Chapter 6
WHILE STILWELL WAITED for Simon, he called Mercy back and asked her to run the name Gonzalo Kalas through the computer.
She did so and learned that there was an ICE hold on a Gonzalo Kalas, age thirty-four.
Stilwell guessed that he was looking at the wanted man and asked if there was an ICE contact listed on the hold.
“Agent Jerry Gordon,” Mercy said. “Santa Ana office.”
“Got it,” Stilwell said. “Is there a contact number?”
Mercy gave it to him but with reluctance in her voice, and Stilwell knew why.
“I’m not crazy about calling ICE,” he said. “But I need some intel on who this guy is.”
“I get it,” she said, though the reluctant tone was still there.
He hung up and called the number she’d given him. The phone was answered right away.
“Agent Gordon. How can I help you?”
Stilwell identified himself and said he had eyes on a man he believed Gordon was looking for.
“I’m looking for a lot of people,” Gordon said. “Which one are we talking about?”
“Gonzalo Kalas,” Stilwell said.
Gordon responded quickly, apparently without having to check the name in his files. “You have him in custody?” he asked.
“No, I said I have eyes on him,” Stilwell said.
“Where?”
“Catalina.”
“The island? No shit. Not where I expected to get him. Thing is, I’m not going to be able to get out there for a bit. Can your gang take him down?”
“I’m waiting on backup. Can you tell me anything about this guy?”
“Yeah, he’s a dirtbag and we want to send him back where he came from.”
“Which is where?”
“Sinaloa, Mexico. He’s a courier for the cartel. Maybe even a sicario.”
“A hitter? If we have the right guy, he was involved in a drug drop at the airport over here last night. Two deputies got shot.”
“Oh, man, I just saw that on the news. And this guy was the shooter?”
“Not the shooter. But he was there. Can you send me a picture so I can make sure we’re talking about the same guy?”
“We don’t really have a good shot of him but I’ll dig up what we have and send it. Text it to this number?”
“Yes, that would be good. Thanks.”
“And you’ll let me know when you have him in custody? We’ll come take him off your hands.”
“Uh, we’ll stay in contact, but he’s going to face charges here. We have a dead deputy.”
“Right, yeah, there’s that. Just keep me in the loop, then. And if we can be of service, you know where to find me.”
“I do.”
After disconnecting from Gordon, Stilwell looked at his watch and wondered where Simon was. He checked the restaurant and saw Kalas sitting in a booth by the front window. It looked like there were two glasses of water on the table.
“Where’s the guy?”
Stilwell turned and saw Simon coming from Crescent. Stilwell nodded toward Original Jack’s. “Front table by the window,” he said. “I think he might be waiting for someone.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He either made or got a phone call while walking over from the ferry dock. And there are two glasses of water on the table.”
Simon checked the restaurant to confirm Stilwell’s report, then nodded.
“What boat did he buy a ticket for?” he asked.
“The ten o’clock,” Stilwell said.
“Then maybe we watch and wait. Did we get a name on this guy?”
“Gonzalo Kalas. I ran the name and there’s an ICE hold on him. He’s a courier and suspected hitter.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“He’s carrying a backpack that might contain a weapon.”
“We’ll need some backup. Who do you have that won’t fuck it up?”
Stilwell took that as a slight aimed at Quigley and Ramirez and maybe even himself. He ignored it—for the moment.
“I’ve got two deputies on,” he said. “I can pull them over here.”
“Do it,” Simon said. “But if they’re in uniform, tell them to hang back till we need ’em.”
“They’re in island uniform—like me.”
“Then tell them not to wander into our surveillance.”
Stilwell used his two-way to call Deputies De Giorgio and Mason and direct them to stage at Crescent and Catalina until needed. When he turned back he saw that Kalas was still sitting by himself in the booth at Original Jack’s.
“I think it’s bullshit,” Simon said. “I think he just said it would be two so he could get the booth.”
“Maybe,” Stilwell said. “He did have a call.”
“That could have been anything. Maybe he was arranging his pickup on the other side.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want to see what he’s got in that backpack you mentioned.”
“Then as soon as we have backup, we go in.”
Ten minutes later Stilwell and Simon crossed the street and approached the door to Original Jack’s from an angle to Kalas’s back. They entered the restaurant with Simon in the lead. He slid into Kalas’s booth opposite him, and Stilwell slid in next to Kalas.
“Keep your hands on the table,” Simon said.
“What is this?” Kalas said.
Stilwell shifted his position so he could put his hand on his holstered weapon.
“Are you armed?” he asked.
“No, I’m not armed,” Kalas said. “What is going on here?”
He spoke with a heavy accent.
“We just wanted to speak with you,” Simon said. “And—oh, I’m sorry, did I just kick your leg?”
Simon leaned back to look under the table.
“Oh, your backpack,” he said. “Let me get that out of the way.”
“It’s not mine,” Kalas said quickly. “It was already there.”
“Really?” Simon said.
He reached down and pulled the backpack up onto the bench next to him. Stilwell wondered if Kalas understood the mistake he had made by denying ownership of it.
“You sure it’s not yours?” Simon asked. “It’s a nice backpack.”
“It’s not mine, and I must go now,” Kalas said. “I am on the next boat.”
“Then you’ve got plenty of time,” Simon said. “Doesn’t he, Stil?”
“At least an hour till boarding,” Stilwell said.
“You must really want to get off the island,” Simon said.
“I have business,” Kalas said.
“Tell you what,” Simon said. “If this isn’t yours, then we’re going to have to open it up to see if we can figure out whose it is.”
Simon unzipped the main compartment of the backpack and spread it open. It revealed the shiny black crown of a safety helmet with a full wind visor. He looked at Stilwell, who nodded, confirming it matched the helmet worn by the runner the night before.
At that moment Kalas threw his shoulder into Stilwell and knocked him out of the booth onto the floor.
Kalas climbed out of the booth to run, but Stilwell recovered enough to grab his leg.
Kalas tripped and fell into a table where a family of four were sitting.
Water glasses and mugs of coffee crashed to the floor.
Both Stilwell and Simon were on him then; they pulled him off the table and took him down.
“Help!” Kalas yelled. “I’m a citizen and they’re taking me away!”
Stilwell pulled his cuffs from a belt holster and quickly secured Kalas’s hands behind his back. Kalas kept yelling.
“This is ICE! They can’t do this! I’m a citizen! Help!”
People were standing up from their tables to get a view of the man lying face down on the floor. Stilwell saw a woman recording the scene on her cell phone.
Stilwell held Kalas on the ground and used the two-way to call De Giorgio and Mason in.
Simon got up, out of breath.
“Sorry about that, folks,” he announced to the restaurant. “Just a little excitement to start your day with.”
“We are not ICE,” Stilwell told them. “We’re L.A. County sheriffs. Please be seated and enjoy your breakfast.”
The deputies arrived and Stilwell issued orders.
“Take him to the sub and put him in the interview room,” he said. “Make sure you search him for weapons and lock him down.”
“You got it,” Mason said.
He and De Giorgio walked Kalas out of the restaurant, holding him by both arms. Stilwell went over to the family sitting at the table Kalas had crashed into. They had either finished their breakfast or were still waiting for it, so the only damage was to water glasses and coffee mugs.
“Everybody okay?” he said. “We’re sorry that happened.”
He got four looks of wide-eyed shock in response.
“We’re okay,” the father said. “We weren’t expecting that.”
“Neither were we,” Stilwell said.