Death Angel, Sweet Angel is the title of the "fictional" original story adaptation of Police Quest I in the Police Quest Casebook. It is an original story based on the version that appears in the game itself, but takes some of its own direction and liberties with the characters and story (some events do not appear or are glossed over, and additional scenes added, characters names changed or merged with other characters). Some characters from later games are introduced into the events of the first.
It's worth noting that there are some changes between First and Second editions to the stories. For example second edition in part one "Roll Call" Sonny's opinion of Bulwer is a lot stronger than it is in the first edition.
Death Angel, Sweet AngelEdit
Sonny Bonds pulled his dark blue Corvette into the lot at Lytton City Police headquarters. Another fine morning, he thought, like the morning before, and the morning before that. Sometimes he felt sick to death of California. No rain. No snow. Just day after day of sunshine and light. He smiled ruefully. And night after night of the wacky weirdness that seemed to spell out "West Coast" in big block letters for the folks back East.
He took his sunglasses from the glove box, leaving his wallet behind. That was his first mistake, because it immediately reminded him of why he was in such a sour mood. The bill from Eddie's Service Station lay right on top. "Race It or Wreck It-If It Ain't on the Road, Then It Ain't Worth Driving." Four hundred and thirty-seven dollars, Sonny thought. He had just come in from the freeway, what he liked to think of as an interactive California lottery, and the sound of banging pistons had preceded him the whole way. Motor's knocking like a freshman's knees on prom night, he thought. Looks like I'll have to give Eddie an encore presentation.
Locking up, Bonds tried to put it all out of his mind. There wasn't anything he could do about it anyway, not right now. He had promised to pull a double shift for Steve. That would mean he wouldn't get the car back to the shop for another day, maybe two. He walked up the short flight of steps to the side entrance and pushed through the glass doors.
The main police station in Lytton sounded bigger than it was. The very phrase-Police Headquarters-conjured up images of gleaming walls, recessed fluorescent lights, emergency response switchboards tied to 9-1-1 service, security doors sliding quietly into place. But in reality the building was a relic from the early 1960s, barely up to earthquake code, walls covered with institutional paint, small offices, narrow hallways. But it served its purpose, acting as the control center for the department, relaying information through Dispatch, and serving as the repository for evidence and as the base for ongoing investigations.
Sonny made his way to the locker room. Puzzled, he looked over to the second bank of lockers. Jack Cobb was leaned over with his face against the cool metal. "The Blue Room," he said. It was all the explanation Sonny needed.
"The fabulous Blue Room," said Steve Jones. Jones worked Burglary. Sonny had been with him on a stakeout last winter. On the whole, Jones was a better stakeout partner than most. He had a sense of humor and he didn't talk too much about himself, which helped the tedious hours pass. Jones continued, in a bad impression of Robin Leach, "Here Jack Cobb takes his repast as the glint of a red sunrise reflects off a broken wine bottle, the smell of a new dawn rising against the fetid squalor that forms the magnificent backdrop-"
"Can it, Steve," Sonny said. "Crying out loud, Jack. You can't stay out all night drinking and then expect to come in here, climb into a patrol car, and pull an eight-hour shift."
"Been working so far," Jack said, heading for the can.
Steve came up beside Sonny and looked over his shoulder. "Death on the installment plan."
Sonny took his service revolver and holster down from the hook and examined it. He was meaning to get a new one, but so far this had served well enough. He had drawn this weapon only once in his entire career, and the only shooting he had done with it was at the pistol range. Not counting that night last year when the guys hosted a surprise birthday celebration for Jack Cobb. He learned weeks later that the painters had fixed it so you couldn't even tell where the bullets had gone into the wall.
That was almost a year ago, Sonny thought. In fact, it must have been a year ago almost to the day, because he knew that Cobb's birthday was right around this time, maybe even this week.
So the gun was OK. He knew it worked, at any rate. Whenever Sonny read about how police departments in the bigger cities were outgunned on the streets, he started thinking about changing over to a bigger weapon. An automatic, maybe. If the crooks in Lytton ever started to develop an arsenal, he wanted to have the firepower to stop it.
But for now he'd settle for the .38 police issue with a speed loader. It wasn't like he was going to war, he thought. Not while he was stuck in traffic division. Sonny took a look at his watch. 'Jack, you going to make it?" he yelled.
"Yeah, yeah, Sonny. You go on."
"All right. You've got about three minutes, so I would quit praying to the porcelain altar there and get a move on if I were you. Dooley will have you for lunch if you're late."
Jack groaned. "Don't mention food," he said from behind the stall door.
It was all Sonny could do. He was Jack's friend, not his father. It bothered him, though. Something wasn't right. Sonny closed his locker with a bang. He opened his briefcase to check the contents. Inside was his LPD ticket book, a pen, and a slim, dog-eared notebook he used as a daily log. He closed the case and hustled out into the hallway.
Time was short. One good feature about this old building, he thought, you never have to walk far. He made it to the briefing room in plenty of time. In fact, he was the first one there. That relieved him. He didn't want a black mark now, not after yesterday's nomination for LPD Officer of the Year. If you were the last person to the briefing you had to endure some of Sergeant Dooley's most creative insults. It was the kind of recognition that Sonny wanted to avoid.
My star is on the rise, he thought, stepping into the empty room. And not a day too soon. I want out of uniform and into plainclothes. 1 want career advancement. I want a car that runs. There's no way I'm ever going to end up like Jack, he thought with bitter sadness, no way you'll find me hugging a locker-room toilet and yelling for bear.
He crossed the room to the set of pigeonhole mailboxes in the far wall to check for messages. Inside he found a note from Steve. "How about a 11-98 at Carol's Caffeine Castle later in the shift?" it read. Sounded all right to Sonny. A jolt of the hazardous toxic event that Carol sold as coffee was enough to get anyone through a double shift.
His eye caught sight of the Lytton Tribune, which someone had left behind from the graveyard shift. He glanced at his watch. He still had time to skim the news. He walked to the table and picked up the paper. His eyes fell immediately on a piece by Ben Bulwer, the crime reporter. Usually he didn't read these pieces, but Bulwer had a way of getting under your skin.
- Dope in the City
- Ben Bulwer
- The city of Lytton i no longer the beautiful, peaceful and quiet city it once was. Lytton has experienced rapid growth and prosperity, but along with the growth has come an alarming increase in the crime rate that has changed the face of the city. The homicide rate is higher than the city has ever seen. Prostitution i on the rise.
- Police Sgt. John Dooley states that dangerous drugs are showing up on the streets and in the schools. The Tribune has learned from a reliable source that a big-time drug dealer with a street name of "Death Angel" may be responsible for this rash of drug trafficking among our children and neighbors.
Sonny sniffed. Yeah, he thought, I'd like to see this "reliable source" myself. But he knew he would never get the chance. The scuttlebutt around the station was that when the DA had suggested convening a grand jury to look into Bulwer's sources, the reporter had refused to cooperate. The Trib's publisher had backed him up and threatened a lawsuit. So right now things were at a stalemate. But Sonny was sure of one thing: If he ever found out that Bulwer was holding back, that he was a witness to a crime without offering assistance or information, then he was going to nail him as an accessory. Sonny had taken an oath to defend the laws of the city, state, and country. And he would protect the freedoms of press and speech with his life. But freedom of the press didn't mean freedom to kill. And that was exactly what was happening to the kids in Lytton. Somebody-this "Death Angel"was killing kids with the promise of an easy high. Kill them fast with a bullet, kill them slow with poison, it was all the same to Sonny. If he ever had the chance to get his hands on this pusher who called himself the Death Angel, Sonny was going to do a little break dancing on the creep's skull. And he knew he would have no lack of dancing partners.
He flipped the page. He still had a few minutes. He decided to indulge himself ' and read about yesterday's announcement. He found it buried toward the back of the paper, a small item that didn't even get a byline. Figures. Crooks get page 1, cops get buried along with reports on sunspots and baldness cures.
LPD Officer of the Year Nominees Lytton PO Chief Morton Whipplestick has nominated patrolmen Sonny Bonds and Joe Walters for the LPD "Officer of the Year" Award in recognition of their outstanding law enforcement efforts and commitment to crime prevention.
Still, he thought, folding the paper and tossing it back on the table, it's in there. That's the kind of notice to get. On one hand, Sonny disliked the feeling and sense of competition that such an award implied; on the other hand, it couldn't hurt his career. He was devoted to the law and to police work, and he was determined to climb the ladder as high as he could. The people at the top have the power to do the most good, he thought, and that's where I want to be someday. He grinned to himself, half-seriously thinking of ways he could sabotage Walters's campaign. The troops were starting to file in. Steve Jones took a seat next to Sonny at the front table. "Looking good in the paper, my man," he said. "Thanks," said Sonny. "I think you can beat Walters. I've got fifty bucks riding on you." "It's not a competition," Sonny said. He felt a small pang of embarrassment at his own thoughts. "All life is competition," said Steve. "Never think otherwise."
They watched Jack walk slowly into the room. He held his head perfectly still, as if his skull was full of nitroglycerin. Sonny wondered about the stability of the San Andreas Fault. He tried to catch Jack's eye but got an empty stare for his trouble. "Reminds me of a George Romero movie," said Steve. "What?" Sonny replied. "You know, Night of the Living Dead. Zombie town. Death Mask. Malcolm Lowry, maybe, or perhaps Poe-The Masque of the Red Death." Sonny just stared. "How do you come up with this stuff?" he asked. "Ah," said Steve. "You're of course referring to my easy transitions between pop culture, literary high-mindedness, and scatological repartee. A curious journey through the sacred and profane." "I just want to know what the hell you're talking about," Sonny said. "Honestly, I don't know which is worse. You and your 'repartee' or Jack and his regurgitations. High-mindedness meets high-mindlessness." "That's good, Sonny," said Steve. "I like the way you handle yourself in a crisis situation." Both men silently watched Detective Laura Watts enter the briefing room. "So," Sonny said to break the spell, "What odds did you get on your fifty bucks?" "You're going out at 6 to 5, my man." Sonny nodded. He could live with that. He looked across the room to where Laura Watts sat. I could live with that, too, he thought. So far, his conversations with Detective Watts had been perfunctory and courteous-one might even define them as "professional." When she passed him in the hall she left a cool wake that chilled him like the night wind off San Francisco Bay. Still, his mind persisted in playing out its fantasies, rocketing along like the brain of a 16-year-old adolescent with terminal hormonal displacement. Sergeant John Dooley entered the room at his usual pace, a loping gait that dissolved into a shuffle at close range. More than one suspect had mistaken that walk for the limp of an old man, but Sonny had seen Dooley run down a punk from a dead start and with a 25-yard handicap over two wooden fences and up three flights of steps. The creep never knew what caught him until he looked down and saw Dooley's big gnarly fingers close around his ankles. When he hit the pavement at full stride, the fall flattened his nose across part of his lower lip. All the way to the hospital the punk whimpered from the backseat of the squad car, complaining about his nose, sniffling through the blood, and complaining that cops should have to retire when they get that old. After that incident, Dooley was known as "The Flash." But not to his face. Sonny pulled his notebook from his briefcase. "OK boys and girls, gentlemen and ladies," Dooley began. "I've got today's hot sheet for you. Topping the charts this afternoon," Dooley read from the papers in his hand, "is a black 1983 Cadillac sedan, license plate LOP1238, Vehicle Identification Number C03456218. This number entered the top ten last week with a bullet.Suffice it to say," Dooley paused, raising his eyes from the papers in his hand, "that the owner-one Malcolm Washington-would like to reclaim his property sometime before he makes the last payment."
"On a more sobering note," Dooley continued, "three teenagers were arrested last night in three separate incidents, all involving driving under the influence. Two of these outstanding young citizens were found to have cocaine in their possession. All three attendjefferson High School. In this case, high seems to indicate something other than the level of education the children at that school, and throughout the city, are receiving." "Now, some of you here enjoyed a very long weekend, made longer perhaps by the frequent imbibing of liquid refreshment. But it's time to get back to the streets," Dooley said, focusing his eyes on Jack Cobb. "lf you read this morning's paper you know that we aren't exactly stemming the tide of crime in our fair city. lt doesn't matter how many good busts you make, it doesn't matter how many crooks you put behind bars. I don't care how many old ladies you help across the street, how many drunks you get off the road, how many pounds of no e candy you confiscate. The people in Lytton don't read your reports. They read the paper. And as you can see," he said, holding the morning paper aloft so the room could read the "Dope in the City" headline, "their reading is taking a decidedly prurient turn." "So let's give the paper something more positive to notice and report. Let's get the story out loud and clear: The citizens of Lytton control the streets, and the LPD is there to serve and assist. And if there's anyone here who isn't prepared to back up your fellow officers so that we can do that job adequately, then I want to know about it. Because when the feces hit the fan and you can't respond, you're more than just a number on an accident report. You're dead. And your partner's dead too. And all the grieving friends and family that you leave behind will have to live with that for a long time." Nobody spoke. Dooley's words hung in the air like wet laundry. "OK, then," he said. "Hit the road." The blue uniforms filed out slowly. A few murmurs were passed among them, but no one made any comments loud enough for Sonny to hear. He wasn't concerned. He had the impression that Dooley's comments were aimed at Jack, but they could have been intended for any one of the officers. Sonny understood that anytime you let outside influences alter your performance, you risked taking a long trip down a short road. There were times when he wasn't always on-line, some times when his brain was on automatic. He worried about Jack, sure, but his first concern was with his own behavior. He took a quick look at his notebook.
Talk with Bulwer at Tritbune? Check--Jack's birthday 5tolen--black Caddy LOP1238 VIN C03456218
Bulwer. That's one he d like to nail. Even more than that, he'd like to peg the dope being sold in the schools on somebody. That Bulwer seemed to know a lot for a reporter. Maybe I should pay him a visit, Sonny thought, then he dismissed the idea. He knew that if the Chief ever caught wind of an officer in an unauthorized meeting with the press he'd bust that cop to meter patrol quicker than he could shine a badge. On the other hand, there's no telling when you might just bump into somebody-even a newspaper reporter-on the street, off duty.
he sun hit Sonny hard as he stepped out into the parking lot. "Hey, Sonny!" called Jones, pulling up alongside before heading out of the lot. "You take care of that vehicle! I hear that it's the Chief's sentimental favorite!" "Yeah," Sonny answered, glancing over at his assigned cruiser. "I can see where the Chief might have made his rookie run in this thing."
"It's a poor man that blames his tools, Sonny Bonds," admonishedjones. "See you later at Carol's!" He accelerated out into the street. Sonny watched Jones take the comer, then turned back to his own vehicle. There's nothing wrong with this car, he thought, noting a bad paint job that tried to disguise the minor scrapes. Nothing that a bullet through the oil pan wouldn't fix. He opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. Reaching overhead, he pulled his PR-24 nightstick from its cradle and laid it on the seat beside him. He'd never had to use his stick on a civilian. just the sight of a police officer putting his hand on the grip was enough to cool most hotheads. Sonny started the car and backed out of his space, then rolled out into the street. "I'm 10-8," he said into the radio handset. "10-4, 83-32," the radio crackled. "Make the streets safe for me out there, Sonny Bonds." "10-4, Dispatch." He replaced the handset in the cradle. Driving north on Sixth Street, Sonny let his mind return to the morning's briefing. He reached over to the seat next to him and retrieved his notebook. He'd like to get his hands on that black Cadillac. More than that, he'd like to nail the guy pushing drugs in the schools. He swung right on Peach, then turned south on Fourth Street. The radio was quiet. Another quiet day in Lytton. At the light he watched a young couple emerge from a toy store with a large stuffed bear. They laughed as they struggled to get it into the backseat of their Toyota. Looking up, the woman caught Sonny's eye. He nodded, then pulled away as the light turned green. Kids, family, wife-Sonny hadn't thought about any of those words for a long time. Or the woman who always rode those words into his mind-Marie Wilkans. The name still sent an electric current along his spine. But then it crashed, lights out, and all that remained was a stillborn image like an old forgotten photograph, just rambling darkness and the ragged remnant of a dream. Sonny and Marie had been inseparable in high school. He was a Lytton native, born and bred. He could still remember the day Marie entered the school a newcomer, with bright flashing eyes that she kept shyly focused on the floor, hair so black that it could be night's blanket. Marie's mother had brought them to Lytton with the promise of a new life, one to replace the one stolen from them in some strange town in the middle of the country. In that town, which Marie could not bear to name, her father had been killed by a would-be robber stealing the cash from a convenience store just off the highway. Marie's father, a salesman, had pulled off the road for a pack of cigarettes and a Coke. He walked into the wrong place at the wrong time, and the robber, only 22 years old and scared out of his wits, had turned at the sound of the bell and put three bullets in his chest. Marie's father died on the floor, gazing up into a rack of Gummi Bears, remembering that Marie liked the yellow ones best and wondering how much change, exactly, he had in his pocket.
That tragic history controlled and finally unmade Sonny's relationship with Marie. What had started off as a high-school romance had turned serious during their senior year. But when Sonny started talking about the future, about how he wanted to study criminology and then enter the police academy, Marie had grown increasingly distant. She didn't understand why anyone would want to be in a job that meant carrying a gun. She didn't want to be involved with someone if it meant sitting up at night worrying that he might not make it home. "I've had enough of that," she had told him the summer before he left for college. They were still dating then. "I don't ever want to get that call in the middle of the night, I don't ever want to have to go through what my mother went through, and I don't ever want to have that kind of hole ripped in my life again, ever." The irony of it all revealed itself when Sonny returned to Lytton with his degree, ready to enter the academy. Although he had lost touch with Marie, he knew she would want to see him. His exuberance didn't prepare him for the sight of Marie's mother, bitter with grief, standing in the door of the house he remembered so clearly. When she told him he could find Marie most any night with the girls on Fig Street, Sonny's heart turned to stone. Fig Street was the hub of the city's prostitution trade. The women who worked there walked on the margins of life. Unbelieving, Sonny had driven to Fig and made a few slow passes. Even during the afternoon, the hookers didn't hesitate to flag him down to ask for a "date." He couldn't believe how flagrant they were about it. Flashing teeth and cheap jewelry, clothes that looked like they came off the clearance rack at Frederick's of Hollywood-all of these impressions flowed over Sonny as he drove slowly down Fig Street. He found Marie at the comer of Fig and Third. She was sitting at a bus stop, talking with another hooker. She didn't see Sonny, and that was OK by him. Suddenly, from a doorway to the left of the bench, one that led to the upstairs rooms over the Bag 'n' Go grocery, a big man emerged and began screaming at Marie and her companion. Sonny watched Marie stand and say something to the man, but he couldn't make it out. Marie's companion laughed. Out of nowhere, the man's big hand swung around like a club. Marie's head snapped back and her knees buckled. Her friend cursed the man and grabbed Marie to keep her from falling. Swearing, the man turned and went back inside. It happened so fast that Sonny hadn't time to react. Before he could get out of his car, the episode was over. As he crossed the street, Marie looked up. She stared at him with eyes as hard as glass and that told him all he needed to know. He turned and walked back to his car. He still saw Marie occasionally. Not socially, of course, but on his beat, as he drove the city streets. He didn't understand it, but he still had a soft spot for her, somewhere beneath the anger and the humiliation. So he watched out for her. He checked up on her through his sources. It helped him to know they were still connected. It was tenuous, but it was a connection. He liked to think that it helped Marie, no matter how weak the bond between them. He liked to think that.
An Accident Waiting to HappenEdit
The radio crackled to life and brought Sonny out of his reverie. "83-32. 83-32. Respond to 11-83, southwest corner of Fig and Fourth." Traffic collision, Sonny mused. "10-4. I am 10-20 at First and Fig. ETA 3 minutes. 83-32 over." "Roger 83-32. 11-41 en route. Over." "Roger, Dispatch. 83-32 out." Sonny made a quick right and circled back to the reported accident scene. It wasn't hard to find. A group of curiosity seekers had gathered around what used to pass as a late-model green sedan. From the looks of it, Sonny figured that the driver had attempted to make an unorthodox tum into the side of the Colonial Van & Storage warehouse. The warehouse didn't accept drive-in deliveries.
Sonny parked and got out of his car. He took his notepad and radio extender, then hooked his PR-24 to his belt. He crossed the few feet to the smashed car and came up behind a couple of kids who were peering through the broken window on the driver's side. "OK, fellows. Police business. Move your act down the street, pronto," he ordered. "Sure thing, Officer," said one of the boys. They retreated to the crowd gathering on the sidewalk. Sonny took one look inside the car and keyed his radio. "Dispatch, 83-32. Copy?" "Roger, 83-32." "83-32 is 10-97. Where in the hell is that 11-41? We've got a major 11-80 here. I need those E.M.T.s on the double. Over." "Roger, 83-32. I'll check it out. Over." "Roger, Dispatch. 83-32 out." Sonny looked into the car. The driver was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Opening the door slightly, Sonny reached inside gingerly. His hand came back sticky with blood. "Oh, man," he muttered. He turned the driver's head slightly.
A small, well-defined hole in the left side of the driver's head was complemented by a gaping wound in the man's lower-right jaw. This guy didn't get this in any auto accident, Sonny thought. He felt the driver's neck. Nothing. He reached for the driver's wrist and felt for a pulse. Too late. Probably dead before he hit the wall, Sonny thought. The wail of a siren made its way down the street. Sonny keyed his radio. "Dispatch, this is 83-32. Tell the meat wagon to cut the horn. This is 11-44 here. No hurry." "Roger, 83-32." A few seconds later, the wailing stopped. Sonny looked in at the driver again. He examined the car from the outside. A spiderweb of cracks spread across the windshield, and the front end all the way down the right fender was history. Sonny backed off and closed the door. That's when he noticed another small, neat hole-this one in the driver's window. It had all the makings of a drive-by. He keyed the radio again. "83-32. Looks like a homicide." "Copy, 83-32. Coroner unit and homicide unit on the way." "Roger. 83-32 out." Sonny glanced up quickly. The crowd was still there, drinking it in. He made his way around the car to the group of onlookers. "Anyone here see anything?" he asked, not hopeful. "Did anyone witness this accident?" "That wasn't no accident," said a young man from the back of the crowd. He pushed his way to the front. "I saw it, officer. I saw everything." Sonny took out his pen and notebook. "Why don't you tell me everything you saw," he said. "It was just like being at the races," the young man said. "I was buying a paper across the street there," he said, pointing to a rack of the Lytton Tribune, "when I heard tires screaming and motors roaring. When I looked up I saw this green car and another car racing down the street, side by side!" "The other car," Sonny said. "Could you identify it?" "Oh, yeah," said the young man. "A late-model Cadillac." "Are you sure about that?" Sonny asked. "I'm sure," the young man said quickly. "My old man sells them. I can spot a Caddy five miles away." "Right," said Sonny. He made a note in his book. "Can you remember what color it was?" "Blue. Light blue." "Not black?" Sonny asked, pausing. "Man, I know the difference between a Cadillac and a Lincoln blindfolded-I sure as hell can tell the difference between light blue and black." Sonny nodded. "Then what did you see?"
"When they got closer, there was a loud pop-I thought it must've been one of the tires. Right after that the green car here does a nosedive into the side of that building." "And the Cadillac?" Sonny asked. "He was cooking," the young man continued breathlessly. "He was jammin'made a right a couple of blocks down." "I don't suppose you got a look at the license plate ... " "Part of it. I think I saw part of it. 'L964' was what it was. l'm pretty sure that's what it was." Sonny nodded and wrote it down. "OK, anybody else? Anybody besides this young man here see something?" A few murmurs drifted across the top of the crowd, but nobody spoke up. "All Good Samaritans, eh?" said Sonny. He closed his notebook and glanced at his watch. His backup would arrive anytime now. He stepped off the sidewalk and took a look around the sedan, searching for anything he might have missed. Not much here, he thought. Unless you want to count a cracked-up sedan, a brick wall with a hole, and-not to forget the details-<me dead driver with a bullet in what used to pass for a skull. The sound of a car sliding to a stop brought Sonny's head up. Detective Oscar Hamilton and Sergeant Dooley pulled themselves from the squad car and made their way over to where Sonny stood next to the sedan. Compared with the near-shuffling Dooley, Hamilton was another picture altogether. Tall, dark hair slicked back a la Pat Riley, a well-trimmed mustache, a dark Italian-cut suit that didn't come off any Sears rack. Sonny couldn't help stealing a glance at Hamilton's shoes: gleaming, black high-quality leather that looked like it had been formed around his foot by an old shoemaker and stitched by hand. And it probably had. Hamilton breezed right by Sonny without a glance. Dooley pulled up short. "Good work, Bonds. We'll take it from here. That your witness?" he asked, nodding to the blond-haired kid who had identified the suspect car. "Yeah, that's him. Gave me a partial plate number." Sonny started to flip though his notebook.
187 at Fig and Fourth/green sedan
driver with gunshot wounds entrance left side, exit right jaw
witness says lite blue Caddy, partial plate L964
ck w/ hot sheets!
Caddy go east two blocks then south
"That's all right, Bonds," said Hamilton, coming up from behind. "I can get all of that." "Hit the streets," Dooley said. "Maybe you can find the other car." "That's right," Hamilton chimed in. "Maybe you can catch a couple of bad guys out there." He grinned. Sonny turned and walked back to his squad car. Maybe you can catch this, Hamilton, he thought, bringing to mind a suitable anatomical reference. He smiled politely at Dooley, then climbed in. Tossing his notebook to the side, he hit the accelerator and moved into the street. "Kind of touchy, isn't he?" Hamilton said to no one in particular. He followed Dooley over to the witness.
Death Drives a SedanEdit
Sonny cruised north, letting his anger at Hamilton dissipate. He knew it wasn't a good idea to let something like that get to him. He had endured worse from suspects, traffic offenders, even civilians. But Hamilton got under his skin. Sonny figured that Hamilton probably knew this. He tried to look on the positive side. Maybe it's a test, he thought. Some kind of psychological stress test. He picked up the radio mike. "Dispatch, 83-32 now 10-98 from the scene." "Roger, 83-32. Out." Sonny hoped he wouldn't get a call. He took a left on Fig and followed it west until it intersected with First, then turned right and headed north again. At Palm he took another right and drove east. The city was quiet. A few bicyclists rode along the pathway that bordered the street. Sonny shook his head at his reaction to Hamilton. His anger had dissolved in the afternoon sun. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his sunglasses and slid them onto his face. He had driven about two blocks when the radio crackled to life. "83-32, patching traffic through from 83-31." "This is 83-32," Sonny responded. "Come on with the traffic." Jones's voice broke into Sonny's patrol car over the airwaves. "Second-cup-ofcoffee time, 83-32. Give me an 11-98 at Carol's." "Roger, 83-31. Out." Sonny replaced the radio. He turned left on Sixth, then left again on Oak. Carol's was on the left. He made an illegal swing around and pulled up behind Jones's car. He keyed his radio again. "Dispatch, this is 83-32. I am 10-20 at the CCC." He hung up the radio and got out of the car. Stretching, he looked up and down the street. All was quiet. Beyond the dirty barroom windows of Wino Willy's bar, which sat right next to Carol's, Sonny could just make out a couple of regulars spending their Social Security benefits.
He locked his car and pushed through Carol's front door. Jones had snagged a booth by the front window. Sonny slid into one of the seats. "Yo, Carol," Jones called. "Where's the coffee? I'm dying here." "Patience is a virtue," she replied. "So is virginity," Jones answered. "But that doesn't make the wait any easier." Carol crossed the floor with a full pot and poured steaming brown liquid into two heavy mugs. "Fresh brewed and hot," she said. "How goes the fight?" "Early yet," said Sonny, as Carol turned to leave. "But I'll keep you posted." "Sounds like you had a real mess on your hands with that 187," Jones said. Sonny nodded. "You don't know the half of it." He took a drink of coffee and grimaced. "Man," he said. "This stuff would strip the chrome off a trailer hitch." "Carol uses the leftovers to refinish furniture," Jones quipped. He poured what appeared to be a half cup of sugar into his mug, then took a drink from his cup and winced. "Even additional ingredients don't seem to help. So tell me about this accident." "It wasn't any accident," Sonny said. "The driver had a nice clean entrance wound to the side of the skull, and a rather nasty exit in the lower jaw." "That would certainly distract from his driving abilities," Jones said. The telephone next to the counter rang with a deafening clang. Carol picked it up, then hollered across the room. "Sonny Bonds, there's a Detective Hamilton on the line for you." Sonny waved his acknowledgment. "Duty calls. Officer Bonds here," Sonny said, putting the receiver to his ear. "Hamilton here, Bonds. We've got an ID on your 187. Seems the driver was one Lonny West. Heard of him?" "Local dealer," Sonny said. "Strictly small-time." "That so?" Hamilton replied. "Well, he got somebody's attention. West is the second small-timer to get his ticket punched in the last two weeks. Pass the word," he continued. "I want to hear from the patrol officers about any new drug activity. I want to find out who whacked our small-time friend. Even money says they're connected." "I'll spread the word," said Sonny. Hamilton hung up. Sonny took his place in the booth. "Seems the victim at my 18 7 was Lonny West." "Our Lonny West?" asked Jones. "The little punk dope dealer?" "Don't get all broke up over it," Sonny said, setting his empty cup and a couple of dollars on the table. "Gotta roll." In his car, Sonny thought about West and what his execution might mean. Nothing in Sonny's most recent busts had indicated a new dealer was moving into town. Nothing except what he had read in the Tribune that morning, about the Death Angel.
The consolidation of the Lytton drug trade could spell trouble for the department. Already understaffed, the department had kept a handle on the illegal drug trade by keeping the dealers and suppliers off balance. Key arrests, effective interrogations, and a couple of snitches had kept the local drug network in disarray. Without an organization, the dealers were easier to watch and easier to control. But if somebody like this Death Angel succeeded in organizing the supply and distribution, Lytton could be in trouble.
187 at Fig and Fourth -ID Lonny West! small-t ime dope dealer motive- robbery? car in motion, no chance for robbery drug dispute? possible execution? possible
The next few hours passed without incident. Sonny wrote a couple of citations, and settled a dispute between two homeless men arguing over a grocery cart. Driving north on Ninth Street, Sonny found himself yawning and wishing for action. As if on cue, the radio broke into his thoughts with a call about a complaint at Carol's Caffeine Castle. Sonny responded to the radio call and swung his patrol car around in the opposite direction, then made a left to come up to Carol's from the east. A row of motorcycles blocked the parking in front of the coffee shop, so he stopped his cruiser in front of Wino Willy's bar. Aside from the heavy thump of the bass notes emanating from Willy's jukebox, everything seemed quiet. He picked up his radio and acknowledged his location. "I'm 10-6, Dispatch. Going inside right now." "Do you request backup, 83-32?" "Negative. Looks quiet. 83-32 out." Sonny replaced the mike and got out of his car. He took his nightstick with him, and made his way around the line of motorcycles into the coffee shop. Taking a quick look around, he spotted Carol behind the counter, her back to the door. He crossed the floor and stood between the two stools at the end of the counter. "Carol," he said. "You called about a disturbance-what seems to be the problem? Everything looks pretty quiet to me." Carol finished serving a customer at the far end of the counter then dried her hands on the cloth she had tucked into the waistband of her apron. "Those drunken bikers in the bar next door are taking up all the parking spaces in front of my place," she complained. "They have absolutely no consideration for others! Where are my customers going to park? Can you get them to move?" She set an empty cup in front of Sonny and filled it with coffee. "There's no law against parking motorcycles in those spaces," Sonny explained, taking a tentative sip from his cup. The coffee hadn't improved much since that morning. "I don't have any right to force them to move if they don't want to move." "My customers are going to be afraid to come in," Carol replied. "You'd think that the city would want to protect people from the garbage that goes into that place over there." "The law protects all of the people," Sonny said. "Even biker scum." "You know, the Chief is a personal friend of mine," Carol said. "What do you say I give him a call and see if he can send someone over here who can do me some good?" Sonny shook his head. That's just what he needed. "Look, Carol. They won't be there all day. In a few hours they'll be moving on and you'll have all of your parking spaces back." "I think there's drug dealing going on over there," she said, leaning in closer. "I see all kinds of people going in there all the time." "It's a bar, Carol. Of course people go in there all the time." "Kids, too." Sonny looked her in the eye. "I hope you're not just pulling my chain, Carol. You know I'd be bound to check out information like that." "I thought you would be," Carol said. Sonny sighed. "All right. I'll have a talk with the bartender. But if everything checks out OK, they can leave their bikes there all day long and that's their right." Carol just glared at him. "Call the Chief if you want," Sonny said, dropping some money on the counter. "I'm sure he'll send a S.W.A.T. team over right away."
Sonny pushed his way out the door and walked the few steps to Wino Willy's bar. He didn't put much stock in Carol's declaring that drugs were being sold in the bar. But he couldn't discount it. Stranger things had happened in this world than dealers selling drugs in bars. Once inside, Sonny paused for just a second to get acclimated to the dimness. It didn't help that most of the light from the few operating fluorescent bulbs was obscured by a thick haze of cigarette smoke. He wondered how long it took to die from second-hand smoke exposure. Taking a quick look around, he noted the positions of the few customers. His eye caught the bartender ducking into the back room and muttering something to a big guy in a black leather jacket with club colors on the back, who stood with his back to the door. Next to him sat a girl with long dark hair, and to her right another rider, with a sleeveless denim jacket, oil-stained and marked with club colors. Before he took another step, Sonny noted two other club members playing darts against the left-hand wall. Seemed quiet enough, he thought. But why did the bartender retreat to the back office so quickly? Leather Jacket turned from his place at the bar. The two bikers to the left stopped their dart game. The rider at the bar turned around on his stool. When the girl turned, Sonny felt his heart drop. It was Marie. She met his glance only briefly, then looked down. She didn't let on that she knew him. Sonny found himself wishing that he had called for backup. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, miss," Sonny said, nodding to Marie. "Are those your motorcycles parked outside?" "So what if they are?" asked the big guy in the leather jacket. He was obviously the leader. Sonny kept his eyes on him, while maintaining a sense of where the other club members were standing. The big guy was the one he had to communicate with. The rest would follow his lead. "Something wrong with that, pig?" The conversation, such as it was, took on a menacing air. "The business next door would like to know if you gentlemen would be so kind as to move your motorcycles from in front of her premises," Sonny explained. The bikers laughed. Even Marie had to cover her mouth to hide a giggle. "You got to be kidding, man," said the rider in the denim vest. "We'll park our scooters wherever the hell we like. No law against that." "That's right," Sonny said. "There's no law against it." "The only law here," said a thin, bearded biker from the left, one of the dart players, "is that there is no law here."
The big guy in the leather jacket held up his hand. "That's right." He turned to Sonny and moved forward a few steps. "No law, and no law officers." He smiled crookedly. "So why don't you get back in your little police car and split." Sonny didn't have a legal foot to stand on, but he couldn't let the intimidation pass. That would make it more dangerous for the next officer who had to come in here. "I am just asking you to move your motorcycles," he said in his most diplomatic tone, "as a gesture of goodwill and citizenship toward others on the street. There's a parking lot just a half block away that should hold all of the bikes until you retrieve them." "Like hell," said the leader. "Why don't we just kick you around a little until we teach you to see this from our perspective?"
The bikers each moved forward. Sonny kept his eyes on the leader. "Don't start something, fellows. I'm a police officer," he warned. "We aren't starting something," said Denim Vest. "We're finishing something." Sonny quickly drew his nightstick and assumed a defensive position. He knew from experience that an air of authority and a sense of experience-in addition to the sight of a big ugly black stick-could defuse many threatening situations. The leader held up his hands, palms out. "Hey, man, we were just having some fun with you. Chill out, man." "C'mon, Chop Block," said the balding biker, finishing his beer and tossing his darts on the table. "This place smells bad. Let's split." The big guy in black leather looked hard at Sonny before nodding his head. "The next time you come in here, you had better bring in the troops," he said. "I'll take that under advisement," Sonny retorted. He maintained his defensive stance. The leader pushed by and headed toward the door. The rest of the gang scurried behind him like roaches hit by sudden lamplight, muttering insults and obscenities. Stopping at the door, the leader looked back. "Come on, Marie, get your butt off that stool and onto this bike." "Sorry. Police business," said Sonny, stepping between the door and Marie. "l am going to have to detain this lady." "What's the matter?" asked the big guy in leather. "Having trouble with your nightstick?" The gang broke into laughter and disappeared out the door. "Thanks a lot, Sonny," Marie said sarcasticalJy. "You just knocked me out of a day's pay."
"Those guys weren't johns from out of town looking to spend some expenseaccount money. After they got done using you at the clubhouse, they'd probably throw you in a ditch." "So who are you to say who I take as a customer?" Marie sneered. "When a john comes to me, he brings a wallet, 'cause I don't take American Express, I don't take MasterCard, and I don't take Visa neither. And I sure don't take advice from a cop." "All right, Marie, I hear you. But I do need something from you." "Oh?" she asked, smiling a wicked little grin. "Now I'm interested. You leave your uniform on for this or does it come off?" Sonny stifled his impatience. "I'm serious. I'm looking for information. I've got something to trade." "Yeah? Like what?" "You first," he said. "Do you know anything about a new drug business moving into town?" "That's bad business, Sonny. I stay out of it." "But you might have heard something," he insisted. Marie nodded. "I might have heard something." "And you're going to tell me what that something is." Marie turned away quickly and picked up her drink from the bar. "Look at me," she said. "I feel like some teenager who just broke up with her boyfriend." She took a long swallow from her glass and set it back down. Sonny battled a compulsion to let himself drift into the pictures that flooded his mind, images that called to him like a siren toward the rocks of his unfortunate memories, the jagged pieces of another life, another time. "Don't just jump in there and try to make me feel better with some small talk," Marie said. She turned away from the bar and stared into Sonny's eyes. "Oh, what the hell-I had a john the other day, name of Hoffman or Coffman or something like that; I can't really remember. Sharp dresser, a little peculiar. Had a tiny flower tattooed above his left nipple." "A flower?" Sonny asked, taking notes. "Yeah. It was kind of cute, really. Anyway, this john was real generous with his money. He paid a little bonus and I gave him some extra special attention. And I guess he was feeling pretty good because he started to go on about somebody he called the Death Angel, who was going to create some kind of drug empire in Lytton, and my john stood to make a real sweet killing." "Is that all he said?"
"That's all I can remember. But that's about all of it. I think he knew he had said too much 'cause right after, he got quiet and didn't say nothing. Just tossed some more money on the dresser and left." "Thanks, Marie," Sonny said, closing his notebook and putting it back in his pocket. "So what's in this for me?" she asked. "A girl could get hurt giving this kind of information to the cops." "I want you to get off the street for a few days," Sonny told her. "Vice is running a sweep called Operation Trick Trap."
Marie/Wino Willy's customer Hoffman? Coffman? tattoo of flower left nipple --ck w/ vice re Trick Trap
"I'll think about it, Sonny." "If you need money, some place to stay-" Marie waved him off. "I'm no charity case. Besides, what would all of your cop friends say?" He nodded and headed for the door. "Sonny," she called after him. Sonny stopped, his hand on the aluminum bar that served as a door handle. "Do you ever think of me? Sometimes?" He didn't tum around. He could feel her eyes warming the back of his neck. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Sometimes I do, Marie." The door swung open and he stepped out into the hard afternoon light.
Back in his cruiser, Sonny keyed his radio and acknowledged his position. At least now he had a lead-the john with a tattoo and a loose wallet. If the guy will talk business with a hooker, no telling what he might say during an official interrogation. Of course, they didn't allow that rubber hose and bright light bit anymore. Too bad, thought Sonny. Back at the station, Sonny parked in front of his Corvette. He returned the PR-24 to its holder. Just as he reached the top of the steps, the station house door opened and Detective Laura Watts stepped out. "Sonny, I'm glad I bumped into you," she said. It should happen more often, Sonny thought. "I just heard that Lieutenant Morgan is looking to fill a spot on Narcotics. He says he wants a street cop for the job." "No kidding?" Sonny asked. This could be his ticket to plainclothes. Laura read his mind. "Send a memo to him ASAP if you're interested. Give you a good chance to get out of that uniform." I don't need any encouragement for that, Sonny thought. "Thanks, Detective. I'll put in a request right away." The front hallway inside the station house was quiet. Sonny stopped at the table in the hall and searched through a stack of personnel requisitions and memo forms. He filled out the necessary papers, then dropped them into Morgan's basket. What Sonny knew about Morgan would fit on one page in his notebook. Word was that the lieutenant was a master at covert operations. The rumor was that he picked up a lot of what he knew from a stint with CIA. Patrolman Norris Walker caught Sonny in the hallway on the way to the locker room. "Hey, Sonny, you're off duty, aren't you? Some of us are going by the Blue Room to throw Jack a little surprise party. Why don't you stop by?" "Sounds good," Sonny said. "I'll be there as soon as l get out of this uniform." Sonny undressed, showered, and changed into his street clothes in record time. Less than 15 minutes later, he was pulling into a spot in front of the Blue Room Lounge. He switched off the ignition and climbed out, then locked the door and pushed his way through the glass doors. Immediately, Sonny spotted Jack sitting alone at a table in the middle of the room. Jack waved him over. "Boy, what a depressing day I've had," Jack said, as Sonny took a seat at the table. "Yeah, you sure got off to a rough start," Sonny replied. "I hope you're not going to keep on going like this." "And why shouldn't I?" said Jack. "It's not like I had something or someone to keep me from it. I've just found out that my daughter is doing drugs, Sonny." "Oh, man, I can't believe that. Kathy?" "Yeah. Little Kathy Cobb. My little Kathy." Jack took a long drink from a short glass. He set the empty on the table and signaled the waitress for another. "She's getting them at school, but I can't finger the punk who's supplying." Jack slowly turned his glass around and around on the table. He lifted the glass and looked through the amber liquid. "To my life," he toasted, "and the sewer where it floats."
Before Sonny could say anything, officer Steve Jones tapped him on the shoulder. "Did you forget?" Jones asked. "We swapped shifts last week! You're due at the station for swing-shift briefing in fifteen minutes!" "Oh, for crying out loud," said Sonny. "I might just make it if I go now." He stood up from the table. "Happy birthday, Jack. And call me. Let's talk." "Don't worry, Sonny," Jones said. "I'll keep an eye on him."
Station House BluesEdit
Sonny had the door open almost before the car stopped rolling. He headed into the station at a trot, then down the hallway to the locker room. The rest of the shift was nearly finished getting into their uniforms. Sonny hurriedly pulled off his civilian clothes. In a few minutes he was the only one left in the locker room. After grabbing his gun and briefcase, Sonny slammed the locker and trotted down the hall. "Being punctual to briefings might keep some of those corrective memos out of your pigeonhole, Bonds," Dooley said as Sonny entered the room. "Find your seat and let's get on with it." "Sorry, Sarge," Sonny said. He took a seat at the front table. "As I was saying," Dooley continued, "we have some information from the day watch concerning a Missing Persons report filed earlier this morning. It seems that a Hispanic male by the name of Jose Martinez was last seen by his wife two days ago getting into a late-model Cadillac. The color of the car is light blue. She has not seen or heard from her husband since. Martinez is described as five feet, eight inches tall, with black hair and brown eyes. That should really make him stand out, wouldn't you say?" Dooley added sarcastically. "Any plate number on that car?" Sonny asked. "We have a partial-L964." Sonny flipped back through his notebook, looking for the connection. There it was. Those were the same numbers that the witness to the Lonny West murder had given him.
memo to Morgan re Narcotics Laura Watts! YES! Death Angel'?
"That Caddy may well be the same car involved in the unfortunate and unseemly demise of one Lonny West, who was found parked illegally in the side of a warehouse this morning by Officer Bonds." A smattering of applause punctuated Dooley's observation. "Now, before you weep for Martinez, let me tell you he is no choirboy. He has several previous arrests, including-and get this, boys and girls-one for narcotics sales." "All right," Dooley concluded. "Here are your assignments and calling codes." As he read out the day's beats and call numbers, Sonny stole a glance to the right and saw a small note resting in his pigeonhole. "That's it," Dooley said finally, stepping back and gathering up his papers. "Keep your eyes open for that Cadillac." As the other officers filed out, Sonny crossed the room and reached into his mailbox for the note. Not much to go on, Sonny thought. The department had raided the Hotel Delphoria in the past, cleaning out the gamblers every now and again. But they always returned. With the Death Angel and drugs taking top priority, illegal gambling had fallen to the list of Things That We Need to Do Once We Have the Time and Resources. Sonny was content to leave it that way. But this letter hinted at something different. He tore it into small pieces and tossed the scraps into the wastebasket. Sonny's patrol car waited for him like a lonesome dog. As he pulled out into the city traffic, he contemplated driving past Carol's for a cup of coffee. He barely had time to form the thought in his mind when his radio crackled to life. "83-32. Suspect vehicle in your vicinity. Vehicle is light-blue Cadillac last seen near Jefferson High. Possible drug involvement." "Roger, Dispatch. I have him. Traveling west on Rose, crossing First." "10-4, Sonny. Approach with caution." "He made me," Sonny responded quickly. "This is 83-32, going to Code-3. In pursuit of light-blue Cadillac. Suspect vehicle traveling south on First Street."
187 at Fig and Fourth/green e;edan driver with gune;hot wounde; - entrance left e;ide, exit right jaw witnee;e; e;aye; lite blue Caddy, partial plate L964 ck w/ hot e;heete;I Caddy go eae;t two blocke; then e;outh mp Joe;e Martinez -- wife reporte; lae;t e;een getting in Caddy plate#L964
Sonny hit his lights and sirens and kicked the gas. The Cadillac made a couple of turns but he stayed with it. "Dispatch, this is 83-32. Requesting backup for pursuit of suspect vehicle." The driver of the Cadillac made a fatal mistake by swinging east on Fig and then south again on First Street. A garbage truck had just pulled into the street and the Caddy had to stand on its brakes to keep from smashing into eight tons of refuse. That was just what Sonny needed to get into position behind the Cadillac and close off any avenue of escape. "83-32 to Dispatch. Run check on license UL6942. I have suspect vehicle stopped at the 300 block of First Street. Get me that backup, pronto." "10-4, 83-32. Backup unit on the way. Approach with caution. One moment for 10-27 and 29." Sonny waited for the response. He kept an eye on the driver of the Cadillac. As far as he could tell, the driver was alone. Sonny drew his weapon and checked that it was loaded and ready to fire. Dispatch came back on the radio. "Suspect license UL6942. Registered to 1970 Cadillac. Junked in 1983." "10-4, Dispatch," responded Sonny. "But it sure moves pretty good fora junked cat" "Be advised," the dispatcher said. "Car 83-31 en route to your location." "10-4, Dispatch. 83-32 out." Sonny looked in his rearview mirror to see Jack Cobb pulling in behind him. What's he doing here? Sonny thought. "Hey, Sonny," crackled Jack's voice over the radio. "Dispatch, be advised. Hold all radio traffic until Code-4 confirmed." "Affirmative, 83-31." Hell, Sonny thought. Of all the backup in the world, I get the guy who doesn't give a flying cat carcass whether his life stops today or goes all the way to next week. Too late now to do anything about it. Sonny opened his door and got out, using the door for cover. "This is the police," he said to the Cadillac's driver. "I think he figured that out," Jack said over the radio. Sonny motioned for Jack to keep quiet. "Open your car door, place both hands in plain sight, and step out and away from your vehicle. Keep your hands raised and in sight at all times." Sonny started to sweat. He hated this part. "Do it now," he said, repeating his instructions. Jack came around the passenger side of Sonny's car. "I'll cover him from here, Sonny, while you make contact." "Why don't I find that very reassuring?" Sonny said matter-of-factly. They watched as the suspect exited the car as Sonny had directed. He came toward them slowly.
"Get your hands up or I will air-condition your head pronto," Sonny shouted. He raised his pistol in a two-fisted grip and sighted down the barrel. The suspect faltered for a moment, then raised his hands high above his head. "OK, dog meat," Sonny shouted. "You really have a way with words," Jack said, snickering. "Hit the ground," Sonny yelled. "Lie down with your hands straight out and over your head. Lie down right now." The suspect hesitated. "Kiss the ground or I will put you there!" Sonny shouted. "OK, man, OK, don't shoot," the suspect hollered back. "I'm laying down, man, I'm down. Don't shoot." Sonny stood up from behind his door and approached cautiously, gun drawn, until he was standing over the suspect. "Don't look up," he warned. "Keep your nose to the blacktop." Sonny checked to see that Jack had his pistol trained on the prone figure. Taking a deep breath, Sonny holstered his weapon and cuffed the suspect. "Stand up," he ordered. The suspect got to his knees and then made it to his feet. Sonny searched him and found a pocketful of change and a .45-caliber Smith & Wesson pistol. "That's a pretty big gun for such a little punk," Sonny said. "I only carry that for self-defense on the freeway," the suspect protested. "I bet it really helps those rush-hour merges in traffic," Sonny said. "Hey, Jack, how about you book this evidence while I take a closer look at the car?" "Sure thing, Sonny," he answered. As Jack approached, gun drawn, Sonny read the suspect his rights from the small card he carried in his breast pocket. "You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning-" "I know all that crap already," the prisoner snarled. "Oh," said Sonny. "The voice of experience. Shut up and listen to it anyway. I'm not having any judge throw this bust out on a technicality." "You don't have nothing on me," protested the man after Sonny finished reading. "I'll be on the street before you can get home to your stinking TV dinner." "Oh, I don't think so," Sonny said. "Get on back there to the squad car." Sonny guided the suspect to the waiting patrol car and maneuvered him into the backseat. After closing the door, he asked Jack for a closer look at the suspect's gun. "I just wanted to write down the serial number," Sonny explained. "What do you do?" asked Jack. "Collect them?" Sonny jotted the number into his notebook. "You never know," he said to Jack. "Might come in handy." He gave the pistol back. "I want to take a look at the car."
Sonny walked over to the Cadillac. Standing at the driver's-side door, something caught his eye. It took him a couple of minutes to figure it out, but there it was. A few flaws in the light-blue paint on the doorpost, where it looked like the paint had run. Not usual in a Cadillac, he thought. Not usual in any car unless it was painted in a hurry. He pulled the keys from the ignition and used them to scratch at the paint. The blue came right off, revealing a black layer underneath. Sonny wasn't in the auto-refinishing business by trade, but he knew that black wasn't the color of an undercoat. He started looking for the Vehicle Identification Number. and began paging through it. You don't have to be a CIA operative to figure this one out, he thought. Sonny copied the contents of the notebook and then put it He found it under a layer of grime on the door frame. It matched that of the black Cadillac that Sergeant Dooley had described in the morning briefing. That's grounds for a search, for sure, thought Sonny. He sat in the driver's seat and reached over to open the glove box. Bingo. A small black notebook, and what looked like two driver's licenses. He pulled the notebook from the glove box Sonny copied the contents of the notebook and then put it He found it under a layer of grime on the door frame. It matched that of the black Cadillac that Sergeant Dooley had described in the morning briefing. That's grounds for a search, for sure, thought Sonny. He sat in the driver's seat and reached over to open the glove box. Bingo. A small black notebook, and what looked like two driver's licenses. He pulled the notebook from the glove box and began paging through it. You don't have to be a CIA operative to figure this one out, he thought. Sonny copied the contents of the notebook and then put it back in the glove box to be impounded as evidence with the rest of the car. Then he pulled out the two licenses. Except for the mustache, the men pictured on each license were identical. And both pictures bore an uncanny resemblance to the man sitting in the back of Sonny's patrol car. Sonny wrote down the two names and then replaced the Ji. censes in the glove box. He walked around to the back of the car. References to "terminate" in the note book and two obviously false driver's licenses gave him just cause to search the trunk. He didn't think any judge would throw it out, no matter what kind of lawyer the suspect hired. Using the keys he had pulled from the ignition, Sonny popped open the trunk. "Hey, Jack. Look what we have here!" Jack walked over to look into the trunk. "Looks like drugs," he said. "Marijuana and coke, I bet." Sonny opened the bag containing the white powder and dipped in a finger. He put a slight taste to his tongue. "Nose candy." "I wonder if this is the punk that's been selling at the schools," Jack said. He looked back to Sonny's patrol car. "Be a shame if he had an accident on the way to the jail. Looks like the type to resist arrest." "Cool it, Jack," Sonny warned. "We're going to do this right." "Nice of you to show so much concern," said Jack sarcastically. "Just keep your hands off my prisoner." "All right, Sonny. Leave it in the trunk," Jack said. "I'll have it impounded with the rest of the car and the other evidence." Sonny returned to his squad car. From the front seat, he could see the suspect in his rearview mirror. "So which is it?" he asked. "Leroy or Marvin?" "I don't answer any questions until I see my lawyer." "Maybe you can tell your counsel about those packages in your trunk." "You didn't have any reason to look in my trunk, man. I'll be out of jail by tonight." Sonny started the car. "Just keep on thinking that way," he said. "The world loves an optimist." He pulled into traffic and keyed his radio. "Dispatch, 83-32 en route to jail. One suspect in custody." "10-4, 83-32." A few minutes later, Sonny pulled into the lot at the county lockup. He opened the back door of the patrol car and ordered his prisoner out. "You're a real tough guy when you have someone in handcuffs," Hoffman said. "This must be the biggest bust of your career." "Don't flatter yourself. You're nothing but small-time. Let's move it."
Sullenly, Hoffman walked across the lot to the steps, then stood there as Sonny locked away his gun and buzzed the jailer. The door came open with a click, and Sonny pushed his prisoner through and into the entrance hall. He took a firm grasp of Hoffman's arm and marched him to the booking desk. "Possession of drugs with intent to sell," Sonny said. "Just fill out our booking slip here and you could be the winner of a glorious cell for one in the spacious Iron Bar Hotel," said George Pate, looking at Hoffman. Pate had been the correctional officer at the city jail since before Sonny joined the force. His witty patter usually helped to ease the boredom and tension of the booking procedures. "A real comedian," muttered Hoffman. "And who's our lucky contestant?" Pate asked. "Hoffman. Marvin Hoffman, you piece of pig scum," sneered the prisoner. Sonny shrugged. "That's what he says," he told Pate. "But I think he's having a little trouble finding himself." Sonny took inventory of Hoffman's personal effects. To tell the truth, he didn't care what name the prisoner was booked under. Sonny hoped only that the felony charges would hold Hoffman long enough for him to discover who he really was. "Thank you so much," Pate said, taking the booking slip and property receipt from Sonny. "Why don't you escort our so-called Marvin Hoffman back through that door, where he'll soon have the chance to tell us what's inside cell number one." "You won't keep me," Hoffman said. "You're starting to repeat yourself," Sonny answered, as the cell door slid shut with a clang. Sonny turned and started toward the door when Jack Cobb came in. "I see you got that slimeball pusher booked and behind bars," said Jack. "The car's tucked away and all the evidence is booked. This is one clean bust, Sonny." "Thanks for backing me up." "I got a radio call on the way over," Jack continued. "Dooley wants to see you when you're done here. My shift is over. I'll see you later back at the station." "Right, see you later." Sonny finished the paperwork in a state of nervous anticipation. He wondered if his transfer had come though. To get to the top of this drug ring, he had to get out of this uniform. "Have a nice day," said Pate, as Sonny turned to leave. "Don't give away the keys while I'm gone," he answered. He walked through the door as it swung open, retrieved his weapon from the lockup, and made the short drive to headquarters.
A Date in the ParkEdit
Blue Room ReduxEdit
A Lover's HeartEdit
Blonds Have MoreEdit
Deal Him OutEdit
Second Sight, Second ChancesEdit
- ↑ First Edition version: Sonny sniffed. Yeah, he thought, I'd like to see this "reliable source" myself. But he knew he would never get the chance. The scuttlebutt around the station was that when the DA had suggested convening a grand jury to look into Bulwer's sources, the reporter had refused to cooperate. The Trib's publisher had backed him up and threatened a lawsuit. So right now things were at a stalemate. Somebody-this "Death Angel"-was killing kids with the promise of an easy high. Kill them fast with a bullet, kill them slow with poison, it was all the same to Sonny. It was still dead.