Free The Famous and the Dead by T. Jefferson Parker

for the submachine guns and pistols, we’ll get the takedown team in place and pinch these rancid creeps.”
    Hood looked up at him. To Hood, Dale Yorth was the combination of boyish adventurism and deadly adult mission that constituted law enforcement at most levels. Hood had long watched these traits ebb and flow, rise up and retreat, in himself and in others, often at odd and unpredictable times. As part of a takedown team, he had once been led by a senior agent who hummed the old
Hawaii Five-0
theme as they ran through a parking lot, guns drawn on armed felons. Hood believed that these traits were good things for lawmen, so long as they were balanced by sound judgment.

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    After writing his reports Hood drove back to Castro Ford to see if Israel’s Flex was parked up front again. It was. Hood parked in the same spot that the Missouri men had used. He exchanged pleasantries with three salesmen waiting outside, one of whom looked disdainfully at the Charger and accused Hood of going over to the dark side. This got a laugh and Hood joined in. He could hear the pneumatic rasp of the power tools and the clank of steel coming from the service side and thought they weren’t bad sounds at all.
    In the showroom he admired a very hot yellow Mustang, a loaded Flex, and a little Focus that gleamed like a jewel. The fierce showroom lights made them look not only beautiful but somehow eternal. There was a bin of soccer balls right there by the Mustang, their colored panels the same hot yellow as the Mustang, with CASTRO FORD SAYS YES ! emblazoned on them. Hood occasionally thought that if his law enforcement career was to end he might sell cars.
    He wandered past the sales cubicles and the service hallway and the awards case and found Israel Castro sitting, back turned, at his desk in the last office. He took off his hat and rapped on the door frame. “Coleman Draper.”
    Castro swung around. “Who the hell are you?”
    â€œEasy does it. Charlie Hooper. I worked with Draper at LASD.”
    Castro looked at him for a long moment. He was balding and powerfully built and his expression was of curious distrust. He wore a short-sleeve shirt and a necktie. “You a cop?”
    â€œReserve. Like Coleman. We had some of the same friends, on and off the force. He spoke highly of you.”
    â€œI’m reserve, too. Imperial County. Come in.”
    Hood sat and Castro called for coffees. When the pretty girl had come and gone, Hood told Castro about meeting Draper back in ’08 when Coleman’s German car repair shop came recommended. They’d talked, found common interests, including cars and law enforcement, and Draper had later introduced him to the captain who ran the LASD Reserves. Hooper joined up for the action and the badge and the contacts. A year later, Coleman was gunned down by a deputy on his own force.
    Castro nodded, his doubtful eyes roaming Hood’s face. “What brings you here?”
    â€œJust business. I’m buying and selling.” He gave Castro one of his Charles Hooper cards. “It’s all squeaky clean. No toys for boys. Nothing going south illegally.”
    â€œDo I look like I need a gun?”
    â€œThat’s entirely up to you. I’ve been in San Diego for a few months now, moved down from Seattle after L.A. I’m touching base with my contacts, just working the field. As I said, Coleman liked you a lot. He told me about when you guys were young in Jacumba. Amigos Restaurant and all. I always wanted to meet you. Now seemed like the time.”
    â€œYou’re not just looking for a deal on a car, are you? Because if you are, you’re in the right place.”
    Hood smiled.
    â€œI miss Coleman,” said Castro. “He saved my life and I saved his. Boys. He did things his own special way. Know what I mean?”
    â€œI’d never met anyone like him. I haven’t