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  Mitchell turned off the lights and closed the bedroom door. He was just about to get a beer from the fridge when his mobile went off.

  “Hey Sandman, what’s up. Wanna come watch the game at Mya’s place? We can order in some Thai.”

  “Nah, the captain says we gotta come back in tonight. Apparently there’s something crazy going down in our fair city, and he wants to brief everyone tonight so we can hit the ground running tomorrow.”

  “See you in twenty.”

  “Yep.”

  The drive only took him fifteen minutes. When he got to the briefing room there were already twenty-two officers seated and more along the back. Captain Ramsey came in right behind him and stepped up to the podium at the front of the room.

  “All right, listen up. We’ve got a situation that is probably going to go from bad to worse, so keep your wits about you.”

  Hernandez leaned over to Nelson and whispered something.

  Ramsey was all over it. “Hernandez, I said keep your wits about you. In your case that means sit close to someone smart. So if you wouldn’t mind putting a fucking cork in that anus on your face, I’ll get to the important part, and then you can go back to jerking off.”

  Despite the tension, the room rippled with laughter.

  Ramsey put a slide up on the screen. “This is 2730 Tower Road over in Barstow Heights. It used to be a grow house. Two weeks ago it was ripped off. But this wasn’t your average hillbilly heist where Billy Bob and his cousin-brother Jethro back up a pickup and chuck a few plants in the back. No sir, a neighbor with a video cam caught this footage. He thought it was a little suspicious for the gas company to send eight guys in body armor to read the meter.”

  He let the video roll. It was reasonably good quality since HD had been in the hands of the masses for some time. The neighbor also must have been shooting from a tripod, because there was none of the shaky-cam effect so often seen with candid amateur video.

  They watched as a large commercial van with Salento Gas & Power in large letters on the side backed into the driveway of the home at 2730 Tower Road. The back door of the van ejected seven men, who walked quickly in single file to the front door. The guy in front had a tactical battering ram which he carried effortlessly. Every one of the cops watching knew it was thirty pounds of steel-encased concrete, so the fitness of the assault team was not lost on them.

  As the seven men reached the door, the lead man swung the ram, and they walked in without missing a step. Within ninety seconds they had started to load large plastic garbage bags into the van. The entire operation took six and a half minutes. The driver could be seen moving from his seat to the rear of the van to stack the bags. When the house was empty, the gas van moved nonchalantly away from the home, leaving no visible signs of the ripoff.

  The lights went up.

  Over the murmur in the room, Captain Ramsey continued. “Okay, shut the fuck up and we’ll end this circle jerk and get out on the street where we can actually do some good. Like I said, this obviously isn’t a bunch of stoners out to score some good skunk for their college dorm. These guys are organized and very well bankrolled. You can see by the way the lead guy carried the rama-lama-ding-dong that they’re also fit as hell. The only guy here I’ve ever seen do that was Sandovan, and that was before he decided to go for the fucking Guinness donut-eating record on a daily basis.”

  Sandovan grimaced and grabbed his stomach.

  The captain was on a roll. “What the video doesn’t tell you is that this isn’t the only house they’ve hit. It might’ve been one of the first three, but in total they’ve taken down six or seven. Always the same MO, but we know it’s not always a gas truck.”

  Jenny Miller, a detective just out of vice, put her hand up.

  The captain gave her a withering look. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Miller, this isn’t that formal fucking Ivy League fancy-panty school your parents sent you to. You got a question, just pipe up.”

  Miller did her best to recover. “Uh, right. Okay sir, so do we know it’s just one crew? Or could it be a bunch of different gangs at war with one another. And are the grow houses random? Or is it one operation continually being hit?”

  “Fuck a duck, Miller. What’s with the essay question?” The captain turned away from the podium to ask his lieutenant something. The looie, Domingo Gomez, murmured a response.

  “Dino says that according to our latest and most comprehensive intel, we have no fucking idea. Which isn’t surprising, since the criminal elements in this town aren’t exactly the types to call the Crimestoppers hotline. Anyway, you guys aren’t in the question business, you’re in the answer business. So get off your asses and get me some.”

  Mitchell approached Ramsey after the cops had dispersed.

  “So, Cap, what sort of grow houses we talking about? Lots of foil, duct tape, and toxic chemical containers festering around the inside? Or are they crisp and clean?”

  “What part of ‘you’re not in the question business’ didn’t you understand, Mitchell?”

  “Come on, sir, it’ll save me and Sandovan a bunch of leg work.”

  “Pretty much every one of the ops was very clean and sophisticated. All the thousand-watt lamps were of the same make and model, suggesting bulk buying. The electrical grid taps and security measures were all pro. No handyman specials. It’s good craft work.”

  “Thanks boss.”

  “Get off your kneepads and get out there.”

  Mitchell figured Mya would still be sleeping off the scotch, so he went out for a beer with Sandovan, Ryerson, and Hernandez. Ryerson pulled out a tablet computer and started to sketch on a touchscreen flow chart.

  “First there’s the warehouse bomb. No IDs on the four vics except for one, and he’s pretty much a bust unless you guys can track down the guy with the vanity plate. What’s his name again?”

  “Rammi Vargas.”

  Ryerson sketched the name.

  “Right. Now we know that someone with skills is ripping the grow houses. Those guys looked almost military. We just don’t know how many crews they’re using, how they got the intel about where the houses were, and whether it’s one organization they’re going after or just a series of random hits.”

  Hernandez took a shot of rye whiskey and chased it with a sip of his beer. “I’ve been hearing some interesting stuff for a while about a supposed pot corporation. They been operating like a legit business. Growing, distributing, even marketing. The head guy’s supposed to be a real badass.”

  Sandovan took a fistful of peanuts from the bowl on the table and tossed a few into his mouth. “I’ve heard rumors like that too. Another dealer I rousted called the guy O.M.G.”

  “Like Oh My God in text-speak?” Ryerson interrupted.

  Sandovan munched a few more peanuts, “Nah, I think O.M.G. are the guy’s real initials. But Oh My God also works, because he’s a really ruthless bastard. The rumor I heard was he put a competitor through a wood chipper and stopped it when the guy was in up to his knees to ask him some questions. Videotaped the whole episode and then sent it to the dude’s friends to scare them off.”

  “That’d do it,” Mitchell said.

  Sandovan looked shocked. “You mean a little wood chipper thing would scare you off avenging Hernandez? Or me? Or Ryerson?”

  Mitchell laughed. “Are you kidding? You guys know I’m there for you. As long as it doesn’t mean canceling a tee time.”

  Sandovan threw a peanut at Mitchell’s beer mug. It ricocheted off the rim. Ryerson ignored the banter as he concentrated on filling in the blanks on the tablet. “Hernandez, you still got that connection in the weapons biz?”

  “Of course. Why do you think I’m packing this Sig Sauer with the laser sights while you assholes are all making do with the departmental Glocks?”

  “How about you put out some feelers and see if anyone has made some big ordnance buys? Those dudes looked pretty well armed.”

  “Will do.”

  “Mitchell, you
and Sandovan talk to the guys who have seen all the grow ops. All the gear is pretty specialized. Maybe we can track down a supplier who’s willing to shed some light on where his business comes from.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “All right. I’ve just emailed all the notes to your smartphones so we’re clear on who’s doing what. Anybody got anything interesting planned for the weekend?”

  Sandovan spoke up first, “I’m thinking Ramsey has reorganized all our social calendars. I’m just going to chill out with Claire and the kids. I think Tamtam has a dance recital or something, and Marco wants to buy a new bike.”

  Ryerson smiled. “You are the king of the ‘burbs, Eddie.”

  “Okay, smart guy, what’s on the metrosexual to-do list?”

  “You mean what or who?”

  The men all laughed.

  “Phil and I are going to the new gallery opening down in Leeside. And my niece has a soccer game. But apart from that I’m going to keep thinking about new angles on this shit storm.”

  Mitchell and Hernandez agreed; it was looking like a working weekend. They drained their beers and called for the check.

  A minute after the detectives left the bar, Luis and Hector got up from the next booth over, put a couple of twenties on the table and slipped quietly out the back door.

  13

  Otis M. Gaverill was in a rage. He ripped the big screen TV off his wall and threw it at his inner circle of advisors. Phineas, Curtis, and J.A. all scrambled to get out of the way. It landed on the Eames surfboard coffee table and broke it in half.

  “Someone is getting under my skin! Someone is making me look the fool! Someone is going to die! And it’s either going to be the nervy scoundrel who is stealing from me, or one of you. I don’t care which!”

  Curiously, Otis never swore. He was ruthless. Criminal tendencies were wired into his DNA. And he was as autocratic as the head of an organization could be. But no matter how angry he got, the men in his inner circle had never heard him swear. Nor did he ever take the Lord’s name in vain.

  Once, during a high-stakes game of Mahjong, Otis had won straight off the deal with a rare “heavenly hand.” Watching his monthly dividend disappear into Otis’s pocket, Curtis launched into a tirade of “Jesus Christs” and “God damns.”

  Phineas and J.A. knew what was coming next. Otis had reclined in his chair, put his fingertips together, and looked at Curtis with a perplexed expression. The silence got uncomfortable, especially for Curtis, since you never wanted to be fixed in Otis’s gaze for long.

  Otis leaned forward and addressed Curtis in a soft voice. “Curtis, do you see this game in front of us?”

  Curtis, clearly unnerved, answered. “Yes, Otis, I see the game.”

  “This is a civilized game. Some believe it was created by Confucius himself over twenty-five centuries ago. These tiles,” he motioned to the three dragon tiles, “stand for sincerity, honoring one’s ancestors, and altruistic behavior. The invitation to play is widely held in Chinese culture as an offer of friendship. In short, your outburst could not be further from the ideals of this game.”

  Curtis started to apologize, “Big O, I didn’t—”

  Otis held up his hand to silence the young man. “Having a temper is not a sin. But how a temper manifests is a very insightful measure of a man. Taking the Lord’s name in vain, even if you yourself are not a man of faith, shows a contempt for the beliefs of others. Phineas here is devout. Do you wish to disparage his faith just because you lost your monthly bonus?”

  “No, Otis, I don’t mean to do that. Phin…I’m sorry.”

  Phineas closed his eyes and forgave him.

  Otis concluded with a sentence that had stuck with Curtis, to the point where he had appropriated it as his own. “If you are going to walk on the boulevards with civilized men, then you can’t talk like the crack whores and the methheads in the gutters.”

  Then, gracious sport that he was, he gave Curtis the chance to win his money back.

  For Otis, money was not the be-all and end-all of life. His preferred currency was respect. So while the grow house ripoffs had put a dent in his organization’s quarterly projections, it was more the fact that someone felt he could steal his property that enraged him.

  He sat down at the dining table and motioned for the others to do the same. Two of his enforcers emerged from a door hidden seamlessly in the wall and removed the broken TV and coffee table. Otis stared into space for a moment, then he laid out his plan.

  “I want enhanced security measures at our remaining three hundred and eight houses. Phin, get me surveillance. I want pictures of the crew that is stealing our property. If it is that pond-scum Aaron Carr moving in on our territory, I will exact a terrible vengeance with him. From now on I don’t want houses left unoccupied.”

  J.A. spoke. “Big O, you know we run lean when it comes to personnel. We can’t muster that large a trustworthy work force on a short time frame.”

  “Fine. Pull up the map.”

  J.A. pressed a button and a large computer screen rose out of Otis’s cherrywood credenza. It flickered to life. A map of the city appeared, with graphic blue pushpins where the houses were. Red pins indicated the houses that had been robbed.

  “There’s a quadrant they haven’t hit so far,” Otis observed. “We haven’t lost anything from the southeast side. Let’s assume that the probability is they’ll hit something in that quadrant some time soon. I want men who are prone to violence in those fifty-seven houses. Doable?”

  J.A. agreed.

  “Phineas, we need some kind of unexpected lethality as well as the added personnel. What can you do?”

  Phineas took a wireless keyboard from the center of the table. He keyed in a password and called up the organization’s arsenal. He bypassed the small arms and automatic weapons to peruse the explosives.

  “We need something quick and dirty that we can install tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of M67 frag grenades. So I’m thinking the tried-and-true tin can IED should do the trick,” Phineas said.

  As Improvised Explosive Devices went, the tin can bomb was simple and deadly. All the bombmaker had to do was pull the pin on a fragmentation grenade and put it in a tin can to keep the safety lever compressed. A piece of fishing line was attached to the grenade. The line could be used as a trip wire or just attached to a door. When the wire was tripped or the door was opened, the grenade was pulled from the can, the safety lever released, and the grenade exploded.

  “If need be we can get a bit more sophisticated with mercury tilt switches,” Phineas concluded.

  “We’re losing a million-plus worth of product per house, not to mention the long-term effects on the bottom line. So get sophisticated,” Otis said.

  Phineas agreed. “Fair enough. These guys will only fall for the tin can once. I’ve got a few more ideas that are a bit more diabolical. We can get Q working on them.”

  Q was their nickname for an expert IED maker. His full name was Qareh Rabdani. They called him Q after the special weapons guru in the James Bond movies.

  Rabdani had fled the hostilities in Afghanistan after he was made a priority target of Task Force Paladin—the specialized American bomb-hunting unit. He’d been a true believer, but one day Qareh’s brother Mahmoud was building a bomb that he planned to activate with a signal from a garage door opener—a technique Qareh had shown him. Mahmoud was killed by Marines who were driving through his neighborhood in a Humvee broadcasting a spectrum of frequencies commonly used by garage door openers. At that point in the war, it was a surprisingly effective tactic. Mahmoud and two of his cousins were incinerated beyond recognition. There were no dental records, so they couldn’t even distinguish who was who.

  Rabdani realized he needed to get out. He wanted to bring his fight to America. After a two-year journey, plastic surgery, tens of thousands of dollars in bribes, and multiple assumed identities, he finally made it into the US.

  Upon his arrival, however, he found that a man wi
th his unique skills could make an incredible amount of money working for organized crime. Rabdani had also discovered that a party girl in his arms here on Earth was far more enticing than the promise of seventy virgins in the afterlife.

  Phineas had plans to put Rabdani to work making booby traps that would serve as a deterrent to anyone trying to rip them off. But right now he was on his phone making sure that they had enough shooters to cover the fifty-seven grow houses in the southeast. He would also distribute the fragmentation grenades, tin cans, and fishing line for the initial round of countermeasures.

  Someone was in for a very rude surprise.

  14

  Rammi Vargas felt lucky. He had a hot car, a hot girlfriend, and suddenly a very lucrative business opportunity.

  In truth, Rammi had no idea how lucky he was. As he tooled around Salento in his ‘92 Skyline with his 2HOT4U plate, he had not come in contact with any of the specially equipped police cruisers bearing the automatic license plate recognition system.

  Ignorance was bliss. And bliss was definitely what he was feeling now after taking a hit of the joint that Curtis and J.A. had given him.

  “What’d you say it was?”

  “As of today, it doesn’t have a name. But it is a potent new skunkalicious hybrid that is going to be a contender for the Cannabis Cup. And we would like you to be a part of the organization.”

  J.A. took a wad of bills out of the side pocket of his custom-tailored Italian slacks. He peeled off twenty Franklins. Rammi tried to play it cool, but his pulse was racing as J.A. continued to outline the business proposition.

  “It’s two grand a week to watch the weed, safeguard the house, take in the mail, and maintain the property. You got a sixty-inch plasma in the bedroom with HBO and picture-in-picture for the security cams, front and back. The other thing to remember is that you come and go via the garage door, not the doors to the house. The doors to the house are rigged to give anyone using them a shrapnel enema. Savvy?”