Dragon's Den. Don Pendleton

called here after someone dialed 9-1-1 and reported shots fired and what sounded like an explosion.”

      “Pratt lives in Ladera Heights,” she said, recalling it almost instantaneously from her memory. She’d made it a habit to be familiar with the movements of certain elements. “Did somebody finally take him out? Another rival gang or something? If so, I’m throwing a party.”

      “This wasn’t a rival gang,” he said. “Just one guy.”

      Amherst felt her blood immediately run cold. She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason Lareza’s statement made her think of Matt Cooper. Amherst had called to check Agent Cooper’s credentials as soon as he left, and the Department of Justice confirmed not only his status with the DEA but his authorization to investigate the sudden flood of drugs into Los Angeles. And further, people at the “highest level would appreciate it if Captain Amherst cooperated with Cooper’s investigation in every way possible.”

      Amherst tried to keep her voice neutral. “So why call me?”

      “Well, Pratt’s not talking but one of his boys got diarrhea of the mouth as soon as we arrived. This guy had some interesting things to tell me, but I don’t want to get into any more of that over the phone. I think we should meet.”

      “You told me this was more official.”

      Lareza sighed deeply. “Look, it is official but it’s also kind of unofficial, what I have to tell you. Can you just meet me, Rhonda?”

      “Sure,” she said. “Tell me where and when.”

      “You remember Cappie’s?”

      “Of course,” she said, recalling the renovated fishing wharf turned restaurant that had become a popular hangout for UCLA alumni.

      “I get off at eleven, so I’ll meet you there about quarter-to-twelve. Okay?”

      “I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

      It had been one of the weirdest calls she could ever remember receiving from Lareza, but also one of the most intriguing. She couldn’t fathom why whatever had transpired at the home of Antoine Pratt would have anything to do with her. Apparently Lareza felt otherwise, and she’d learned to trust her friend’s judgment. Something Lareza heard obviously led him to believe it would be of interest to Amherst, and yet sensitive enough he didn’t want to draw undue attention.

      Amherst could only recall confiding in him recently on one topic, and that had been the sheriff’s unwillingness to pursue the major influx of opium into L.A. County neighborhoods. Now, with the DEA involved, it only stood to reason the stuff would start going public and the need for secrecy made naught. But on the other hand, maybe the sheriff’s position hadn’t changed. Maybe more existed here than Amherst believed, and maybe this involved more than just drugs and gangs.

      Amherst would have to keep her wits about her, because in a very short time she knew she’d need to call on them under the direst circumstances.

      T HE FISH BATTER and din of voices were the only two things thicker than the smoke in Cappie’s Lounge.

      An observer might have concluded the lounge catered mostly to the yuppie clientele, but, in fact, Cappie’s served a mixer of rowdy college students—mostly they congregated in the bar and pool area.

      The alumni or faculty—the adults, in other words—confined their activities to the restaurant. In either case, Amherst had come to adore the lounge. For one thing, most cops wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place, except in an undercover role. That meant it unlikely anybody would spy on her there or she’d run into anyone uncomfortable.

      Lareza studied Amherst over the rim of his glass. He’d been watching her intently as she devoured her third helping of fish. He seemed almost stone-faced except for that damn smirk that occasionally played across his lips. The fact Amherst couldn’t figure out why he kept staring at her with that ridiculous expression only served to irritate her. Finally, Amherst put down her fork, wiped away the grease from her lips and washed her food down with a swig from an ice-cold bottle of beer.

      “I hate to eat alone,” she said. “Why didn’t you order anything?”

      “I told you I’m not hungry.”

      Amherst dropped her napkin on the table next to her plate, grabbed the bottle in one hand, stuffed the other in her pocket and then leaned back. She wiped the bottle across her forehead. The temperature seemed to have gone up ten degrees since they arrived forty minutes earlier.

      “So, what was so damn hush-hush you couldn’t tell me on the phone?”

      Lareza sat forward and put both forearms flat on the table. His hands visibly tightened as he dropped his tone some, making it much more difficult to hear him over the music blaring from the jukebox speakers mounted strategically throughout the establishment. His dark brown eyes gleamed under the diffuser-shade lamp that hung over their table. He’d always been a handsome guy, partly rugged with his dark skin and partly teddy bear with those dimples. He wore his black hair short and slicked back.

      “The guy I questioned tonight, he’s a bodyguard and enforcer for Antoine Pratt.”

      “You already mentioned that,” Amherst replied with a nod. “What’s his story?”

      “His story is this mystery perp scared the living shit out of him. Said the guy was a big son of a bitch, dressed up like some type of commando. Apparently he just walked in and started shooting the place up and blowing it all to hell. Preliminary evidence says there were automatic weapons and high explosives used in Pratt’s house. Crime scene thinks possibly grenades.”

      “And you believed him?” Amherst asked as she cocked one eyebrow.

      “Hell, yeah, I believed him!” Lareza noticed her look around and lowered his voice self-consciously. “Sorry.”

      Amherst could already see where this conversation would end up, but she couldn’t ignore what Lareza had just revealed. “Automatic weapons aren’t anything new here. But military-grade explosives, that sounds a bit more serious.”

      “You’re goddamn right it is,” Lareza said. “And I’ll tell you something else. This wasn’t done in gangland style one bit. This guy hit the place like a professional all the way.”

      “What did he look like?”

      “Tall with dark hair. Pratt’s guy couldn’t really get a look at his face because I guess he had it smeared with shoe polish or something, but he remembered the guy’s eyes were blue because they stood out so much. Said he’d never seen colder eyes on someone than this bastard.”

      Amherst could feel that sensation go through her again, like ice pulsing in her veins. Other than the commando outfit and face paint, the guy matched Matt Cooper’s description perfectly: big, dark hair and some very intense blue eyes. Yes, she couldn’t deny that sounded exactly like Cooper, and moreover she couldn’t deny how betrayed she felt. At that moment, she had an even bigger problem. While she’d known Lareza for a lot of years she didn’t entirely trust him. In the past he had kept her other secrets, though, and if she needed a friend now was the time.

      “That guy sounds like a dead ringer for a man who came to my office late this afternoon.”

      Something changed in Lareza’s expression. “What man?”

      “Well, I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, but you know how to keep your mouth shut. You can’t breathe a word of it to anybody, Nesto, I’m telling you straight.”

      “I swear, I won’t say nothing,” Lareza replied, crossing himself and kissing the crucifix hanging from his neck. “But what the hell are you being so damn secretive about?”

      “Because I don’t know where any of this is going yet, and I don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions and doing something stupid.”

      “It would be a little hard to do something stupid when I don’t