Gone (Michael Bennett)

John,” I said, looking at the LAPD cop in the rearview. “I want him as badly as humanly possible.”
    “I figured,” Diaz said. “See, this guy Tomás is going to be hard-core and definitely not stupid. If he’s helping out Perrine, there’s no way he’s going to voluntarily come with us to be questioned. There’s no way he’s going to cooperate.”
    “I take it you have another idea?” Emily said.
    Diaz nodded.
    “Back in the late nineties, we had a scandal out here with a gang unit called CRASH. These CRASH cops went off the rails. They framed gang members, beat up on them. The sergeants used to give out awards if a gang member was shot.”
    “Your point being?”
    “These gang guys remember CRASH. In fact, more often than not, during an arrest they and their defense lawyers claim we’re up to our old tricks. I’m just thinking we might be able to use the rep of these crazy CRASH guys to put a little pressure on our friend Tomás.”
    “What do you mean? You want to frame him or something?” Emily said.
    “No, of course not,” Diaz said. “But what if we … I don’t know … pretended to?”
    “Yeah?” I said.
    “I don’t know,” Emily said.
    I smiled.
    “I don’t know, either, Emily. But the director did tell us to get creative, to think outside the box. Besides, we need information, not evidence. It would never make it into court.”
    “Exactly,” Diaz said. “It would be a bluff all the way, but at this point, that’s all we got. We need to do something.”
    “Fine,” Emily said. “You’re right. This is beyond everything at this point. Count me in. I think.”
    “What do we have to do, Diaz?” I said.
    Diaz pointed at a CVS pharmacy on the corner to our left.
    “Pull in here,” he said. “I need to pick up a few things.”

CHAPTER 76
     
    DEATH METAL WAS CHUGGING from one of the garage’s four bays when we pulled into Beach City Customs’ parking lot.
    Inside, there was a man in coveralls down on one knee, tack welding at the tailgate of a Toyota pickup truck, blue electric sparks crackling in time to the head-banging blast beats. Through the window of the paint room behind him, a guy in a full filter-breathing mask was airbrushing flames onto the gas tank on a large Japanese motorcycle.
    Parker and I exchanged a glance when we saw the bike. The shooters who had taken down the LA County cops had escaped on big-bore Japanese motorcycles.
    Without any ado, Diaz stuck his head inside the door of the Tacoma and killed the deafening devil tunes.
    The welder stood and flipped up his mask, his pudgy brown face scrunched in wonder.
    “You kidding me?” he said.
    Diaz flipped his badge as he slammed the truck’s door. There was a tire iron on the ground beside the vehicle. It made a musical bing-bong off the concrete as Diaz kicked it across the garage.
    “Let me answer your question with a question. Does it look like I’m kidding you? Get Tomás now,” Diaz said.
    A broad-shouldered middleweight of a Hispanic man bounced out a door a split second later. He wore a tailored shirt and jacket over expensive jeans and had scar tissue over his eyes and cheekbones like ax cuts on a totem pole.
    “Señor Neves, I presume?” Diaz said.
    “Yeah? What?” he said with a stunned look on his malevolent face.
    Tomás shrugged as we showed our tin.
    “And?” he said.
    “Señor Neves,” Diaz said with a courtly little bow, “I know you’re a busy man, but do you think it might be possible to speak with you for five minutes about a stolen car? If now’s not good for you, we could always come back later with a search warrant and put you out of business.”
    “Why don’t you come back to my office?” Tomás finally said.
    “Señor Neves, I thought you’d never ask,” Diaz said.
    We followed him up the stairs, into a room with a spotless desk and a phone on it. There was a window in one wall and the cracked door to a bathroom in another.
    “OK, here we are. Happy? So what the hell is this about? A stolen car?” Neves demanded.
    “Jeez, dog. What is it with you? Could you be ruder?” Diaz cried. “This ain’t the hood. This is Manhattan Beach. You’re supposed to say shit like, Would you like a seat, Officer? Can I get you a cold drink, Officer? I mean, if you want to be a businessman, you should watch an episode of Martha Stewart or something.”
    “Fine. Would you like a seat?” Neves said.
    “There you go. No seat, man, but do you mind if I use your