PROLOGUE

SPRING 2002

When the fire engines had rolled up to the scene, most of what was observed was a run-of-the-mill hotshot callout for a structure fire. The time it had taken for them to arrive, also very standard. Their prompt arrival, with flashing lights and blaring sirens, mirrored countless other emergencies. Within moments, the raging inferno that had consumed the residence was tamed, its greedy flames smothered by a torrent of water and extinguishing foam. The fire had been doused almost immediately. It was the puzzling factors that came next.

Amidst the dissipating smoke and lingering scent of charred debris, a chilling discovery awaited the first responders. A woman was found hanging from a large oak tree in the backyard, her body still seizing, her life not quite fully extinguished like the flames that had been alive only moments before.

With haste fueled by adrenaline, the emergency team swiftly intervened, the victim was pulled from the tree and freed from her bindings. The combined sirens of approaching paramedics and police cruisers screamed toward their destination. Two medics exited the rescue ambulance and began working seamlessly to save another life. Their actions synchronized, engaging in a desperate battle against time. Chest compressions began and oxygen was reintroduced into the woman’s restricted airways. After several minutes of lifesaving measures, the medics had achieved their intended purpose. A pulse.

The perplexities continued, as once inside the now-smoldering structure, signs began to point heavily to the use of an accelerant. The work of an arsonist at play had been established. Stranger still was that once inside the residence, the first responders found a luggage bag full of cash, its contents mostly char and ash by that point.

In the close-knit embrace of a small town, this tragedy would etch itself deeply into the collective memory of the community for years to come. However, in the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, a population of nearly four million and growing, what would be years of remembrance bled down and condensed into a single day before it was forgotten from the memories of the masses – an act such as this too commonplace to be held with much regard or significance.

( In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton. Available on Amazon)

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

We’ve all had heroes growing up, and I remember mine; never thought I’d end up being one.

Before the last shift of his career began, Detective David Hall stared at his gold shield.

As he took note of the detail work on his badge, his eyes fell on his badge number: 3001. It reminded him that sometimes he was reduced to a mere number, lumped together with fellow officers whenever the LAPD or any police agency faced criticism.

Across from him sat his partner, junior detective Frank Markowitz, who broke the silence with a question. “Can I ask you something Dave?” He asked.

“Go for it, Franky,” Dave said, still captivated by his badge and the long history it held.

“You ever wonder why we wear it on the left?”

“Well, that answer goes back a long way. But there are two reasons. One that’s more recent is that we wear it over the heart to remind us of our pledge to protect. The less recent reason was that hundreds of years ago, knights used their left arm to hold their coat of arms shields. So, in a sense they were protecting their heart with their left which enabled the right arm, usually their dominant one, for wielding their weapon of choice. As you can see, our shields are a bit smaller these days.” He flicked the metal with his finger.

“Can I ask you another question?” the junior detective inquired again.

“Might as well. I got nothing but time,” David said with a soft huff of laughter.

“Are you gonna miss it?”

Are you gonna miss it? David repeated the question in his mind. He had been toying with that same question for months now. It was always: yes and no … yes and no. He loved what he did and felt pride, honor, and a slew of other emotions from his time on the force. But when your time is up, you’ll know it. You can feel it, and his was ticking down to the final seconds. The Doomsday clock as it were, minus the doom. “Yeah, in a way I ’spose so,” he finally said, wrapping up the mental recollections.

“We’re gonna miss you too. You’ve done so much for the department.”

David returned Franky a soft smile. To say that today would be bittersweet was an understatement.

At last, the shift concluded as unceremoniously as his first day on the job. He’d never expected that today of all days there would be the high-profile hostage situation of the decade. Or that the heist of the century would be held in his honor and that on his last tour of duty he would save the day. In all honesty, he’d assumed it would end the way it did: Twelve hours. Punched in. Punched out. The only difference was he left Hollywood station with cake today. It was not like the movies.

Thirty-two years served and now he was done. His life hadn’t always been so bland.

He’d been given the chance to serve before when he was younger. When the country needed him – or rather … needed bodies. He’d lied about his age, joined young, and shipped off to Vietnam near the tail end of the conflict. It was a nasty place, and he hadn’t seen such horrors in a long, long time.

When his service overseas was done, he chose to go back home and began a profession in lumberjacking in northern California. But within two years, the very institution that needed him for war decided they didn’t need him for cutting trees.

The federal government came in with a heavy hand and ended his career, shutting down the businesses that relied on logging. Effectively shutting him down.

Disarmed and stripped of his livelihood, David found solace and a steady paycheck by rearming himself when he joined the LAPD, a path that lead him to this moment.

But today, in the here and now the sun was dropping behind low clouds, and the sky was painted purple, blue, and orange from the brush of the sun’s light as he headed out to his Bronco.

The drive seemed to take an eternity, but it could have lasted forever for all David cared. The sun was setting, and it seemed as if it might be setting on the final act of his life as well. The last chapter of a book ending and closing forever. He let out a heavy sigh as he took in the beautiful skyscape; he had spent so much time thinking about his last days, he hadn’t given much time to consider what was next. He had yet to nail down a hobby to bide his time and occupy his spirit and interests; perhaps give him purpose and maybe lengthen his life. He feared that boredom and stagnation of a mundane routine would do nothing but invite death’s unwelcome presence to his door.

As he parked by the curb in front of his house, it appeared to be the end of any normal day. It was Tuesday. Trash day. He exited his Bronco, grabbed the cans, and wheeled them up the driveway.

His keys rattled as he unclipped them from his belt and unlocked the front door. It had barely opened to the slightest degree when he was assaulted by an uproarious, “Surprise!” Echoes of jubilant voices filled the living room in unison by what looked to be forty or more people occupying the cramped space. He heard kazoos ringing out and colorful streamers fired from all directions.

His wife emerged from the center of the field of bodies, closed the distance between them and threw her arms around him, giving him a kiss on his cheek. “Thank God I’m not twenty years older, you could have given me a heart attack, Connie!” David said, laughing and a bit flushed with embarrassment. In his absentminded ruminations, he had not detected several easily recognizable vehicles on the street. He should have known his friends were all here. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking that maybe it had been a good time to retire. Perhaps he had lost his edge after all.

( In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton. Available on Amazon)

Tuesday, October 29, 2019

It was never a good sign when Ernesto Ramos showed up at David’s door unannounced, and it was no surprise when the offer of aged whiskey accompanied his presence. This would play out as usual: Ernesto would start talking about the ‘good ole’ days,’ then follow through with how the department has changed so much since then, and finally end his gambit with either asking for money or worse, a favor.

They both settled into the living room, David’s face implacable with wariness and Ernesto with an unshakeable slyness across his own.

“You’re lookin’ good Dave.” Ernesto placed a palm on David’s shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze. “Still haven’t missed a day in the gym have you? You look as solid as ever.”

“Not if I can help it. You know what they say though, the hardest part about working out –.”

“- Is being distracted by all the ladies in the gym.”

Ernesto said cutting him off.

David shot him an inscrutable stare. “You know, you’re not the dumbest person in the world, but you better pray they don’t die.”

Ernesto laughed at the jab and his own joke while David returned a smirk. Ernesto would never change.

Discussions went back and forth for quite some time, and it became evidently apparent the conversation was drying up, a staleness growing in the air between topics and talking points. Ernesto drew in a breath, and David prepared himself for what was to come.

“So … Dave,” Ernesto said letting out a breath. “I need some advice.”

It was a bit of a shocker; Dave had already prepped for the worst, and maybe it might not be as bad as he thought. “Go on. Anything I can do to help, I’ll try.”

“You remember my nephew, Roman, right?”

There was no way David could forget Roman, and the way in which that poor boy’s life had ended. David’s voice grew tight in his throat. “Of course. What about him?”

“Well …” Ernesto hesitated a moment. “I’ve come into some new information about his death.”

“When you say you have come into new information, how exactly did you come by this info?”

“I’d rather not disclose that at the moment.” There it was. Ernesto’s old ways shining through. He’d always cut corners in the past and suffered two long suspensions as a result. Without knowing it, David suddenly found himself rising to his feet. “What exactly is it that you need? This hardly sounds par

for the course as far as advice goes. I can tell from your voice it’s worse than what you’re letting on.”

“I’ve got a bead on who killed him, Dave, and I think I know why. And you’re right, I don’t need your advice. I need your help.” With this new line of dialogue, David wished that his old buddy had only come with prospects of panhandling him. “Come on, Ernie, what do you expect me to do? I’m retired, man.” Ernesto’s voice lowered, a timbre of sadness lacing every word.

“You know as well as I, that guys like us don’t just retire. We can’t walk off into the sunset with a happy ending. We don’t get that luxury. We don’t deserve it.”

David pointed an accusatory finger at Ernesto’s chest and shook his head. He spoke with calm measured words. “Maybe not you. But don’t bring that on me. I’ve done my duty. I put in the long hours, and I watched my children grow up at a distance. I will not do that with my grandchildren.”

It was Ernesto now who rose to his feet having sensed he had worn out his welcome. “Like it or not, Dave, this will eat at you, as it has me. You can’t let this die away.” He placed his unfinished glass down on the coffee table and walked to the entryway. He opened the door and quietly stared into the distance beyond for a long moment. His shoulders sagged and he dropped his head, then glanced back in David’s direction. “I know you, Dave. Maybe better than you know yourself. You won’t.”

(In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton, available on Amazon)

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Ernesto was right, which was an anomaly. That night, David felt a burning in his gut that fought off two Tums and a dose of Mylanta with ease. It waged an assault so fierce that even the mere desire for sleep became an elusive dream.

He rose from the bed silently allowing Connie to continue her rest uninterrupted. He opened the sliding door to his patio. Smoking had long been a discarded vice, a relic from over ten years ago, but his fingers twitched involuntarily at the mere thought of inhaling a cigarette. Ernesto's words had purposefully poisoned him, yet David couldn't muster hatred for his old friend. It was evident that Ernesto was reaching out for help, albeit in his own enigmatic way.

Walking the perimeter of his pool he dipped his foot in, and feeling the chill, he decided against a swim to ease his tension. Instead, he opened his outside fridge and pulled out a beer. It was frigid as well but a different kind of cold; one that he could bear.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he pressed the button on the side, bringing the screen to life. It glowed in the darkness, revealing the time — just past two. He slipped the phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants, its presence a reassuring anchor in the uncertainty of the night.

A gentle breeze brushed against his face, carrying with it the faint scent of ash drifting over the hills. It mingled with the coolness of the night, providing a calmness that washed over David's restless mind. It could have been a distant bonfire from a neighboring house or a wildfire raging miles and miles away. His instincts betting on the latter. The past few weeks had been marked by oppressive dryness, and the Santa Ana winds had begun their tumultuous dance across the Sierra Pelona mountains.

Shit. Retrieving the phone once again, he scrolled through his contacts, sending out a signal that spiraled from cell tower to cell tower. There was no doubt in his mind that there would be a response, even at this unholy hour.

The line opened followed by a smug sigh. “I won’t say it, but … you know ...” The words were left to hang in the air.

David understood what lay behind those words—an unspoken I told you so. Without allowing the silence to stretch further, he inquired, "Was it Waters who gave you the tip?" He was referring to Emil Waters, an ex-cop, ex-con, who still operated in the shadows, maintaining connections with a myriad of three and four-letter agencies. He had earned the nickname 'Dirty Waters,' a testament to his murky past. But despite his tainted reputation, his information remained consistently reliable. It was enough to secure him an early release from a lengthy prison sentence, granting him the taste of freedom several years ago.

“Yes.”

“Let’s meet, but not here. I don’t want Connie to catch wind of this just yet. I’d like to see all the moving parts first. Breakfast?”

“Make it lunch. I’ll still be up for a bit, won’t be rousing ’fore ten, I’m sure. Let’s settle on 11:30.”

“Send me a text in the morning, let me know where.” Not missing a beat Ernesto said, “Coronado’s.”

“Pricey. You buying?”

“Nope.”

The line disconnected leaving David to absorb the weight of their conversation. Perhaps it was the antacids finally taking effect, soothing the storm within his stomach. Or perhaps it was the glimmer of hope, the possibility of a resolution hanging in the delicate balance of the unknown. Regardless, his restless mind found solace, and within minutes of his head meeting the pillow, the night pulled him deep into his dreams. Tense, restless dreams.

(In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton, available on Amazon)

David wiped at his mouth with a napkin in irritation after hearing this near confession. “So, what happened to you having a bead on who killed Roman?”

“Okay, okay. I migh’ta bent the truth just a bit.”

“Bit? You lied.”

“Well, lied is a bit strong. If anything, I’d just say this was just a small case of—”

“You also lied about meeting here at 11:30. Almost an hour late, man.”

“It was a busy night last night if you catch my drift. I had to get my beauty rest.” Ernesto flashed a devilish wink.

“Then why do you still look like a damn troll?”

“Well shit, that hurts. Look, all I was saying—”

David sliced his hand through the air interrupting Ernesto. “Looks like you’re taking a mighty long detour for this apology.”

“Okay … fine, I’m sorry. I misinformed you.” A wry smile played across Ernesto’s features. “I know it may feel like a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Who gave you this long-shot information then?”

“Joe Smith,” Ernesto said half-laughing.

David returned an annoyed stare.

“Okay, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Listen, I know a guy who might know a thing or two, and I want to have some words with him and hear what he has to say.”

“So talk with him. What’s stopping you?” David cupped his hand around his coffee cup absorbing its warmth. Ernesto waved his hand back and forth in front of his face.

“You see, that’s the thing. This handsome mug can’t be seen near him.”

“Handsome? So, you’re just going to keep lying this morning?”

“I’m dug in deep and can’t afford the exposure.” Leaning back, David rotated his neck in a half circle. The bones popped, relieving a bit of the built-up tension. He then fixed Ernesto with another stare and edged forward. “You doing side work again? Why don’t you just retire already?”

Ernesto nodded slowly, confirming David's suspicion, as he continued to chew his breakfast. “It's not in me. I'm just like you, keeping busy. Even you worked on the private security detail for the DA for a quick stint after pulling the pin with the city. Plus, this contract gig is doing wonders for my bank account.”

“So, you’re finally above water?”

“Well, I mean … I get by, but you know life never lets you get ahead. There’s always something …” Ernesto trailed off.

“And here I thought you just wanted me to do the legwork for shits and giggles.” David pointed a finger at his old partner. “And that’s an interesting analogy. ‘Pulling the pin,’ huh? This is the kind of behavior that’ll get yourself killed, ya know that?”

“Eh, everyone’s candle has to go out sometime.”

“But not everyone is lighting a fuse to it … on both ends for that matter.”

Ernesto shrugged. “That’s debatable.”

“I’ll pass on the debate. Okay, so this guy who has info – where do I find him?” Ernesto hesitated a moment then said, “CSP.”

CSP – the acronym short for the California State Penitentiary. “Ha!” David mocked in fake laughter and slapped his hand on the table, his gaze fixating on the iconic framed picture of Muhammed Ali standing over Sonny Liston that hung on the wall above their booth. He simply shook his head. “You must want to get me killed too.”

Ernesto shrugged off the attack. “I wanted to bring you in because you’re no longer in the game, and not a known variable in the equation. And out of everyone I know who is an ex-cop, you’ve got the best instincts. You smell the shit coming a mile away.”

“You’re coming off pretty strong right now.” David said with a smile.

“Look man, I know I ain’t easy to work with. Just ask my ex-wives. But you still have your wits about you, you’re still in great shape a dude your age.”

“Okay, easy does it. You’re gonna sweet talk me into diabetes.”

“I really need someone with grit. The older the bull, the stiffer the horns.” Ernesto tipped his head at David. “But look, if you don’t want to help, I understand.” Ernesto replied.

“It’s not about not helping, Ernie. CSP is no joke. Lemme guess, gang affiliated?”

“Siete Reyes,” he said flatly.

“Geeezus …” David snagged a lone piece of bacon from his plate despite his appetite diminishing further with each passing moment. “First CSP, now Reyes. They’re worse than MS-13. Practically a death sentence just to go up there. They have eyes on the fringe just watching their members to see who they talk to; they even pay off the guards. How is it that I’m supposed to waltz in and start asking him your questions?”

Ernesto took a sip of his coffee. “Tell him about his brother.” He said matter-of-factly.

“What exactly about his brother is so important?” David bit the end of his bacon. “Death notification. It can all be official.”

“Wow.” David let out a huff and shook his head, he paused for a moment then glared at Ernesto. “Just wow. That’s a new low, Ernie.” He drew in a breath. “All right, so how did he die?”

Curiosity was blooming in his chest now, but only God knew why. Because he sure as hell didn’t. Ernesto mimicked a handgun entering his mouth and pulling the trigger. “Happened three days ago. Nothing released publicly yet.”

“Lookin’ like there was no coincidence now with you showing up at my doorstep yesterday. Okay, so you want me to use my credentials to speak with him. And what is it I’m asking him on the sly? And what if he’s not talkin’?”

“He’ll be pretty chatty when you let him know the unofficial story of his death.” Ernesto shoved food into his mouth. David recognized this action as an attempt to buy time for the barrage of questions his statement would produce. “And how exactly did his brother die? Was he a someone, or a nobody?”

Speaking while continuing to chew, Ernesto said, “Gael Prado.” He being of Mexican descent spoke the name with an added flourish in his native tongue. “Perhaps the less you know the better. He wasn’t a saint. Best keep that at the forefront when considering his untimely end.”

“Since when do we deal with saints? Ours are always the latter, the sinners. So, Gael – who was he?” Impatience seeped to the surface of David’s voice.

“Mid-tier, but on the rise. The guy was making moves. His eyes were looking up.”

“And why would this guy … ‘on the rise’ … want to kill himself?”

“Why does anyone do anything these days? I don’t know what goes on in their monkey heads. Look, one minute you’re happy as a clam. The next … ” He tilted his head to the side and held an imaginary noose, giving it a tug above his head.

“Uh huh. Riiiiiiiight. ” The sarcasm oozed. “And I just tell his brother. That’s it, and he’s supposed to tell you what you want to hear?”

“David, you’re a great copper, but you are so simple-minded sometimes. You’ve no imagination.” Ernesto tapped the blunted tip of his knife against his temple and gave David a wicked smile.

“It’s kept me safe all these years, but all right, I’ll bite. Expand my horizons then.” “Supe’d up red 1987 Pontiac Firebird,” Ernesto said pointedly. “Nice car, practically a classic. But what about it?”

“It was the vehicle that was seen by an eyewitness leaving the scene of Gael’s murder.” David was listening intently and had almost brought his coffee to his lips when he lowered it, “Murder? I thought you said—”

Ernesto cut him off before he could begin his line of questioning. “Suspend reality, Dave. We’re going to use the circumstances to our benefit. Get some pieces moving on the table. The driver of this vehicle is unknown to us. But it should ring some bells with Gael’s brother or rather his half-brother Hector Cifuentes, who is – luckily for us – still in the land of the living and perhaps willing to talk.”

David finally took a sip of his coffee. “I see … so you want to spook him with a rival gang killing on this?”

“Nope.” A slight smile etched the corners of Ernesto’s mouth. “Same gang. For reasons I can’t explain further at the moment, I’m betting when he hears the news, he’ll give us some breadcrumbs to follow. Don’t get the story too spicy, or he’s liable to smell the fragrant bullshit in the air. Give him enough to push him to help our side. Also, don’t make it too much of a downer that he hangs himself with his bed sheets. We might need him later. Just give him the CliffsNotes. Looks like suicide, but stinks of staged homicide, yada, blah, etc.”

“Do you have any specifics for me?” Ernesto picked up a packet from the booth bench and slid it across the table. David opened the file and took a cursory glance at the paperwork, his eyes studying it all, but not fixating on anything in particular. He began fashioning a story in his head so that when he recalled the tale to Hector later, it would seem truthful. He looked back up at Ernesto with reproachful eyes. “I’m seeing a lot of redactions on these reports. Fill me in. Which is it – suicide or homicide? How did he really die?”

For a moment it seemed as if Ernesto would hold those cards close to the chest, but he pursed his lips while in thought a moment as he considered his words, then clicked his tongue and edged forward, his voice lowering when he said, “I’ll leave it at this: the DEA.”

“You can’t just ‘leave it at this’ after dropping a bombshell like that. What was it? A bust gone wrong?” Ernesto clammed up. “That’s all I know.”

“Well, if anything else comes to light, tell me. We need to know what we’re up against here.” David turned his attention back to the files in front of him, and settled upon the photo of Gael Prado taken shortly after his final moments in life. The image seared into his brain.

(In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton, available on Amazon)