He walked back through the wrecked living room, grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, and spun it around to face the rain splattering against the sliding doors. He sat, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against the cool glass. The storm had resumed with added fury. Stray palm fronds littered the backyard. Ginny's bicycle lay on its side on the lawn, one of the training wheels spinning listlessly in the wind. The darkness seemed to have a malignant consistency, drawing itself around the house like a shroud, but Tim recognized the perception as little more than his own self-flagellating need for gloomy, second-rate imagery.
The wheel continued to spin, its rusty shrilling audible even over the sound of the rain. Its banshee cry underscored each betrayal of the past two weeks. It was as though an altered light had been cast across Tim's life, revealing its order for precisely what it was: scaffolding lending false form to chaos. He had no daughter to assure him a future, no vocation to moor him, no wife to confirm his humanity. The stark unjustness of his losses struck him. He'd done everything to uphold his contracts with the world, and yet he'd been set adrift.
He lowered his face into his hands, inhaling the moisture of his breath. The chair made a screech when he shoved back. He drew in a deep lungful of air, and it hitched twice, caught on the raised edge of a sob.
The doorbell rang.
He felt an overwhelming relief. "Andrea," he said. He jogged across the living room, almost slipping on a book.
He threw open the front door. A man's shadowy form stood at the far edge of the porch, rain tapping down on his slicker. A dark green southwester curled down around his face, hiding it in darkness. His posture was slightly stooped, almost indiscernibly so, an indication of age or the dawn of some illness. A strobe of light flickered across him, illumination lent by an unseen lightning bolt, but it revealed only the band of his mouth and chin. A rush of thunder permeated the air, sending its vibration up through Tim's feet.
"Who are you?"
The man looked up, water falling in tendrils from the sloped brim of his vinyl hat. "The answer," he said.
Chapter 11
"I'M NOT BIG on pranksters, well-wishers, or rubberneckers," Tim said. "Take your pick--the grieving father, the bloodthirsty deputy marshal. You've seen him now. Go back to your news station, your Rotary Club, your church, and tell them you gave it the college try."
He moved to shut the door. The man raised a fist, ungloved and callused with age, and coughed into it. There was an immense fragility in the gesture that made Tim pause.
The man said, "I share your disdain for those types. And for many more."
Despite the rain and the fluttering of his clothing around him, the man remained still, standing there like a PI cut from a dime novel. Tim knew he should close the door, but something stirred within him, akin to curiosity and compulsion, and he heard himself saying, "Why don't you come in and dry off before you get on your way?"
The man nodded and followed Tim in, stepping over the fallen books and pictures without comment. Tim sat on the couch, the man on the facing love seat. The man took off his hat, rolled it like a newspaper, and held it in both hands.
His face was textured with age and sharply intelligent. Two vivid blue eyes stood out as the only points of softness in his rugged features. His hair, black given over to steel, he wore short and well trimmed. He displayed the kind of gaunt, confused musculature of a man whose body had changed rapidly with age; Tim imagined he'd once been a hulking presence. His hands rasped when he rubbed them together, trying to work some of the cold out of his broad fingers. Tim put him in his late fifties.
"Well?"
"Ah, yes. Why am I here? I'm here to ask you a question." He paused from rubbing his hands and looked up. "How would you like ten minutes alone with Roger Kindell?"
Tim felt his heartbeat notch up a few levels. "What's your name?"
"That's not important right now."
"I don't know what kind of games you're playing, but I'm a federal deputy."
"Ex-federal deputy. And that's beside the point. This"--his hands flared, indicating the room around them--"is just speculative talk. No more. You're not plotting a crime or even commissioning one. The question is hypothetical. I have neither the means nor the intention to carry anything through."
"Don't con me. I don't mind cruelty, but I hate a con. And believe me, I know every one in the book."
"Roger Kindell. Ten minutes."
"I think you'd better leave."
"Ten minutes alone with him. Now that you've had time to think. Your marriage is on the rocks--"
"How do you know that?"
The man glanced at the sheets and bed pillows heaped beside Tim on the couch, then continued. "You've lost your job--"
"How long have you been watching me?"
"--and the man who murdered your daughter has been set free. Say you could get your hands on him now. Roger Kindell. What do you think?"
Tim felt something within him yield, giving way to anger. "What do I think? I think I would love to beat Kindell's face into an unrecognizable pulp, but I'm not some jackass cop bent on street justice or a backwater deputy who can't see farther than the end of his gun. I think I want the truth about what happened to my daughter, not just reckless vengeance. I think I'm tired of seeing individual rights trampled by people who are supposed to be upholding the law on the one side, and seeing mutts and pukes hide behind those rights on the other. I think I'm furious watching a system I spent my life fighting for fall apart on me and knowing there's no better alternative out there. I think I'm tired of people like you who poke and pry and criticize and offer nothing."
The man didn't quite smile, but his face rearranged itself to show he was pleased with Tim's response. He deposited a business card on the coffee table between them and slid it over to Tim with two fingers, like a poker chip. When Tim picked it up, the man rose from his seat. There was no name on the business card, just a Hancock Park address in plain black type.
Tim set it back down. "What is this?"
"If you're interested, be at this address tomorrow evening at six o'clock."
The man headed for the door, and Tim hastened to keep up. "If I'm interested in what?"
"In being empowered."
"Is this some sort of self-help crap? A cult?"
"Christ, no." The man coughed into a white handkerchief, and when he lowered his hand, Tim noticed specks of blood on the cloth. The man crumpled it back into his pocket quickly. He reached the front door, turned, and offered Tim his hand. "It's been quite a pleasure, Mr. Rackley."
When Tim didn't shake his hand, the man shrugged, stepped out into the rain, and quickly disappeared into the haze.
Tim did his best to straighten up the living room. He realigned the books, repaired one of the broken shelves with wood glue and C-clamps, then patched the holes in the walls with squares of drywall, which he fastidiously sized and inserted. His back felt out of whack from his fight with Dray, so he hung upside down a few moments from his gravity boots in the garage, arms folded across his chest like a bat, wishing he had a cityscape view rather than one of the oil-spotted garage floor. He unhooked himself from Dray's pull-up bar, cracked his back, then returned inside and vacuumed up the shattered glass, going over the area twice to make sure he picked up all the slivers. Though he tried to ignore the business card on the coffee table, he was aware of it the entire time.
Finally he returned to the table and stood over it, studying the card. He ripped it in half and tossed it into the garbage can beneath the kitchen sink. Then he flicked off the lights and sat staring out at the rain working on the backyard, turning the neat garden to mud, scattering leaves across the lawn, pooling in black puddles.
Dray didn't acknowledge him when she returned home hours later, and he didn't turn around. He wasn't even sure she saw him in the darkness. Her steps were heavy and uneven down the hall.
Tim sat a few minutes more, then rose and retrieved the ripped business card from the trash.
Chapter 12
TIM DID A drive-by without slowing. A large Tudor house, not quite a mansion, loomed behind a wrought-iron fence. Beside the detached three-car garage, a Toyota truck, a Lincoln Town Car, and a Crown Vic were parked next to a Lexus and a Mercedes. Two of the three chimneys issued smoke, and light seeped around the drawn curtains of the downstairs windows. A gathering. And a demographically mixed one at that. The luxury cars had been there when Tim had taken his last drive-by a few hours ago, but the American metal had arrived more recently.
The house had checked out as belonging to the Spenser Trust, and further digging, predictably, had yielded little. Trusts are notoriously difficult to trace, as they aren't filed anywhere--the paperwork exists only in a lawyer's or accountant's file cabinet. The trustee, Philip Huvane, Esq., was a partner in an offshore law firm on the Isle of Wight. Tim's contact with the IRS had said he couldn't get back to him with more specific information until tomorrow, and he wasn't optimistic he'd have anything useful even then.
Tim turned the corner and drove around the block. A conservative, moneyed community located south of Hollywood and west of downtown, Hancock Park is Los Angeles's best stab at East Coast sophistication. The enormous houses Tim watched fading into the dusk had been built mostly in the 1920s by rich WASPs, after the infiltration of the middle class had made Pasadena less palatable. Despite the imperious brick mailboxes and staid English exteriors, the houses still feel a touch gritty and oddly free-spirited, like a nun smoking a cigarette. In Los Angeles there's a new twist to every habit.
When Tim came up to the house again, he pulled into the drive. He pushed a button on the call box, and the large gates swung open. He put the Beemer in park, preferring to leave it outside the gates in case he needed to make a hasty retreat, slung a black bag over one shoulder, and walked to the front door. Oak, solid core. Doorknob probably weighed ten pounds.
Tim adjusted his Sig, ensuring that it remained snugly tucked into his jeans over his right kidney, handle flared outward to precipitate a fast draw. He'd looped a few rubber bands around the fore end of the grip just below the hammer so the pistol couldn't slip beneath his waistband. It didn't sit on him as well as his .357.
He raised the knocker, a brass rabbit that looked uncomfortably elongated, and let it fall. It sent an echo into the house, and the murmur of conversation inside ceased.
The door swung open, revealing William Rayner. Tim covered his surprise quickly. Rayner wore an expensively tailored suit, much like the one he'd had on in the television interview last night, and he held a gin and tonic, from the smell of it.
"Mr. Rackley, so glad you decided to come." The man offered his hand. In person his face had a decidedly mischievous cast. "William Rayner."
Tim pulled the proffered hand aside with his left and tapped Rayner's chest and stomach with the knuckles of his right, checking for a wire.
Rayner regarded him with amusement. "Good, good. We value caution." He stepped back, letting the door swing with him, but Tim didn't move from the porch. "Come now, Mr. Rackley, we certainly didn't invite you all this way to beat you with pipes."
Tim entered the foyer warily. It was a dim room, heavy with original oils and dark wood. An ornately carved newel post marked the base of a curving staircase carpeted with a brass-pinned runner. Without another glance at Tim, Rayner walked ahead into an adjoining room. Tim circled the foyer before following.
Five men--including Rayner--and a woman awaited him, sitting in elaborate armchairs and on a seasoned leather club sofa. Two of the men were twins in their late thirties with hard blue eyes, thick blond mustaches, and Popeye forearm bulges covered with reddish-blond hair. They were unbelievably sturdy, with action-figure bulk, barrel chests, and sharp-tapering lats. About average height--maybe five-ten. Though they were nearly identical, some ineffable quality gave one a harder, more focused orientation. He was holding a glass of water but sipping it like a scotch. Probably spoke fluent Twelve-Step.
A slight man with too-thick eyeglasses in fat black frames sat perched on the couch. His features were rounded and yielding, like those of a cloth doll. His Magnum, PI, shirt screamed out in the muted furnishings, as did the sheen of light from his bald, pointed head. He had no chin to speak of and an extremely slight nose. His upper lip bore the signs of a repaired cleft palate. His small hand swept up from between the cushions of the couch, knuckling his glasses back up the almost nonexistent bridge of his nose. Beside him sat Tim's visitor from last night.
The woman sat in one of the armchairs directly facing Tim, framed perfectly by the fireplace behind her. She was primly attractive; a thin button-up sweater showed off a lean, feminine build, and her glasses looked as if they'd been plucked off the face of a 1950s secretary. She wore her hair up, neatly styled and fixed in place by a pair of black chopsticks. The youngest of the group, she looked to be in her late twenties.
All around them rose bookcases, stretching from the floor to the twenty-foot ceiling. A sliding library ladder hooked onto a brass bar that ran the length of the far wall. The books were organized by set and series--law publications, sociology journals, psych texts. When Tim saw the rows of Rayner's own books, he recognized this as the library from which KCOM had broadcast Rayner's interview last night--it only looked like a set. His books all bore titles reminiscent of network movies from the eighties--Violent Loss, Thwarted Vengeance, Beyond the Abyss.
A honey-hued writing desk occupied the far corner; on it stood a sculpture of Blind Justice with her scales. This hokey prop seemed a cut below the other furnishings, perhaps because it was placed for TV. Or for Tim.
The woman smiled curtly. "What happened to your eye?"
"I fell down the stairs." Tim dropped his bag on the Persian rug. "I would like to state for the record that I have not consented to anything, that I am only here regarding a meeting about which, at present, I know nothing. Are we agreed?"
The men and the woman nodded.
"Please respond orally."
"Yes," Rayner said. "We are agreed." He had a con man's easy charm and quick grin, qualities Tim recognized all too well.
As Rayner slid behind Tim to close the door, the woman said, "Before anything else, we'd like to offer our condolences for your daughter." Her tone rang genuine, and it seemed to include some personal sadness. Had the circumstances been otherwise, Tim might have found it moving.
The man whom Tim recognized from last night rose from his chair. "I knew you'd show up, Mr. Rackley." He crossed the room and took Tim's hand. "Franklin Dumone."
Tim felt him for a wire. Dumone gestured to the others, who unbut-toned or pulled up their shirts, exposing their chests. The twins' compact, gym-tempered torsos struck a contrast to the formless flesh of the man in the loud shirt. Even the woman followed suit, pulling aside her sweater and white blouse and exposing a lace bra. She met Tim's glance unflinchingly, mild amusement playing across her lips.
Tim removed an RF emitter from his bag and walked the perimeter of the room, scanning the wand across the walls to check for any radio frequencies that indicated the presence of a digital transmitter. He paid particular attention to the electrical outlets and a grandfather clock beside the window. The others watched him with interest.
The device emitted no tones suggesting they were being recorded.
Rayner had been watching Tim with a little grin. "Are you done?"
When Tim did not respond, Rayner nodded to the severe-looking twin. With a quick flick of his hand, the twin removed Tim's G-Shock from his wrist. He tossed it to his brother, who dug in his shirt pocket, came up with a tiny screwdriver, and removed the watch's backing. With tweezers he extracted a minuscule digital transmitter, which he pocketed.
The man in the bright shirt spoke in a high-pitched, wheezy voice complicated by a number of minor speech defects. "I turned off the signal when you pulled through the gate--that's why you didn't pick it up just now."
"How long have you been listening to me?"
&
nbsp; "Since the day of your daughter's funeral."
"We apologize for the intrusion into your privacy," Dumone said, "but we had to be sure."
They'd been party to his shooting review board, his confrontation with Tannino, and his and Dray's intimate exchange of blows last night. Tim fought to regain his focus. "Sure of what?"
"Why don't you sit down?"
Tim made no move to the couch. "Who are you, and why have you been gathering intel on me?"
The twin tightened the final screw and tossed the watch back at Tim, hard. Tim caught it in front of his face.
"I assume you know of William Rayner," Dumone said. "Social psychologist, expert on psychology and the law, and notorious cultural pundit."
Rayner raised his glass with mock solemnity. "I prefer celebrated cultural pundit."
"This is his teaching assistant and protege, Jenna Ananberg. I myself am a retired sergeant from Boston PD, Major Crimes Unit. These two are Robert and Mitchell Masterson, former detectives and task-force members out of Detroit. Robert was a precision marksman, one of SWAT's top snipers, and Mitchell worked as a bomb tech in explosive ordnance disposal." After a reluctant pause, Mitchell nodded, but Robert, who'd snatched the watch from Tim's wrist, just stared at him.
Robert's aggressive bearing and the sharpness of his face reminded Tim of the Green Beret who had trained him in hand-to-hand. He'd taught Tim a close-quarters front-move, a downthrusting punch to the opponent's groin, tight and viciously hard, timed with the twisting sink of the hips to give it more force. It could shatter the pelvis like a dropped dinner plate. The Beret claimed that if the punch was correctly aligned so the knuckles struck the top of the pubic bone, it could knock a man's dick clean off. His smile when he'd related the fact had a particular gleam that told of strange appetites and vivid memories.
Robert and his brother were dangerous men, not because they gave off anger but because they exuded a fearlessness that years of training and combat had attuned Tim to distinguish. They shared a graveyard gleam in the eyes.
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