PACIFIC RIM
A novel
By Steve Wilson
Publication date – November 8, 2011, on Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Steve Wilson
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, organizations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, organizations or other entities is strictly coincidental.
This novel is registered as an original work with the Writer’s Guild of America. All rights reserved.
I can be reached at dutch31709@yahoo.com
To Leslie and Elizabeth
WHEN THE WATER RUNS DRY, THE STORM BEGINS
Part 1
The “May Gray” for this year was well underway in Los Angeles, and Sgt. Mike Rinaldi was already used to it - and to the latest statewide drought.
He sat in the back of the faded white surveillance van, which displayed the title “Maguire Plumbing,” along with a phone number that brought callers to a State of California Attorney General’s office voice mailbox. None of the messages were ever returned, of course, but despite that after five years and dozens of operations the van’s cover had yet to be blown. The roof of the van had a rack of aluminum ladders and lengths of PVC and copper pipe, as disguise. Inside, however, it housed a near state-of-the-art collection of audio and visual monitoring devices, along with wireless Internet access - some of the spoils of his department’s ongoing lobbying for better equipment. Four monitor screens, two on top of each other, were on the driver’s side of the vehicle. The only monitor on at the moment was the one inside the warehouse on the northeast corner of the intersection, where the “buy” was about to happen.
Rinaldi continued to review the case file for which he was on assignment. Strikingly handsome, regarded by many, at 39, with short-cropped dark hair, he was dressed in his standard “low profile” navy blue t-shirt, jeans and loafers, sidearm and badge holstered to his waist. He was parked at the intersection of East Third Street and South Mission Road, just east of the L.A. River. His partner, Detective Nick Alvear, was poised on the rooftop of the target warehouse, along with two patrol officers, with two more patrol units nearby as backup. Alvear, 33, was a muscular five foot nine with dark hair and tanned complexion. Also with them on the roof was Detective Tony Krugman, who usually worked undercover narcotics out of the Van Nuys Division in the San Fernando Valley and was going to make the buy; two Russian made SVD Dragunov assault rifles, all of which believed to be a payoff from a gun shop dealer in Compton fearful of being caught for making illegal gun sales. The suspect, Patrolman Ronnie Wincott, accepted the guns as a bribe and was now selling them to whom he believed was an underground dealer from the San Gabriel Valley. Wincott was expected to arrive any minute.
The walkie-talkie sitting on the table in front of Rinaldi crackled. He glanced at it quickly before the voice began.
“14-King-9, report to Second and Alvarado for 2-11 in progress. 15-David -5 already on scene. Use extreme caution.”
Rinaldi looked out the back window of the van for a few moments, and then turned back to the file he was reading.
The file Rinaldi read over once again gave him a pretty solid idea of who Wincott was, and Rinaldi usually relished the idea of nailing someone like that. Wincott had far too many complaints lodged against him by suspects and had been suspected himself of taking cash payoffs on a number of instances. Wincott’s department photo showed a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy scout, but Rinaldi and his fellow Internal Affairs Group cops knew better.
Rinaldi’s only companion in the van was surveillance expert Al Huggins. Slender, African American, and a younger-looking 31, he wore headphones and meticulously continued to adjust the sound equipment, in keeping with his perfectionist reputation.
Rinaldi leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms in the air, and then reached for his copy of the L.A. Times on the floor next to him. Today’s front-page story was a triple shooting in a rough section of Long Beach, which Rinaldi already knew about through radio chatter. The story below it was today’s installment of a series about how the statewide drought was impacting L.A.’s water supply.
The chatter about conserving water had begun months past, and the penalties for excessive water use had just gone into effect following the Mayor’s call for action on the serious water situation facing the city – more serious than usual. The Metropolitan Water District had imposed fines, approaching double the normal rates, for excessive water use. L.A.’s time-honored ability to deal with its inherent lack of water never seemed to change, but Rinaldi wondered if this time things were different.
After scanning over the drought piece he looked below it to a picture and cutline about Marv Zielskie, a popular local tax attorney who had recently announced his candidacy for governor, running on the Republican ticket on a pro business platform. In fact, rumors had begun to circulate about Zielskie’s interest in seeing the state’s water supply, for residential, agricultural and industrial use, being contracted out to private companies and having the public water system dismantled. The article picture showed him holding a four-year-old girl while shaking hands with her mother, in typical “babykisser” fashion, at a community event in East L.A. He suddenly found himself wondering why the Times had opted to place that picture and cutline so close to the drought article.
As he flipped through the front section of the paper and reached the op-ed page his walkie-talkie crackled, which was sitting on the counter in front of him. He put the paper down and reached for it.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Mike,” his partner’s voice began. “Our friend just pulled onto Mission. You about ready?”
“Sure am. Tell Tony that once Wincott shows him the merch, have him make the switch, take the money and let him leave. Patrol and I will take him down once he gets outside. No hero stuff. I want him to think he’s in the clear before we move on him. I want his guard to be down and by then it should be.”
Krugman, who had been leaning against the roof’s concrete ledge a few feet away from Alvear and the two patrolmen, turned to look at them.
“Got it,” Alvear replied. “Should he ask him if he wants to set something up for later?”
“Sure, if he wants to. I don’t care, just so he doesn’t make the bust himself. I want all the t’s crossed and i’s dotted this time. And I don’t want to chance Tony’s cover getting blown, either, so tell him to be extra cautious.”
“Copy.”
Alvear put down his radio and turned to see Krugman looking at him.
“What’s up?”
“Wincott?” Krugman replied.
Alvear looked at him for a brief moment, then nodded.
“That’s right.”
“Patrolman Ronnie Wincott?”
Alvear gave him a stern, confused
look.
“Yeah. Ronald. How’d…”
“Because I worked with him over in Van Nuys. He was backup on a few raids we did, before he got transferred to South Central. Meth labs. Point is, he knows who I am. I go in there and he’ll bolt. We’ll be dead in the water before we even start.”
Alvear looked at him for another moment, then turned to look away and let out a deep breath.
“You gotta call it, Nick,” Krugman told him while shaking his head. Alvear nodded faintly and lifted his radio to his face again.
“Mike?”
After a moment Rinaldi picked up. “Go ahead.”
“We got a problem.”
“What?”
“Tony knows the perp. Worked with him on some raids in the valley.”
Rinaldi leaned back in his chair.
“You’re kidding?” Rinaldi replied, the frustration clear in his voice. This was the sort of thing he was always half expecting but was never fully prepared for. Suddenly everything had changed. It was his call to make, and in a split second he made it.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t I make the buy? I’d say there’s less chance he knows me, and…”
“Nah,” Rinaldi said. “Too risky. Uh…. Just abort. Abort and stand down.”
“But if we break it off know he’ll go away thinking something happened. It’ll be tough to set up another buy, and even then...”
“Yeah, Nick, I know,” Rinaldi said with a sigh. “You’re right. But if he makes Tony, or you, then we’re blown for good. He’ll take his merch out of state, maybe even to Mexico. He won’t have a problem unloading down there, with all that’s going on, that’s for sure. Stand down. I’ll call in and take the heat with Shepherd on it. See you back at base.”
“Copy.”
Rinaldi threw his radio onto the counter, let out a deep breath, and then began to rub his face with both hands. This was not the first time he’d seen an operation called off at the last minute - but it did happen to be the first time he would be responsible for it, or so he was concerned. Huggins broke the silence.
“Take the rig back to the yard?”
Rinaldi looked at him. “Yeah. Thanks Al.”
“Good luck with Shepherd.”
“I’m not worried about Shepherd - the brass will want a piece of this too.”
He got up and turned to open the back door of the van.
“Later.”
Huggins replied with a wave.
Rinaldi got out and closed the van doors behind him. A pickup truck with several immigrant workers was heading up the street towards the van. Rinaldi waited for it to pass before crossing the street. He proceeded quickly north to the corner and turned left, then took an immediate right into an alley where his red 1998 Mustang was parked. After pausing for a brief moment, he unlocked the door, got in, keyed the ignition and drove off.
“Shit,” he said aloud, after about two hundred yards, just before reaching Fourth Street. He then turned east and drove four blocks and jumped on the Santa Monica Freeway at the 101 interchange.
An hour to the north and east, the 210 Freeway felt the morning sun just as hot. Nestled through the it’s namesake, the Foothill Freeway saw like every other day dozens of east and west bound commuters, bound for points and near as the Technology Park at Monrovia and as and as far as Mission Viejo. While most were on their way to work, reporter Taylor Hjortsman was already an hour on the clock today – and disappointed by a cancelled early morning interview. Her cell phone rang and flipping it open she immediately recognized the copy desk at work as the incoming number.
“It’s Taylor.”
“Taylor, hey it’s Sam Reubens at the copy desk.”
“Hey, what’s up?” Taylor had met Sam only once, but answered in her always-gracious tone, which usually put others at ease.
“You’re up in the hills, right?”
“Right.”
“Breaking story in Glendora. House fire at some new housing division. Uh, …let’s see…. Swanson Crest, or something. That’s your area, right?”
“Swanson Creek. That’s the one. Yep, I know it.”
She adjusted her seat slightly and checked the rearview mirror. Her “area” wasn’t breaking news, but real estate and land use, but she was on hand and that’s how it works. When a reporter loses a story at the last minute, getting another handed to you, especially a breaking one, can do the trick. While she wasn’t exactly pressed for new copy, this week had not been the busiest either. Why Swanson Creek had the second word in its name baffled her – the hilly area around it was bone dry.
“Got your camera with you?”
“My own point-and-shoot, yes.
Tell Joe I’m on it.”
“OK – thanks Taylor.”
“Sure – thank you,” she said, flipping her phone shut. It had been a while since she had worked general assignment pieces, especially she worked for the weekly journals, but hard news writing skill rarely evaporated with time. Three minutes later, she exited the Freeway and was heading north. Fourteen minutes after that, after maneuvering through dusty, hilly side roads, she entered the Swanson Creek Housing Subdivision.
It usually isn’t hard for reporters to locate the scene of a breaking story – emergency vehicles with lights flashing can generally be seen for miles, and even without lights some areas, namely newly opened subdivisions, a flurry of commotion is often visible for a good distance. Taylor immediately located the scene and parked along the roadside about 200 yards south of it, looping round so that her car would be facing south already when she drove out.
She took a deep breath and began fishing thought her backpack. She immediately found her reporter's notebook with pen attached, but finding her red Nikon CoolPix camera required a bit more searching. With both in her right hand she opened the door with her left and stepped out.
A sunny, standard issue California blonde at five foot nine and with an athletic build, today she wore her typical work outfit; a red, cotton, collared shirt with jeans and black boots, which she long ago had found to be useful at the many construction sites where she reported, where pumps and high heels can be a trip and fall accident waiting to happen. She paused and looked around the area, where a total of about 30 houses, none more than two years old, housed both young families and retirees, with a few young couples. She saw nothing else and after locking and closing her door began to head to the scene. Never mind the fire trucks – a big plume of smoke was all she needed to hone in on. The San Gabriel foothills surrounded the development on all sides, providing a peaceful yet impressive backdrop.
About 80 yards from the burning house, which was around a curve and not yet completely visible, only the smoke plume from it, a Glendora Police officer, a middle aged man with well-grayed hair, stood next to his police cruiser. Taylor reached into her shirt and removed her press pass for him to see, in case he asked.
“Excuse me, officer,” she called to him as she approached. He turned from the scene to see her.
“Yeah?”
“Taylor Hjortsman, with Inland Empire Vision. I’m a reporter. Who’s in charge?”
“County Sheriff and Glendora Fire, young lady – ask when you get up there. Think a public information guy is there.”
“Thanks,” she said, not stopping or slowing down at all. A loud popping sound came from ahead. She was getting close, and suddenly a bit nervous, for reasons she didn’t quite understand. She quickened her pace slightly, and less than a minute later the smoke began to make its stench.
She could not yet see any TV news vans, nor did anyone she saw at this point look to be another reporter. So, maybe if she could get enough details fast enough IEV might be able to take breaking news credit on this one. About a half a dozen persons were standing in a group as she got within about 100 feet of the site. She quickly took her cell phone out of her pocket and flipped it open – 8:20 a.m.
“Hey,” she said to the group as whole as she rounded them on the left. “I’m a reporter. Do anyone of you know who lives in the house?”
“Yes,” a middle-aged woman said rapidly, also pointing to the home. “I know the daughter. Her dad is in there right now, they think. By himself.”
Taylor flipped open her notebook and began writing.
“Know their name?” she asked the woman.
“Schumacher is their name. Patty is the daughter, and the husband’s name is Fred. Haven’t seen either of them, but I think her father lives with them.”
Taylor jotted down all the information she could, subject to confirmation later of course, and looked quickly at the house. Smoke was billowing from at least two vents in the roof, but at this point she could not see any flames, so likely the blaze was at this point confirmed to the attic. A firefighter in full protective gear was standing near the front door. Turning her camera on, she began to angle for a shot that would include that firefighter and at least one of the columns of smoke. Finding the right shot, she quickly took the picture and immediately checked it to see that it was in focus. It was. It was always good to have a backup picture, in case she couldn’t line up a better shot later. Now she could focus more on gathering quotes and other story information. The fire was clearly contained to the attic at this point, or so it seemed.
One fire unit, a pumper, was about twenty feet in front of her, with three firefighters, none in protective gear, were congregated around the back. An ambulance was across the street from the pumper unit, and she could not see clearly ahead of the pumper but estimated at least two other units in front of it. The popping sounds continued, a bit faster this time. She quickly approached the three firefighters.
“Hey,” she began. “I’m Taylor Hjortsman, with Inland Empire Vision. Your PIO around?”
“That’s Lt. Webb – Tom Webb,” the youngest of the three officers replied. He was giving Taylor a taken back look she often encountered from meeting men her age or younger.
“Is he available?”
One of the other firefighters turned and pointed at the house. “In there. He’s not wearing his gear. You’re gonna have to talk to him.”
Taylor nodded. She had seen firefighters go in and out of burning houses without gear before, mainly with volunteer crews.
“How close can I get?”
“He should be out in a few minutes – great big fat dude – can’t miss him.” The other two joked at his quip about their colleague.
“Uh huh,” she replied. Their carefree attitude led her to believe the situation wasn’t that serious, yet somehow that still didn’t seem right, either. What’s wrong, here?
She looked briefly at the house and saw nothing of interest. She then turned and looked at several firefighters who were gathered around a fire hydrant; across the street, at the top of a ravine. One was trying to unscrew the cap, with the other two at the ready to help if need be. On a whim she quickly took a picture of the group.
“Hey,” she said, turning back to the firefighters. “What’s going on over there?”
“Uh, they can get enough water pressure out of that other hydrant, the one on this side of the street,” the older firefighter replied. “So now they’re gonna try and use that one.”
She squinted at him. “So they haven’t had enough water inside?”
“It’s OK. The fire’s been contained to the attic, so it hasn’t been a problem.”
Her head jilted back slightly. “Well, that doesn’t make much sense. This development has been open for some time. I mean – there should be water running to the main, and that….”
Taylor didn’t get out another word then – a thunderous boom from the house cut her off – and gave her a start. She stumbled slightly as she turned, and upon regaining her footing turned to seen several large asphalt shingles fly off the roof, one landing no more than twenty feet to her left. Flames shot out of the hole created by the explosion, and shouting from inside the house prompted no less than half a dozen firefighters, including the three next to her, to charge towards the front door. She took her third picture of the day of them running in, then noticed the TV camera crew she had not yet seen approach – she quickly checked to make sure they were not in the shot she had just taken - they were not. Smoke was now visible coming from the far side of the house from where she was standing, where it had not been seen before.
Shit, this is serious.
A windowpane cracked and shattered to her left. The shouting continued from inside, and several paramedics she had not seen before bolted past her on their way inside. She quickly snapped a picture, thinking she might not get another photo op, and then another paramedic, a slightly heavyset woman, approached her from behind.
“Ma’am, you need to stand back now,” the paramedic told her, her voice rushed as she pointed and headed towards the door with the others.
Taylor nodded briefly and then took a breath. Her last picture caught two first responders rushing inside a burning house, through a doorway with smoke coming out of it – it rarely got better than that. She paused for a moment before turning around and heading across the street, where she found herself a perch and waited.
Traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway was at its rush hour apex, with commuters making their usual intense morning drive. Statistically, they were engaged in one of the most dangerous activities on earth. Yet the many years, thousands of them, of the L.A. commuter run they had collectively put in numbed them to the risk. The pastel houses flew by in their usual desert haze as Rinaldi made his way to the ocean front.
As he had told Huggins, it wasn’t Lieutenant Shepherd, their immediate supervisor, which he was most concerned about. With the L.A.P.D. in a state of near constant public relations crisis, the pressure on Internal Affairs to make media opportunities for the department was never stronger. Today’s arrest of Officer Wincott was supposed to be such an opportunity, and he was scheduled to meet with his superiors for debriefing at 11 a.m. prior to a noon press conference. Not only was police misconduct being put under the spotlight, but the Governor’s office needed to deflect criticism that it was being soft in gun law enforcement and cases such as this certainly didn’t hurt. Yet things would have to be changed a bit.
Rinaldi reached the interchange with Pacific Coast Highway and veered north. A quick glance out to the beachfront just north of the Santa Monica Pier revealed maybe two dozen swimmers and sunbathers, and a jet skier perhaps a quarter of a mile out. After about ten minutes he reached Temescal Canyon and PCH and turned into the Will Rogers State Park lot. Nearly empty, he was able to swerve south and proceeded to the end of the lot, pulling into a parking space closest to the beach side, third from the end. He put the car in park, removed the key from the ignition, and got out. It was 8:27 a.m.
Still a bit flustered, he took a deep breath before closing the car door behind him. He turned and looked to the north. Two surfers were crossing the sand to the water’s edge. He watched them until they reached it, then holding their boards in front of them jumped into the water and began to paddle out. The sun was rising over the Santa Monica Mountains and was beginning to silhouette the few clouds in the sky to the east, making for it’s usual tranquil backdrop, with the dusty hills in the foreground. A faint sea breeze could be felt. This was a bit of a retreat for him – he sometimes came here to unwind, and this morning he needed that retreat as much as any time in the past. He removed his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open.
Searching through his programmed list of regular numbers, he pressed the eighth one down. A woman’s voice answered almost immediately.
“Hollenbeck Watch Commander.”
“Yeah, this is Mike Rinaldi, I.A.G. - code 7 - whiskey - alpha. My supervisor, Lt. Shepherd, is there right now. I need to speak with him.”
He waited a moment while his information was checked.
“Confirmed. Code 7-whiskey-alpha. Just one moment, Sergeant.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Rinaldi knew what to say and he had a pretty good idea of what his boss would say. In less than three hours they would have to face the music on this one.
Lieutenant Dale Shepherd sat at in a conference room at Hollenbeck Division Headquarters, along with the division’s command staff, reviewing reports with them about several patrol officers accused of harassment during a traffic stop on Esmeralda Street the previous week. At 48, he was African American and a burly six foot one. A former naval intelligence commander, his unrelenting drive and professionalism had earned much loyalty within his unit and much fear outside of it.
He was aware that the Wincott arrest was going down at present, but had enough faith in both Rinaldi and Alvear not to give it much concern. The phone in the conference room rang, and since it was Shepherd’s meeting, he answered it.
“Shepherd here.”
“Sir, I’ve Sergeant Rinaldi on the line.”
“Right - go ahead.” He turned to those in the room with him. “This will only take a minute.”
He paused for about three seconds. “Mike?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s the word?”
Shepherd heard Rinaldi exhale.
“Sir,” Rinaldi began. “I know you don’t want another ‘Don’t your departments talk to each other?’ speech, but you’re about to get one.”
Shepherd tossed the file he was reviewing onto the table, and then sat up.
“Go on.”
“Our cover was blown before the guns hit the table,” Rinaldi continued. “Krugman said he knew the suspect. We caught it by chance at the last second.”
“Well, who put Krugman in place?”
“His C.O. at Van Nuys, but all he knew was it was for an undercover op.”
“Just like I told you to say, I know.”
Shepherd knew that his men had followed their instructions to the letter. Blame would not find an easy home in this case. Policing the police meant that you ran a markedly higher risk of having your cover blown, no matter how careful you were. He noticed that the other officers at the table were looking around at each other, and seemed to get the jest of what he and Rinaldi were talking about. Great, he thought, I’m trying to get them to keep their officers in line, and my section just fucked up.
“Sir,” Rinaldi said. “Why don’t we just turn this one over to ATF? There are federal gun laws involved, right? I’m sure they would love to….”
“No,” Shepherd interrupted. “Uhlenbrauk was very clear. This is an L.A.P.D. show. Those guns were used to bribe one of our people and we were none the wiser. We HAVE to take care of this one ourselves.”
“Understood. Debriefing at 11 still?”
“Yes,” Shepherd said. “Don’t expect it to be pleasant.”
Shepherd had mentioned Deputy Commissioner Uhlenbrauk. To Rinaldi that was already unpleasant.
“11 a.m. Yes sir.”
Rinaldi flipped his phone shut. He had a little over two hours to make it back to HQ and tie up loose ends. He noticed a small jet heading south over the Pacific bank east to make its approach into Santa Monica Airport. He found himself wondering who was on the plane, what they were thinking about, and if they were looking out the window down at the coastline as he looked up at them.
After the plane flew out of sight, he turned and looked out at the ocean for a few moments, then got back in his car and left.
The east bureau newsroom of the Inland Empire Vision occupied about 3,500 square feet on the first floor of a newly completed Pomona office park building, located just off the Chino Valley Freeway, just north of the Pomona Interchange. Flying in the face of overall trends in the newspaper industry, the paper recently opened this office in response to a two-year circulation surge, and the profits that came with it. Unlike it’s main newsroom in nearby Ontario, the Pomona office of the IEV was a relatively quiet, fairly plain affair, with off-white painted walls and a handful of paintings, and about thirty cubicles and related support equipment for the reporters, advertising representatives, and graphic designers who bustled about there each day. More than half of them, including the west bureau editor, were with the IEV’s daily edition. The rest were with the weekly editions, including Taylor.
A large TV monitor, suspended from the ceiling by metal braces, was at her right as she entered, closest to the cubicles of the daily edition staffers. Three blocks of cubicles filled the newsroom, divided by two long aisles, with half a dozen offices, for management, and the office conference room lining the walls on three sides.
She took a sharp right and proceeded down the aisle to her cubicle, the second to the last on the left. Her desk phone’s small yellow message light was on, and the quartz display indicated one message. She placed her book bag under the desk and sat down. It was 9:35.
She was a bit winded from her experience up north – the situation turned tragic there, and like many reporters who covered tragic events she had begun to internalize this one a bit. She felt a sense of fear and regret – a sense of her own mortality. Her notes taken from the officers and bystanders on scene were thorough, so it was merely a matter of translating them into a write-up, first for the IEV web site and then for the daily edition for tomorrow. She also had to review and download about fifteen pictures from her digital camera.
She picked up the receiver and quickly entered her password, then did the same thing on her MAC computer. The voice mail message began.
“Ms. Hjortsman, I’m with McKevit Builders. I got your number from your website, after you did a story about us.”
He paused a moment before speaking again.
“This is kinda hard,” he began, now sounding slightly out of breath. “ I know…. about some things that are going on out here. It’s tough to explain. I’d like to talk to you more about this. My cell is 773-556-2111. Please call me back. Just call me Max.”
Taylor pressed the number 2 on the phone to save the message and hung up the phone. She knew 773 was an area code for Chicago, so obviously this man was one of many tradespeople or builders who made a periodic trek across the country to find more work. Perhaps he was non-union and found California’s labor market a bit more friendly. Whatever his reason, Taylor could tell, “Max” was frightened. McKevit was a large turn-key building company that operated throughout eastern L.A. County and parts of San Bernardino and Riverside counties as well, as well as several other Western states. He could be calling from any number of places, over any number of things.
Dave Kowalski, a local government reporter, entered the office and approached his cubicle, directly across the divider from Taylor’s. A Chicago native, he had graduated from Northwestern’s Medill Journalism School a year ago and was almost immediately hired by IEV.
“Hey, Taylor,” he said, placing his CNN tote bag on his desk.
“Hey. Just got a voicemail from someone from your neck of the woods.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Has a cell with a 773 area code. But he’s here - he’s local.”
Dave shrugged slightly to this. “Interesting. What did he call about?”
Taylor made an exhaling sound. “Something certain people don’t want the world to know about, I guess,” she replied, waving both her hands in front of her to create a phony sense of drama. “Wouldn’t tell me anything. How’s Nicole?”
“Great - we drove over to Lower Trabuco Canyon yesterday. It was nice.”
“That’s horse country. Is she into that?”
“No, but it’s scenic and all.”
Taylor nodded. She reached into her bag and took out her notepad. The drill was, she would do a quick web update on the breaking news story on the fire.
“Hey, there.”
She turned to see her editor, Joe Mulcahy. Bearded at 56 with grey hair, he was viewed as a father figure to many of his younger staffers. His gentle, scholarly demeanor made him highly approachable and earned him a great deal of trust.
“Hey Joe.”
“Heard about what happened. You OK?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“OK, get what you can ready for the web, and fill us all in at the meeting, OK?”
She nodded. “Still at 10?”
“Yeah – see you there,” Mulcahy replied as he walked away.
Taylor reached into her bag again, retrieved her camera, removed the memory card, and placed it into the card reader attached to her computer. She immediately saw the icon for her camera appear on the screen and clicked on it.
For the next 19 minutes, she relieved the tragedy she had unexpectedly been a witness to such a short time ago. The image slideshow passed in front of her as she clicked the right arrow button. Being on scene when someone dies – actually, dies while you are there – is an eye opener for a journalist, and as it so happens in this case was a first time for her. In the past she’d gotten there a bit after the fact, as it were, which is not quite the same thing – doesn’t rattle the nerves quite the same way. After reviewing all of the pictures at least three times, she selected four of them and saved them into the Daily Photo file on the server, reopened them into Photoshop, saved them all in CMYK format, and then used the “File Info” feature to add cutline information for the copy desk to use later.
At 9:59, she restarted her computer and headed towards the conference room.
The IEV Weekly Editions staff meetings were a fairly informal affair, and often reporters and other staffers were absent due to incidents, interviews, press conferences, and so on. Usually they were in the Pomona newsroom conference room, as they were again today. Furnished with a conference table designed to seat 16, the room was on the west side of the building. This was advantageous for morning meetings in Southern California, as the unobscured morning sunrise fell on the east end.
Taylor was first to arrive for the meeting - staffers often arrived a minute or two late. She sat down and began reviewing her notes on the Glendora fire when she was immediately joined by health reporter Taunya Barrett, advertising representative Dave Rosatti, who often worked in conjunction with the reporters in story development, public safety reporter Brian Stahl, and community reporter Petra Chechulin, who due to her native Russian language skills was often assigned to cover the region’s growing population emigrating from Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union. Mulcahy entered and approached the head of the table.
“Hey everyone,” he began.
“Hey, Joe,” the staff said in near unison.
“Small turnout today.”
“Well,” Petra began. “Bob had something in Rialto, and I guess everyone else…”
“I know, I know, ” Mulcahy said as he took his seat. “Interviews come first, as always.”
He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and began to speak again.
“Taylor – could you fill us in on what you saw up in Glendora, was it?”
Taylor nodded quickly to affirm. She had her notes, but the incident was so recent that she could speak from memory without any difficulty.
“There just was a fatal house fire up in Glendora – I was up that way when it came through on the scanner. A firefighter, uh…name of Roman Durante, age 25, was killed.”
“What happened?”
“Well, they think it was electrical in nature. It was contained to the attic at first, so I guess they were caught off guard or something. Apparently a rafter gave way and fell through the ceiling drywall, into a room where the firefighters had not entered yet. The door was closed and the room just burned up – this guy Durante was the first to enter the room, right when they had a flashover, and it just killed him – the blast. Worst possible timing, it seem like.
The table was silent.
“Um,well.” Taylor continued. “They declared him dead on the scene. Life Flight was called out - and I got a picture of them landing, in fact. But it was too late – they took off and headed back.”
“Do they know what caused the fire?” Stahl asked.
“Not yet – State Fire Marshal's office is on it.”
“OK,” Mulchay said. “Brian, you follow up with them on that. The Daily will want the day two piece for tomorrow but I’d like us to try and get some kind of follow up, that we can both run.”
Stahl nodded. “Got it.”
“Freaky,” Petra said, and her words rang quietly to everyone.
Taylor’s eyes widened, and she slowly nodded in agreement. “Yep – sure is.”
“Good work, Taylor,” Mulcahy said. “We’ve already got a web update on this, so if you could get story over to Sam by say, 2 p.m.? That should work. I know you’ve got your own stuff you’re working on and Brian can do the follow up.”
Taylor nodded. “Sure.”
“O.K., moving on, everybody,” he began. “On a lighter note, I guess you heard we’ll be hiring a full-time reporter for Chino Hills, probably sometime in September. This person will cover school board, city government, the works. Taunya, I know you’ve been double-timing it over there, and Sara and I appreciate that. But we met yesterday and we agreed that it’s time to make it a full time position.”
“Fine,” Taunya replied.
“OK,” Mulcahy said. “Brian – did you hear back from Sgt. Trevane at Riverside? About that Internal Affairs report?”
“Not yet,” Stahl replied. “But he’s fishing in Oregon somewhere until Sunday.”
“Uh-huh. Well, even if he did bring his cell along, don’t call a P.I.O. on his vacation. He’ll hate you forever and we’ll never run a cop beat exclusive from his department ever again. Call him first thing Monday, and get the story to me by the end of the day, OK? Put in a public records request before then if you have to. I pulled some strings to keep the daily out of this one but next week is as long as we can push it before they decide to go after it.”
“Yeah,” Stahl replied. “I’ve been on thin ice with him anyway.”
“Well, Brian,” Mulcahy replied with a reassuring tone. “You would not be doing your job as a cop reporter if you didn’t rub a P.I.O., or a sheriff, or a D.A. the wrong way at some point.”
“But if Trevane won’t talk to me about it, what then?”
“We’ll either get it from him or we won’t. If we do, the weeklies will have an exclusive the Press Enterprise would have sold the fillings out of their teeth for. If not, and the records request is denied, that’s a story in of itself. Either way, it’s win-win for us.”
Stahl nodded. “Got it.”
“Dave,” Mulcahy continued. “Anything new for us?”
“Cal Speedway is probably going to be on board sometime in September,” he said. “That my big news.”
“That is good news,” Mulcahy replied. “We’ve covered the hell out of NASCAR out there, so it’d be nice to have some steady money from it.”
“Why didn’t they do anything with the daily edition?” Petra asked.
“I’d say that had more to do with us than them,” Taylor said. “Traditionally, sports has been more second tier for us. Right, Joe?”
“Exactly,” Mulcahy said. “When the Cooper family founded the IEV daily, they were afraid, I’d say rightly, of going head to head with TV news sports. They thought it’d be better to carve out their own niche, which is why we do so many dazzling real estate pieces - thank you Taylor.”
Taylor smiled at his compliment.
“As well as giving so many local baby kissers and rad cops their share of headaches,” he continued. “Seriously Mike, that’s good news. When I get back from Terry’s office later we’ll go over that.”
O.K.,” Mike said.
“Well, that’s it. Everybody knows about the birthday lunch for Michelle tomorrow? We’ll probably just do Bennigan’s down the street.”
“Uh-huh,” the group replied.
“Great,” Mulcahy said. “That’ll do it. See everyone later. Taylor, got a minute?”
Taylor nodded, and sat up slightly in her chair as the group left. Mulcahy flipped through his notebook to a page where he had written some notes specifically for her.
“OK,” he began, and then cleared his throat before continuing. “There’s a rumor that they are going to move the schedule up on Weil-Danovic.”
“Really?” Taylor replied. “When?”
“November. But this is all unconfirmed as of now. I spoke with my usual source at DWR in Sacramento, and apparently they are THAT concerned about the projected lack of runoff from the eastern Sierras this season that they are willing to push the project up a bit.”
“Same old story.”
“Exactly. Makes me wish I’d stayed in Connecticut. Anyway, they expect to make a formal announcement in a few days, which they plan to webcast. I want you to watch out for it, watch it live and write up your story to put online right away. As you’ve been reporting, there is all kinds of real estate activity going on because of this thing already - Victorville, Barstow, Fontana, the Antelope and Coachella Valleys, northern L.A. County, parts of the San Bernardino Hills which have never been developed, everywhere. Plus, downtown L.A. is talking about this project like it’s their messiah or something, and in a way they may be right. So, as always, I’m counting on you. OK?”
“Certainly.”
“I know. I didn‘t need to ask.”
“Joe, there’s something I wanted to mention,” Taylor began. “I got a voicemail from a guy who’s a sub for McKevit. Says he wants to talk to someone. As you know, McKevit stands to benefit from Weil-Danovic as much as any other company in California.”
“Correct,” Mulcahy replied. “Probably more so, I’d say. Any idea what this guy was calling about?”
“No. Just gave a name - Max. Phony, I’m guessing. And his cell number.”
“Probably. Well, call him. See what’s up. Maybe you can get yourself another CNPA nomination.”
“OK,” she said. “Speaking of water, I also heard something funny out in Glendora earlier.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, the a couple of guys from Glendora Fire said something about water pressure – from the hydrant out there. There wasn’t enough pressure for them to use it so they had to pull water from their truck, or another hydrant, or something?”
“That’s a new development, right?”
“Not that new. First
house was dedicated about two years ago.”
“So... the fire hydrants should be working by now, or whatever – right?”
“Something like that.”
He nodded, as the fatal fire story just might be gaining new momentum – and meaning. “OK – tell Brian about this, but see if you can’t give him a contact with the City of Glendora. Not the fire department, we already know they’re steamed about what happened – maybe Public Works, or whoever is in charge of the city water and infrastructure. Needless to say, heads could roll if a firefighter died because the damn hydrant is broken or because the water pressure wasn’t strong enough.”
“Sure,” she replied. “Anything else?”
“That’ll do it.”
Without saying another word, they both got up to leave. Joe held the door for her and followed her out, and she proceeded to her cubicle.
Taylor knew the webcast she was now assigned to cover would actually be pretty significant. Weil-Danovic Water Transport Aqueduct was a brand new, state of the art interstate, and trans-Pacific, freshwater delivery system. Begun almost four years earlier and financed almost entirely by a special California bond initiative, it was designed to pump freshwater over 1,500 miles from northern Alaska, largely across part of the Alaskan wilderness in a heated above-ground pipeline and then under the Pacific seabed, much the same way the “Chunnel” had been under built the English Channel connecting England and France, to a relay pumping station on the coast north of Cape Medincino and ultimately into both the Los Angeles and the California aqueduct systems, after smaller, connecting systems were built. Many state prisoners were brought in as laborers for more menial project work, for a healthy $1.50 per hour, as part of a controversial money saving method. Residential and agricultural water use were both intended goals of the program, as the project was believed by some to be an end-all solution to southern California’s systemic century-old lack of it.
Named after the two Cal Tech civil engineering PhD students who had designed it, the project consisted of state of the art pumping facilities that would first replenish the long dried up lakes at Cadiz, Bristol, and many others, with plenty of runoff available for farmers throughout the Central Valley. With dozens of the reservoirs now filled, there was naturally expected to be a Southern California real estate boom not seen since the completion of the Owens River Valley project nearly a hundred years past. Likely, if all went to plan, it would far surpass it.
Needless to say, the project didn’t come without more than it’s fair share of debate. Taxpayers knew much of that money would be used to pay excavators, engineers, machinists, and general laborers would go farther upstate from where many of them lived, and out of state to Alaska. In fact, not one contractor south of Bakersfield was hired during the course of the entire project. Yet the long-term future payoff in added water supplies, it was generally agreed, would more than make up for it. Alaska residents, as they had with the oil pipeline in the 1970’s, would get a cut of the water profits. They certainly didn’t need the extra water that would be going south, but they would still get paid for it. Northern California, long tired of quenching the drier southern part, was all too happy to be keep out of the whole thing, as exit polls on the referendum vote day four years ago had indicated. Plus, a significant amount of Weil-Danovic water, as much as five percent, to be delegated to the San Joaquin Delta, which was well known to be vital towards California’s ecological and economic health.
Environmentalists took issue with the disruption the project would cause, but proponents quickly pointed out that this was another kind of Alaskan pipeline, one were a spill or pipeline breach would, if anything, help the local ecology as opposed to hurt it. In the end, it was pretty tough to argue that water posed much of a spill risk, especially with thousands of new jobs on the line in two states. Natural wildlife habitats would be disrupted, yet again this would be minimized by the fact that much of the project would be underground, or under the ocean bed, and would feed into the already established aqueduct system. As far as the threat of damage from earthquakes, it would simply be repaired and adjusted in the wake of such an event, in proportion with the rest of the state. Plus, with the seemingly endless wildfires across the region, no one could say it wasn’t a good idea for “So Cal” to have a bit more H2O at the ready. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency was responsible for oversight, aided by the U.S. Coast Guard and related law enforcement and regulatory agencies in both states involved, so it was believed that most potential issues or problems could be dealt with without much difficulty.
So, with runoff from the Sierras expected to be down, the state felt the time to flip the switch on the new project was getting closer – much closer. Taylor instinctively new this would mean her job would only get busier, and there had been talk of hiring another reporter for her beat as well, someone she would supervise. As she sat down at her cubicle, she took a felt tip pen out of her San Francisco Giants mug on her desk and made a note “W-D webcast- check time and date” on a post it tap and put it at the top corner of her computer screen.
In the time since he, his department and most the LAPD’s apparatus
had relocated there from the old Parker Center, the new police
headquarters had grown on Rinaldi, so much that he usually felt at
ease there - usually. Debriefings and other meetings generally
happened in a large conference room on the fifth floor. After
checking messages at his office he proceeded there for his dreaded 11
a.m. meeting. It had a room-length wooded conference tables with
attached chairs and a 20-inch T.V. monitor with cable hookup at the
front of the room. It reminded Rinaldi of the classrooms he had spent
many an hour at during his time at USC, both as an undergraduate and
his one-year of law school. That however was little sentimental
comfort now. Alvear was already there, and Rinaldi nodded to him as
he entered.
“Hey,” Alvear said.
“Have you talked to Shepherd?”
“No. What’d he say?”
Rinaldi sat down at end of the table Alvear was, two seats down from him. “Uhlenbrauk will be here, and who knows who else.”
“Damn it.”
Rinaldi did not reply. The next two and a half minutes seemed to be an eternity as they waited. Finally, Deputy Commissioner Fredric Uhlenbrauk walked it, already starring at his two Internal Affairs operatives as he did. German-born and Pasadena-raised, Uhlenbrauk had often been compared with former L.A.P.D. Chief Darryl Gates with respect to his unflinching sense of discipline and adherence to procedure. Standing at six feet and graying hair, sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, he switched his glaze to from Rinaldi to Alvear quickly, then back at Rinaldi, saying nothing. Rinaldi took this for what it was - as senior officer on the operation that had just been aborted, he would be held to a higher standard of accountability. Uhlenbrauk was followed immediately by Guy Mortimer, who was Mayor’s Office liaison for Internal Affairs, and then by Lt. Shepherd.
Shepherd gave both Rinaldi and Alvear a friendly pat on the shoulder as he moved behind them to take a seat at the far end of the front row table, while Mortimer, a Stanford Law Graduate who stood blond and clean cut at five foot nine, took a standing position at the head of the room. After picking up the remote control for the room’s TV monitor from a podium in the far corner, Uhlenbrauk stared at the group for about 10 seconds before speaking.
“You know, gentlemen,” he said pointing at the TV with the remote. “I was on there a month ago. Live. You know what I got to do? I got to tell a cute little TV news babe - Alexis something - from Channel 5 that we had just arrested three officers suspected of taking bribes. It was quite a rush. And you know what she said to me?”
No one there knew the answer of, or replied to, his question. They happened to only rarely watch news reports where their department’s work was featured, at least not there in the office. In a building full of cops who feared them, they had found, it just didn’t go over well.
“She told me that ‘LAPD seems to be doing a great job of weeding out corruption within its ranks, commissioner.’ Let me tell you, that felt GOOD.”
Rinaldi looked down at the table he was sitting at for a moment, then looked back up.
“Then, about a week after that,” Uhlenbrauk continued. “I got to talk to a whole bunch of reporters, right downstairs, in front of this building. I got to tell them that we took down a detective accused of planting evidence. That felt pretty good too, and I got to tell all those pesky news people we were doing a great job at policing our own, once again. Assistant D.A. Florsheim was standing right there. If you don’t believe me just go ask him.”
Shepherd rubbed his forehead as he listened. Uhlenbrauk then paused and took a deep breath before continuing.
“But today it’s a different story, isn’t it?” he said with touch more irritability in his voice. “Instead of telling the press how we snagged a cop selling weapons out the back door, my media guy had to call or email every paper and broadcast station between Porterville and Chula Vista and tell not to bother sending anyone today. And a few of them may still show up because they were already on the road and didn’t get the message on time. Any idea how stupid that makes us look?”
In semi-dramatic fashion, Uhlenbrauk then threw his hand up and turned around. He was irritated, but as usual was good at making a show of it. Mortimer then spoke up.
“People, this is the deal,” he began, arms folded across his chest. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that the arrest of Officer Wincott was supposed to have been important. Every investigation and arrest IAG makes is important. I spoke with the Governor’s office only yesterday about this. Despite their PR campaigns to the contrary, the gun lobby makes mince meat out of us on a daily basis. So, when we let military type weapons get sold underground by one of our own officers, it gives them all the more grounds to say that the reason gun laws don’t work is because the police don’t enforce them, and…”
“Yeah, but that’s just the LA Times op-ed page reason,” Uhlenbrauk interrupted, turning around to look back at the others. “The real reason is, you people screwed up.”
“Sir,” Shepherd began. “My officers followed procedure to the letter, as they always do. I don’t think….”
“Your undercover operative knew the suspect, Lieutenant!” Uhlenbrauk said in a near shout. “9,500 some-odd officers, 24 divisions, God knows how many substations, not to mention county sheriff and state law enforcement agencies, over 468 square miles in the city, plus the county, and you mean to tell me you can’t find two cops who don’t know each other, even if you already know and can’t change who the first one is?”
“Yes, we can,” Rinaldi interrupted.
Uhlenbrauk, who by now was leaning on his clenched fists onto the front row table, turned to look at Rinaldi.
“What?”
“Yes, sir, we can do that - we do it all the time.”
“You have something to add, Sergeant?”