing any potential charges from assault and battery to aggravated assault and battery, based on the seriousness of injury. We need medical documentation of that, and we need him to sign off on a release so we can get the records from the attending physician."
"Oh," Mike answered. "I … don't know if he'll do that."
"It's up to him," said Price. "But we probably can't prosecute it as a felony unless we have those records. It would just be records of this injury—nothing else."
"I'll talk to him at lunchtime—please don't send anyone to see him until then, if that's possible."
"That's fine. Someone will come by this afternoon."
Mike had a sudden thought. "You know, do you think you could send an officer by the name of Vince Howard? I'm pretty sure he still works in the district that Rampart is in. He and Johnny worked together a lot—I'll bet Vince might have a better shot than a stranger."
"I'll see what I can do," said Price. "And I'll let you know of any developments. Will you be staying at the number Mrs. Daniels gave us this morning? We tried to reach you there earlier, but were told you'd left for the office."
"Um, I'm not sure. I'll let you know."
"That's fine. We'll keep you posted."
"Thanks. And—thanks an awful lot for taking care of the window."
"No problem. We'll be talking to you soon."
Mike hung up the phone, and put his head down on his desk for a long, long time.
After a while, he picked himself up, went into the break room, and made a pot of coffee. He stared at the coffeemaker while the pot was brewing, trying not to think about anything. It didn't work. He poured himself a mug of the brew, and sat back down at his desk. He opened his top right drawer—the one with his pictures—and felt a tiny bit better.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number he called frequently, but for a different purpose than usual.
"L.A. County Fire Department Station 93, Captain Sterling speaking."
"Hi, Len. Mike Stoker."
"Howdy, Mike," said Sterling. "I'm guessing this isn't a social call, from the sound of your voice."
"No. No, it's not. Look—there's no good way to do this, so I'll just say it. Johnny got beat up last night by the guys who've been hassling us. He's in the hospital. He's got three cracked ribs, among other things, and that's gonna mean probably three weeks sick time. I know he's got it, but I also know Chief Livingston has it in for him, and this isn't going to go over well with him."
"Like a fart in church," Sterling agreed. "So you're wondering what advice I might have about how to smooth things over with him, is that it?"
"Pretty much," Mike replied sheepishly.
"Well, first off, I'm happy to work a double—take John's shift tomorrow. That'll be a good start, as Livingston likes advance warning when people have to take sick time. As if people should be able to schedule illness and injury."
"Really? That's great—thanks. I know Johnny was dreading calling in today, but being able to name his sub for tomorrow will help a lot. Thanks a million, Len."
"Entirely my pleasure," replied Sterling. "I'm guessing Hank would take some shifts, and maybe DeSoto, too? They both work A-shift as well, if I recall."
"Yeah—I'm pretty sure they would. I'll talk to them both today, too. Man, Johnny might kill me for meddling, but I gotta do something."
"Son, he's not gonna kill you. He may fuss and grumble about you mindin' your own damned business, but he'll know you're doin' it 'cause you love him."
"You're probably right. It's my turn, anyhow."
"Your turn?" inquired Sterling.
"My turn to take care of him for a change. I just have to get him to let me, is all."
"I don't think it'll be as hard as you think, Mike."
"Maybe not."
"Anyhow—I'll talk to Jeff Gilbert on B-shift. He isn't in a position to pull double shifts, but he could probably stick around and wait on someone comin' up from down south if that would help. I know it's quite a trek to get up to this neck of the woods from most of the rest of the county."
"Thanks, Len. Thanks a lot. I'm about to call Rampart to see how Johnny's doing—I'll keep you posted, okay?"
"You do that. Take care, Mike."
~!~!~!~!~
"Mr. Gage?"
"Go 'way."
A hand gently shook his shoulder, and the room lights came on, bright enough Johnny could see red through his eyelids—or at least, through one of them. "Mr. Gage, I'm sorry to wake you, but it's time for another dose of your medication, and I need another urine sample."
"Yeah. Okay. Gimme a minute." He opened his eyes, or at least, the one that would open enough to be useful, and saw the same nurse who'd been in every three hours during the night. "Shouldn't you be off?"
"My replacement called in sick; I'm just staying a few extra hours until her sub can come in."
"Oh." He repeated the drill of sitting up, adjusting to being upright, taking his pills, and filling the sample jar.
"I let you sleep through breakfast—you looked like you needed the rest more than the hospital food—but can I get you something now?"
"Yeah, that'd be great. But I'm guessing coffee is right out."
"Right out," the nurse agreed. "No diuretics while you're resting that kidney."
"At least the painkillers will keep me from having a caffeine withdrawal headache, though."
"Ah, the voice of experience."
"Yeah. Been here a lot. Bet I have a big capital "D" in my chart for "Difficult," too."
"Well, keep up this behavior, and I'll bet it gets removed from your record."
"Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed anyways, right? What'd they say about me, anyhow? I know you nurses share notes on repeat offenders, and us firemen have gotta be the worst of all."
"Oh, you've got the big "D," all right, and they said to watch out for incurable flirting, avoiding medication, juvenile behavior, and general stubbornness."
"Sounds about right."
"So what happened?"
"Grew up, I guess. Finally." He absentmindedly spun the ring on his finger.
The nurse smiled. "Well, I'll be back with a nice, well-behaved, grown up breakfast. The orders are for a low protein diet, with fluids still restricted, but you didn't have much at night, so we can probably manage some orange juice to go with the toast."
"Uh, thanks, but I can't stand the stuff—just water would be great. Or maybe decaf—fool my brain into thinking it's had coffee."
"Decaf it is, then," said the nurse. "Someone will be in shortly with your meal."
"Thanks," said Johnny. "Oh—could you shoot me the phone before you go?"
The nurse moved the phone from Johnny's nightstand to the table she swung over the bed, and left.
~!~!~!~!~
Mike still hadn't mustered the willpower to do any actual work. He sat at his desk, intermittently brooding and making a list of things to do that had nothing to do with his work assignment.
1. Thank-you gift for Mrs. Daniels.
2. Locate a sandblaster to rent.
3. Lunch for J.
4. Call docs.
5.
Before Mike could add any more to his list, his phone rang.
"Arson/Fire Investigation, Mike Stoker speaking."
"Hey Mikey."
"Hi babe! How are you?"
"Maybe not so bad. Ribs feel better, a little, I guess. Kidney's not so achy, and I think the pee looks maybe not so bad, but only the lab can say for sure. Doc's s'posta come in soon."
"They let you sleep at all?"
"Yeah, actually, I kinda just got up. They woke me up a million times—all right, maybe three—but in between I actually slept okay. Pretty foggy, though. Gonna see if maybe I can cut back on the pain meds."
Mike sighed. "You know what I'm gonna say, right?"
"Yeah. I'm just thinking cut back a little—not quit entirely, all right? Oh, and here's the really crummy part—they have me on restricted fluids, and a low protein diet, to try to rest that kidney. So I guess that pretty much rules out you bringing me decent food for lunch."
"Well, I'll come by after, then, just to hang out."
"Great! So you stayed at Roy's right?"
"Yeah. Um, it's probably a good thing, too." Mike relayed the information Deputy Price had passed along earlier.
"God damn. Why can't they just leave us alone? What do they get outta this shit, anyhow?"
"Beats me, Johnny. Something, I guess." Mike sighed. "Listen—two more things. One, the cops want to get a report from Brackett—and they need you to sign off on a form for that. Will you do it? Please?"
"I guess—long as it's just for this one thing, right?"
Mike was relieved. "That's what they said—just this incident. They need a medical report to justify to the D.A. to increase any potential charges to a felony."
"Okay. What's thing two?"
"Well, don't kill me, okay, but I talked to Len. He's gonna cover your shift tomorrow, so don't worry about Livingston coming down on you for short notice for a sub, all right?"
"Shit—I wasn't even thinking about that. Thanks. And why would I kill you for doing me a favor?"
"Uh, I dunno," Mike fumbled. "Maybe 'cause I'm meddling in your business?"
"Way I see it, most everything that's my business is yours, too. Hey—doc just came in—I gotta go. Love you."
"Love you too—see you around one?"
"Great. Bye."
Mike put his phone down, and, cheered by Johnny's acquiescence, started in on his actual work.
~!~!~!~!~
Dixie had one last stop to make before going home after her twelve-hour night shift. She entered the office of the Personnel department, still wearing her uniform, and hoping that the right person would be seated at the desk in front of the locked files.
She was.
"Good morning, Laura!"
"Dixie! What brings you to the dungeon of despair?"
"To be honest, I need a huge favor," Dixie admitted.
"Well, after you found me those volunteers for the new hospice program, and steered me clear of that walking disaster who wanted the head nurse's job in pediatrics, you can pretty much name it."
"I need some information I can't have," Dixie said quietly.
"Oh," Laura replied. "That's, um, harder."
"Nobody will ever know where it came from—if what I need is even still here, I'll pass it along anonymously to where it'll do the good it needs to do. I swear, Laura, I would never ask this if it weren't really important. I have a good friend who's in trouble, and if we can find an ex-employee it could make all the difference."
"Is your friend in trouble because of something she did?"
"No, it's a he, and he's in trouble maybe because of something the ex-employee did. Or, more likely, the ex-employee's brother."
"What kind of trouble?"
"The kind of trouble that makes you spend time in this joint," Dixie said. "I'm sorry, I really wish I could tell you the whole story, but I can't."
Laura sighed. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said. "Would you mind watching my office while I'm out? I'll lock the door, and put the "back in ten minutes" sign on the door, but if you could keep an eye on the files, that would be great, because the key's right there in my top drawer, right where anyone could get it."
Dixie sighed with relief. "Thanks a million, Laura. It's for a good cause—honest."
Laura shook her head. "If it were anyone else, Dix …" She went out the office door, and Dixie heard it lock.
Dixie went to work on the files, looking over her shoulder even though she knew nobody could possibly be watching. Two minutes later, Dixie was silently cheering Lynn Nolan for thoroughly and completely filling out her emergency contact form. She wrote down some information, replaced the file, and was sitting innocently in a chair far from the files when Laura returned.
~!~!~!~!~
Deputy Jim Price was at his desk, finishing the report from the latest Stoker/Gage incident. Another pair of men was out tracking down this James Torrelli character, who turned out to have a warrant out on him anyhow, for a variety of parking and traffic infractions. Price sighed—it seemed likely that this bozo was just a hired heavy, or maybe a friend of the brains behind the harassment, because there was no apparent connection between him and either Stoker or Gage.
The phone rang, just before Price was about to take a coffee break.
"L.A. County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Price speaking."
A female voice came on the line. "I have some information that might be helpful in a case you're working on."
"All right—your name, please?"
"No can do—this has to be anonymous. You can talk to me now, and have the information today, or I can put it in the mail, and you'll have it tomorrow. Your choice. And, I'm calling from a pay phone, so don't bother trying to trace this call."
Price rolled his eyes. "Okay—go ahead."
"This pertains to a case regarding the assault of a man named John Gage, and the threats that have been made to him and his partner, Mike Stoker. You should look for a man named Bill Staib. He's the half brother of Lynn Nolan. His most recent address was 3634 South Marydale. His most recent place of work was at the County Fire Department in the motor pool. Can you repeat back what I just said?"
Price's eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he repeated the information he'd written down. As soon as he'd finished speaking, he heard a click and the line went dead.
As much as he wanted to laugh his head off at this civilian's cloak-and-dagger behavior that suggested too much time in front of the TV, he couldn't, because she'd probably just busted his case wide open for him.
TBC
