Chapter 37: Barometers

Wednesday, February 13

"I'll let Mr. Steele fill you in on the new information he uncovered yesterday," Thibodeaux clipped out, conceding the floor to the private detective.

Remington started. Truth be told, he'd been all-but-dozing during the task-force meeting although his eyes had been wide open. He hadn't been able to get in a couple decent winks of sleep the night before. His anger was a living, breathing thing, with Laura's intentional deception and the what-could-have-been's acting as the fuel keeping the fire burning white hot. So, he'd paced, he'd prowled, he'd brooded, he'd tossed, he'd turned and yes, he'd sulked. And the lot of it had left him sleep deprived and had done him absolutely no good. He was no closer to finding answers, solace, when the new day had demanded his attendance.

When he'd returned to LA the prior evening, he'd rung up Westfield and updated him on all he'd discovered, as well as Laura's theory. That call had only served to further irritate, as the man himself was a potent example of Laura's ability to deceive, to justify those deceptions.

"…losing our license may be the very best thing that ever happened to us. Maybe it'll give us time to think about how we really feel towards each other, outside work. All we've ever done is play trial-and-error with our personal relationship, as we try to squeeze it into our professional one."

And what was it she'd said about that bit of duplicity? Ahhhh, yes….

"I was scared. It's always been too easy to lose myself in you, in us, breaking rule after rule that I've created for myself. I'd been in too deep from almost the day I met you. You and I, we'd reached a point that the next step meant no turning back. It… terrified me. William was… safe. I'd never find myself in too deep with him. I'd never lose myself in him. He was just a genuinely nice, semi-boring guy who believed in the good old Protestant work ethic like me. Just safety. No risks."

'Just.' There was that word again.

Westfield was a decent enough chap, he'd come to realize over the week of working with the man. The man was nothing if not committed to his job, and the people of California were in all-the-better hands for it. Much like he and Laura, Westfield was dedicated to seeing justice meted out, to protecting innocents from the nefarious doings of others. The man was a straight arrow, to boot, telling it exactly as it was, good, bad or otherwise. He even had a pair of brass ones, directly addressing last evening their joint histories and attempting to lay it to rest.

"How are Laura and the kids?" Westfield inquired.

"Not thrilled with their forced absence, but making the best of it." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of, my daughter will be awaiting her nightly call about now. I should be-"

"Steele, before you go," Westfield cut in. "I'd like to clear the air between you and I."

"I wasn't aware the air needed clearing."

"That statement alone confirms that it does. If you'd humor me for a minute?" Westfield requested. Remington glanced at his watch again.

"Just."

"I feel compelled to tell you I didn't know Laura was involved with someone else until she left me sitting on that plane and even then, I had no idea it was you," Westfield volunteered. "I've made it a point, throughout my life, not to do to someone else what I wouldn't want done to me, including making a play for a woman already seeing another man."

"Yes, well, I imagine the blame for that falls squarely on Laura's shoulders, although we made our peace with it many years ago," Remington commented, forthrightly.

"I like you, Steele. There aren't too many people I'd put my trust in, but I think you could be one of them. And I believe Elle, my wife, would enjoy both of you." Remington pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, with a disbelieving look on his face. Is the bloke actually suggesting we might become friends? "For what it's worth, I am sincerely sorry for my unwitting part in it all."

"Appreciate it, but it's unnecessary." He gave his watch a third look. "My daughter will be getting quite testy about now," he hinted.

"Meeting is at eight, tomorrow. I'll see you there."

He'd leaned back on the couch and had rubbed at his face for long second before reaching for the mobile phone, not relishing the thought, at all, that he'd first have to go through Laura to speak with Livvie. The joke had been on him, however, as it was his daughter's voice who greeted him when the phone had been answered. He'd expected….

"Mr. Steele?" Remington mentally shook his head clear of his wandering thoughts.

"Sorry, sorry," he offered those sitting around the table, as he patently ignored the queer look Murphy was casting in his direction. "Yesterday afternoon, I met with an informant: A former member of Westside who has sought anonymity in a town several hours from here. Westside had begun running a furtive crack manufacturing and sales operation, wishing not to be under Castoro's thumb in this enterprise as well. Shortly after Castoro's discovery of Westside's side business, they were hit. My informant has identified three of the individuals in the photo line-up as being amongst the shooters: Farrell, Hopkins and Phillips."

"If they knew Castoro was responsible for it, why retaliate against the Hoovers?" Sizemore with narcotics ventured.

"Westside had an old score to settle, so the 'hit' on them allegedly by the Hoovers proved too good to pass up," Remington informed those at the table, tapping his fingers against it for emphasis. "The Hoovers certainly weren't going to deny it, as—"

"It gives them credibility on the streets," Sizemore finished, as the full picture dawned on him. "Mess with us, we'll take you out. Then, other gangs with a beef against Westside or the Hoovers see them as weakened and decide now's the perfect time to get some of their own paybacks."

"Precisely," Remington concurred, pointing a finger at the cop. He turned in his seat to address Westfield and Thibodeaux directly. "Yesterday afternoon, in that same photo array, Sophie identified Farrell and Hopkins at the men who attacked her mother. Obligated though we might be to report that bit of information—"

"Westfield, we'll need a warrant for the arrests of Farrell, Hopkins and Castoro given we now have a witness—"

"No, you don't," Remington interrupted Thibodeaux, adamantly. "As I was saying, obligated though we might be to report that bit of information, our first responsibility is for the safety and well-being of the child placed in our care. Sophie will neither testify nor discuss this again in the future… ever."

"Damn it, Steele!" Thibodeaux boomed. "Not a single one of his men have flipped on him and now when we could have the three of them behind bars within the next few hours, you're playing Daddy instead of investigator!"

"You're bloody well right I am and it's about time someone did!" Remington bit out. "She's a three-year-old child who not only watched the only person that ever gave a damn about her brutalized, but then was thrust into the home of strangers, only to be further traumatized by the attack on my family this weekend. She's been put through enough, and if providence is on our side she'll somehow come out of it all whole and healthy. But that won't be the case should she be forced to relive it time-and-time again!" Thibodeaux waved a dismissive hand towards him.

"Kids forget. Westfield, get those warrants. We'll compel the kid to testify if—"

"Sorry, Al," Westfield declined, calmly. "I agree with Steele on this one." Two surprised faces turned to look at him. "We'll find another way, and I think the Steele's have already come up with it. Steele?"

"My informant was familiar with Eriberto, a pimp, going by the name of Big-E, running women over off 43rd. With this information, one of our associates was able to put a full name not only to him, but Paco as well." He paused and glanced at his notes. "Eriberto Soto, twenty-eight years of age, born in Mexico, here illegally. He's been arrested a half dozen times on charges of domestic battery, and in every instance the victim insisted the charges be dropped. Contrary to the information provided, he doesn't run women off 43rd, it's where he lives. I had Graham and Warmack sit on the house last evening. Shortly before nine he loaded eight women into his van and drove them down to the Boulevard." He swung his chair towards Murphy, who was seated at his right. "Michaels?"

"Paco Medina, thirty-four, from Venezuela, also here illegally," Murphy stepped in. "Lives off Gage and South Vermont in Vermont-Slauson. Burton and Celek tailed him last night. He runs his women on Lankershim. Unlike Soto, pimping appears to be a cover for his main business: illegal sale of weapons. He's been busted three times, and did a year in Valley State last time around."

"Do you think either of them will roll on Castoro?" Thibodeaux asked. Remington and Murphy exchanged glances.

"We have no way of knowing that," Murphy answered for the pair. "But, I think with the right incentive Paco could be convinced."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Another three-pronged approach, actually," Remington replied, while Murphy pulled out a stack of papers and handed them off to Davis, on his right, to pass around the table. "My… partner… found a pattern in some of the entries found amongst Clarissa's notes – specifically involving Roberts and Phillips: On the third Friday of each August and February, they make a trip to border towns for a 'product pick up.'" Murphy passed the next stack of papers to Davis. "My… erstwhile… partner…" He again ignored Murphy's assessing look at his choice of words, "…discovered during a trip to the library yesterday afternoon, that last August, a truck full of women traveling illegally into the country was stopped. It so happened, this bust was right outside of Las Cruces where Roberts and Phillips were scheduled for a pick-up."

"The women were the product…" Westfield concluded with a whistle. "That brings into the equation an unknown number of federal charges. "I'm impressed, Steele."

"My…" he cleared his throat and tried again, "All credit goes to Laura and the… remarkable, often boggling… way her mind works."

"Your plan?" Thibodeaux prodded.

"This evening, Michaels and I will do a little… reconnaissance of Medina's while getting the lay of the land, so to speak," Remington replied.

"This is a gray area we're entering now, Steele," Westfield warned. "As a citizen, I can't prevent you from entering his house. But, you're to remove nothing from the place. I don't want to find myself in a situation where the Court tosses –"

"Fruit from the poisonous tree and all that," Remington cut in with a dismissive flick of his hand.

"This is not our first rodeo," Murphy added.

"As long as we're clear," Westfield nodded.

"We are," Remington confirmed.

"So, what else?"

"The INS owes Laura and I a favor or three. I've already reached out to my intermediary. On Friday, whilst Roberts and Phillips are on their way to their pick up, should the schedule hold true, the INS will cooperate with this task force on the raid of Soto and Medina's homes." Remington turned to Murphy who continued.

"Westfield, you'll want to have a search warrant ready for both locations, on whatever grounds you wish as long as it will cover the discovery of any weaponry found in Soto's place."

"I can do that," Westfield agreed, easily enough.

"And the third prong?" Thibodeaux inquired impatiently.

"Roberts and Phillips," Murphy responded. "You'll need several two-men teams tailing them to wherever Friday's pick up is. We don't want them to become suspicious their being followed, so cars will need to trade on and off. We'd be wise to get a tracker on whatever vehicle the pair are traveling in, and to bug the cab as well, if the opportunity arises."

"More warrants," Westfield commented.

"More warrants," Murphy confirmed with a nod. "it would be our suggestion that one of your teams work in conjunction with the INS raid, and we'll put Burton, Graham, Warmack and Celek on the road with your other two teams, tailing Roberts and Phillips. You'll also need to cooperation of someone you trust within the FBI so they can act as a liaison between your task force and local law enforcement, should this cross state lines, which I expect it will. Once the exchange of product is made, both the transporter and Roberts and Phillips will be subdued."

"Nailing Roberts and Phillips on human trafficking charges, at the very least—" Remington summarized.

"And we're betting the transporter will be more than willing to roll on those two in exchange for nothing more than removal from the country," Murphy finished.

"And how is any of this going to put Castoro behind bars?" Thibodeaux challenged. "Not a single person arrested during the first round of raids was willing to talk."

"Ah," Remington drawled. "But they lacked proper incentive. Soto is not only facing deportation, but a stiff prison sentence, in a facility where it might be mentioned he turned mere children out onto the streets to line his pockets."

"And as for Medina, if he has weapons on the grounds as we expect, between hefty weapons charges on top of those related to the women he's purchasing from Castoro, he's facing what could be a life sentence," Murphy pointed out. "A light sentence combined with deportation, in exchange for testimony could be a strong reason for him to cooperate."

Thibodeaux and Westfield exchanged looks, and at a nearly indiscernible nod from Westfield, Thibodeaux turned to Davis.

"Davis, you and your men will stay behind and work with the INS," he ordered. "Henley, Breathwaite, your teams will be taking a trip, each team switching out in intervals of sixty to ninety minutes until we have a transmitter on the suspect vehicle. I don't want to risk making the men paranoid and calling the pickup off. Breathwaite, you'll take charge of this detail, including Steele's people. Steele, before your recon at Medina's this evening, we could use your assistance."

"Oh? How's that?" he asked, with a tug at his ear.

"We've had no traffic coming from the transmitters in Castoro's home office: either they're broken, or he knows someone is listening. I'd like to check things out tonight while he and the wife are at the club. Once you clear the system for Davis and his crew, you're out of there."

"Shouldn't present a problem," Remington agreed.

"Then let's get at it everyone," Thibodeaux ordered, officially calling an end to the meeting.

"So, what's the deal?" Murphy asked, while taking a bite of his burger, where he sat across from Remington at his desk.

"I've no idea what you're speaking of," Remington answered, taking a bite of his burger as well.

"Are you forgetting I've been around since you first walked into this very office. I know all the signs for when Mommy and Daddy are fighting," he reminded, as Remington looked up at him through his lashes while leaning over for to take another bite at the sandwich, but not offering a word in answer. "All the business with 'my… partner'," he mimicked. "When things are good between you, you refer to her as Laura or Mrs. Steele. When the two of you are going at it, 'partner' or 'Miss Holt' are your descriptions of choice. So spill." Heaving an exasperated sigh, Remington tossed down his burger and leaned back in his chair.

"Where should I begin? That she intentionally deceived me? That she didn't honor her word? That once more she placed business before our family or that, yet again, she has made it patently clear the rules do not apply to herself?" Thoroughly irritated now, he yanked the napkin from his collar and threw it on the table, standing to pace. Murphy let out a low, long whistle.

"Busy lady," he commented, aloud, wryly. "Do you mind telling me how she managed to do all that while hiding out at a fishing camp?"

"To 'hide out at a fishing camp', one must stay at said camp, mustn't they?" Remington answered with a question of his own, instead.

"So, she took off. Can't say I'm surprised," Murphy admitted. "Where to?"

"The library." Murphy laughed openly at this.

"Don't you think you're overreacting a little, Steele?" he ventured. "Didn't she, Catherine and the girls go grocery shopping, to the dance studio and the library only the day before—"

"In Fresno," Remington interrupted. "Two hours away, while not only leading me to believe she meant in town, but sans Tank or Dozer." Murphy sobered at that. "And not a dozen hours after she lambasted me for even considering meeting with my informant without you there to watch my back," he thought to add in his annoyance. Murphy helped himself to some more of his burger while taking time to contemplate this information.

"Do you remember what I told you about Laura and Jeffries while we were in Mexico?" he finally asked.

"He couldn't keep up with her, so instead of setting her free, he decided to slow her down… So when she told me they were moving in together, I let her know I thought it was a huge mistake. That slowly but surely he was taking the very best parts of her and blending them into his version of the Stepford Wives… It took her the better part of a year to pull herself completely together…"

"As though I'm likely to forget," Remington muttered in answer.

"Nine years ago, there's not a person on this planet that could have made me believe you would be good for Laura, let alone the best thing that's ever happened to her," Murphy began thoughtfully. "But you were and are. I'd like to say she's happy, content, but it's more than that. There's in a light in her eyes, a confidence, I haven't seen in her since those days at Stanford. She's... found herself, again, but a better self. As much as she used to claim she wanted it all, I never bought it." Remington lowered himself back into his chair and reached for his cup of water.

"Oh?"

"Think about it, Steele," Murphy challenged. "She's never been able to please her mother: Laura's too independent, too wild, too determined, too smart, too headstrong… too everything, except what her mother thought she should be and yet somehow she was never enough. And Frances? She might not be as judgmental as their mother, but have you ever heard her compliment Laura without first criticizing her? Even now, her mother still doubts Laura is capable of being a wife and mother and is just waiting for her to fail so she can say 'It's alright, dear. We always knew you weren't cut out for it, but you tried your best.' And Wilson?" He snorted his derision. "Don't even get me started on him. He wanted a mindless trophy on his arm; someone to bat her eyes and smile at the higher ups he wanted to impress, but sure as hell not to speak or render any kind of opinion."

"While I appreciate your wishing to help, I'm not certain what this has—" Remington began.

"I'm not finished," Murphy admonished. "The only person who saw Laura as not lacking, who valued who and what she was simply for being her, walked out of her life and never looked back, leaving her to figure out on her own how to survive, to find value in herself living in that household with her mother and sister. School, sports, her job. All of them objective ways of finding value in herself. If you get an A in a class, you're doing it right – there is nothing subjective in that. If you win a race, throw a runner out, hit a triple bringing in the game winning runs – you're doing it right. If you solve a case, you're doing it right. All of them are objective barometers, in her mind, of her worth, because after her father left there was no one standing beside her telling her she was valuable for no other reason than she was Laura Holt." Remington shook his head in denial.

"Laura knows I find her valuable beyond measure—"

"You're missing the point," Murphy interrupted, exasperated. Remington rubbed at his mouth in frustration, then lifted the hand and dropped it in helpless gesture.

"Then perhaps you should spell it out for me," he huffed.

"Laura always said she wanted it all, but bought into a lifetime of being told she'd never quite measure up as either a wife or mother," Murphy explained, striving for patience. "I can guarantee you, there is no one as shocked as she that she, like anything else she puts her mind to, has excelled at both. But now, her family is being threatened. You want to speak about powerful barometers? If any one of you do not come out of this safe and whole, in her eyes it will be because of a massive failure on her part. Of course, she went to that library. When everything else has failed her, the job never has and that job is the only way she knows not to fail at the most important thing she's ever done in her life: your family."

"I don't know, I don't know," Remington mumbled, shoving aside his lunch then dragging his hand through his hair. "If that were the case, why would she take any risks when it comes to herself and the babe she's carrying?"

"Why do you think?" Murphy challenged, as he stood and tossed his waste into the trash can. "I'm going to borrow Laura's office and call home." With that, he vacated the office, leaving Remington to turn in his chair and stare out the window, brooding, lunch forgotten.

"Whoever said appearances can be deceiving must have been talking about this place," Murphy noted, with an appreciative whistle.

Remington and he had breached the back door of the dilapidated house minutes before and now stood in the living room, as Remington quickly committed to memory all the entry points to the room. The room, indeed, did not reflect the seedy exterior of the house. A couch and loveseat of buttery soft leather, were accented by glass and wrought iron end and coffee tables. The face of the slate fireplace extended to the ceiling, and the area rug was made of pure angora wool. Knick knacks carefully displayed on various surfaces were pricey, the art on the walls even more so. Even the drapes at the windows were of obvious quality and likely custom made. Medina certainly enjoyed living comfortably and well.

Each room they entered, then searched, displayed the same taste for luxurious living and yielded absolutely… nothing. Until, that is, they ventured down to the basement. Initially innocuous in its contents, a padlock on a closed door instantly drew their attention. Stooping before the door, Remington made fast work of the lock with his picks, then stood and pulled open the door. A flick of the light switch illuminated a room that left them both initially speechless.

"Well," Remington cleared his throat, "Thibodeaux's boys are going to be busy cataloging in here, eh?"

Shelves and cabinets were packed end-to-end in the room and each were filled with a large selection of fire arms. On a central table lay several dozen handguns, which, upon closer examination, it appeared someone was currently working on filing off the serial numbers. Pulling his gloves out of his pocket, Remington picked up several to examine them. Murphy, once gloved up as well, began taking pictures of each weapon using the small, disposable, Kodak Fling camera they'd purchased for just this occasion.

Twenty minutes later, they departed the home, unaware they'd been under video surveillance the entire time.