Gone (Michael Bennett)

hands up there on the prairie, Detective?”
    “A little, Parker. Anyway, in India there used to be this criminal cult called the Thuggees. They were a secretive organization of robber-murderers. They’d strangle their victims and then bleed them, offering their blood to Kali, the goddess of death. Some say Santa Muerte is a modern incarnation of Mictecacihuatl, the Aztec goddess of death.”
    “So what are you saying? It’s us versus the goddess of death?”
    “Kind of,” I said.
    “You’ve been watching too much History Channel,” she said.
    “Have I?” I said. “These cartel people are engaging in the kind of unhinged, deranged behavior usually reserved for serial killers. Is it that crazy to believe that there’s some sort of ideology behind it? I think we have to at least consider it. We have to stop thinking that this is just about a bunch of greedy dope dealers.”

CHAPTER 45
     
    ABOUT AN HOUR LATER , on our way to get a bite to eat, I knocked on the dash of Parker’s metallic-brown Crown Victoria as we pulled out of the Olympic Station lot.
    “What’s up with this ride, Parker?” I complained. “As my preteen daughters would say, this car is ‘so not cool.’ You’d think, this being LA, that they’d assign you some kind of convertible, at least.”
    Parker smirked at me from behind her Ray-Bans.
    “Tell you what, Mike,” she said. “You bag Perrine, I’ll see to it you get first bid on his Bentley at the government auction.”
    “Bentley, huh?” I said, scratching my chin. “How many passengers can a Bentley fit? I need seating for a dozen, two of them car seats.”
    Parker laughed.
    “Just a dozen? Aren’t you leaving someone out? What about Seamus?”
    “We usually put him in the trunk, or on the roof with the cat.”
    Parker shook her head, sighing.
    My chop busting was, of course, just show. I actually loved the Crown Vic, the FBI radio crackling beneath its dash, even the bad gas-station coffee in the holder beside me. In fact, it felt fantastic to be back at work.
    I was even more excited about our dinner plans. Parker had spoken to Agent Rothkopf, who, with the help of a cousin or something, got us reservations at some hip restaurant called Cut, in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. It was a Wolfgang Puck steak house where Tom Cruise supposedly ate from time to time. I couldn’t wait.
    It was our LAPD hosts who had been less than accommodating. As I’d watched them read reports and brood about them, it’d become painfully obvious to me that the cops in this clique of LAPD heavy hitters were doing their own thing, working their own leads, their own contacts, while completely leaving the feds in the dark.
    Though I’d been pretty tribal myself about my home turf back in NYC, the fact that I was now among the feds being boxed out kind of pissed me off. I didn’t come in off the farm to be a benchwarmer.
    Parker’s phone rang.
    “One second,” she said. “I’m driving. Let me hand you to Detective Bennett.”
    “Who is it?” I asked, holding her BlackBerry against my thigh.
    “Bassman.”
    “Gee, thanks,” I said, lifting the phone. “Bennett here. What’s up, Detective?”
    “Hey, where’d you guys go?” Bassman asked. “I’ve been looking all around for you.”
    Yeah, right , I thought. We’d been sitting there for hours, twiddling our thumbs. My guess was that he’d somehow heard about our reservation and had finally come up with a way to ruin it. A goose chase, no doubt. The cartels were blowing people away, and the only thing Bassman was interested in was more chop busting. This guy was the full package, a complete ass.
    “I don’t know how they do things in New York, Bennett, but this task force is a team. Anyway, I have a lead for you and Parker. A guy arrested for DUI involving a fatality swears he saw Perrine this morning. How about you guys run down to the hospital and talk to him.”
    “Hospital?”
    “Yeah, he’s in the psycho wing at the Metro State Hospital in Norwalk. Apparently, this guy is on speed or ecstasy or something.”
    I knew it. The task force was getting thousands of useless calls a day about Perrine’s locale, and here Bassman was sending us to talk to some guy who was drugged out of his mind. Sure, he saw Perrine. Riding a giant green velvet bumblebee over a rainbow, no doubt.
    Whatever , I thought. Tom Cruise would have to eat his Kobe fillet without us. We had to start somewhere.
    “No problem. Hit me with the