Davie ran upstairs to her locker, grabbed the Kevlar vest and her raid jacket, and headed out the back door. A few minutes later, Striker slid into his unmarked detective vehicle and beckoned Davie to join him in the passenger seat. Vaughn and Presser got into the patrol car.
Before transitioning from the 405 to the 101 North for the sixty-mile drive to Oxnard, Striker gave her a few factoids about Point Mugu. It was difficult to access, the terminal was remote from the main gate, flights could be delayed or cancelled without notice, and there were no reservations accepted. Ducey would just have to show up and hope for the best.
They went over the details for several miles until a lull in the conversation left Davie feeling reflective. She’d always strived to know as much as possible about her victims and felt she could now construct a narrative of the last two years of Sabine Ponti’s life from what she’d learned in her investigation, along with a little speculative putty.
Sabine had experienced major emotional trauma during that time: loss of a relationship and a job she loved, her parents’ approval, and her old life in Connecticut. Her effort to restart her life in Florida was met with tragedy and failure. After all that upheaval, Sabine must have felt grateful to Charles Montaine for his kindness and devotion to her, which from most accounts she’d returned in kind. It had to be a shock to lose him to cancer so soon after their marriage.
Davie thought of something Sabine’s sister-in-law had said during her interview—that Sabine’s death in that gunstore was the second goodbye. True, but to Davie, the second goodbye was even sadder than the first because it was the final goodbye. It was Davie’s nature to view all victims’ stories as tragic, but Sabine’s life and death seemed like a tangle of unforced errors and bad luck.
“Why so quiet?” Striker said, bursting her thought bubble.
She glanced at him and noticed his short hair was in disarray, with spikes shooting off in every direction. She’d maintained her professionalism toward him since returning from the BVIs, but seeing that messy hair transformed Striker the detective into Striker the man who’d made love to her in a tropical paradise in the presence of geckos. She took deep breaths to chase away the memories. This was not the time to indulge those thoughts.
She picked up her cell. “Just checking the map.”
“I know where Oxnard is.”
“You don’t know the exit.”
Davie unbuckled her seatbelt so she could face Striker without craning her neck. Normally, she didn’t wear a belt, unless she was in a high-speed chase, because they restricted her movements. Back in her patrol days, she and her partner had taken fire from gang members. When she drew her weapon, the butt got tangled in the seatbelt and delayed her response. She would never make that mistake again.
“Just curious,” Striker said. “Why did Nate Gillen risk partnering with Benito? He must have known the guy was trouble.”
“You want logic or my wild side?”
His voice was low and even in the dark car she could tell he was smiling. “I’ve seen your wild side, so hit me with some logic.”
She looked at the map on her cell. They were still miles from the exit, with plenty of time to fill. “For sure, he wasn’t Benito’s dupe. Gillen had to know what he was getting into. Lacy said he wasn’t good with money, but after his pact with Benito he started making buckets of it. I don’t care how clueless he was about the finance side of the restaurant business, all that extra cash didn’t come from hawking logoed coffee mugs. He not only bought into Benito’s scam but he got greedy enough to divert five million of the man’s greenbacks into a private offshore account. His luck ran out when Benito busted him.”
Striker checked the rearview mirror and nosed the car into the fast lane. “So, what evidence have we missed?”
Davie leaned her head against the side window and watched the taillights of the passing cars. “When I spoke to Blasdel he told me Sabine came in to buy a Smith & Wesson .38. He seemed sure about the make. But the crime report stated the weapon was a Colt .38 Special. I thought it was weird because he remembered everything about that day in minute detail except for that. When I asked about the discrepancy, he got jumpy.”
“So your theory is Ducey shot Sabine with—what—his own gun? The Colt?”
Davie’s tone sounded defensive even to her. “Well, you don’t seem to buy that, but why not? Blasdel lures Ponti to his shop on the pretext of selling her a gun. Ducey is waiting. The twenty-minute gap between the time of the gunshot and the arrival of patrol officers leaves time for Ducey to stage the scene and get away. There were fingerprints on the Colt but they were smudged and couldn’t be identified. I think we should take a closer look.”
Striker drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Ducey is a hitman. Blasdel was only a minor player in the murder plot and not exactly trustworthy. Why didn’t he kill Blasdel at the same time he killed Sabine? Seems tidier to eliminate the lone witness. Stage it as a murder-suicide.”
“Hopefully, we can ask him that question.”
Striker’s phone rang. His side of the conversation went something like, “Hmm … no kidding … that’s great … thanks.” Then he ended the call.
Davie glanced at him. “Who was that?”
“My boss. He said Nazarian just identified Roland Ducey as the man he saw running down the alley the day Ponti was killed.”
“Perfect.”
“That’s not all. Remember that generic deposit slip you found in the storage unit? We now have the bank records. The account belonged to Sara Rice, apparently the name Ponti used before she married Charles Montaine. She opened the account with nine grand cash. After that, she made a series of cash deposits for similar amounts until the balance reached around eighty-four thousand and then continued to make deposits for smaller sums. Our people also found employment records. Before her marriage to Charles Montaine, she worked as a waitress at a couple of restaurants. There may have been other sources of income, too.”
“Is the money still there?”
“Nope. Two weeks before Ponti died, she closed the account. The bank issued a cashier’s check made out to Four Paws for a hundred thousand dollars.”
It took a moment for the information to register. Davie had known the donation to Four Paws was the same amount as the money missing from the Seaglass Cafe. It appeared Sabine deposited the money she’d stolen in small increments, minus what it took to establish herself in L.A., and kept adding to the balance with money she’d earned.
“Sabine wanted to make amends for her theft,” Davie said, “and at the same time honor a man who truly loved her.”
Striker flashed a skeptical frown. “Amends with stolen money.”
“Okay, so it was stolen. The point is it was her stolen money. Her stepson forced Four Paws to return a donation dedicated to his father, and it wasn’t even his money.”
“Sometimes life isn’t fair.”
Davie wasn’t interested in platitudes. She checked the map again. “Take the next exit and then turn right.”
Striker steered the car into the right lane. “One more complication. My boss also says the Point Mugu terminal is closed on weekends. If Ducey plans to take a military flight, he has to find someplace nearby to lay low until Monday.”
Davie grimaced. “Needle, meet haystack.”
60
The intersection where the cabbie had dropped off Ducey comprised rows of light industrial warehouses. Striker turned the unmarked police car into a quiet parking lot of a shipping company that was closed at this late hour. Presser and Vaughn followed behind in their black-and-white. They stepped out of the patrol car and into the backseat of Striker’s car, listening as he called Oxnard PD to let them know the LAPD was in the area and might need backup.
“This place is in the middle of nowhere,” Vaughn said. “I bet he caught another taxi to cover his tracks.”
; “We passed a motel about a mile away,” Davie said. “Let’s see if he’s there.”
Ducey wasn’t at that motel or any other likely places in the vicinity. Next, they searched outside the immediate area. Nothing. Bars were open until four a.m. Davie made a list and found the closest one was only a quarter mile away from the drop site. Since Ducey would recognize Davie, Vaughn and Presser took turns casing the first three bars on the list, but found no sign of him.
It was Vaughn’s turn to sweep the fourth bar. Davie’s sense of alarm spiked when her partner didn’t come out right away. She was about to go in after him when she spotted him pushing open the door with his foot while juggling something in his hands. Four paper bags of French fries. The smell of grease in the closed car turned Davie’s stomach. She donated her bag to her partner and dropped her window until the French fries were consumed.
Presser went into the fifth bar. Vaughn took the sixth. About five minutes later, he appeared from around the back of the building and jogged to the detective car.
His breathing was shallow and fast as he slid into the backseat. “Ducey is sitting at the end of the bar facing the front door. With a woman.”
Striker reached for his radio. “How many people inside?”
“It’s packed. I’d say fifty or more. There are two entrances, the one in the front and one in the back at the end of a hallway past the restrooms. It opens onto an alley. I left through the rear door. I doubt he noticed but even if he did, I’m guessing he thinks I’m in the can.”
“What’s Ducey doing?” Davie asked.
Vaughn wiped sweat from his forehead. “Drinking and chatting up his lady friend. He could be in there until the place closes.”
Davie turned toward Striker. “Maybe there’s a Plan B.”
He kept his focus on the front door of the bar. “What did you have in mind?”
“I could go inside and—”
Striker interrupted. “Not just no, but hell no.”
Davie felt her cheeks flush. “Hear me out. He thinks I’m dead. Seeing me might throw him off his game. If I can convince him there’s no getting out of this, he might surrender.”
Vaughn slapped his palm to his forehead. “What are you smoking, Davie? He’s already tried to kill you once. What’s stopping him from popping you and walking out the door before anybody notices?”
“Listen up,” Striker said, raising his voice to get their attention. “There’s no way we’re going inside a crowded bar with guns blazing. First, we have to assume Ducey is armed but he may not be the only one. There could be customers who’re also strapped. If somebody gets nervous and overreacts, too many people will die.”
“Yeah,” Vaughn said. “Think of the paperwork.”
Striker ignored the flippant comment. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll have Oxnard PD meet us a couple blocks away. Ducey is still inside so we need to cover the exits. Presser, you take the rear door. Richards will take the front. Vaughn, you go back inside through the back door. Text me if he makes a move to leave. Whatever you do, do not confront him inside the bar. Once he exits and moves away from the entrance, we’ll approach him from behind and take him down.”
Davie knew if they’d had advance notice of Ducey’s whereabouts, there would be multipage tactical plans with diagrams, assignment rosters, and a list of the closest hospitals in case things went sideways. But even if they had all that, there were still a million ways things could go wrong.
“What if he comes out with the woman?” Davie said. “He could take her hostage.”
Striker looked away. “I’ll ask Oxnard to bring a plainclothes female officer. We can pose as a couple and distract Ducey long enough to separate him from the woman. We’ll discuss details when she gets here.”
Presser and Vaughn took positions. Davie opened the door to get out, stopping when Striker grabbed her arm. His voice was low and steely. “Be careful. If anything happens to you, I’ll have to kill somebody.”
Davie nodded and got out of the car. She took a position behind a parked vehicle and watched as Striker drove to the staging area to brief Oxnard PD. It took fifteen minutes before he returned and backed the car into a vacant parking spot. Davie joined him in the car.
“Oxnard doesn’t have a female officer available,” he said. “If he comes out with the woman, I’ll pose as a customer and find some way to separate them once Ducey is on the street.”
They sat in silence for nearly twenty minutes before Striker’s cell lit up with an incoming text. It was from Vaughn. Ducey was on the move and the woman was with him. Striker radioed everyone to get into position.
Davie and Striker drew their weapons and got out of the car. They had no idea where Ducey would go next, but if he went to a vehicle they would jam him up before he opened the car door.
Davie squeezed Striker’s elbow and pointed to the entrance. Ducey paused as he held the door open for the woman. They moved forward in a supportive embrace. The woman looked to be in her early fifties, wearing a low-cut sweater and tight jeans with sky-high heels. She was staggering, as if she was drunk.
“Shit,” Striker whispered. “This could get tricky.”
Ducey continued bracing the woman with his arm as they headed toward the parking lot. There was no indication he knew anyone was watching him.
“I’m going to distract him,” Striker said, starting to rise.
Davie grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “Wait.” She pointed toward the front door. Vaughn was walking out of the bar.
“Hey, Sheila,” he yelled.
The woman turned. “Yeah. Whaddaya want?”
“Beau says come back inside. You got a phone call.”
Ducey’s expression soured. “Sheila’s busy. Tell Beau to take a message.”
Sheila broke free from Ducey’s grip. “Beau’s the bartender, asshole. He’s my friend.” She turned to Vaughn. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Ducey reached for her purse and said matter-of-factly, “Give me the key. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Sheila struggled with him for possession of her handbag. She teetered on her high heels, lost her balance, and fell to the asphalt on one knee.
What came next was a shitstorm.
Ducey grabbed the car key from Sheila’s bag and pressed the button to unlock her car door. The headlights flashed on a nearby VW Passat. Ducey walked quickly toward the car. Vaughn dragged Sheila to safety behind a parked vehicle. Davie and Striker advanced to within twenty feet of Ducey.
“Roland Ducey!” Davie shouted. “LAPD, get down on the ground!”
Ducey looked up, startled as a raccoon in a garbage can. He bent over. For an instant she thought he would actually comply. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a Sig Sauer P365 and fired off a round in her general direction and two more that went wild.
A thousand emotions flashed through her mind about the two men she’d killed and how tortured she’d felt afterward. A blink of an eye was all the time Davie had to decide if she could do it again. Her target was sighted. Her finger left the barrel of the weapon and slid into position on the trigger. Muzzle flashes lit the night sky. Spent shell casings clinked on the hard asphalt. Gunpowder polluted the air around her. Ducey crumpled to the ground. The gun fell out of his hand. Sirens blared. Davie ran toward him, kicking the weapon out of his reach.
Ducey was bleeding from a chest wound. His voice was weak but he was still breathing. “You’re alive.”
Davie tilted her head and smiled. “Surprise.”
He coughed up a trickle of blood but managed a faint smile in return. “How did you find me?”
“Shoe leather and minutiae.”
“I screwed up.”
“Good thing for Sabine Ponti that you did.”
He struggled for air, sensing he was in bad shape. “She was just
a job, like all the others.”
“Tell that to her family.”
Something she’d said seemed to trigger his alarm. He grimaced in pain as he reached out toward her. “Gizmo.”
She didn’t understand what he was talking about and didn’t have time to ask because just then she became aware of Sheila’s screams.
Blue-suits flooded the parking lot. Striker motioned for her to go. Davie ran toward the screaming woman. She found her pale and covered in blood, hovering over Vaughn’s still body.
Davie shouted, “Officer down!” and then fell to her knees beside him. He was trying to sit up, bleeding heavily from a wound to his thigh. He moaned in pain.
She jerked her head toward Sheila. “You hurt?”
The woman abruptly stopped screaming and managed a mute zombie-like shake of her head.
Davie pressed her fingers just above Vaughn’s wound and sensed a pulse. She unbuckled his belt and used it as a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding.
“Jason, it’s Davie. Can you hear me?”
His eyes fluttered and then closed. He was obviously in shock.
She was barely aware of boots pounding the ground and the flashing lights of an EMT vehicle. At some point, a paramedic yanked her away from Vaughn’s side. She sat on the hard ground a short distance away, paralyzed with dread and only vaguely aware of the tears spilling down her cheeks.
Sometime later, Striker guided her to her feet, his voice cracking with emotion. “Paramedics have taken Vaughn to the ER. The Watch Commander called his parents. They’re on the way. I can wrap things up here by myself if you want to head over to the hospital.”
“What about Ducey?”
His voice was flat. “Looks bad. I’m not sure he’ll make it.”
61
The Second Goodbye Page 27