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o find this guy Perrine?” Diaz said. “I mean, how much, really?”
“He put out a hit on my family, 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.
