four patrol cars with two-man teams. Also, as a precaution, a SWAT unit was a block away. We could have gone with a major-league assault, but it was my call, and I preferred surgical strikes to carpet bombing. If that failed, I was fine with Bombs Away.
I radioed Canseco to pull down the alley behind Ocampo’s shop in case the guy bolted out the back. My phone rang, Roy. “You’re clear, bud,” he said. “The AG says it’s fine. Nail the fucker, but be careful, right?”
Gary’s Fantasy World reminded me of an old-school record store, except the wooden bins held glassine-sleeved comic books instead of vinyl albums. Hand-lettered signs hung above bins, denoting
Superman, Batman, Fantastic Four
and so forth. A far wall held video games. Two glass counters in the rear held more comics. I took it they were the crème de la crème, priced from two hundred and fifty to over two thousand dollars.
“Two grand for a freakin’ comic?” Gershwin whispered.
I heard a rustle and spun to see a young male enter from a door behind the counter, early twenties, skinny as a rail, with the bleached pallor that comes from junk food and avoidance of sunlight. There was a single tattoo inside his right arm: Spider-Man in lavish color. Per current trend he affected a knit woolen hat of thick yarn, black, pulled almost to his eyebrows. Unwashed brown hair poured several inches from the hat, ending in jagged spikes.
The kid’s brown eyes stared at us without saying a word. I doubt we resembled the typical comic-book purchaser, though what did I know?
“We need to see Mr Ocampo,” Gershwin said.
“He’s not in.”
I pulled the badge, evoking puzzlement from the kid. “Where is he?” I asked. “Mr Ocampo.”
The kid looked toward the ceiling. Or maybe heaven. “Upstairs.”
“Can you call him down here?”
“Gary don’t come down here a whole lot.”
A voice appeared in the air, wheezy and almost breathless. “
This is Gary Ocampo. What do you want?
”
My eyes went to the corners, the front door, back. No one.
“Where are you?” I said.
“
Jonathan just told you: I’m upstairs
.”
He was talking through speakers. I looked around but couldn’t see the camera. “We need to talk to you, now, Mr Ocampo,” I said. “We need you downstairs.”
“
I can’t
,” the disembodied voice said. “
Have Jonathan take you to the elevator
.”
I pulled the clerk close, figuring the store was thick with microphones. “Ocampo,” I whispered. “Is he armed, Jonathan?”
“Hunh?”
“Don’t lie to me, kid. Is Ocampo sitting on a stack of guns up there?”
The clerk looked at me like I’d started making chicken sounds. “Fuck no. Gary usually ain’t even sitting.”
“What’s
that
mean?” Gershwin said.
The clerk rolled his eyes and waved us through the door behind the counter and into a room of inventory, boxes of magazines and games in various stages of sorting and packaging. The kid pointed to a grated opening in the corner. “The elevator. Push ‘up’ and guess what … it takes you up.”
The scene was less threatening than odd. I keyed my mic and told Canseco and the unit we were heading upstairs, then stepped into the elevator. It wasn’t a freight elevator, but not one of those house-sized lifts either; a meter and a half square or so, big enough to carry a large fridge with a couple guys beside it. It groaned between floors and stopped behind a gray panel. Gershwin and I were pressed to the sides and had our weapons at our sides, just in case.
I slid the gray panel aside, finding a room so dark we were momentarily blinded. All I could see, backlit against the vertical bands of light between the blinds, was a pale hill constructed on a low table and for a split-second my mind showed me Richard Dreyfuss creating the mud tower in
Close Encounters
. At the base of the hill, against the wall, was a pair of flat-screen televisions, the screens dead.
Was the rapist hiding behind the mound …
I radioed Canseco to pull down the alley behind Ocampo’s shop in case the guy bolted out the back. My phone rang, Roy. “You’re clear, bud,” he said. “The AG says it’s fine. Nail the fucker, but be careful, right?”
Gary’s Fantasy World reminded me of an old-school record store, except the wooden bins held glassine-sleeved comic books instead of vinyl albums. Hand-lettered signs hung above bins, denoting
Superman, Batman, Fantastic Four
and so forth. A far wall held video games. Two glass counters in the rear held more comics. I took it they were the crème de la crème, priced from two hundred and fifty to over two thousand dollars.
“Two grand for a freakin’ comic?” Gershwin whispered.
I heard a rustle and spun to see a young male enter from a door behind the counter, early twenties, skinny as a rail, with the bleached pallor that comes from junk food and avoidance of sunlight. There was a single tattoo inside his right arm: Spider-Man in lavish color. Per current trend he affected a knit woolen hat of thick yarn, black, pulled almost to his eyebrows. Unwashed brown hair poured several inches from the hat, ending in jagged spikes.
The kid’s brown eyes stared at us without saying a word. I doubt we resembled the typical comic-book purchaser, though what did I know?
“We need to see Mr Ocampo,” Gershwin said.
“He’s not in.”
I pulled the badge, evoking puzzlement from the kid. “Where is he?” I asked. “Mr Ocampo.”
The kid looked toward the ceiling. Or maybe heaven. “Upstairs.”
“Can you call him down here?”
“Gary don’t come down here a whole lot.”
A voice appeared in the air, wheezy and almost breathless. “
This is Gary Ocampo. What do you want?
”
My eyes went to the corners, the front door, back. No one.
“Where are you?” I said.
“
Jonathan just told you: I’m upstairs
.”
He was talking through speakers. I looked around but couldn’t see the camera. “We need to talk to you, now, Mr Ocampo,” I said. “We need you downstairs.”
“
I can’t
,” the disembodied voice said. “
Have Jonathan take you to the elevator
.”
I pulled the clerk close, figuring the store was thick with microphones. “Ocampo,” I whispered. “Is he armed, Jonathan?”
“Hunh?”
“Don’t lie to me, kid. Is Ocampo sitting on a stack of guns up there?”
The clerk looked at me like I’d started making chicken sounds. “Fuck no. Gary usually ain’t even sitting.”
“What’s
that
mean?” Gershwin said.
The clerk rolled his eyes and waved us through the door behind the counter and into a room of inventory, boxes of magazines and games in various stages of sorting and packaging. The kid pointed to a grated opening in the corner. “The elevator. Push ‘up’ and guess what … it takes you up.”
The scene was less threatening than odd. I keyed my mic and told Canseco and the unit we were heading upstairs, then stepped into the elevator. It wasn’t a freight elevator, but not one of those house-sized lifts either; a meter and a half square or so, big enough to carry a large fridge with a couple guys beside it. It groaned between floors and stopped behind a gray panel. Gershwin and I were pressed to the sides and had our weapons at our sides, just in case.
I slid the gray panel aside, finding a room so dark we were momentarily blinded. All I could see, backlit against the vertical bands of light between the blinds, was a pale hill constructed on a low table and for a split-second my mind showed me Richard Dreyfuss creating the mud tower in
Close Encounters
. At the base of the hill, against the wall, was a pair of flat-screen televisions, the screens dead.
Was the rapist hiding behind the mound …
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