by David Chill
"Hey, Ned. I'm not a bad guy," he protested. "I'm just selling a product. And the product is us. You. Me. It's the business. It's not personal. Does it matter if I stretch the truth a little to get ahead?"
"It didn't used to matter," I admitted as we waited for a light to change at San Vicente. "But it does now. Things are different. I'm struggling to understand it all. But things are different. I can't simply look at life through the same prism anymore."
The light turned green and I eased the Pilot forward. We were in the center lane of a three-lane parkway, a stretch of road that curved back and forth, twisting around the Veteran's Center complex. There was an office park to the right and a medical building to the left. I was about to ask Blair what lane I should be in when the blast happened, and it happened oh-so-fast, and oh-so-suddenly. It was jarringly quick, an explosive, deafening, earth-shattering attack that shook me to my very core.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the car behind us whip into the right lane and speed up. This was not unusual for Los Angeles. Impatient drivers, irate at the speed of traffic, would frequently dart in and out of lanes, whizzing by other cars, occasionally blaring a horn in annoyance. But this car stayed even with us. It was black, and that was all I could remember. The driver was unremarkable, he might have had sunglasses on, perhaps a baseball cap. There was nothing odd about him.
The first gunshot hit Blair in the right side of his head, the blood spattering mostly along the front panel, with traces flying throughout the car. His body jerked sideways, banging into me, and I struggled to maintain control of the Pilot. The second shot caught him in the neck and emitted another fuselage of blood, spraying it onto the windshield. By now I was in full panic mode, jamming on the brakes, only to have my vehicle spin sideways out of control and slam into the car to the left of me. I pulled back to the right after sideswiping them, yanking the steering wheel back and forth to prevent the Pilot from turning over on its side. My vehicle finally swerved to a stop beneath the San Diego freeway overpass, ending up positioned diagonally, spilling across multiple lanes. To the right was the Federal Building. To the left was a cemetery.
I looked around wildly. The car I had collided with was behind me. Traffic had stopped in both directions. But the black car, the car from where the gunfire had emanated, was gone. It had disappeared. It had not gone past me, the villainous black car was simply nowhere to be seen, as if, in some peculiar way, it had simply vanished into thin air.
Chapter 28
The time had finally arrived and the Assassin had moved quickly. He had been tracking the target for a number of days now, wondering when he would show up at work. He was almost ready to move to Plan B, but then he observed on his monitor that the two cars were now in the same parking structure. He drove to the Ocean Avenue building and waited outside, his rented black Mercedes purring softly as he sat in a red zone. Finally he watched the Honda Pilot emerge from the garage. Everything was in place.
The Assassin followed them along Ocean Avenue, hoping they would turn down the California Incline and onto Pacific Coast Highway. A freeway would have made it so easy, almost too good to be true. Instead, they turned eastbound onto Wilshire and drove across Santa Monica and into West L.A. Traffic was moderate, but he knew the terrain well. This would work. He knew where to engage them. And as they crossed over San Vicente and accelerated toward the V.A. Center, the Assassin readied himself. No one was behind them, no one was beside them. The scenario was about to play out well. Even their passenger-side window was wide open.
Pulling quickly into the right lane, he drew even with the Pilot and glanced over to his left at the pair of men. There they were, the sitting ducks placed just where he wanted them to be. Baker was driving and Lipschitz was riding next to him. The time was perfect, but he needed to act, and act now. The Assassin lowered the driver's side window, letting in a stiff breeze. He kept one hand on the steering wheel as he maintained the speed of the Mercedes to match the Pilot. He grabbed the pistol grip of his forty-four Magnum and pointed it at the passenger, aiming quickly, just like they had taught him at Langley. He squeezed the trigger, and then squeezed it again. The two loud pops were muted by the breeze, but he was satisfied when saw the head of Blair Lipschitz jerk forward, and the red blood spattering throughout the vehicle.
The Pilot careened to the left, just like the Assassin knew it would. A driver always steers away from the danger. There was another car in the far left lane that Baker crashed into, in his frenzy to try and maintain control of a situation where no control was available to him. The Assassin had seen to that. His client had suggested eliminating both men, just to remove any complication, to obstruct any pathway for the shooting to be traced back. But the Assassin cautioned against it, at least for the time being. Baker knew nothing, he had no direct connection to any of this, and the Assassin did not like removing people when removal was not needed. The Assassin killed for money, he killed to solve problems, he killed to define himself. But he did not kill recklessly. Baker posed no imminent danger to his client, nor to the Assassin. He was an everyday Joe, and the world needed everyday Joes. The world did not need Blair Lipschitz.
His job completed, the Assassin stomped the accelerator, swerved quickly to the right, and zoomed onto the entrance ramp of the San Diego Freeway. He merged into the connecting lane that would take him back to Santa Monica. He could see a few patches of blue in the cloudy sky, and it looked like it might actually turn into a nice afternoon. That was what he envisioned summer in Los Angeles to be. Maybe he'd go for a swim. Maybe the unsupervised children, the ones who had been racing noisily by the side of the pool, would have already checked out. He hoped so. The Assassin liked his off-hours to be filled with quiet solitude. It allowed him to be alone with his thoughts. It allowed him peace.
* * *
The first wave of law enforcement to reach the scene was a black and white LAPD cruiser just minutes after my damaged Pilot had skidded and stopped in the far left lane. The other driver was unhurt, but she did a double take after seeing Blair slumped and bloodied in my front seat. There were worse things in life than some dented sheet metal, she said as she crossed herself and averted her gaze. The paramedics rushed up a minute after the first officers arrived, racing over to Blair to assess him, but their faces drooped with the realization that he was beyond saving. The police officers placed orange cones around both vehicles and waved traffic along, many of the drivers slowing to gawk and rubberneck at the nasty scene. One man shouted a few choices invectives at me, furious and obscene, for my having the temerity to make him late for an important meeting.
The first officers were young, most likely anticipating a routine traffic accident but instead finding themselves in the midst of a homicide. A few minutes after the paramedics arrived, an unmarked police unit pulled up and parked in front of my vehicle. Detective Karl Mooring, the very same detective who visited our office and questioned us yesterday, walked quickly over to me, unruffled, as if he were fully expecting me to be at this very spot. After confirming I hadn't been injured, he instructed me to go wait inside his vehicle. I climbed into the front seat and noticed he didn't get in right away. Instead, he made a careful inspection of my Pilot, to the point of bending down near the undamaged right fender, poking and prodding at a space just above the front tire. Finally, he walked back over and got in next to me, in the driver's seat.
We sat in silence for a long moment. Detective Mooring was a stern-looking man, serious, his blue eyes guarded and suspicious. A cop's eyes. The eyes that knew quite a bit, but revealed very little.
"All right," he finally said. "Please start from the beginning. What happened?"
I took a deep and uneven breath. I was not hurt physically, but I was badly shaken, nevertheless. I had seen death in my life, but never murder, and certainly never at such close proximity. The sheer horror of it was just sinking in, that a pair of bullets had brutally ripped through someone I knew, a man seated precariously beside me. I was inches a
way from death. I looked down and noticed that my clothes were dotted with dark red bloodstains, the remnants of a human life, one that was no longer being lived.
"I ... I'm honestly not sure."
"Mr. Baker, I know you're in shock, I've seen this many times before. I won't sugarcoat it for you. It's going to get worse before it gets better. This is hugely traumatic. It would be traumatic for anyone, even people who've lived through wars. You just don't get used to it."
"How could someone ever get used to it?" I asked, suddenly feeling myself trembling slightly.
"Listen. I've worked homicide for fifteen years. I've seen a lot. Someone you may have known for a long time. One minute they're there, the next they're gone. It's not easy. It's not fair. It doesn't make sense. Over time, you'll come to grips with it. Doesn't make it any easier, but I thought I'd tell you anyway. You strike me as a decent guy."
I nodded and said nothing.
"But I also need to ask you some questions. And it's vitally important that you tell me everything you know right now. If we're going to catch who did this, time is critical. The more we know, the quicker we can act. Every moment is crucial here. So tell me what happened. Where were you going?"
"I was ... taking Blair to pick up his car at the shop. And lunch. We ... we were going to stop somewhere."
"Who else knew you were going?" he asked.
"No one. Wanda maybe, I think he told her. I don't know. She works in our office."
"Did you notice if anyone was following you?"
"I can't recall. I wasn't looking. This car just pulled up alongside ... I don't get it. I wasn't driving too slow or too fast. I ... I didn't make any gestures. There was nothing, nothing hostile. I don't think Blair did anything either."
The Detective shook his head. "I don't believe this was road rage. I think this was a hit, Mr. Baker. A planned execution. It wasn't a random act. Whoever did this knew what they were doing."
"That's incredibly frightening," I said, the trembling starting to increase.
"I want to tell you something," the Detective said, his voice lowering and becoming more intense. "My experience here is extensive. I've worked cases like this before. Whoever did this was a consummate pro. And what that means is, you're alive because they want you alive. It may mean lots of things. But it also means they have no reason to want you dead right now. If they wanted to kill you, they would have killed you."
I took a shaky breath, and began to recall something. It was a prescient warning, the knowing words of a person who knew about the danger that was lurking in the shadows. The danger nearby. The voice of Iris Hatcher entered my thoughts. Her voice was soft but firm. Definitive. He will not go after innocents. He doesn't believe in collateral damage.
"Okay," I managed.
"What do you recall? Tell me everything you can remember."
"It isn't much. A dark car pulled alongside us. Almost immediately I heard two gunshots. Bangs, not pops. I saw Blair's body move twice. It jerked harshly before it suddenly moved again. Then there was blood spattering, and I lost control of my vehicle. Sideswiped someone to my left. We collided."
"And the dark car? What happened to it?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. It just seemed to vanish. I know that can't happen, but I didn't see where it went. I honestly don't have any idea what happened to it."
"Any possibility of the make or model?" he asked.
"No. It was too quick. It all happened too quick."
"Where did he engage you?"
"I don't know. Maybe fifty yards back. Maybe more."
"All right," the Detective said, processing this. "I want to talk about something with you. The thing I brought up yesterday. In your office. That woman you met a few times, Iris. Is there anything more you can tell me about her? This seems to be the connection. I can't prove it, I'm not positive, but my gut says there's an involvement here."
I stared at him as if he were reading my thoughts. "I was never involved with Iris. Never."
"How did you come to know Iris had been strangled?" the Detective asked, looking me dead in the eye. "Was it from watching something on TV? Something on the news?"
I shook my head. "No. An agent from the DHS came by my house. An investigator. He was following up on the assassination. But he told me Iris had been strangled."
The Detective's eyebrows arched. "Do you recall who that investigator was? Did he leave a card?"
"No, I didn't get a card. He just flashed a badge quickly," I said as I thought back to the agent who kept patting his goatee. "I think his name was Lamb. Rob Lamb."
The Detective jotted this down. "What was he asking you about? Specifically."
"It was odd. He started off by asking about Blair. Something about Blair making charges against the federal government."
"Did that sound like your partner?" Mooring asked.
"It did. Blair was outspoken. Too much so. He got people's attention, albeit for the wrong reasons. But Blair didn't deserve this. It's sickening."
"What else did this Rob Lamb ask about?"
I rolled the thought around in my mind as I tried to recall our conversation. Then something struck me. "Iris," I said. "The agent was asking about Iris and her relationship with Blair. How he knew that, I'm not certain. But he insinuated Iris might be part of the assassination attempt. The whole thing sounded a little ridiculous to me. I don't pretend to know Iris well, I only met her a few times. I don't like to think she -- or Blair -- could have been involved in any plot to kill the vice president. But it was horrifying to hear about what happened to her."
Yes," the Detective mused. "Horrifying. I have to tell you something, Mr. Baker. The cause of death for Iris Hatcher has not been publicly released. And the idea that a DHS agent would be sharing that type of information with a private citizen is disturbing. I don't have the greatest respect for the feds, but they're not likely to let something like that slip. Tell me more about this Rob Lamb. What did he look like?"
"Nothing special. He wore glasses and he had a goatee. Thick one. Funny thing. He kept rubbing it. Patting it."
"You mean like it was irritating him in some way?" asked the Detective.
"Maybe," I thought. "But he kept pressing it. It looked real, but the more I think about it, the less sure I am. I suppose it could have been fake."
The Detective pondered this. "Mr. Baker, I'd like you to come over to the station house and look at some photos. I think we might be on to something here. I can't prove it yet, but something tells me this Rob Lamb, which is probably not his real name, is somehow connected with Iris, with Blair, and maybe with the vice president. It feels as if this is a messy puzzle that's about to fall into place. There are just a lot of moving pieces, and we don't have a lot of time."
I looked at the Detective and began to consider something. I don't have the greatest respect for the feds. Was this the person Iris had in mind for me to trust? There was no way to tell for certain, no litmus test I could apply. I did not have a gauge for who was and who was not trustworthy, other than a vague sense of intuition. For someone who mostly asked questions, settling on an answer that carried with it enormous magnitude would be a giant leap of faith. A horn sounded behind us and we both turned to look. I saw my Pilot, with Blair still inside, his body bloodied and lifeless, tended to by a coroner's unit that had just arrived. I turned away quickly. Not every life is lived in a noble way, and not every death is judiciously meted out. I thought of the final words Iris said to me. You'll do the right thing, Ned.
I looked over at the traffic inching past, and then I looked back at the Detective. "There's something else," I told him. "I don't know if this will help, I honestly don't know what's inside. But there's a manila envelope under the passenger seat that I think you should look at. I didn't put it there, I didn't so much as touch it. But I think you're the one who should take a look. Iris left it there."
Detective Mooring's eyes bored into mine. "Under the passenger seat, you say?"
"
Yes," I replied, sighing as deeply as I ever have. He climbed out of the car, put on some gloves, and walked over to the Pilot's passenger door. He said something to one of the technicians and they stepped aside. Ignoring Blair's body, and seemingly acting like it did not even exist, Detective Mooring reached down into the vehicle and pulled out the envelope. He unsealed it, guiding a pencil underneath the flap, and then lifted out some documents. He walked back to the car, climbing into the driver's seat again, but this time inserting a key into the ignition and turning the engine over.
"Let's take a ride," he said in a commanding voice. "I want to look at something. And I want you to look at it, too."
I didn't raise any objections, I sensed none would be permissible, or even acknowledged. The drive to the West L.A. Division, below Santa Monica Boulevard, took less than five minutes, and we did it in silence. The police station was housed in an ordinary white stucco building, situated next to a courthouse. We walked inside together, neither of us speaking a word, Detective Mooring nodding to a few officers along the way. Reaching his office, he began to rummage through a desk drawer. Eventually he located a file, opened it, and removed a blurry black and white photo. It looked as if it were taken by a security camera.
"Does this guy look familiar?" he asked.
It was a photo of a man walking through a lobby. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt, and his face was covered by a beard and glasses. He could have been any office worker. Except he wasn't. This was the DHS agent who identified himself as Rob Lamb. The beard was a diversion. This was Rob Lamb.
"That's him. The man who came to my home last week."
The Detective pulled out a photo from the manila envelope that was in my Pilot. "How about this guy?"