Cold Hit Read online

  Phenomenal praise for

  Stephen Cannell and his thrillers

  “Mr. Cannell’s brand of thriller is served straight up…and he knows how to cut to the chase.”

  —The New York Times

  “A pro at the top of his game.”

  —Stephen Coonts

  “Cannell leaves ’em begging for more.”

  —Booklist

  Cold Hit

  “The action rarely lets up.”

  —The Chicago Tribune

  “A thriller, a procedural, and an indictment of the Patriot Act in the wrong hands. Scully, the plots, and the characters get better with each book.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  “If you are hungry for a great police procedural, look no further. Cannell knows what he’s doing…this mystery works on every level.”

  —Tulsa World

  “An intriguing, torn-from-today’s-headlines premise on his fifth Shane Scully outing.”

  —News Press (Fort Myers, FL)

  Vertical Coffin

  “Readers will enjoy watching [Scully] puzzle out the twists and turns of the plot and watch breathlessly as he undertakes a climactic high-speed chase.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Cannell certainly knows how to tell a story…You’ll probably read the entire book with a smile on your face.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  Hollywood Tough

  “Cannell, creator of such TV shows as The A-Team, clearly knows the ins and outs of the entertainment industry, and the detective story, with its wry, subtle humor, doubles as Hollywood satire…the cops-and-robbers sequences hit the mark as well. Well-drawn characters and keen observations on the similarities between Hollywood and the mafia make this a winner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Scully has ample opportunity to prove how ‘Hollywood tough’ he is…veteran writer/TV producer

  Cannell has concocted his special brand of reader candy.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Runaway Heart

  “A cop thriller with a futuristic, sci-fi twist…Cannell has a genius for creating memorable characters and quirky, gripping plots…this is a fun read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Viking Funeral

  “Stephen J. Cannell is an accomplished novelist.”

  —New York Daily News

  “Stephen J. Cannell’s The Viking Funeral is the sort of fast and furious read you might expect from one of television’s most successful and inventive writer-producers.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Solid plotting with nail-biting suspense and multiple surprises keep the reader guessing and sweating right up to the cinematic ending…Cannell has a knack for characterization and a bent for drama that will satisfy even the most jaded thrill lover.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Tin Collectors

  “I’ve been a Stephen Cannell fan since his remarkable King Con, and he keeps getting better. The Tin Collectors is an LAPD story that possesses both heart and soul; a fresh and different look at the men and women who, even more than the NYPD, are the most media-covered police force in the world. Stephen Cannell has the screenwriter’s fine ear for dialogue and great sense of timing and pacing as well as the novelist’s gift of substance and subtlety. Cannell likes to write, and it shows.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Cannell turns out another winding, suspenseful thriller.”

  —New York Daily News

  “Readers who enjoy cop novels by Robert Daley or William Caunitz will find Cannell right up their dark, dangerous alley.”

  —Booklist

  “Cannell has created a reputation for top-rate suspense in four novels…his latest, The Tin Collectors, is his best…Cannell…knows how to tell a good story.”

  —Wisconsin State Journal

  “Cannell conjures up images of McBain, Wambaugh, and Heller; only tougher, grittier, more underhanded, with plenty of street-smart savvy, and a frightening and wholly believable plot and characters…crackles with high energy and suspense…Cannell is in top form.”

  —Charleston Post & Courier

  “Compelling, frightening, and…very moving. Don’t miss it. Cannell is a first-rate storyteller and The Tin

  Collectors never stops.”

  —Janet Evanovich

  “Stephen Cannell has a chilling thought: What if the guys who police the police went bad? As in crooked? Then what? Then chaos, a message that comes through with decibels to spare in The Tin Collectors. This is classic Cannell: fast, full of action.”

  —The Cincinnati Enquirer

  “In Shane Scully, Cannell brings the reader a dynamic new hero with promise of new adventures in the field of law and order.”

  —Abilene-Reporter News

  “A sure winner…Cannell keeps the tension and pace at high levels.”

  —St. Paul Star Tribune

  “Cannell is a great storyteller…a fresh and edgy story.”

  —Buffalo News

  “Exciting…a fast-action tale that continues to build up momentum until the story line exceeds the speed of light.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  “Cannell’s…best novel…begins with a bang and closes with one…a fast-paced well-told story.”

  —The Osceola Magnifier

  FOR MY SON, CODY

  YOU HAVE MADE YOUR DAD VERY PROUD

  COLD HIT: POLICE TERMINOLOGY REFERRING TO A BALLISTICS MATCH TYING ONE CRIME OR WEAPON TO ANOTHER.

  THEY THAT CAN GIVE UP ESSENTIAL LIBERTY TO OBTAIN A LITTLE TEMPORARY SAFETY DESERVE NEITHER LIBERTY NOR SAFETY.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Preview

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2:30 A.M.

  The phone jack-hammered me up out of a tangled dream.

  “Detective Scully?” a woman’s voice said. “This is Homicide Dispatch. You just caught a fresh one-eighty-seven. The DB is on Forest Lawn Drive one block east of Barham Boul
evard, under the bridge.”

  “In the L.A. River again?” I sat up and grabbed my pants.

  “Yes sir. The patrol unit is there with the respondents. The blues say it looks like another homeless man so the duty desk at Homicide Special told us to give you the roll out.”

  “Isn’t that in Burbank? Have you notified BPD?”

  “According to the site map, it’s just inside L.A., so there’s no jurisdictional problem. I need to give patrol an ETA.”

  “It’s gonna take me forty-five minutes.” I started to hang up, but hesitated, and added, “Have you notified my partner, Detective Farrell?”

  “We’ve been trying,” she replied carefully, then paused and said, “He’s not picking up.”

  There was doubt and concern in her tone. Damn, I thought. Did even the civilian dispatchers in the Communications Division know Zack Farrell had become a lush?

  “Keep trying,” I said, and hung up.

  I rolled out of bed, trying not to wake my wife, dressed quickly in fresh clothes, and went into the bathroom where I did my speed groom: head in the faucet, towel dry, hair comb with fingers, Lavoris rinse, no shave. I checked myself for flaws. There were plenty. I’m in my late-thirties and look like a club fighter who’s stayed in the ring a few years too long.

  I snapped off the bathroom light, crossed to the bed, and kissed Alexa. Aside from being my wife, she’s also my boss and heads the Detective Services Group at LAPD.

  “Wazzzzit?” she mumbled, rolling toward me and squinting up through tousled, black hair.

  “We got another one.”

  Coming up to a sitting position immediately alert, she said, “Son of a bitch is six days early.”

  Even in the half-light, Alexa took my breath away. Dark-eyed, with glossy hair and the high cheekbones of a model, she could have easily made a living on the covers of fashion magazines. Instead, she was down at Parker Center, in the biggest boys club on earth. Alexa was the only staff rank female officer on the sixth floor of the Glass House. She was an excellent commander, and deft at politics, while managing to avoid becoming a politician.

  “The L.A. River?” she asked.

  “Yeah, another homeless guy dumped in the wash near Barham just inside our jurisdiction. I don’t know if the fingertips have been clipped off like the other two, but since it’s almost a week off his timeline, I’m praying it’s not our unsub.”

  Unsub stood for Unknown Subject, what law enforcement called perpetrators who hadn’t been identified. We used to use words like him or his, but with more and more female perps, it no longer made sense to use a pronoun that eliminated half the population.

  “If the vic’s homeless and is dumped in the river, then it’s our unsub,” she said. “I better get downtown. Did dispatch call Tony?”

  Police Chief Tony Filosiani was known affectionately by the troops as the Day-Glo Dago, a term earned because he was a kinetic fireplug from Brooklyn. The chief was a fair, hard-nosed leader who was also a pretty good guy when he wasn’t causing havoc by reorganizing your division.

  “You better check Tony yourself. I’ll let Chooch know,” I said.

  We’d converted our two-car garage into a bedroom for my son when his girlfriend, Delfina, lost her family and came to live with us last year. I stopped there before leaving the house.

  Chooch was asleep with our adopted, marmalade cat Franco curled up at his feet. At six-foot-three-and-a-half, my son was almost too long to fit his standard-sized bed. When I sat on the edge, he rolled over and squinted up at me.

  “I’m heading out,” I said.

  He was used to these late-night callouts and nodded.

  Then his eyes focused as he gained consciousness and his look changed to concern. “What about tonight?”

  Chooch was being heavily recruited by three Division-One schools for a football scholarship. Pete Carroll from USC was coming over for a coach’s visit at six this evening.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be here. No way I’ll miss that. Gimme a hug.” I put my arms around him and squeezed. I felt him return the embrace, pulling me close. A warmth and sense of peace spread through me.

  I jumped in my new gray Acura and pulled out, wondering where the hell Zack was. I prayed my partner wasn’t drunk, propped against a wall in some after-hours joint with his cell phone off. I owed Zack Farrell a lot. He was my partner for a rough two years when I was still in patrol. I was completely disillusioned and close to ending it back then, tick-tocking along, heading toward a dark future. After work I’d fall into my big recliner in front of the tube, swig Stoli in a house littered with empty bottles and pizza boxes, and stare numbly at my flickering TV. By midnight I’d be nibbling my gun barrel, looking for the courage to do the deed.

  In the morning my crotch was usually wet with spilled booze, my gun poking a hole in my ass somewhere beneath me. I’d dig it out, stumble to my car, and stagger back to work for another bloodshot tour. I was disheartened and circling the drain.

  After two years working X-cars in the West Valley together, Zack left patrol and we hadn’t seen much of each other in the years that followed. When Chooch and Alexa entered my orbit they gave new meaning to my life. But the reason the lights were still on when they arrived, was because Zack Farrell had watched my back and carried my water for those depressing two years. He refused to let our bosses take me down. All I had back then was the job, and if I had lost that, I know one night I would have found the strength to end it. It was a debt I’d never be able to square.

  I pulled my life together after that and was now a Detective III assigned to Homicide Special on the fourth floor of Parker Center. This was Mecca for the Detective Division because all unusual or high-profile murders picked up on the street were turned over to this elite squad of handpicked detectives.

  When I was assigned there, I found to my surprise, that Zack was also in the division. He told me he didn’t have a partner at the time so we went to the captain and asked to team up again.

  But I hadn’t paid enough attention to some troubling clues. I didn’t ask why Zack’s last two partners had demanded reassignments, or why he’d been in two near-fatal car accidents in six months. I hadn’t wondered why he only made it to Detective II, one grade below me, despite two years of job seniority. I looked past these very obvious warning signs, as well as his red eyes and the burst capillaries in his cheeks. I never asked him why he’d gained seventy pounds and couldn’t take even one flight of stairs without wheezing like a busted windbag. I soon came to realize that I didn’t really know him at all.

  Two weeks ago I looked up one of his recent partners, an African-American named Antoine Jewel. After almost twenty minutes of trying to duck me, Jewel finally leaned forward.

  “The man is a ticking bomb,” he said. “Stressed out and completely unreliable. Been so drunk since his wife threw him out, he actually backed over his own dog in the driveway. Killed him.”

  I certainly knew about his messy divorce, but Zack hadn’t told me about the dog, which surprised me. Although by then, most of his behavior was hard to explain.

  I made a detour so I could shoot up Brand Boulevard through Glendale to the apartment Zack moved into after his wife, Fran, threw him out.

  Like so many buildings in Los Angeles, the Californian Apartments were ersatz Mexican. Two stories of tan stucco with arched windows and a red-tiled roof—Olé. I could see Zack’s maroon department-issued Crown Victoria in the garage, but his personal car, a white, windowless Econoline van, was drunk-parked, blocking most of the driveway, which would make it impossible for his neighbors to leave in the morning.

  I walked toward his downstairs unit and found the front door ajar, stepped inside and called his name loudly, afraid he would come out of an alcoholic stupor, pull the oversized square-barreled cannon he recently started packing, and park a hollow point in my hollow head.

  “Zack? Hold your fire. It’s Shane.”

  Nothing.

  The place had the odor of neglect.
A musty mildew stench tinged with the acrid smell of vomit. The rooms were littered with empty bottles and fast-food wrappers. Faded snapshot memories of my old life flickered on a screen in the back of my head.

  I found him in the kitchen, out cold, sprawled on the floor. Zack was almost six-three and well over three hundred pounds, with a round Irish face and huge, gelatinous forearms shaped like oversized bowling pins.

  He was face down on the linoleum. It looked as if he’d been sitting at the dinette table, knocked down one too many scotch shooters, passed out, then hit the table, tipping it as he rolled.

  How did I deduce this? Crime scenes are my thing and this was definitely a crime. There were condiments scattered on the floor and blood under Zack’s right cheek, courtesy of a dead-drunk bounce when he hit.

  “Hey, Zack.” I removed his gun and rolled him over. His nose was broken, laying half-against his right cheek. Blood dripped from both nostrils. I got a dishtowel, went to the sink, wet it, then knelt down and started mopping his face, trying to clean him up, bring him out of it.

  “Fuck you doing here?” he said, opening his eyes.

  “We got a fresh one. Vic’s in the L.A. wash just like the other three. Dispatch couldn’t raise you.”

  I helped him sit up. He put both catcher’s mitt–sized hands up to his face and started polishing his eye sockets.