A Killer's Role: Erter & Dobbs Book 1 Read online

  “Does your father frighten you at all, William?” Dr. Oaks asked.

  William moved away from the window realigning the blinds. “No.”

  “Has he ever?” Kendra scooted forward on her desk, her hands together. “I mean, was there a time when you might have been frightened by him?”

  William knew what she meant: A seventeen-year-old boy caught in an FBI manhunt, knowing certain truths, faced with shattering a family—his own. He had to ask himself, was he scared? He faced her, resolute in his answer. “My father never scared me, Doctor Oaks. No—I was never afraid of my dad.”

  She tilted her head. “Have you ever been afraid of anything?”

  He said thoughtfully, “Yes. It scared me thinking about what might have been inside my father. I saw it once. I… saw it.”

  She gave him an interested look. “What did it look like?”

  He looked at her with panic growing behind his eyes. How could he tell her the truth—that he saw himself in his father’s eyes, that he shared his father’s impulses, that his father’s needs were buried deep inside himself, that he was just like his old man. That was his biggest fear, the one that haunted him every waking moment of his life. But he couldn’t admit that. So instead, he answered her question, “Evil.”

  It was close enough to the truth.

  “I know you want an apology, son. I know that’s why you keep coming here. And I understand that.”

  William looked at him like nothing could be further from the truth. His father held up a hand cutting him off before he could rebuke. “People will never understand what I did. That’s why I’m here. No regrets. My only hope is that you… you don’t hold it against me. That’s all.”

  William leaned forward, hands together. “What if that’s the role I’m supposed to play, dad? I mean, what if I’m supposed to hold it against you—to hate you.”

  His dad sat back with a concerned look, a frown buried under all that facial hair. “Then it’s important that you know that.”

  They shared a moment.

  From behind, the door cranked open, loud, and the guard stepped in. “Time’s up.”

  William got up from his chair. “You’re wrong, dad. I don’t want an apology from you. I just came here to visit, like always.” He leaned in and planted a kiss on the old man’s forehead quickly before the guard could interrupt.

  “Hey!”

  Not supposed to touch the inmate.

  “Yes, of course.” William strolled to the door, stopped, and turned around. “And if there’s anybody who understands what you did, dad, it’s me. After all, it’s your blood in these veins.” He showed his wrists. “I’m just borrowing it for a while.”

  His dad got to his feet with an understanding grin and corrected him, “No, William. You might’ve inherited it from me. But it’s your blood. Not mine.”

  William nodded. “Well, maybe that’s even worse. Love you, dad. See you next month.”

  3

  Bernie Dobbs

  No one ever had to tell Bernie Dobbs how bad East L.A. was. Crime was rampant. Ethnic groups created a diversified stew of cultures that clashed along traditional barriers, all of them creating a dangerous recipe of hot blood, sometimes cold blood. Everything looked run down in parts—buildings all crammed in together along the main roads making a twisted monopoly board of abstraction. Graffiti spread like mold on the cement divider walls and slew across the underpasses to the tune of some criminal artist’s mind. In the eighties it was all gang banging. In the nineties it was all pop crimes and hip-hop murders. In the aughts it was just random violence.

  But Bernie was an East L.A. Lifer. To him, these hard streets were home. He’d grown up here, gone to high school right around the corner—one of the big, cornbread fed white boys that mixed in well because of his dry personality, not to mention his sheer size. He stood six-and-a-half feet as a twelfth grader. Weighed a small ton, too.

  Of course, back during the Rodney King riots of 1992, when loyalties were truly discovered and friendships were as threadbare as grandma’s wedding dress, he was off in college down in San Diego playing defensive end for the Trojans. Back then, he never bothered coming home. Why would he? The place was burning. He had other things to do, had his sights set on the NFL. Maybe it was a pipe dream. Dreams usually were, especially in this town.

  Oh well, screw it.

  Still, it didn’t make any sense for that limousine to be pulling up to that particular apartment complex at nearly midnight. It was too late. What was it doing here? Something was suspect. Limousines never came to this part of town. Not at this hour. Not unless something was about to go down.

  He looked through his windshield keeping the brim of his fedora pulled low over his brow with a walkie-talkie held up next to his mouth. The limo stopped on the street and sat there for a few minutes. The apartment complex was a shabby, two-story dive with a rundown courtyard and a swimming pool—the kind that produced the occasional floater, some anonymous crack head that took a dive and never came up for air.

  It was a broken part of town for a Caddy stretch-job.

  The back door opened and a man stepped out. Bernie sat up straighter, watching through his binoculars. The man had a pudgy round face and a body made soft through decades of five-star dining. He was dressed in an expensive suit, definitely not the Men’s Warehouse. This was Armani, or some other high-falutin’ bullshit tailor. Bernie could see the ring on his pinky finger from a block away, glittering under the night lights. Even on his way out of town, that man was dressed to the nines. It could only be one guy. Richard Rothwell.

  “That’s our boy. Standby,” Bernie said into the walkie-talkie.

  “Copy that, Detective,” a crackling voice said.

  Richard Rothwell was alone. That made Bernie curious. Financial barons never went around alone, especially in places like this, on nights like these. They usually had some five-thousand-dollar hooker on their arm. Or in Rothwell’s case, a fifteen-year-old ‘new recruit.’ Aside from being one of L.A.’s top business moguls with international banking clients and corporate stock securities in a dozen offshore businesses, and being the owner of the Rothwell Building downtown, the sick fucker was a child porn guy. That’s what he did on the side, just for kicks.

  “Yeah, I see you, asshole.”

  That’s why Bernie was here. He’d set the trap, and now he was going to take that sicko down. Rothwell was on the run. The man could smell the heat. His lawyers had advised him to leave town for a few days. He had to come back to his nest, get rid of some evidence. Time to burn him. Let someone else deal with the media stink.

  Rothwell went into the apartment through the buzzer gate. When it closed behind him, he obviously didn’t notice the strip of Teflon tape they’d applied to the little magnetic lock to prevent it from locking back.

  Bernie put the walkie-talkie down, and grabbed the car radio. “Warrants Department, this is Dobbs. We got eyes on the suspect. What’s the status on that warrant, over?”

  A second later a voice said, “It’s processing.”

  “Well put a rush on it, goddammit. He’s on the move. We don’t have time to wait.”

  “Copy.”

  Bernie looked back up at the place across the street. Rothwell had disappeared inside. The limo still waited. Richard Rothwell was stupid to come back here. It was the thinking of a desperate mind. He should have known they’d be waiting for him here. Stupid asshole.

  Bernie said into the walkie, “Team One, get the driver. Go.”

  An unmarked car roared up the street sidling up next to the limo in a heartbeat, tires skidding on pavement. Doors flew open and guys got out, guns drawn. Bernie heard them order, “Don’t move, hands on the wheel!” Through tinted windows, the limo driver had his hands up off the wheel looking shocked.

  Bernie nodded. Screw the warrant. The station would have to deal with that. He was out of time. He said into the walkie, “Team Two, on me.”

  He accelerated toward the apartmen
t complex, engine roaring, and came to a skidding stop at the gate. Another car met him there, nearly bumper to bumper. Bernie was out into the night in a flash, throwing open the security gate, entering the building and thundering up the narrow stairway. At the top, he peeked around the corner as two Boys-in-Blue came up from behind, stacked position, front-to-back, guns held close. He scanned the vicinity, “Let’s go.”

  He took the hallway scanning door numbers. Found it. Room 213. He pounded on it with alarming volume and shouted, “Richard Rothwell, this is the L.A.P.D. We have a warrant. Open up!”

  He waited, shifting eyes with the cops. There was no answer. He took a step back and hammered a foot into the door splintering the jamb away from the deadbolt. The two cops charged in, one to the right, the other left, securing the perimeter. Bernie followed, senses tuned.

  The place was dank and dark, with a TV in the back room showering the place with a silent edit-paced strobe effect. They searched the place at gunpoint, the cops checking out the living room, then into the back room. Bernie scoped around and found nothing out of the ordinary. One of the cops shouted, “Detective.”

  He went to the back room and found a bona fide, home-equipped video production studio—two expensive Cannon 1500 video cameras mounted on tripods in a two-shot position surrounding a bed, complete with children’s toys and sadomasochism devices. Bernie shook his head slowly. He’d never wanted to kill a man more.

  “Sir,” the other officer whispered.

  Bernie looked over. The officer held up digital CDs, each marked with a child’s name. Boys and girls, both. He knew these names—the names of victims.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered.

  A door banged shut out in the hallway. Bernie charged from the room, through the living room and back out into the hallway. He looked over at the next apartment unit. Looking back at him with horrified eyes was Richard Rothwell, half in shadow, terrified as hell. He took off shuffling like a duck-billed platypus for the far stairwell. Bernie stormed at him roaring in fury. Richard hit the top of the stairs as Bernie leaped into the attack lunge of an old, pissed off defensive end. The two went rolling down the stairs and onto the first landing, the surge of adrenaline protecting Bernie from any pain. Once their fall came to a stop, Bernie flipped him over, pounded him in the face with a fist and watched his expression go blank, eyes roll around and blink like pineapples in a slot machine.

  And that was it: apprehension successful.

  Bernie snared him by the collar, “You’re going down, ass—huh?” He pulled back horrified. This guy was a full two decades younger than Rothwell. He threw him down.

  A decoy!

  The other cops showed at the top landing looking down. One of them groaned, “Oh shit, sir.”

  4

  L.A. Central

  The Investigations Wing at the Central Division of the Los Angeles Police Department was an endless honeycomb of open cubicles and desks with file boxes stacked on the floor, and wastebaskets sitting to the side, and empty water jug stations. There were windowed dividers, windowed interior walls, and windowed offices with cheap drawstring blinds. Everywhere one looked there were file cabinets, stationary fans and a thousand commemorative plaques on the walls next to degrees and certifications, all cheaply framed. Ceramic mugs of black coffee sat around getting cold, all of them saying in big printed letters L.A.P.D. or World’s #1 Daddy. Phones rang constantly. Detectives and cops scurried around chasing whatever leads there were. The place was a headache wrapped inside a seizure.

  Bernie Dobbs loved it here. There was something about this place that appealed to his internal underdog—the piece of him he never talked about to his department shrinks because he simply didn’t have the words. It was his home here, a place that gave him both deep breath and slow death. A womb and a prison. Heaven and hell.

  Bernie sat at a conference table back in one of the planning rooms looking caged. Huge shoulders rose and fell as he breathed, the way the tides pushed and pulled against the beach. His hands were in his lap resting lax, his fedora on the table. He knew as soon as that door opened and D.A. Eyvers came walking in with Captain Heller right behind, the shit was liable to hit the fan.

  Most prosecutors from the D.A.’s office were young, fresh-faced kids right out of law school, all of them with that big-dream glitter in their eyes. They never lasted long. The D.A.’s office was no place for the faint of heart. It was a thankless job. Low pay. Long hours. That’s why they put Council for the Prosecution Harold Eyvers on the case. He was a D.A. career man who didn’t fuck around with people who fucked around. And once the D.A.’s office got a high-profile man like Richard Rothwell in their sights, Eyvers was the first—and only—prosecutor they approached for the job. Justice was in good hands.

  The door opened and Bernie looked up. Sure enough, Eyvers entered followed by Captain Heller. Heller was looking inconvenienced, like always, wearing a mid-level suit and jacket that hung loose. It was always clear to see; Captain Heller was the kind of guy that rolled his shirtsleeves up before putting that jacket on.

  Bernie frowned when Detective Mark Neiman came in behind them wearing a superior look on his face. Bernie moaned audibly. He wasn’t expecting Neiman to show. Neiman was a protocol guy. A red-taper. Not to mention his partner on the case. What a prick.

  D.A. Eyvers sat across from Bernie with a concerned look, sliding an attaché case onto the table. All its leather was rubbed raw around the corners. The thing looked a hundred years old. “Well, once again I don’t know what to do with you, Detective.”

  Bernie shifted uncomfortably.

  “Do we play it safe without your testimony, or do we take our chances and put you on the stand?” Eyvers said.

  “You put me on the stand,” Bernie said. “I was there, wasn’t I?”

  “Yeah, and so was the evidence. Doesn’t make it admissible.”

  Bernie looked to Captain Heller who just shrugged, “Protocol, Bernie, for Christ sakes,” said the captain

  Bernie said loudly, “I couldn’t wait for the warrant. Rothwell was on the move. We all knew it.” They looked at him, shaking their heads, doubtful. “How was I supposed to know they had a decoy?”

  Eyvers motioned toward Mark Neiman, “Your partner waited.”

  Bernie scowled. Detective Mark Neiman had apprehended Richard Rothwell less than twenty-four hours after Bernie’s debacle. Rothwell had been on the move. An entire privately funded security contingent was getting him the hell out of L.A. on his private learjet. It seemed Bernie’s failed attempt had tipped them off, and once they fled, Neiman had scooped up the mess out at L.A.X. The scene was a media stir—SWAT and Local chased the taxiing plane down before blocking it off. And there was Mark Neiman’s face slathered across TV spots and newspaper headlines escorting Rothwell into the back of a police van. He’d made sure to present the warrant to the TV cameras as if to punctuate Bernie’s earlier failure. It made Bernie shift in his seat again. All he’d gotten was the two-bit decoy.

  “Look, I found ground zero. I found Rothwell’s little porno heaven,” Bernie said, growling. “My—uh, partner—wouldn’t have had the arrest without that. Shit, we don’t have a case without that.”

  “But is it admissible, what with you busting open the door? That’s the question,” Eyvers said. He took a worried breath, thinking. “We have two options here: One, we don’t put you on the stand and we don’t present your evidence, and Rothwell probably walks. Two: we do put you on the stand, we do present your findings, and he burns.”

  “Seems clear to me,” Bernie said with a chuckle.

  “Right. Unless, the Defense sniffs a goat,” Eyvers said, putting a finger in the air.

  “You didn’t have a warrant, Bernie,” Captain Heller said with forced patience.

  “It was at the station. It was clean,” Bernie said.

  “Apparently not clean enough.”

  Eyvers said, “Look, if they’re wise to your protocol, or lack thereof, then they’ll pin you
for unlawful entry, the L.A.P.D. looks bad, and the judge tosses the whole case. Rothwell walks.”

  Captain Heller said, “A fine mess, Bernie.”

  “What about their decoy, why was he there? They knew we were coming. They set us up.”

  “They set you up, Dobbs.” Mark Neiman looked sickeningly pleased with himself.

  Bernie gave him a look, very quick, very pissed off. Back to Eyvers, “Why don’t we put their decoy on the stand? It’ll prove they knew we were coming. We can claim they had unlawful intent.”

  Eyvers shook his head making an irritated face. “And put a hostile witness on the stand? No way. The guy’s a two-bit actor. He doesn’t know anything. He thought he was just doing a role.”

  “They paid him ten thousand bucks,” Bernie cried out.

  Eyvers said, “And you think he’d talk? Look, it wouldn’t stick. We can’t prove they paid him. The Defense could claim anything they wanted, call it unfortunate circumstances. You’re lucky he doesn’t press charges against the L.A.P.D. for breaking his damn nose, and you want to march him in front of everyone with a bandage-face? It would make us look desperate, like we’d say anything to put Rothwell away.”

  “Sure,” Bernie said, “but then there’s the truth!”

  Eyvers flapped his lips. “This isn’t about the truth. It’s about presenting the right case. Get that through your head.”

  Bernie looked up. “Put me on the stand, then. I can handle the Defense.”

  Heller and Eyvers gave each other a look before Eyvers glanced back at Bernie. “Okay, Detective Dobbs. But we’re going to have to be careful. I know Rothwell’s attorney—Amanda Treadwell. She eats cops for lunch. She’ll drill you until you break. I’ve seen her do it.”

  “I don’t break, Eyvers.”

  That made Mark Neiman blurt laughter, impulsively. He quieted. Bernie switched mean eyes with him and said, “I don’t break.”

  “Okay. We’ll do it. But we’re going to have to rehearse the shit out of your testimony. I mean over and over. And let me tell you something, Detective, if they find out you smashed the door open before the warrant was through being processed, they’ll burn this whole case down.”