Grant wanted to get back to the point.
“Why was only one film needed?”
Ziff removed his arm. He appeared to shrink in on himself as if waiting for bad news. The paternal instinct morphed into self-preservation. Grant put his coffee on the table in case the little man made a break for it. He threw a quick glance toward the corridor. There was still nobody there. There was still no hired muscle hiding in the shadows.
Angelina changed tack.
“You mentioned extortion earlier.”
Ziff stiffened. Grant split his attention between the pair of them. He nodded.
Angelina continued.
“You were on the right track. Only it was my father doing the extorting.”
“He’s one of the wealthiest men in the country. Must have been for a lot of money.”
“Not money.”
Grant’s mind raced through the possibilities. Blackmail could be used for many things. To get more money. To get someone to do something for you. Or to get someone to stop doing something against you.
“He was blackmailing the gray-haired guy in the film.”
It wasn’t a question, but it raised a question.
“So, why did you take the master copy?”
“You saw the movie.”
“The Hunt for Pink October. Yes.”
“What did you see?”
Grant tried to be polite.
“A lot.”
She didn’t blush. Grant reckoned Angelina Richards’ lifestyle had banished blushing from her repertoire. She continued probing.
“What didn’t you see?”
Grant replayed the scene in his head, paying particular attention to the camera angle. He glanced over his shoulder at the bookcase with its hidden camera pointing down at the back of Ziff’s head.
“The guy’s face.”
The girl saw understanding dawn on Grant’s face but continued to make her point.
“You know that when they make a movie, they shoot a lot more footage than ends up in the final cut, right?”
Grant nodded.
“Well, the master copy has all that footage. Establishing shots of the set-up. The guy coming into the room. And his face.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you took it. Surely your dad has a copy.”
Angelina shook her head.
“I switched them.”
“The pirate copy he showed me?”
“That’s right.”
“He didn’t make a duplicate?”
“Apparently not. That’s the thing about powerful people. They start to believe their own publicity. Think nobody will dare challenge them.”
“So you’re protecting the gray-haired guy.”
She shook her head again. Ziff looked like he wanted to squirm away from the settee. Grant waited for her to explain.
“We were going to use it to get him to shut my father out.”
Ziff held his hands up in surrender.
“Wasn’t my idea.”
Grant focused on the girl.
“Out of what?”
“Out of office.”
“He could do that? This guy?”
“Men in office need men in office.”
“What office?”
“You didn’t recognize him? He came to see you yesterday.”
The cold feeling became a worm of doubt snaking up his spine. Angelina didn’t wait for the penny to drop, or the American equivalent. She spoke the name with a bemused expression, as if it was so obvious it didn’t need speaking.
“The chief of police.”
Grant resisted the urge to jerk forward, partly to avoid spilling his coffee but mainly because he wasn’t surprised at all. He’d sensed something a bit off about his visitor in the interview room at Hollenbeck, and he’d never liked the bosses in the police force. They were always too far removed from proper police work and too interested in playing the political game. This was a step too far, though, even for them.
He put his mug on the table with a clatter that jarred the silence.
FORTY-ONE
The room shimmered with tension. Grant’s mind raced. He wondered if the guy who recruited him back in Boston knew about the police chief’s indiscretion and quickly concluded that he probably did. That’s why it was important to have someone like Grant come down and sort it out. Somebody with a proven loyalty to the force. Not just the LAPD but any of the police departments or emergency services or armed forces. Anywhere that men and women put their lives on the line for others, mainly their fellow troops. In the trenches. On the frontlines. At the sharp end.
It would have been easier if Grant had been told in advance, but finding out for himself gave the information more weight. It also bolstered his determination to protect the service. His boss knew that. Grant had done the same in the army. In the dusty streets of the killing ground where he had saved the day but not his colleagues. He thought briefly of the stethoscope and all that it represented but brushed the memory aside.
The Chief of Police was dirty. His position was compromised.
That meant pressure could be applied and the most powerful man in the LAPD would be forced to comply. Not good for the cops on the ground. Not good for the citizens of Los Angeles. Not when the criminals could run the police. Shit rolls downhill, and cops live in the valley; a fact of life. Grant had been employed to deflect that shit.
Two things were immediately apparent. If this got out, the scandal would set the LAPD back twenty years. And if it didn’t, then the LAPD would become toothless tigers with their leader compromised and the fight against high-end crime blunted. The department would be an open book to the crooks, with more leaks than the British Government.
The answer to both was on a silver disc the size of a beer mat.
The solution was obvious.
“Where’s the disc?”
Angelina began to get up, but Ziff held an arm out for her to stop.
“Hold on. You’re not thinking of giving him the disc, are you?”
Grant didn’t need to brace his shoulders. He just glared at Ziff.
“You’re not thinking of stopping her, are you?”
Ziff went pale and lowered his arm. Angelina glanced at the producer, then back at the cop in the orange windcheater.
“It’s in my room.”
“We’ll get it in a minute. First, let me get this straight.”
Grant paused to gather his thoughts. Ziff sat back against the settee, resigned. Angelina sat patiently, apparently content to let the big cop from England run the show. Grant interlaced the fingers of both hands and flexed them in reverse. The bones cracked, sounding like gunshots in the suffocating quiet. He separated his hands and formed them into fists. The knuckles cracked again.
“Richards set the filming up so he could get one over on the police chief.”
He pointed at Ziff.
“He got you to arrange the set-up and used his daughter as bait. But you couldn’t resist putting the scene in the movie. What the fuck were you thinking?”
Ziff blushed and shrugged his shoulders.
“It was good footage. A different angle on the sex scene. Edited down, nobody would know who the guy was. In my movies nobody’s interested in the guy anyway. Just who he’s…”
He didn’t finish in consideration for the girl.
Grant continued. “So Richards has the master copy, but you”—Grant nodded toward Angelina—“switch the discs. Now the senator needs damage control, but you’ve got his leverage over the chief. You find out that I’m looking for you and decide to bring the disc here. I’ve got to ask again. What the fuck were you thinking?”
Angelina didn’t blush or shrug.
“I had nowhere else to go. I thought it was the safest place.”
“That’s like a drowning man hiding underwater.”
This time she did shrug.
“I haven’t drowned yet.”
“And what was he thinking? Hiring me to warn the guy off that he’d hired in the first place?”
“Like I said. Believed his own publicity.”
“Or thought Ziff would keep his mouth shut to protect himself.”
“That too.”
Ziff, emboldened by the fact that Grant didn’t look like he was going to punch him, put on a brave front.
“What is this? That Poirot scene where he gets all the suspects together in the drawing room and lays the plot out for anybody dumb enough not to have figured it out yet?”
Grant turned his eyes on the short, round producer. Ziff’s false bravado vanished in an instant. Grant let the stare sink in before continuing.
“Mate of mine told me a story once. It goes like this.”
He rested one arm across the back of the settee and crossed his legs at the ankles.
“Guy goes bear hunting in the woods. Hires a rifle and off he goes. Spots a grizzly among the trees and starts shooting. Leaves and branches everywhere. Dust settles and he goes to inspect his prize. Nothing there. Then he’s grabbed from behind and the bear says, ‘You’ve got two choices. You either take it up the ass or I’ll eat you.’ The hunter chooses number one, gets fucked up the ass, then limps back to camp.”
Ziff looked bemused. Angelina smirked. Grant continued.
“Following day, the guy gets a bigger gun and goes into the woods again. Sees the same bear. Shoots like crazy. Leaves and branches everywhere. Goes to look. Nothing there. Bear hug. Same choices. Takes it up the ass again, then limps back to camp.”
Grant’s voice became conspiratorial and he leaned forward.
“Third day, guy’s got a machine gun. Same trees. Same bear. Guy empties the magazine into the trees. Leaves and branches everywhere. Goes to look. Nothing. The bear grabs him from behind and whispers in the guy’s ear, ‘You’re not here for the hunting, are you?’”
The girl laughed. Ziff was still bemused. Grant spoke firmly.
“You’re not here for the girl, are you?”
Ziff tried in vain to appear calm. He gulped back his discomfort and spoke in a clear voice, but he couldn’t prevent a tremble from quivering his words.
“You’re gonna have to translate that. Or get an American interpreter.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Seriously. I don’t know what fuckin’ accent that is, but it isn’t English.”
“It’s Yorkshire and it’s not that broad and you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I have no fuckin’ clue.”
Grant raised one foot and slammed it against the coffee table. The table shot across the floor, leaving the three mugs hanging in midair for a brief moment before they tumbled to the carpet. The coffee wasn’t steaming anymore but it stained pretty good all the same. Ziff jerked backwards. The girl was the calmest person in the room. She watched Ziff with the dawning realization that she had been played.
“You bastard. I thought you were helping me.”
Ziff blurted a response.
“Don’t listen to his bullshit. When d’you ever hear a cop tell the truth?”
Grant slid to the front of his chair and prepared to stand up. Ziff countered Grant’s movement by sliding back as far as he could go. He couldn’t go very far. The back of the seat stopped him dead, and the cream settee was too heavy to push backwards. Grant’s face was only feet away from the moviemaker.
“You might have started out working for Richards—maybe even considered helping Angelina—but you’ve got your own agenda now.”
Ziff threw up his hands and shook his head. He ignored the spreading stain on the carpet. He was trying to avoid staining his pants.
“Hey. No. You got it wrong.”
Grant braced his legs. The muscles stood out across the top of his thighs, stretching the denim of his faded blue jeans. His back tightened in readiness for the push upwards. The trees outside threw dancing shadows across the picture windows as the wind grew stronger.
“Tell me about the location shoot tomorrow.”
This time Ziff’s face turned white, and Grant knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
“How come you’re staging an armed robbery outside a bank downtown?”
“It’s in the script.”
“I’ve seen your movies. Anything that doesn’t involve tits and pussy doesn’t make the final cut.”
Ziff kept quiet. The girl fumed in silence. Grant stood up.
“How many bank robbers you still in touch with?”
Ziff tried to melt into the cushions. The trees continued to thrash outside. The constant movement almost camouflaged the three men standing in the garden, but a glimmer of light reflected off cold black metal. Grant saw the first muzzle flash a split second before the window cracked, then all three guns opened fire.
FORTY-TWO
Grant dived for the settee, forcing Ziff and the girl backwards. Their combined weight tipped the couch over. Soft furnishings do not make an effective shield. If a police car isn’t sufficient protection unless you kneel behind the engine block, then six feet of foam and leather isn’t going to stop a bullet either.
The volley of gunfire was almost one continuous noise. Three men spraying bullets into the living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows didn’t shatter like they do in the movies. This wasn’t John McClane dashing across the office in Nakatomi Towers; this was an expensive house in northeast Los Angeles. Double-glazed patio windows. Laminated glass. Shatterproof. What the bullets did was punch holes through the glass in a ragged line across the top. Grant took one look and knew they were aiming high.
This wasn’t a kill mission.
That didn’t matter. Grant was going to make them pay. He nudged Ziff toward the bedroom corridor and jerked the girl in the same direction.
“The hallway. Stay low.”
The warning sounded ridiculous, but you’d be surprised how many people stood up in their panic to get out of the line of fire. Even professional soldiers occasionally succumbed to moments of foolishness. Grant kept his voice calm and unhurried. Whoever these guys were, they weren’t trying for headshots and they weren’t aiming for the center mass. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t change their minds once they’d spooked the residents.
“Stay on the floor. As far along as you can get.”
The living room was brightly lit. The garden was dark apart from a handful of low-level patio lamps. That made everyone in the house easy targets. Grant scanned the walls and spotted the light switches next to the corridor. While Ziff and the girl crawled into the comparative safety of the hallway, Grant sprang up from behind the settee. In one movement he flicked the lights off, then sprinted through the first bedroom door. Rear guest room. The one he’d visited with Robin Citrin.
That thought provoked another but he didn’t have time to worry about her now. The gunshots became intermittent but didn’t stop. The gunmen were moving along the building, shooting every window as they went, moving up the incline toward the wooded slope. Good. Grant yanked the bedroom window open and climbed out. He didn’t dive or smash the glass or do anything to draw attention to himself. He simply slipped into the shadows and moved silently toward the sounds of gunfire. The last thing they’d expect.
The cool night air hit him like a slap in the face. It refreshed him and sharpened his senses. The wind was stronger than when he’d arrived, and the trees atop the hill swayed, the rustling of leaves sounding almost as loud as the gunshots around the front of the house. Almost but not quite. The good thing about continuous gunfire was that it deafened the shooters. The bad thing was you could get shot. They might have been aiming high in the lounge, but stray bullets and ricochets went wherever they pleased.
>
Grant climbed the tiered garden toward the transformer box at the base of the cell phone mast. He kept to the bushes and flowering shrubs as he traversed each tier one level at a time until he was at the top of the hill. He now held the high ground. The gunmen were in the valley, and Grant was about to roll shit downhill.
The three men were edging toward the corner of the house, keeping a safe distance apart to avoid getting into each other’s line of fire. Beyond them, in the turnaround, a square black car spewed exhaust fumes into the night with its lights turned off. The engine noise was lost amid the barrage of gunshots.
Ziff’s .38 snub was a close-quarter firearm. Not a target pistol and not a cannon. It held five rounds. Not ideal. From this distance, to hit three guys out of five shots would be miraculous. Grant didn’t like guns, but he was a good shot. He’d have to be the second coming of Christ to take these guys out and survive unscathed. He might be known as the Resurrection Man, but he was no Jesus Christ. He’d have to lower his expectations. Send them packing instead of killing them.
The first guy came around the corner, still firing, using either a semi or full automatic. It was hard to tell from Grant’s position. He hadn’t noticed any pauses during the shooting, so they must be due to reload soon. The first guy began to work his way round toward the back of the house, bringing him up the hill to keep the safe distance from his partners. Twelve feet away from Grant. The second guy came round the side of the house.
Soon.
They’d have to reload soon.
Six feet away from Grant.
The slide of the first guy’s gun jammed open in the empty position. He released the magazine and it dropped out of the butt. He caught it in his free hand and put it in his pocket. It was only in the movies that gunmen discarded their magazines. What were they going to reload with next time? He quickly took a fully loaded magazine from his other pocket and was halfway to slamming it home when Grant laid his gun arm across the top of the transformer box and fired.
One shot. Square in the back. The guy dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Grant fired twice toward the second guy but missed, coughing up dirt and grass at his feet. Three shots. Two left. Grant was moving before the third shot slammed into the night and snatched up the first guy’s gun. It was empty. He hadn’t managed to insert the magazine. Grant fired a fourth shot to give him time as he scrabbled among the dried grass for the magazine.
Montecito Heights Page 24